LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL 

POETS  OF  AMERICA 


WITH    INTERESTING 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  AND  CHOICE  SELECTIONS  FROM 
OVER  ONE  THOUSAND   LIVING  AMERICAN   POETS. 

THE    ONLY  COMPLETE    BIOGRAPHICAL   DICTIONARY   OF  LOCAL  AND    NATIONAL 
POETS  OF  AMERICA,   CONTAINING  NUMEROUS  SELECTIONS 


PROFUSELY   ILLUSTRATED    WITH    OVER    FIVE    HUNDRED 
LIFE-LIKE   PORTRAITS. 


EDITED    AND    COMPILED    UNDER    THE    SUPERVISION    OF 

THOS.    W.    HER  RINGS  HAW, 

AUTHOR    OF 

HOME  OCCUPATIONS,"  "PROMINENT  MEN  AND  WOMEN  OF  THE  DAY,"  "AIDS  TO 
LITERARY   SUCCESS,"  "  MULIEROLOGY,"   ETC. 


"GREAT    OAKS    FROM    LITTLE    ACORNS    GROW." 


CHICAGO,    ILL.  : 

^  AMERICAN   PUBLISHERS'  ASSOCIATION. 

«  1892. 

nil  I'l    I  ■  — — _^.^^_^__a- 


CB © 


1       Y^' 


Entered  According  to  Act  of  Congress, 

IN  THE  Years  1890  and  1893  by 

THOS.  W.  HERRINGSHAW. 

IN  THE  Office  of  the  Librarian  of 

Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


GIFT 


88 © 


s 


PREFACE. 


As  ONE  of  the  fine  arts,  Poetry  lias  not  received  the  encourage- 
ment and  appreciation  in  America  that  is  deservedly  due  to  such  an 
important  and  beautiful  branch  of  literature  —  an  art  that  has  indis- 
putably played  a  significant  part  as  one  of  the  factors  in  shaping  the 
destiny  of  so  great  a  nation.  "No  one,"  says  George  Parsons  Lathrop, 
"is  so  bold  as  to  affirm  that,  as  a  nation,  we  are  poetic.  With  Germans 
Poetry  is  a  part  of  daily  life:  it  lives  not  only  on  their  lips  but  in  their 
hearts  as  well.  Not  so  with  us.  Our  appreciation  of  it  is  generally  too 
theoretical,  conventional,  perfunctory,  and  involves  a  trice  of  apology  for 
being  interested  in  anything  so  unpractical.  •  •  •  One  thing  is  cer- 
tain. Whatever  the  American  people  think  of  poetry — and  as  to  this 
they  themselves  still  appear  to  be  quite  vague  —  it  is  perfectly  clear  that 
they  do  not  think  enough  about  it.  If  they  did,  they  would  know  good 
poetry  when  they  saw  it;  they  would  sometimes  honor  the  chief  makers 
thereof,  wisely  and  soberly;  they  would  cause  the  art  and  the  percep- 
tion of  genuine  poetry  to  be  as  carefully  studied  in  every  school  and 
college  as  arithmetic  and  drawing  and  modeling  now  generally  are  stud- 
ied. They  would  sustain  literature  in  a  generous  spirit,  make  poetry  a, 
vital  factor  in  the  family  and  national  life;  and  give  to  the  accredited 
poet  a  distinguished  place  in  the  social  and  political  order." 

But,  perhaps,  when  defective  rhyme,  rhythm,  measure,  and  crude 
work  generally  (once  allowable  and  still  so  prevalent  in  almost  every 
nation)  are  no  more  tolerated;  when  vowel  composition  (the  arrange- 
ment of  one  vowel  in  regard  to  another)  receives  proper  attention  and 


®- 


-m 


7^  r-  ^  \  / —  I  ■^■i  /-v  r^ 


i  LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMEIilCA. 


is  studied  with  tlie  same  care  that  was  evideutly  bestowed  upon  it  by 
the  Greeli  masters, — then  will  the  art  become  more  dignified,  and  as  a 
natural  consequence  receive  fuller  recognition  from  competent  critics, 
the  metroplitan  press,  lovers  of  American  literature  and  art,  and  from 
the  masses  generally.  At  all  events  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  time  is 
not  far  distant  when  Americans  will  more  fully  appreciate  and  pay 
tribute  at  the  shrine  of  Poetry  and  Song  as  the  equal  and  twin-sister 
of  Music.  Indeed,  the  alliance  between  Poetry  and  Music,  says  a  writer 
in  the  British  Britannica,  is  of  very  ancient  date,  and  appears  originally 
to  have  been  constant.  The  praises  of  gods  and  heroes,  the  triumphal 
strains  of  happiness  and  victory,  and  the  lamentations  of  affliction  and 
defeat,  were  sung  in  measure  to  the  sound  of  the  rude  instruments  which 
art  had  invented  in  almost  every  country  of  which  there  is  any  histori- 
cal record.  In  process  of  time,  however,  as  Poetry  became  the  vehicle 
of  a  wider  range  of  sentiment,  the  accompaniment  of  music  was  often 
found  inconvenient,  and  a  recitation  more  approaching  to  common  speech 
was  then  substituted. 

The  Britannica  concisely  defines  absolute  Poetry  as  the  concrete 
and  artistic  expression  of  the  human  mind  in  emotional  and  rhythmical 
language.  No  literary  expression  can,  properly  speaking,  be  called  Poetry 
that  is  not  in  a  deep  sense  emotional  (whatever  may  be  its  subject 
matter),  concrete  in  its  method  and  its  diction,  rhythmical  in  movement, 
and  artistic  in  form.  The  saying  of  Wordsworth,  "That  which  comes 
from  the  heart  goes  to  the  heart,"  applies  very  closely  indeed  to  modern 
Poetry,  and  when  any  writer's  verse  embodies  a  message,  true,  direct  and 
pathetic,  the  degree  of  artistic  perfection  with  which  it  is  delivered  has 
generally  been  silently  passed  over.  We  listen  to  the  poet  —we  allow 
him  to  address  us  in  rhythm  or  rhyme  — we  allow  him  to  sing  to  us  while 
other  men  are  only  allowed  to  talk,  not  because  the  poet  argues  more 
logically  than  they,  but  because  he  feels  more  deeply  and  perhaps  more 
truly.  Hence  the  great  difference  between  Poetry  and  Prose  is  that  the 
one  comes  from  the  heart,  wliile  the  other  is  a  product  of  the  mind. 
© © 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL.   I'OETS   OF  AMKlilCA.  iii 

Anyone  who  derides  the  local  piess  and  its  bevy  of  embryo  writers 
and  poets,  whether  they  be  deserving  of  censure  or  not,  at  once  stamps 
himself  to  be  a  narrow-minded  person  with  a  brain  of  rather  small 
calibre.  The  local  papers  are  to  a  great  extent  entitled  to  the  credit  of 
producing,  either  directly  or  indirectly,  nearly  all  of  our  prominent  poets 
and  writers  as  well  as  the  humbler  ones.  Their  columns  are  generally 
opened  to  any  local  effort  that  is  of  passable  quality,  and  the  interest 
and  ambition  thus  engendered  aud  fostered  have  caused  new  and  special 
endeavors  to  be  taken  by  these  literary  aspirants.  Therefore,  the  im- 
portance of  the  local  press  and  its  writers  must  not  be  lost  sight  of,  for 
without  them  it  is  not  at  all  improbable  that  America  could  not  now 
boast  of  such  men  as  Whittier,  Emerson,  et.  al.,  whose  poems  and  writ- 
ings first  appeared  almost  exclusively  in  the  local  press. 

In  the  compilation  of  Local  and  National  Poets  of  America, 
the  principal  object  has  been  to  present  the  best  poems  of  each  writer 
and  on  as  different  topics  as  possible,  and  the  work  consequently  includes 
many  varieties  of  Poetry  clothed  in  numerous  forms.  Brief  as  are  the 
biographical  sketches,  they  serve  somewhat  as  a  medium  of  introduction 
to  the  reader;  and  especially  is  this  apparent  when  the  sketch  is  accom- 
panied with  a  portrait.  Poets  of  local  fame,  together  with  those  of  a 
more  national  reputation,  have  been  given  a  place  in  Local  and  Na- 
tional Poets  of  America,  but  no  claims  whatever  are  made  for  the 
superiority  of  its  contents ;  to  winnow  the  chaff  from  the  wheat,  and  to 
judge  of  the  merits  of  these  poems,  is  left  entirely  to  the  reader— a  task 
that  will  undoubtedly  prove  a  source  of  both  profit  and  pleasure.  Many 
of  the  names  and  faces  here  presented  will  be  recognized  by  readers  as 
familiar  acquaintances,  while  tliose  of  others  are  known  only  in  their  own 
locality.  The  work  itself  will  be  both  a  surprise  and  a  delight  to  the 
world  of  literature  —  a  surprise  to  learn  that  America  is  so  rich  in 
Poets  and  Poesy,  and  a  delight  in  being  thus  afforded  an  opportunity  of 

making  a  study  of  such  a  large  and  varied  collection  of  gems  from  living 

I 

J     writers  of  America. 

51- gg 


iV  LOCAL,    AND    NATIONAL    L'OEl'S  OK  AMKlllCA. 

Local  anl>  Natonal,  Poets  ok  Ajikkica  has  beeu  prepared  un- 
der great  difficulties,  and  nearly  a  year  has  passed  away  since  the  work 
was  first  taken  in  hand.  To  the  local  press  of  the  country  and  the  pub- 
lishing fraternity  in  general,  a  great  indebtedness  is  acknowledged  for 
material  and  aid  in  the  compilation  of  this  work.  To  contributors  and 
their  friends  who  have  so  kindly  furnished  bound  volumes  of  poetical 
works,  copies  of  poems  cut  from  magazines  and  newspapers,  manuscripts 
and  other  material,  the  compiler  is  also  under  great  obligations,  for 
without  such  co-operation  Local  and  National  Poets  of  America 
could  scarcely  have  assumed  the    magnitude  befitting  a  work  of  such 

national  importance 

Thos.  W.  Herri ngshaw. 


© 


*- 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


INDEX. 


Abbey,  Henry,  .  -  .  - 

Adams,  BlMiiche  H.    South  Berwick,  Me. 


Webster,  Dak. 

HoUis,  N.  H. 

-     Exeter,  N.  H. 

Chelsea,  Mass. 
Darliugton,  Wis. 

Wauseon,  Ohio. 


Adams,  Mrs.  Irene  G. 
Adams,  Letitia  M., 
Adams,  Nellie  E.,     - 
Adams,  Rev.  J.  W., 
Ag'ur,  Maria  A., 
Alden,  Henry  Mills 
Aldrich,  Mi-s.  Julia  C, 
Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey  -  -       - 

Ale.xander,  Mrs.  M.,  -  Mt.  Vernon,  Ind. 
AUansou,  Edward  G.,  -  Anita,  Iowa. 
AUanson,  Mrs.  Clara  M.,  -  Anita,  Iowa. 
Allen,  Mrs.  H.  Perry,  -  Colwich,  Kan. 
Allen,  Mrs.  H.  E.  M.,  -  Agnew,  Neb. 
Ames,  Warren  W.,  -  De  Ruyter,  N.Y. 
Amory,  Mrs.  E.  M.,  -  Belmond,  Iowa. 
Anders,  Matilda  A.,  -  Plymouth,  Iowa. 
Anderson,  Rev.  J.  W.  D.,  Elk  City,  Kan. 
Anderson,  Mrs.  Emma  M.,  Durham,  N.  C. 
Anderson,  Mrs.  AUie  E.,  -  Almira,  Iowa. 


Angwin,  Mrs.  M., 
Archibold,  Edg-ar, 
Armin,  C.  E., 
Arnold,  C.  C, 
Arnold,  Birch, 
Arnold,  W.  P., 
Ashabranuer,  J.  H., 


Mt.  Vernon,  Mo. 

-     Pueblo,  Colo. 

■    Waukesha,  Wis. 

Culbertson,  Neb. 

Armada,  Mich. 

Litchfield,  Ky. 

New  Albany,  Ind. 


Bailey,  Mrs.  M.  L.,  -  Baldwin,  Kan. 
Baker,  Harriet  S.,  -  Norridgewock,  Me. 
Ballard,  Minnie  C,  -       -      Troy,  Pa. 

Banta,  Mrs.  M.  E.,  -  -  Franklin,  Ind. 
Banvard,  John  -  Watertown,  S.  Dak. 
Bartow,  A.  A.         -  Sandusky,  Ohio. 

Barnes,  Edwin  H.,  -  Marathon,  N.Y. 
Barnhart,  Jacob  S.,  -  Charles  City,  Iowa. 
Barnard,  O.  W.  -  -  Manteiio,  Ills, 
Bayly,  Obadiah,  -  Walnut  Grove,  Kan. 
Beach,  Abel,  -  -  Iowa  City,  Iowa. 
Beach,  Levi,  -         -  Paola,  Kan. 

Beech,  Mary  T.,        -  Stanton,  Mich. 

Bedford,  Mrs.  Lou  S.,  -  Dallas,  Texas. 
Bellamy,  Orlando,  R.  Independence.  Kan. 
Bennett,  Mrs.  Sarah,  Wilson's  Mills,  Me. 
Bennett.  Mrs.A.G.,  Pipestone  City,  Minn. 
Bentley,  Mrs.  Ella  D.,     Donaldsville,  La. 


Bergen,  Nellie  C, 
Bethel,  Mrs.  L.  R.,  - 
Bevan,  Trevor  G.,    - 
Bevis,  Mrs.  S.  C.  H., 
Binkley,  Lillie, 
Blanchard,  Mary  E., 


E.  Saginaw,  Mich. 

Leavenworth.  Kan. 

Martinsburg,  Ind. 

Cincinnati,  Ohio. 

-     Atchison,  Kan. 

Milltown,  Me. 


*- 


Blount,  Mrs.  Sarah  J.  -    Tonquish,  Mich. 
BoUng,  Mrs.  MoUie  A.,  West  Baden,  Ind. 


304 
11.5 
291 
720 
80 
175 
339 
119 
237 
418 
617 
608 
607 
530 
400 
724 
351 
244 
311 
635 
303 
295 
619 
751 
127 
174 
689 
143 


1.53 

451 
280 
339 
749 
7a3 
151 
517 
120 
148 
85 
39 
667 
625 
519 
491 
143 
199 
664 
403 
469 
310 
389 
606 


Botta,  Anna  C.  L.,  -         -  - 

Bowen,  Mrs.  Bertha  W.,  -  Cotulla,  Texas. 
Bowen,  Florence  N.,  -  Litchfield,  Minn. 
Bowers,  Ezra,  -  West  Bowersville,  Ga. 
Boxell,  Jobn  William,  -  St.  Paul, Minn. 
Boyeson,  Hjalmer  H., 
Bracht,  Albert,  -  Rockport,  Texas. 
Brainerd,  Henry  A.,  -  Bennet,  Neb. 
Branch,  Homer  P.,  -  Mitchell,  Iowa. 
Brannock,  Mrs.  L.  E.,  -  Henderson,  Mo. 
Brees,  Abram  B.,  -  Spencerville,  Ohio. 
Bright.,  Simon  H.,  -  -  Kinston,  N.  C. 
Briley,  John  F.  -  -  Lamar,  Mo. 
Brister,  Edwin  M.  P.,  -  Newark,  Ohio. 
Brotherton,  Alice  W.,  ... 

Brown,  Joseph  L.,  -  -Corydon,  Ky. 
Brown,  Mortimer  C,  -  Beresford,  S.  Dak. 
Browne,  Geo.  vvaldo,  Manchester,  N.  H. 
Browne,  Hiram  Hovvard,  -  Boston,  Mass. 
Brownell,  Henry  H., 
Brownson,  Rev.  I.  K.,  Fayetteville,  N.Y. 
Bryant,  Elva, 
Buckner,  Mrs.  May  M, 
Bunker,  Mrs.  Rosa,  ■ 
Burdette,  Robert  J., 
Burns,  Mrs.  Nellie  M.,  Kittery  Point,  Me. 
Burroughs,  John,  -  .  . 


Madison,  Wis. 

-    Lemoore,  Cal. 

Kirk.sville,  Mo. 

Ardmore,  Pa. 


Buskirk,  Clarence  A. 
Butler,  Mrs.  Lou  G., 
Butler,  Hon.  T.  J., 
Byers,  S.  H.  M., 


-    Princeton,  Ind. 

Mason,  Texas. 

Prescott,  Ariz. 

Oskaloosa,  Iowa. 


Cahill,  Juan  F., 
Campbell,  James  E., 
Campbell,  John  P., 
Campbell,  Edna, 
Carey,  Helen  Lee, 
Cargile,  Charles, 
Carleton,  Will, 
Carpenter,  Mrs.  E.  F.,    - 
Carpenter,  Jane  R.  H., 
Carroll,  John  D., 
Carson,  Sallie, 
Carter,  Rev.  N.  F., 
Cassidy,  Patrick  S. 
Chandler,  Ella,      - 
Chapin,  Bela,  , 

Chaplin,  Rev.  S.  A., 
Cljildress,  Rufus  J., 
Chittenden,  Rev.  E.  P. 
Choate,  Isaac  B., 
Clark,  Mrs.  Vitula  M., 
Clark,  Prof.  Simeon  T, 
Clark,  Annie  M.  L.,    - 
Clark,  Eugenie  E., 


St.  Louis,  Mo. 
Kerr,  Ohio. 
Abilene,  Kan. 
Alamo,  Ind. 
Maiden,  Mass. 
Okolona,  Ark. 


Ben  venue.  Pa. 

Orient,  Iowa. 

Brantford,  Fla. 

Beaver  Falls,  Pa. 

Concord,  N.  H., 

New  York  City. 

Chestnut  Level,  Pa. 

Claremont,  N.  H. 

-     Plymouth,  Ind. 

Louisville,  Ky. 

-     Salina,  Kan. 

Boston,  Mass. 

Minier,  111. 

Lockitort,  N.Y. 

Lancaster,  Mass. 

Paducuh,  Ky. 


m 

440 
465 
698 
411 
119 
223 
355 
269 
690 
532 
463 
733 
340 
304 
396 
446 
132 
730 
68 
631 
748 
5,53 
241 
3,53 
398 
204 
341 
441 
128 
337 


95 
243 
365 
135 
145 
473 

680 
164 
508 
575 

699 
307 
5.3;5 
137 
105 
393 

7:m 

4:i4 
426 
107 
113 


-* 


*- 


11 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA, 


Clark,  John  L.,        -        Lancaster,  Mass. 
Clarke,  James  Freeman, 
Cleavelaud,  Charles  L.,  -  Millbury,  Mass. 
Cleveland,  Rose  E., 


Clifford,  May, 
Clifgard,  Iver, 
Clodfelter,  N.  S.,    - 
Clymer,  Albert 
Cobb,  Isaac, 
Cocke,  Zitella, 
Colburu,  Mrs.  M.  K 
Colcord,  Martha  0., 


Sauta  Rosa,  Cal. 

Blue  Mounds,  Wis. 

Crawfordsville,  Ind. 

Morley,  Iowa. 

-     Portland,  Me. 

Baltimore,  Md. 

,    -      Waterford,  Pa. 

Portland,  Me. 


Colcord,  Edward  J.,   Columbia  City,  S.  C 
Cole,  Jessie  A.,  -       Horace,  Kan. 

Colesworthy,  D.  C,  -  Boston,  Mass. 
Collier,  Dr.  Abner  A.,  -  Trenton,  Mo. 
Collins,  Mrs.  B.  A.,  -  Livingston,  Tenu. 
Comstock,  Mrs,  Helen  M.,  Rochelle,  Ills. 
Conklin,  Mrs.  H.  M.,  -  St.  Charles,  Mich. 
Conners,  Mrs.  H.,  -  Stanwood,  Wash. 
Converse,  Mrs.  Sarah  S..  -  Lyme,  N.  H. 
Converse,  Mrs.  H.  M.,  -  New  York  City. 
Cooke,  Mrs.  D.  F.,  -  -  Oconto,  Wis. 
Cooley,  E.  W.,  -  Marshalltown,  Iowa. 
Copp,  Z.  H„       -         -       Kernstown,  Va. 

Corbett,  Mrs.  E.  S.  B.,    -    St.  Paul,  Minn. 

Cornaby,  Mrs.  H.,      Spanish  Fork,  Utah. 

Couchman,  Wesley,  Richmondville,  N.Y. 

Coxe,  Arthur  Cleveland, 

Coxe,  W.  Beaumont,    -       Prescott,  Ariz. 

Crall,  Christian,         -  -         -         - 

Cranch,  Christopher  P., 

Craig,  J.  T.,       -        -        Hunnewell,  Mo. 

Crill,  Louis  N.,        -       -      Richland,  S.  D. 

Crocheron,  Mrs.  A.  J.,    Bountiful,  Utah. 

Crockett,  Mrs.  Vesta  A.  R.,  Portland,  Me. 

Cronise,  Mabel,       -        -       Toledo,  Ohio. 

Crowl,  Mrs.  M.  A.,    MerriamPark,  Minn. 

Crozier,  Mrs.  M.  P.  A.,  Ann  Arbor,  Mich. 

Crump,  Mrs.  J.  B.,    -     -    Harrison,  Ark. 

Cummins,  Mrs.  Anna,  South  Haven,  Mich. 

Cundill,  William,      -      Maquoketa,  Iowa. 

Cudmore,  P.,  -  Faribault,  Minn. 

Currey,  Augustus,       -       Detroit,  Mich. 

Currier,  Moody,      -       Manchester,  N.  H. 

Curtis,  George  William, 

Curtis,  Rose  E.  V.,     New  London,  Conn. 

Curtis,  Mrs.  M.  S.,         -       Newark,  N.  J. 


lOT 
200 
496 
609 
443 
633 
361 
67 
668 
407 
726 
647 
707 
251 
548 


718 
373 
558 
350 
580 
644 
573 
367 
465 
296 
333 
378 
514 
713 
536 
354 
180 
91 
507 
435 
1.59 
166 
344 
378 
666 
337 
430 
701 
366 
481 
651 
633 


Dana,  Charles  Anderson, 

Dandridgo,  Danske, 

Danehy,  Mis.  Maggie  M., Lancaster,  Ohio. 

Daniiflly,Mrs.  E.  O.,  Waxahatchi,  Texas. 

Darnell,  Rev.  Henry  F.,      -     Avon,  N.Y. 


Davis,  James, 
Davis,  T.  G.  C„ 
Davis,  Parker  B., 
Davis,  Clarence  L., 
Davis,  Ida  May, 


Darrow.  Allen  R., 
Davenport,   W.J., 
Davidson,  Gaylord, 
Davidson,  Clara  D., 
Davis,  Walter  T., 


Buffalo,  N.  Y. 

Bethany,  La. 

Carthago,  III. 
Ottumwa,  I()w;i. 
-     Berlin,  N.  H. 


577 
370 
533 

i:i3 

264 
679 
234 
543 
134 
637 


Gloucester,  Mass. 

-     Denton,  Texas. 

Lee,  Me. 

New  York  City. 

Terre  Haute,  Ind. 


Delany,  Mrs.  E.  B.  Blsant,  -  Zanesville.  O. 
DeWitt,  Charles  A.,  -  -  Lanark,  111. 
Dickson,  Jolin  J.,  -  W^est  Grove,  Iowa 
Dilley,  Mrs.  May  J.,  -  -  Mora,  N.M. 
Diltz,  Mrs.  Matilda,  -  Covington,  O. 
Drew,  C,  -  -  Jacksonville,  Fla. 
Dwyer,  Mrs.  Anselina  E.,  -  Lynn,  Mass. 
Doekendorff,  Jacob  B.,  Southport,  P.  E.  1. 
Dodge,  George  D.,  Hampton  Falls,  N.  H. 
Dodge,  Mary  Mapes,  -  -  -  - 
Dodge,  Robert  D.,  -  -  Adel,  Iowa 
Dole,  Mrs.  Caroline  F.,  Norridgewock,  Me. 
Donnan,  James  S.,  -  Central  Islip,  L.  I. 
Dornian,  Allen,       -        -        Clinton,  Mo. 

Dorr,  Julia  Caroline  R.  -  - 

Douglas,  Mrs.  Myra,      -       St.  Louis,  Mo. 

Dowling,  Lee  H.,    -    North  Topeka,  Kan. 

Downer,  William  B.,    -    Cazenovia,  N.Y. 

Downing,  H.M.,  Savin  Hill,  Boston,  Mass. 

Downing,  Edward  C,        -        Toulon,  III. 

Duncan,  Mrs.  Mary  C,    -     Hanford,  Cal. 

Durand,  Isaac,       -        -        Verdon,  Neb. 

Durant,  Horace  B.,    -    Philadelphia,  Pa. 

Dution,  J.  D.,       -         -        Oakland,  Cal. 


626 
709 
458 
570 

63 

88 
415 

69 
473 
356 
437 
436 
397 
184 

160 
650 
410 
433 
578 
37 
284 
386 
438 
338 
559 
525 
409 
589 


Early,  Lewis  J.,  -  -  Hawesville,  Ky.  735 
Eastland,  Mrs.  Clara  F.,  -  Muscoda,  Wis.  319 
Eberhart,  Gilbert  L.,  -  Beaver  Falls,  Pa.  753 
Edgerton,  James  A.,  -  Marietta,  O.  108 
Edwards,  Rev.  J.  H.,  Mechanicsburg,  111.  367 
Efnor,  Mrs.  Lottie  C,  Hempstead,  Texas  195 
Eidson,  Dr.  A.  J.,  -  Coatesville,  Mo.  272 
Emerson,  Mrs.  IMarthaL.,  Boxford,  Mass.  468 
Eiighind,  Oliver  S.,  -  -  Salem,  Ore.  352 
English,  Josiah  G.,  -  -  Xenia.O.  7 
English.  Thomas  Dunn,  -  -  -  213 
Ethridge.  Annie  S.,  -  Convers,  Ga.  553 
Evans.  Jolin  Wesley,  -  Louaconing,  Md.  623 
Evans,  Francis  Anson,  -  Tell  City,  Ind.  688 
Eve,  Maria  L.,  -  -  Augusta.  Ga.  212 
Everett,  J.  W.,  -  Lake  Charles,  Ln.  87 
Ewing,  Elmore  E.,    -     Portsmouth,  Oiiio  475 

rancher,  Mrs.  F.  L.,  Dodge  Center,  Minn.  444 
Farrow,  Alexander  J.,  Portland  Mills,lnd.  116 
Faulk,  Margaret,  -  -  Beaver,  Pa.  :m 
Fauntleroy.  Henry,  -  -  Cliicago,  111.  :327 
Fawcett,  Mrs.  Mary  H.,  Plantsville,  Ohio  665 
Felch,  Will  Farrand,  -  Hartford,  Conn.  2<.)9 
Felton,  Mrs.  Mary,  -  Belmond,  Iowa  5,">7 
Fenloii.  Robert  H.,  -  Nyaek,  N.Y.  .573 
Ferris,  Rev.  Walter  L.,  -  Ciierokee,  Iowa  766 
Finch,  Mrs.  Mary  B.,     Frenchtown,  Neb.  309 


*- 


* 


*- 


-'i' 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


Ill 


Findlay,  Mrs.  E.  V.,  Decaturville,  Tcnn. 
Fisher,  William  R.,  -  -  Harliiu,  Iowa 
Flagg,  Edmund,  -  -  West  Salem,  Va. 
Fletcher,  Mrs.  Lisa  A.,  Manchester,  N.H. 
Fletcher,  Josiah  M.,  -  Nashua,  N.H. 
Flippin,  Manlius  T.,  Tompliiusville,  Ky. 
Tolsom,  Mrs.  L.  A.,  -  Old  Town,  Mo. 
Foss.  IMrs.  Harriet,  South  Liminston,  Me. 
Fowles,  Burt,  Minneapolis,  Minn. 

Frantz,  ]\[rs.  Virginia,  -  Brandon,  Miss. 
Freeman,  Dossie  C,  -  Kuig-htstown,  1  nd. 
Freer,  Charles  H.,  Blue  Earth  City,  Minn. 
Freeze,  John  Gosse,  -  Bloomsburg-,  Pa. 
Fries,  Ida,  -  -  St.  Nicholas,  Fla. 
Fulton,  A.  R.,  -  -  Des  Moines,  Iowa 
Furey,  Georg-e  W.,  -  Sunbury,  Pa. 
Furman,  Mrs.  Hattie  E.,     -     Delhi,  Iowa 

Gallagher,  J.  N.,    -     San  Antonio,  Texas 
Ganong-,  Mrs.  Jane  K.,      -      Crafts,  N.Y. 
Garborg,  Samuel,        -         Warren,  Minn. 
Gardiner,  J.  Warren,     -     Jefferson,  N.C. 
Gelletlj',  James  F.,  Potter's  Landing,  Md. 
Gepford,  A.  L.,         -        -         Niantic,  111. 
Gibbens,  Alvaro  F.,  -   Cliarleston,  W.Va. 
Gibson,  Ella  Elvira,     -      -     Barre,  Mass. 
Gilbert,  Frank  M.,    -    -    Evansville,  Ind. 
Gilder,  Richard  Watson,        -        -        . 
Giles,  Ella  A.,        -         -        Madison,  Wis. 
Gilliam,  Edward,        -        Reidsville,  N.C. 
Gilleland,  Wm.  M.,  -  San  Antonio,  Texas 
Githens,  Cournelli  E.,    -    Hannibal,  Ohio 
Gitt,  Jos.  S., 
Gleasou,  May  Adelia, 
Gnaga,  Carrie  E., 
Goldberg,  Samuel  W, 
Goodc,  Kate, 


720 
106 
335 
78 
479 
483 
620 
372 
494 
594 
190 
460 
205 
695 
331 
027 
658 


Goodhue,  E.  S., 
Gordon,  Dr.  T.  W. 
Gottsclialk,  R.  F., 
Graham,  MoUie, 
Greene,  Millen  S., 
Greene,  Moses  H., 
Greene,  Jacob  W., 
Gi'egg,  Frances  Anna, 
Griffith,  George  B., 
Griggs,  N.  K. 
Grossb^'rg.  Jacob  G., 
Gunnell,  Mrs.  Kate  M., 


New  Oxford,  Pa. 

-    Lawrence,  Kan. 

Morriam,  Ind. 

-     Dallas,  Texas 

Boydon,  Va. 

Riverside,  Cal. 

Georgetown,  Ohio 

Columbus,  Ind. 

Chapman,  111. 

Westerly,  R.  I. 

Haverhill,  Mass. 

Chillicothe,  Mo. 

Andover,  Me. 

Portland,  Me. 

Beatrice,  Neb. 

Chicago,  111. 

Minier,  111. 


Haflord,  Prof.  F.  S.,  -  Milton,  Ore. 
Hafford,  Mrs.  Emily  H.,  -  Milton,  Ore. 
Hale,  Mrs.  Anne  G.,  Newburyport,  Mass. 


Hall,  Mrs.  Mary  L.. 
Halliday,  Annetta  J., 
Harbaugh,  Thomas  C, 
Harney,  Will  Willace, 
Harris,  Mrs.  Sallie  B., 
Hart,  J.  P.,       - 


*- 


Attica,  N.Y. 

Detroit,  Mich. 

-    Casstown,  Ohio 

-  Pine  Castle,  Fla. 

-  Greenville,  Ky. 
Arkadelphia,  Ark. 


744 

673 
252 
402 
428 
314 
741 
359 
281 
206 
118 
547 
663 
589 
162 
346 
520 
437 
357 
54 
315 
256 
670 
599 
510 
555 
396 
382 
747 
154 
522 


306 
492 
691 
263 
387 
155 
208 
621 


Harte,  Francis  Bret,  -  -  -  -  129 
Hastings,  Rev.  H.  K.,  -  West  Side,  Iowa  501 
Hatchett,  Catherine  G.,  -  Schuyler,  Neb.  406 
Hansen,  Minnie  A.,  Franklin  Grove,  111.  705 
Hawk,  Mrs.  Laura  O.,  -  Niantic,  111.  748 
Hawkins,  Albert  S.,  -  Midland,  Texas  728 
Hay,  John,  -  -  -  -  114 

Hayden,  Mrs.  Alma  P.,  -  LewLston,  Me.  597 
Hayward,  Virginia  May,  -  Erie,  Pa.  349 
Hayward,  Rev.  S.,  -  Southbridge,  Mass.  314 
Hebbard,  Mrs.  R.N.,  North  Topeka,  Kau.  439 
Hegeman,  Emmet  D.  C.  -  Laurel,  Del.  528 
Hempstead,  Junius  L.,  -  Jennings,  La.  197 
Hempstead,  Fay,  -  Little  Rock,  Ark.  MO 
Hendee,  Al  M.,  -  Kansas  City,  Mo.,  612 
Henderson,  A.  R.,  Williamstown,  W.  Va.  152 
Henderson,  Dr.  James,  Bad  Axe,  Mich.,  .596 
Hensley,  Sophie  M.  -  Stellarton,  N.  S.  52'. 
Hern,  Frank  E.,  -  Huntington,  W.  Va.  712 
Herron,  Rev.  J.  D.,  -  New  Castle,  Pa.  83 
Higginson,  Ella,  -  -  Sehome,  Wash.  447 
Higginson,  Thomas  W.,  -  -  202 


Highland,  John  N.,  - 
Hildreth,  Emily  E.,  ■ 
Hildreth,  Mrs,  Jane  E. 
Hills,  Charles  W.,     - 


G.alveston,  Texas  183 

Harvard,  Mass.  158 

,  -    Kirksville,  Mo.  468 

Washington,  D.  C.  511 


Hinds,  W.  H.  H.,  Kennebunkport,  Me.  121 
Hoag,  Mrs.  Hattie  E.,  -  RoUo,  111.  613 
Hobbs,  Mary  E.  Erwin,  -  Madison,  N.  H.  716 
Hoffman,  Phil,         -  Oskaloosa,  Iowa  104 

Hoit,  Dr.  James  D.  C,  -  Yates  City,  111.  485 
Holahan,  Martha  E.,  -  Wabasha,  Minn.  470 
Holley,  Henry  W.,  Winnebago  City,  Minn.  630 
Holmes,  Grace,  -  -  Festus,  Mo.  684 
Holmes,  Jolm,  -  -  Bayshore,  L.  I.  593 
Holmes,  Oliver  W'endell,  -   Boston,  Mass.    65 


Horton,  Nathan  C,    - 
Horner,  Hattie  L., 
Hoskinson,  Will  H. 
Hotchkiss,  John,     - 
Houswertb,  Wm.  E. 
Hoyt,  Belden  C, 
Howe,  Leander  C, 
Howe,  Julia  Ward, 
Howe,  Mrs.  Mary  E., 
Howells,  William  D., 
Huff,  Jacob, 


Philadelphia,  Pa.  518 

El  Dorado,  Kan.  185 

Dunmor,  Ky.  480 

-  Fox  Lake,  Wis.  660 

-  Selingrove,  Pa.  590 

Paola,  Kan.  721 

Edinburgh,  Pa.  738 

321 

Table  Rock,  Neb.  587 

545 

Chatham  Run,  Pa.  139 


Hull,  Ella  G.,  -  Grand  Rapids.  Mich.  149 
Hunt,  Anna  Sargent,  -  Augusta,  Me.  614 
Hurd,  Helen  M,  -  -  Athens,  Me.  683 
Hylton,  J.  Dunbar,       -        Palmyra,  N.  J.  246 


Inman,  Dr.  B.  G., 
Isler,  Arnold  H., 


Bradford,  Ohio  556 
Cincinnati,  Ohio  111 


Jacobs,  William  R.,  -  -  Suffolk,  Va.  676 
Jakeman,  Mrs.  Ellen,  -  Manti,  Utah,  360 
James,  J.  Sheridan,  -  Tyrone,  Pa.  268 
J.'imieson,  Mrs.  Josephine,  -  Dye,  Texas  400 
Jarvis,  Mrs.  Ida  V.,   -  Fort  Worth,  Texas  379 


-* 


*- 


-* 


IV 


LOCAL   AND   NATIOXAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


Jeffrey,  Mrs.  Rosa  V.,  -  Lexington,  Ky. 
Jencks,  C.  C,  -  -  Kalkuskla,  Mich. 
Johnsou,  Ella  S.,  -  Houston,  Texas 
Johnson.  Jacob  C,  Johnson's  Mills,  N.  C. 
Johnson,  Henry  H.,   -   Hyndesville,  N.Y. 


New  York  City 

Oskaloosa,  Iowa 

Topeka,  Kan. 

Aug'usta,  Wis. 

Robinson,  111. 

Abbeville,  La. 

Washington,  lud. 

Ilion,  N.Y. 

Geneva,  N.Y. 

Red  Wing,  Minn. 

Springfield,  Ohio 

Cutler,  Ind. 

Cutler,  Ind. 

Wallace,  Idaho 

Xenia,  Ind. 

Sandusky,  Mich. 

-  Larned,  Kan. 
Rochester,  N.  Y. 
Tippecanoe  City,  O. 
New  York  City. 
Scranton,  Pa. 
Springfield,  Ohio. 
Ruston,  La. 
Dayton,  Va. 
-  Washington,  Pa. 
-  Crompton,  R.  I. 
Springfield,  Mo. 
Maquoketa,  Iowa. 
Kingsley,  Mrs.  A.,  Blue  Earth  City,  Minn. 
Kisner,  Mrs.  Kate  S.,  -  Hazleton,  Pa. 
Kline,  Mrs.  Mary  B.,  -  Hager  City,  Wis. 
Klock,  Edgar  J.,  -  East  Schuyler,  N.Y. 
Knapp,  Mrs.  Frances,  Spartansburg,  Pa. 
Knight,  Leona  Annie,  -  Gibson  City,  La. 
Koopman,  Harry  L.,  -  Burlington,  Vt. 
Kryder,  J  L.,       -       -      Cedarville,  Ind. 

Lackey,  Margaret,  Crystal  Springs,  Miss. 
La  Fortune,  Jolni  S.,  Tulare,  Cal. 

Lamar,  Lewis,  -  Wolfsville,  Md. 

Larcom,  Lucy,       -  -  -  - 

Latlirop,  George  Parsons, 
Lauglilin,' Elmer  O.,  -  -  Paris,  111. 
Lavely,  Henry  A.,  -  Pittsburg,  Pa. 
Lawrance,  William  V.,  .  Chillicothe,  O. 
Lazarus,  Emma,  -  New  York  City. 
Lea,  Mrs.  Margaret  I.,  -  Magnolia,  Miss. 
Leavell,  Lizzie  S.,  -  San  Marcos,  Texas. 
Le  Count,  James,  -  Hartford,  Wis. 
Leland,  Charles  Godfrey, 
Leland,  Samuel  Plielps,  -  Cliicago,  111. 
Lesher,  Albert  U.,  -  -  Manhoini,  Pa. 
Lester,  Nicholas,       -       -     FuUon,  N.Y. 


Johnson,  W.  F., 
Johnsou,  James  W., 
Jones,  Albert  E., 
Jones,  Griffith  O., 
Jones,  Williams  C„ 
Jones,  Mrs.  O.  C. 
Jones,  Mrs.  Henry  B., 
Jones,  Mrs.  Kate  E., 
Jones,  Rosaline  E., 
Jordan,  John, 

Kauflman,  Kate, 
Kautz,  Mrs.  Julia  M., 
Kautz,  Elizabeth, 
Keegan,  J.  T., 
Kelsey,  Mrs.  Mary  C, 
Kenneflck,  James  S., 
Kenyon,  James  B. 
Keplinger,  Richard  P 
Kerr,  James  M., 
Kerr,  Judge  J.  A., 
Ketchum,  John  B 
Ketrick,  M.  J., 
Keyser,  L.  S., 
Kidd,  Edwin  E. 
Kiefler,  Aldine  S., 
Kendall,  Milton  T, 
King,  Mary  J., 
King,  Byron  T., 
King,  M.  C-, 


157 
V40 
144 
233 
5G9 
89 
633 
549 
467 
759 
624 
393 
356 
572 
271 

474 

450 
537 
711 
6.53 
330 
419 
633 
456 
231 
585 
737 
347 
429 
643 
433 
497 
526 
277 
634 
276 
729 
316 
243 
192 
81 

194 
498 
574 

.we 

482 
726 
245 
661 
610 
454 
476 
405 
673 
167 
399 
681 


Lewis,  Mrs.  Sadie, 
Libby,  Rev.  J.  A.,      - 
Lincoln,  Mrs.  Ellen  F. 
Lindsay,  Mrs.  M.  B., 
Linn,  Nellie,        -         , 
Livingston,  Fred  W.,  - 


Lock  Haven,  Pa. 
West  Poland,  Me. 
-  Brunswiclv,  Me. 
Asheville,  N.  C. 
Liberty,  Neb. 
San  Jacinto,  Cal. 


Lockhart,  Rev.  A.  J.,  -  Cherryfield,  Me. 
Long,  Jeremiah,  -  -  Madison,  Neb. 
Lord,  Charles  Chase,  -  Hopkington,  N.  H. 
Loux,  Charles  W.,  -  -  Easton,  Pa. 
Lovejoy,  Mrs.  Fannie,  W.Newbury,Mass. 
Lowell,  James  Russell,         -         -  . 

Lowry,  Samuel  E.,  -  West  Salem,  Ohio. 
Luce,  Samuel  S.,  -  -  Galesville,  Wis. 
Luce,  Clinton  L.,  -  Albert  Lea,  Minn. 
Luce,  Mrs.  Hannah  Gale,-Galesville,  Wis. 
Ludlum,  Jennie  Kate,  -  Brooklyn,  N.Y. 
Luther,  Rev.  J.  H.,  -  -  Belton,  Texas. 
Luzader,  Malcolm,  -  Auburn,  W.  Va. 
Lyle,  Mrs.  Cora  G.,  -  B^^nnett,  Neb. 
Lyon,  G.  W.,       -        Cedar  Rapids,  Iowa. 


Mace,  Mrs.  Frances  L.,  -  San  Jose,  Cal. 
Macmurraj-,  Thomas  J.,  Hamilton,  Ohio. 
Magee,  Mrs.  W.  A.,  -  -  Kinde,  Mich. 
Manning,  Mrs.  Jessie  W.,  Chariton,  Iowa. 
Marble,  Earl,        -  -        Denver,  Colo. 

Marble,  Callie  Bonney,  -  Denver  Colo. 
Marble,  Milton  H.,  -  Table  Rock,  Neb. 
Markell,  Charles  F.,  -  Frederick,  Md. 
Markham, George  E.,  Weeping  Water,Neb. 
Marshall,  Jeniza,  -  Lyndon,  Kan. 
Martin,  L.  A.,  -  -  -  Dawn,  Mo. 
Martyu,  Mrs.  Eliza  L.,  Fitehburg,  Mass. 
Marvin,  Jonathan  J.,  -  Falls  City,  Neb. 
Mathews.  Mrs.  Sarah  A.,  -  Kinsman,  O. 
Maxim,  Rose,  -    North  Cambridge,  Mass. 


Maxim,  William  W., 
ISIay,  Julia  H., 
]May,  Mrs.  Celeste, 
McBrido,  Maggie  F., 
McCarthy,  Daniel,     - 
McCloy,  Louise, 
McDonald,  Lawrence  S., 
Mcl'all,  Mrs.  Anna  E.,     - 
McFarlaud,  Mrs.  Sara, 


Paris,  Me. 

Auburn,  Me. 

Nelson,  Neb. 

Victor,  Ont. 

Sandusky,  O. 

Elyria,  Ohio. 

-      Retort,  Pa. 

Mayfleld,  Ky. 

Halifax,  Pa. 


MeGirr,  John  J.,  -  McKcesport.  Pa. 
McKenna,  Maurice,  -  Fond  du  Lac,  Wis. 
McLean,  Sarah  E.Pulver,  Rochester,  N.Y. 


McLemore,  Atkins  J., 
McLellan,  Isaac, 
McMahan,  Eliza  J.,  - 
McRae,  Milton  A., 
McSherry,  Rev.  G.  W. 
McVicar,  Mrs.  .Tohn, 
Aferedith,  Maude,    - 
Merrill,  II.  Maude,    - 
Miller,  Irving  J.  A. 
Millor,'Joaquin  H., 


-  Victoria,  Tex. 
Greenport,  N.Y. 

New  Florence,  Mo. 

CinciiHiati,  O. 

,  -  Taneytown,  Md. 

-  Detroit,  Mich. 
■    -    Dubuque,  Iowa. 

B;ingor,  Me. 
Marshalllown,  Iowa. 


147 

477 
262 

99 
534 
698 
604 
422 
381 
652 
529 

97 
582 
371 
364 
371 
131 
169 
562 
342 
524 


63 
179 
504 
117 
308 
308 
.595 
261 
292 
255 
196 
463 
544 
543 

cm 

593 
3() 
135 
444 
301 
189 
325 
6;3S 
57(i 
140 
669 

253 
172 
531 
1.56 

2!)S 
404 
27.3 
170 
79 


*- 


-* 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


Miner,  Mrs.S.Isadore,  Battle  Creek, INI  ich. 
Morgan,  James  B.,  Gerrardstown,  W.  Va. 
Morrison,  Alex  H.,  -  Fartning'ton,  Pa. 
Morton,  Mrs. Madeline  D.,New  York  City. 
Morton,  Eliza  H.,         -  Portland,  Me. 

Mosette,  Tressie  E.,  -  Grand  Forks,  Dak. 
Moore,  Tom,         -  .  Jackson,  O. 

Moore,  Katliarine  J.,  -  York,  Pa. 

Mooi  e,  Mrs.  Ella  Maude,-Thomaston,  Me. 
Mouiitcastle,  Clara  H.,  -  Clinton,  Can. 
Mudg-ett,  Lydia  M.S.,  -  -  Elmore,  Vt. 
Murphy,  John  Albert,  -  Bronaugb,  Mo. 
Naftzger,  George  E.,  -  Spencerville,  O. 
Nason,  Mrs.  Emma  H.,  -  Augusta,  Me. 
Neis,  Anna  M.,  -  Newark,  N.  J. 

Nelson,  Rev.  Charles  A.,  New  Orleans,  La. 
Nelson,  Mrs.  N.  E.,  -  -  Plantsville,  O. 
Nichols,  Mrs.  Mattie,  -  Rushville,  Neb. 
Noecker,  Millie  E.,  -  Fort  Wayne,  Ind. 
Norcross,  Mrs.  Kate  E.,  -  Bolivar,  Mo. 
Nutting,  George  F.,    -    Fitchburg,  Mass. 


G'Beirne,  H.  F., 
O'Donnell,  Jessie  F., 
O'Hagan,  Thomas, 
Oliu,  Mrs.  Annie  P.,    - 
Overall,  John  W., 
Paine,  Selma  W., 
Palmer,  Vere  D., 
Palmer,  Mrs.  C.  M., 
Pal  miter,  Mrs.  Louise, 


Dallas,  Tex. 

Lowville,  N.Y. 

Walkerton,  Out. 

Hartland,  Minn. 

New  York  City. 

Bangor,  Me. 

Nortli  Star,  Mich. 

Dover,  N.  H. 

-    Augusta,  Wis. 


Parker,  John,  -  Mahaiioy  City,  Pa. 
Parry,  Edwin  F.,  -  Salt  Lake  City,  Utah. 
Partridge,  Abbie  N.,  -  Greenfield,  N.  H. 
Patterson,  Prof.  John  L.,  Lexington,  Ky. 
Patterson,  Minnie  Ward,  Marshall,  Mich. 
Patton,  Prof.  E.  L.,  .  Columbia,  S.  C. 
Paxton,  William,  -  Platte  City,  Mo. 
Peacock,  Arthur  S.,  -  Wa-Keeney,  Kan. 
Peacock,  Thomas  B.,  -  Topeka,  Kan. 
Peakes,  Emily  W,,  -  Terre  Hnute,  Ind. 
Pearle,  Mrs.  Mary,  -  -  Erie,  Pa. 
Pearson,  Clarence  H„  -  Laconia,  N.  H. 
Peberdy,  William,  -  Middletown,  Coun. 
Pelham,  Nettie  H.,  -  Plymouth,  Mich. 
Pennell,  Harriette  G.,  -    Brunswick.  Me. 


Penuel,  Mrs.  Laura  G, 
Percival,  Dr.  C.  S., 
Perley,  May, 
Perry,  Timothy, 
Peters,  M.  H., 
Petty,  Rev.  Henry. 
Phelps,  Dryden  W.,  - 


,     -    Hearne,  Tex. 

Waterloo,  la. 

Newport,  N.  H. 

Brooklyn,  N.Y. 

Watseka,  111. 

Chatham,  Va. 

New  Haven,  Conn. 


*- 


Phelps,  Elizabeth  Stuart, 
Phifer,  C.  L.,        -        .         California,  Mo. 
Phillips,  Ryal  J.,  -  Waycross,  Ga. 

Phillips.  Rev.  F.  F.,  -  Somerville,  Mass. 
Pickering,  Mrs.  M.,  Eureka  Springs,  Ark. 
Pickering.  Grace  E.,  -  Portsmouth,  N.  H. 
Pollard,  Mrs.  Inez  M.,     -     Hodgdon,  Me. 


275 
554 
201 
375 
146 
229 
217 
499 
746 
434 
373 
392 

460 
713 
495 
328 
715 
538 
101 
334 
369 

239 

86 
165 
445 
693 

7.34 
656 
719 
721 
384 
455 
294 
500 
317 
714 

75 
541 
319 
715 

73 
187 
100 
416 
316 
526 
345 

a5 

476 

94 
288 
173 
642 

55 
639 
2:35 
333 
716 


Porter,  Thomas  F„         -         Lynn,  Mass. 
Porter,  Bessie,  -  Currie,  Minn. 

Potts,  John  v.,    -       North  Robertson,  O. 


Pratt,  Charles  A.,     - 
Pratt,  Ellen  F., 
Preston,  Margaret  J., 
Price,  Viola  V.,     - 
Prickett,  Jacob  P., 
Proctor,  Edna  Dean, 
Pugh,  T.  A., 


SheflBeld,  111. 
Chicago,  111. 

Emporia,  Kan. 

Albion,  Ind. 

BrookljMi,  N.Y. 

Dumontville,  Ohio. 

Rader,  Lewis  E.,  -  Walla  Walla,  Wash. 
Rains,  Mrs.  Helen  A.,  -  Mt.  Ayr,  Iowa. 
Randall,  Mrs.  Laura,  -  Dansville,  Mich. 
Randall,  Ella  E..  -  Stockton,  Kan. 
Raj',  Fabius  M.,  -  Saccarappee,  Me. 
Read,  Jane  M.,  Coldbrook  Springs,  Mass. 
Rexdale,  Robert,  -       Portland,  Me. 

Reynolds,  D.  A.,  -  -  Lyons,  Mich. 
Rhoderick,  George  C,  -  Middletown,  Pa. 
Rice,  Alonzo  L.,  -  Ray's  Crossing,  Ind. 
Richards,  Rev.  W.  Avery,  -  Goldfleld,  la. 
Richards,  Mrs.  Lydia  P.,  -  Momence,  111. 
Richards,  Mrs.  Abbie  H.,  -  Warren,  111. 
Richardson,  John  M.,  -  Daingerfleld,  Tex. 
Richardson, Marion  M.,  Richardson, Utah. 
Richmond,  Ray,  -  Dubuque,  Iowa. 
Richtmeyer,  Mrs.  Z.  C,  Conesville,  N.Y. 
Rideout,  Edward  L.,  -  -  Readfleld,  Me, 
Riley,  James  Whitcomb, 


Rittenhouse,  Laura  J., 
Robinson,  Annie  D., 
Robinson,  Edward  B., 
Robinson,  Jonah  L.,  - 
Robinson,  Fred  E., 
Robinson,  Mrs.  A.  E., 
Rogers,  Dr.  John  C,    - 
Rollins,  Alice  W., 
RoUston,  Adelaide  D., 
Ruble,  Eliza  H.,      - 
Ruddell,  George, 
Russell,  Benjamin  S.,  - 
Russell,  Dr.  Joseph  P., 
Runcie,  Constance, 

Savage,  Minot  Judson, 
Sayre,  Jennie, 
Shaeffer,  A.J., 
Scott,  R.  G., 
Sc  udder,  J.  Evans, 
Searl,  Fernando  C. 


Cairo,  111. 

Bristol,  N.  H. 

Portland,  Me. 

Watertown,  Dak. 

Syracuse,  Neb. 

Blaine.  Me. 

Pembroke,  Me. 

-     Paducah,  Ky. 

Albert  Lea,  iMinn. 

Sugar,  Kan. 

Bridgeport,  N.Y. 

-    Waveland,  Ind. 

St.  Joseph,  Mo. 


Waco,  Neb. 

Spencerville,  Ohio. 

Des  Moines.  la. 

Walden,  N.Y. 

Portsmouth,  Ohio. 
Senter,  Mrs.  Mary  A.  A.,  -  Exeter,  N.  H. 
Shaler,  Clarence  A.,  -  Fox  Lake,  Wis. 
Shaw,  Frances  A.,  -  Minneapolis,  Minn. 
Sherwood,  Isaac  R.,  -  Canton,  Ohio. 
Sherwood,  Mrs.  Kate  B.,  -  Toledo.  Ohio, 
Shimraons,  Mrs.  Lizzie,  -  Lawrence,  Kan. 
Shock,  John,  -  -  Preston,  Colo. 
Sholes,  Althine  F.,  -  -  Goshen,  N.  H. 
Shores,  Mrs.  Clara,  W.Bridgewater.  Mass. 
Shumway,  Grant  L.,     -       Ashford,  Neb. 


506 
551 
563 
279 
714 
641 
466 
123 
220 
241 

648 
60 
497 
214 
687 
191 
45. 
565 
414 
171 
.365 
2a3 
677 
182 
765 
103 
645 
300 
613 
61 
456 
603 
37 
550 
567 
685 
204 
478 
404 
167 
647 
326 
141 

213 
707 
181 
188 
616 
461 
41 
421 
692 
600 
601 
407 
342 
.509 
505 
435 


*- 


VI 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


Simpson,  Mrs.  Correlli,  -  Baugor,  Me.  4S7 
Sisco,  Mrs.  Marcia,  -  Pomeroy,  la.  735 
Sittler,  Sara  J.,  -  -  Jefferson,  Iowa.  431 
Skilliugs,  Robert  F.,  -  Peak's  Island,  Me.  733 
Small,  ELwood  E.,  -  Valparaiso,  Ind.  368 
Smart,  Amanda,  J.,  -  Danvers,  Mass.  138 
Smeltzer,  Amelia  Jane,  -  Joyfield,  Mich.  343 
Smiser,  Butler  S.,  -  -  Atoka,  I.  T.  103 
Smith,  Hubbard  M.,  -  Vincennes,  Ind.  93 
Smith.  Lewis  W.,  -  Fairfield,  Neb.  287 
Smith,  John  S.,  -  -  Osceola,  Mo.  493 
Smith,  Mrs.  Jeanie,  -  Johnstown,  N.Y.  136 
Smith,  Mrs.  Martha,  -  Le  Sueur,  Minn.  637 
Smith,  Mrs.  Elizabeth,  -  Lead  City,  S.D.  671 
Snow,  George  W.,  -  -  Bangor,  Me.  605 
Soule,  Jno.  B.  L.,  -  -  Chicago,  111.  723 
Southwell,  Clara  Belle,  -  Marshall,  Mich.  636 
Southworth,  Mrs.  Gracia,  -  Albion,  Mich.  579 
Southworth,  Emma  L.,  -  Flint,  Mich.  450 
Spear,  Dr.  David  Dana,  -  Freeport,  Me.  4.59 
Spenser,  Welcome  O.,  -  Lakeport,  N.Y.  723 
Spofford,  Harriet  P.,  -  -       203 

Staunton,  Mrs.  Louise,  Fort  Wayne,  Ind.  401 
Stedman,  Edmund  C,         -         -  -       385 

Stephenson,  John  S.,  -  Elyria,  Ohio.  523 
Stevens,  Mrs.  S.  J.,  -  North  Troy,  Me.  576 
Stewart,  M.  I.,      -       -  Winston,  N.  C   686 

Stewart.  Mrs.  Martha,  -  Tomahawk,  Wis.  448 
Stickney,  Horace  A.,  -  Steele,  N.  D.  743 
Stockwell,  William,  -  -  Mead,  Ind.  397 
Stoddard,  A.  H.,  -  Kalamazoo,  Mich.  745 
Stoddard,  Elizabeth  B.,    -         -  -  53 

Stoddard,  Richard  Henry,  -  -       449 

Stoner,  Leroy,  -  -  Centerview,  Mo.  126 
Story,  WiUiam  Wetmore,  -  -         200 

Stout,  Traverse  E.,  -  Huntington,  W.Va.  657 
Stowe,  Harriet  Beecher,    -  -  -       417 

Stratton,  Mrs.  Ella,  -  "Washburn,  Me.  509 
Swan,  Caroline  D.,  -  Gardiner,  Me.  282 
Swansou,  Mrs.  Effle,  -  Royaltou,  Minn.  313 
Swarthout.George  W.,  Laingsburg,Mich.  640 
Sweat,  Mrs.  Margaret.  -  Portland,  Me.  625 
Swisher,  Mrs.  Bella  F.,  -  Austin,  Texas.  177 
Sylvester,  Herbert  M.,  -  Portland,  Me.  711 
Taber.  Edward  F.,  -  Brooklyn,  N.Y.  583 
Taber,  Charles  A..  -  Wakefield,  Mass.  51 
Tapley.  Kimball  Chase,  -  St.  John,  N.  B.  581 
Tate,  Thomas  E.,  -  -  Osyka,  Miss.  209 
Taylor.  Henry  Ryder,  San  Antonia,  Tex.  163 
Taylor,  W.  A.,  -  -  Columbus,  Ohio.  74 
Taylor.  William,  -  Aurora,  Ind.    59 

Taylor,  John  Vincent,  -  New  York  City.  259 
Terry,  Sallie  Effie,  -  Big  Clifty,  Ky.  697 
Thiiyer,  Hiram,  -  Bradford,  Iowa.  646 
Thayer,  Julia  H.,  -  Morgan  Park,  111.  47 
Thomas,  Col.  Sam  P.,  -  Hawesville,  Ky.  708 
Thomas,  Edith  Matilda,  -  -  -  514 
Thomas,  Mrs.  W.  H.,  -  El  Dorado,  Kan.  109 
Thomas,  Mrs. Mary  A.,  Springfield,  Tenn.  6.59 
Thompson,  Maurice,         -  -  -       370 


Tiffany,  Mrs.  Emma  A.,  -  Orwell,  Ohio. 
Tipton,  Rev.  Milton  H.,  -  Elgin,  Pa. 
Tirrill,  Mrs.  EUza,  -  Manchester,  Iowa. 
Torrans,  John  B.,  -  Muscogee,  I.  T. 
Townsend,  Linus,  -  -  Apollo,  Pa. 
Tracy,  Mrs.  Harriet  T.,  Sacramento,  Cal. 
Train,  Mrs.  Emma,  North  Collins,  N.Y. 
Trowbridge,  John  T.,  -  -  . 

TuUis,  John  B.,  -  Moorlngsport,  La. 
Turk,  Lizzie  May,  -  Canton,  Minn. 
Turner,  Tom  S.,  -  Massey,  Texas. 
Tyler,  Mrs.  M.  G.,  -  Huntsville,  Kan. 
Van  Burg,  Mrs.  Lizzie,  -  Filley,  Neb. 
Van  Ness,  Rev.  John  G.,  Maquoketa,  la. 
Vance,  W.  T.,  -  -  South  Haven,  Mich. 
Veatch,  Andrew  A.,  -  Brookeland,  Tex. 
Viney,  John  A.,  -  -  El  Paso,  Texrs. 
Walden,  Lizzie,  -  Union  City,  Ind. 
Wallace,  W.  DeWitt,  -  La  Fayette,  Ind. 
Ward.  Rev.  James  T.,  Westminster,  Md. 
Varder,  Col. George  W.,  Kansas  City,  Mo. 
Ware,  Eugene  Fitch,  -  Fort  Scott,  Kan. 
Warner,  Daniel  S.,  -  Windsor,  Mo. 
Warrener,  William  J.,  -  Federal,  Ohio. 
Waters,  Gay,  -  Wilmington,  Ohio. 
Watkins,  Jas.  H.  J.,    East  Schuyler,  N.Y. 


Watson,  William  F., 
Watson,  Stephen  M., 
Wear,  Robert  Duke, 
Weaver,  W.  J., 
Webster,  John  A.,  - 
Webster,  Mrs.  E.  H., 


-  Greenville,  S.  C. 

Portland,  Me. 

-  Graubury,  Tex. 

Mill  Hall,  Pa. 
■Tohnson  City,  Kan. 

-  Hyde  Park,  Mass. 


Wells,  Mrs.  E.  B.,  -  Salt  Lake  City,  Utah. 
Werden,  Elias,  -  -  Pittsfleld,  Mass. 
White,  Rev.  Hiram  B.,  -  Ortvell,  Ohio. 
White,  William  W.,  -  Ashford,  Neb. 
Whitehead,  Mrs.  L.  K.,  -  Festus,  Mo. 
Whitman,  Mrs.  Isa,  -  Buckfleld,  Me. 
Whitman,  Walt,  .... 

Whiting.  S.  K.,  -  Kansas  City,  Mo. 
Whitney,  Adeline  D.  T., 
Whitten,  Martha  E.,  -  Austin,  Tex. 
Whittet,  Robert,  -  -  Richmond,  Va. 
Whittier,  John  G.,  -  Amesbury,  Mass. 
Wiard,  Editha  E.,  -  Silver  Creek,  Neb. 
Wilcox.  Ella  Wheeler,  -  Merideu,  Conn. 
Wilcox,  Dr.  Hamilton,  Albert  Lea,  Minn. 
Williams,  Rev.  Dwight,  Cazeuovia,  N.Y. 
Williams,  Daisy  C,  -  Newark,  Ohio. 
Willner,  Rev.Wolf,  -  Newark,  N.  J. 
Wilson.Lemuel.WessingtonSprings.Dak. 


Wilson.  Thomas  E., 
Wils(>n,  Gilbert  L., 
Wilson,  Mrs.  E.  A., 
Wilstacli.  John  A., 
Wince,  John  Laight, 
Wince,  ISIrs.  Sarah, 
Winter,  William. 
Wintermute,  Mrs.  Martha, 
Wolf,  Mrs.  Maggie, 


Roxbury,  Mass. 
Center  Point,  la. 
Norwich,  Conn. 
La  Fayette,  Ind. 
Pierceton,  Ind. 
Pierceton,  Ind. 


Newark,  O- 
Dayton,  O. 


394 
185 
689 
443 
453 
71 
586 
222 
706 
697 
285 

a32 

675 
413 
618 
561 
433 
395 
723 
592 

33 
289 
515 
457 
221 
489 
452 
651 
717 
168 
215 
580 

49 
629 
270 
303 
486 
731 
193 
534 
610 
591 
311 

43 
488 
161 
322 
571 
355 
.5:39 
391 
611 
238 
710 
383 
521 
521 
674 

739 

324 


*- 


-* 


*-■ 


* 


LOCAL,   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


VU 


Wood,  Mrs.  Emma,  Easthampton,  Mass.  260 
Wood,  Cliarles  N.,  Broome  Center.  N.Y.  678 
Wood,  Julia  A.  A.,  -  -  St.  Paul,  Minn.  210 
Woodbridf-e,  Prof.  A.  A.,  -  Boston,  Mass.  358 
Woodmansee,  Mrs. Emily,  Salt  Lake  City.  57 
Woods,  Mrs.  Kate  T.,  -  Salem,  Mass.  445 
Woodward,  Edward  P.,  -  Portland,  Me.  655 
Woodward,  Nathau  A.,    -    Batavia,  N.Y.  649 


Woodward,  Mary  C.  S., 
Worch,  Rudolph, 
Worthen,  Mrs.  A.  H., 
Wyatt,  Rosa,      - 


-    Osborn,  O.  2.34 

Jackson,  Mich.  471 

Lyiui,  Mass.  015 

Kennard,  Iiid.  216 


Young,Mrs.Fannie  Spear,Longview,Tex.  .503 


Ziegler,  Rev.  D.  P., 
Zimmerman,  J., 


Keystone,  Kan.  692 
Herald,  111.  303 


4i- 


— -^ 


*- 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


INDEX. 


Adams,  Enoch  G.,  -  South  Berwick,  Me.  775 
Adams.  Charles  FoUen,  -  Boston,  Mass.  849 
Allen,  Frank  D.,  -  -  Audubon,  la.  937 
Antoniewicz,  Mrs.  J.,  San  Francisco,  Cal.  809 
Arms,  Mrs.  Mary  P.  S.,  -  Beckwith,  Cal.  934 
Arnold,  Tlios.  H.,    -  Middlesboroug-h,Ky.  818 

Bailey,  D.  D.,  Gilbert  S.,  -  Pomona,  Cal.  985 
Bailey,  Rev.  Amos  J.,  -  Ogden,  Utah.  1003 
Ballou,  Mrs.  A.  L.,  -  San  Francisco.Cal.  801 
Barry,  Mrs.  Belle  B.,  -  Knoxville,  Tenn.  1055 
Barton,  Hubbard  Alonzo,  -  -  -  -  795 
Beattie,  Blise,  -  -  -  Atlanta,  Ga.  955 
Beebe,  John  W.,  -  -King-man,  Kas.  910 
Beckwith,  Mrs.  Sue  E.,-  Audale,  Kan.  868 
Behymer,  F.  M.,  -  Little  Rock,  Ark.  1013 
Bel,  Mrs.  Sarah  P.,  -  Middletown,  Conu.  935 
Bellville,  Jolin  Oliver,  -  Evansville,  Ind.  906 
Bennion,  Emma,  -  Strykersville,  N.Y.  799 
Benton,  Lucile  M.,  -  -  Americus,  Ga.  879 
Bickford,  Rev.  L.  F.,  -  Brown vvood,  Tex.  1073 
Biddle,  Horace  P.,  -  Log-ansport,  Ind.  847 
Bingham,  Rev.  Charles,  -  Dayton,  Fla.  1018 
Bland,  Bessie,  -  -  -  Lynn,  Mass.  903 
Bloomfleld,  Fred  D.,  -  Jamestown,  N.Y.  935 
Boltou,  Mrs.  Sarah  K.,  Cambridge,  Mass.  810 
Bolton,  Chas.  Knowles,  Cambridge,  Mass.  833 
Boyden,  Mrs.  Emily  M.  B.,  Chicago,  111.  1063 
Boynton,  Elias,  -  New  Lisbon,  Wis.  953 
Brehm,  Mrs.  Marian  J.,  -  Logan,  O.  1016 
Brewer,  Mrs.  Jessie  M.,  -  Maynard,  Mass.  933 
Brier,  Rev.  John  Wells,  -  Lodi,  Cal.  933 
Bryant,  Edwin  M.,  Corpus  Christi,  Tex.  1001 
Burns,  Harry  C,  .  -  Pittsburg,  Pa.  953 
Bushnell,  Mrs.  Lillian,  -  Riverside,  Cal.  940 
Butterworth,  Hezekiah,  -  Boston,  Mass.  886 
Byrum,  E.  Edwin,  Grand  Junction,  Mich.  880 
Bartol,  Dr.  Cyrus  A.,  -  Boston,  Mass.  1084 
Beard,  John  Lewis,  -  Winston,  N,  C.  1087 
Brooks,  William  Grant,      -       Saco,  Me.  1078 


Cadwallader,  Emma  Nier,  Oskaloosa,  la.  893 
Cappleman,  Josie  Frazee,  Okolona,  Miss.  783 
Cai-penter,  Mrs.M.W.,  Stephentown,  N.Y.  884 
Carter,  Ethel  Alice,  -  -  Shasta,  Cal.  794 
Carter,  Rev.  S.  B.,  -  Westminster,  Conn.  1000 
Cartwright,  Mrs.  Mary  J.,  Portland,  Ind.  941 
Cliapman,  Prof.  Josepli  W.,  Pueblo,  Col.  783 
Chase,  Mrs.  Julia  Clarke,  Lancaster,  Cal.  981 
Clark,  James  G.,  -  San  Francisco,  Cal.  837 
Clary,  Jack,  -  -  Galveston,  Texas.  907 
Colby,  Fred  Myron,  -  Warner,  N.  H.  800 
Coleman,  Thomas  Moore,  -  Glendon,  la.  978 
Colgan,  John  Roland,        -Pioneer,  Ohio.  946 


Collins,  David  Edward,  -  Oakland,  Cal.  1035 
Condon,  Dr.  A.  S.,  -  Ogden  City,  Utah.  779 
Copithorne,  Joseph  F.,San  Francisco, Cal.  846 
Corliss,  Mrs.  Mary  E.,  -  Washburn,  Me.  1066 
Crabtree,  Thomas  Aldin,  -  Bangor,  Me.  980 
Crane,  Rev.  Henry  C,  -  Omaha,  Neb.  1064 
Cumback,  William,  -  Greensburg,  Ind.  833 
Crowley,  Rev  D.  O.,  San  Francisco,  Cal.  787 
Christian,  Mrs.  M.  A.,  Christian,  W.  Va.  1087 


Dame,  Mrs.  Abbie  H.,  Lawrence,  Mass.  1068 
Davis,  Aaron  Green,  -  Dyersburg-,  Tenn.  791 
Dean,  John  Willey,  -  Chariton,  Mo.  794 
Derby,  Jr.,  Roswell,  -  Florence,  Ohio.  947 
Dingwall,  Mary  R.  D.,  -  Montpelier,  Vt.  878 
Diusmore,  Mrs.  B.  A.,  -  Foxcroft,  Me.  793 
Dormer,  Mrs.  L.  Isabelle,  Stockton,  Cal.  860 
Downes,  Mrs.  V.  fl.,  -  Houlton,  Me.  944 
Dorr,  George  S.,  -  Wolfboro  June,  N.  H.  893 
Dukes.'J.Malcolmson,  San  Antonio.Tex.  1006 
Dunham,  Mrs.  Emma  B.  S.,  Deering,  Me.  1070 
Dunham,  Lemuel,  -  Bryant's  Pond,  Ind.  918 
Dupuy,  Elisabethe,       -       St.  Louis,  Mo.  877 


Edgerton,  Jessie,     - 
Ehrhardt,  Will, 
Emery,  Brainerd  P., 
Evers,  Rev.  A.  M.,     • 


Columbiana,  Ohio.  949 

Greensburg,  Ind.  917 

Newberg,  N.Y.  933 

Keedysville,  Md.  797 


*- 


Fairman,  Mrs.  M.  M.,  New  Sharon,  Iowa.  897 
Farry,  John  J.  F.,  -  San  Francisco,  Cal.  898 
Fielder,  Mrs.  Lizzie  D.,  Monroe  City,  Mo.  1014 
Flanders,  Rev.  C.  P.,  North  Truro,  Mass.  1003 
Flook,  Rev.  Jacob,  -  Indiauola,  Neb.  1015 
Florence,  Lizzie  E.,  -Wills  Point,  Texas.  1008 
Folsom,  Montgomery  M.,  -  Atlanta,  Ga.  833 
Fowler,  Mrs.  Fannie  H.,  Manistee,  Mich.  1017 
Fowler,  Sylvester,  -  Louisville,  Kan.  997 
Frederick,  Aaron  W.,  -  Letcher,  Cal.  790 
Fulton,  Adelaide  M.,  San  Francisco,  Cal.  919 
Ferris,  Luman  A.,  Bernhard's  Bay.N.Y.  1075 
Fitzmaurice,  John  W.,  -  Jackson,  Mich.  1079 


Gallagher,  William  D.,  Cincinnati,  Ohio.  1039 
Gibbs,  Lilla,  -  -  Clierry  Vale,  Kan.  939 
Glidden,Rev.K.B.,  Mansfield  Cent., Mass.  1003 
Garner,  W.  Scott,  -  Tunnelton,  W.Va.  973 
Goodloe,  James  L.,  -  Memphis,  Tenn.  1039 
Greene,  Mrs.  Clara  M.,  -  Portland,  Mo.  865 
Griffin,  George  Butler,  Los  Angeles,  Cal.  979 
Grisson,  Arthur  C,    -     New  York  City.  1031 


-* 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


IX 


Hammoiid,Mrs.L.H.,Stroug's  Prairie,  VVis.912 
Hardeu,  Rev.  Jolui.  -  Kokomo,  Iiid.  904 
Hardy,  Mrs.  Lizzie  C,  -  Red  Cedar,  Wis.  966 
Harris,  Alfred  \V.,  -  Louisville,  Ky.  834 
Harris,  Milo  Jenkins.  -  Camdeu,Obio.  1057 
Hendrick,  Rev.  VV.  L.,  -  Bangor,  N.Y.  888 
Hills,  Lucius  P.,  -  -  Atlanta,  Ga.  998 
Hoag-,  Mrs.  Carrie  W.,  -  Peabody,  Mass.  816 
Hoag-,  Charles  E.,  -  Peabody,  Mass.  815 
Hodges,  Daniel  F.,  -  -  Phillips,  Me.  930 
Holland,  Edward,  -  -  ludio,  Cal.  796 
Holloway,  Elvira  H.,  San  Francisco,  Cal.  820 
Hortou,  Metta,  -  -  Stamford,  N.Y.  1058 
Houston,  Dr.  Emei-son,  -  FuUerton,  Neb.  977 
Hovey,  Rev.  H.  C.  -  Bridgeport,  Conn.  1024 
Howe,  Fred  Allison,  -  Ann  Arbor,  Mich.  812 
Howe,  Mrs.  Harriet.  -  Los  Angeles,  Cal.  935 
Hoxsie,  Anna  Maude,  -  Buffalo,  N.Y.  1047 
Hoyt,  Mrs.  EUen,  -  -  Gallon,  Ohio.  921 
Hulin,  Edwin  Seymour,  -  Erwin,  Tenn.  773 
Huntington,  Mrs.  M.H.,Watertown,  N.Y.  960 
Huse,  Mary  Stieknej',  Princeton,  Minn.  1013 
Harmon,  Abner  W.,  -  Old  Orchard,  Me.  1077 
Harrison,  Narcissa,  -  Waco,  Texas.  1085 
Hibben,  Mrs.  Ida  W.,  -  Sheridan,  111.  1073 
Hobart,  Rev.  Milo,       -        Rogers,  Ark.  1083 


Jenness,  Herbert  E.,  -  Maiden,  Mass.  887 
Jolinsou,  Cliauncy  A.,  -  Mllford,  Iowa.  923 
Johnson,  Charles  Nelson,  -  Chicago,  111.  796 
Jones,  Florence  Augusta,  Hampton,  la.  1019 
Jones,  Isaac  Edgar,  -  Muskegon,  Mich.  831 
Jackson, Hortense  Cora,Jamestown,Ind.  1084 
Jones,  E.  L.       -       -       -      Patoka,  Ind.  1088 


Kent,  Mariner  J.,  -  Los  Angeles,  Cal.  987 
Kettoman,  G.W.,  Blue  Ridge  Summit,  Pa.  774 
Klldow,  Jr.,  Rev.  G.  W.,  Nashville,  Tenn.  957 
King,  Rev.  John  Wesley,  -  Silverton,  Col.  920 
Kingsbury,  Mrs.  E.  A.,  Los  Angeles,  Cal.  885 
Kramer,  Rev.  George  R.,  Brooklyn,  N.Y.  983 
Kruse,  Mrs.  Blanche.  -  Ft.  Recoverj',  O.  951 


Lamb,  Mrs.  Philomela  T.,  -  Holly,  Mich.  923 
Lanphere,  Alvin  T.,  -  Coldwater,  Mich.  769 
Lehman,  Emma  A.,  -  Salem,  N.  H.  926 
Lewis,  Col.  Juan,  -  Washington,  D.  C.  863 
Lillle,  Mrs.  R.  Shepard,  -  Melrose,  Mass.  1022 


*- 


MacCulloch,  Hunter, 
MacDonald,  Rufus  C. 
Mackay,  Charles  H.. 
Mahoney,  Mary  G.,  - 
Mains,  Mrs.  Ann  E., 
Maloney,  T.  H.  C,    - 


-  Philadelphia.  Pa.  805 

Boston,  Mass.  845 

Boston,  Mass.  SOS 

San  Francisco,  Cal.  999 

-  Wakeman.  Ohio.  965 
-    Scranton,  Pa.l045 


Mann,  Samuel  E.,  -  -  Apopka,  Fla.  875 
Martin,  MoUie,  -  Jamestown,  Ind.  969 
Martin,  Mrs.  M.  A.  B.,  -  St.  Louis,  Mo.1060 
Mason,  D.D.,  Rev.  Javan  K.,  Heriidon, Va.  967 
Mathis,  Mrs.  J.  E.,  -  Santa  Barbara,  Cal.  871 
Maxwell,  Hu,  -  St.  George,  W  Va.  821 
McAdoo,  Prof.  Wm.  G.,  Knoxville,  Tenn.  881 
McCauley,  James,  -  -  Leeds,  Md.  989 
McCourt,  David  W.,  -  St.  Paul,  Minn.  839 
McFadden,  Flavius  E.,  -  Fairfield,  Me.  939 
McGregor,  F.  Helen,  -  Beckwith,  Tenn.  874 
McHenry,  Mrs.  Ellen  J.,  -  Berkeley,  Cal.1038 
Mclntyre,  Horace,  -  Ainsworth,  Neb.  971 
Messenger,  Mrs.  L.  R.,  Washington,  D.  C.  869 
Jliller,  Daniel  F.,  -  -  Keokuk,  la.  814 
Miller,  William  Lewis,  -  Ukiah,  Cal.1046 
M'Makin,  Mary  Aug.,  Washington,  D.  C.  993 
Moody,  Joel,  -  Mound  City,  Kans.  857 
I^Ioore,  Martin  v.,  -  Auburn,  Ala.10.37 
Moore,  Thomas  R.,  -  Santa  Barbara,  Cal.  959 
Moss,  Leon  F.,  -  Los  Angeles,  Cal.  853 
Moway,  Duane,  -  -  Mauston,  Wis.  792 
Muuholhind,  Ward  D.,  Farmerville,  La.  902 
Muslck,  John  R.,         -         Kirksville,  Mo.  813 


Nealis,  Mrs.  Jean  E.  W 
Nettleton,  Charles  P.,    - 
Newell,  Charles  M., 
Newell,  Mrs.  Laura  E.,  - 
Nicol,  Robert  B., 
Nichols,  Roland  Albert, 
Nicum,  Mrs.  Ada  Smith, 
Noble,  Mary  Ella, 


Ft.  Dufiferin,  N.B.1034 

-  Hayward,  Cal.  870 
Boston,  Mass.  823 

-  Zeandale,  Kan.  928 
Milford.  la.  943 

Hiram.  O.  990 

Cincinnati,  O.  996 

Athens,  Ga.  968 


Norris,  Rev.  John  Sam.,  Webster  City,  Ta. 


Oadams,  Rev.  T.  S.,      -      Maquoketa,  Ta.  905 
O'Bleness,  Hamilton  C.,Los  Angeles,  Cal.1069 


Pabor,  William  Edgar,  -  Denver,  Colo.  841 
Paige,  Charles  L.,  -  -  Shasta.  Cal.  829 
Paine,  Albert  Bigelow,  -  Ft.  Scott,  Kan.  895 
Parsons,  Charles  Case,  -  Wakeman,  O.  963 
Pelton,  John  Cotter,  -  -  Otay.  Cal.  994 
Pierce,  Rev.  David  F..  S.  Brittain,  Conn.  989 
Pierce,  Clara,  -  New  Bedford,  Mass.  963 
Pierson,  Delaven  L.,  -  Pliiladelphla,  Pa.  891 
Plumley.D.D.,  G.S.,  Greenfield  Hill,  Conn.  970 
Pomeroy.  Mrs.  Genie  C,  Hoquiam.  Wash.  889 
Pratt,  Alice  Edwards,  -  Santa  Rosa,  Cal.  916 
Rusmussen,  Jennie  H.,  Albert  Lea,  Minn.  974 
Reid.  Mrs.  Mary  J.,  -  Alameda,  Cal.  890 
Reinhart,  Sophie.  -  Portland.  Ore.  931 
Reynolds,  Mrs.  Frances,  -  Mariposa,  Cal.  995 
Rich,  Mrs.  Caroline  W.  D.,  Lewiston,  Me.  934 
Rief,  Cliarles,       -        Grand  Island,  Neb.  777 


* 


*- 


-* 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


Rigg-s,  Luther  Granger,  Genoa  June, Wis.  825 
Robinson,  Harriet  H.,  -  Maiden,  Mass.  855 
Robinson,  Rev.  Jolin  B.,  -  Lemont,  111.  817 
Rogers,  Mrs.  Anna  M.,  San  Francisco,  Cal.1053 
Roe,  Mrs.Grace  Duffle,  Battle  Creek.Mieh.  771 
Ross,  Truman  D.,  -  -  Dake,  Colo.  901 
Russell,  Rev.  Amos  B.,  Gilmanton,  N.  H.  915 
Ruth,  Mrs.  Delia  T.,      -       Muscatine,  la.  964 


Salisbury,  Joseph  B.,  Barre  Center,  N.Y.1065 
Schroeder,  Charles  H.,  Washington,  Mo.lOlO 
Scott,  Laurence  W.,  -  Paris,  Texas.  819 
Severy,  Melvin  Linwood,  -  Boston,  Mass.  91.3 
Shapleigh,  Mrs.  May  C,  -  St.  Louis,  Mo.  827 
Sheeleigh,  D.  D..  M.,  Ft.  Washington,  Pa.  958 
Shelhamer,  Mrs.  S.  Ella.  -  Pasadena,  Cal.  899 
Shortridge,  Mrs.  Belle  H.,  Ft. Worth,  Tex.  961 
Sibbet,  Dr.  S.  D.,  -  Beaver  Falls,  Pa.  780 
Simmons,  Mrs.  Narcissa  J.,  Flippin,  Ky.  948 
Sinnickson,  Robert,  -  Trenton,  N.  J.  778 
Slaughter,  Mrs.  Linda  W.,  Bismarck,  N.D.1027 
Smith,  Arthur  E.,         -  Belcher,  N.Y.  975 

Smith,  Dexter,  -  -  Boston,  Mass.lOll 
SmiMi,  James  Jackson  M.,  -  Burnet,  Tex.1028 
Smyth,  Mrs.  Louisa  C,  -  Dresden,  0.,  937 
Sosso.  Lorenzo,  -  San  Francisco,  Cal.  856 
Spears.  Lulu  Emma,  -  Avalon,  Mo.  793 
Staley,  M.  Victor,  -  Appleton,  Wis.  976 
Stambaugh,  Mrs.  Ettie  C,  Herman,  Neb.  986 
Steele,  Clarence  T.,  -  New  York  City. 1059 
Stevens,  Joseph  Lay.  -  Mapleton,  Minn. 1009 
Stickney,  Julian  Noyes,  Groveland,  Mass.  851 
Stray,  Ermina  C,  -  -  Noble,  O.1071 
Strong,  Rev.  Philip  B.,  -  Malone,  N.Y.  894 
Strong,  Joseph  Dwight,  -  Oakland,  Cal.  909 
Sturm,  Mrs.  Olga  Louisa,  -  Cleveland,  O.  984 
Suddick,  Mrs.  Louise  P.,  -  Cuba.  Mo.l063 
Sweet,  Daniel  J.,  Sweet's  Corners,  Mass.  938 
Scanlon,  Anna  C.,.  -  Mt.  Ida,  Wis.1080 
Stewart,  Marcus  A.,       -       San  Jose,  Cal.1088 


Talman,  John,  -  -  St.  Paul,  Minn.1033 
Tascher,  Mrs.  Elbe,  -  Stevens  Pt.,  Me.l025 
Thomas,  Mrs.  A.  K.,  Battle  Creek,  Mich.  954 
Thompson,  Mrs.  Emma,  -  Easton,  Pa.  861 
Todd,  Mrs.  Mary  Ives,   Los  Angeles,  Cal.  867 


Tubbs,  Arthur  Lewis,  Glens  Falls,  N.Y.  795 
Tupper,  Fred.  A  ,  Shelbourne  Falls.  Mass. 1049 
Tuttle,  Mrs.  Emma  R.,  BerUn  Heights,  O.1043 
Truman,  Stella,  -  -  Opelousas,  La. 1081 
Underwood,  Mrs.  Lizzie,  -  Dayton,  Va.l007 
Urner,  Clarence  Henry,  -  Richmond,  Va.  914 
Vance,  Hart,  -  -  Louisville,  Ky.  988 
Van  Loon,  Mrs. Hannah,  Philadelphia,  Pa.l026 
Van  Nada.  L.  Belle,  -  Petersburg,  Ind.1030 
Varney,  Mrs.  F.  G.,  Windham  Center,  Me.l004 
Visscher,  Wm.  L.,     -     Fairhaven,  Wash. 1061 


Walcott.  Mrs.  Edith  F.,  -  Oxford,  Mass.  911 
Walker,  Justin  Elisha,  -  Nashua,  N.  H.  900 
Walser,  George  H.,  -  -  Liberal,  Mo.1031 
Warren,  Mrs.  Mary  E.,  -  Fox  Lake,  \\is.  993 
Waterman,  Mrs.  IdaF.,  Frankfort,  S.Dak.  991 
Waugh,  Rev.  John,  -  Cohocton,  N.Y.1005 
Weber,  George  Leo,  -  St.  Louis,  Mo.  945 
^Yebster,  George  W.  D.,  -  Geneva,  O.  883 
Weeks,  Leroy  Titus,  -  Osborne,  Kan.  942 
Weir,  Joseph  Latimer,  -  Orlenda,  Tenn.  873 
Welty,  Edwin  Arthur,  -  Oregon,  Mo. 10.51 
Wert,  J.  Howard.  -  Harrisburg,  Pa.  836 
West,  Mrs.  Flora  C,  -  Evansville.  Wis.lG67 
White,  Courtland  S.,  -  Halsted,  Kan.  798 
White,  Samuel  Leander,  Wakefield,  Mass.  982 
Whitney,  Orson  F.,  Salt  Lake  City,  Utah.  776 
Wiggin,  Jas.  B.,  Campbridgeport,  Mass.  811 
M'illard,  Horace  B.,  Fort  Atkinson,  Wis.  781 
Williams,  Byron  B..  -  Charles  City,  la.  936 
Willson,  Lou  Valeria,  -  Jackson,  Mich.  972 
Wilson,  Lucy,  -  -  -  Vanlue,  O.  937 
Winesburg,  Mrs.,  -  Wheeling,  W.  Va.  950 
Winslow,  Helen,      -  Roxbury,  Mass.  844 

Wixon,  Susan  Ellen.  -  Fall  River,  Mass.  807 
Wright,  Mrs.  C.  M.  H.,  -  Blaine.  111.  785 
Warner,  Dr.  A.,  -  -  Ainsworth,  Neb. 1076 
Williams,  Maggie  D.,  -  Livermore,  Ky.l086 
W' yman,  Mrs.  Sarah  E.,   -    Weston,  Mich.1082 


Yancey,  Mrs.  Belle,  -  Bunker  Hill.  111.  859 
Yates,  John  Henry,  -  Batavia,  N.Y. 1020 
Foung,  Daniel  Kissam,  New  York  City. 1041 
Young,  Mrs.  Mary  H.,  Chautauqua,  N.Y.1033 


•*- 


¥^ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


-* 


INDEX. 


PART  III. 


Atkins,  Mrs.  Anna  C,         Corvallis,  Ore- 
Atkinson,  Geo.  W.,       Wheeling-,  W.  Va. 


Albee,  Jolin, 
AUmond,  M.  B., 
AUsopp,  Mrs.  A., 
Anders,  Matilda  A., 


New  Castle,  N.  H. 

Louis%'ille,  Ky. 

Temescal,  Cal. 

Plymouth,  la. 


Austin,  Mrs.  Harriet  B.,  Woodstock,  111. 
Allen,  Lyman  W..  -  Newark,  N.  J. 
Alldredge,  Wm.  V.,  Trinity  Station,  Ala. 
Auringer,  Rev.  C,  Northwood,  N.  Y. 
Adee,  David  G.,      -      Washington,  D.  C. 


Baxter,  James  Phinney,  .  ortland.  Me. 
Beck,  Mrs.  Martha  G.,  Yakima,Wash. 
Berry,  Jos.  St.  E.,  -  Montrose,  Colo. 
Baxter,  Mrs.  C  A.,  -  Spirit  Lake,  la. 
Blake,  Edith,  -  -  Viroqua,  Wis. 
Brewerton,  Col.  G  D.,  Tacoma,  Wash. 
Beery,  Mrs.  AdalineH.,Hunting:don,  Pa. 
Bergoflf,  Mrs.  Hattie,  Centerviile,  S.  D. 
Barton,  Mrs.  Anna, 


Paw  Paw,  Mich. 

Rimersburg,  Pa. 

Iowa, 

Wooster,  Pa. 

Appleton,  Wis. 


Baker,  Jennie  A., 

Buck,  Emily, 

Bickerstaph,  G. 

Baer,  Mrs  Libbie  C 

Burrage,  Rev  Henry' S.,    Portland,  Me. 

Bates,  Mrs.  E  W   F.,    Roslindale,  Mass. 

Bellows,  Johnson,  -         Chicago,  111. 

Barnes,  Mrs.  I.,       -      Teanaway,  Wash. 

Baker,  E.  D.,         -        West  Millville,  Pa. 

Benedict,  Mrs  Sarah  W.,        Roscoe,  111. 

Bclk,  Mrs  A  E.,       -      -       Jasper,  Tex. 

Bailey,  Newton  S., 

Borah,  Mrs-  Mary  M., 

Boyd,  B.  F.. 


Bogart,  G  H., 


Bellefonte,  Pa. 
Gove  City,  Kan. 

Lock  wood.  Mo. 
Brookville,  Ind. 


@>riggs.  Rev.  W.  T.,  East  Douglas,  Mass. 


Bristol,  Mrs.  A  C, 
Brooks,  Fred.  E  , 
Brown,  Theron, 
Bruce,  G  L,, 
Buss,  Rev.  W.  H. 
Burr,  Rev.  E.  F., 
Brown,  Mrs  N.  L., 
Burr,  Rev.  W.  N., 
Beach,  E.  C, 
Beard,  J  L., 
Brown,  Louise  H., 
Brooks,  W.  G., 
Bates,  K.  L.. 
Beets,  Mrs.  Mary  F., 
Bartol,  Dr.  C  A., 
Billings,  Homer  A., 
Bashford,  Herbert, 


Boston,  Mass. 

San  Francisco,  Cal 

Newtonvllle,  Mass. 

Marshall,  Tex. 

Deadwood,  S.  D. 

Louisville,  Ky. 

-     San  Jacinto,  Cal. 

Ashton,  111. 

Winston,  N.  C. 

Crawfordville,  Ind. 

Saco,  Me. 

Welleslej",  Mass. 

Gardner,  Kan. 

Boston,  Mass. 

Fabius,  N.  Y. 

Tacoma,  Wash. 


1263 
UK} 
11.50 
1227 
11.57 
1163 
1333 
1315 
1365 
1395 
1253 


1269 
1359 
1363 
1386 
1285 
1350 
1335 
1333 
1341 
1333 
1363 
1364 
1383 
1257 
1249 
1355 
1183 
1160 
1145 
1161 
1337 
1197 
1261 
1163 
1119 
1135 
1144 
1239 
1173 
124;^ 
1184 
1242 
1253 
1245 
1087 
1090 
1078 
1240 
1099 
1084 
1113 
1099 


CliamberIain,Wm.  R.,  -  Chicago,  111. 
Crocker,  Mrs.  Manda  L.,  Shelby,  Midi. 
Cooke,  Mrs.  Isabella  W.,  Salem,  Ore. 
Conway,  John  D.,  -  Lawrence,  Mass. 
Cope,  Caleb  S.,  -  West  Chester,  P. 
Cooper,  Mrs.  S.  B.,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 
Cooper,  Charles,  Salt  Lake  City-,  Utah. 
Chapman,  John  A.,  Newberry,  N.  C. 
Christian,  Miriam  .  -  .  . 
Cox,  Palmer,  -  -  New  York  City. 
Chandler,  Dr.  W.  T.,  Campbellsville,  Ky. 
Campbell,  W.  H.,  -  -  Algona,  la. 
Cawein,  Madison,  J.,  Louisville,  Ky. 
Cheney,  J.  V.,       -      San  Francisco,  Cal. 


Chisholm,  Thos.  0., 
Clarke,  Rev.  A.  T., 
Clarke,  Mrs.  Susan  C, 
Clarke,  Mrs.  M.  M., 
Collier,  Mrs.  Ida  L., 
Cook,  Wm.  H., 
Cooley,  Mrs.  A.  K., 
Copeland,  G.  D., 
Cruikshank,  G.  H., 
Cummings,  Mrs.  J. 
Curtis,  Mrs.  M.  L., 
Carl,  Luman, 
Grosser,  David, 


Franklin,  Ky 

Atlanta,  Ga. 

Livermore,  la. 

Sheldahl,  la. 

Dubuque,  la. 

Poultney,  Vt. 

Sau  Francisco,  Cal. 

San  Diego,  Cal. 

Del.aware,  O. 

Falmouth.  Me. 

Oakland,  Cal. 

Summit,  N.Y. 


Davis,  Mrs.  J.  B.,  Central  Village,  Mass. 
Davis,  M.  K.,  Central  Village,  Mass. 

Delke,  Jas.  A.,  -  High  Point,  N.  C. 
DeMoss,  J.  A.,    -       -  Thayer,  Kan. 

Dickinson,  C.  M.,  Binghampton,  N.Y. 
Dickerman,  Benoni,  -  Constantia,  O. 
Dine,  Richard,  -       -      Friend,  Neb. 

Dixon,  W.  O.,  -  -  Hookerton,  N.  C. 
Dodge,  V.  v.,  -  -  -  Beverly.  O. 
Dubbs,  Rev.  J.  H.,  -  Lancaster.Pa. 
Duffield,  Grace,  •  Bloomfleld,  N-  J. 
Dunning,  Rev.  H.  N.,  S.  Norwalk,  Conn. 
Doyle,  R.  D..  -  -  -  Norfolk,  Va. 
Dahlgren,  Mrs.  M.,  Boonsboro,  Md. 

Dickinson,  Rev.  C.  E.,  Marietta,  O. 

Daniels,  Mrs.  Frances,  DeLuz,  Cal. 

Demorest,  Charlotte  A.,  'Towanda.  Pa. 
Dutcher,  E.  W.,  Minneapolis,  Minn. 

De  Woodie,  Mrs.  Rose  J.,  Houtzdale,  Pa. 
Du  Bose,  H  M.,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 

Donaghe,  Miss  R.,       -       Parnassus,  Va. 


1385 
1378 
1283 
1367 
i:«6 
i;i49 
1317 
1330 
1087 
1345 
1253 
1311 
1333 
1177 
1170 
1195 
1186 
1118 
1103 
11.33 
1111 
1201 
1360 
1137 
1094 
1374 
1183 

1181 
1181 
1124 
1139 
1207 
1240 
1098 
1108 
1199 
1123 
1341 
1303 
1368 
1379 
13;)6 
i:j21 
i:«7 
1318 
1375 
1381 
1346 


Eckert,  H.  T., 
Eells,  Rev.  M., 
Evans,  Alex, 
Eldred,  Ellen  E,, 
Esling,  Clias.  H.  A.. 


Sunbury,  Pa.  1139 

Union  City,  Wash.  1180 

Louisville,  Ky.  1364 

Laurens.  N.Y.  1279 

Philadelphiu,  Pa.  1*53 


-* 


*- 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


Fegely.W  0.,  -  Philadelphia,  Pa. 
Ferris,  Luman  A.,  Bernhards  Bay,N.Y. 
Fiun,  Frank  S.,  Mechanic  Falls,  Me. 

Fitzmaurice,  J.W.,  -  Jackson,  Mich. 
Flamaiit,  A.,  -  -  -  Napa,  Cal. 
Ford.  T.  B.,       -       -  Frankfort,  K5-. 

Foster,  Mrs.  Harriet  A.  C,  Wilton,  N.H. 
Foster,  A.,  -  -  -  Kezar,  Colo. 
French,  Jessie  v.,  -  Nashville,  Tenn. 
Flag-g-,  Rev.  E.  O.,  -  New  York,  N.Y. 
Fischer.  Mrs.  A.  A.,  -  Omaha,  Neb. 
Foster,  Lydia  Ann,      Dorchester,  Mass. 

Gee,  Edwin  D.,     - 
Gibson,  James  W., 
Gleason,  Gad, 
Grant,  Mary  C, 
Green.  Calvin, 
Gale,  Charles  F., 
Gale,  Mrs.  Lucinda, 
Getchell,  Lora  V., 
Gray,  Mrs.  Sarah  S. 
Graham,  Dr.  A.  G., 

Hatheway,  Flora  O,  -  Conway,  la. 
Hoppin,  Prof.  James  .       -       -       . 

Henry,  Mrs.  E.  J.  C,  -  Sterling-,  HI. 
Hall,  M.L.,  -  -  -  Omaha,  Neb. 
Hamilton,  A.  J.,  -  Louisville,  Ky. 
Hapeman,  Mrs.  M.  E.,  Baraboo.Wis. 

Harlan,  Hudson,  -       Ogallah,  Kan. 

Harlow,  J.  M.,  -  -  Charleston,  111. 
Harmon,  Abner  W.,  Old  Orchard,  Me. 
Harmon,  Mrs.,  M.,  Minneapolis,  Minn. 
Harvey,  J.  C,       -  New  York,  N.Y. 

Hasting-s,  Horace  L.,  -  Boston,  Mass. 
Harrison,  Narcissa,        -  Waco,  'Vex. 

Hathaway, B., Little  Prairie  Ronde.Mich. 
Hathaway,  H.  W.,  -  Jersey  City,  N.  J. 
Hiatt,  Harmon,  -  Crawfordsville,  Ind. 
Hibben.  Mrs.  Ida  W.,  -  Sheridan,  111. 
Hobart,  Rev.  Milo,  -  Rogers,  Ark. 
Hoster,  Mrs.  Carrie  W.,  Bluffton,  Ind. 
Howard,  Fred  W  -  Currie,  Minn. 
Hubbell,  S.  D.,  -  -  Lompoc,  Cal. 
Holt,  Rev.  J.  W.,  -  Burlington,  N.  C. 
Hubner,  Charles,  -  Atlanta,  Ga. 


1190 
1075 
1101 
1079 
1164 
1242 
1100 
1121 
1131 
1299 
13.59 
1254 


-     Tennyson,  Ind.  1142 

Newton,  111.  1103 

Michigan  City,  Ind.  1095 

Linden,  Va.  1241 

Hebron,Wis.  1185 

Beatrice,  Neb.  1271 

Lamar,  Mo.  1281 

Berwick,  Me.  1325 

-     Alpena,  S.  D.  1.366 

Detroit,  Mich.  1376 

1386 
1386 
1386 
1115 
1217 
1213 
1221 
1219 
1077 
1138 
1178 
1125 
1085 
1205 
1174 
1089 
1073 
1083 
1105 
1147 
1203 
1295 
1277 
1291 
1.369 
13;J9 
1.353 
1357 
1.363 
1373 
1378 
1384 
12.54 
1258 
12,50 
1256 


Hooper.  George  W., 1385 

Harris,  Franklin  G.,  -  Elba,  Neb.  1255 
Huggins,  Eli  L.,  Fort  Sherman,  Idaho.  12.51 
Hopkins,  Mrs.  Louisa  P.,  Boston, Mass.  1392 
Holland,  O.R., 1180 

Ireland,  Mrs.  Mary  E.,  Washington,  D.C.  12.35 
Imrie,  John,  -       -        Toronto,  Can.  1351 


Johnson,  Annie  B., 


Humphrey,  Nelson  G.,  -  LeRoy,  111. 
Hall,  Mrs.  R.  A.,  •  Auburn,  W.Va. 
Hancock,  Mrs.  Charlotte,  Waukon,  la. 
Haskell,  T,  N.,  -  -  -  Nebraska. 
Henry,  Mrs.  S.  M.  I.,      -    Evanston,  111. 

Harlow,  Dana  B., 

Holden.  Warren,  -  Philadelphia,  Pa. 
Hoyt.  Mrs.  Mattio  A  ,  -  Chicago,  111. 
Hewliiigs,  Mrs.  L.  M.,  -       .       .        - 

Hendry,  Mrs.  B.,  -  Tacoma.Wash. 
Hayes,  Lucy  Agnes,  -  Maynard,  Mass. 
Hutson,  Chnrles  W.,  -  Columbia,  S.  C. 
Hanna.William,      -       Philadelpliia,  Pa, 


Portland.  Me.  1200 


Jackson,  Cora, 
Jones,  E.  L.,     .       -       - 
Johnston,  George  P., 
Jefifery,  Mrs.  Isadore  G., 
Jenkins,  A.  J., 


-  1084 
Patoka,  Ind.  1088 

Brooklyn,  la.  1096 
Chicago,  111.  1273 

-     Otay,  Cal.  1282 


Judson,  Mary, 


Charles  City,  la.  1252 


Keefe.  Mrs.  S.  C,  -  Oswego,  Kan.  1137 
Kirschbaum,  Edw.T.,  N.  Grafton,  Mass.  1229 
Kennedy,  John  D.,  -  Altoona,  Pa.  1274 
Kempton,  Wm.  D.,  -  Cincinnati.  O.  1257 
King,  Anna  Bronson,       -       Medina,  O.  1250 


Logan,  Stephen  H.  -  Coal  Hill,  .\rk. 
Logan,  Algernon  S.,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 
Leavitt,  Mrs.  Mary  A„  -  Vernon,  Ind. 
Landon,  Mrs.  C,  -  Highlands,  Colo. 
Lindsay,  Mrs.  Rhoda  S.,  Douglas,  N.  C. 
Lockwood,  Theo.,  Crystal  Springs,Miss. 
Longley,  A.  P.,  John  Adams  P.O.,  Cal. 
Lathrop,  Mrs.  Mary  T.,  Jackson,  Mich. 
Latimer,  Laura  M.,  -  .  -  -  . 
Lewis,  Mrs.  Jennie,  -  West  Side,  la. 
Leighton.Wm.,       -       -    Concord,  Ma.ss. 


Madeira,  Geo., 
Mariager,  Mrs.  N., 
Marvin,  Rev.  E.  P., 
Mathesen,  J.  G., 
Melville,  Mrs.V.  C, 
Miles,  Mrs.  C.  H.,     - 
Moore,  H.  A., 
Morse,  W.  E., 
Moslier,  Rev.  A.  E., 
Murphy,  Minnie, 
Marsh,  Mrs.  Sophie, 
Mason,  Charles  O., 
MacKellar,  Thomas, 
McNincli.  Maggie, 
Moore,  J.  L., 
Morrell,  Dr.  C.  B., 
McGriff.  Mrs.  Sadie, 
Mason,  ^[ary  A.. 
Merrill,  Mrs.  I.E.  P. 
Moore,  .lames  W., 
McNeilly,  Edwin  L., 
Meade,  Mrs.  Mary, 
M;i.\.s(>n,  Mrs.  Emily 
Morrison,  Alfred  H. 


Healdsburg,  Cal. 

Santa  Barbara,  Cal. 

-    Lockport,  N.Y. 

Pilger,  Neb. 

Poynette,  Wis. 

■     Cedar  Hill,  Tenn. 

Wiscasset,  Me. 

Middli'ford,  Mass. 

Hastings,  la. 

Ciiicago,  111. 

Boston,  Mass. 

Glens  Falls,  N.Y. 

,     Philadelphia,  Pa. 

Williamston.  N.C. 

Bethlehem,  Ga. 

Cincinnati,  O. 

Monroe,  la. 

Somerville,  Mass. 

Nashville,  Tenti. 

Clarksville.Tenn. 

Decatur,  III. 

P.,     Detroit,  Mich. 

Canada. 


1246 
1307 
1293 
1328 
1370 
1342 
1368 
1358 
1363 
1.389 
1216 

1116 
1189 
1231 
1134 
1166 
1146 
1187 
1148 
1245 
1167 
1272 
1326 
1339 
1310 
1367 
1287 
1360 
1361 
1363 
1364 
1258 
1251 
1284 
1390 


*- 


-* 


3J, . _ 

LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 

Nuftzer,  G.  E..        -           Speiicerville,  0.  1158 

Stanton,  Henry  T.,    -          Franklin,  Ky.  1151 

Nolan,  Daniel  M.,       -    Haverhill,  Mass.  1371 

Stapley,  Mrs.  L.,                -     Belmond,  la.  1188 

Noj'es,  Fannie,         -        -         Onslow,  la.  1351 

Stewart,  Mrs.  E.  W.,  -  Altona,  Colo.  1113 
Stouffer,  S.  J..        -       -       Benevola,  Md.  1136 

Oliver,  J.  H.,        -       -      Granbury,  Tex.  1247 
O'Connell,  D.  J.,        -     Owatonna,  Minn.  1183 
O'Riordau,  James,     Stony  Hollow.  N.Y.  1114 
Ostrom,  Ernest  R.,        -       Danbury,  la.  1355 

Street,  Thos.,  -  -  Vineland,  N.  J.  1165 
Street,  Ida  M.,  -  Ann  Arbor,  Mich.  1345 
Spurlock,  Mrs.  Phoebe  A.,  Geneseo,  111.  1365 
Sliuey,  Mrs.  Lillian  H.,        -     Lorin,  Cal.  1389 

Peay,  Rev,  J.  H.,      -          Trenton,  Ten  n.  1348 

Skeats,  Wilfred  S.,        -       Toronto,  Can.  1375 

Patten,  William  G.,      Manchester,  N.  H.  1348 

Samuel,  Selma,,        -         -       Gretna,  La.  1370 

Page,  Mrs.  E.,      -        San  Franeisct>,  Cal.  1140 

Secor,  Eugene,      -        -     Forest  ('ity.  la.  1-301 

Pang-born,  F.W.,        -     Jersey  City,  N.J.  1330 

Smith,  Mrs.  Eva  M.,     -    Springfield,  111.  1331 

Parli.W.  G.,        -      Mystic  Bridg-e,  Conn.  1304 

Schaeg-gs,  Mrs.  Amy  E.,   San  Diego,  Cal.  1155 

Pendell,  James  F.,     -       -      Athol,  N.Y.  1143 
Phelps,  Mrs.  N.,  Mountain  Home,  Idaho  1338 
Pickernig,  Grace  E.,    Portsmouth,  N.H.  1363 
Pinliley,  Prof.  V.  A.,      -     Cincinnati,  O.  1336 
Preston,  Rev.  J.  P..    -     Creighton,  Neb.  11;56 
Priestley,  Mrs.  K.  E.,    -      San  Jose,  Cal.  1315 
Poole,  Belle,        -       -         Coving-ton,  La.  1376 
Pennock,  M.  C,      -         -        Alliance,  0.  1313 

Tanner,  A.  A.,  -  -  Oakley,  Id.  1169 
Thaxter,  Mrs.  C,  Portsmoutli,  N.  H.  1140 
Tillotson,  Mrs.  M.  E.,  Vineland,  N.  J.  1171 
Thomas,  F.  L.,  -  -  Lafayette,  Ind.  1198 
Thomas,  John,  -  Skyauon,  Ore.  1094 
Thorpe,  Mrs.  Rose,  Pacific  Beach,  Cal.  1193 
Torrey,  H.  D.,  -  S.  Bridgeton,  Me.  1091 
Torrey,  Amoret  D.,       S.  Bridgeton,  Me.  1093 

Ranney,  Fletcher,       -       Boston,  Mass.  1344 

Truman,  Stella,        -       -     Opelouta,  La.  1081 

Ray,  Mrs.  R.  B.,     Eureka  Spring-s,  Ark.  1335 

Tripp,  Howard  C,        -          Kingsley,  la.  1397 

Reed,  Mrs.  Anna,      -     Laytouville,  Cal.  1109 

Thoniiis,  Dr.  W^  D.,  Grand  Rapids,  Mich.  1366 

Richards,  L.  G.,       Salt  Lake  City,  Utah.  1193 

Thornhill,  Commodore  P.,  Columbia,  L,-i.  1337 

Rolie,  Rev.  T.  S.,       -       -     Truro,  Mass.  1154 

Tillson,  E.  C,        -       -      Deer  Park,  Md.  1344 

Ruffin.  Mrs.  M.  E.,         -          Mobile,  Ala.  1344 

Tilley,  Lucy  E.,        -        -         Medina,  0.  13.50 

Rhoads,  Dr.  Thomas,       Boyertown,  Pa.  1355 

Toland,  Mrs.  M.  B.,    San  Francisco,  Cal.  1387 

ReQua,  Mrs.  H.W.,         -         Batavia,  111.  1347 

Rude,  Mrs.  B.  C,        St.  Augustine,  Fla.  1319 

Upton,  Charles  Elmer,    Placerville,  Cal.  1347 

Ross,  William  C,       -       -     Omaha,  Neb.  1363 

Urich,  Mrs.  H.  L.,       -         Wilmot,  Dak.  1159 

Ryan,  Mary  C,        -        Obrine,  Florida.  1373 

Reed,  Mrs.  B.  A.,      -       -       Chicago,  111.  1349 

Van  Tuyl,  R.,  -  Prattsburg,  N.Y.  1310 
Vaughan,  J.  B.,        -        -     Atlanta.  Ga.  1179 

Say  ford,  Marion  W.,        Harrisburg-,  Pa.  1156 

Venable,  W.  H.,    -       -       Cincinnati,  O.  1106 

Siout,  Adelaide,        -       -     Buffalo,  N.Y.  1311 

Votow,  Rev.  E.  H.,        -       -    Geneva,  O.  1356 

Shoemaker,  Mrs.,  Morg-an  Springs,Tenn.  1380 

Vittum,  Edmund  March,       -         -         -   1391 

Swink,  Mollie,        -       -       -    Minier,  111.  1,305 

Sladen,  Douglas,       -       New  York  City.  1306 

Waite,  H.  C,        -       -      St.  Cloud,  Minn.  1347 

Smith,  Mrs.  Annie  H.,    -      Atlanta,  Ga.  1S38 

Wallace,  Martin,         -    Huntsville,  Tex.  1126 

Snow,  Mrs.  Sophie,     South  Meriden,  Ct.  1334 

Warner,  Dr.  A.,        -       Ainsworih,  Neb.  1076 

Stewart,  Ale.xander,       E.  Toronto,  Can.  1343 

Weed,  Mrs.  Annie  W.,        -       Rose,  N.Y.  1097 

Stuntz,  Mrs.  Laura,    -      Alhambra,  Cal.  1389 

Wetniore.  Hugh  A. .West  Superior,  Wis.  1141 

Stone,  Mrs.Virgitiia  P.,        -        •       -       -  1360 

White,  Jas.  T  ,         -         New  York,  N.Y.  133;} 

Siiammo,  Rosabel,    -       -      Halifax,  Pa.  1360 

White,  Mrs.  Emma,       Onset  Bay,  Mass.  1191 

Seelye,  Mrs.  L.  L.,       -       -      Geneva,  O.  1363 

Wicksteed,  G.  W.,         -        Ottawa,  Can.  1130 

Stanley,  Mrs.  Ada,        -       Leicester, Vt.  1364 

Wilcox,  C.  W.,           -         Somerset,  N.Y.  1107 

Swaine,  Mrs.  C.  Jennie,       -       .       -       -  1367 

Wiley,  Hon.  W.  L.,        .       -      Galva,  HI.  1333 

Smith,  Mrs.  M.  J.,        -        Long-wood,  111.  1383 

Wilkes,  Rev.  W.,        -      Syllacauga,  Ala.  1303 

Sageser,  Mrs   Mary  B.,    -     Stuart,  Neb.  1130 

Williams,  Maggie  D.,       Livermore,  Ky.  1080 

Scanlon,  Anna  C,    -       -        Mt.  Ida,  Wis.  1080 

Woodard,  Rev.  L.,        -       Oskaloosa,  la.  1175 

Scholes,  Adam,        -        -     Detroit,  Mich.  1337 

Wright,  Edward  D.,        -     Danville.  Ind.  1117 

Slater.  Kate  N.,                 Spring-field,  Mo.  1133 

Wyman,  Mrs.  Sarah,           Weston,  Mich.  1083 

Sleeper,  Rev.W.  T.,        Worcester,  Mass.  1333 

Wall,  Mrs.  Annie,        -         Pueblo,  Colo.  1377 

Slocum,  Grace  L.,    -       Pawtucket,  R.  I.  1314 

Wetherbee,  Emily  G  ,    Lawrence,  Mass.  1334 

Smith,  Mrs.  J.  L.,                  Hudson,  N.Y.  1330 

Waters,  Mrs.  Elizabeth,        -       -       -         1393 

Smythe,  Mary  E..        -        Columbia,  Ky.  1341 

Witham,  Samuel  M.,        Haverhill,  Mass.  1333 

Snow,  Mrs.  Effie  G.,          Schell  City,  Mo.  1133 

Ware,  William  Hibbert,    Trenton,  N.  J.  1176 

* 

Spake,  Mrs.  M.  J.,         -       -         Edon,  O.  1093 

Whitaker,  Rev.  R.,         -          Salem,  Ore.  1361 

« 


m- 


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LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL 


POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


COLONEL  GEO.  W.  WARDER. 

Born:  Richmond,  Mo. 
When  but  a  boy  in  years  Mr  Warder  taught 
school,  studied  law,  and  was  a  practicing-  at- 
torney at  riiillicothe,  Mo.     He  is  a  lawyer,  a 

business  man,  ;i    tiiKiiiciiT.    a    sclidlaf,    and   a 


COLONEL  GEO.  -W.  WARDER. 

poet.  Mr.  Warder  has  issued  three  volumes 
of  verse,  which  liave  attracted  considerable 
attention,  and  established  for  the  author  an 
enviable  reputati(ni ;  in  1873  appeared  Poetic 
Writings  or  College  Poems;  in  1874  Eden  Dell 
or  Love's  Wanderings;  and  his  third  volume, 
a  collection  of  his  finest  poems,  entitled 
Utopian  Dreams  and  Lotus  Leaves,  was  is- 
sued from  the  London  press  in  1885.  Since 
his  residence  in  Katisas  City,  Col. Warder  has 
attained  a  position  of  prominence  and  influ- 
ence in  the  communitj'.  He  is  president  of 
the  Mining  E.xcliange,  a  director  in  the  E.vpo- 
sition  Association,  the  Warder  Grand  Opera 
House,Newsboys  Home,  and  is  connected  with 
many  enterprises  and  charitable  institutions. 


WOMAN. 
Methinks,  o'er  all  the  realms  of  space. 

Creative  hand  ne'e;-  meant  to  trace 
A  nobler  form,  or  fairer  face. 

With  brighter  charm,  or  sweeter  grace. 
Than  woman,  who  was  sent  to  cheer 

Man  in  his  lonely,  hapless  fate. 
With  kindness  and  affection's  tear. 

And  lead  him  to  a  higher  state. 
Her  charming  face  and  trusting  heart 

Wakes  in  his  breast  heroic  flame; 
For  her  he  toils  by  strength  and  art. 

To  carve  his  way  to  wealth  and  fame. 
He  tills  the  soil,  and  sails  the  fleet. 

Subdues  the  earth,  explores  its  wilds, 
To  lay  his  treasures  at  her  feet. 

For  her  approving  love  and  smiles. 
In  every  land  where  women  stand 

In  loving  beauty  by  man's  side. 
His  rudeness  turns  to  manners  bland. 

And  truth  and  honor  in  his  pride. 
First  at  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

With  swelling  heart  and  anxious  breath. 
She  ope's  the  eyes  of  great  and  brave. 

And  shuts  them  in  the  glare  of  death. 
Then  lordly  man,  that  scoffs  at  fear. 

At  your  own  hearth,  or  where  ye  roam. 
Strive  with  true  love  to  bless  and  cheer 

This  angel  of  our  earthly  home. 


MEMORY  AND  IMAGINATION. 
There's  a  world  within  as  a  world  without, 
And  the  mighty  depths  of  the  human  soul 
Is  a  boundless  sea  where  the  billows  roll 
To  the  zephyr'ssigh,  and  the  thunder's  shout; 
Wliere  voices  come  from  the  sobbing  years 
Like  watching  stars  in  their  dreamy  spheres. 
And  the  soul,  like  earth  in  its  mystic  flight. 
Is  half  in  shadow  and  half  in  light. 
Thou  mighty  magiciiins  to  stir  the  heart 
To  its  silent  depths  with  thy  voice  of  tears. 
Pouring  its  pathos  of  tremulous  fears. 
Till  the  troubled  sea  of  the  soul  will  start. 
And  feeling  and  passion  like  billows  roll 
From  the  sighing  heart  to  the  sobbing  soul; 
Eyes  dreamy  and  blue  as  the  tranquil  sea; 
Face  beaming  and  changeful,  pleasing  and 
fair; 


©- 


m 


©- 


34 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


* 


Voice  sad  and  sweet  as  a  Miigdalen's  prayer 
To  a  pardoning  Christ  when  He  set  her  free. 
Thy  genius,  purpose  and  mission  grand 
Teaches  men  to  feel  and  their  souls  expand, 
That  mercy  may  blend  with  her  loving  eyes. 
The   joys   of  earth  with  the  dreams  of  the 
skies. 


THY  FACE  IS  FAIR  AND  LOVELY. 

Thy  face  is  fair  and  lovely. 

Thine  eyes  are  softly  blue. 
And  who  could  help  but  love  thee. 

Who  knows  thy  heart  so  true. 

Who  knows  the  wealth  and  depth  of  love 

That  in  thy  bosom  glows. 
The  purity  like  heaven  above, 

That  from  thy  spirit  flows. 

Thy  soul  looks  through  the  doors  of  sight. 
And  beams  from  out  thine  eye 

With  golden  light,  both  pure  and  bright, 
As  angels  passing  by. 

And  once  I  gazed  into  those  eyes 
That  beam  with  heavenly  thought, 

And  felt  the  ties  of  love  I  prize, 
Still  nearer  to  me  brought. 

That  hour  I  never  shall  forget, 

But  memory  will  retain  it. 
And  time  will  only  deeper  set 

That  diamond  gem  within  it. 

Then  fleeting  time  did  plume  her  wing, 

And  dip  her  feet  in  pleasure, 
And  from  the  streams  of  bliss  tlid  bring 

Us  gladness  without  measure. 

The  zephyrs  sang  unto  the  sea. 

The  golden  stars  were  beaming. 
While  hope,  like  bird  on  pinions  free. 

Her  sweetest  dream  was  dreaming. 

Endymion  on  the  moonlit  hills 
Ne'er  bathed  in  Cynthia's  smiling. 

And  felt  the  sweet  enrapturing  thrills. 
As  in  that  hour's  beguiling. 


SB- 


MARY  ANDERSON. 
Interpreter  of  truth  and  art. 

With  regal  form  and  queenly  grace? 

A  matchless  poem  is  tiiy  face, 
Where  glowing  thoughts  of  beauty  start 
Like  heart  that  speaketh  unto  heart. 
What  majesty  of  gentle  truth 

Is  thy  sweet  charm  of  womanhood; 

So  winning,  fair,  and  nobly  good. 
Like  genius  in  its  mystic  youth, 
A  peerless  thing  of  joy  and  truth. 
Bright  empress  of  a  fairer  land 

Than  czar,  or  king,  or  magnates  rule. 

Where  beau.\v,  heart  and  truth's  at  school. 


And  in  angelic  livery  stand. 
Like  sunlit  isles  in  summer  laud. 
Thou  staudest  proudly  and  alone 

In  art,  expression,  form  and  grace. 

And  changing  beauties  of  tliy  face. 
And  sweetness  of  thy  voice  and  tone, 
Like  sceptred  genius  on  a  throne. 
Then  fair  as  love  and  sweet  as  bliss. 

Press  on  and  win  the  world's  applause. 

Nor  in  thj-  charming  splendor  pause 
Till  deathless  fame  thj'  brow  shall  ki.ss, 
And  heaven  shall  bring  eternal  bliss. 


SADDEST  THOUGHTS  MAKE  SWEETEST 
SONG. 
When  the  twilight  shades  are  falling 
And  the  even-tide  is  near. 

Comes  the  voice  of  memory  calling, 

Soft  as  falling  of  a  tear; 
And  from  shadows  dim  and  fleeting 

Come  the  saddest  songs  and  greeting; 
Yet  the  sweetest  that  I  liear. 
And  I  dream  the  olden  dreaming 

In  the  gloaming  by  the  way. 
And  life's  rosy-tinted  gleaming 

Seems  to  crown  the  closing  day; 
And  my  heart  and  brain  and  being- 
Wrapt  in  visions  I  am  seeing. 

Sad,  yet  brightest  that  I  may! 
O!  our  saddest  thoughts  are  sweetest! 

For  they  span  a  broader  sea. 
Soaring  eagle-winged  and  fleetest 

O'er  the  world  of  memory. 
Hope  crowned,  heavenward  and  untiring. 
To  the  good  and  loved  aspiring. 

They  are  calling  unto  thee. 
Like  tiie  murmur  of  bright  rivers 

In  the  Islands  of  the  Blest, 
Wiiere  the  solemn  music  quivers 

Like  a  birdling  in  its  nest. 
Come  the  smiles  of  those  wlio  love  us 
From  the  far-off  heavens  above  us, 

And  our  saddest  songs  are  best. 


KISS  OUR  DARLING  AND  CO.ME   AWAY. 

EXTHACT. 

Dead!  Our  darling  is  dead,  dear  wife. 
His  angel  spirit  has  heavenward  fled; 
His  little  feet  will  no  longer  tread 
The  rugged  paths  of  this  sorrowing  life. 
Kiss  his  forehead  of  marble  claj'. 
Kiss  our  darling  and  come  away. 
Fair  was  his  lovely  form,  di-ar  wife. 
Bright  and  sunny  his  cherub  face; 
See  what  a  dimple  the  angels  did  ti-ace. 
When  they  kissed  him  tirst  on   the  shores  of 
life. 
Kiss  him  again,  for  only  to-day 
Can  you  kiss  our  darling,  and  come  away. 


© 


SB- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS  OK  AMKKICA. 


* 


MAYPERLEY. 

Born:  Lempster,  N.  H. 
After  receiving  lier  education  at  the  Tilden 
Female  Seminary  of  West  Lebanon,  Miss  Per- 
ley  became  a  school  teacher.  Her  poems  have 
received  extensive  publication  in  the  periodi- 


MAY  PERLEY. 


cal  press,  and  she  is  represented  in  The  New 
Hampshire  Poets.  Miss  Perley  is  still  a  resi- 
dent of  her  native  place,  where  she  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  host  of  friends  and  admirers. 


©• 


THE  VOICE  OF  NATURE. 
Child  of  mine  look  all  around  you. 

See  the  brook  runs  at  your  feet. 
Laughing-,  playing,  leaping  ever 

On  its  destiny  to  meet. 

With  a  voice  of  wondrous  sweetness 
Singing  through  the  heat  of  day, 

Fearless,  undismayed,  it  glideth 
Though  it  knoweth  not  the  way. 

Child  of  mine  go  to  the  forest 
Where  the  oak  lifts  up  its  head; 

Grand  in  solemn  strength  it  standeth 
Heeding  not  thy  timid  tread; 

See  its  mighty  arms  outstretching. 
Shield  the  tender  violet  blue. 

Know  you  not  the  great  All-Father 
Spreads  his  sheltering  arms  o'er  you? 


Child  of  mine  look  up  above  you, 

Up  into  the  starry  skies. 
To  those  myriad  worlds  of  glory 

Raise  your  timid  dazzled  eyes ; 

Think  you  of  their  awful  wonder. 
Of  the  race  they  eacli  must  run. 

On  for  aye,  sometimes  in  darkness, 
'Round  and  'round  the  sinning  sun. 

Think  you  of  the  years  that  wait  them, 
Changeless  years  of  niglit  and  day. 

Think  you  of  the  hand  that  guides  them. 
For  they  cannot  lose  their  way. 

Thus  whatever  may  betide  you. 
There  is  One  that  knoweth  best. 

So  lay  down  your  head  a  moment, 
Know  that  it  is  time  for  rest. 


AFTER  DARK. 
Come  now,  imp  of  night,  with  your  mirror  - 

For  this  is  the  true  witching  hour; 
I'll  look,  if  'tis  only  to  please  you. 

So  come  in  your  magical  power. 

O,  fle!  'tis  unjust,  it  is  cruel 

To  show  me  the  picture  I  shun ! 
The  weakness,  the  folly  and  blindness, 

The  deeds  that  1  wish  were  undone. 

I'll  shut  my  eyes  tight,  little  wizard, 

I'll  stop  my  ears,  close  as  I  can, 
I'll  hide  my  head  under  the  pillow 

Before  I  will  see  it  again. 

Your  magic  can  show  me  another  — 
Yes  many,  with  skies  bright  and  fair  — 

Each  life  has  one  fertile  oasis. 
And  mine  has  a  bountiful  share. 

The  sound  of  the  bellowing  tempest  — 

The  sweetest  of  music  to  me. 
The  brook,  as  it  laughed  In  its  gladness, 

And  rushed  to  the  wide  rolling  sea. 

The  great  silent  gloom  of  the  forest. 
The  vast,  changeless  blue  all  above. 

The  words  that  from  dear  lips  have  fallen. 
The  smiles  on  the  faces  I  love. 

Then,  too,  is  the  mystical  future 

So  full  of  its  untasted  bliss, 
O.  say !  little  wizard,  1  know  it,  I  feel  it, 

'Tis  better  than  this. 

It  must  be,  each  year  brings  the  harvest, 
The  harvest  of  pleasure  and  pain, 

But  wisdom  a  recompense  gives  us. 
Though  blighted  and  worthless  the  grain. 

No  sound  through  the  hush  of  the  darkness 
That  down  to  my  heart  seems  to  sink  — 

'Tis  sweet,  but  'tis  dreadful  to  lie  here 
With  nothing  to  do  but  think. 


© 


*^ 


© 


36 


LOCAL,   AND   XATIONAI.   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


JULIA  HARRIS  MAY. 

Born:  Strong,  Me. 
After  graduating-  at  Mt.  Holyoke  seminary, 
Miss  Julia  H.  May  then  spent  several  years 
teaching  in  tlie  south.    Since  1868  Miss  May 


JULIA   HARRIS  MAY. 


has  been  at  the  liead  of  a  private  school  in 
Strong.  The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appear- 
ed extensively  in  the  leading  religious  and 
literary  journals. 


«■ 


IF  WE  COULD  KNOW! 

If  we  could  know 

Winch  of  us,  darling,  would  be  first  to  go. 

Which  would  be  first  to  breast  the  swelling 

tide. 
And  step  alone  upon  the  other  side, — 
IE  wc  could  know! 

Tf  it  were  you. 

Should  I  walk  softly,  keeping  death  in  view? 
Should  I  my  love  to  you  most  oft  express? 
Or,  should  I  grieve  you,  darling,  any  less  — 
If  it  wore  you? 

If  it  were  1, 
Should  I  iini)rove  tlie  moments  flitting  by. 
Should  I  more  closely  follow  God's  givatplan. 
Be  filled  with  sweeter  cliarity  to  man, 

If  it  were  I? 

If  we  could  know ! 

Wecannot,  darling;  and  'tis  better  so. 


I  should  forget,  just  as  I  do  to-day. 
And  walk  along  the  same  old  stumbling  way, 
If  I  could  know. 

I  would  not  know 
Which  of  us,  darling,  will  be  first  to  go. 
I  only  wish  the  space  may  not  be  long 
Between  the  parting  and  the  greeting  song,— 
But  when,  or  wher'3,  or  how  we're  called  to  go, 

I  would  not  know. 


ARE  THEY  GLAD? 
If  she  were  here 

To  take  my  hand,  and  ask,  "  What  is  it  dear?" 
She  would  not  see  the  furrows  on  my  face. 
Nor  note  the  silver  wliere  the  gold  had  place; 
Upon  my  faded  lij)  she'd  leave  a  kiss. 
And  whisper:  "  Darling,"  and  she  would  not 

miss 
The  vanished  rose;  or,  if  she  did,  would  say, 
"  How  you  have  ripened  since  I  went  away !" 
The  blemishes  that  others  might  despise 
Would  still  be  beautiful  in  mother's  ej'es. 

If  she  were  here 

She  would  not  mind  the  changes;  if  a  tear 

Should  fill  my  eye  I  know  that  she  would  see, 

And  give  sweet  consolation  unto  me; 

Yet,  in  her  heart,  some  things  would  little 

heed. 
Knowing  how  much  their  discipline  I  need. 
And  so,  I  think,  though  Heaven  be  not  far. 
And  friends  can  see  us  even  as  we  are. 
They  may  be  glad,  like  loving  mothei-hood. 
Because  they  know  how  all  things  work  for 


THE  AWAKING. 

As  a  sweet  babj%  from  his  morning  dream 
Awakes,    sometimes,    and    lies    without   a 

SOI  aid. 
And  all  Ids  rose-bud  fingers  twirl  around, 
The  wlule  his  violet-e.ves,  half  open,  seem 
Their  petals  to  unfold,  and  jiink  ch(>eks  beam 
As    if  glad    thoughts    the  little  brain  had 

found; 
But,    wlu'u    the    mother's    step    upon    the 
groutul 
He  hears,  his  red  lips  speak  the  word  supreme 
In  niotlier's  hearts,  ..  agoo," 

So,  we  shall  rise 
Perchance,  wiien  we  awake  from   life's   brief 

sleep. 
Not  all  at  once,  l)ut  lie  in  rapt  surprise. 
And  eye  and  lip  all  motioidess  shall  keep 
Until  we  spejik,  as  new-born  powers  expand. 
Some  glad  sti'a.nge  word,  that  God  shall    un- 
derstand. 


-« 


®- 


J5 


LOCAI^   AND    NATIONAL    I'OETS   OF  AMEHICA. 


37 


MRS.  MYRA  DOUGLAS. 

BoRx:  Adkian,  Mich.,  1844. 
Heu  father  was  a  pliysieiau,  of  English  and 
Scotch  parcatag-e;  her  mother  of  French  ex- 
traction. Mrs.  Douglas  married  earlj'  iu  life 
to  soon  wear  the  weeds  of  widowhood.  Siie 
has  one  cliild,  a  daug-liter,  who  inlierits  her 
nioihiT's  talent'^.  Mr<.  Doiijjlas  has  l)een  a 
writer  since  rliildliciiid.  hilt  only  ot  late  yeai's 


MKS.  MYHA  DOLuI.  V-. 

have  her  stories  and  verses  been  before  the 
public.  She  lias  contributed  to  many  of  our 
best  periodicals,  among-  them  Waverly  and 
Ballou,  of  Boston,  Baltimorean,  Colman's  Ru- 
ral World,  etc.,  and  has  been  a  contributor  for 
years  to  tlie  St.  Louis  Critic,  a  weekly  paper 
of  her  own  city.  She  has  I'eceived  letters  of 
congratulation  from  some  of  our  most  eminent 
people.  Mrs.  ex-President  Cleveland,Mrs.  John 
A.  Log-an,  Mrs.  Hendricks:  aLso  Gen.  G.  I. 
Beaureg-ard  has  wiitten  lier  words  of  praise 
and  thanks  for  some  of  her  Poems  of  the 
South.  She  lias  every  reason  to  be  proud  of 
her  success  in  her  chosen  career,  and  bids  fair 
to  win  a  place  among-  "  the  few  immortal 
names  that  were  not  born  to  die."  Mrs. 
Douglas  prefers  to  use  her  maiden  name  in 
her  work,  and  all  her  contributions  bear  the 
same  signature. 


®- 


SHE  WORKS  FOR  A  LIVING. 
She  works  for  a  living-,  is  none  of  your  ilk. 
In  calico  dressed,  while  y(jur  gowns  are  of  silk, 


And  tho'  blessed   with   rare  beauty   of   form 

and  of  face. 
She  must  e'er  in  humility  keep  her  own  place. 
A  child  of  the  people,  to  work  and  to  bear. 
Her  lot  is  to  labor,  her  dower  Is  care. 

What  tho'  her  fair  face  is  !i  heritage  grand. 
Her  form  full  of  grace  as  the  best  of  our  land? 
Her  hands  small  and  slender,  tho'  fated  to 

work. 
With  a  heart  strong',  tho"  tender,  no  duty   to 

sliirk. 
Her  dower  is  poverty,  one  of  the  poor. 
Her  aim  is  to  keep  the  g-rim  wolf  from  the 

door. 
A  mother,  with  sisters  so  small  and  so  de.'ir. 
Have  lived  thro'  her  earnings  for  more  than 

a  year; 
Her  father,  who,  once  their   protector  and 

pride. 
Thro"  fortune's  cold  frowns,  broken-hearted 

he  died. 
And  left  there  behind  him  so  helpless  and 

lone, 
The  ones  he  so  loved  in  adversity  thrown. 
'Twas  then  that  the  daughter,  the  elde-st  in 

years. 
So  bravely  put  by  all  the  bitterest  tears. 
And  sought  for  employment  to  purchase  the 

bread 
To  keep    from   starvation  the  loved  of  the 

dead. 
To  be  to  her  family  ever  a  staff. 
And  the  bitter  of  life  all  so  willingly  quaff. 

She  goes  to  her  labors  with  love  in  her  heart. 
Her  work  luis  been  blest,  and  they   ne'er  had 

to  part; 
In  a  dear  cosy  home,  tho'  both  humble  and 

small. 
Where  they  all  live  together,  no  evils  befall. 
Where  the  wings  of  fond  mother-love  ever 

abide. 
And  the  hand  of  a  sister  doth  kindly  provide. 

And  she  in  her  calico,  humble  and  poor. 

With  her  struggle  with  Fate,  with  the  wolf  at 
her  door. 

Is  fairer  to  me,  with  her  pale,  thoughtful 
face. 

Than  the  maidens  of  wealth  with  their  fash- 
ionable grace. 

For  a  beauty  of  soul  more  than  mortal  doth 
shine 

On  her  face  from  high  Heaven,  so  soulful, 
divine. 


EXTRACT. 
I  gaze  upon  this  clover. 

And  thro"  the  past  1  roam. 
Thro'  long,  lone  years  of  changes, 

Back  to  my  childhood's  home. 


-® 


®- 


38 


-* 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  A3IEIIICA. 


THE  LAND  OF  "MAYBE  SO." 

Oh!  the  beautiful  huid  of  "  May  be  so," 
Where  flowers  of  sweetest  perfume  grow, 
Beneath  the  bluest  of  summer  skies 
A  country  rare,  to  glad  our  eyes. 
We  roam  the  realms  of  ethery  air 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  earthly  care, 
Where  Fate  her  smiles  on  us  bestow  — 
In  the  beautiful  land  of  "  May  be  so." 
We  wander  thro'  that  lovely  land. 
With  "  best  beloved  "—  aye  —  hand  in  hand, 
We  find  a  little  cottage  home, 
Beneath  the  shade  of  Heaven's  dome. 
We  fold  our  wings  and  build  a  nest, 
Where  mutual  love  shall  ever  rest. 
Ah!  what  delight  the  heart  may  know 
In  blissful  realms  of  "  May  be  so." 
All  sorrows  there  have  passed  awaj'. 
The  sun  sliines  out  with  gladdening  ray, 
The  air  is  balmy  —odorous  —sweet, 
Our  hearts  so  full  of  joy  complete. 
We  raise  our  eyes  in  prayer  to  Heav'n, 
For  restful  peace  to  bosom  given. 
While  soothing  zephyrs  softly  blow 
The  Lotus  gales  of  "  May  be  so." 


DUAL  LIFE. 
'Tis  said  we  live  a  double  life. 
In  beams  of  joy  or  hours  of  strife, 
In  moments  gay  or  sorrows  rife. 

That  make  our  lot. 
That  waking  hours  we  know  are  one. 
In  which  our  honors  all  are  won. 
And  noble  acts  and  deeds  are  done, 

As  our  allot. 
The  other  is  the  land  of  dreams. 
Where  all  is  weird,  though  truth  it  seems, 
Wliere  oft  we  float  o'er  silvery  streams, 

So  happy  we. 
Where  every  cloud  has  passed  away. 
And  all  is  bright  as  gladsome  day. 
And  flowers  bloom  beside  our  way. 

So  joyously. 
Sometimes  we  know  deep  sorrow  there. 
The  troubles  dire,  the  load  of  care. 
That  portioned  as  our  earthly  share. 

Doth  spirit  grieve. 
But  then  comes  to  us,  it  doth  seem. 
The  hajipy  thought,  -'Tis  but  a  dream," 
And  light  doth  in  the  bosom  beam. 

And  joy  receive. 
The  friends  we  loved  gone  o'er  the  stream. 
We  find  them  in  tliat  "  Land  of  Dream," 
And  greet  them  warm,  by  love  supreme. 

With  outstretched  hand. 
Their  eyes  are  beaming,  bright  as  stars, 
We  leap  the  golden,  shining  bars, 
Wliile  nothing  our  fond  rapture  mars 

On  shining  strand. 


©• 


There  father,  mother,  husband,  wife. 
The  child  more  dear  than  even  life. 
Ah  me!  their  loss  what  anguish  rife. 

The  heart  opprest. 
But  all  together,  there  we  meet 
The  ones  we  loved,  witli  joy  replete. 
Their  faces  smiling,  do  we  greet, 

In  liome  of  rest. 
So  if  our  waking  hours  are  sad. 
Our  slumbers  may  be  briglit  and  glad. 
Our  aching  heart  In  peace  be  clad. 

E'en  for  a  time. 
Awhile  forgot  our  woeful  loss, 
The  crown  of  thorns,  the  lieavy  cross. 
The  spirit  all  so  tempest  tossed, 

In  sleep  sublime. 
Oh,  slumber,  sweet  to  weary  soul. 
Whose  spirit  yearns  beyond  control, 
To  fly  unto  the  heavenly  goal. 

And  vanished  friends  — 
We  thank  thee  for  thy  soothing  power. 
For  dreams  tliat  soothe  as  Lotus  flower. 
For  years  of  bliss  witiiin  the  hour. 

That  slumber  lends. 


KISMET -FATE. 
E'en  at  our  birth  exists  a  mighty  power. 
That  rules  our  life  as  with  a  sceptre  grand. 
No  will  of  ours  can  stay  his  .stern  command, 
Nor  change  one  jot  decrees  of  day  or  hour. 
That  mark  for  us  the  limit  of  our  breath. 
And  tells  the  time  thy  summons  comes,  O 

death. 
We  may  forget  his  eye  is  ever  stern ; 
Unyielding,  firm,  his  mandates  e'er  remain; 
No  softening  pity  harbor  can  obtain,     [burn. 
While  life  and  all  its  pleasures  through  us 
We  may  forget,  but  ever  close  and  near 
That  power  exists,  so  cold,  so  dark  and  drear. 
At  times  the  sun  may  shine  upon  his  face. 
And  wake  alight  of  splendor  and  of  joy, 
Wliile  happiness  a  time  our  hours  employ. 
That  darker  days  and  sorrows  may  ettace. 
But  ah !  as  stern  as  e'er  he  was  l)efore. 
That  power  remains  till  life  for  us  is  o'er. 

What  though  we  kneel,  and   lifting  hands  to 

Heaven, 
Do  i)l(>.id  in  i)rMy(M'  for  mercies  for  our  soul. 
And  helping  liands  to  lead  us  to  the  goal. 
Where  peace  awaits  the   hearts    by   sorrow 

riviMi, 
Yet  adam.-indni'  doih  that  power  remain, 
As  firm  and  cold,  unpityiiig  all  our  pain. 
O  Power  great !  unheeding  all  otn  will. 
Who  rules  the  world  with  cold,  unfeeling  rod, 
Tliou  cold  vicegei'cnt  of  a  pardoning  (Jod, 
Our  heartswith  calm  siil)inission  wilt  thou  All, 
Till  at  the  last  life's  wearied  race  is  run. 
The  heart  exclaims  in  peace.  Thy  will  be  done. 


-^ 


SB- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


39 


© 


MRS.  LOUS.  BEDFORD. 

Mrs.  Lou  Bedford's  first  work,  AVision  and 
Other  Poems,  was  publistied  in  1881,  and  by 
permission  was  re-produced  in  London.  This 
vohime  elicited  many  fine  enconiums  from 
such  men  as  Ohver  Wendell  Holmes,  Long- 
fellow, and    Paul    H;iyne.     In   1888  appeared 


MRS.  LOU  S.  BEDFORD. 

Gathered  Leaves,  a  very  fine  collection  of  her 
later  poems.  This  lady  has  had  six  children  — 
three  sons  gTown  to  manhood  reside  in  Dal- 
las, Texas;  the  youngest  child  and  only  living- 
daughter  is  attending-  college.  The  other  two 
children,  a  grown  daughter  and  son,  with 
their  father,  are  resting-  under  the  "  shadow 
of  the  trees."  Personally  Mrs.  Bedford  is  of 
medium  height  and  size,  with  black  liair 
slightly  threaded  with  gray,  and  dark-brown 
eyes.    This  lady  is  still  a  resident  of  Dallas. 


©- 


EVENING  TIME  BEST. 
There  are  who  say  that  evening-  time  is  best 
When  everything  in  Nature  sinks  to  rest; 
Altho'  the  morning-  hour  is  passing-  fair, 
With  warmth  and  beauty  springing-  every- 
where. 
And  Hope  a-brooding-  in  the  balmy  air. 
And   drowning-  with    g-lad   music  anxious 
Care, 
Still,  many  hold  that  evening-  time  is  best. 
Full  well  T  know  that  evening-  time  is  best 
To  one  a-weary  and  in  need  of  rest; 


But  surely  morning-,  with  its  rosy  light 
A-sweepingback  tiie  curtains  of  the  night, 
Until  the  earth,  all  beautiful  and  bright. 
Bursts  forth  in  one   grand  anthem  of  de- 
light. 

To  Youth  and  joyous  Childhood  is  the  best. 

But  O!  to  me  the  evening-  time  is  best! 
For  I  am  tired  and  I  sigh  for  Home  — 
1  long  beneath  my  Father's  roof  to  rest. 
To    lean    my     head    upon     my    Brother's 

breast  — 
I  watch  the  sun  declining- to  the  west. 

Rejoicing-  that  the  Evening-  time  is  come ! 


NOTHING  BUT  LEAVES. 
How  sad,  how  very  sad  It  would  be. 

When  the  toils  of  life  shall  be  done. 
And  we  shall  ascend  above  the  sky 

To  meet  the  Eternal  One, 
If  in  our  arms,  instead  of  sheaves. 
We  should  bear  a  bundle  of  worthless  leaves. 
'Tis  true,  they  miglit  very  beaut'ful  be  — 

Green,  crimson,  and  golden,  too, — 
And  gathered  fresh  from  the  parent  stem. 

And  glistening  witli  morning-  dew; 
But  they'd  not  sufHce  for  want  of  sheaves. 
Those  beautiful,  graceful,  dewy  leaves. 
Yet  such,  I  fear,  my  portion  't  will  be, 

Tho'  I've  labored  and  sorrowed  here; 
And  have  hoped  to  reap  a  rich  reward 

In  a  brighter,  happier  sphere; 
But  O,  I  feel  that  I  liave  no  sheaves  — 
Have  naught  but  a  bundle  of  fading-  leaves. 
Methinks,  perchance,  the  Savior  will  look 

At  my  wayworn,  bleeding  feet. 
And  a  gentle  smile  of  pity  and  love 

My  averted  eyes  will  meet; 
That   he'll    not    condemn    tho'    I     bear    no 

sheaves  — 
Have  simply  a  bundle  of  worthless  leaves. 
'T  is  well  He  knowcth  how  frail  we  are. 

And  remembereth  we  are  dust; 
And  giveth  us  grace  in  our  darkest  hour 

In  His  Righteousness  to  trust; 
Else  fatal  't  would  be,  instead  of  sheaves. 
To  carry  a  bundle  of  worthless  leaves. 
Sometimes  I  tire  of  the  burden  of  life. 

And  long  for  the  hour  of  rest; 
Aye,  fain  would  I  lay  my  aching  head 

On  my  loving-  Savior's  breast; 
I  gro'w  so  wearj-,  instead  of  sheaves. 
Of  bearing-  this  burden  of  useless  leaves. 
Dear  Savior!  teach  me  to  look  to  Thee, 

And  trust  in  Thy  grace  alone; 
And  help  me  do,  as  the  years  go  past. 

All  my  duties,  one  by  one. 
That  I  m-ay  bring-  Thee,  instead  of  leaves, 
A.  bundle  of  beautiful,  g-oldcn  sheaves. 


-* 


^ 


^ 


40 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    I'OETS   OF  AMKKICA. 


SILENT  STEPS. 

Unheed-3d  all,  the  silent  Hours 
Pass  outward,  one  by  oue ; 
So  much  amid  the  Past  we  love, 
Or  castles  of  To  Come,  wejiiove. 
We  scarcely  deem  the  Present  ours. 

Until,  percliance,  'tis  gone; 
Gone  with  its  record,  darker  fair  — 
For  all  life's  deeds  are  written  there. 
In  silence,  too,  the  hurrying-  Years 
Pass  outward,  one  by  one; 
We  almost  deem  Time's  silver  sands 
Are  lying  idle  in  our  iiands  — 
Thougli  blotted  here  and  there  with  tears  - 

Until  they,  too,  are  flown; 
Or,  furrowed  brow  and  frosted  hair 
Tell  how  the  Years  are  passing  there. 


EXTKACTS  FROM  A  VISION. 

NIGHT. 

From  o'er  the  hills 
Tliat  lie  so  dark  against  the  southern  skj", 
Float  gentle  zephyrs  that  through  all  the  day 
Have  wandered  'mid  the  orange  groves,  o'er 

beds 
Of  violets,  and  by  the  cool,  clear  streams: 
And   now    they   come,   bearing    upon    their 

wings 
Tlie  low,  sad  music  of  the  distant  pines. 
And  the  strange  odors  as  of  tropic  flowers, 
Sweet  as  the  breath  of  Eden. 

THE  poet's  home. 

And   this  we  find,  the  world's  his  home;  its 

trees. 
Vales,  mountains    cataracts,    its    glorious 

views ; 
Its  streams,  lakes,  bays,  straits,  oceans,  gulfs 

and  seas  — 
."^ill  pay  a  grateful  tribute  to  his  muse; 
And  yet,  not  of  the  world,  he  treads  alone 
A  temple  consecrated  all  his  own  — 
A  sacred  temple,  beautiful  and  fair. 
Above  the  jarring  sounds  of  earth  and  air. 

A  VISION. 

With  slippered  feet,  but  ling'ring  step,  gray 
Dawn, 

Parting  the  sable  curtains  Night  had  draped 

About  the  gorgeous  couch  where  Nature 
slept, 

Came  up  the  eastern  stair.  Awhile  she  paus- 
ed 

Upoa  the  threshold;  but  the  star,  that 
gleam 'd 

So  brightly  on  her  forehead,  heralded 

The  full-orbed  day;  the  darkness  backward 
swept. 

And  Morning  flashed  her  beams  uiwn  the 
world ! 


©- 


EXTRACTS  FROM  GATHERED  LEAVES. 

the  poet's  songs. 
Immortal  and  pure,  methinks  that  Song 

Is  an  angel  that  walks  the  world  of  men ; 
And  every  emotion,  deep  and  strong. 

Tells  of  her  presence,  herself  unseen; 
And  the  Poet,  chosen  and  set  apart 

To  give  true  voice  to  this   sacred  Guest, 
Must  feel,  if  he'd  stir  the  great  world's  heart. 

The  sting  of  the  thorn  in  his  own  breast. 
not  dead. 
Not  dead  I  The  strain  can  never  die 

That  trembles  to  the  Poet's  lyre, 
But,  floating  upward  to  the  skj-, 

Is  caught  up  by  the  heavenly  choir; 
For  Song  is  but  tlie  truth  exprest. 
That  vibrates  in  each  human  breast. 
And,  past  the  re.ilm  b^-  mortals  trod. 
It  lives—  eternal  as  its  God. 

NEW  year's  thoughts. 

We  stand  to-day  on  the  beach  of  Time, 

Whence  we  gaze  far  out  to  sea. 
Whose  waters  tenderly  lave  our  feet, 

Then  dance  back  laughingly; 
But  each  rippling  wave  bears  from  the  shore 

A  grain  of  the  gleaming  sand. 
And  frailer  becomes  our  hold  on  earth, 

And  narrower  grows  the  strand. 

THE  WIND. 

Softly  the  evening  breeze 

Is  coming  now  — 
Sighing  among  the  trees  — 

Fanning  my  brow: 
Now  quickly  hies  away, 
'Mid  other  scenes  to  play. 
But  whither  it  doth  go, 

No  oue  can  tell; 
O'er  hills  and  streams  we  know  — 

Througii  shady  dell; 
But  where  it  fludeth  rest 
No  one  hath  ever  guessed  1 
It  may  be  that  't  is  lost 

'Mid  waving  corn ; 
Or  where  Aurora  fair 

Awakes  the  morn — 
Where  Night  and  Morning  greet, 
Or  earth  and  heaven  meet! 
Its  whispering  tones  are  heard 

Among  the  pines : 
By  it  the  leaves  are  stirred. 

And  flow'rs,  and  vines; 
And  often  we  rejoice 
To  he:ir  its  merry  voice. 
But  we  can  never  find 

Its  dwelling-place; 
Nor  with  surveyor's  line 

Its  bound'ry  trace! 
That  it  doth  come  and  go, 
Is  all  the  wisest  know ! 


•* 


® 


LOCAL,   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OK  AMEUICA. 


41 


•^ 


MRS.  Mx\RY  A.  A.SENTER. 

Born:  Great  Falls,  N,  H.,  Sept.  1, 1835. 
This  lady  was  educated  at  New  Haven,  Conn., 
and  at  Northfleld,  N.  H.    Her  father  was  a 

iidtcil    >rrili(Mlist     clcryyiiiaii.     Slu-    inarried 


MRS.  MARY  A.   A.   Sl'.N'I'KK. 

E.  L.  Seutei',  a  speculator,  and  now  resides  in 
the  town  of  Exeter,  N.  H.  The  poems  of  Mrs. 
Senter  are  distinguished  for  their  classic 
beauty,  deep  feeling-,  and  delicate  descriptive 
power. 

THE  DYING  GIRL. 

Her  spirit  was  leaving-  its  temple  of  clay, 
And  on  wings  of  purity  vanished  away. 
While  she  raised  lier  hand  in  the  gesture  of 
prayer,  [there. 

That  the  God  of  Heaven  would  welcome  it 
And  the  tears  roU'd  down  her  cheek  of  snow. 
As  she  murmur'd  it  forth  in  accents  so  low. 
That  you  saw  but  the  motion  her  pale  lips 

gave. 
While  her  bosom  heaved  like  a  swelling  wave. 
And  her  white  liands  shook  as  she  held  them 

in  air. 
And  like  autumn  leaves  they  seem'd  wither- 
ing- there. 
Till  like  autumn  leaves  they  fell  to  rest. 
On  a  pulseless  lieart  and  silent  breast. 
And  thus  death  had  won  for  its  chamber  so 

dark. 
With  an  arrow  that  ne'er  had  miss'd  its  mark. 


A  form  that  seem'd  like  a  truant  from  heaven. 
And  that  never  sinn'd,  but  to  be  forgiven. 
Tliough  death  was  so  stern,  he  left  the  trace 
Of  a  holy  smile  on  her  calm  white  face; 
Methinks  'twas  a  sliade  that  the  spirit  had  cast 
As  away  f lom  that  temple  so  lovely  it  pass'd. 

IT  MATTERS  NOT. 
It  matters  not  if  sun  or  rain 

Fall  in  my  life's  short  day. 
Or  strains  of  joy,  or  strains  of  pain. 

Burst  from  my  lips  alwiiy. 
It  matters  not  if  gloom  surround. 

And  darkness  gathers  now. 
And  even  now  with  thorns  be  crown'd 

My  weary  aching  brow. 
It  matters  not  how  rough  the  road 

That  I  must  journey  through. 
If  I  but  reach  the  blest  abode 

Of  Him  who  suffered  too. 
And  naught  of  earth  can  move  my  breast. 

Its  glitter  nor  its  show. 
For  Christ  has  said,  I'll  give  you  rest, 

I  all  your  sorrows  know. 
And  ever  more  I  close  my  heart 

To  this  vain  world  of  sin, 
I've  chosen  now  the  belter  part. 

And  Jesus  reigns  within. 
And  wlien  at  last  life's  journey  done, 

I  stand  on  death's  lone  shore, 
Oh !  may  I  have  the  blessed  one 

To  gently  bear  me  o'er. 

WILT  THOU  COME  NOT  THEN? 
When  at  last  the  twilight  falleth. 

And  tlie  shadows  come  apace. 
And  around  me  friendship  calleth. 

Many  a  dear  familiar  face. 
Wilt  thou  come  not  then? 
When  my  life  has  almost  drifted 

To  the  far-ofif  golden  shore. 
Ere  the  curtain  is  uplifted. 

Hiding  heaven  nevermore. 
Wilt  thou  come  not  then? 
When  my  ej'es  with  earnest  pleading, 

Look  for  those  that  are  most  dear. 
As  my  life  is  f.ist  receding. 

Shall  I  know  that  thou  art  near? 
Wilt  thou  come  not  then? 
Ere  my  voice  is  hushed  forever. 

And  my  eyes  are  closed  for  aye. 
Ere  my  hands  can  clasp  thine  never. 

Ere  the  angels  bear  away. 
Wilt  thou  come  not  then? 
Must  the  golden  bowl  be  broken. 

And  the  vale  of  shadow  past. 
Ere  I  hear  the  dear  word  spoken. 

Saying  I  have  come  at  last? 
I  shall  see  thee  then ! 


« 


© 


m- 


-® 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEHICA. 


JOHN  G.WHITTIER. 

Born:  Haverhill,  Mass.,  Dec.  17, 1807. 
The  boyhood  days  of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 
was  spent  on  a  farm,  where  he  worked  in  the 
summer,  and  in  winter  he  assisted  his  father, 
who  was  a  shoemaker.  His  family  were  mem- 
bers of  the  Society  of  Friends,  and  for  that 
reason  the  poet  Is  usually  spoken  of  as  the 
♦'Quaker  poet."    Mr.  Whittier  received  only  a 


®- 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

common  school  education :  yet,  on  becoming 
of  age,  he  assumed  the  editorship  of  a  paper, 
and  has  ever  since  devoted  himself  to  litei-a- 
ture.  Although  he  has  written  both  jirose  and 
poetry,  he  is  chiefly  distinguished  as  a  poet, 
borrowing  his  inspiration  largely  from  current 
events.  The  best  poems  of  Mr.  AVhittier  are: 
Maud  Muller,  My  Psalm,  Mj' Playmate,  Snow 
Bound  and  Centennial  Hynui.  His  j)rineipal 
])rose  works  arc  Old  Portraits  and  Modern 
Sketches,  and  Literary  Recreations.  In  the 
poems  of  Whittier  wo  find  masculine  vigor 
combined  with  womanly  tenderness;  a  fierce 
hatred  of  wrong,  with  an  all-enibra(ang  ehai-i- 
ty  and  love.  He  is  unmuri'ied,  and  has  resided 
at  Amesbury,  Massachusetts,  since  1840. 

EXTRACTS. 
The  riches  of  a  commonwcnilth 
Are  free,  strong  minds  and  hearts  of  health. 


And,  more  to  her  than  gold  or  grain, 
The  cunning  hand  and  cultured  brain. 

For  still  in  mutual  sufferance  lies 
The  secret  of  true  living; 

Love  scarce  is  love  that  never  knows 
The  sweetness  of  forgiving. 

We  shape  ourselves  the  joy  or  fear 
Of  which  the  coming  life  is  made. 

And  fill  our  fviture  atmosphere 
With  sunshine  or  with  shade. 

The  tissues  of  life  to  be 

We  weave  with  colors  all  our  own. 
And  in  the  field  of  destiny 

We  reap  as  we  have  sown. 

Dream  not  helm  and  harness 

The  sign  of  valor  true: 
Peace  hath  higher  tests  of  manhood 

Than  battle  ever  knew. 


SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE. 

EXTRACTS. 

Small  pity  for  him'— He  sailed  away 
From  a  leaking  ship,  in  Chaleur  Bay, — 
Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With  his  own  towns-people  on  her  deck  I 
•'  Lay  by!  lay  by !  "  they  called  to  him. 
Back  he  answered,  "  Sink  or  swim! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  flsh  again !  " 
And  oft'  he  sailed  through  the  fog  and  rain  ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart. 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side. 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide ; 
Sharp  tongued  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  braj-. 
Sea-worn  grandsircs,  cripple-bound. 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground. 
Shook  head,  and  fist,  and  hat,  and  cane. 
And  cracked  with  ciu'ses  the  hoarse  refrain: 
"  Here's  Find  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'eart !  " 


Then  the  wife  of  the  skijiper  lost  at  sea 
Said, "God  has  touched  hini!-why  should  we'/" 
Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only  son, 
"  Cut  the  rogues  tether  and  let  him  run  I  " 
So  with  soft  relentings  and  riide  e.vcuse. 
Half  scorn,  hall"  pity,  they  ciit  him  loose. 
And  gave  hiin  a  I'loak  to  liide  him  in. 
And  left  him  alone  with  liis  shanic  and  sin. 
Poor  I'loyd  Ircson,  lor  iiis  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
Hv  the  women  of  Marblehead';' 
^ 


-li. 


L,OCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


43 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIKR. 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man. 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan; 
AVith  thj'  turned-up  pantaloons. 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face 
Throug-h  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace! 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy: 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy. 
Prince  thou  art:  the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican.. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride: 
Bai'cfoot,  trudging  at  his  side. 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy. 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy ! 
Oh  for  boyhood's  pamless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day. 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules. 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, — 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase; 
Of  the  ■wild-flower's  time  and  place : 
Flight  of  fowl,  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell; 
How  the  woodchuck digs  his  cell; 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young; 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung; 
Where  the  whitest  lillies  blow; 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow; 
Where  the  groundnut  trails  its  vine; 
Where  the  wood-g'Ape's  clusters  shine; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  waj', 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay; 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet-artisans ! 
For,  eschewing'  books  and  tasks. 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks. 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks. 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy : 
Blessing  on  the  barefoot  boy! 
Oh  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw. 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for ! 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  or  trees. 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played. 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry -cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night. 
Whispering  at  the  garden-wall. 
Talked  to  me  from  fall  to  fall; 


*- 


Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond; 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  l)oyoud; 
Mine,  on  bending:  orchard  trees. 
Apples  of  Hesperides  I 
Still,  as  my  horizon  grew. 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too : 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy. 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy. 
Oh  for  festal  dainties  spread. 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread 
(Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood) 
On  the  doorstone  gray  and  rude ! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent. 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent. 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold. 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold ; 
W^hile  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra, 
And  to  light  the  noisy  choir 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  flre. 
I  was  monarch :  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy. 
Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man. 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can. 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard. 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew ; 
Every  evening-,  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat ; 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison-cells  of  pride ; 
Lose  the  f i-eedom  of  the  sod ; 
Like  a  colt's,  for  work  be  shod; 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil. 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil, 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy ! 


MAUD  MULLER. 

JOHN  GREENIjEAF  WHITTIER. 

Maud  Muller,  on  a  summer's  day 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But,  when  she  glanced  to  the  far- off  town. 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  fllled  her  breast,— 

A  -wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own. 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 


^ 


*- 


-Hf. 


44 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid. 

And  ask  a  draft  from  the  spring  that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow,  across  the  road. 

She  stopped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup. 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  tattered  gown. 

"  Thanks! "  said  the  Judge,  "a  sweeter  draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees. 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees; 

Then  talked  of  haying,  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown. 
And  her  graceful  ankles,  bare  and  brown. 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  MuUer  looked  and  sighed:  "Ah  me! 
That  1  the  Judge's  bride  might  be! 

"  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine. 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"  My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat. 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"  I'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay. 

And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  day. 

"And  I'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door." 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill. 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still: 

"A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet. 
Ne'er  hath  It  been  my  lotto  meet. 

"And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"■Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day. 
Like  her  a  harvester  of  hay. 

"No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs. 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"But  low  of  cattle,  and  song  of  birds 
And  health,  and  quiet,  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sister,  proud  and  cold, 
And  his  mother,  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on. 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon. 


*- 


When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love  tune; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well, 
TiU  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower. 
Who  lived  for  fashion  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow. 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go; 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red. 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead. 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms. 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover  blooms: 

And  the  proud  man  sighed  with  a  secret  pain, 
"Ah,  that  I  were  free  again ! 

"  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  the  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor. 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 

But  care  and  sorrow  and  child-birth  pain. 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  on  the  meadow  lot. 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein. 

And,  gazing  down  with  a  timid  grace. 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned. 
The  tallow-candle  an  astral  burned; 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimmcy  lug. 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw. 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  judge. 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge! 

God  pity  them  both !  and  pity  us  all. 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall; 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen. 

The  .saddest  are  these:  ■>  It  might  have  been!" 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deepl7 buried  from  human  ey(>s; 

And.  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
HoU  the  stone  from  its  grave  away! 


©- 


-1^ 


LOCAL    AND    XATIONAl.    TOETS   OF  AMEItlCA. 


45 


ROBERT  REX  DALE. 

Bohn:  Makch  26, 1859. 

In  New  Eiiglatid  the  name  of  Robert  Kexdale, 
journalist,  Is  well  known  as  the  author 
of  Saved  by  the  Sword,  a  novel,  published  at 
Boston,  Mass.,  early  in  1889.  But  as  a  poet  he 
gained  an  enviable  reputation  at  a  much  earl- 
ier ag-e,  and  in  1886  appeared  his  Ui-iftiug- 
Songs  and  Sketches,  a  volume  of   vei'se  and 


ROBERT      REXDALE. 

prose.  Among- poets  he  is  best  known  as  the 
author  of  Transit  of  Venus,  a  mythological 
poem  of  much  strength  and  beauty.  He  is 
entirely  self-educated,  being  apprenticed  to 
the  printers'  trade  when  he  was  but  thirteen 
years  old.  His  literary  career  dates  from 
1880.  Mr.  Rexdale  is  yet  unmarried.  Since 
1885,becomiugactively  engaged  in  journalism, 
he  has  been  assistant  editor  of  the  Portland 
Sunday  Times;  and  as  poet,  novelist  and 
newspaper  man,  he  enjoys  a  reputation 
achieved  by  but  few  men  before  their  thir- 
tieth year. 


m 


IN  THE  GLOAMING. 

Like  the  far  away  gleam 
Of  a  mist-hidden  stream. 

The  joys  of  tlie  morning  are  showing! 
But  their  light,  as  it  tiears. 
Shall  illumine  the  years 

Where  waters  of  Lethe  are  flowing. 


Thougli  we  mingle  no  more 

On  that  magical  shore. 
Where  briglitly  the  sunlight  is  shining! 

There  are  raptures  that  l)lend 

When  the  shadows  descend. 
And  life  to  its  close  is  declining. 

For  the  stars  will  arise 

In  our  evening  skies. 
The  blossoms  will  bloom  in  the  heatherl 

While  so  trustful  and  true. 

We  will  look  to  tlie  blue, 
And  wait  in  tlie  gloaming  together. 


EUTERPE. 

This  hour  so  beautiful  with  bloom 

Is  sacred  to  the  muse  of  song! 
Its  glowing  sunset  heights  illume 
The  hopes  o'ersluidowed  by  the  tomb. 

And  bid  the  fainting  soul  be  strong. 

And  now  Euterpe's  harp  is  crowned 
With  gems  that  flash  like  morning  rays. 

She  gives  us  music  for  each  wound. 

And  l)ids  the  spirit  lift  its  gaze 
To  skies  blue-arched  above  the  mound. 

If  olden  memories  of  tears. 
The  ghosts  of  unforgotten  pain, 

Ri.se  through  the  mournful  mists  of  years! 

She  sings  of  undiscovered  spheres. 
And  solace  brings  the  weary  braiu. 

O  sentient  Lyre!  O  breathing  Shell! 

Thy  mission  to  the  world  we  own; 
Since  in  the  light  of  thy  sweet  spell, 
That  star-like  o'er  the  desert  shone, 

New  scenes  of  beauty  rise  and  dwell. 

So  heavenward,  on  triumphant  wings, 
Take   flight,    tired   heart!     and   end  thy 
quest. 
Wliere    Music's   wand   hath     touched    the 

springs. 
And  love  is  in  the  song  she  sings. 
There  flow  the  crystal  streams  of  Rest. 


THE  CRICKET. 
Araluen,  vexed  and  weary 

With  the  dreamy  summer  day. 
Said  the  ci-icket's  song  was  dreary, 

Tliought  the  sliadows  cold  and  gray. 
"Little  maiden,  little  maiden," 

Seemed  the  cricket's  chant  to  be, 
'■  Life  to-day  with  love  is  laden, 

God  is  good  to  you  and  me." 
Sang  the  cricket  in  the  thicket. 

By  the  swiftly-flowing  stream; 
Softly  ope'd  tlic  golden  wicket. 

To  the  fairy  land  of  Dream  ! 
Stars  of  ElHand  !  faintly  stealing 

Through  the  mists  that  fold  tlie  night. 


—88 


©- 


46 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-® 


I  a  child  again  am  kneeling 
lu  the  splendor  of  thy  light. 

O  ye  tinkling,  foam-white  fountains, 
Bathe  me  in  your  silver  spray ! 

On  yon  heights  of  sunset  mountains, 

O  ye  elfin  harpists!  play; 
Bid  me  enter  at  the  portal, — 

Life  is  dreary,  filled  with  pain. 
For  the  youth  that  seemed  immortal 

Thrills  no  more  the  pulse  and  brain. 

Araluen!  child  of  laughter, 

Would  that  life  were  young  to  me; 
Filled  with  dreams  of  some  hereafter. 

Bright,  and  beautiful,  and  free! 
Evermore  with  thee  to  ponder, 

By  the  river's  ceaseless  flow; 
Evermore  with  thee  to  wander, 

Where  the  tangled  roses  grow. 
While  the  cricket  in  the  thicket, 

By  the  swiftly-flowing  stream. 
Guards  for  aye  the  golden  wicket 

To  the  fairy  land  of  dream! 


DRIFTING. 

0  fairest  maid  of  rarest  days, 
Pomona's  child  with  golden  tresses! 

1  loiter  in  thy  sylvan  ways, 

My  heart  is  warm  with  thy  caresses. 

And  o'er  again,  as  in  a  dream, 

I  voice  the  words  the  spell  is  wreathing. 
As  in  the  reeds  beside  the  stream 

Pandean  pipes  are  lowly  breathing. 

I  think  of  one  whose  starry  eyes, 

And  laughter  through  the  woodland  ring- 
ing, 
And  shy  caresses,  and  tender  sighs. 

Attuned  the  poet's  heart  is  singing. 

And  like  Ausonian  king  of  old, 
I  listen  to  the  wood-nymph's  pleading, 

Wliilc  this  poor  form  of  human  mold 
Plods  sadly  after  fancy's  leading. 

O  river  rippling  to  the  sea, 
Thy  silver  waters,  softly  stealing 

In  shadowed  beauty  o'er  the  lea. 
Awake  the  slumbrous  chords  of  feeling. 

And  on  thy  waves  of  rosy  light. 
Seen  in  my  boyhood's  happy  vision, 

I'm  di'ifting  from  the  shores  of  night. 
To  isles  of  rest  in  realms  Elysian. 


DROPPED  DEAD. 

Stranger  he  was  to  tlie  iiililess  tlirong. 
Viewing  his  corpse  as  they  bor'e  liim  along. 
Heedless  for  aye  of  their  laughter  and  song  — 
Dropped  desid ! 


Low  was  the  message  that  called  him  away. 
Swift  as  the  thought  of  a  child  in  its  play. 
And  in  the  grandeur  of  silence  he  lay  — 
Dropped  dead! 

Only  a  heart  whose  pulsations  are  o'er. 
Only  a  form  that  will  journey  no  more, 
Only  a  siiade  for  the  Stygian  shore  — 
Dropped  dead ! 

Ah !  but  the  gaze  of  liis  wandering  eyes, 
Piercing  the  blue  of  the  midsummer  skies. 
Looked  where  the  Island  of  Mystery  lies  — 
*  Dropped  dead! 

What  did  he  whisper,  O  poet,  to  thee? 
Joys  of  an  infinite  glory  to  be, 
Dreams  of  a  soul  by  the  shadowless  sea  — 
Dropped  dead ! 


THE  SENTINEL  FLOWER. 
The  Sentinel  Flower,  O  comrades  of  old. 
If  guarding  your  rest  in  its  cuirass  of  gold! 
On  fields  where  you   fell  in   the  heat  of  the 

fray, 
So  proud  to  the  last  of  our  standards  so  gay; 
And  the  ring  of  the  challenge  is  kindly  and 

true,— 
"Halt!  't  is  tlie  grave  of  a  soldier  you 

view." 

Though  strangers  you  are  to  the  heralds  of 

fame. 
The  halos  of  glory  encircle  each  name; 
E'en  princes  may    envy   the    bliss  of    your 

dream. 
This    lonely    bivouac      by    the    murmuring 

stream ; 
And  the  feathery  blossoms  that  wave    o'er 

the  tomb, 
Dispel    by    their    splendor    the   shadows    ot 

gloom. 

Aweary  of  conflict,  and  silent  and  lone, 

The  soldier  will  dream  of  the  years  that  have 

flown. 
Of  vows  of  devotion,  and  clasping  of  hands. 
And  pressure  of  lips  in  the  far-away  lands! 
While  the  voices  of  dear  ones,  so   tender  and 

low, 
Are  boi-ne  on  tin'  winds  of  the  lost  Long  Ago. 

Afar  o'er  the  moonlaiid,  O  comrades  of  yore. 
The    bugles    are  sounding  the    battle    once 

more ! 
My  spirit  is  s.-iddiMied,  for  soon  I  shall  lie 
Alone  and  unknown,  'nc;itli   tin'   midsummer 

sky ; 
But  the  Sentinel   I'lower  my    slumbers  will 

woo, — 
"Halt:!   't  is  the   grave  of  a  soldier  you 

view." 


«- 


^ 


®- 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


17 


-m 


JULIA  H.  THAYER. 

Born:  Keeseville,  N.  Y. 
At  the  ag-e  of  ten  Julia  H.  Thayer  removed 
■n  ith  her  parents  to  the  state  of  lUiuois.  where 
she  has  since  resided  as  pupil  and  teacher 
in  her  father's  school,  the  Chicago  Female 
College,  at  Morgan  Park.  She  first  published 
her  verses  anonymously,  but  since  1870  until 
the  present  time  the  productions  of  her  pen, 
chiefly  poetical,  have  appeared  in  various  pa- 
pers and  periodicals  under  her  own  name.  She 
ha^  icKUfd  llatufiivc-  imluecmoiits  to  write 


But  raging  hurricanes,  in  tumult  hurled. 
And  blasting  winds  and  tempests  are  her  boast. 
With  thundering  whir  of  ebon  wings.trom  coast 
To  coast  they  fly,  l)y  might  resistless  whirled. 
Then  in  their  central  calm  betimes  are  furled. 
And  rest  content,  for  lo :  a  new-born  host 
Of  stronger  life  and  fresher  bloom  arise. 
Even  thus  have  all  the  greatest  eras  wrought 
Those  changes  that  have  made  our  earth  so 

wise. 
Weak  doubting  heart  receive  the  lesson  taught : 
Beyond  each  storm  of  grief  a  blessing  lies. 
Becalmed  within  the  center  of  God's  thought. 


© 


JTTLiIA  H.   THAYER. 

prose,  but  is  most  devoted  to  the  muse.  She 
is  seen  at  her  best  in  religious  poems  and  sim- 
ple lyrics. 

Miss  Thayer  is  somewhat  below  medium 
height,  has  dark  curling  hair,  regular  features 
and  gray  eyes.  Upon  the  third  finger  of  her 
left  hand  is  a  plain  gold  ring— to  her  it  is  price- 
less, being  the  first  piece  of  precious  metal  that 
she  received  for  one  of  her  poems.  Miss  Thay- 
er is  not  only  a  writer  of  lyrical  poetry.but  oc- 
casionally writes  prose,  and  is  also  a  fine  mu- 
sician. There  is  a  conscientious  fidelity  in 
Miss  Thayer's  work,  and  to  her  the  glorious 
West  brings  a  laurel  wreath  that  will  not  fade. 


RESPICE    FIXEM. 
Oh  not  her  gentle,  silent  agents  most 
Doth  Nature  use  to  purify  the  world. 


THE  ISLAND   SPRING. 

Far  from  shore,  where  salt  seas  only 
Hurl  white  storms  of  angry  foam. 

Stands  an  Island,  bleak  and  lonely. 
Banished  from  earth's  sylvan  home. 

Not  a  blade  of  floweret  tender 

Nestles  to  its  rocky  breast 
Through  the  warmth  of  summer  splendor, 

Into  wakening  life  caressed. 

But  as  pure  as  from  the  mountain 
Where  the  sweetest  waters  start, 

Lo:  a  sparkling  crystal  fountain 
Gushes  from  its  barren  heart; 

Fresh  and  clear,  though  all  surrounded 

By  the  briny  waters  wide. 
Never  once  its  laugh  confounded 

By  the  hostile,  dashing  tide ; 

Singing  always  with  a  spirit 

Envying  not  the  high-born  spring ; 

Satisfied  to  just  inherit 

Dreams  of  wajside  blossoming. 

Canst  thou  recognize  the  presage, 
O  my  heart,  with  better  trust? 

Canst  thou  read  a  heavenly  message 
On  this  tablet  of  the  dustV 

God  will  bid  a  fount  of  gladness 

Spring  from  out  thy  rock-bound  soul. 

Free  from  every  tone  of  sadness. 
Though  wild  seas  around  thee  roll. 

Tliou  Shalt  sing  the  same  glad  measures 
Caroled  in  earth's  fairest  bowers. 

Though  bereft  of  life's  green  pleasures 
And  a  world  of  dewy  flowers. 


COBWEBS. 
Meshes  touched  ^vith  the  morning-mist, 
Sheer  enough  tor  the  ghosts  of  fairies; 
Gossamer  forms  that  the  vapor  kissed 
To  the  verge  of  a  dream  as  light  as  the  air  is; 

Discs  of  pearl  from  the  fences  that  swing; 
Glittering  patches  of  veiling  drawn  over 


m 


m- 


-« 


48 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


Meadow-grasses  where  night-damps  chng; 
Silvery  drapiugs  that  frost  the  clover; 

Thin  transparencies  seeking  to  screen 
Deep,  dark  hollows,  nud  clefts  unsightly. 
Where  diamonds,  thrilling  with  liquid  sheen, 
Tremble  in  nets  that  hold  them  lightly. 

Lone  and  deserted  each  shining  abode  — 
Splendor  has  driven  the  tenants  away; 
Gifts  of  such  beauty  seem  illy  bestowed 
On  ugly  black  spiders  that  live  by  prey. 

Yet,  after  all,  what  is  man  himself 
But  j  ust  such  an  ogre,  who  loves  to  subsist 
On  his  unwary  brother,  on  plunder  and  pelf. 
In  this  web  of  a  world  that  hangs  in  the  mist? 


SUBMISSION. 


Not  on  seas  of  wild  commotion, 
When  the  crazy  tempest  raves, 

And  the  savage  voice  of  Ocean 
Challenges  his  clamoring  caves  — 

Not  on  such  the  mirrored  glory 
Of  the  great  protecting  sky; 

Not  a  billow  tells  the  story 
In  reflective  sympathy. 

Even  when,  in  broken  spirit. 
Waves  but  sigh  along  the  shore 

Still  their  motion  must  inherit 

Shattered,  shifting  lights  —  no  more. 

But,  when  every  sound  is  mufHed, 
And  repose,  as  calm  as  death. 

Rests  upon  a  sea  unruffled 
By  a  faint,  disturbing  breath. 

Then  the  image  of  its  glory 
Answers  all  the  watching  sky; 

Humbled  waves  repeat  the  story 
In  adoring  ecstacy. 


®- 


AN  APOLOGY. 
"Please  send  us  some  Thanksgiving  verses,' 

The  editor  writes  in  July, 
While  Sol's  very  hottest  of  curses 

The  mercury's  passions  defy. 

I  wipe  the  warm  dews  from  my  foreliead. 

And  tear,  like  a  po(;t,  my  hair. 
And  vow  that,  at  least,  it  is  horrid 

To  sit  in  this  thrice-heated  glare 

And  write  up  the  pudding  and  turkey 
And  hearty  cold-wcathei-y  things— 

Bah!  mental  dyspei)sia  makes  murky 
My  brain  unprovided  with  wings. 

To  the  foot  of  Parnassus  I  wander 
To  borrow  the  famed  winged  steed, 

F\]ll  conscious  that  Motlicr  Goose's  gander 
Is  more  apropos  of  my  need. 


"  Come,  Pegasus,  come,"  I  go  calling  — 
No  whinnies  send  welcome  reply ; 

Instead  comes  an  impish  voice  bawling: 
"The  help  that  you'll  get's  in  your  eye. 

"Peg's  put  out  to  pasture  —  no  lying- 
He  told  me  to  say,  if  you  came, 

'Twas  rather  too  warm  to  be  flying 
Through  regions  no  cooler  than  flame.'' 

"  I  will  walk  to  the  top  of  the  mountain," 

I  cry,  in  the  heat  of  despair: 
"One  draught  from  the  Castalian  fountain 

Will  make  fancy  light  as  the  air." 

I  reach,  with  much  toiling,  the  summit. 
And  make  for  the  spring  that's  near  by, 

When  the  wretched  imp  jeers:    "You  don't 
come  it. 
The  well  of  the  Muses  is  dry. 

"They,  skylarking  Nine,  with  Apollo, 

Are  off  to  their  summer  resort, 
Nice,  breezy  Olympus,  where  follow 

No  mortals,  whatever  their  sort." 

Indignant,  abashed  and  scarce  seeing, 
I  grope  down  the  mountain  again. 

My  only  consoling  thought  being 
The  gods  are  as  idle  as  men. 


MISSING. 
Late  at  night  I  saw  the  Shepherd 

Toiling  slow  along  the  hill. 
Though  the  flock  below  were  gathered 

In  the  fold  so  warm  and  still. 

On  His  face  I  saw  the  anguish. 
In  His  locks  the  drops  of  night. 

As  He  searched  the  misty  valleys. 
As  He  climbed  the  frosty  hight. 

Just  one  tender  lamb  was  missing 
When  He  called  them  all  by  name; 

While  the  others  heai-d  and  followed. 
This  one  only  never  came. 

Oft  his  voice  rang  thro'  the  darkness 
Of  that  long,  long  night  of  pain ; 

Oft  He  vainly  pau.sed  to  listen 
For  an  answering  tone  again. 

Far  away  the  truant,  sleeping 

By  tlie  chasm  of  Despair, 
Lay,  unconscious  of  its  dangt-r, 

Shivering  in  the  mountain-air. 

But  at  last  the  Shepherd  found  it- 
Found  it  I  re  in  sleep  it  died— 

Took  it  in  His  loving  bosom. 
And  His  soul  was  satisfied. 

Then  I  saw  the  Eastern  spaces 
Part  befoM'  a  shining  throng, 

And  the  golden  dome  of  nioiiiing 
Seemed  to  shatter  into  song. 


-® 


w 


LOCAl,   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


49 


« 


MRS.  EMMELINE    B.  WELLS. 

Born:  Petersham,  Mass.,  Feb.  29, 1828. 

This  ladj'  has  been  connected  witli  the  edi- 
torial staff  of  the  Woman's  Exponent  since 
1875,  and  has  been  the  sole  editor  and  publisli- 
er  since  18TT.    She  has  written  verses  from  her 


MRS.  EMMELINE    BLANCHE  WELLS. 

childhood,  and  will  at  some  future  time  pub- 
lish tliem  in  book-form.  Mrs.  Wells  has  at- 
tended conventions  of  women  in  Washing-ton 
and  other  places;  presented  memocials  to 
congress;  called  upon  presidents  and  senators 
and  members  of  the  House  in  the  interests 
of  Utah,  in  which  state  she  resides  at  Salt 
Lake  City. 


AT  EVENING. 

How  softly  fall  the  evening  shadows  pale. 

Golden  and  purple  sunsets  blend  and  fade; 
Night  robes  earth  quietly  with  mantling  veil. 
And  peace  and  rest  the  gentle  hour  per- 
vade. 
Great  nature  soothing  with  her  potent  power. 
Breathes  to  the  world-worn  heart  her  sj-m- 
patliy; 
And  'mid  the  tranquil  of  such  spell-bound 
hour, 
Tlie  mem'ries  of  tlie  past  steal  tenderly. 
Athwart  the  scene  the  moon  with  golden  trail 
As  erst  with  pitying  glance  and  mellowed 
light. 


SB- 


Sweeps    thro'  the  empty  space  with  steady 
sail. 
And  floods  with  beauty  the  enchanted  night. 
It  is  the  hour  for  sweet  and  tender  thought 
And  whisperings  of  the  life  that  is  to  be,— 
And    Faith    and    Trust   with    holy    impulse 
fraught. 
Speak  to  the  soul  in  nature's  poetry. 
Unconscious  of  ourselves  we  sink  to  sleep 
And  bright-robed  beings  round  our  couches 
stray. 
In  sacred  stillness  holy  vigils  keep. 
And  night  assumes  the  sceptre  of  her  sway. 


THE  DEAR  OLD  GARDEN. 

My  dear  old  garden  still  I  call  it  mine; 

And  mine  it  is,  for  in  its  grateful  shade 
Of  ev'ry  tree,  and  shrub  and  flow'ring  vine. 
My   children    and    my   children's    children 
phiy'd. 
'Round    these   my  aching    heart   instinctive 
clings. 
And  they  to  me  are  sweet  and  tender  things. 
Under  those  trees  I've  sauntered  to  and  fro. 
In    search   of    hidden    gems   of    precious 
thought, 
Perchatice  some  wayward  fancies  all  aglow 
Have  been  in  chains  of  measur'd  rhythm 
caught. 
For  rustling  leaves,  and  sighing  boughs  liave 
stirred 
The  depths  of  love,  no   living  voice    hath 
heard. 
And  here  young  lovers,  plighted  vows  have 
given. 
And  sealed  them  with  the  first  fond  linger- 
ing kiss 
That  hallows  love,  and  makes  earth  seem  a 
heav'n, 
A  sweet  enchanted  dream  of  rapt'rous  bliss 
When   two    pure   hearts,  in    confidence   and 
truth. 
Unite  their  joys  and  hopes  in  early  youth. 
These  trees  and  shrubs,  and  ev'ry  bush  and 
vine. 
We've  watched  from  tiniest  seed  and  stem; 
Why  then  should   I    not   always    call   them 
mine? 
For  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  treasure  them. 
No  matter  how  neglected  now  they  be 

They  were  a  part  of  my  home  life  to  me. 
Yes,  I  remember  sitting  there  so  well. 

With  baby  in  my  arms  and  children  'round; 
And  a  sweet  peace  hung  o'er  me  like  a  spell. 
While  the  white  blossoms  fluttered  to  the 
ground; 
For  the  young  apple  trees  were  just  in  bloom 
And  we  were  breathing  in  their  sweet  per 
fume. 


51 


©■ 


50 


SB 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


O,  how  the  childish  voices  loud  and  cleur. 

Bang  out  in  laugliter  and  in  merrj-  song; 
No  wonder  that  to  me  the  place  is  dear. 

To  which  so  many  memories  belong-; 
O,  would  those  days  but  come  to  me  again 

'Twould  ease   my  heart  of  all  lliis  racking- 
pain. 
O,  little  ones,  'mong  the  long  tangled  grass. 

Where  buttercups  and  clover  nestled  down; 
Or  like  a  shadow  flitting  as  you  pass, 

To  gather  hollyhocks  in  silken  gown. 
Or  i>ull  the  morning-  glories  from  the  vine 

Which   gaily    'round    the   fav'rite    ti-ee  en- 
twine. 
And  honey  suckles  frag-r;int  were  and  fair. 

And  on  them  humming  birds  swung  to  and 
fro. 
But  something  fairer,  sweeter  still  was  there  : 

A  little  maiden,  singing  soft  and  low; 
O,  that  melodious  voice  we  hoar  no  more. 

Save  in  our  dreams,  it  echoes  o'er  and  o'er. 

My  garden!   when  the  world    was  dark  and 

cold,  [way; 

And  troubles  gathered  thickly  round  my 
I  wander'd  there  my  feelings  to  unfold, 

'Twas    there    I    knelt   upon  the  ground  to 
praj'. 
In  that  old  garden  thro'  tlie  maze  of  years 

I    scan    life's    pages    blur'd  with    mists  of 
tears. 


®- 


MEMORY  OF  THE  SEA. 
In  the  midnight  hour,  a  memory 

Swept  like  music  o'er  my  soul 
As  I  stood  in  silent  reverie, 

Where  the  surging  billows  roll;  — 
Minor  music,  sad  and  sorrowing-, 

Full  of  trembling,  full  of  tears. 
Ever  like  the  ocean's  murmuring, 

Bringing-  Ijack  the  tide  of  years. 
Telling  of  the  long  forgotten 

In  the  cycles  of  the  past, 
Of  the  nations  crushed  and  broken 

In  the  world's  great  holocaust. 
As  I  listened  so  entrancing 

Was  the  music  of  the  sea,; 
That  T  fancied  mermaids  dancing 

Totlie  midnight  minstrelsy; 
And  a  tliousand  harp-stiings  quivering, 

Sol)l)ing  ill  the  midnight  sea: 
And  my  broken  heart-strings  shivering 

As  sad  memories  ca.me  to  me. 
Had  I  caught  tlie  inspiration 

Of  the  music  deep  and  strong 
That  had  moved  mj-  soul's  wild  i>assion. 

Was  it  but  a  syren's  song? 
O,  such  music,  weird  iind  mournful, 

As  the  night-wind  sw('|)t  along. 
And  tlie  shattered  notes  so  painful. 

Making  discord  in  the  song. 


How  far  ofif  the  dreamy  vision 

That  these  memories  brought  to'  me, 
As  I  strained  my  ear  to  listen 

To  tlie  murmuring  in  the  sea. 
Far  down  where  the  sea  weeds  whisper 

To  the  corals  and  the  shells; 
But  they  keep  the  secret  ever. 

Roar  or  echo  never  tells. 
But  the  human  lieart's  emotion. 

Answers  to  the  sad  refrain. 
And  the  ceaseless  moan  of  ocean. 

Brings  a  grandeur  fraught  with  pain. 
While  the  wild  waves  in  commotion. 

Sweeping  out  unto  the  shore; 
Bounding  billow-s,  restless  ocean. 

Echoing  for  evermore. 
And  the  ever  constant  beating 

'Gainst  the  rocks  thathemm'd  the  sea, 
Where  the  winds  in  fury  meeting. 

Dashed  them  backward  ruthlessly. 
So  our  human  hopes  are  driven. 

Recklessly  tossed  to  and  fro. 
And  our  strongest  ties  are  riven  — 

Rent  asunder  bj-  a  blow. 
Ever  heaves  the  restless  ocean. 

With  its  hidden  mystery. 
Sleeping  in  its  surging  bosom. 

Until  time  shall  cease  to  be. 


BEAUTIES  OF  NATURE. 

EXTRACT. 

Down    in    the  meadows,  where  the  cowslips 
spring. 
And  the  sweet  clover  breath  is  in  the  air. 
There  where  the  thrush  and  bluebird  sweetly 
sing. 
Dame  Nature  in  her  robes  so  wondrous  fair. 
Holds    lier    conuiiunion    with    the    regal 

night. 
And  blushes  in  the  dawn  of  earl.N-  light. 
What  picture  hath  the  artist  ever  drawn 

That  could  compare  in  loveliness  and  grace 
With  nature  in  her  rudest,  wildest  form. 
No  matter  in  what  clinnite.  time  or  place. 
So  skillfully  is  ev'ry  figure  wi-ought. 
So  delicate  with  feeling  is  it  fraught. 
In  grove,  and  field,  and  vale,  in  forest  glade. 
On  sno-wj-  heights,  where  man  may  scarcely 
tread. 
On  How'r,  or  shrub,  and  ev'ry  glassy  blade 
That  lifts  from  earth  its  tiny,  modest  head. 
Til  coral  reef,  or  sea  beach  shining  sand. 
We  see  the  seal  of  an  Almighty  hand. 
I  cannot  tell  how  greatly  T  delight 

In  all  the  beauties  of  the  earth  and  heaven; 
How  ardently  1  reverence  tlie  liglit 
Whicli  our  good  Father  has  so  wisely  given; 
The  sun  and  moon,  and  all  the  stars  that 

shine 
With  the  efifulgence  of  a  power  divine. 


« 


$«- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


51 


* 


CHARLES  A.M.TABER. 

Born  :  Rochestek.  Mass.,  April  3, 1834. 

From  1839  till  18(53  Mr.  Taber  spent  most  of 
liis  time  in  wlialiug',  with  the  exception  of  be- 
ing- in  California  in  '49.  Mr.  Ttiber  lias  pub- 
lished  essays   on    Pieviiilini;-    Winds,  Ocean 


t'HAHLES  A.  M.  TABER. 

Currents  and  Frigid  Periods.  In  1873  lie  pub- 
lished a  volume  of  poems,  entitled  Rhymes 
from  a  Sailor's  Journal,  containing-  nearly 
one  hundred  very  line  poems.  Mr.  Taber  has 
been  out  of  business  for  the  past  sixteen 
years,  and  now  resides  in  New  Bedford,  Mass. 


© 


THE  TOILER. 

For  years  he's  floated  on  life's  deep. 
And  stemmed  its  tide  with  heavy  oars; 

A  weary  time  he's  had  to  keep 
His  boat  in  sig-ht  of  hopeful  shores. 

He  has  on  board  a  precious  freight. 
Depending-  on  his  anxious  toil; 

His  health  and  streng-th  decides  their  fate. 
For  down  tlie  stream  the  rapids  boil. 

Tlie  dang-ers  down  stream  look  so  dread, 
He  cannot  slack  his  tiring  stroke. 

No  wealth  has  he  in  sails  to  spread, 
So  he  must  bear  life's  heavy  yoke. 

Fain  would  he  rest  his  weary  task. 
To  note  the  pleasures  of  the  stream, 


And  in  the  sunlig-ht  careless  bask. 
Or  view  the  sunny  ripples'  gleam. 

But  he  is  doomed  to  constant  toil. 
While  riches  glide  with  sunny  sails; 

They  seem  to  have  no  weary  moil. 
But  waft  along-  with  pleasant  gales. 

To  him  they  seem  a  happy  crew, 
With  plenty  in  a  world  of  ease. 

As  glad  as  fancy  ever  drew,— 
The  fairest  vision  labor  sees. 

Yet  his  poor  crew  must  watch  the  tide, 
To  see  how  well  he  meets  its  force, 

While  wealth  and  pleasure  onward  glide. 
And  careless  view  his  anxious  course. 

At  times  they  note  his  toiling-  way. 
And  mark  the  distance  he  may  hold; 

So  wealth  glides  on  to  rest  or  play, 
Comparing  human  toil  to  gold. 


THE  CRUELTY  OF  NECESSITY. 
O  stern  necessity !  what  cruel  power 

You  exercise  against  the  life  of  man! 
How  many  conquered  souls  before  you  cower; 
With   what   persistency   you    crush    each 
plan! 
It's  hard  to  have  our  tenement  of  clay 

Besieged  by  such  relentless,  cruel  force! 
Our  minds  aie  starved  by  your  consuming 
sway. 
And  lives  cut  off  from  every  rich  resource; 
Our  time  is  taxed  by  a  continued  war. 

So  that  our  souls  to  povei-ty  are  doomed. 
E'en  genius  cannot  always  break  your  law; 
To  such  as  those  there  is  a  double  gloom. 
Because  they  know  so  much  they  could  enjoy. 
Did  you  not  constant  give   them   mean  em- 
ploy. 

THE  VOYAGE  OF  LIFE. 
On  our  eventful  voyage  of  human  life. 

We  have  with  us  a  large  and  motley  crew; 
All  navigators  on  a  sea  of  strife. 
And  all  in  hopes  to  see  the  whole  voyage 
through. 
But   while    we    labor    on,    what    change    is 
wrought! 
The  old  and  able  hands  soon  And  their  port. 
And   leave    to    us    the   cluirge   of    toil    and 
thought. 
While  younger  voyagers  constantly  report. 
With  such  we  sail  life's  sea  so  swiftly  on. 
The  young  soon  gaining  all  our  strength 
and  skill. 
Because  the  log  is  left  of  all  that's  gone. 

And  older  hands  are  teaching  with  a  will. 
So  may  our  journals  prove  a  fit  resource. 
To  help  the  future  shape  its  onward  course. 


-^ 


® 


m 


52 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


SARAH  E.  PULVER  M<^LEAN. 

SIDNEY  MCLEAN. 

Born:  Waterloo,  N.  Y.,  June  26,  ia54. 

Sidney  McLean  commenced  writing  at   thie 

age  of  eiffliteen,  and  lias  contributed  largely 

lo  tlic  lociil  ynessand  leading  pericdicals  of 


SARAH  E.  PULAT:R  MC     LEAN. 

the  country.  Aside  from  lier  literary  efiForts 
slie  also  follows  the  profession  of  music  teach- 
er in  Kochester,  N.  Y.,  where  she  now  resides. 


©- 


MY    LOVER. 
What  if  my  lover  be  dark,  or  fair  — 
I  have  no  wish ;  I  do  not  care  — 
If  only  his  manly,  lionest  face 
Shows  iu  each  feature  an  inward  grace. 
What  if  my  lover  be  tall,  or  slight  — 
I  do  not  care,  if  only  his  sight 
Be  lifted  above  earth's  sordid  care 
To  see  God's  handiwork,  true  and  fair. 
What  if  my  lover  be  poor,  or  rich  — 
To  me  it  makes  no  difference  which, 
If  only  his  heart  bo  stanch  and  tru(>. 
His  hand  will  lead  mo  safely  thrcnigh. 
What  if  my  lover  be  famous,  or  no  — 
Fame  may  fade,  or  perchance  may  grow 
If  he  comes  to  me,  his  manhood  clear 
From  the  .stain  of  sin,  I  will  not  fear. 
Somewhere  he  tarries  and  waits  for  me  - 
Sometime  his  face  I  shall  surely  .see. 
For  I  shall  know  when  my  king  I  meet. 
My  soul  will  rise  and  his  coming  grt'ct. 


THE  MASQUE. 

Oh !  the  faces,  faces,  faces  — 

Faces  young  and  faces  fair; 
Faces  smooth  from  lives  of  ease,  and 

Faces  seamed  by  toil  and  cai-e. 
I  stood  upon  a  busy  street  — 

They  passed  me  to  and  fro  — 
Masques  are  they,  thought  I,  and  cover 

The  life  that  lies  below. 
Once  in  awhile,  but  rare,  there  passed, 

A  face  so  marred  by  sin, 
That  all  the  baseness  stood  revealed  — 

No  need  to  look  within. 
And   standing   there,    this   queer   thought 
came  — 

"  Suppose  that  now  and  here 
The  masque  of  flesli  should  fall,  and  souls 

Stand  forth  distinct  and  clear." 
E'en  as  I  thought,  lo !  it  was  done, 

I  started  with  affright; 
All  suddenly  they  stood,  and  were 

As  air  is,  thin  and  light. 
But  what  a  change !  that  woman's  face. 

So  beautiful  before. 
Had  lost  its  charm,  for  mark  of  Cain 

She  on  the  forehead  bore. 
And  each  sad  feature  of  her  soul. 

Was  hurt,  and  bore  a  scar; 
The  blood  of  innocents  was  there. 

Its  perfectness  to  mar. 
And  over  there  had  been  a  form 

Manly  and  full  of  grace. 
His  soul  a  very  pigmy  was. 

And  what  a  sin-scarred  face. 
But  one,  was  he  of  that  long  line. 

Who  ch«ose  with  sin  to  bide. 
Content  to  follow  fleshly  lust. 

And  seek  no  other  guide? 
But  there  were  some  who  walked  beside. 

Whose  souls  were  pure  and  white, 
And  each  of  these  on  forehead  had 

A  cross  of  dazzling  light. 
And  thus  they  were,  the  bad  and  good. 

Mixed  as  they  went  along  — 
Bvit  this  I  saw  —  the  best  of  masques 

To  blackest  souls  belong. 
I  looked  and  looked  till  heart  and  brain. 

Filled  with  such  bitter  pain, 
Tliat  in  an  agony  I  cried, 

"  Oh,  mas<iue  them  all  again!  " 
I  drew  a  dcej)  sigh  of  relief. 

As  each  its  flesh  resumed. 
The  faces  smiled  and  were  so  bright. 

Their  darkness  not  ilhuned. 
And  still  the  crowd  wi-nt  surging  ny. 

Each  had  his  cross  to  bear, 
Wliich  I  saw  not,  and  thanked  my  (iod 

We  bJ>d  a  mask  to  wear. 


-© 


m 


LOCAL.  AND  NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


53 


-« 


ELIZABETH  B.  STODDARD. 

Born:  Mattapoisett,  Mass.,  May  6, 1833. 

This  lady  is  the  wife  of  Richard  H.  Stoddard, 
the  great  American  poet,  whom  she  married 
when  twenty-eig-ht  years  of  age.  Soon  after 
her  marriage  she  began  to  contribute  poems 
to  the  magazines.  Her  poems  invariably  con- 
tain a  central  idea,  not  always  apparent  at  first, 
but  always  poetical  though  not  generally  un- 
derstood by  the  average  reader.  Mrs.  Stod- 
dard has  published  three  novels,  and  also  a 
story  for  young  folks  — Lolly  Dinls's  Doings. 


What  centuries  are  counted  here  —  my  books ! 
Shadows  of  mighty  men ;  the  chorus,  hark. 
The  antique  chant  vibrates,  and  Fate  compels! 


A  SUMMER  NIGHT. 

I  feel  the  breath  of  a  summer  night. 

Aromatic  fire: 
The  trees,  the  vines,  the  flowers  are  astir 

With  tender  desire. 

The  white  moths  flutter  about  the  lamp. 

Enamored  with  light; 
And  a  thousand  creatures  softly  sing 

A  song  to  the  night ! 

But  I  am  alone,  and  how  can  I  sing 

Praises  to  thee? 
Come,  Night!  unveil  the  beautiful  soul 

That  waiteth  for  me. 


ON  MY   BED  OF  A  WINTER  NIGHT. 

On  my  bed  of  a  winter  night. 

Deep  in  a  sleep,  and  deep  in  a  dream. 
What  care  I  for  the  wild  wind's  scream? 

What  to  me  is  its  crooked  flight? 

On  the  sea  of  a  summer's  day. 

Wrapped  in  the  folds  of  a  snowy  sail, 

What  care  I  for  the  fitful  gale, 

Now  in  earnest,  and  now  in  play? 

What  care  I  for  the  fitful  wind. 

That  groans  in  a  gorge,  or  sighs  in  a  tree? 
Groaning  and  sighing  are  nothing  to  me; 

For  I  am  a  man  of  steadfast  mind. 


m- 


THE    COLONELS  SHIELD. 

Your  picture,  slung  about  my  neck. 

The  day  we  went  a-fleld. 
Swung  out  before  the  trench; 
It  caught  the  eye  of  rank  and  file. 

Who  knew  -The  Colonel's  Shield." 


I  thrust  it  back,  and  with  my  men 

(Our  general  rode  ahead 
We  stormed  the  great  redoubt, 
As  it  were  an  easy  thing, 

But  rows  of  us  fell  dead! 

Your  picture  hanging  on  my  neck, 
Up  with  my  men  I  rushed,— 

We  made  an  awful  charge: 

And  then  my  horse,  ••  The  Lady  Bess," 
Dropped,  and  —  my  leg  was  crushed ! 

The  blood  of  battle  in  my  veins 
(A  blue-coat  dragged  me  out  — 

But  I  remembered  you 

I  kissed  your  picture— did  you  know? 
And  yelled,  "For  the  redoubt!  " 

The  Twenty-Fourth,  my  scarred  old  dogs 
Growled  back,  "  He'll  put  us  through ; 
We'll  take  him  in  our  arms: 
Our  picture  there  — the  girl  he  loves 
Shall  see  what  we  can  do." 

The  foe  was  silenced  —  so  were  we, 

I  lay  upon  the  field. 
Among  the  Twenty- Fourth; 
Your  picture,  shattered  on  my  breast. 

Had  proved  "The  Colonel's  Shield." 


ON  THE  CAMPAGNA. 

Stop  on  the  Appian  way. 
In  the  Roman  campagna; 

Stop  at  my  tomb. 
The  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella. 

To-day  as  you  see  it, 
Alaric  saw  it,  ages  ago. 
When  he,  with  his  pale-\nsaged  Goths, 
Sat  at  the  gates  of  Rome, 
Reading  his  Runic  shield. 
Odin!  thy  curse  remains! 

Beneath  these  battlements 
My  bones  were  stirred  with  Roman  pride. 
Though  centuries  before  my  Romans  died: 
Now  my  bones  are  dust;   the  Goths  are  dust. 
The  river-bed  is  dry  where  sleeps  the  king, 

My  tomb  remains! 
When  Rome  commanded  the  earth 

Great  were  the  Metelli : 

I  was  Metella's  wife; 

And  loved  him  — and  Idled. 
Then  with  slow  patience  built  he  this  memorial : 

Each  century  marks  his  love. 

Pass  by  on  the  Appian  way 
The  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella : 

Wild  shepherds  alone  seek  its  shelter, 

Wild  buffaloes  tramp  at  its  base. 
Deep  is  its  desolation. 
Deep  as  the  shadow  of  Rome ! 


-® 


*- 


54 


LOCAL   AJSTD   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMElilCA. 


)^ 


EDWARD  S.  GOODHUE. 

Bokn:  Canada,  Sept.  29, 186L 

Mr.  Goodhue  has  received  a  good  education. 
For  a  year  lie  lectured  in  the  state  of  New 
York,  and  in  1883  edited  the  Dawn,  but  the 
following-  year  went  to  California  to  regain 
his  health.  Since  that  time  he  has  resided  in 
Riverside,  and  has  been  connected  with  sev- 
eral of  the  daily  and  weekly  publicutiuns  of 


®- 


EDWARD  S.  GOODHUE. 

that  city,  besides  contributing  to  the  Youth's 
Companion,  New  York  Witness,  St.  Louis 
Magazine  and  the  periodical  press  generally. 
Mr.  Goodhue  is  now  attending  the  Rush  Medi- 
cal College  of  Chicago.  He  was  married  in 
1889  to  Lulu  May  Rose,  a  Chicago  young  lady 
who  is  also  studying  medicine.  The  earlier 
poems  of  Mr.  Goodhue  were  collected  and  pub- 
lished in  1888  under  the  title  of  Verses  from 
the  Valley;  lie  has  also  other  books  in  pre- 
paration. 

MIDNIGHT. 
'Tis  midnight  and  no  sleep. 

No  sleep,  comes  to  my  eyes; 
Long  have  I  lain  awake 

Watching  the  skies. 

Watching  vague  waves  of  cloud, 
Moving  like  ghosts  of  night 

Over  the  moon's  pale  face. 
Veiling  her  light. 


How  do  they  drift  and  drift 

Onward  so  far  away, 
Goiue-  no  whitherward. 

Where  can  they  stray? 
Large  grows  my  vision  now. 

Nothing  but  sky  I  see- 
Nothing  t)iit  clouds  that  pass 

On  silently. 


EVEN  A. 

They  do  not  flash,  her  eyes. 

But  they  sparkle  and  shine, 
Reflecting  the  kindly  light 

Of  a  soul  divine; 
1  wish  —  I  have  often  wished  — 

Their  dark  orbs  were  mine. 
Mine  to  look  into— and 

Mine,  to  have  love  express. 
With,  oh !  such  a  wealth  and  power 

Of  deep  tenderness: 
With  virtue  to  cheer,  I  know 

And  comfort  and  bless. 
Better  than  words  they  speak 

Out  what  the  heart  would  say. 
Bidding  me  wait  and  hoite 

Till  another  day  — 
When  clouds  which  threaten  low 

Have  all  cleared  away. 


THE  EBB  AND  FLOW. 

'Tis  an  ebb  and  a  flow 

Of  the  ocean  wide. 

Of  the  tireless  tide. 

It  is  coming  and  going  the  long  hours  thro' 

Rushing  along  in  its  beaten  track. 

Onward  and  upward  and  forward  and  back. 

To  its  paths  in  tlie  rocks  and  the  sand. 

Here  and  on  every  hand. 

What  it  brings  it  will  take  away, 

What  it  takes  it  will  give  again  — 

Even  as  rain  clouds  give  the  rain  — 

Some  day. 

If  we  only  knew. 

And  we  all  maj-  know. 

This  life  of  ours  is  an  ebb  and  a  flow. 

Of  days  and  of  years. 

Of  joj'  and  of  woi'. 

And,  like  the  tide  that  breaks  on  the  rocks 

And  throws  in  the  all-  its  briny  sjiniy. 

Is  the  tide  of  our  life  which  bears  along 

Toward  tiie  ragged  roeksof  ill  and  of  wnnig, 

Tiiat  cast  through  our  yeai's 

Their  spray  of  tears. 

By  our  Tide 

Must  we  all  aiiide; 

What  it  brings  it  will  take  awny  — 

What  it  takes  it  will  give  .-igaiii  — 

All  but  the  woe  and  the  pain  — 

Some  day. 


-* 


i  1 


©- 


« 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


55 


CHARLES  LINCOLN  PHIFER. 

Born:  Fayette  Co.  III.,  July  16,  IHfiO. 
On  both  sides  he  is  of  German  extraction, 
the  name  Phifer,  Pifer,  or  Fifer,  three  gener- 
ations Inveli  in  the  family's  history  spelled 
PfeflVr;  and  liis  mother's  maiden  name  being 
Heisler.  Reared  on  a  farm  until  1870,  in  whicli 
year  liis  fatlier  died,  Charley  attended  the 
district  school ;  then,  liis  mother  having  re- 
moved to  the  county  capital,  Vandalia,  he 
soon  after  liesiun  learning tlie  printers'  trade; 


RB 


CHARLES  LINCOLN  PHIFER. 

and  graduated  from  the  public  schools  of  that 
city  in  1880.  In  1881  he  became  editor  of  the 
Fayette  County  News.  Removing  to  Cali- 
fornia, Mo.,  in  1883,  he  started  a  jol)  printing 
office  and  for  nearly  a  year  run  a  little  sheet 
called  Phifer's  Paper,  which  gained  quite  a 
local  reputation  for  humor.  Selling  the  sub- 
scription to  the  paper,  in  1888  lie  run,  in  con- 
nection with  his  job  office,  a  campaign  paper 
styled  the  Semi-Weekly  Republican.  He  has 
originated  several  "wrinkles"  in  printing, 
which  were  given  to  the  craft  through  tech- 
nical journals,  and  have  passed  into  general 
use.  Almost  with  the  dawn  of  memory  he 
manifested  a  liking  for  picture  drawing;  and 
while  he  yet  sometimes  makes  sketches  and 
even  engravings  (he  never  had  any  training 
for  either),  the  passion  for  drawing  seems  to 
have  merged  into  a  passion  for  writing  —  and 


particularly  verse  writing—  soon  after  he  be- 
came a  student  of  printing.  He  has  con- 
tributed verses,  or  essays,  to  Tlie  Current, 
Chicago;  Day  Star,  New  York;  Republican, 
St.  Louis;  Inter  Ocean,  Cliicago;  Toledo 
Blade,  and  various  religious  and  local  papers. 
Mr.  Phifer  has  published  by  his  own  hands, 
for  circulation  among  his  fi-iends,  several 
pamphlets  of  verse,  and  one  flve-act  play, 
"  Zaphnath-Paaneah,"  in  blank  verse,  that  has 
been  highly  complimented  by  author  and  ac- 
tor friends,  among  whom  it  circulated  ex- 
clusively In  1890  appeared  Annals  of  the 
Earth,  a  volume  of  three  hundred  pages,  in 
verse,  which  was  published  by  the  American 
Publishers' Association  of  Chicago.  The  vol- 
ume was  extensively  noticed  by  the  press  of 
both  America  and  England. 


IT  CANNOT  MATTER. 
It  cannot  matter  where  or  when 

The  light  of  life  goes  out  with  us; 
For  only  a  few  years,  and  then 
We  all  must  end  in  darkness  thus, 
In  utter  darkness,  thus. 

From  birth  we  draw  on  toward  the  grave. 
Like  arrows  speeding  from  the  bow. 

And  though  to  three-score  years  we  live, 
'Tis  but  a  little  flight,  and  so 

The  strongest  are  brought  low. 

All  men  are  worn  out  —  then  they  die : 
If  strong,  we  must  the  longer  bear ; 

If  weak,  are  broken  easily ; 
And  peace  must  come  where  there  is  care, 
The  speedier  solace  there. 

We  wail  when  death  destroys  our  friends, 
But  grieving  hastens  us  to  peace ; 

We  die,  and  mourning  love  expends 
Itself  in  tears,  till  sorrows  cease, 
And  quickly  comes  release. 

Peasants  and  monarchs  side  by  side 

Into  tlie  silent  tomb  shall  go. 
And  none  shall  know  they  lived  or  died. 

In  one  brief  century  or  so  — 

Their  lineage  shall  not  know 


BOOGERS. 
When  I  was  a  little  feller,  I  was  jiss  that  'f  raid 

Of  the  Boogers,  I'd  jiss  run 
Past  every  tiny  wee  little  spot  of  shade 

Tliat  I  would  happen  upon. 
I  was  jiss  that  'fraid  the  Bad  Man  'u'd  come. 

If  I  had  done  anything  wrong, 
I  wouldn't  go  out  after  night  at  all, 

Ceppun  my  ma  was  along. 

If  Jack  (he's  my  dog)  was  to  bark  at  a  tree, 
My  goodness!  how  I  would  jump! 


-© 


©- 


-® 


56 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A3IERICA. 


I  was  'fraid  'twas  the  Bad  Man  come  for  me. 

And  my  heart  'u'd  go  thumpity-thump. 
But  I  ain't  'fraid  of  tlie  Bad  Man,  now  — 

Leastwise  till  I  get  dead; 
'Cause  I  never  did  see  no  Boogers  at  all, 

Ceppun  on  Jim  Smith's  head. 
Now  —  honest  Injun  —  please  tell  me  true, 

Jiss  true  as  ever  you  can : 
Did  ever  a  Booger  appear  to  j'ou? 

Jever  see  tlie  Bad  Man? 
I  guess  tlie  folks  tell  a  heap  o'  stuff 

To  scare  us  to  hein'  good ; 
But  I  want  some  fun;  un'  I  ain't  afraid 

No  more  of  the  dark  er  the  wood. 
If  a  Booger  'u'd  come,  I'd  jiss  set  Jack 

On  him,  un  I  guess  he'd  run; 
He'd  leave  before  you  could  jiss  say,  'Scat  I 

Er  I'd  shoot  liim  with  my  gun. 
I  am  big  enougli  to  wliip  'em,  I  guess, 

For  the  Boogers  leave  big  folks  be. 
If  my  pa  can  stay  out  till  eleven  o'clock. 

They  jiss  won't  bother  me. 


©- 


A  VOICE  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

When  the  family  sit  outside 

On  the  sultry  summer  night. 
And  the  frogs  croak  far  and  wide 

And  a  dark  wood  bars  the  sight; 
When  the  bat  drops,  bouncing  on. 

And  the  owl  is  by  the  mill. 
And  the  moth  in  flame  has  flown, 

Tlien  we  hear  the  whipporwill  — 
Whipporwill! 
From  the  coi)se  and  from  the  hill, 
Whipporwill,  whipporwill,  whipporwill! 
When  around  the  beetles  boom. 

And  mosquetos  hum  in  smoke. 
And  the  fireside  light  the  gloom. 

And  the  lightning  wrinkles  up; 
When  the  evening  air  is  full. 

And  the  lieart  is  calm  and  still, 
'Mid  the  zephyrs  sweet  and  cool 

Comes  the  sound  of  "  Whipporwill, 
Whipporwill;" 
Ceaselessly  it  rings,  and  shrill, 
Whipporwill,  whipporwill,  whipporwill! 
Was  some  maid  like  Philome, 

Lost  in  new  Arcadian  wild. 
Seized  by  some  rough  deity. 

Near  o'erpowered  and  defiled. 
Till,  though  stified  with  lier  hair. 

Kindly  by  Minerva  heard. 
She  was  restnicd  from  despair. 

Flying  from  his  clutch,  a  bird  — 
Wliipporwiir/ 
Through  her  hair  gag  wailing  still 
On  her  lover,  ^  Whip  -  poor  Will!  " 
In  the  old  field  ovei'grown. 

By  the  brook  that  murmurs  low. 
In  the  graveyai-d,  on  a  stt)ne. 


From  the  dead  oak  just  below. 
Like  a  mentor  weird,  or  seer, 

Thus  the  wild  voice  echoes  shrill. 
Till  the  judgment  seemeth  near. 

Ever  one  word,  whipporwill, 
Wliipporwill ! 
'Mong  the  ruins  will  ring  .still, 
Whipporwill,  whipporwill,  whipporwill ! 


ANGELS. 
I  was  passing  along  through  the  woodland. 

And  down  through  the  meadows  where 
The  grass  and  leaves  were  rustling 

In  the  cool  October  air  — 
Where  the  wood  was  lone  with  echoes. 

And  all  was  somber  and  gray  — 
Where  the  hoary  old  alchemist,  Autumn, 

Blew  smoke  aloft  like  spra.v. 
And  with  his  incantations, 

By  his  horoscope  and  art. 
Changed  the  leaves  to  gold  and  purple, 

Transforming  every  part  — 
And  I  saw,  all  alone  bj'  the  roadside 

Where  the  grass  was  crisp  and  dead. 
'Mid  the  broken  lances  of  frost-sprites. 

Where  the  grand  onslaught  had  led  — 
Flowers  wounded  and  dying. 

The  sweet  ones  and  the  bright; 
And  I  marveled  at  the  mystery 

Wrought  in  the  silent  niglit. 
I  thought  of  a  dear  one,  wounded 

As  the  flower,  and  since  forgot. 
Who  at  evening  had  bloomed  in  manhood, 

And  by  morning  he  was  not. 
Stricken  and  wearj-  and  troubled. 

He  had  toiled  through  the  summer  long. 
And  his  hopes,  like  leaves,  had  withered, 

Clogging  the  channel  of  song. 
He  would  rest,  and  so  he  departed. 

At  the  close  of  a  weary  night. 
Into  the  mystic  morning 

Dawning  beyond  the  height ; 
And  I  wondered  if  an  angel 

Had  not  taken  his  soul  in  its  flight: 
For  he  passed  as  if  music  was  falling 

And  fading  away  with  the  niyht. 
I  wonder  if  God  does  not  pity 

The  soul  that  is  burdened  witli  grief. 
And  at  death  send  an  angel  from  Heaven 

To  the  weary  one  with  relief. 
Tlie  angels  are  ever  around  us  — 

They  speak  in  the  passing  breeze. 
They  look  with  the  eyes  of  llowei-s. 

They  rush  through  the  swaying  trees. 
There  is  notliing  mean  or  common  ; 

Each  life  has  its  romance  f;iir; 
And  the  souls  of  the  dead  are  around  us 

And  with  us  everywhere. 


* 


® 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-« 


EMILY   HILL  WOODMANSEE. 

Born:  England. 
This  lady  came  to  America  in  1856  and  settled 
in  Salt  Lake  City,  Utali,  where  she  has  ever 
since  resided.  Mrs.  Woodniausee  is  counted 
anionp-tho  first  of  our  local  jHJets.  and  many 
of  liiT  |)oiMic:il  jiroductioiis  have  buen  coiiiwl 


EMILY  HILL  WOODMANSEE. 

in  the  eastern  publications.  She  is  a  vivacious 
little  woman  of  rather  less  than  average 
height:  and  although  she  has  experienced 
sorrow  and  suffering:  her  countenance  always 
wears  a  cheerful  and  hopeful  expression.  She 
deals  quite  extensively  in  real  estate,  and  is 
possessed  of  quite  a  little  business  ability. 


JOYFUL  JUNE. 

Gone,  the  chilly  wintry  blast; 
Gone,  the  hours  so  overcast; 
Sunnier  days  have  dawn'd  at  last  — 

Long'd  for,  look'd  tor  boon. 
Loveliest  skies!  by  mortal's  seen  — 
Flowers,  and  fruits  and  g-rasses  green  — 
Greet  thy  coming:,  beauteous  queen 

Of  summer,  joyful  June! 
Rip'Iing  streams  and  murmuring  trees, 
Weird  and  mystic  harmonies. 
Sights  and  sounds  that  welt  might  ease, 

Or  cure  niucii  fancied  woe. 
Like  an  inspirational  voice  — 
Nature!  bids  us  all  rejoice. 
Free  to  all,  her  blessings  choice. 

As  is  the  sunshine's  glow. 


«- 


On  the  evil,  on  tlie  good. 

Nature's  genei'ous  gifts  are  strew'd; 

Shall  we  mar  hoi'  liappiost  mood. 

And  turn  from  joy  away? 
What  tho'  petty  griefs  and  care  — 
'Tis  the  lot  of  all  to  bear — 
Is  it  meet  to  woo  despair 

Upon  a  summer's  day? 

Pity  all,  whose  grief 's  too  great  — 
All,  so  bowed  by  sorrow's  weight  — 
All,  too  sadly  desolate 

To  join  in  nature's  glee; 
Who  cannot  swell  creation's  shout, 
Who  cannot  trust  as  well  as  doubt. 
That  He,  who  calls  such  beauty  out 

To  cheer  us,  hears  our  plea. 

'Tis  as  well  we  cannot  read 

All  the  quivering-  hearts  that  bleed, 

Tenderest  souls  would  sink  indeed, 

O'erwhelmed  by  otliers'  woe; 
'Tis  as  well  we  cannot  see 
All  existing-  misery. 
Otherwise,  nor  you,  nor  me, 

Would  rest  or  comfort  know. 

Not  to  mortals  is  it  given 

To  assume  the  tasks  of  heaven. 

Only  One!  the  Savior  even 

All  human  sorrow  bore; 
Yet,  God's  own  begotten  Son  — 
Tho'  He  scorned  the  cross  to  shun  — 
While  He  cried,  »>  Thy  will  be  done" 

Sweat  bitterest  drops  of  gore. 

Still,  within  the  narrowest  sphere. 
Some  there  are,  both  true  and  dear. 
Some,  with  whom  a  heartfelt  tear 

May  indeed  be  shed; 
Some,  whose  direful  need  demands 
Loving  words  and  helpful  hands; 
Happy  he  who  understands 

To  lift  the  drooping-  head. 

Sympathy!  thy  heaven-born  might. 
Lines  the  gloomiest  clouds  with  light. 
Turning  oft  to  paths  of  right 

Souls  by  sorrow  bent; 
Fate  doth  hold  us  so  in  thrall  — 
Is  it  strange  some  faint  and  fall? 
Well  it  is,  the  Judge  of  all 
Looks  at  the  heart's  intent. 

Wherefore  sing  so  sad  a  strain? 
Hiirdest  lessons  learnt  is  gaiti ; 
Life  is  short,  and  brief  its  pain; 

Rest  will  come  full  soon;         . 
Fairest  chances  fly  away, 
Why  not  use  them  while  we  may? 
Tho'  we  cannot  bid  thee  stay — 

Thrice  welcome,  joyful  June! 


-m 


^- 


58 


* 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


FAITH  AND  WORKS. 

See!  the  wilds,  so  long-  forsaken,  into  Hie  and 

bloom  awaken  — 
'Tis  the  meed  of  Fiiith  unshaken,  the  reward 

of  labor  too. 
Faith  hath  wrought  this  exultation,  for  the 

"Outcasts"  of  the  nation; 
Yea,    through    Faith  "  God    favors    Zion  " — 

Faith  and  Works  can  wonders  do. 
Ah,  this  Faith !    Can  words  express  it?   Can 

the  jeers  of  foes  suppress  it? 
'Tis  superior  to  language,  far  above  reproach 

and  scorn ; 
'Tis  indeed  the  blest  assurance,  that  for  pa- 
tient, brief  endurance. 
We  shall  reap  the  full  fruition  of  the  hopes 

within  us  born. 
'Tis  in  vain  men  cry  "delusion,"  souls  are 

thrilled  with  Faith's  infusion. 
Faith  reanimates   the  spirit  as  the  life-blood 

cheers  the  heart; 
Needful  'tis  that  we  obtain  it,  needful  'tis  that 

we  retain  it  — 
Thougli  we  never  can  explain  it,  Faith  doth 

power  and  peace  impart. 
Faith's  the  fruit  of  revelation,  Faith's  the  an- 
chor of  salvation ; 
Faith  obtains  from  God  a  knowledge  of  the 

truth  that  cheers  the  soul; 
Faith's  the  true  appreciation  of  Clirist's  love 

and  mediation; 
Faith's  the  force  of  Truth  within  us.  Faith's 

the  power  that  makes  us  whole. 
For  this  Faith  it  is  no  wonder,  men  have  e'en 

been  torn  asunder, 
Men  have"Cru'lly  been  tormented,"  scorn- 
ing to  accept  reprieve. 
Knowing,  though  by  fiends  surrounded,  that 

in  truth  their  faith  was  founded  — 
Scorn'd  they  to  deny  for  freedom  what  they 

could  not  but  believe; 

By  the  ladder  of  affliction — sword,  and  fire 
and  crucifixion  — 

For  their  Faith,  by  death's  most  tortuous,  no- 
blest souls  have  upward  soar'd  — 

Passed  these  martyrs  up  to  glory,  leaving  us 
their  deathless  story. 

While  the  cry,  "  How  long.  Thou  just  One,  ere 
tliy  vengeance  is  outpoured'/" 

Of  eternal  condemnation  there's  a  fearful  res- 
ervation 

For  the  murderers  of  these  just  ones,  of  these 
brave,  iiluslrions  dead! 

Read  we  from  tlie  siicred  pages,  how  that 
from  remotest  ages. 

From  the  dt^ith  of  "  rigliteous  Abel,"  many 
for  their  Faitli  have  bled. 

So,  within  tliis  general  ion,  by  a  free  and 
favor'd  nation. 


Prophets  have  for  Faith  been  murder'd,  men 
lia\e  sorely  been  opprest; 

For  their  Faith— through  much  privation  — 
"  sought  they  out  a  habitation," 

Even  in  a  distant  desert,  In  the  wild,  uncul- 
tured west. 


m 


UNIVERSAL  LOVE. 
Oh,  this  life  would  be  a  burden 

Were  it  lived  for  self  alone; 
Did  not  loving  hearts  and  faithful 

Beat  responsive  to  our  own: 
Did  not  pure  affection's  fingers. 

With  a  constancy  divine. 
Ever  'round  our  inmost  feelings 

Briglit  celestial  garlands  twine. 
All  Love's  social  sweet  surroundings 

Give  to  life  a  healthful  zest. 
And  when  these  are  most  expansive. 

Then  most  truly,  we  are  blest; 
Shall  we  circumscribe  the  feelings 

Emanating  from  above, 
Whicl)  the  gods  delight  to  practice  — 

Even  universal  love? 
God  so  loved  the  whole  creation 

That  he  sacrified  his  Son, 
And  the  world's  entire  salvation 

Shall  by  love  alone  be  won ; 
Shall  we,  in  our  selfish  weakness, 

Strive  against  so  broad  a  plan? 
Or,  in  charity  and  meekness. 

Love  the  family  of  man? 
If  we  recognize  as  kindred 

All  the  cliildren  of  our  Sire, 
Shall  we  limit  our  affections 

And  within  ourselves  retire? 
No!  the  truly  good  and  noble 

Do  rejoice  in  giving  joy. 
Not  alone  for  self  they  labor. 

Holy  Ones  their  aid  employ. 
For  the  mission  of  the  angels 

Is  to  cheer  and  bless  the  soul; 
They  have  joy  in  this  surpassing 

Mortal's  uttermost  control; 
Surely  goodness  is  immortal, 

Cliarity  is  all  divine. 
Universal  love  extendelh 

From  the  God-iiead'ssacred  shrine. 
Whoso  these  celestial  eraces 

Ever  cherish  in  tlie  heart. 
In  most  trying  times  and  places 

Light  and  comfort  shall  impart; 
Love  extendeth  and  rebouiuleth. 

It  liatii  joy's  elastic  spring 
It  shall  ever  clieer  the  giver, 

IVielv  lo  him  :\  blessing  bring. 
Love  sliiill  g:illH>r  love  around  us, 

Onward  iln'oiigli  tlie  stream  of  time. 
Love  sliall  make  our  old  age  youthful. 

And  our  destinies  sublime. 


« 


Si- 


local  AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


o9 


-* 


WILLIAM  TAYLOR. 

Born  i>f  Scotland,  Feb.  T,  1850. 
In  1867  Mr.  Taylor  lost  the  sight  of  his  left  eye 
through  a  pieee  of  the  g-un  cap  penetrating: 
the  pupil.  The  same  year  he  sailed  for  Ameri- 
ca. In  1873  he  avms  ninrric^d :  one  year  later  a 
sliver  of  steel  from  the  head  of  a  tool  he  was 
using  pierced  the  ball  of  his  right  eye,  usher- 
ing him  into  lifelong  darkness.  It  was  a  hard 
trial,  but  to  one  of  his  disposition  he  soon  be- 


WILLIAM   TAVT-OR. 

came  reconciled  to  his  loss.  This  blind  poet  is 
called  the  Milton  of  the  West,  and  he  gives 
recitations  of  his  own  original  poems  to 
churches,  Sunday  schools,  and  other  organiza- 
tions, which  have  met  with  universal  approval. 
Mr.  Taylor  has  a  wide  circle  of  admirers,  and 
we  predict  that  his  journey  through  life  will 
be  comparatively  a  smooth  one. 


©- 


AM  I  A  SCOT,  OR  AM  I  NOT? 
If  I  should  bring  a  wagon  o'er 
From  Scotland  to  Columbia's  shore. 
And  by  successive  wear  and  tear. 
The  wagon  soon  should  need  repair; 
Thus,  when  the  tires  are  worn  through, 
Columbia's  Iron  doth  renew; 
Likewise  the  fellies,  hubs  and  spokes 
Should  be  replaced  by  western  oaks; 
In  course  of  time  down  goes  the  bed. 
But  here's  one  like  it  in  its  stead. 
So  bit  by  bit,  in  seven  years, 


All  things  arc  changed  in  bed  and  gears. 

And  still  it  seems  as  though  it  ought 

To  be  the  one  from  Scotland  brought; 

But  when  I  think  the  matter  o'er. 

It  ne'er  was  on  a  foreign  shore. 

And  all  that  came  across  the  sea. 

Is  only  its  identity. 

I  came  a  Scotchman,  understand, 

To  live,  by  choice  in  this  free  land. 

Wherein  I've  dwelt  from  day  to  day. 

Till  sixteen  years  have  passed  away. 

If  physiology  be  true. 

My  body  has  been  changing  too; 

And  though  at  first  it  did  seem  strange. 

Yet  science  doth  confirm  the  change; 

And  since  I  have  the  truth  been  taught 

I  wonder  if  I'm  now  a  Scot? 

Since  all  that  came  across  the  sea 

Is  only  my  identity. 

STERLING  WORTH. 
What  IS  there  in  the  garb  of  man, 

That  we  should  honor  or  despise? 
To  judge  of  grain,  are  we  to  scan, 

The  husks  wherein  the  kernel  lies? 
A  coat,  by  honest  labor  torn. 

May  wrap  a  heart  as  true  as  steel. 
And  so  may  husks,  all  weather  worn, 

A  perfect  grain  of  wheat  conceal. 
A  crown  may  rest  upon  a  head 

Where  seldom  dwells  a  worthy  thought, 
While  countless  noble  thoughts  are  bred, 

Neath     hats    of     straw     that's     roughlj 
wrought. 
What  signifies  our  place  of  birth. 

The  length  of  purse,  or  place  we  fill? 
The  only  real  test  of  worth. 

Is  passing  through  the  fanning  mill. 
The  hand  of  time,  the  flail  doth  ply. 

Alike  upon  the  rich  and  poor. 
The  great,  the  small,  the  low,  the  high. 

Are  equal  on  the  threshing  floor. 
And  he  who  oversees  the  fan. 

That  chaff  and  wheat  doth  separate. 
Will  favor  not  the  garb  of  man. 

The  grain  must  he  of  standard  weight. 


THE  ARTISAN. 
Be  not  by  vanity  mis-led 

To  slight  the  artisan, 
For  though  he  toils  to  earn  his  bread, 

He's  nature's  nobleman: 
Yea,  quite  as  worthy  as  a  king 
Is  he  who  makes  the  anvil  ring,        [sweat. 
And    from   whose  brow  flow  streams  of 
To  pay  the  law  of  nature's  debt. 
The  monuments  of  Art  go  view, 

By  men  of  genius  wrought. 
Nor  grudge  the  workman  honor  due 

Though  humble  be  his  lot. 


-* 


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-* 


80 


LOCAL    AND  NATIONAL    POETS   OF   A3IEKICA. 


MRS.  HELEN  A.  RAINS. 

Born:  Rome,  C,  Dec.  16, 1838. 
Among  the  many  publications  to  which  this 
lady   has   contributed   miglit   he    mentioned 
Peterson's  Magazine,  Cincinnati  Weekly,  La- 


MRS.   HELEN  A.  RAINS. 

dies'  Repository,  and  the  Christian  Standard. 
This  lady  was  married  in  1870  to  George  W. 
Rains.  She  follows  the  profession  of  a  jour- 
nalist, and  now  resides  in  Mt.  Ayr,  Iowa. 


JUNE  PICTURES. 
Framed  in  my  window?  what  a  bit  of  .sky 

Of  azure  blue— a  snowy  cloud  afloat 

With  tiny  sails,  so  like  a  fairy  boat, 
Suspended  in  mid-air,  as  by  the  eye 
Reflected  in  the  mirage  we  can  see 
Objects  transcribed  with  perfect  symmetry. 
Waves  upon  waves  of  greenness  just  below, 

(Of  that  peculiar  shade  that  June  full 
crowned 

And  flusli  witli  all  her  rarities  has  found 
To  beautify  the  earth)  which  ebb  and  flow 
As  with  the  tide.    The  country  roads'  de- 
cline 
O'er  distant  hills  the  eye  can  scarce  define. 


MY  RAHY. 

Fold  her  hands  liglitly 
Over  her  breast, 

Clo.se  her  lids  liglitly, 
Lay  her  to  rest. 

Smootli  the  daik  tresses 
Over  hei'  l)row. 


All  my  caresses 

Availeth  not,  now. 


APRIL. 

And  so  the  spring  is  here,  M-ith  memories 

That  cling  to  ev"ry  thing  with  loving  touch. 
The   fields    afresh  with  kindling  green— the 
skies 
Blue  and  empyreal.    I  wonder  much 
If  in  the  land  where  my  young  days  were 

spent 
These    things  in  old-time  loveliness,  have 
lent 
Hue  to  the  streams,  and  on  the  dewy  air 
Apple-bloom    diffusion.      The    dell,   whose 
soil 
In    spring,   was  rank  with  yellow  cowslips, 
where 
We  mired  at  every  step,  and  hours  of  toil 
Rewarded  us  with  prize — the  very  best — 
A  pail  of  "greens" — do  little  children  test 
With  cheeks    abloom,  through  labyrinthine 
ways 
Its  grape-\'ine  swings,  the  roots  and  spicy 

bark 
If  sassafras,  these  lovely  April  days? 
Has  modern  culture  stolen  ev'ry  spark 
Of  interest  in  woodland  haunts,  from  those 
Whose  life's  expanding,  like  the  morning 
rose. 
Promise  of  vigor  in  the  bud,  should  hold. 
Do   blooms,   perfumes,  and  healthful  airs 
bespeak 
To  j^oung  hearts  now,  the  same  delights  that 
told 
In  days  agone,  on  childliood's  lip  and  cheek? 
Of  what  avail  the  knowledge  of  to-day. 
If  youth  has  lost  her  happy,  care-free  way? 
Do  books  impart,  one-half  the  wisdom  caught 
From  running  brooks  and  feathered  song- 
sters' lays? 
Have  lessons  learned  (the  Harmonies  have 
taught 
Tliat  Nature  blends  sublimely  in  her  days, 
With  unison  of  chords  in  sweetness  wrought 
Not  molded  characters,  where  books  were 
naught. 


GOING  FOR  THE  COWS. 
Adown  the  lane  a  tangle 

Of  rankest  wet'ds  and  grasses. 
Starred  ticre  and  there  with  spangle 

Of  dogwood  bloom  in  masses 
That  overhanging  dangle 

Upon  the  head  tliat  passes. 
His  way  toward  the  dingle. 

The  l)iii'efoot  boy  is  wending, 
Wliei't'  comes  the  faint  commingle 

Of  cow-licU  rhythm,  blending 
Willi  nu  lodiama,  single 

The  inocking-biid  is  rend'ring. 


:^- 


© 


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LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF   AMEKICA. 


61 


-® 


LAURA  J.  RITTENHOUSE. 

Born:  Grand  Chain,  III.,  1841. 
This  lady  has  given  a  great  deal  of  her  time 
to  the  temperance  cause,  being  one  of  its 
most  fervent  supporters.    She  has  published 

twobooks  — Out  of  the  Di'pilis,  a   \hh-ui.   and 


liAtTRA  .1.   RITTENHOUSE. 

a  book  of  temperance  stories  for  young 
children.  She  has  also  contributed  to  the 
leading  periodicals  of  America.  Mrs.  Ritten- 
house  has  a  splendid  family  of  five  children, 
and  now  resides  at  Cairo,  111. 


*- 


WEIGHING  BABY. 
Baby's  weight!  how  much  it  means. 
When  the  "  children's  angel  "  leans 
From  God's  door  through  cloud-rift  sails. 
Holding  Love's  own  shining  scales 
Weighing  baby  as  she  lies. 
With  her  ojien,  deep-blue  eyes 
tilled  with  wonder,  while  she  swings. 
Like  an  angel  without  wings. 

How  much  does  the  darling  weigh  ? 
None  but  heavenly  scales  can  say; 
None  but  heavenly  tongues  can  tell. 
All  the  precious  things  that  dwell 
In  this  body  warm  and  small. 
Making  it  out- weigh  them  all  — 
All  the  dimpled,  crowing  throng. 
That  in  other  homes  belong. 


Can  one  weigh  the  baby's  wiles, 
Witching  ways  and  cunning  smiles  ? 
Weigh  the  voice  to  us  so  sweet. 
Or  the  warmth  of  rosy  feet  ? 
Weigh  her  dimples—  "  Cupid's  nest," 
Where  our  kisses  find  sweet  rest  ':t 
Weigh  the  blessings  that  each  day 
Wrap  her  'round  in  soft  array  ? 

Can  you  weigh  each  hope  and  jjrayer. 
Centered  on  her  everywhere  ? 
Or  the  love  that's  woven  fast 
'Round  her  while  our  lives  shall  last  ? 
Can  you  weigh  the  fair  young  soul, 
Op'ning  like  a  spotless  scroll  ? 
Only  God's  unerring  gaze, 
Sees  how  much  our  darling  weighs. 


MARGARET. 
When  you  passed  me  yesterday. 
Deigning  not  to  look  that  way. 
Did  you  know  that  I  was  near. 
And  with  all  your  coldness,  fear 
Just  to  meet  my  earnest  gaze. 
Lest  some  thought  Of  other  days 
Should  defy  you  to  forget 
What  we  have  been,  Margaret  ? 

Did  your  memory  like  a  dream. 
Bring  before  you  then  a  gleam 
Of  a  farm-house  white  and  small, 
Wliere  the  brightest  sunbeams  fall; 
Where  the  woodbine  clambers  up. 
Holding  many  a  dainty  cup 
Filled  with  incense  sweeter  yet. 
Than  all  others,  Margaret? 

Did  you  see  the  roses  white. 
And  the  red  ones,  where  one  night 
'Neath  the  solemn  light  of  stai-s. 
Shadows  held  us  in  their  bars. 
And  the  soft  wind  floating  by. 
Heard  us  vowing  —  you  and  I, 
That  our  love's  sun  should  not  set. 
While  life  lasted,  Margaret  ? 

Are  your  hot-house  flowers  as  sweet 
As  the  ones  that  kissed  your  feet  ? 
Do  your  prisoned  birds  e'er  sing 
Like  the  wild  ones  on  the  wing  ? 
Will  your  wealth  and  station  pay 
For  the  true  heart  cast  away  ? 
Does  no  wild  remorse,  regret. 
Prey  upon  you,  Margaret? 

Turn  your  head  away  in  scorn. 
Rich  in  gold  — in  heart  forlorn; 
Mingle  with  the  heartless,  gay ; 
Laugh  and  jest  and  ne'er  betray 
Tlirough  your  mask  of  calm,  cold  pride. 
How  your  aching  heart  is  tried; 
Yet  through  all  life's  tangled  net. 
You  shall  love  me,  Margaret. 


-m 


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62 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL    POETS    OF    AMERICA. 


© 


IDA  MAY  DAVIS. 

Born:  La  Fayette,  Ind.,  1858. 
Mrs.  Davis  lias   written    for   many  leading- 
mag-iiziues   and    newspapers,    among-    wliicli 
might  be  mentioned  the  Chicago  Inter  Ocean, 


IDA  MAY  DAVIS. 

Chicago  Current  and  Indianapolis  Journal. 
She  is  of  medium  higlit,  with  brown  hair  and 
hazel  eyes,  and  now  resides  in  Terre  Haute, 
Indiana. 


EVENING  SONG. 
Farewell,  sweet  day. 

Thy  thoughts  and  mine  in  perfect  tunc; 
And  rhyme  have  blent  this  day  of  June, 

And  ere  the  rapture  of  thy  spell 
Dissolves,  I  turn  to  thee  and  say, 
.    Sweet  day,  farewell. 
Farewell,  sweet  day. 

For  I  would  rather  part  from  thee 
With  every  chord  in  harmony 

Than  meet  thee  in  the  cold,  gray  light 
Of  morrow's  morn.    Thus,  glad  I  say. 

Sweet  day,  goodnight. 


A  MEMORY. 
The  rose's  heart  is  red,  so  red ; 

The  thrush's  .song  is  sweet,  so  sweet; 
The  river  lies,  a  flame  of  l)lue, 

The  morn  is  golden  and  complete. 
I  hear  her  voice  amid  the  reeds. 

Alike  no  other  melody; 
>ry  name,  across  the  echoing  wold. 


On  wings  of  wind  is  borne  to  me. 
I  reach  out  —  ah  I  my  rose-red  dream ! 

Gray  shreds  of  gauze  in  ochre  light 
Spread  slow  along  the  water's  trail. 

Into  the  olive  veil  of  night. 
It  must  have  been  the  friendly  breeze. 

With  magic  touch  upon  my  brain. 
With  voice  soft  soughing  thro'  the  trees, 

That  brought  me  thee,  O  love,  again. 


THE  ROSE. 
I,  the  rose,  am  glad  to-day. 

Slumbering  in  the  summer  heat. 
I  heard  my  lady,  joj-ous  say, 
"I'll  wear  this  rose  of  fragrane  e  sweet. 
When  I,  my  guests  invited  meet." 
Ah,  kindest  fate,  that  I  should  grace 
Such  beauty  as  my  Lady's  face; 
And  she  will  place  me,  soft  caressed. 
With  lingering  touch  upon  her  breast. 
Strange  fingers    plucked  me  yester  night. 
Mid  swiftly  falling  di-ops,  dew-bright. 
Tliey  said  an  uninvited  guest. 
Greeting  my  Lady,  bade  her  rest. 
She  lay  in  fair  and  fleecy  white, 
Witli  smiling  lips.    Thro'  pale  moonlight. 
They  measured  steps,  with  sound  supprest. 
And  laid  me  softly  on  her  breast. 
And  kissed  her  cheek  so  ivory  white. 
I,  the  rose,  am  sad  to-night. 


A  HARMONY. 

The  dawn's  vinfolding  wings  the  breeze  fret. 

Kissing   the   gentian's    slumbrous    eyelids 
swift ; 
Her  siLk-f ringed  lashes  with  thedewdrops  wet. 

Quivering  'neath  the  sun's  bright  glance, 
uplift. 
The  bee,  hid  in  the  trumpet-blossom's  spire. 

Reels  to  the  chimes  within  its  nodding  cells. 
The  trembling  hollyhock's  red  chalices  of  fire 

Rock  with  the  unseen  ringer  of  their  bells. 
O'er  purple  clematis  the  butterfly 

Hovers  to  taste  the  sweetness  from  its  Ups: 
And  all  the  opal  tints  of  sun  and  sky 

Are  drank  in  rainbow  colors  that  he  sips. 
The    reeds  that   grow   down    by  the   crystal 
spring. 

Meeting  the  morning  breezes  from  the  sea. 
Their  matutinal  lays  are  otfering 

In  notes  that  might  awake  sad  Niobe. 
The  ripples  from  the  bnxjk, where  bhiedragons 

Upon  its  bosom  clear  reflected  float. 
Are  like  the  soft-voiced  ringniove's  cai-illons. 

Or  silvery  laughter    from    a    young   girl's 
throat. 
And  every  swaying  stem  keei>s  time  complete. 

To  fill  its  part  in  natui-e's  melody 
Of  rhythmic  cadence  to  the  low  wind's  beat  — 

Song  without  words— a  voiceless  symphony. 


©- 


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^ 


LOCAT^   AND    NATIONAL   I'OETS   OF  A31K111CA. 


63 


* 


MRS.  FRANCES  L.  MACE. 

Born:  Okono,  Me.,  Jan.  15,  1836. 
The  poems  of  tliis  huly  liave  appeared  in  tlie 
Century,  AthmtiL*,  Lippincott's,  Harper's  and 
the  leading-  n\;igazines  of  America.  In  1884 
appealed  a  volume  of  over  two  hundred  pag(>s 
from  lier  pen,  entitleil  Lefiends,  Ljries  and 
Sonnets:  ;ind  in  1888,  Uiider  Pine  ;ind  Pahn,  a 
majiiiiticicnl    \i)lunieof    ht-i- eollei'ted  poems. 


MUS.    FKANCES  LAUGHTON  MACE. 

She  was  married  in  1855  to  Benjamin  H.  Mace, 
a  prominent  lawyer  and  scholar.  Mrs.  Mace 
lives  at  San  Jose,  under  the  smiling-  sljies  of 
California.  At  the  age  of  eig'hteen  she  wrote 
her  celebrated  hymn.  Only  Wailing,  which 
was  copied  through  tiie  leng-th  and  breadtli  of 
the  land.  Mrs.  Mace  is  a  handsome,  stately 
woman,  with  a  truly  artistic  temperament, 
and  has  four  children  now  living-. 


ONLY  WAITING. 
Only  waiting-  till  the  shadows 

Are  a  little  longer  grown. 
Only  waiting-  till  the  glimmer 

Of  the  day's  last  beam  is  flown  ; 
Till  tlie  eight  of  earth  is  faded 

From  this  heart  once  full  of  day. 
Till  tlie  dawn  of  Heaven  is  breaking- 

Tlirough  tlie  twiliglit  soft  and  g-ray. 
Only  waiting-  till  tlie  reapers 

Have  tlie  last  sheaf  g-athered  home. 
For  the  summer-time  liath  faded 


^  — 


And  tlie  autumn  winds  are  come. 
Quielily,  reapeis,  gather  quickly 

Tlie  last  ripe  hours  of  my  lieart 
For  tiie  bloom  of  life  is  withered. 

And  I  hasten  to  depart. 
Only  waiting-  till  the  ang-els 

Open  wide  tlie  mystic  gate. 
At  whose  feet  I  long-  have  ling-ered. 

Weary,  pooi-,  and  desolate. 
Even  now  I  hear  1  heir  footsteps 

And  their  voices  far  away: 
If  they  call  me  1  am  waiting,— 

Onlj'  waiting  to  obey. 
Only  waiting  till  tlie  shadows 

Are  a  little  longer  grown. 
Only  waiting  till  the  g-limr(aer 

Of  the  day's  last  beam  is  flown; 
Then  from  out  the  folded  darkness 

Holy,  deatliless  stars  shall  ri.se. 
By  whose  light  my  soul  will  gladly 

\ying  her  passage  to  the  skies. 


VIOLETS. 

I  know  a  spot  where  woods  are  green, 

And  all  the  dim,  delicious  June 
A  brook  flows  fast  the  boughs  between 

And  trills  an  eager,  joyous  tune. 

In  clear  unbroken  melody 

Tlie  brook  sings  and  the  birds  reply: 
"The  violets  — the  violets!  " 
Upon  the  water's  velvet  edge 

The  purple  blossoms  breathe  delight, 
Close  nestled  to  the  grassy  sedge 

As  sweet  as  dawn,  as  dark  as  night. 

O  brook  and  branches,  far  away. 

My  iieart  keeps  time  with  you  to-day! 
"The  violets  — the  violets!  " 
I  sometimes  dream  tliat  when  at  last 

My  life  is  done  with  fading  things. 
Again  will  blossom  forth  the  past 

To  which  mj'  memory  fondest  clings. 

That  some  fair  star  has  kept  for  me. 

Fresh  blooming  still  by  brook  and  tree, 
"The  violets  — the  violets!  " 


EBB  AND   FLOW. 
My  river!    Thou  art  like  the  poet's  soul. 

Where  tides  of  song  perpetual  ebb  and  flow. 

Like  thine  the  current  of  his  life  runs  low 
At  times,  his  visions  suffer  loss  and  dole, 
And  sunken  griefs  break  through  the  water's 
shoal. 

Then  while  despair  is  tossing  to  and  fro 

His  stranded  hope,  a  breath  begins  to  blow 
From  the  great  sea!  With  rising  swell  and  roll 
The  waves  of  inspiration  lift  and  float 

His  being  into  broad  and  full  expanse. 
Now  rocks  his  fancy  like  an  airy  boat 

On  wreathed  billows;  liis impassioned  glance 
Little  of  cloud  or  reef  or  wreck  will  note, 

On  the  high  tide  of  song  in  blissful  trance. 


-® 


* 


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64 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    I'OETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


LOTUS-EATING. 
These  perfect  days  were  never  meant 

For  toil  of  hand  or  brain. 
But  for  sucli  measureless  content 

As  heeds  no  loss  nor  gain ; 
Close  held  to  Nature's  flowery  breast 
In  deep  midsummer  rest. 
Within  this  woodland  shade  I  feel 

The  life  of  wind  and  tree; 
Soft  odors,  tremulous  boughs  reveal 

Unuttered  ecstasy; 
The  wild  bird's  diowsy  warble  seems 
My  own  voice  heard  in  dreams! 
And  yonder  azure  mountain  brow 

Against  the  opal  sky, 
The  river's  cool,  melodious  flow. 

The  pine-tree's  pensive  sigh. 
Each  utters  forth  my  inmost  mood 
Of  blissful  solitude. 
That  ever-daring  deeds  were  done. 

Or  fiery  flags  unfurled. 
Is  like  a  tale  of  glory  won 

In  some  primeval  world. 
Where  under  skies  of  angry  hue 
Not  yet  the  lotus  grew ! 
O  world,  to-day  in  vain  j-ou  hold 

The  glittering  branch  of  palm; 
The  lotus  hath  a  flower  of  gold, 

A  fruit  of  heavenly  balm. 
And  underneath  the  greenwood  tree 
Are  flower  and  fruit  for  me. 


THE  RAINBOW. 

Bridge  of  enchantment!  for  a  moment  hung 

Between  the  tears  of  earth  and  smiles  of 
heaven. 
Surely  the  sheen  of  jasper,  sapphire,  gold. 

Flashes  and  burns  along  thy  colors  seven. 
And  to  the  lifted  heart,  the  beaming  eye,. 
Reveals  the  splendor  of  the  upper  sky. 
Whether  as  Northmen  dream,  the  hero's  soul 

Enters  its  rest  across  thy  brilliant  height; 
Or,  as  the  more  melodious  Greek  hath  told. 

Iris  descends  with  message  of  delight; 
Or  in  the  silence  beautiful  is  heard 
The  still,  small  whisper  of  the  Hebrew  Word; 
Welcome  forever  to  a  stormy  world. 

Dear  in  each  sign  and  symbol  of  the  past 
As  of  tlie  future;  for  our  Hope  shall  climb 
Thy  lustrous  arcli  to  realms  unseen  and  vast; 
Peace  shall  come  down  to  us.  and  in  thy  light 
God's  finger  still  the  golden  Promise  write! 


*- 


THE  ANGELUS. 
Ring  soft  across  the  dying  day, 

Angelus! 
Across  the  ambcr-tintod  bay. 
The  moiidow  tluslicd  with  sunset  ray, 
Ring  out  and  float  and  melt  away, 

Angelus. 


The  day  of  toil  seems  long  ago, 

Angelus! 
While  through  the  deepening  vesper  glow. 
Far  up  where  holy  lilies  blow, 
Thy  beckoning  bell-notes  rise  and  flow, 

Angelus. 
Through  dazzling  curtains  of  the  west, 

Angelus, 
We  see  a  slirine  in  roses  dressed. 
And  lifted  high,  in  vision  blest. 
Our  every  heart-throb  is  confessed, 

Angelus! 
Oh,  has  an  angel  touched  the  bell, 

Angelus? 
For  now  upon  its  parting  swell 
All  sorrow  seems  to  sing  Farewell; 
There  falls  a  peace  no  words  can  tell, 

Angelus! 


ECHO  LAKE. 
In  sunset  beauty  lies  the  lake, 

A  limpid,  lustrous  splendor! 
The  mists  which  wrapped  the  mountain  break. 
And  Storm  Cliff's  rugged  outlines  take 

An  aspect  warm  and  tender. 

Now  listen !  for  a  spirit  dwells 
High  in  these  mountain  nooks  and  dells. 
Echo!  Echo! 

Hail  to  thee !        Hail  to  thee ! 
Sad  Echo,  mocked  of  all  her  kind. 

Here  haunts  the  fleeting  summer. 
And  sends  her  voice  upon  the  wind. 
Still  hoping  long-lost  love  to  find 

In  every  transient  comer. 
Not  where  'mid  silver  beeches  shines 

The  lake's  pellucid  fountain, 
But  high  o'er  tangled  shrubs  and  vines 
She  dwells  amid  the  spectral  pines. 

The  spectre  of  the  mountain. 

Float  nearer  still  and  drop  the  oar, 

Here  where  the  lilies  glisten; 
O  Echo,  we  return  no  more; 
For  us  beyotid  the  island  shore 

True  love  doth  long  and  listen. 
Thou  grievcst  not,  nor  dost  rejoice, 
O  wandering,  solitarj-  Voice! 

Echo!  Echo! 

Farewell !  Fa  rewell ! 


TEARS  OF  ISIS. 
When  tsis,  by  true  mother  love  oppressed. 
Held  \vo\iiid('d  Horns  to  lier  goddess  breast, 
Each  tear  that  touched  the  sympathetic  ear 
To  some  rich,  aromatic  herb  gave  birth. 
Such  healing  sprang  from  her  celestial  pai 
Mortals  no  longer  seek  relief  in  vain,     [yea 
For   oft   as   spritig  awakes   tlie  slumberi 
In  wood  and  meadow  blossom  Isis'  tears. 


th 


« 


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LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


65 


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OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

Born  :  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Aug.  39, 1809. 
This  great  scholar  is  cqvially  uoted  as  a  poet, 
novelist,  essayist,  and  physician.  Ho  is  con- 
sidered one  of  the  most  witty,  orig-inai  and  bril- 
liant writers  of  the  present  day.  Educated 
partly  at  Phillips  academy,  he  graduated  at 
Harvard  when  twenty  years  of  age.  Young- 
Oliver  then  spent  a  vear  in  studying  law:  but 


©- 


OliTVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

the  subject  of  this  sketch  very  soon  abandon- 
ed the  law  in  order  to  enter  upon  the  study  of 
medicine,  which  course  he  pursued  In  Europe, 
chieiiy  in  Paris. 

In  1836  Mr.  Holmes  returned  to  America,  took 
the  degree  of  M.  D.,  and  two  years  later  he 
became  professor  of  anatomy  and  physiology 
in  Dartmouth  college,  which  position  he  held 
until  the  time  of  his  marriage,  in  1840,  when  he 
removed  to  Boston,  and  there  won  much  suc- 
cess as  a  practicing  physician.  In  184"  he  was 
appointed  to  the  chair  of  anatomy  and  physio- 
logy in  Harvard  —  the  seat  of  the  medical  de- 
partmentof  this  university  being  in  Boston— a 
post  which  he  has  filled  with  honor  until  1882. 

While  Dr.  Holmes  has  won  distinction  not 
only  as  a  professional  man  and  a  writer  on  sub- 
jects related  to  his  profession,  he  is  best  known 
to  the  pubUc  by  his  ptirely  literary  produc- 
tions. 

During  the  year  1&30,  while  studying  law,  he 
contributed  a  number  of  witty  poems  to  a  col- 


lege periodical.  Dr.  Holmes  was  one  of  the 
foundersof  the  Atlantic  Monthly  magazine,  to 
which  he  contributed  from  time  to  time;  and 
in  the  pages  of  this  periodical  first  appeared 
The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table.  His 
lyrics,  such  as  Old  Ironsides,  Union  and  Liber- 
ty, Welcome  to  the  Nations,  and  others,  are 
not  only  spirited,  but  also  the  most  beautiful 
in  our  language;  and  his  humorous  poems,  in- 
cluding The  One-Hoss  Shay,  Lending  an  Old 
Punch-Bowl,  My  Aunt,  The  Boys,  and  many 
others,  are  characterized  by  a  vivacious  and 
sparkling  wit  which  makes  their  drollery  irre- 
sistible. His  prose  works  are  greatly  admired, 
the  best  of  which  are  The  Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast  Table,  The  Professor  at  the  Break- 
fast Table,  The  Poet  of  the  Breakfast  Table, 
and  the  novels  Elsie  Venner,  and  the  Guardian 
Angel. 

"  Dr.  Holmes,"  says  John  G.  Whittier,  '«has 
1  leen  likened  to  Thomas  Hood ;  but  there  is  little 
in  common  between  them,  save  the  power  of 
combining  fancy  and  sentiment  with  grotesque 
drollery  and  humor.  Hood,  under  all  his  whims 
and  oddities,  conceals  the  vehement  intensity 
of  a  reformer.  The  iron  of  the  world's  wrongs 
has  entered  into  his  soul.  There  is  an  under- 
tone of  sorrow  in  his  lyrics.  His  sarcasm,  di- 
rected against  oppression  and  bigotry,  at  times 
lietrays  the  earnestness  of  one  whose  own 
withers  have  been  wrung.  Holmes  writes  sim- 
ply for  the  amusementof  himself  and  his  read- 
ers. He  deals  only  with  the  vanities,  the  foi- 
bles, and  the  minor  faults  of  mankind,  good- 
naturedly  and  almost  sympathizingly  suggest- 
ing excuses  for  folly,  which  he  tosses  about  on 
the  horns  of  his  ridicule.  Long  may  he  live  to 
make  broader  the  face  of  our  care-ridden  gen- 
eration, and  to  realize  for  himself  the  truth  of 
the  wise  man's  declaration,  that '  A  merry 
heart  is  a  continual  feast!'  ' 


THE  LAST  LEAF. 

I  saw  him  once  before 
As  he  passed  by  the  door; 

And  again 
The  pavement-stones  resound 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say,  that  in  his  prime. 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down. 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets, 

Sad  and  wan ; 
And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head. 


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66 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 
"They  are  gone!" 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 
On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom ; 
And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

Mj-  g-randmamma  has  said — 
Poor  old  lady !  she  is  dead 
Long  ago— 
That  he  had  a  Roman  nose. 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 
In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin. 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff; 
And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here; 
But  the  old  three-cornered  hat. 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that. 

Are  so  queer! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring. 
Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now. 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 


88- 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS. 
Note.— Dr.  Holmes  has  said  of  this  poem,  "If 
you  will  remember  me  by  the  Chambered  Nau- 
tilus, your    memory  will  be  a  monument  I 
shall  think  more  of  than  any  bronze  or  marble. ' ' 
This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign. 
Sails  the  unshadowed  main. — 
The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  siren  sings. 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare. 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  thcii- 
streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl. — 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl! 

And  (!vcry  chambered  cell. 
Where  its  dim  <ireaming  lite  was  wont  to  dwell. 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell. 

Before  thee  lies  re\-ealed,— 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  un- 
.sealed ! 

Year  alter  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 
That  spread  his  lustrous  coil; 


Still,  as  the  spiral  grew. 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new. 
Stole    with   soft    step   its   shining    archway 
through. 
Built  us  its  idle  door. 
Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the 
old  no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by 
thee. 
Child  of  the  wandering  sea. 
Cast  from  her  lap  forlorn ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wi-eathed  horn? 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a 
voice  that  sings : 

Build  -thee  moi'e  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past  I 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last. 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast. 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Lea\'ing  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unrest- 
ing sea! 


EXTRACTS. 
The  simple  lessons  which  the  nursery  taught 
Fell  soft  and  stainless  on  the  buds  of  thought. 
And  the  full  blossom  owes  its  fairest  hue 
To  those  sweet  tear-drops  of  affection's  dew. 

Where  go  the  poet's  lines'/ 

Answer,  ye  evening  tapers ! 
Ye  auburn  locks,  je  golden  curls. 

Speak  from  your  folded  papers! 

We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 

Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers  slumbei". 
But  o'er  their  silent  sister's  breast 

The  wild  flowers,  who  will  stoop  to  number"' 
A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string. 

And  noisy  Fame  is  proud  to  win  them; 
Alas  for  those  that  never  sing. 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  tiiem ! 

Old  Time,  in  whose  bank  we  deposit  our  notes, 
Is  a  miser  who  always    wants    guineas    for 

groats; 
He  keeps  all  his  customers  still  in  arrears 
15y  lending  them  minutes  and  charging  them 

>ears. 

You  hear  that   lioy  laughing?  You  think  he's 

all  fun; 
But  the  angels  laugh,  too.  at  the  good  he  has 

done; 
Th(>  rliildrcii  laugli  loud  as  tlicy  triK)])  at  his 

call. 
And   the  poor  iiuiii   tlmr    knows   liim   laughs 

loudest  of  all. 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AJIERICA. 


67 


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ALBERT  CLYMER. 

Born:  Faikfield  Co.,  C,  Dec.  10, 1837. 
In  1890  Mr.  Clymer  removed  from  his  farm  in 
Morley  to  Oliii,  Iowa.  He  has  issued  a  volume 
of  poems  entitled  Echoes  of  the  Woods,  con- 
sisting of  song's,  ballads  and  lyrics  which  in 
a  charming  manner  carry  the  author  back  lo 
the  (la\-~  (if  b..\  hnnil   iind    xniin.i;-    iiiaiil 1    in 


ALBERT  CLYMER. 

his  Ohio  home.  The  true  spirit  of  the  muse 
pervades  the  entire  volume.  He  has  had  a 
strong  partialitj-  for  poetry  from  his  earliest 
recollection.  Mr.  Clymer  has  several  volumes 
of  verse  ready  for  publication,  and  devotes 
his  time  mainly  to  writing  and  doing  light 
farm  work. 


©- 


POETRY  AS  COMPARED  TO  PROSE. 
True  poetiy  of  thought,  if  it  is  well  expressed, 
In  prose,  blank  verse,  or  rhyme,  as  suits  men 

best. 
Dull  nature  wakes  from  lethargy  and  sleep; 
To  contemplation,  laughter,  chance  to  weep. 
It  —  heaven-born  — the  soul  of  man  Inspires 
With  rapture,  and  his  zeal  it  flres. 
It  thrills  the  soul  with  beauty's  vital  charm ; 
To  noble  deeds  it  nerves  the  palsied  arm ; 
It  cultivates  the  heart;  incites  to  love. 
And  elevates  the  thouglits  to  things  above. 
Since  prose  is  deemed  sufBciently  complete. 
Devoid  of  rhythm,  of  rhyme,  and  of  poetic 

feet.— 


In  rhyming  verse,  we've  measured  time. 
We've  harmony,  and  rhythm,  and  rhyme; 
The  parts  arranged  in  tn-der  all  complete : — 
Some  lines  have  many,  otliers  have  few  feet. 
Instructive  poems  we,  besiire  have  .seen; 
And  .some  we  ne'er  could  tell  just  wliat  they 

mean. 
We  here  will  not  affirm,  nor  yet  deny. 
That  such  is  poetry;  though  it  seems  dry; 
Perchance  the  author  gave  us  but  the  hull; 
And  kept  the  kernel: — chance  our  taste  is 

dull. 
We  hope  from  time  to  time,  as  shall  appear 

most  meet,  [repeat. 

To  give  you  fruit ;  who  taste  It  will  the  taste 
Though  it  holds  meat  all  ready  to  your  hand. 
It's  taste  who'd  judge,  should  skill  to  taste 

command. 
This  fruit  may,  then,  be  cracked,  and  tasted 

too,  all  round,  [sound. 

And   cracked   again;    remaining   fresh    and 


EVOLUTION. 

Wonderfully  long,  indeed,  Haeckel's  chain. 
Which  gave  the   moneron   two   legs   and   a 
brain. 
From    the  depth  of  the  sea  the  moneron 

came ; — 
Haeckel  the  scientist  gave  it  a  name ; — 
As  small  as  a  pin's  head,  a  globular  cell; 
After  ages  to  crawl,  snail-like,  from  a  shell. 
An  infusory,  neither  male  nor  female. 
Acquires  a  back-bone,  and  flns,  and  a  tail. 
A  thing  without  nerve,  or  muscle,  or  wish. 
Is  changed  to  a  polyp,  a  moUusk,  a  flsh. 
Hatched  ])y  the  sun  from  the  spawn  of  the 
frog,  [wog. 

Reigns  queen  in  a  mud-puddle.  Miss  PolU- 
A  tortoise,  a  monkey,  four  legs  recollect; 
A  man  witli  two  hands  and  a  mind  walks 
erect. 
Some  millions  of  years  requiring  to  span 
The  chasm  between  the  monkey  and  man. 
The  billions  betwixt  his  first  and  last  state 
And  the  number  of  times  he  did  transmi- 
grate 
No  man  from  such  data  can  calculate. 
The  existance  of  man,  how  brought  about, 
They  ne'er  can  explain  if  God  is  left  out. 
So  scientists  fail,  with  all  their  great  skill. 
To  solve  the  great  problem ;  aye  fail  thus  they 
will. 
God  says  he  made  man;— of  the  ground  'tis 

confessed 
As  good,  when  fli-st  formed,  as  is  Haeckel's 
best. 
Those  naturalists  sure  liave    been  to  gi-eat 

pains. 
To  prove  that  they  sprang  from  a  race  minus 
brains. 


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68 


LOCAL   AND   XATIOJ^AL   POETS   OF    AMKIIK  A. 


^^ 


Such  teachers  as  tliey  should  exit  the  hive ; 

By  nature's  g-reat  law  "  the  fittest  survive." 

Since  they  from  the  spawn  of  the  rena  were 

hatched, 
And  by  them  the  bull-frog-s  as  croakers  are 
matched, 
"  Fi-om  the  form  of  the  arm,  and  tlie  length 

of  the  thig-h," 
Tliej"  sprang'  from  the  species  the  g-entry 
would  fry. 
They  judge  of  the  class,  order  and  strain. 
By  range  of  \ision  and  compass  of  brain. 
From  grinders,  and  molars,  and  curve  of 

the  jaw. 
And  spinal  column,  they  inference  draw. 
The  texture  of  muscle,  the  form  of  the  bone, 
The  order  of  teeth,  and  the  org-ans  of  tone ; 
The  size  of  tlie  skull,  the  brain  caliber, 
The  pedigree  and  habits  infer. 
Whence  a  class  sprang,  thro'  which  line  they 

descend. 
When  they  went  crawling,  or  stood  upon  end. 
The  reptile,  the  grub,  the  molecule  source ; 
They   draw  their   conclusions  from  data  of 

course; 
If  valves  or  bivalves;  we're  told  that  those 

seers 
Calculate  back  for  a  billion  of  years ; 
To   prove   evolution  must  have  produced 

man. 
Without  a  creative  intelligent  plan. 
Infidels  madly  the  Bible  have  spurned: 
'Tis  only  the  present  in  which  they're  con- 
cerned : 
Trusting  their  reason  they're  going  astray, 
As  others  will  do  who  take  the  same  way. 
'Tis  clear,  quite  clear,  very  clear  to  my  mind, 
Tliose  men,  as  the  frogs,  to  leap  are  inclined; 
Equally  good  at  the  game  of  leap-frog. 
They  jump  at  conclusions  and  croak  in  a 
bog. 


®- 


WE  HAVE  HAD  ENOUGH. 
We've  had  enough ! 

Of  poison  drugs  and  watering; 

Of  feeing  men  for  slaughtering; 
Of  interested  flattering; 
Of  learned  legal  smattering; 
Politic  jugglers  cattering:— 
Tlie  public  sore  while  mattering. 
The  owls  of  Bacclius  cliattering. 
The  liquor  drivel  pattering. 
The  sacred  shrine  bespattering. 
The  badge  of  Justice  tattering, 
Tlie  social  faliric  battering. 
The  legal  cog-wheels  clattering; 

Till  Liberty  is  tottering:  — 

Of  shilly  shally  pottering. 
We've  had  enough ! 

Theabovf)  jingle  may  b(!  read  from  top  to 
bottom. 


f" 


HENRY  H.  BROWXELL. 

Born:  Providence,  E.  I.,  Feb.  6, 1820. 
After  receiving  a  coUegiato  education  he  be- 
came a  school  teacher,  began  the  study  of  law 
and  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1844.  In  1849  he  gave 
up  the  practice  of  law  and  thenceforth  devot- 
ed himself  to  authorship;  he  has  published 
several  volumes  of  verse  besides  many  works 
of  prose. 


CHARITY. 

Hast  thou  no  angel-charity,  no  kindness  to  ful- 
fill 

For  those  on  wliom  this  winter  storm  beats 
down  more  naked  stilli' 


THE   EAGLE  OF  CORINTH. 
'Tis  many  a  stormy  daj". 

Since,  out  of  the  cold,  bleak  North, 
Our  great  War- Eagle  sailed  forth 
To  swoop  o'er  battle  and  fray. 
Many  and  many  a  day 

O'er  charge  and  storm  hath  he  wheeled, 
Foraj'  and  foughteu  field. 

Tramp,  and  volley,  and  rattle  I  — 
Over  crimson  trench  and  turf. 
Over  climbing  clouds  of  surf. 
Through  tempest  and  cannon-rack. 
Have  his  terrible  pinions  whirled  — 
(A  thousand  field  of  battle? 
A  million  leagu'es  of  foam  I 
But  our  Bird  shall  yet  come  back, 

He  sliall  soar  to  his  Eyrie-Home  — 
And  his  thundrous  wings  be  furled. 
In  the  gaze  of  a  gladdened  world. 
On  the  Nation's  loftiest  Dome. 


GLORY. 

Not  a  sob,  not  a  tear  be  spent 

For  those  wlio  fell  at  his  side  — 
But  a  moan  and  a  long  lament 

For  him  --who  might  liave  died. 
Who  might  have  lain,  as  Harold  lay. 

A  king,  and  in  state  enow  — 
Or  slept  with  his  peers  like  Roland 

In  the  Straits  of  Roncesvaux. 


SOLITUDE. 
This  narrow  room,--  this  nanow  room. 
Sad  image  of  a  future  doom; 
Silence,  wliere  all  around  is  loud. 
And  loneliness  amid  a  crowd. 
On  the  free  mountain  could  I  stand, 
Nor  mark  one  trace  of  liinnan  hand. 
Or  steer  my  bark,  \\  licrc  none  niiglit  be. 
Save  mine  ol<l  playmates  of  the  Sea, 
The  winds  and  waves— 'twouhl  ne'er  impress 
This  sense  of  utter  loneliness 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


69 


m 


JOHN  JAC(3B  DICKSON. 

Born:  Scott  Co.,  Ind.,  Sept.  8,  1826. 
Working  on  the  farm  when  young  at  six  dol- 
lars per  month,  Mr.  Dickson  afterward  learn- 
ed the  cooper  trade.  In  1830  he  removed  to 
West  Grove,  Iowa,  where  he  now  resides,  buy- 
ing liis  farm   from  the  government.     In  1861 


JOHN   J.    DICKSON. 

he  was  with  Sherman's  army  on  its  famous 
march  to  the  sea.  Judge  W.  M.  Diclison,  of 
Cincinnati,  is  the  only  brotlier  of  the  subject 
of  this  sketch.  John  J.  Dickson  lias  been  a 
member  of  the  Presbyterian  church  for  the 
past  thirty  years,  but  now  favors  the  Friends 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 
In  memory  I  recall  my  hopeful  days 
(There  was  a  buoyant  spirit  once  within  , 
And  brood  o'er  youths  contented,  cheerful 

ways. 
So  full  of  joy  and  innocent  of  sin ; 
For  then  the  world,  with  its  eternal  din 
Of  creeds,  oppression,  strife  for  pelf , and  war. 
Had  not  made  me  lose  faith  in  all  but  Him— 
Had  not  impelled  a  course  my  peace  to  mar; 
And  now  I  sigh  for  days  in  memory  afar. 
And  yet  there  is  a  recompense  for  Age. 
The  purpose  of  a  wise  Creator's  plan 
Is  found  recorded  in  the  Sacred  Page, 
And  happiness  is  for  the  aged  man 
Who  yields  a  willing  soul,   whose   mind  can 
scan 
©■ 


Where  Freedom  feels  no  license  or  restraint. 
Who  fears  a  wrong  more  than  the  public  Imn, 
Yet  feels  unworthy  to  be  called  a  saint. 
Though  on  the  highest  mount,  serene,  above 

complaint. 
But  I  am  under  law  e'er  since  my  birth 
So  that  I  cannot  soar  on  angel  wings 
From  care  and  the  discordant  sounds  of  Earth 
Far  up  away  from  these  to  fairer  things 
That  Faith  has  pictured,  where  the  dweller 

sings; 
For  love  has  no  opposing  foe  above 
To  mar  its  Eden  joy  from  which  there  springs 
A  peace  that  Earth's  contending  sects  approve. 
Then  take  the  sword  and  disobey  the  Lord  of 

love. 


TO  A  BUDDING  POETICAL  GENIUS. 
The  flower    that  crowns  a  rosary 

Was  once  a  bud  unseen. 
Your  genius  may,  developed,  be 

The  world's  admiring  theme. 
In  prosy  lines  devoid  of  art, 

(If  you  will  read  my  story, 
I'll  try  to  act  the  critic's  part. 

And  help  you  on  to  glory. 
If  you  have  genius,  rare  and  great. 

No  rule  can  be  your  bar, 
Shakespeare  made  his  own  law  of  verse. 

And  Bonaparte  of  war. 
None  but  the  great  dare  step  aside 

From  Custom's  iron  rule. 
The  common  mind  must  follow  her. 

Or  be  esteemed  a  fool. 
No  genius  now  upon  the  stage. 

Whose  great  inventions  show 
To  all  the  smallness  of  the  age. 

In  things  it  does  not  know. 
As  Webster  said,  there's  "  room  above," 

Where  lawyers  great  may  go. 
And  so  it  is  in  ev'ry  thing; 

There  is  a  crowd  below. 
It  is  our  wish  you  may  succeed. 

And  laurels  crown  your  brow. 
And  when  you  do  you  will  not  need 

The  lines  we  send  you  now. 
Your  "  feet"  the  "  measure"  lit  exact, 

According  to  the  rules. 
The  poets  of  the  past  have  made 

The  text  book  of  the  schools. 
Then  mount  Pegasus'  back  and  soar 

On  Fancy's  wings  away 
To  old  Parnassus'  mountain  shore. 

Where  aU  the  muses  play. 
In  language  pure  compose  your  verse. 

Pathetic  or  sublime, 
But  at  '-a  sinner  "  hurl  no  curse. 

Nor  wink  at  public  crime. 


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70 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF    AMERICA. 


Write  from  your  heart  —you'll  not  cater 

To  kings  or  reigning  wrongs- 
Like  Milton,  Burns,  or  Wliittier, 

Breathe  freedom  in  your  songs. 
The  poet's  sympathies  are  not 

To  party  lines  confined ; 
Nature  does  not  dispense  the  gift 

Upon  a  narrow  nind. 
Wlien  woeing  for  the  rruses'  grace — 

The  favor  of  the  nine, 
Know  this  one  line  of  sense  is  worth, 

A  thousand  of  mere  rhyme. 


THREE  HUNDRED  HEROES. 

The  sunset's  glow  shines  o'er  the  trees, 
Tiie  pine  leaves  rustle  to  the  hreeze. 

The  feathered  warblers  prattle; 
But  man  is  vile,  tlie  evening  star 
Looks  on  a  crimson  scene  of  war — 

Tlie  carnage  of  a  battle. 
On  come  the  legions  of  tlie  Gray— 
("The  Union  must  be  sliot  away" 

All  Howard's  corps  is  broken. 
Tlie  Babel  noise  proclaims  the  tale, 
Wliicli  througli  the  pines    the   evening 
gale 
The  fearful  news  has  spoken. 
O,  for  ten  minutes  more  of  time 
To  get  the  cannon  into  line, 
And  stop  by  i-apid  shelling. 
The  onward  charge  of  Jackson's  corps. 
Who,  louder  than  tlie  Babel  roar 

Of  fugitives,  are  yelling. 
The  old  Tliird  corps's  a  mile  away. 
Fast  pushing  forward  to  the  fray. 

But  Stonewall's  corps  is  nearing. 
To  live  with  Fame's  heroic  dead 
A  forlorn  hope  must  now  be  led. 
To  Death  the  LTnion  cheering. 
Up  rode  commander  Pleasanton, 
"Align  those  pieces,  man  each  gun," 

He  said;  "be  quick  and  steady. 
Charge,  Keeiian,  charge,  upon  the  foe, 
And  hold  them  back  until  you  know 

Our  batteries  are  ready." 
Brave  Keenan,  smiling  made  reply, 
"You  had  as  well  said  I  must  die; 

For  yon  pine  woods  are  gory. 
But  you  command:  I  will  obej'." 
They  charged,  they  died;  they  saved  the 
day ; 
They  turned  the  tide  of  glory. 
The  charging  legions  of  the  Gray, 
Were  by  tiiree  hundred  held  at  bay 

Until  the  guns  were  sigiited; 
Then  on  they  came  with  louder  yell, 
But  they  were  stopped  by  shot  and  shell 
And  Jackson's  charge  was  blighted. 


This  praying,  fighting,  brightest  star 
The  lebels  had  in  all  the  war 

Was  shot  the  danger  braving. 
But  treason's  guilt  his  glory  mars, 
And  Fame,  above  the  fallen  bars, 

Halos  the  old  flag  wa^^ng. 
Three  h'undred  heroes  rode  away, 
Their  bodies  in  the  pine  woods  lay. 

Their  deed  of  martial  glory. 
Though  unsurpassed  on  bloody  plains. 
Is  yet  unsung  in  measured  strains, 

Nor  read  in  hist'ry'ssti)ry. 
An  exit  that  all  men  admire. 
An  exit  that  the  brave  desire 

Is  where  the  lead  is  flying. 
It  is  the  soldiers'  "hallowed  ground" 
To  fight  in  battle  and  be  found 

Among  the  dead  or  dying. 

*John  Bright,  (England's  Quaker  States- 
man), resigned  his  place  in  Gladstone's  min-. 
istry,  because  of  his  war  in  Africa,  but  held 
that  our  war  for  liberty  and  union  was  justi- 
fiable. "The  law  is  a  terror  to  evil  doers," 
and  must  have  power  to  enforce  it.  Our  war 
was  a  police  force,  to  enforce  the  law,  and 
prevent  anarchy. 


.'  PUT  UP  THY  SWORD." 
There  is  a  field  where  just  men  work, 

A  high  untrodden  plain. 
Above  the  jostling  crowd  below. 

That  strive  for  present  gain. 
Where  men  by  love  of  truth  inspired 

Go  forth  to  work  and  die, 
That  God's  eternal  truth  may  have      , 

A  dwelling  'neath  the  sky. 
The  doctors  wrangle  through  the  years 

On  issues  past  and  gone. 
A  Providential  man  appears 

And  truth  goes  marching  on. 
O,  who  will  work  for  God  to-day 

And  let  the  "  dead  past"  go'i* 
War  stays  the  progress  of  His  truth: 

O  who  will  meet  this  foe':' 
And  blow  ..tlie  Tniiiipet  of  Reform" 

So  loud,  so  clear,  so  strong, 
'Twill  rouse  the  nations  of  the  world 

Against  this  giant  wrong. 
The  party  men  have  fed  the  flock 

On  dogmas'  worthless  food. 
And  tlu'y  have  drifted  from  His  lock 

Tossed  by  the  passion's  Hood. 
Yc  "  Five  and  twenty"  chosen  men,* 

Will  ye  prepare  a  creed 
Defining  sin,  proclaiming  war 

To  be  the  devil's  deed'/ 
Make  no  inoic  creeds  in  Jesus'  name 
While  VI'  are  slaying  men. 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


71 


For  all  your  bloody  fields  proclaim 

•■Ye  must  be  born  again." 
Your  taslv  is  greater  now  than  wlien 

Your  fatliers  sailed  away. 
May  Plymouth  Rock  be  typical 

Of  what  ye  do  to-day. 
O  may  ye  build  a  new  Mayflower 

To  stem  the  world's  rude  shock. 
Above  the  passions  of  the  hour 

On  God's  eternal  rock. 
O,  for  a  faith  that  overcomes 

A  faith  in  God  and  right. 
Then  saints  would  put  His  armor  on 

And  Christians  would  not  fight. 
O,  for  a  Garrison  to  lead 

This  moral  movement  on, 
(Untarnished  by  a  selfish  deed 

Until  the  work  is  done. 
To  stand  and  wait  for  God  to  work. 

Shows  lack  of  common  sense. 
The  lazy  work  their  garden  thus 

And  get  no  recompense. 
Are  all  the  virtues  waiting  for 

Some  great  propelling  power? 
Are  weeds  and  Aice  the  only  things 

Not  idle  for  an  hour? 
Men  see  this  wrong  from  age  to  age, 

Tliis  bloody,  damning  crime. 
And  saj'  "mysterious  Providence," 

And  idle  pass  their  time. 
O,  sluggish  soul  arise  and  work 

For  truth  and  right  to-day. 
A  holy  purpose  kept  in  view, 

And  God  will  show  the  way. 
Your  labor  may  be  fruitless  now. 

You  may  not  live  to  see 
The  victory  of  the  Prince  of  peace. 

But  what  is  that  to  thee? 
*  Written  in  1880,  when  the  theological 
not  all  lineal  descendants  of  the  Pilgrims,  in 
their  then  late  Council  at  St.  Louis  had  chosen 
a  committee  of  twenty-five  to  prepare  a  creed 
or  interpretation  of  the  Bible. 


if 


98- 


THE  QL'AKEES. 
A  sincere  purpose  to  do  right 

Proceeding  from  within, 
A  walking  by  the  Inward  Light 

Protects  the  soul  from  sin. 
George  Fox,  the  Friend,  built  on  this 
rock, 

Tlie  building  stands  secure ; 
The  only  sect  the  world's  rude  shock 

Has  left  unstained  and  pure. 
Tliey  sought  the  Heavenly  Father's  care. 

No  thronging  crowds  around; 
They  bowed  their  heads  in  silent  prayer. 

And  that  is  >.  holy  ground." 


No  titled  men  —  no  useless  forms 

Within  their  building  found; 
No  unpaid  toil,  no  clash  of  arms. 

Ah,  there  is  "  holy  ground." 
Tliough  men  of  peace  they  charged  upon 

The  citadel  of  sin ; 
Moved  by  the  Holy  Spirit  on, 

They  conquered  foes  within. 
Tliey  make  no  compromise  to  gain 

The  world's  admiring  throng; 
Their  record  is  without  a  stain 

Of  blood,  or  crime,  or  wrong. 
If  Heaven  is  for  those  alone 

Who  have  subdued  the  tares 
The  enemy  of  souls  hath  sown. 

What  great  reward  is  theirs? 
The  warlike  sects  for  dogmas  fight. 

And  with  the  world  unite; 
Their  morals  in  a  rusty  plight. 

Their  fighting  weapons  bright. 
The  eagle's  claws  are  on  the  dove 

Since  Adam's  race  begun; 
O,  Prince  of  Peace,  O  God  of  Love, 

When  will  Thy  will  be  done? 


MRS.  HARRIET  T.  TRACY. 

Born:  Turner, Me.,  March  7,  I8I7. 

The  greater  part  of  the  life  of  this  lady  has 
been  past  in  California,  where  she  now  resides 
at  Sacramento.  Her  poems  have  appeared 
quite  extensively  in  the  periodical  press. 


TO   MY   BIRDS. 

Little  Tam  O'Shanter, 
Oh,  why  cannot  you  sing 

A  wee  sweet  little  song 
Before  in  comes  the  spring? 

The  day  is  so  gloomy. 

And  I  am  so  sad. 
Oh  sing  me  a  song 

To  make  my  heart  glad. 

Yes,  when  it  comes  spring 
And  my  throat  is  all  right, 

I  will  sing  merry  songs 
From  morning  till  night. 

And  little  brother  Fred 
Will  join  in  my  song. 

And  other  little  birds 
Will  then  come  along 

And  join  in  the  chorus 
As  we  hang  by  the  tree, 

We  will  sing  of  our  love 
To  the  birds  that  ;:ire  free. 


-© 


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m 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL    POETS   OF  A3IERICA. 


MRS.  JULIA  M.  KAUTZ. 

Born:   Bethaxy,  N.  Y.,  Nov.  16.  182.5. 
Graduating  at  Le  Roy,  N.  Y.,  in  1849,  she 
took  charge  of  the  young'  ladies  department 
in    Log-ansport    seminary.    Tn    1850   she  was 
maiiied  to  the  Rev.  W.  P.  Kautz  of  the  Pres- 


MRS.   .ITLIA   M.    KALTZ. 

byterian  clmrch,  by  whom  she  lias  two  daugh- 
ters. Mrs.  Kautz  has  written  more  or  less 
for  a  number  of  years.  She  also  read  the  C. 
L.  S.  C.  course  and  graduated  with  the  class 
of  1887. 


THE  WEST  WIND. 
From  golden  orange  groves,  on  fluttering 

wings. 
Magnolia-scented,  laden  rich  with  balms. 
When  Ev'ning    whispers   soft    to   wav-ing 

palms, 
Tliy  spirit  comes  and  thro'  the  forest  rings; 
The  rev'rend  oak  his  branches  gaily  flings. 
Forgetful  of  ihe  dreamy  ocean  calms. 
Which  Florida's  soft  air  at  eve  embalms. 
Or  gulf-stream's  measur'd  flow,  the  oreole 
sings. 
Away  upon  the  eastern  shore  in  glee 
Thou  I'isesD ;  thy  gay  sprites  at  sunrise  play 
With  ot  her  sprites ;  and  haste  to  meet  the  sea, 
'Till  rush,  and  roar,  and  cold   from  far  away 
In  icy  fettei's  binds  each  swaying  tree. 
The  riijpling  stream,  the   lake  where  elflns 
play. 


With  wondrous  skill  upon  my  window  pane 
Frost,  all  thy  gambols  and  wild  flights,  luis 

traced ; — 
The  sea,  the  shore,  the   ship  bj'  whirlwinds 

chas'd ; 
The  gUnt  and  glow  that  f oUow  after  rain. 
Deep  night,  proclaim'd  thy  song  and  wild  re- 
frain. 
While   drifting   snows   our  cosy  homes  em- 
brac'd.  [chaste. 

Thou   whisper'st   in    tlie    pines  in  accents 
Of   gentle  sleep,    and    dreams     of   swelling 

main. 
O,  West  Wind !    Tell  to  me  of  mountains  old 
Whose  brows  are  hid  in  clouds ;  whose  sides 

are  bare. 
Why  in  their  hearts  are  hid  the  shining  gold, 
And  sparkling  gems,  and  mines  of  silver  fair  ? 
Why  should  we  care  for  fame  and  wealth  un- 
told? 
Do  whistling  winds  to  us  a  message  bear  ? 


HARMONIES. 

The  green  has  left  the  rustling  corn. 

And  dying  leaves  on  winds  are  borne ; 

Sweet  songsters  trill  'mid  southern  bowers  — 

Sad  echoes  of  their  songs  are  ours. 

The  blue  has  faded  from  the  skies , 

The  rosy  dawn  with  springtime  dies. 

Soft  spicy  breezes  no  more  cheer: 

How  like  my  life,  the  passing  year. 

The  lily's  form,  beneath  the  mould 

Creeps  slowly  down,  transflxt  and  cold. 

Stern  winter's  blast  her  heart  sweeps  o'er 

With  sullen  plunge  and  rutliless  roar. 

My  grave  shall  be  'neath  grassj"  sod. 

At  rest  my  hands,  my  soul  with  God. 

Ah,  me !  at  rest  from  carking  cares. 

My  peaceful  bed  the  lily  shares. 

LAWS. 
Distilling  the  attar  destroys  the  rose. 
Deal  gently  with  others,  for  Jesus  knows ; 
By  crushing  the  vintage  we  spoil  the  grapes- 
Tread  softly  the  paths  our  Father  .shapes. 
Hearts  cease  their  wild  beating,  and  where  is 

man  '/  [can. 

Tlien  wound  not,  and  crusli  not  because  you 
The  perfume  of  roses,  in  their  own  sphere 
Leaves  blackened  rose-petals   damp  mould- 

'ring  here. 
The  red  wine  wliich  sparkles  in  limpid  light. 
Leaves  clusters  of  beauty  no  longer  bright. 
The  spirits  of  martyrs  will  soar  on  high. 
While  their  bruised  bodies  sore  broken  lie. 
Be  kind  to  thy  brother!  God  only  knows 
The  making  and  sciMiting  the  <iiieenly  rose. 
The  grcwing  and  loading  the  fruitful  vine. 
The  tinting  and  blessing  the  ruby  wine. 
The  trials  his  children  are  wont  to  heed. 
His  hand  is  bi  iiciith  them  in  sorest  need. 


©- 


« 


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-88 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MARY  PEARLE. 

Born:  Ireland,  Nov.  33, 1849. 
Educated  iu  Dublin,  Mrs.  Mary  Pearle  has 
filled  many  important  positions  in  different 
schools  and  missions,  and  was  held  in  high  iv- 
gard  in  the  best  society  m  the  land  of  her  na- 
tivity.   In  1881  she  came  to  America  with  her 


\1  VK\      IM     \M,I,. 

husband  and  a  beautiful  baby  girl.  She  has 
written  many  poems  for  different  papers.  In 
1888  she  lectured  in  Ohio  on  temperance  and 
social  purity,  which  the  press  speaks  of  as  very 
able  and  interesting-  lectures.  She  is  corres- 
ponding secretary  for  the  W.  C.  T.  U.  and  The 
Peace  by  Arbitration  society.  She  is  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Episcopal  church,  and  teaches  a 
Bible  class  at  St.  Paul's.  She  is  a  very  pleas- 
ant lady  and  has  a  wide  circle  of  friends. 


98- 


THE    LANGUAGE  OF  THE  EYE. 
Do  not  ask  me  if  I  love  thee. 

But  look  into  my  eyes 
And  read  my  soul  in  language  plain 

That  cannot  brook  disguise. 
The  tongue  may  frame  a  flippant  speech. 

Deceitful,  through  and  through ; 
The  scuis  deep  fount  it  cannot  reach 

To  tell  my  love  for  you. 
Look  at  me  with  those  pure,  clear  eyes. 

Like  stars  look  on  the  night 
Out  of  the  depths  of  azure  skies, 

Making  the  darkness  bright. 


So  shine  on  me,  thou  guiding  star. 

The  first  in  love's  fair  sky. 
That  sealed  two  soul's  affinity 

Through  language  of  the  eye. 
Since  first  my  lonely  heart  sent  out 

Its  yearning  sigh  for  thee. 
Hast  thou  not  read  it  bj'  the  light 

That  guided  thee  lo  me? 
And  should  one  doubting  cloud  arise 

On  love's  transparent  sky. 
Then,  dearest,  look  not  in  mine  eyes. 

Nor  ask  the  reason  why. 


JUNE  ROSES. 
Red  roses  of  June,  in  your  beauty  sweet, 

I  wish  you  could  bloom  forever; 
In  shady  arbors,  where  lovers  meet, 

When  moonbeams  o'er  dead  leaves  quiver. 
White  roses  of  June,  that  smile  upon  all 

With  that  far-off  look  of  wonder. 
Some  fairer  clime  you  fain  would  recall 

From  depths  of  azure  yonder! 
Say  "  farewell "  to  the  earth,  arraj'ed  anew 

In  vestments  fair  of  lieaven. 
As  you  shed  sweet  balm  around  like  dew 

From  your  beautiful  petals  riven. 
Pale  roses  f  ud  red,  ere  you  pass  away, 

Teach  me  your  jjure,  frail  beauty; 
How  best  to  fill  life's  transient  day 

Willi  pleasure  and  with  duty. 
Give  me  the  key-note  of  heavenly  love. 

Albeit  ill  chords  of  sorrow; 
Tlien  up  and  away,  we  may  meet  above, 

In  God's  fadeless,  bright  to-morrow. 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  LILIES. 

Two  lilies  my  darling  brought  me, 

The  last  in  her  garden  fair; 
One  she  placed  upon  my  bosom, 

The  other  in  my  hair; 
And  then  an  unvoiced  question 

Tlirew  its  shadow  o'er  her  face. 
As  she  gazed  on  lier  pure  white  lilies 

Drooping  with  patient  grace. 
Tlien  with  a  skeptic's  logic 

She  questioned  soft  and  low: 
•'  How  can  we  consider  the  lilies. 

Now  they  no  longer  grow'?" 
And  I  saw  a  teardrop  glisten 

O'er  the  sunshine  of  her  eye. 
Like  the  rainbow's  transient  glory 

On  the  blue  of  April  sky. 
"  We  recall  their  sweetness,  dear  one. 

And  learn  from  them  to  grow 
Each  day  more  meet  for  heaven 

In  earth's  garden  here  below; 
And  when  we  are  apt  to  murmur 

Over  the  clothes  we  wear; 
'Tis  well  to  consider  the  lilies. 

Of  which  the  Lord  takes  care." 


-S 


15- 


74 


-© 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


WILLIAM  A.TAYLOR. 

Born  :  Perry  Co.,  0.,  April  25, 1837. 
Commencing  to  write  prose  and  verse  at  the 
age  of  fifteen,  Mr.  Taylor  taught  school  at  in- 
tervals for  the  following  six  years,  at  the 
same  time  being  editor  and  part  proprietor  of 
Perry  County  Democrat.  At  the  age  of  twen- 
ty-one he  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  practiced 
law  for  four  years  in  connection  with  editorial 
work,  and  was  also  state's  attorney  a  part  of 
the  same  time.  He  then  became  one  of 
the  editorial  writers  of  the  Cincinnati  En- 
quirer. Mr.  Taylor  served  in  the  army  of  the 
Potomac  during  the  war,  after  the  close  of 
which  he  resumed  editorial  work  on  the  En- 
qviirer.    He  was  chief  editorial  writer  of  the 


*- 


WIM.IAM    A.    TAVLOK. 

Pittsburg  Post  for  eight  years  subsequent  to 
1868.  He  next  was  employed  successively  on 
the  New  York  Sun  for  two  years;  then  on  the 
New  York  World  for  a  period ;  next  was  man- 
aging editor  of  the  Pittsburg  Telegraph  for 
nearly  two  j'ears;  and  then  became  editor- 
ial manager  of  Columbus  Democrat  and 
Times  for  .several  years.  He  is  now  again 
with  the  Cincinnati  Enquirer  as  staff  corres- 
pondent and  general  political  writer.  Mr. 
Taylor  has  declined  a  number  of  tempting 
positions,  including  a  secretaryship  of  lega- 
tion under  President  Cleveland,  preferring 
journalism  and  literary  work  to  political  i)ro- 
motion. 


ALL  IN  FOUR  LINES. 
Love's  labor  of  life 
Is  to  live  and  let  live ; 
Life's  labor  of  love 
To  forget  and  forgive. 


THE  CURSE  OF  GENIUS. 

ON  A  portrait  op  T.  D.  JONES,  SCULPTOR. 

The  curse  of  Genius,  Art  and  Worth  — 
Tlie  crime  of  man  against  mankind  — 

Is  the  fierce  struggle  that  besets 
The  friendless  pioneers  of  Mind. 

Grim  hunger  turns  the  tempered  steel 
To  lead,  in  many  a  brawny  hand, 

That  else  had  shorn  away  the  wrong, 
And  purified  the  waiting  land. 

Old  Homer  begging  in  the  streets 

Of  seven  cities,  sang  in  vain; 
Each  thrust  him  out  of  gilded  gates 

Ahungcr  forth  the  arid  plain. 

Old  Homer  lying  in  his  grave  — 

A  god  was  worshipped  —  turned  to  dust. 
And  madly  fouglit  for,  where  his  songs 

Gained  not  the  vagrant's  dole  of  crust. 

This  is  life's  curse  —  its  crowning  thorn  — 
The  ill  to  which  the  good  is  turned  — 

Men  gild  the  lamp  when  life  is  gone. 

Who  never  trimmed  it  while  it  burned; 

Pile  granite  over  pulseless  dust. 
That  died  upon  the  cruel  stones 

Of  hunger's  threshold,  while  the  trump 
Of  fame  blared  down  his  parting  groans. 

Fame   may   be    sweet,    but    bread — God's 
name !  — 

Is  sweeter  than  Parnassian  rills. 
Where  hungering  genius  droops  and  dies, 

Amid  the  plenty  of  the  hills. 

What  though  God  paints  the  bended  skies. 
And  clothes  the   earth  with  song  and 
sheen. 

If  he  who  copies  dies  athirst 
Amid  the  glory  of  the  scene  1 

This  is  the  curse  of  life —  to  live 

At  the  sharp  point  of  mortal  strife. 

To  find  neglect  more  keen  tlian  scorn. 
And  death  a  bald  burlesque  of  life. 

To  fill  a  maus'leum's  stately  crypl. 

Blazoned   with    that    which    gave     not 
bread  — 

The  meed  of  life  in  mockery. 

Heaped  on  the  cold,  unheeding  dead. 


Before  her  lay  the  unconquered  waste. 

Beliind  lier,  smiling  by  tlie  sea. 
Her  virgin  mother,  proud  and  chaste, 

Chanted  the  hymn  of  Liberty. 


-® 


I 


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-« 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


WILLIAM  M.  PAXTON. 

Born:  Washington,  Ky.,  March  3, 1819. 
Educated  for  the  law  iu  his  native  town,  he 
removed  to  Platte  Co.,  Mo.,  where  he  still  re- 
sides. In  1850  he  removed  to  Platte  City  and 
spent  twelve  years  in  mercantile  pursuits. 
Later  he  resumed  the  practice  of  law,  and  for 
twelve  years  prospered ;  but  in  1872  he  became 
liurd  of  hearing,  and  it  was  nccessarj'  for  liini 
to  ,Lii\'('  uji  his  lurrati\-i'   i^'at'tiee.     Ilin-inj:-, 


WILLIAM   M.    PAXTON. 

however,  a  complete  abstract  of  titles  of  real 
estate  of  Platte  Co.,  he  still,  at  the  age  of 
seventy-one,  is  industriouslj'  employed  in  the 
business  of  abstracting-  and  examining-  titles. 
In  1881  he  published  a  small  volume  of  poems 
of  135  pages.  In  1884  he  compiled  a  genealogy 
of  his  mother's  family,  a  work  of  435  pages. 
In  1888  Mr.  Paxton  published  a  book  of  poems 
containing  453  pages,  which  has  attracted  uni- 
versal admiration. 


*■ 


THE  ROGLHSH  GIRLS. 
Tlie  girls  are  dainty  rogues,  'tis  true, 

And  full  of  fun  and  art,  sir; 
For  when  I  first  met  cunning  Sue 

She  sweetly  stole  my  heart,  sir; 
And  when  the  parson  came  and  tied 

The  pleasant  nuptial  band,  sir, 
Tlie  craft}'  Sue  stood  by  my  side 

And  sljiy  stole  my  hand,  .sir. 


And  then  she  stole  my  house  and  farm ; 

It  was,  indeed,  a  shame,  sir ; 
She  made  them  charming,  bright  and  warm. 

And  even  stole  my  name,  sir. 
Upon  the  street  I  used  to  roam, 

And  nightly  drink  and  play,  sir; 
But  now  she's  fixed  so  nice  a  home 

That  there  I'm  bound  to  stay,  sir. 

She  keeps  the  house  too  nice  and  neat, 

And  everything  too  clean,  sir; 
And  when  she  makes  me  wipe  my  feet 

I  think  it  verj-  mean,  sir. 
On  rocking  chairs  I  have  to  sit. 

And  back  and  forth  I  sway,  sir; 
And  when  I'm  forced  to  cough  and  spit, 

A  vase  is  in  my  way,  sir. 

I  am  a  prisoner  every  day. 

With  cords  of  love  I'm  tied,  sir; 
In  Susie's  bonds  I  want  to  stay. 

And  with  her  I'll  abide,  sir; 
For  Sue  has  pilfered  everything. 

And  now  .she's  stolen  me,  sir. 
But  makes  me  happy  as  a  king. 

And  wealthy,  proud  and  free,  sir. 


HOW  ADAM  DIVIDED  PROPERTY  WITH 
EVE. 

When  man  rebelled  and  was  expelled 

From  Eden's  vales  and  groves  elysian. 
He  said  to  Eve,  "You  now  must  leave; 

But  you  shall  have  a  fair  division. 
So,  as  your  half,  I'll  give  the  calf. 

And  keep  the  cow, whose  milk  I'm  needing; 
fhe  colt  is  thine,— the  mare  is  mine;  — 

The  calf  and  colt  are  broke  to  leading. 
"  The  lambs  for  thee,—  the  ewe's  for  me  — 

The  wool  is  what  I've  set  my  heart  on; 
I'll  take  the  hog,  and  you  the  dog,— 

And  these  are  all  we've  got  to  start  on. 
With  sweat  of  brow  you'll  have  to  plow. 

And  earn  the  bread  that's  so  much  needed ; 
Now  do  not  stay,  but  haste  away. 

For  tears  are  vain  and  won't  be  heeded." 

The  calf  was  brought,—  the  colt  was  caught, 

And  in  Eve's  arms  the  lamb  was  taken; 
With  failing  heart  she  made  the  start. 

And  seemed  by  God  and  man  forsaken. 
She  stopped  to  tell  her  last  farewell. 

In  voice  subdued  and  full  of  feeling,— 
When  Tray,  tlie  dog.  attacked  the  hog,— 

Who  rushed  to  Eve,  in  terror  squeeling. 

The  cow  and  mare  and  ewe  were  there. 

And  heard  while  feeding  at  their  manger; 
Of  course  they  flew  as  mothers  do. 

To  save  their  offspring  when  in  danger. 
To  Eve  they  clung,  who  held  their  young, 

And  as  she  went  they  followed  after. 
Her  tears  were  gone,—  she  hurried  on. 

And  nearly  split  her  sides  with  laughter. 


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76 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL  POETS   OP'   AMERICA. 


-« 


Without  a  word  slie  led  the  herd. 

And  kept  it  at  lier  liome  securely; 
But  Adam  stood  lu  angry  mood, 

And  scowled  and  knit  his  brows  demurely. 
Though  whipped,  he  tried  with  manly  pride. 

To  get  and  cook  his  daily  victuals ;  — 
Made  soup  of  cheese, —  made  pies  of  peas. 

And  burnt  his  hands  on  pots  and  kettles. 

But  life  like  this,  was  not  the  bliss. 

That  Adam,  at  the  first  expected; 
So  off  he  went  to  Eve's  nice  tent. 

And  reconcilement  was  effected. 
And  to  this  day,  the  wife  has  sway. 

And  husbands  know  'tis  best  to  let  her; 
I've  known  no  strife,— 'twixt  man  and  wife, 

But  what  the  woman  got  the  better. 


THE  LOVER'S  SOLILOQUY. 
A  brilliant  rose,  in  blushing-  grace, 
Too  modest  to  e.xpose  its  face. 
May  make  the  bower  its  hiding-  place, 

And  bloom  in  covert  there; 
And  though  we  do  not  see  the  rose, 
Yet  every  oue  its  presence  knows, 
For  far  and  wide,  its  frag-rance  flows, 

And  dwells  upon  the  air. 

'Tis  thus  her  spirit,  every  hour. 
Where'er  I  am,  with  mystic  power, 
Regales  me  as  the  hidden  flower, 

And  makes  my  heart  rejoice. 
And  something  wliispers  in  my  ear, 
That  her  pervading  spirit's  nea.r; 
And  I  imagine  that  I  hear. 

The  music  of  her  voice. 

I  meet  her  in  my  raptured  dreams; 
We  rove  by  sylvan  vales  and  streams. 
And  talk  of  love  and  kindred  themes. 

And  promise  not  to  sever. 
Can  she,  though  absent,  cheer  me  so? 
Has  perfect  bhss  been  found  below? 
Can  dreams  of  her,  such  joy  bestow? 
Then  let  me  dream  forever ! 


©- 


A  WIFE'S  UNDYING  LOVE. 

The  moonlight  is  soft,  and  the  fields  are  invit- 
ing; 
Come,  husband,  let's  walk  in  the  meadow 
apart; 
For  I  am  enraiJtured,  when  you  are  reciting. 
The  story  of  love,  in  sweet  words  from  the 
heart ;  — 
That  story,  they  tell  us,  is  old  and  fictitious,— 
And  soon  we'll  grow  weary  and  careless, 
they  think; 
But  love  is  like  wine,  that,  from  age  is  delici- 
ous. 
And  time  gives  it  body, and  flavors  the  di-iiik. 

The  brook,  from  the  mountain,  comes  dancing 
and  leaping 


And  merrily  sings  as  it  troops  through  the 
lea; 
But  when  its  a  river,  it  seems  to  be  sleeping. 
And  silently  wends  its   deep  course  to  the 
sea; 
So  love,  at  the  first,  was  a  shallow  emotion. 
And  made  a  great  noise,  like  the  brook  as  it 
goes ; 
But  now  it's  a  river,  profound  in  devotion. 
And  deeper  the  stream  the  more  softly  it 
flows. 

Come,  tell  me  you  love  me,—  I  never  grow 
weary; 
As  well  might  the  songs  of  my  mother  grow 
old,- 
Or   even    the  home  of    mj'  childhood   grow 
dreary. 
As  words  of  affection  seem  lifeless  and  cold. 
Come  tell  me,  again,  the  delightful  old  story, 
You  told  me  before  your  betrothal  to  me:  — 
The  love  that  you  show  is  my  lifeguard  and 
glory,— 
And  death  be  my  portion,  if  parted  from 
thee. 


THE  BRIDEGROOM'S  ECSTACY. 

Mary,  darling  —  Mary,  dear. 
Let  me  whisper  in  your  ear 
Words  of  love  no  friend  should  liear,- 

Lest  he  think  me  raving. 
Mary,  I  am  all  your  own ; 
In  my  lieart  I've  set  your  throne. 
Where,  as  queen,  j'ou  rule  alone, — 

All  my  soul  enslaving. 

Soon,  the  holy  marriage  rite 
Shall  our  souls  as  one  unite. 
And  I'll  bask  in  genial  light 

Beaming  from  thy  beauty. 
And  when  I,  in  joy  and  i>ride. 
Clasp  tliee  as  my  charming  bride 
Thou  Shalt  be  the  star  to  guide. 

And  incite  to  duty. 

Trees,  since  I  became  thy  choice. 
Clap  their  hands,  and  hills  rejoice. 
And  I  seem  to  hear  thy  voice. 

Even  wlien  I'm  sleeping. 
On  life's  journey  we  will  start. 
Bidding  every  care  depart, 
And  we'll  give  both  luuid  and  heart 

To  eaeli  otlier's  keeping. 


EXTRACT. 
A  mother  true  and  pure  as  dew. 

And  as  an  infant  tender. — 
Witli  blusliing cheek  and  maimers  meek, — 

Our  liearts  could  but  surrender. 


-* 


m- 


'^ 


LOCAL   AXD   :>fATIO]SrAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  MATTIE  L.  BAILEY. 

Bokn:  Pekin,  N.  Y 
Born  within  sound  of  Niagara  Falls  and  edu- 
cated in  Adrian,  Mich.,  Mrs.  Bailey  removed 
to  Kansas  in  1871.  Her  first  poem  appeared 
in  1879,  since  which  time  she  has  written  both 
prose  and  verse  for  the  leading  periodicals  of 
Amei-ica,  including  the  Kansas  City  Journal, 
New  York  Tribune,  Chicago  luter-Oeean  and 


MRS.    MATTIE    L.   BAILEY. 

the  local  press  of  Michigan.  Indiana  and  Kan- 
sas. A  woman  of  decidedly  quiet  domestic 
tastes  and  habits,  Mrs.  Bailey  has  written 
mainly  for  relief  and  pleasure  of  expression. 
She  has  had  three  children,  one  of  wliom 
is  now  living  —  Robert  Victor,  a  bright  child, 
of  nine  years  of  age,  who  is  gifted  with  re- 
markable oratorical  powers. 


*- 


MARA. 
Out  from  the  depths  I  cry  to  Thee, 

Wild  are  the  winds  that  'round  me  blow. 
High  roll  the  waves  that  buffet  me. 

Why,  Lord,  why  is  it  so  ? 
My  dearest  earthly  wish  denied. 

My  days  devoid  of  all  delight, 
My  life  barque  stranded  where  the  tide 

Goes  out  in  darkest  night. 
The  phantoms  of  my  dead  hopes  rise, 

I  stretch  my  longing  arms  in  vain; 
They,  mocking,  echo  back  the  cries 

Which  ill  relieve  my  pain. 


So  varied  were  the  woes  I  felt. 

So  dai'k  the  future  looked  to  be, 
I  marvelled  why  the  Lord  had  dealt, 

So  bitterly  with  me. 
And  as  I  sadly  mused,  came  then 

These  words,  so  sweet  yet  strangely  clear. 
As  music  o'er  the  waters  when 

All  is  still—  "  Be  of  good  cheer."  — 
"  He  chastens  whom  he  loves  "  —  am  1 

For  this  distinction  fit '?    Oh  Lord, 
I  proudly  claim  the  honor  high 

Thus  granted  in  ihy  word. 
O  glorious  truth  to  hearts  sore  tried 

By  sorrows  here !    Who  suffers  most, 
Whate'er  of  bitter  grief  betide. 

May  of  God's  favor  boast. 
And  closer  kinship  feel  with  One 

Who  knelt  in  dark  Gethsemane; 
Who  agonized  till  all  was  done  — 

A  sin-bound  world  set  free. 
O,  Love  divine  I  O,  thorn-crowned  head, 

O,  radiant  cross  upraised  for  me; 
O,  pi-eeious  blood  on  Calvarj-  shed. 

Up  from  the  depths,  1  fly  to  thee. 


BIRDIE. 
Ai'e  there  no  children  there  ?    No  dear  child 

faces. 
Blooming  with  fadeless  beauty  in  that  bliss- 
ful air ; 
Nor  prattle  sweet  with  winsome  baby-graces. 

Making  our  home  more  fair  ? 
Will  she  my  spotless  one,  who  has  this  Ufe 

outgrown. 
Be  changed  to  womanhood,  ere  I  again  can 

know. 
The  loving,   gentle,  soul  that  grew  unto  my 
own  ? 
O,  poet,  saj'  not  so ! 
Our  Savior  when  on  earth  the  little  children 

blest. 
And  said:    "  Of  such  the  kingdom  is;"  cannot 

it  be. 
That  he  may   take   my  baby  to   his   loving 
breast. 
And  keep  her  thus  for  me  ? 
For  one  bright  year  she  led  me  with  her  tiny 

hand. 
Dull  care  was  banished,  while  joy   crowned 

each  hour. 
As  I  watched  the  leaflets  of  my  bud  expand. 

To  form  the  perfect  flower. 
A  radiant  vision  of  these  houi-s,  I  see  — 
A  fair  and  smiling  face,  with  soul-lit  eyes  of 

blue; 
Sweet  lips,  whose  kisses  deeper  rapture  gave 
to  me. 
Than  lover  ever  knew.  [again. 

The  golden    head  is    nestled  on  my  breast; 


-©- 


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78 


i& 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OF    AMERICA. 


With   love's  mute   eloquence,   those  wistful 

eyes  fill  mine, 
With  happy  tears.    O,  sacred  joy  akin  to  pain. 

An  ecstacy  divine! 
Too  soon  the  vision  fades ;  liow  would  it  still 

this  wild. 
Impassioned  longing  for  what  I  held  most 

dear, 
To  know  that  some  glad  morning  I  may  clasp 

my  child. 
Just  as  I  had  her  here. 
To  know  that  in  the  glorified  hereafter, 
E'en  as  when  here —  her  arms  outstretched  in 

glee. 
Her  lovely  face  all  dimpled  o'er  with  laughter 
Thus  may  she  welcome  me. 

Peace,  eager  heart !    Faith  doth  no  questions 

ask ;  but  when 
My  ransomed  soul  finds  home,  then  shall  be 

gratified. 
Its  hungry  yearnings  all,  in  sweet  content; 

For  then, 
"  I  shall  be  satisfied." 


MRS.  LISA  A.  FLETCHER. 

Born:  Ashby,  Mass.,  Dec.  27,  1844. 
Mrs.  Fletcher  is  an  invalid,  and  has  really 
never  known  a  well  day  in  her  life.  Yet 
beauty  in  every  form  appeals  to  her  and  she 
finds  much  sweetness  and  joy  from  couch  and 
pillows  in  writing,  painting-  and  reading.  Dur- 
ing the  past  few  years  she  has  written  many 
beautiful  poems,  of  which  a  few  are  here 
given. 


AT  SUNSET. 
Beyond  the  sunset  gleaming  bright, 
Beyond  the  day's  last  lingering-  light, 
What  would  be  of  heavenly  sight. 
If  thi'ough  the  g-ates  we  looked  to-night? 
Beyond  the  sum  of  life's  brief  day. 
Beyond  earth's  skies  so  cold  and  gray. 
What  would  be  if  when  we  pray 
Heaven  opened  out  its  shining  way? 
If  aided  by  angel  staff  and  rod, 
Bej'ond  that  silvery  path  we  trod. 
Ah !  what  would  meet  our  vision  broad. 
Far  o'er  those  billowy  seas  of  God? 


SB- 


SWEET  JUNE. 
Buttercups  and  daisies,  golden  and  white. 
Springing:  to  meet  and  gladden  our  sight. 
Tall  waving  grasses  bending-  low, 
O  sweet  June  days,  move  slow,  move  slow! 
Wild  i-os(^s  blooming  by  wayside  and  hedg-e, 
Columl)ines  nodding  o'er  rocky  ledgre. 
Little  birds  singing,  or  liigh  or  a  —  low, 
O  sweet  June  days,  move  slow,  move  slow! 


Beautiful  laurel,  stately  and  tall. 
Bending  adown  o'er  mossy  wall. 
Tiny  lobelia  fragile  and  low, 
O  sweet  June  days,  move  slow,  move  slow ! 
Fair  fleur-de-lis,  queen  of  the  flowers. 
Lifting  her  face  to  sunshine  and  showers. 
And  even  the  voice  of  the  brooklet's  flow, 
O  sweet  June  days,  move  slow,  move  slow! 
Gentle  breezes  and  beautious  skies 
Where  white  the  fleeting  clouds  arise, 
Nature  her  great  heai-t  lending-  so, 
O  sweet  June  days,  move  slow,  move  slow ! 


FULFILLMENT. 

The  hope  to  which  we  fondly  cUng, 

And  call  our  own. 
Is  oft  the  swiftest  to  take  wing. 

And  soonest  flown ! 
The  wish  for  which  we  long  and  sigli. 

And  pray  and  yearn. 
May  be  but  a  bitter  draught  to  drink. 

Which  we  should  spurn. 
The  evil  wliich  we  fear  and  dread. 

And  dare  not  face, 
God  may  g-ive  the  strength  to  bear. 

And  needed  grace. 
Tlie  good  for  which  we  scarce  h.ave  hoped. 

Nor  all  perceive. 
May  be  sweetest  in  its  fulfillment, 

When  we  receive. 
The  joys  for  which  we  seek  and  strive, 

And  foUow  fast. 
When  we  call  them  ours,  may  be 

With  dark  o'ercast. 
The  trials  which  we  fain  would  shun. 

And  cast  away. 
Like  precious  pearls  may  show  to  us 

Some  hidden  ray. 


SLEEP. 

Weird,  shadowy  sleep. 
By  which  we  leap 

From  night  to  morn ; — 
Sweet,  silent  dreams. 

Glad,  golden  g-leams, 
Wliere  hope  is  born: 
Tired,  fitful  sleep 
When  slowlj-  creep 

The  liours  away: — 
Sad  making-  thought 
Witli  i)ain  inwrought 

Till  breaks  the  day: 
Sweet,  painless  sleep 
Peaceful  and  deep 

Foi-  lu-ai-ts  oi>pressed, 
Quit-k,  fleeting  hours 
'Midst  dreamland  bowers, 

Hy  angels  blessed  I 


-m 


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LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL    POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


-m 


79 


IRVING  J.  xV.  MILLER. 

,  Rokn:  Worcester,  O.,  Oct.  14, 1866. 
In  187(5  Irviiig-'s  parents  removed  to  Marshall- 
town,  Iowa,  where  lie  enjoyed  a  tliorough 
course  in  the  grammar  school,  and  in  which 
town  lie  now  resides.  Ahout  1884  he  com- 
menced to  court  the  muse,  and  ever  since 
that  time  has  contributed  quite  freely  to 
some  of  the  most  wortliy  and  widely  quoted 
periodicals  of  America.  He  is  at  present  as- 
sistant  editor  of  tlie  Marshalltown  Electric 


IRVING  J.   A.   MlLLhK. 

Liglit.  During  the  fall  of  1887  he  issued  a 
book  entitled  Fireside  Poems,  which  met  with 
a  ready  sale.  In  1888  he  took  editorial  charge 
of  the  Star,  in  Union,  Iowa,  which  position  he 
filled  for  about  one  year.  Mr.  Miller  was 
married  in  1888.  He  is  a  practical  printer  by 
trade,  and  in  person  is  a  little  above  tie  aver- 
age height,  with  brown  hair  and  eyes.  Mr. 
Miller  has  also  issued  a  book  of  campaign 
songs,  which  was  heartily  received  by  all. 


© 


THE  HERO  OF  CONEMAUGH. 

Down  through  a  valley  of  love  and  repose, 

Where  tlie  roses  once  bloomed  and  tlie  Cone- 
ma  ugh  flows 

O'er  liillock  and  crevice,  o'er  dyke,  bridge  and 
stone. 

Inspired  by  his  duty  and  trav'ling  alone. 


Rode  a  hei'o,  unknown,  with  his  warning  to 

all. 
But  the  number  who  liarliened  and   listened 

was  small. 
Came  the  rushing  of  waters  — tlioir  tliunder- 

ing  roar. 
As  they  hastened,  witli   fury,  to  jiillage  and 

gore. 
And  the  trees  and  the  houses  gave  way,  like  a 

straw. 
In  tlie  hurricane  tide  of  the  wild  Conemaugh. 
On !  On !  with  that  courage  a  patriot  thrills, 
Siiouting:  "Run  for  your  lives!  Run  for  the 

hills!!" 
He  dashed   like  a    war-maddened  Chippewa 

brave, 
For  his  was  a  duty  to  rescue  and  save ; 
Nor  looked  he  about  for  the  demon  beliind. 
Pursuing  his  trail  like  a  hurricane  wind. 
But  loudly  and  clear  (for  lie  knew  no  despair 
His  summons  rang  out  on  the  evening  air 
As  the  terrible  waves  grasped    their  forms 

like  s  straw. 
In  the  hurricane  tide  of  the  wild  Conemaugh. 
O,  God,  it  was  fearful,  for  so  it  is  said; 
When  the  watei-s  receded  and  gave   up  their 

dead, 
'Mid  the  thousands  of  bodies  that  laj^  on  the 

ground 
Not  a  trace   of   the   steed  or  liis  rider  was 

found; 
For  a  stranger  he  was,  but  iiis  heroic  deed 
Finds  a  place  in  the  minds  of  the  sufferers 

freed. 
In  the  years  to  come,  and  the  time  to  be. 
Like  a  phantom  'twill  pass  through  our  mem- 
ory, 
And  we'll  see,  like  a  gliost  of  the  buried  past. 
On  his  steed  this  courier  riding  fast, 
And  we'll  hear,  hke  an  echo,  his  warning  cry 
Where  the  Conemaugh  dashed  in  its  fury  by. 


AXIOMS. 
A  noble  deed;  an  action  wrought; 
A  nation  mov'd  to  solemn  thought. 
A  skillful  hand ;  a  drop  of  ink ; 
The  mass  is  mov'd  to  weep  or  think. 
A  pensive  mind;  a  noble  strain; 
A  pow'r  is  held  o'er  tliis  domain. 
A  chaste  desire ;  a  purer  cause; 
A  nation  hails  with  wide  applause. 
A  modest  girl;  a  manly  boy; 
A  father's  pet;  a  mother's  joy. 
A  cheerful  home ;  a  household  kind ; 
Will  breed  no  grief,  leave  none  behind. 
A  loyal  wife ;  a  husband  true ; 
As  one  will  pass  life's  journey  through. 
When  friendship  dies,  and  love  has  fled, 
Forevermore  the  heart  is  dead. 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


NELLIE  E.  ADAMS. 

Bokn:  Exetek,  N.  H.,  July  12, 1864. 
Miss  Adams  graduated  with  honors  from  the 
Robiusoii  Seminary  at  Exeter,  and  later  from 
the  normal  department  of  the  same  school. 
She  has  written  both  poetry  and  prose,  but  is 


NELLIE   E.  ADAMS. 

most  noted  for  her  verse.  In  1885  she  pub- 
lished a  little  volume  entitled  Blossoms,  a  col- 
lection whicli  met  with  a  ready  sale  and  re- 
ceived very  favorable  cemment  from  the 
press  g'enerally.  Miss  Adams  was  the  class 
poet  at  lier  graduation.  She  is  still  a  resident 
of  the  place  of  her  nativity,  where  she  is  very 
popular. 


©- 


IF  WE  KNEW. 
If  we  knew. 
Knew  at  all  times  and  all  places, 

Wliat  was  right. 
Knew  and  did  what  was  accepted 

In  His  sight, 
Held  tlie  good  of  others  only 

Up  to  view, 
Comfort-bearers  each  one  might  be. 

If  we  knew. 

If  we  knew. 

Knew  the  dear  ones  we  love  better 

Far  than  life. 
For  us  bearing  heavj'  burdens 

In  the  strife. 
Often  wearied  when  tlie  pathways 


Darker  grew. 
Would  we  not  their  lives  make  brighter? 

If  we  knew. 
If  we  knew. 
Knew  the  moments  swiftly  gliding 

Of  to-day. 
That  its  morning,  and  its  evening. 

Gold  or  gray 
Were  the  last  that  e'er  would  vanish 

From  our  view. 
Would  we  not  improve  them  better? 

If  we  knew. 
If  we  knew. 
How  our  words  and  deeds  were  telling 

Day  by  day. 
On  the  liA'es  of  all  who  meet  us 

On  the  way. 
If  our  Influence  Avas  clearer 

To  our  view. 
Oh,  we  all,  would  aim  higher, 

If  we  knew. 


THE  TWO  WRECKS. 

The  sea  moaned,  surging  heavily 

Under  a  gloomy  sky, 
While  the  seething,  white-capped  breakers 

Tossed  their  briny  foam  on  high. 

And  the  ship,  that  sailed  at  daybreak 

Out  from  the  harbor  bar. 
Beneath  the  sunny  heaven. 

Floating  proudly  stripe  and  star, 

Was  being  widely  driven. 

Like  a  bird  before  the  gale. 
Her  anchor  lost  in  the  sea  flood. 

And  torn  each  snowy  sail. 

Before  the  arching  rainbow. 

Told  that  the  storm  was  o'er. 
She  sank  beneath  the  billows. 

To  rise,  to  rise  no  more. 

Out  in  the  gathering  darkness, 

Out  in  the  wind  and  the  sleet. 
With  face  upturned  to  a  pitiless  sky. 

Lay  a  body  in  the  street. 

Tiie  wreck  of  a  once  proud  manhood. 

Of  a  life  that  promised  fair. 
Of  loves,  aiid  hopes,  and  ambitions, 

The  end  of  all  lay  there. 

Somebody  kissed  that  bloated  face. 

When  it  was  young  and  fair. 
Some  one  curled  'round  a  baby  head 

Those  ringlets  of  sunny  hair. 

Somebody  thought  of  the  comfort  and  pride 
He  would  be  in  the  after  years, 

Somebody  sank  into  tbe  grave 
In  bitter  woe  and  tears. 


-m 


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LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


81 


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JOHN  LANDOR  KRYDER. 

Born:  New  Berlin,  Ohio,  Dec.  2^,  lt>33. 
By  self-study,  application  and  oijscrvation, 
Mr.  Krydcr  g'atliered  the  rudiments  of  his 
education,  and  at  the  age  of  nineteen  taught 
his  first  school.  For  several  years  thereafter 
lie  was  engaged  in  teacliing  and  studying 
medicine.  In  1858  lie  commenced  the  practice 
of  medicine,  and   iias   bcfti   fiit;;i>.''c<l   tlicrcat 


JOHN  LANDOH    KRVDEIt. 

until  the  present  time.  He  has  written  con- 
sideralile  poetry  from  time  to  time,  more  as  a 
recreation  when  not  engaged  in  the  more  ar- 
duous duties  of  his  profession;  these  poems 
have  appeared  in  many  leading  newspapers 
and  magazines.  Dr.  Kryder  is  six  feet  tall, 
weiglis  150  pounds,  and  cow  resides  at  Cedar- 
ville,  Ind. 


SOMETIME,  SOMEWHERE. 
I  think  to-night  of  drifted  years. 

Lying  behind  in  the  grave  of  care. 
Of  life's  pages,  written  in  tears. 

Torn  and  scattered,  sometime,  somewhere. 

I  hear  the  night-wind's  mournful  sob. 
Like  spirit  whisp'rings  in  the  air. 

And  think  me,  will  this  heart's  wild  throb 
Cease  soon,  and  rest,  sometime,  somewhere. 

Low  murm'rous  voices  speak  to  me. 
As  my  thouglits  go  hither  and  there 


8&- 


O'er  blurr'd  past,  and  wonder  if  we, 
Sliall  meet  again  sometime,  somewhere. 

Will  rough  places  all  l)e  made  smootli. 

All  leveled  and  even  and  fair; 
All  en^^es  and  crosses  forsooth. 

Be  Ijauished,  sometime,  somewliere. 

And  all  the  vows,  that  iiave  bet  ray 'd 
The  ears  and  hearts  of  brave  and  fair. 

And  all  the  wrecks,  that  tliey  liave  made 
Restored  again,  sometime,  somewliere. 

And  wild  humors,  of  idle  hours,  • 
That  filled  the  eye  with  castled  air. 

And  painted  rainbows,  thro'  the  showers. 
Unfold  again,  sometime,  somewhere. 

Will  broken  loves,  and  severed  ties. 
That  strew  dead  seas,  with  wild  despair. 

In  realms  of  peace,  'neath  azure  skies  — 
Be  reconciled,  sometime,  somewhere. 

Fair  hope  inspires;  the  eye  of  f^ith 
Invites  the  wish,  and  builds  the  pray'r. 

Love,  there  shall  rule,  instead  of  wrath. 
Sighs   change   to   smiles,  sometime,  some- 
where. 

Yes,  on  the  verge  where  two  worlds  meet. 
All  things  will  be  made  even  there: 

Serf  and  King,  Priest  and  Clown,  will  greet, 
On  equal  terms,  sometime,  somewhere. 

And  that  far  shore  of  prophetic  dreams 
With  all  its  myst'ries  grand  and  fair. 

Will  i)e  disclosed,  when  best  it  seems. 
In  God's  good  will,  sometime,  somewhere. 


BY-PAST  TIMES. 

There  are  treasures  in  mem'rys  urn; 
Embalmed  witli  the  loves  of  the  past. 
And  we  have  lived,  to  know  aud  learn. 
Their  joys  were  too  fragile  to  last: 
Yet  while  affection's  ties  remain. 
Those  by-past  times  come  back  again. 

Forever  o'er  the  sea  of  thought. 
Like  gentle  swells  of  peaceful  waves 
That  hide  the  wreck  and  ruin  wrought. 
By  tempest  when  it  fiercest  raves, 
A  heart-calm  to  unrest  and  pain. 
Comes  some  sweet  by-past  time  again. 

Wonderful  sea.  Oh!  changing  tide, 
Forever  freighted  with  weal  or  woe ; 
Joyous  sunbeams  dance  and  ride. 
Thy  billows  crest,  or  cradle  low. 
And  o'er  thy  bosom  now  and  then 
Floats  some  sweet  by-past  time  again. 

Some  idle  song  in  sweet  low  trills. 
That  wafts  along  the  shaded  years ; 
Soft  as  the  purl    of  meeting  rills. 
Endearing  hopes,  dissolving  fears, 


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82 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


Awakes  from  its  dream  Lethean, 
And  echo's  by-past  times  again. 

Alas !  it  seems  so  passing  strange. 
That  from  the  censer  of  those  days. 
The  incense  should  so  widely  range; 
And  tlieir  perfume,  thro'  distant  maze, 
Walie  in  each  lieart  the  mellow  chimes, 
And  fragrance  of  the  by-past  times. 


MEMORIAL  DAY. 
Tenderly  strew  over  each  grave  to-day, 
Tlie  perfumed  blossoms  of  balmy  May. 
And   the  •»  nameless  mounds  "  by  stream  or 

lake. 
Bedeck  them  for  mother's  or  sister's  sake. 

What  mattei's  it  now  whetlier  friend  or  foe. 
Lies  mould'ring  to  dust  in  the  tomb  below. 
Spread  sweet  charity's  mantle  o'er  the  brave 
And  cover  with  flowers  each  hero's  grave. 

Known  or  unknown.  Oh !  how  manj'  to-day. 
Grieving,  are  wond'riug  where  their    loved 

ones  lay ; 
Weeping  and  wond'riug,  they  gladly  would 

know, 
If  tribute  to  their's,  some  hand  will  bestow. 

Time  and  its  changes  should  soften  the  heart. 
And  sympathy  lessen  pale  sorrow's  dart, 
And  tears  should  refresh  the  green  on  each 

gi-ave ; 
Bright  flowers  shed  their  fragrance  o'er  the 

brave, 

Tliink,  some  sad  heart,  that  is  far,  far  away; 
In  gratitude  deep  would  gladly  repay. 
For  the  drop  of  a  sigh,  a  bud  or  a  tear. 
On  the  grave  '•  unknown  "  to  some  one  so 
dear. 

Think  Mercy's  Angel  wiU  hasten  away. 

With  message  to  friend,  of  the  Blue  or  the 

Gray. 
How  it  would  solace  the  sorrow  of  years. 
And  lessen    Ihe  grief,  that's  hallowed   with 
tears. 


©- 


A  JUNE  DAY  DKEAM. 

This  sweet  June  day 

I  drift  away, 
Wiicre  care  cannot  my  peace  betray; 

From  toil  and  heat. 

And  dust  retreat, 
Wlierc  fairer  scenes  my  senses  greet. 

My  footsteps  seek 

The  higliest  peak. 
O'er  looking  lake  and  crystal  creek; 

lyikt!  vine-clad  wall. 

Of  caslled  liall. 
Hill-sides  abloom,  arise  and  fall. 


So  clear  and  free 

Tliere  comes  to  me. 
Soft  cadence  of  past  melody ; 

As  'neath  the  trees, 

I  lie  at  ease. 
And  listen  to  the  whispering  breeze. 

Each  regal  note. 

From  silver  throat. 
Of  song-birds  reach,  near  and  remote; 

Tlieir  happy  mood 

Seek  to  intrude. 
And  lend  joy  to  this  solitude. 

Not  far  away 

The  new  mown  hay. 
Sends  forth  richest,  royal  bouquet ; 

And  glim'ring  sheen. 

O'er  velvet  green. 
Makes  restful  this  enchanting  scene. 

While  here  and  there 

Sail  cloud-ships  fair. 
Sailing,  sail  by  on  waves  of  air. 

Until  they  greet 

The  anchored  fleet. 
Where  azure  skies  and  landscapes  meet. 

There  vines  o'er  creep 

Willows  that  weep, 
On  island  rising  from  the  deep; 

On  either  hand 

Its  pearly  sand. 
Lies  sparkling  in  the  sunlight  grand. 

O !  calm,  sweet  June, 

Thou  hast  o'er  strewn. 
The  earth  with  garland  and  festoon ; 

No  discord  here. 

To  mar  the  ear. 
Intrudes  with  form,  or  creed,  or  fear. 

This  temple  grand, 

Tlie  Artist's  hand. 
Perfection  shows,  at  his  command; 

Oil  I  who  would  miss 

A  day  like  this'? 
Sweet  prelude  of  Elysian  bliss. 

Drink  in,  my  soul. 
The  sweets  that  roll. 
From  heaven's  free,  o'erflowing  bowl; 
Oh!  heart  of  mine. 
At  Nature's  shrine. 
Pay  homage  to  the  hand  divine. 

EXTRACT. 
Again  the  days  are  growing  long. 

And  thi'  dew  rests  on  tlie  flowers, 
Wingeil  minstrels  never  tire  of  song. 

To  ciiariii  and  dieer  the  passing  hours; 
Hours,  that  seem  to  me  i)assiiig  slow, 

Wliile  a,  wakeful  nienuiry  strays 
To  you,  and  scenes  of  long  ago. 

Recalling  other  summer  days. 


I 


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LOCAL.  AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


83 


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REV  JOSEPH  D.  PIERRON. 

Born:  Kirtland,  C,  Nov.  4,  18.>J. 
Mr.  Herron  has  a  love  for  music,  and  Spring 
Song  he  .set  to  music,  which  has  l)een   render- 
ed by  choruses   of   children  in  New  Yorl\  and 


JOSEPH    D.    HERRON. 

other  cities.  He  has  held  but  two  positions 
in  the  ten  years  of  bis  ministry — assistant 
minister  in  Trinity  Parish,  New  York;  and 
Rector  of  Trinity  church,  New  Castle. 


©- 


SPRING. 

Hail,  hail,  all  hail! 

'Tis  the  halcyon  month  of  May, 

Hail,  hail,  all  hail! 

'Tis  nature's  gala  day. 

Ye  nymphs  of  the  mountain. 

Ye  sprites  of  the  fountain. 

That  dance  'mid  the  leaflets  green: 

Come  out  from  your  bowers. 

With  garlands  of  flowers. 

And  welcome  your  fairy  queen. 

Hail!  fairy  of  spring! 

Scatter  thy  flowers  o'er  hill  and  dale. 

While  the  breezes  o'er  them  blow. 

And  soft  be  thy  touch  in  the  woodland  vale. 

Where  the  leafy  tendrils  of  mjTtle  trail. 

And  the  sparliling  fountains  flow. 

Hail !  beautiful  queen ! 

Deck  with  thj'  blos.soms  the  branches  bare, 

And  thy  golden  smiles  bestow; 


Paint  with  thy  pencil  the  flowers  fair. 

The  royal  fuchsias  and  i-oses  rare, 

And  the  violets  bending  low. 

Short  is  thy  stay,  O  lovely  queen. 

For  the  summer  is  coming  soon; 

E'en  now  is  the  way  of  tliy  exit  seen. 

In  the  golden  month  of  June. 

But  while  thou  art  queen  thy  reign  is  .sweet. 

For  thy  sceptre  is  covered  witli  flowers; 

And  before  thy  grotto  the  fairies  meet. 

And  the  eLflns  dance  with  glittering  feet, 

Beneath  the  jessamine  bowers. 

Then  spring,  bright  spring  we  bid  thee  hail, 

But  soon  we  will  say  good-bye ; 

For  thy  brightest  beams  e'er  long  will  pale. 

When  the  violets  droop  in  the  woodland  vale. 

And  withering,  fade  and  die. 

For  the  golden  harvest-time  will  come. 

And  the  reapers  with  sickles  keen, 

Will  bring  to  the  flowers  their  only  doom, 

And  lay  them  low  in  their  earthy  tomb, 

The  mouldering  sod  between. 

But  after  the  winter  snows  are  past. 

And  gone  are  the  sleet  and  rain ; 

When  the  dreary  days  no  longer  last. 

And  bright  spring  comes  again. 

We  will  shout  aloud  as  we  did  of  yore, 

All  hail  fair  spring  to  thee; 

Scatter  thy  flowers  the  woodlands  o'er. 

Till  the  air  is  sweeter  than  ever  before, 

As  it  blows  through  each  leafy  tree. 


TWO  PICTURES. 

FIRST. 

Oh!  the  winds  of  Annandale! 
The  bracing  winds  of  Annandale, 
Blowing  and  sweeping  o'er  hill  and  plain. 
Piling  snow  drifts  in  road  and  lane. 
Cracking  the  trees  that  are  covered  with  ice. 
Till    bending   and   swaying   they  snap  in   a 

trice. 
Cold  are  the  winds  of  Annandale; 
But  never  a  cheek  is  blanched  and  pale. 
That  out  of  the  house  is  wont  to  tarry, 
And  brave  the  wind  of  January. 
January's  bitter  cold; 

But  sprightly  youth  wUl  scarce  grow  old. 
And  pine  away  before  its  time. 
If,  committing  the  so-called  crime 
Of  lingering  out  in  the  ice  and  snow. 
We  make  the  days  of  the  winter  go. 
Oh!  the  hills  of  Annandale! 
The  snow-clad  hills  of  Annandale; 
Glittering  white  in  the  sun's  bright  rays. 
That  shimmer  and  dance  like  a  troop  of  fays; 
Placing  a  gem  on  each  feathery  flake, 
Till  they  look  like  stars  on  a  frozen  lake. 
Soon  is  heard  on  the  frosty  air, 
Tlie  shout  of  the   coaster  —  Oh !  sport  most 
rare! 


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LOCAL,  AND  NATIONAL    POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


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Little  we  heed  how  the  buttons  go. 
Little  we  heed  liow  the  blinding:  snow 
Files  in  our  eyes  and  fills  our  ears, 
Till  our  bosom  throbs  with  fleeting  fears ; 
But  flowing  over  with  jubilant  bliss. 
We  vow  that  nothing  can  equal  this. 

O  ye,  that  sit  in  the  halls  of  state. 
That  rule  our  country  strong  and  great. 
Give  ye  no  thought  to  those  halcyon  days. 
That  ye  spent  in  a  thousand  whimsical  ways  — 
Ways  that  only  youth  may  know, 
To  conjure  joy  and  to  banish  woe  ? 
Give  ye  no  thought  —  alas  too  oft, 
Your  muids  are  soaring  too  far  aloft, 
To  give  one  glance  at  childhood's  day, 
But  are  wont  to  sneer  at  its  foolish  play. 
Know  ye  then,  men  with  minds  so  great, 
Tliat  stand  at  the  helm  of  the  ship  of  state. 
Know  ye  that  these  same  jubilant  boys. 
That  rend  the  air  with  their  mirthful  noise. 
And  sUde  down  hill  with  their  nose  to   the 

ground. 
In  the  halls  of  the  nation  may  yet  be  found. 

Then  hip,  hurrah!  for  King  Winter  cold, 

With  his  shaggy  beard  so  gray  and  old. 

Long  may  he  sit  on  his  icy  throne. 

And  rule  the  realm  he  now  doth  own; 

Glassing  the  river  with  sheets  of  ice. 

Where  by  a  throw  of  fortune's  dice, 

The   youth   and    the    maiden    perchance   do 

meet, 
And  fly  o'er  the  ice  with  the  wind  so  fleet. 
The  wind  that  causes  a  ruddy  glow 
On  cheek  and  lip  as  they  swiftly  go. 
O  rudest  wind !  to  be  so  bold. 
As  to  kiss  those  lips  with  a  touch  so  cold ; 
But  perliaps  there  would  be  no  fault  to  find, 
If  the  onlj'  culprit  were  the  wind. 
Then  hurrah!  once  more  for  tlie  Winter  King, 
Who  moans  and  whistles  and  tries  to  sing. 
And  plays  a  prelude  queer  and  odd. 
On  the  creaking  limbs  that  sway  and  nod. 
And  tlien  with  a  slirick  ho  leaves  the  vale. 
And  mounts  to  tiic  hills  of  Annandale, 
There  with  a  wliirry  add  flurry  he  stops. 
And  dances  a  horn-pipe  tolimijer  his  chops; 
And  if  a  stray  cat  l)y  cliaiice  he  spies, 
He  nips  her  tail  till  slie  l^links  lier   eyes. 
And  rends  the  air  with  yowls  and  cries. 

O  Winter  King  what  a  I'oyal  sway, 
Thou  boldest  ever  from  day  to  day. 
But  the  time  will  come  when  thy  liirono  will 

melt, 
And  no  longer  thy  chilling  breath  be  felt; 
And  thou  wilt  sleep  in  the  vast  unknown, 
Wliile  the  golden  summer  reigns  alone. 

SECOND. 

Oh  I  the  groves  of  Annandale! 
The  balmy  groves  of  Annandale; 
Through  whose  trees  with  a  whisper  low, 


The  summer  winds  so  wearily  blow, 

And  fan  our  cheeks  till  we  fall  asleep. 

While  the  hum-birds  play  at  a  wild  bo-peep. 

The  bees  croon  drowsily  in  the  clover, 

The  squirrel  chirps  like  a  rolUcking  rover; 

And  sweet  to  the  soul  beyond  all  price. 

Nature  foreshadows  Paradise, 

Hand  in  hand  through  tlie  shady  grove. 

The  youth  and  the  maiden  slowly  move. 

Her  cheeks  are  red,  but  not  with  cold. 

As  when  once  they  were  kissed  Ijy  the  wind  so 

bold. 
They  set  them  down  by  a  running  stream. 
And  think  they  are  living  a  fairy  dream. 
He  scans  her  face  with  a  loving  eye, 
Then  looks  to  see  if  there's  any  one  nigh, 
—  But  here  let  me  say,  when  they  flew  apace 
Over  the  ice,  she  slapped  his  face. 
When  he  tried  to  follow  the  wind's  example; 
Of  womanly  spirit  a  worthy  ample.  — 
But  now  when  thesummer  breezes  blow. 
And  the  rippling  streamlets  freely  flow, 
And  the  blue-bird  warbles  a  love  song  sweet, 
A  languor  steals  o'er  their  mossy  seat. 
And  there,  in  the  light  of  a  summer's  sun, 
A  precious  heai't  is  wooed  and  won. 
Oh !  the  summer  of  Annandale ! 
The  golden  summer  of  Annandale. 
Happiest  hours  of  all  the  year, 
Happy  indeed  to  the  maiden  dear. 
Who  laughed  at  love  when  the  Winter  King 
Held  his  sway  over  everything. 
Now,  no  more  howls  the  chilling  blast. 
No  more  the  snow  falls  thick  and  fast 
Over  the  field  and  over  the  plain. 
Till  we  look  for  a  fence  or  a  road  in  vain. 
No  more  is  heard  the  coaster's  song. 
As  it  swelled  into  melody  loud  and  long. 
The  hills  are  green,  and  the  flowers  wave, 
And  lift  their  heads  to  the  sky's  blue  nave; 
And  seem  to  whisper  as  they  nod: 
All  that  is  lovely  belongs  to  God. 


DECEMBER. 

Child  of  the  grand  old  winter, 

December  floateth  by ; 
And  the  ground  without  is  bare  and  white 

As  the  moon  in  tlie  cloudless  sky. 
The  wind  blows  cold  and  dreary. 

Across  tlie  whilciied   i)lain; 
And  we  si'c  the  oaks  with  their  branches  bare. 

Through  the  frost  on  tlie  window  pane. 
But  within  where  the  yule-log's  burning. 

Each  ln'art  is  liajiijy  and  gay; 
For  the  loving  Prince  of  earth  and  Heaven, 

Was  born  on  Cliristmas  day. 
Then  hail!  grand  i)ld  December, 

We  welcome  you  :>r.camore! 
For  tlu!  memory  sweet  of  a  night  > ou  biing. 

That  came  in  the  days  of  yore. 


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«- 


-* 


LOCAL   AXD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A3IERICA. 


So 


MARY  TURNER  BEECH. 

Born:  Homer,  N.  Y. 
In  lier  childhood  her  parents  removed  to  Fair- 
field, Ohio,  where  .she  was  educated,  spending- 
an  additional  year  in  the  academy  at  Elyi-ia  in 
the  same  state.  She  early  evinced  a  taste  for 
literary  pursuits,  and  wrote  essays  and  short 
stories  that  received  publication.  She  was 
married  to  her  first  husband,  Jenson  Beers, 
in  IS.m;  in  18T9  Mr.  Beei'S  died  of  a  disease  con- 
tracted while  in   the   seivice   of  his  country. 


.MAKV   TUKNKH    BEKCH. 

la  1.SS.5  the  sulgect  of  this  sketch  was  married 
to  Richard  Beech,  of  Beechville,  111.  Mrs. 
Beech  resides  a  part  of  her  time  at  her  old 
home  in  Stanton,  Mich.,  and  the  rest  she 
spends  at  her  husband's  home  on  the  banks 
of  the  Mississippi  river.  She  has  two  living 
children— a  son,  Ray,  born  in  1869;  and  a 
daughter,  Jennie  Augusta,  who  is  now  the 
wife  of  T.  E.  Powell,  the  publisher  of  the 
Montcalm  Herald. 


^- 


TO  THE  FIRST  FLOWER  OF  SPRING. 

One  simple  flower  — what  joy  it  brings. 

How  welcome  to  the  sight. 
We  wildly  press  the  voiceless  thing 

That  brings  such  true  delight. 
One  simple  flower  what  fragrance  yields. 

It  whisper's  hope  and  peace; 
Its  tender  thoughts,  like  buds  concealed. 

Love's  sweetest  incense  breathes. 


One  simple  flower  the  past  is  here 

With  all  its  varied  train. 
The  IdUss  we've  known,  the  silent  fear 

Comes  strangely  back  again. 
One  simple  flower,  oh  what  so  fair. 

So  tender  as  thj-  leaf. 
In  nature's  rank  is  found  no  where, 

A  life  so  pure,  .so  brief. 
Fair  simple  flower  —  long  may  you  clieer 

The  toiling  sons  of  earth ; 
Who  heeds  thy  gentle  teaching  here. 

Secures  a  gem  of  worth. 


SIXTIETH  ANNIVERSARY. 

OF  DR.  J.  B.   SULLIVAN. 

Some  simple  word, 

My  heart  has  stirred. 
And  thought  in  fancy  strays  — 

So  while  we  meet. 

In  converse  sweet. 
Accept  this  meed  of  praise. 

In  langaiage  well 

I've  heard  him  teU 
While  mem'ry  bells  were  ringing 

How  oft  at  night 

By  fireside  light 
And  his  mother  sweetly  singing  — 

He  tried  to  make. 

His  marks  so  straight. 
While  the  fire  his  head  was  burning; 

Little  thought  he. 

How  hard  'twould  be, 
Tlie  line  to  keep  amid  life's  turning. 

Is  there  one  here 

With  marks  so  clear 
Written  in  life's  copy-book 

But  would  erase 

Fi-om  out  its  place 
Here  a  curve,  and  there  a  crook  '.' 

We  find  alloy. 

Mixed  with  our  joy. 
Grief  and  care  must  come  to  all  — 

To-day  its  cash. 

To-morrow  trash. 
Up  we  go,  and  down  we  fall. 

Shadows  of  care 

May  silver  the  hair, 
Tlie  sunshine  of  youth  may  depart, 

But  the  twilight  of  age 

Holds  many  a  page 
Wliich  brings  joy  and  peace  to  the  heart 

Its  not  too  late 

To  celebrate 
Tlie  golden  years  gone  by. 

To  thank  the  Lord 

For  all  the  good 
Bestowed  us  from  on  high. 


© 


© 


-as 


86 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL  POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


JESSIE  F.  O'DONNELL. 

Born:  Lowville,  N.  Y.,  Jan.  18,  I860. 
Miss  O'Donnell  has  published  a  volume  of 
poems  entitled  Heart  Lyrics,  and  now  follows 
the  profession  of  literature.    Her  poems  have 


JESSIE  F.   O'DONNELL. 

appeared  in  a  number  of  the  leading-  Ameri- 
can periodicals.  In  person  .she  is  very  slight, 
and  now  resides  in  her  native  town. 


*- 


THE  NIGHT- BLOOMING  CEREUS. 
The  indolent  four  o'clock  ladies 

Had  waked  from  their  long,  dreamy  rest, 
But  tlie  sun-flower's  golden-lashed    l)lossoms 

Had  turned  their  brown  eyes  to  the  west. 
And  tlie  lilies  grown  suddenly  weary, 

Lay  husiied  on  the  river's  cold  breast. 
The  blue-t)ells  began  a  .soft  tinkle, 

Tlic  i)rimros('s  opened  their  eyes; 
And  the  grasses  wa\t'il  low  whei'i'  thi'  faii-ies 

Had  stolen  tlie  \iok'ts'  fiisgni.se; 
And  al)ove,  througli  the  angels'  va.st  gardens. 

The  stars  blossomed  out  in  tlie  skies. 
A  voice  from  the  lily-bells  callijig. 

Rang  out  on  the  even  air  clear: 
"  O  j'e  blossoms!  awake,  in  the  gnidens! 

Tlie  Lord  of  tlie  flowers  conieth  neai'I 
O  awake!  in  the  field  and  tlie  woodland; 

The  Maker  of  blossoms  is  liere!" 
Tlie  poppy  jnst  nuirnnired:  ..  I'm  sleepy!  " 

And  nodded  lier  roiiml  drowsy  head;      [ters 
And  liie  tulips  had  closed  theii- bright  shut- 


•' Against  the  night  dew-drops,"  they  said; 
And  the  little  green  balls  of  the  daisies 

Never  stirred  in  their  soft,  grassy  bed. 
But  sweetly  the  tall,  fragrant  lily 

UpUf  ted  her  chalice  of  light. 
And  the  roses  threw  open  their  bosoms 

And  gladdened  the  fair  summer  night, 
And  the  stars  of  the  jasmine  blossoms 

Leaned  down  from  the  trellises'  height. 
The  Lord,  walking  slow  through  the  garden. 

Smiled  back  at  the  roses'  perfume, 
Caressing  the  lily's  pale  petals. 

Or  shaking  the  hyacinth's  perfume. 
Till  He  came  where  the  Cereus  slumbered, 

Close  hiding  her  beautiful  bloom. 
She  thrilled  at  the  heavenly  presence. 

And  slowlj'  uncovered  her  face. 
And  swinging  the  pearl  of  her  censer, 

With  reverent,  ineffable  grace. 
Stood  revealed  in  her  magical  beauty, 

Tlie  soul  of  that  wonderful  place. 
Spell-botmd  at  the  white  growing  vision, 

The  Lord  watched  the  flower  unfold. 
Till  away  f  i-om  the  quivering  stamens 

The  last  snowy  petal  had  rolled. 
Then  he  bent  o'er  the  weird,  witcliing  blos- 
som, 

Left  a  kiss  on  its  bosom  of  gold. 
All  tremulous  with  the  keen  rapture. 

And  rich  with  the  Master's  breath,  • 
"  Not  one  lesser  touch  shall  defile  me!" 

The  Night-Blooming  Cereus  saith; 
And  gathering  her  garments  about  her, 

She  yielded  her  sweetness  to  death. 
Wherever  a  Cereus  blossoms, 

'Tis  said  that  the  Master  is  nigh ; 
That  he  watches  the  glorious  flower 

Uncurl  the  gold  stamens  that  lie 
In  the  petals  that  tremble  with  rapture, 

And  shut  round  lus  ki.ss  when  they  die. 


EXTRACTS. 

Oh,  the  wondrous,  glistening  Easter, 
Shining  in  the  morning  light ! 

Silently  tlie  world  had  blossomed 
Like  a  white  rose  in  the  night ; 

Softly  smiled  the  winter  landscape 
To  the  sunbeams'  glances  bright. 

And  who  can  blame  the  woman  that  she  chose 
Life's  warmth  and  color,  ere  hei"  first  love 

liurned 
To    ashes'/    Hearts    need    hearts.    And,    oh! 

God  knows 
Dear  love  issweetaltliough  but  half  returned. 

Can   you    measure     a   bluebird's   quivi-ring 

flight  -t 
Or  the  speed  of  a  homesick  swallow  'i 


® 


©- 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


87 


m 


JOHN  WILLIAM  EVERETT. 

Born:  Cedar  Groa'e,  La.,  Dec.  13, 1869. 
In  liis  youth  his  parents  removed  their  place 
of  abode  several  times,  finally  settling  in 
Lake  Charles,  La.  when  the  subject  of  this 
sketcli  was  sixteen  years  of  age.  His  f  atlier 
is  editor  of  The  American  in  that  town,  and 
young  Everett  also  resides  there.    While  still 


JOHN  WTLLIAM  EVERETT. 

in  the  university  at  Waco,  Texas,  he  con- 
tributed several  poems  to  the  local  press. 
He  next  attended  the  Mississippi  college  at 
Clinton,  where  he  continued  his  studies  as  a 
theological  student,  a  profession  he  intends 
to  follow.  Besides  his  poetic  writings,  he  has 
contributed  prose  to  various  publications; 
and  he  has  published  a  musical  composition. 


REFLECTIONS. 

ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  AMITE  RIVER. 

'Tis  late;  the  sun  is  sinking  in  the  west; 
Tlie   wind   moans   lonesome    through   the 
waving  trees ; 
Tlie  twit' ring  birds  have  hushed  to  seek  their 
rest; 
The  swallow's  wing  beats  homeward  on  the 
breeze. 
The  river  moans  and  ripples  as  it  flows; 

The  moon  is  rising  now  upon  the  scene ; 
The  stars  are  stealing  slowly  from  their  close. 
And  adding  pleasure  to  the  thought  serene. 


Upon  tills  bank  I  have  stood  in  days  gone  by; 
In  youth's  bright,  hai)py  hours  I've  wander- 
ed here. 
With  one  who  now  is  sleeping  silently 
Beneath   the   sod,  whoso  voice   I'll   never 
hear! 

Ah,  yes!    Upon  this  bank  of  rocks  and  sand. 

Beneath  the  shady  trees  that  bow  above, 
I've  kissed  her  cheeks,  and  pressed  her  little 
hand. 
And  spoke  to  her  in  tender  words  of  love. 
How  often  has  she  knelt  to  write  her  name 
Upon  the  ground  upon  the  river's  strand, 
And  stood  and  watched  the  wavelets  as  they 
came. 
And  washed  the  writing  from  the  glittering 
sand! 
She  knew  not  then  whUe  standing  by  my  side. 

And  gazing  at  her  name  as't  disappeared. 
That  her  own  Life,  so  lovely  —  and  my  pride  — 
Was   pictured  there  in   emblems    she  had 
reared ! 
Ah,  life  is  short !    But  oh,  how  beautiful 

Is  her's  to  me  while  memory  draws  it  nigh ! 
How  gentle !    Oh,  how  mild  and  dutiful 
Was  she,  who — lovely,  darUng  girl— should 
die! 
Yes,  time  has   borne   her   from  this   sacred 
place; 
No  longer  meet  we  by  the  river's  shore, 
No  more  shall  I  behold  her  lovely  face. 
And  her  sweet  voice  shall  greet  me,  never 
more! 


E\T;NING  ON  THE  CALCASIEU. 

The  day  is  done ; 

The  setting  sun. 
Growing  red,  sinks  out  of  view; 

The  lowing  herds 

And  twltt'ring  birds  — 
I  hear  them  on  the  Calcasieu. 

The  old  saw  mill 

As  death  is  still. 
Save  sundry  hissings  now  and  then ; 

'Neath  the  sky  blue 

Gathers  the  dew. 
Glittering  in  the  sunlight's  sheen. 

The  Calcasieu 

Reflects  the  blue 
And  beauteous  sky  that  bows  above. 

And  from  afar 

A  Little  star 
Reflected,  seems  to  speak  of  love. 

What  is  that  ?    Hush ! 

I  hear  a  slush ! 
I  look;  I  see  a  little  boat; 

A  maiden  fair 

With  golden  hair. 
Sweetly,  softly  sings,  afloat ! 


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© 


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88 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  E.  B.  BISANT-DELANY. 

Born  :  Muskingum  Co.,  C,  March  16, 1844. 
Since  1856  this  lady  has  contributed  quite  ex- 
tensively to  ihe  ZiiiH'svillt'  .Inijriial  and  the 
pcii<"lir;il  prc-s  .L:rnciall.\ .    Slic  now  resides 


MRS.   EUKA  BROOKE  BISANT-DELANY. 

on  tlie  Old  Homestead  near  Zanesville,  where 
she  has  become  very  popular.  Personally 
this  lady  is  of  the  average  height  with  gold 
brown  liair  and  blue  y;vay  eyes. 


INTKODUCTION. 
Petals  of  poetic  passion  — 

Yellow,  crimson,  vari'sated,— 
Briar-rose,  thorn-spear  be-mettled ! 

Ls  thy  warsomc  mood  e'er  sated? 
Muse  of  Satire?    Flee  this  moment! 

Seek  the  desert  of  distress; 
Mortal  woman  is  not  faultless. 

Fallen  anpel !  —  nothing:  less ! 
Charity?    We'll  kiss  thy  fin-ehead; 

Pity,  holds  tlu^  helm  of  ship. 
Ere  the  life-boat  leaves  the  vessel, 

Mercy  kneels  with  quiv'ring  lip. 
Hope— o'er  sanpuine  — wields  the  anchor, 

Read  finale  in  her  eyes! 
Saved!    Pale  waves  in  foam-spray  rancor, 

Ocean's  anthem  greets  the  skies. 

YOITTl  LILY. 

'Montr  animate  Ijlossoins, 
A  florist  of  tuste, 


Will  choose  a  fair  Lily— 

An  emblem  so  chaste. 
When  the  meadow  is  grac'd 

By  the  lithe  golden-rod. 
The  zephyrs  a-quiver, 

All  glorify  God. 

Pretty  pansy  attuned 

To  blithe  notes  of  the  harp. 
Might  to  sweet  violets. 

Tone  of  envy  impart. 
Wlieu  the  tube-rose's  soul 

Caught  the  hot  breath  of  June, 
The  lily  grew  pale 

'Neath  the  blush  of  the  moon. 

So  chaste  is  the  Lily 

Of  rail  fled  soul. 
That  all  passionfled  tides 

Must  obej'  her  control. 
Then  cherish  the  Lily! 

Mind-petals  of  trust 
Are  soul-nooks  etherial. 

That  gather  no  dust. 
A  song  for  the  Lily ! 

A  sonnet  of  love! 
As  soulful  and  tender 

As  cooing  of  dote. 
When  her  mates  In  tlie  gloaming. 

And  buttercups  nod 
To  the  blaze  of  the  planets 

That  glorify  God. 


LITTLE  MARIAM  KING. 

Wee  namesake  of  thy  grandma's, 

Thou  daughter  of  a  King; 

Fair  child  of  many  graces. 

Of  thee  the  muses  sing,— 

Sweet  bud  zephyr  kiss'd, 

Bud  beguiling  mist. 

Song  nymphs  proclaim  thee 

Child  of  delight! 

Thy  mother—  a  poetess  courting  the  stars. 

Threw  kisses  at  Venus,  and  frowned  on  old 

Mars, 
Whose  face  grew  so  red  with  the  cruel  war 

glow- 
Reflection  lent  blush  to  a  crystal  of  snow 
O  sweet  little  Mariam ; 

God  shield  thee  from  harm ! 
There's  a  spirit  keeps  vigil. 

At  sign  of  alarm 
All  the  planets  will  rush. 

Set  creailon  ajar,— 
Thy  guardian  is  grandma, 

In  Fair-Land,  afar. 
Sweet  bud  zephyr  kiss'd. 
Bud  beguiling  mist ; 
Song  iiymplis  i)i'ocIaim  tliee  — 
Child  of  deliglit! 


SB 


-ee 


© 


LOCAL   AND   KATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


89 


-« 


WILLIS  FLETCHER  JOHNSON 

Born:  New  York  City,  Oct.  7,  185". 
Educated  at  Penning'tou  seminary.  New  Jer- 
sey and  universitj'  of  the  city  of  New  York, he 
was  married  in  1878  to  Sue  Ri)fkhill,  daug'hter 
of  Capt.  Z.  Rockhill  of  New  Jersey.  For  past 
eight  years  lias  lieeu  on  the  editorial  staff  of 
New  York  Tribune.  Mr.  Johnson  has  lectur- 
ed frequently  and  made  many  other  public 
addresses.    He  is  the  author  of  several  books 


WILLIS  FLEK  in  K     loHS^oN 

find  scores  of  poems  which  have  liad  wide  cir- 
culation in  the  periodical  press  of  America 
and  England.  In  person  lie  is  sliglitly  under 
average  size,  but  robust  and  athletic  in  a 
notable  degree,  with  hair  and  eyes  nearly 
black.  Mr.  Johnson  in  winter  lives  in  Brook- 
lyn, N.  Y.,  and  in  summer  divides  his  time 
between  mountains  and  sea-shore. 


®- 


THE  VICTOR. 

In  the  old  world,  when  I  was  dead, 
[  followed  where  my  fortune  led; 

O  tyrant  Fate! 
All  senseless,  soulless,  save  to  be 
Slave  of  capricious  destiny. 

O  cruel  tyrant  Fate ! 
Then  dawned  my  birthday,  and  to  life 
I  sprang,  and  unto  doomf ul  strife ; 

O  foeman  Fate ! 
And  fought  my  way,  ere  set  of  sun, 


To  this  new  world,  the  victory  won. 
O  liated  foeman  Fate! 

Now  all  is  sense,  and  life,  and  love. 
And  footstejis  unrestrained  rove; 

O  baffled  Fate! 
And  where  I  lead.  Fate  follows  me. 
Myself  my  lord  of  destiny. 

O  baflBed,  vanquished  fate! 


NAMES. 
'Neath  the  Natural  Bridge's  dizzy  arch 
A  youth  once  carved  his  name ; 

And  when  above  the  yawning  chasm, 
He  hung,  as  if  with  life's  last  spasm, 
He  struck  his  knife  into  the  Hint, 
Dreaming  each  rude  and  ragged  dint 
Through  the  coming  years'  unceasing  march 
Would  herald  liis  deathless  fame. 

But  the  name  was  only  read 

By  eagles  in  their  flight. 
And  within  the  year  the  lichens  grew 

And  buried  it  out  of  sight. 

In  careless  leisure  my  name  I  trace 
On  a  perishable  page; 

And  I  know  the  ink  may  quickly  fade. 
Or  the  leaf  be  torn,  or  the  book  mislaid, 
Or  Are  may  burn,  or  flood  despoil  — 
In  a  thousand  ways  my  pen's  poor  toil 
May  come  to  naught,  and  a  vacant  place 
Alone  wait  the  coming  age. 

But  my  name,  I  trust,  shall  live. 
Safe  kept  in  memory's  shrine; 

Full  many  a  year  after  ruthless  fate 
Shall  have  faded  this  fleeting  line. 


AUTUMN. 

The  aster  glows  the  falling  leaves  beneath. 
The  golden  rod     gleams    by  the  hedgerow 
brown. 
As  tho'  the  dying  summer  in  the  frost  king's 
teeth 
Had  hurled  lier  gauntlet  down. 

So  when  the  shades  of  solemn  silence  sink 

Upon  us,  and  we  reach  life's  latest  breath. 
The  soul  exultant  bids,  e'en  on  the  grave's 
black  brink. 
Defiance  unto  death! 

We  perish  not.    The  mounting  spirit  towers 

In  conscious  immortality  sublime. 
And  gains    beyond    death's  feeble,  fleeting, 
winter  hours 
Eternal  summer  time. 

IN  BOHEMIA. 

I  am  rich;  who  says  me  nay? 
I  have  bread  to  eat  each,  day. 
Water  from  the  mountain  rill. 
Woman's  lips  to  kiss  at  will. 


« 


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LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL    POETS   OF    AMERICA. 


©- 


Russet  garb,  and  couch  of  moss. 
Treasures  free  from  rust  or  loss  — 
Why  should  not  my  life  be  gay? 
I  am  rich;  who  says  me  nay? 

I  am  rich;  who  says  me  nay? 
Friends  have  I  in  long  array  — 
Sun,  and  rain,  and  cloud  and  dew. 
Fields  of  green  and  sliies  of  blue; 
Pictures  drawn  by  nature's  hand; 
Books  the  soul  may  understand. 
And  a  life-long  hoUday  — 
I  am  rich;  who  says  me  nay? 

I  am  rich;  who  saj's  me  nay? 
Wliom  have  I  to  envy, pray? 
Crown  encumbered  liing?  or  sage 
Poring  o'er  the  midnight  page? 
Midas  starving  witli  his  gold? 
Better  far,  a  thousand  fold. 
Is  Bohemia  than  Cathay ! 
I  am  rich;  who  says  me  nay? 

ENVOY. 

Prince,  tliy  bounty  I  decline! 
Quaff  with  me  this  rustic  wine! 
Equals  thou  and  I  to-day  — 
I  am  rich ;  who  says  me  nay? 

BOOKS  AND  BINDINGS. 
On  my  study  shelves  they  stand. 
Well-known  all  to  eye  and  hand, 
Bound  in  gorgeous  cloth  of  gold. 
In  morocco  rich  and  old, 
Some  in  paper,  plain  and  cheap. 
Some  in  muslin,  calf  and  sheep; 
Volumes  great  and  volumes  small 
Ranged  along  my  study  wall ; 
But  their  contents  are  past  finding 
By  their  size  or  by  their  binding. 

There  is  one  with  gold  agleam. 
Like  the  Sangreal  in  a  dream. 
Back  and  boards  in  every  part 
Triumph  of  the  binder's  art; 
Costing  more,  't  is  well  believed. 
Then  the  author  e'er  received. 
But  its  contents?    Idle  tales. 
Flapping  of  a  shallop's  sails! 
In  the  treastiry  of  learning 
Scarcely  worth  a  penny's  turning. 

Here's  a  tome  in  paper  plain. 
Soiled  and  torn  and  marred  with  stain, 
Cowering  from  each  statelier  book 
In  tlie  darkest,  dustiest  nook. 
Take  it  down,  and  lo!  each  page 
Breathes  the  wisdom  of  a  sage! 
Weiglii'd  a,  ttiousand  limes  in  gold. 
Half  its  worth  would  not  Ije  told. 
For  all  truth  of  ancient  story 
Crowns  each  line  with  deathless  glory. 

On  my  study  shelves  tln'y  stand; 
But  my  study  walls  e.\i>and, 


As  mind's  pinions  are  unfurled. 
Till  they  compass  all  the  world. 
Endless  flies  go  marching  by. 
Men  of  lowly  rank  amd  high. 
Some  in  broadclotli,  gem-adorned. 
Some  in  homespun,  fortune-scorned; 
But  God's  scales  that  all  are  weighed  in 
Heed  not  what  each  man's  arrayed  in. 


THE  STONES  OF  MANHATTAN. 
I  tread  the  stones  of  Manhattan ;  I,  who  have 

journeyed  far 
From  the  meadow-sward  and  the  moss  bank, 

and  the  streamlet's  pebbly  bar; 
I,  who  have  wandered  hither,  allured  by  the 

tales  they  told 
Of  how  the  stones  of  Manhattan  were  reeking 

with  ruddy  gold. 

I  tread  the  stones  of  Manhattan,  the  stones 
that  are  hard  to  my  feet, — 

As  hard  as  the  hearts  around  me,  as  hard  as 
the  faces  I  meet. 

Hot  is  their  breath  in  summer,  with  fever  of 
selfisli  greed. 

Cold  is  their  touch  in  winter,  as  hearts  to  tlie 
hand  of  need. 

My  heel  strikes  Are  from  the  fUnt,  but  the 
spark  is  dead  ere  it  burns, — 

Strikes  flre  in  my  angry  striding,  but  is  bruis- 
ed by  the  stone  it  spurns, — 

And  echo  scorns  with  a  stony  voice  the  cry  of 
a  soul's  despair 

Breathed  out  on  the  thunderous  tbrobbingsof 
the  city's  desert  air. 

Oh !  faithless  stones  of  Manhattan,  that  tempt- 
ed my  boyish  feet 
Away  from  the  clover-meadow, from  the  wind- 
woven  waves  of  wheat ! 
I  thought  ye  a  golden  highway ;  I  find  ye  the 

path  of  shame. 
Where  souls  are  sold  for  silver,  and  gold  is  the 

price  of  fame ! 
But  my  wearj-  feet  must  tread  ye,  as  slaves  on 

tiie  (juariy  lloor. 
And  my  aching  brain   nuist  suffer  your  i)iti- 

less  uproar. 
Till  the  raving  tide  .shall  .sweep  above,  and 

careless  feet  shall  tread 
On  the  fatal  stones  of  Manhattan,  over  my 
dreamless  bed ! 


POETS  I^NKNOWN  TO  FAME. 
Wlio  (luestions  if  a  Ijrazen  triniiiu't  sounti. 

Or  silver  clarion,  or  pipe  of  reed, 
Wlien  edioes  linger  'mid  the  Switzer  hills? 
Who  seeks  the  poet's  name  or  native  bound. 

So  but  liis  song  be  melody  indeed. 
And  Ids  inspired  word  tlie  spirit  tin-ills? 


© 


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LOCAI.  AND  NATTOlSrAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


91 


LOUIS  N.  CRILL. 

Born  :  Spragueville,  Iowa,  June  3, 1867. 
Louis  eng'ag-ed  in  the  mercantile  business  in 
18b3,  and  is  tlie  proprietor  of  a  general  mer- 
chandise store  in  Richland,  Dakota,  where  he 
now  resides  with  his  wife,  whom  he  married 
in  1888.  He  has  hut  recently  commenced  to 
court  the  muse,  yet  his  writings  have  in  a 


LOUIS  N.  CRILL. 

comparatively  short  time  appeared  extensive- 
ly in  many  prominent  publications,  including 
the  New  York  Truth  Seeker,  Sturdy  Oak,  and 
the  American  Nonconformist.  In  person  Mr. 
Crill  is  Ave  feet  ten  inches  in  height,  weighs 
175  iJouiids,  and  lias  daiK  li;tirunU  eyes.  A  vol- 
ume of  his  poems  will  s<ioa  be  published. 


©- 


MOTHER'S  ADVICE. 
When  you  grow  up,  my  darling  boy. 

To  manhood,  good  and  true. 
You'll  find  your  sister  don't  enjoy 

The  rights  by  justice  due; 
You'll  find  it  true  that  custom  gives, 

To  man  the  higher  place ; 
That  woman  only  strives,  and  lives 

To  perish  in  the  race. 
When  you  grow  up,  my  darling  boj , 

Admit  the  truth  so  plain. 
That  woman's  rights  are  to  employ 

The  products  of  her  brain ; 
To  feast  in  banquet  halls  of  fame. 

Beside  her  bi'other,  man ; 


To  show  the  world  in  deed  and  name 

That  woman's  in  the  van. 
Wlieu  you  grow  up,  my  darling  boj-. 

Stand  firm  for  truth  and  right; 
Disdain  the  fact  that  mother's  joy 

Is  tinged  with  one  sad  blight. 
Endeavor  with  yt)ur  strength  sincere 

To  abrogate  the  laws 
That  make  a  woman's  life  appear 

A  slave  to  any  cause. 
When  you  grow  up,  my  darling  boy. 

In  justice  always  scorn, 
And  ev'ry  wrong  try  to  destroy. 

Until  a  good  is  born. 
Remember  that  in  future  needs 

Posterity  may  call 
Upon  the  men  whose  earnest  deeds 

Gave  equal  rights  to  all. 


BORDER   ECHOES. 
Ripples  of  laughter  will  echo,  in  a  valley  of 

anguish  and  pain; 
Carols  of  birds  rent  the  air,  when  with  sorrow 

the  sky  is  aflame. 
Nations   are   boasting  in  luxury,    while    its 

sovereigns  are  living  in  need; 
Liberty  sits  on  Its  pedal,  while  the  millions  in 

serfdom  do  bleed. 
Musical  strains  are  vibrating,  while  the  notes 

of  distress  reek  the  air ; 
Sunshine  is   sending   its   blessing,    and   the 

shadows  of  trouble  are  there. 
Great  are  the  names  of  the  wealthy,  but  hum- 
ble the  tiller  of  soil; 
Pinioned  are  angels  of  fortune,  but  wingless 

the  daughters  of  toil. 
Gilded  the  rainbow  of  hope,  that  bows  o'er  a 

life  of  despair; 
Sweet  are  the  songs  of  the  birds  that  warble 

in  seasons  of  care. 
Gay  are  the  symbols  of  fashion,  in  a  city  of 

mis'ry  and  pain; 
Grand  the  cathedrals  of  state,  while  the  poor 

live  in  hovels  of  shame. 
Rosy  the  tint  of  the  sunset,  that  is  domed  in 

the  sky  of  the  west ; 
Drifted  away  by  the  breezes  are  the  clouds  of 

dismay  and  distress. 
Noble  the  man  of  the  present,  that  is  free 

from  illusion  and  guile; 
Soothing  the  proffer  of  kindness,  in  an  hour 

of  misfortune  and  trial. 
Robed  in  the  mantle  of  glorj',  is  the  goddess  of 

justice  and  right; 
Chased  by  the  light  of  the  morning,  is  the 

darkness  and  gloom  of  the  night. 
Onward    humanity    struggles,   through    the 

mist  and  the  storm  do  they  glide; 
Tossed  on  the  waves  of  the  ocean,  and  then 
drifted  ashore  by  the  tide. 


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92 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-SI 


WE  HAVE  A  LITTLE  BABY. 
We  liare  a  little  baby 

To  cheer  our  heartli  and  home. 
To  fill  our  hearts  with  gladness. 

And  cause  us  not  to  roam. 
Its  eyes  do  g-lltter  fondly  — 

In  sweet  affection  shine ; 
We  see  the  image  plainly 

Of  beauty  most  divine. 
Tliey  hold  a  hidden  magic 

In  every  look  and  stare. 
Compelling  pure  devotion. 

Unceasing  love  and  care. 

We  have  a  little  baby 

Our  leisui-e  to  emploj^; 
It  drives  away  all  sorrow 

And  fills  our  lives  with  joy. 
The  clouds  have  southly  drifted. 

The  sky  is  bright  and  clear, 
Then  comes  the  tiny  tendril 

To  draw  our  hearts  so  near; 
And  like  the  gentle  zephyr 

That  woos  the  morning  sun, 
It  brings  to  us  the  emblem. 

Of  heaven  here  begun. 

We  have  a  little  baby 

So  sweet,  so  pure,  so  fair. 
To  bear  our  name  and  fortune. 

To  drive  awaj-  dull  care. 
It  is  a  little  fairy. 

Bedewed  with  winsome  smiles, 
And  'neath  its  little  dimples 

We  see  its  gleeful  wiles. 
Just  like  the  morning  roses. 

Just  like  the  morning  dove, 
It  is  a  little  blessing 

To  link  our  lives  in  love. 


©- 


A  DREAM  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

Oh  fast  the  years  are  fleeting 

My  youthful  days  are  gone, 
A  childish  heart's  fond  beating 

Is  past  the  gray  of  dawn. 
Bring  back  those  years  of  pleasure 

So  free  from  toil  and  care ; 
Those  years  that  gave  full  measure 

To  every  joy  full  share; 
Bring  back  tlie  golden  beaming 

Of  childhood's  hopes  and  fears. 
Bring  back  the  silver  gleaming 

Of  early  gleeful  years. 

Resound  those  notes  of  laughter 
That  echoed  through  the  air. 

Bring  back  these  long  years  after 
The  joys  that  now  are  rare; 

Bring  back  the  eager  yearning 
For  river  dale  and  hill, 

Wlieri'  childish  ho))e  was  burning 


With  joy  its  cup  to  fill. 
Those  springtide  spells  of  beauty 

Tliat  filled  our  hearts  with  joy. 
Are  changed  to  hours  of  duty 

Our  earnest  thoughts  employ. 

The  thrill  of  bush  and  wlldwood 

Where  youthful  fancy  played; 
The  flowery  paths  of  childhood 

That  led  through  dells  of  shade 
Were  changed  to  paths  when  lovers 

In  fondest  passion  dream. 
Of  secret  joys  that  hovers 

Where  love  doth  reign  supreme, 
Recall  the  fondest  token 

By  early  childhood  earned  — 
The  spell  of  years  is  broken 

The  sweets  of  knowledge  learned. 


SUNSET. 
I  have  gazed  on  the  morning  of  life. 

On  the  rose  tinted  flush  of  the  scene, 
When  the  fancj'  of  youth  was  still  rife 

And  the  beauty  of  springtide  was  green. 
When  the  future  was  shining  with  splendor, ' 

Not  a  cloud  in  the  dome  of  the  sky : 
And  the  pathway  of  youth  was  made  tender 

Though  the  driftwinds  of  sorrow  were  nigh. 

I  have  gazed  on  the  moontide  of  life. 

On  the  midday  of  withering  heat; 
On  the  mingling  of  trouble  and  strife 

And  the  feverish  brow  of  defeat. 
I  have  gazed  on  the  heights  of  ambition 

That  ascend  to  the  zenith  of  fame, 
I  have  heard  the  pulsebeat  of  Life's  mission 

And  I  know  that  true  Bliss  is  the  aim. 

I  have  gazed  on  the  ev'nlng  of  life. 

On  the  sweetness  of  calm  and  repose; 
On  the  surcease  of  sorrow  and  strife 

And  the  grandeur  that  living  bestows. 
I  have  seen  the  gray  shadows  fast  falling 

'Round  the  tottering  frame  of  old  age. 
And  the  echoes  of  night  are  fast  calling  — 

Mother  Nature  has  turned  the  last  page. 

I  have  gazed  on  the  sunset  at  last. 

On  the  vision  of  crim.son  and  gold  — 
When  the  shade  tints  of  ev'niug  are  past. 

Then  the  beauties  of  Dawn  will  unfold. 
I  have  gazed  on  the  casket  containing 

The  I'einains  of  a  dear  one  who's  gone. 
And  the  symphonies  sweet  are  refniining. 

On  the  flight  to  the  beauties  beyond. 


EXTRACT. 
Charming  the  maiden  that  snatches  a  rose 

To  pin  on  a  lover's  breast ; 
Grand  is  the  passion  the  heart  only  knows 

When  love  is  by  love  caressed. 


-® 


©- 


-as 


liOCAI.  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


93 


HUBBARD  M.  SMITH,  M.  D. 

Born:  Winchester,  Kv.,  Sept.  6,  1820. 
Early  in  life  young  Hubl>ard  apprenticed 
himself  to  a  saddler,  and  worked  at  that  busi- 
ness until  about  twenty-one  years  of  age. 
About  this  time  he  commenced  the  study  of 
medicine,  but  did  not  practice  until  1844.  Two 
years  huer  Mr.  Smith  married  a  friend  of  his 
youth;  settling'  in  Vincennes,  Indiana,  in  1849, 
where  he  has  since  resided.  He  has  ever  since 
been  engaged  in  the  practice  of  his  profession, 
excepting  about  ten  years  in  which  he  was 
engaged  either  in  editing  and  publishing  the 
Vincennes  Gazette  or  acting  as  postmaster. 
Mr.   Smith  has  filled    many  important  posi- 


* 


HUBBAKD  M.    SMITH,   M.    D. 

tions  — including  U.  S.  Pension  Surgeon  for 
twelve  years ;  and  now  fills  the  oflBce  of  trustee 
to  the  Presbyterian  church  and  the  univer- 
sit}'.  His  poetical  compositions  have  been 
publislied  in  the  leading  periodi>als  of  Amer- 
ica. Mr.  Smith  is  a  member  of  several 
medical  societies,  and  has  contributed  prose 
to  the  medical  press  and  associations.  He 
became  one  of  the  charter  members  of  the 
Western  Writers'  association  of  Indiana,  and 
has  road  several  poems  before  that  body.  His 
sons  have  become  well  known  as  men  of  abil- 
ity —  one  as  a  United  States  Consul ;  another 
as  a  musical  composer;  a  third  son  as  a  com- 
mercial traveler;  and  the  fourth  son  is  suc- 
cessfully  practicing   law    in    Dallas,    Texas. 


Dr.  Smith  also  has  two  daughters  living  at 
the  old  homestead.  The;  Doctor  is  still  active- 
ly engaged  in  the  practice  of  medicine,  being 
now  the  oldest  of  his  confreres  at  Vincennes. 


SONNETS  -  CUPID'S  PLEA. 
Are  matches  made  in  heaven?    Ah  I  no,  not 
all; 
For  circumstance,  and  art,  and  mammon 

do 
Much  of  the  pairing  of  the  world,  they  who 
Mark  not  the  fact  ai;e  deaf  to  Cupid's  call. 
Yet,  when,  contrariwise,  some  people  seek 
The  course  of  nature's  plan  to  overthrow. 
Success  may  follow  for  awhile;  but  woe 
And  sorrow  afterward  dire  vengeance  wreak. 
A  monitor  presides  within  the  breast 
Of  every  mortal,  as  a  lining  soul. 
Restless,  and  vigilant,  and  e'er  in  quest 

Of  some  congenial  spirit  to  console 
The  aching  heart,  and  give  its  longings  rest. 
And  nothing  else  its  cravings  will  control. 
To  farthest  verge  marked  by  the  night  and 
day, 
Ere    blighting   sin  the  human  race  had 
cursed, 
Tlie  heavenlj'  orbs  their  courses  run,  as  first 
Through  space  they  started  in  their  trackless 

way. 
So,  in  accord  with  laws  divinely  made. 

When  left  to  freely  choose,  all  creatures 

mate. 
And  not  by  accident,  which  some  call  fate, 
And  thus,    through   love,    is  Nature's  voice 

obeyed. 
Are  laws  which  seem   to  govern   earth  and 
heaven, 
Not  made  for  man?  Can  he  set  them  aside, 
When  they  for  all  creation's  sum  were  given? 
Can  he,  through  station,  pomp  or  wealth, 
or  pride, 
Or  fame,  atone  for  pure  affection  riv^en. 

That  on  Love's  altar  once  was  deified  ? 
The  wedding  bells  with  silver  tongues  may 
ring 
Their  merry  chimes,  the  ear  to  ciiarm  and 
please. 
And  riches  bring  with  them  luxurious  ease; 
But,  ah,  too  oft  they  leave  a  poignant  sting 
Where  naught  but  joy  seemed  only  due ;  for 
love 
Cannot  be  bought  with  gold;   respect,  at 

best, 
Is  all  that  mammon  gains  by  rich  behest  — 
Affection  pure  it  cannot  buy  or  move. 
Society,  with  artful  charms  may  win 

With  dazzling   rays,  but  all  its  glamor 
soon 
Wears  off,  as  pleasures  fade  from  gilded  sin ; 
And  even  Fame  the  heart  cannot  attune, 


-© 


©- 


94 


-© 


LOCAL   AXD   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


When  mated  not  by  love,  for  naught  within 
One  answering  chord  sends  back  to  prof- 
fered Ijoon. 


©- 


THE  BLACKSMITH. 

With  an  arm  of  might, 

At  tlie  dawn  of  liglit, 
The  blacksmith  hies  to  his  shop  away 

To  labor  till 

The  whippoorwill 
At  evening  sings  his  vesper  lay. 

The  bellows  blow. 

And  the  coals  soon  glow, 
Like  the  dazzling  rays  of  the  noon-day  sun ; 

The  huge  sledge  swings, 

And  the  anvil  rings 
For  the  daily  task  is  now  begun. 

The  sparks  as  bright. 

As  the  meteor's  light, 
From  the  vivid  metal  swiftly  fly; 

Whilst  wreaths  of  smoke. 

From  the  burning  coke. 
In  beauteous  columns  rise  on  high. 

List!  list,  the  peal. 

As  on  the  steel 
The  hammers  swiftly  fall  with  might. 

Like  clashing  swords. 

When  army  hordes 
Contending  meet  in  deadly  flght. 

Though  on  his  brow 

The  sweat  stands  now. 
He  heeds  it  not  but  toils  away. 

Since  Heaven  has  said, 

Man's  daily  bread 
By  labor  shall  be  gained  each  day. 

The  world  may  sneer 

And  cast  a  leer. 
At  the  sooty  smith,  whilst  passing  by; 

But  what  cares  he. 

With  a  heart  as  free 
As  the  curling  smoke  ascending  high. 

'Tis  not  the  shade 

Of  man,  or  trade, 
Whicli  lie  labors  at,  that  gives  him  worth; 

But  heart  and  mind. 

Which  stand  behind. 
That  give  him  greatness  on  the  earth. 

No  specters  grim 

Appear  to  him. 
At  night  to  mar  his  sweet  repose; 

For  in  his  mind 

Sweet  peace  is  shrined, 
And  on  his  cheeks  healtli's  hue  e'er  glows. 

As  thus  he  toils. 

Life's  sad  turmoils 
Are  things  tt)  him  as  light  as  air; 

For  no  tliouglits  I'cst 

Williiii  liis  bi'casl. 
But  those  whicli  hope  and  love  bring  I  hero. 


MATTHEW  H.  PETERS. 

Born:  Rhenish  Bavaria,  June  6, 184.3. 
M.  H.  Peters,  the  author  of  the  following 
thoroughly  American  sentiment  is  by  birth 
a  German ;  was  brought  to  this  countrj'  when 
a  babe  and  has  grown  up  thoroughly  imbued 
witli  the  sjiirit  of  our  institutioiis.    He  served 


MATTHEW  H.  PETERS. 

four  years  as  a  union  soldier  during  tlie  war 
of  the  rebellion,  and  was  twice  severely  woun- 
ded, rising  from  the  rank  of  a  private  to  the 
rank  of  Major  in  his  regiment  —  the  T4tli  Ohio. 
He  has  served  one  term  in  the  Illinois  legis- 
lature, and  was  mayor  of  Watseka  four  years. 
In  ISWhe  started  the  Iroquois  County  Times. 


THE  GOLDEN  RULE. 
I  ask  not  for  myself  a  right 

Which  I  to  otiiers  would  deny; 
With  all  mankind  I'd  share  the  light 
Nor  would  I  rule  by  force  of  might. 

But  on  the  (iolden  Rule  rely. 
AH  men  liave  their  i>aternity 

In  common  witli  their  fellow  men; 
Ecjuality,  frati-rnity. 

Should  rule  the  heart  and  guide  the  pen. 
And  when   this  hallowed  rule  i)revail 
Tyrants,  crowns  and  kings  shall  fail, 
And  niiin  and  woinaii  i'<niiil  boiii 
Shall  stand  ei'ect  that,  glorious  morn 
And  !■('<■( )giiize  the  right  of  I'ach 
To  libei'tj'  of  thought  and  si)eecli. 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF  AMEIilCA. 


95 


® 


JUAN  F.CAHILL. 

The  life  and  labors  of  Mr.  Cahill  have  been 
directed  unswerving-lj'  to  the  development 
of  more  extensive  commercial  relation  be- 
tween the  United  States  and  all  the  other 
countries  of  the   American    continent.    His 


«- 


JUAN  F.  CAHILL. 


writings  are  better  Isnown  throughout  Span- 
America  than  at  home,  particularly  throug'h 
his  editorials  which  have  appeared  in  El  Com- 
merciodel  Valle,  pubUshedat  St.  Louis,  Mo., 
and  of  which  he  has  been  editor  and  proprie- 
tor for  the  past  fifteen  years.  Mr.  Cahill  has 
written  extensively  for  the  pei-iodical  press, 
and  the  poem,  Mexico's  National  Anthem,  of 
which  he  is  the  autlior,  has  already  become 
very  popular  indeed. 

TO  THE  WORLD'S   ADVANCE  THINKERS 

AND  WORKERS. 
Cong'enial  spirits  loom  in  everj'  clime ! 
Fettered  by  no  creed, unhallowed  by  no  crime ! 
You  of  magnetic  power,—  Kings  of  earth ! 
Endowed  with  prescience  'mid    surrounding 

gloom. 
You  roll  the  stone  from  mind's  obstructed 

tomb: 
Beget  new  thoughts  and  better  systems  plan ; 
Iconoclastic  Sampsons,  leading  brother  man! 
Evolved  from  spheres  and   ages   hoar  with 

rime. 
Your  footfalls  lead  Progression's  march  and 

prime : 


Your  psyciiic  light,  concealed  in  human  form. 
Pierces  the  clouds  and  calms  the  angry  storm. 
Nor  age  nor  sex  your  mighty  powers  confine; 
For  light  supernal  througli  your  spirits  sliine. 
The  controversial  power,that  peace  wilhliolds. 
Grows  less  and  weaker  as  your  light  unfolds. 
Your  strifes  of  mind,  to  realize  God's  plan 
Of  peace  on  eartli  and  brotherhood  for  man. 
Will  soon  the  crown  of  brilliant  victory  wear 
And  full  fruition  to  the  nations  bear. 
Thi.s  Great  Republic's  mission  you  will  fill; 
And,  by  your  force  of  soul  and  wealth  of  skill. 
Unite  the  waters  on  which  commerce  flows 
From  lake  Itasca  to  the  Barbadoes. 
From  northern  Yellowstone  to  the  Uruguay 
Your  Ocean-River  craft  will  freely  ply. 
Upon  the  sliallow  waters  come  and  go 
And  trend  the  Gulf  of  neighboring  Mexico; 
The  Mississippi's  mighty  banks  explore. 
And  cleave  the  waters  of  Colombia's  shore; 
And  from  each  country  bring  the  precious 

freight 
From  far  Alaska  to  Magellan's  Strait; 
And  homeward  bear,across  the  ocean's  breast. 
Rich  tropic  treasures  to  our  Potent  West; 
When  thus  exchanged  the  products  of  each 

rone. 
The  North  and  South  will  bless  this  Eulophone 


TO  THE  PAN-AMERICAN  CONFERENCE. 
A  union  of  hearts  and  a  union  of  hands, 
A  union  no  Kingcraft  can  sever 
Is  the  union  of  sovereign  Republican  lands  — 
May  it  prosper,  'mid  blessings  forever! 
Let  war  and  its  horrors  forevermore  cease 
Where  God-like  intelligence  reigns; 
Where  Washington    waged  every  battle  for 

peace 
And  Lincoln  broke  slavery's  chains! 
Where  Andean  heroes  with  Bolivar  bled 
In  defense  of  the  same  holy  cause  — 
Where  Hidalgo  and  Morazan  victory  led 
'Gainst  Spanish  oppression  and  laws! 
Where  Liberty  dwells  on  the  seas  and  the 

lands 
And  her  martyrs  with  glory  are  crowned;— 
Be  there  union  of  hearts  and  union  of  hands 
Where  American  Republics  are  found! 

A  NOBLE   NAME  ENSHRINED. 
Kind,  curious  reader,  can  you  find. 
Say  I  to  those  who  thirst  for  fame. 
Letters  here  so  linked,  combined. 
If  read  aright,  will  spell  a  name; 
Remember,  you  must  be  well  skilled. 
And  sacrifice  some  of  your  time 
To  this  anomalous  labor  which,  fulfilled. 
Will  lend  new  prestige  to  my  rhyme. 
Why  so?  You  ask  —  A  name  has  here  a  shrine 
Of  grander  merit  than  Golconda's  mine. 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


IN  MEMORIAM: 
Deatli's  blighting  blast 

Came  cold  and  fast, 
Engulfing  in  its  gloom 
Love,  Worth  and  Youth, 

But  this  soul  of  truth 
Finds  life  beyond  the  tomb. 
Immortal  fame 

Illumes  this  name 
Now  numbered  with  the  dead; 
And  clouds  of  woe. 

Fair  Mexico, 
o'erhang-thy  chieftain's  head. 
Reflect !  Look  back, 

Proud  Anahuac, 
To  til e  deed  by  Diaz  done! 
Each  bitter  strife 

For  the  nation's  life 
Gave  glory  to  her  son ! 
And  his  noble  wife, 

When  fear  was  rife. 
Devoutly  Knelt  in  prayer; 
Each  battle  fought. 

With  anguish  fraught, 
Delfina's  thoughts  were  there. 
In  the  land  above 

Where  peace  and  love 
Abide  with  all  the  blest. 
Zealous  and  true, 

'Mid  the  chosen  few, 

God  called  her  home  to  rest. 


*- 


MEXICO'S  NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 
Bind,  oh  my  country!  thy  brow  with  the  olive 
Of  peace,  for  Archangels  thy  future  foretold; 
And  heav'n  decreed  it  when  time  was  an  infant 
The  hand  of  Jehovah  thy  life  would  unfold. 
Should  daring  monarchs  attempt  to  invade 

thee. 
Profaning  thy  soil  with  unhallowed  tread. 
Remember,  dear  country,  that  kind  heaven 

gave  thee  [dead! 

In  each  son  a  soldier,  unconquered,  though 
Cho.— Mexican  men,  to  the  tocsin  of  war. 
Make  ready  the  charger  and  steel. 
Let  earth  vibrate  to  its  c(>nter  and  far 
With  the  cannon's  sonorous  appeal! 
In  war's  fiercest  combats  thou  often  liast  seen 

them,  [tliy  name. 

Their  liearts  nerved  with  courage  and  love  for 
Braving   death    and   destruction,  as  heroes, 

serenely,  [fame. 

Who  seek,  as  their  guerdon,  the  death-bed  of 
If  all  deeds  and  all  exploits  of  glory. 
Of  thy  brave  sons  in  Ijattle,  were  told, 
How  thy  records  would  glow  with  the  story 
Stamped  in  letters  of  crimson  and  gold! 
As  the  oak  by  tlie  lightning  is  sliattered 
And  liurled  to  the  torn^nts  below. 
So  discord,  domestic,  is  banished 
By  thy  Angel  of  Peace,  Mexico! 


No  more  shall  the  blood  of  thy  children 

Be  shed  in  internecine  strife, 

Nor  the  steel  by  their  hands  be  uplifted  — 

Save  to  guard  thy  fair  honor  and  life. 

The  sword  of  Zempoala's  great  hero 

Shall  defend  thee  with  vigorous  blow; 

And  thy  glorious,  trl-colored  banner 

Shall  sustain  his  strong  arm  'gainst  thy  foe. 

In  war  and  in  peace  will  this  chieftain 

Lead  the  Mexican  standard  to  fame; 

For  he  'twas  who  circled  with  glory 

And  chaplets  of  laurel  thy  name! 

War!  war!  without  truce,  to  the  invader 

Who  dares  our  land's  honor  to  stain ! 

War!  war!  —  Let  our  country's  flag  redden 

In  the  waves  of  the  blood  of  the  slam ! 

War!  war!  —  in  the  mountain  —  the  valley, — 

Let  the  loud-sounding  cannon  proclaim. 

And  the  echoes,  sonorous,  resound  it 

In  Union  and  Liberty's  name! 

Rather  tlian  yield  in  submission 

And  weaponless  bend  to  the  foe. 

Let  the  blood  of  thy  sons  steep  the  meadows 

And  their  footprints  the  glory  work  show  I— 

Let  thy  palaces,  temples  and  towers 

Be  given  to  ashes  and  flame ! 

And  their  ruins  alone  bear  this  record : — 

Here  Anahuac's  heroes  were  slain! 

If  the  war  trump  should  call  you  to  battle, 

Iturbide's  loved  flag  to  uphold,— 

Press  forward,  brave  sons  of  Mexitli, 

And  forget  not  your  heroes  of  old! 

Let  the  enemy's  ensigns  be  trampled ; 

Let  them  carpet  the  field  of  the  dead ! 

Where  your  war-horses  dash  on  in  triumph. 

By  their  riders  to  victory  led ! 

When  thy  soldiers  return  to  the  hearthstone. 

Wearing  proudly  the  garlands  of  fame 

That  in  battle,  with  lionor,  they  wrested 

Defending  their  country's  fair  name. 

Their  laurels,  ensanguined,  they  part  with. 

Exchanged  for  the  myrtle  and  rose. 

While  their  fond  wives  and  daughters  rejoicing 

Strew  with  jasmine  the  couch  of  repose. 

He  who  in  battle  for  country 

Shall  amid  tlie  fleri-e  contest  succumb. 

Must  obtain  a  rich  chaplet  of  glory. 

And  of  liero  and  soldier  the  tomb. 

Let  the  cross  o'er  the  grave  that's  erected 

Be  the  sword  that  he  valiantly  bore, 

Enwrapped  with  Ignala's  loved  banner 

And  crowned  with  tlie  laurels  he  wore. 

Free  country!  thy  children  are  plighted. 

Their  last  breath  for  thee  to  exhale. 

If  Bellona's  shrill  trump  should  invoke  them. 

The  enemy's  hosts  to  assail— 

For  thee  are  the  garlands  of  olive! 

For  them  are  the  records  of  fame! 

For  tliee  is  bright  victory's  laurel ! 

For  them  — is  u  tomb  and  a  name ! 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


97 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

Born  :  CAirBRioGE,  Mass.,  Feb.  22, 1819. 

This  poet,  essayist  and  critic  graduated  at 

Harvard,  and  for  more  tiian  twenty  years  was 

professor  of  belles-lettres  in  that  coileg-e.    In 

1877  he  was  appointed  minister  of  Spain,  and 


JAMES  RUSSELIi  LOWELti. 

three  years  later  he  was  transferred   to  the 
English  court. 

Mr.  Lowell's  best  poems  are:  The  Present 
Crisis,  Sir  Launfal,  A  Glance  Behind  the  Cur- 
tain, Under  the  Willows,  A  Fable  of  Critics, 
Commemoration  Ode,Longing  and  The  Change- 
ling. His  chief  prose  works  are:  Among  My 
Books,  and  My  Study  Windows. 


ALADDIN. 


When  I  was  a  beggarly  boy. 

And  lived  in  a  cellar  damp, 
I  had  not  a  friend  nor  a  toy. 

But  I  had  Aladdin's  lamp; 
When  I  could  not  sleep  for  cold, 

I  had  fire  enough  in  my  brain. 
And  builded,  with  roofs  of  gold. 

My  beautiful  castles  in  Spain ! 

Since  then  I  have  toiled  day  and  night, 

I  have  money  and  power  good  store. 
But  I'd  give  all  my  lamps  of  silver  bright. 

For  the  one  that  is  mine  no  more ; 
Take.  Fortune,  whatever  you  choose. 

You  gave,  and  may  snatch  again ; 
I  have  nothing  'twould  pain  me  to  lose, 

For  I  own  no  more  castles  in  Spain! 


LONGING. 
Of  all  the  myriad  moods  of  mmd 

That  through  the  soul  come  thronging. 
What  one  was  e'er  so  dear,  so  kind. 

So  beautiful,  as  Longing? 
The  thing  we  long  for,  that  we  are 

For  one  transcendent  moment, 
Before  the  present,  poor  and  bare. 

Can  make  its  sneering  comment. 

Still  through  our  paltry  stir  and  strife 

Glow  down  the  ■svished  ideal. 
And  Longing  molds  in  clay  what  Life 

Carves  in  the  marble  real. 
To  let  the  new  life  in,  we  know. 

Desire  must  ope  the  portal; 
Perhaps  the  Longing  to  be  so 

Helps  make  the  soul  immortal. 


EXTRACTS. 
Earth's  noblest  thing,  a  woman  perfected. 

Be  noble !  and  the  nobleness  that  lies 
In  other  men,  sleeping,  but  never  dead, 
WiU  rise  In  majesty  to  meet  thine  own,| 

New  occasions  teach  new  duties;  time  makes 

ancient  good  uncouth; 
They  must  upward  still  and  onward  who  would 

keep  abreast  of  truth. 

But  better  far  it  is  to  speak 

One  simple  word  which  now  and  then 
Shall  waken  their  free  nature  in  the  weak 

And  friendless  sons  of  men. 

The  busy  world  shoves  angrily  aside 

The  man  who  stands  with  arms  akimbo  set 

Until  occasion  tell  him  what  to  do. 

And  he  who  waits  to  have  his  task  marked  out 

Shall  die  and  leave  his  errand  unfulfilled. 

No  man  is  born  into  the  world  whose  work 
Is  not  born  with  him ;  there  is  always  work 
And  tools  to  work  withal,  for  those  who  will. 
And  blessed  are  the  horny  hands  of  tod. 

Get  but  the  truth  once  uttered,  and  'tis  Uke 
A  star  new-born  that  drops  into  its  place, 
And  which,  once  circling  in  its  placid  round 
Not  all  the  tumult  of  the  earth  can  shake. 

And  I  honor  the  man  who  is  willing  to  sink 
Halt  his  present  repute  for  the  freedom  to 

think. 
And  when  he  has  thought,  be  Ms  cause  strong 

or  weak. 
Will  risk  t'other  half  for  the  freedom  to  speak. 
Caring  naught  for  what  vengeance  the  mob 

has  in  store. 
Let  that  mob  be  the  upper  ten  thousand  or 

lower. 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


Life  is  a  leaf  of  paper  white 
Whereon  each  one  of  us  may  write 
His  word  or  two,  and  then  comes  nig-ht ; 
Greatly  begin !  Though  thou  hast  time 
But  for  a  line,  be  that  sublime! 
Not  failure,  but  low  aim,  is  crime. 


8&- 


THE  VISION  OF   SIR  LAUNFAL. 

Note.—  The  following  extract  is  the  prelude 
to  Part  First  of  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,  one 
of  the  best  of  Lowell's  efforts  as  a  poet.  The 
poem  appeared  in  1848,  and  it  has  done  much 
to  establish  the  reputation  of  its  author  as 
one  of  the  most  scholarly  of  American  poets. 
Over  his  keys  the  musing  organist, 

Beginning  doubtfully  and  far  away, 
First  lets  his  fingers  •wander  as  they  list. 

And  builds  a  bridge  from  Dreamland  for  his 
lay. 
Then,  as  the  touch  of  his  loved  instrument 

Gives  hope  and    fervor,  nearer   draws    his 
theme, 
Fli'St  guessed  by  faint  auroral  flushed  sent 

Along  the  wavering  vista  of  his  dream. 

Not  only  around  our  infancy 
Doth  heaven  with  all  its  splendors  lie. 
Daily,  with  souls  that  cringe  and  plot, 
We  Sinais  climb,  and  know  it  not. 
Over  our  manhood  bend  the  skies; 

Against  our  fallen  and  traitor  lives 
The  great  winds  utter  prophecies; 

With  our  faint  hearts  the  mountain  strives; 
Its  arms  outstretched,  the  druid  wood 

Waits  with  its  benedicite; 
And  to  our  age's  drowsy  blood 

Still  shouts  the  inspiring  sea. 

Earth  gets  its  pri.'o  for  what  earth  gives  us : 

The  beggar  is  taxed  for  a  corner  to  die  in, 
Tiie  priest  hath  his  fee  who  comes  and  shrives 
us. 

We  bargain  for  the  graves  we  lie  in; 
At  the  devil's  booth  are  all  things  sold. 
Each  ounce  of  dross  cost  its  ounce  of  gold : 

For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay; 
Bubtjles  we  buy  with  a  whole  soul's  tasking; 

'Tis  heaven  alone  that  is  given  away, 
'Tis  only  God  may  be  had  for  the  asking. 
No  i)rice  is  set  on  the  lavish  summer; 
June  may  be  had  by  the  ])oorest  comer. 

And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days; 
Then  heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be  in  tunc, 

And  o\'er  it  softlj'  her  warm  ear  lays; 
Whctlier  we  look  or  whether  we  listen. 
We  licar  lilc  mni-mur  oi'  sec  it  glisten; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might. 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers. 
And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 


Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers ; 
The  flush  of  hfe  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green, 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice; 
And  there's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  Ijlade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creatiu-e's  palace. 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves. 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings. 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and 

sings; 
He   sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her 

nest, — 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best":* 

N;)w  is  the  high  tide  of  the  jear. 

And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away 
Comes  flooding  back  with  a  ripply  cheer. 

Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay; 
Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it. 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  wills  it; 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been, 
'Tis   enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are 

green. 
We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  right  well 
How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms  swell , 
We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help 

knowing 
That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  growing. 

The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear 
That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near. 

That  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams  are 
flowing. 
That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky, 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard  by; 
And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back. 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack; 

We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's  lowing; 
And  hark  I  how  clear  bold  Chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year. 

Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing ! 

Joy  conies,  grief  goes,  we  know  not  how; 
Everything  is  hai)iiy  now. 

Everything  is  upward  striving; 
'Tis  as  easy  now  for  the  heart  to  be  true 
As  for  grass  to  be  green  or  skies  to  he  blue  — 

'Tis  the  natural  way  of  living. 

Who  knows  whither  the  clouds  have  fled'? 

In  the  unscarred  heaven  they  leave  no  wake; 
And  the  eyes  forget  the  tears  they  have  shed. 

The  heart  forgets  its  sorrow  and  ache; 
The  st)iil  i)artak(>s  the  season's  youth. 

And  thesnlithurous  rifts  of  iiassion  and  woe 
I,ie  deep  'neath  a  silence  pure  and  smooth, 

[.ike  l)ui'ncd-o\it  cratei's  lu'aled  with  snow. 
AVIiat  wonder  if  Sir  Launfal  now 
]{enienibered  the  keeping  of  his  vow'? 


^ 


SB 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


99 


-* 


MRS.  MARIA  B.  LINDESAY. 

Born  in  England,  Jan.  1,  1862. 
Mrs.  Lindesay  is  known  more  as  a  Christian 
poet,  and  her  poems  have  appeared  in  the 


MBS.  MARIA  B.  LINDESAY. 

Chicago  Living- Church  and  ulhei-  pruniinent 
periodicals.  She  now  resides  witli  her  hus- 
band in  Asheville,  N.  C. 


©- 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  TEST. 
Within  liis  studio,  one  briglit  day, 
A  massive  block  of  marble  lay. 
So  wondrous  pure,  so  spotless  white 
It  seemed  to  fill  tlie  room  witli  light, 
And  woo  his  genius  to  diire 
And  try  to  form  a  Being  there. 
Spurr'd  by  the  one  inspiring  thought, 
From  day  to  day  he  iiatient  wrought. 
From  weel£  to  week,  from  year  to  year 
Till  fourteen  of  tliem  pictured  there. 
And  he  all  doubt  if  'twas  his  best. 
And  trembling  much,  applied  the  test. 
He  called  a  child,  a  little  child 
All  innocent  and  undeflled. 
And  pointing  to  the  figure  there. 
In  its  pure  beauty  grand  and  fair. 
He  bade  lier  mark  it  long  and  well. 
And  who  she  thought  it  was  to  tell. 
He  watched  lier  with  a  beating  heart. 
Nor  could  he  check  a  fearsome  st^.rt. 
When  the  bright  eyes  had  wandered  o'er 
His  work,  and  viewed  it  yet  once  more. 


She  -spoke,  as  thougli  of  lioly  things, 
"  'Tis  some  good  angel,  —  without  wings.' 
He  turned  him  to  his  work  again 
With  more  of  pleasure  than  of  pain. 
And  labored  on,  with  hopes  and  fears. 
For  seven  more  long  weary  years; 
And  feeling  lie  had  done  his  best, 
He  once  again  applied  the  test. 
The  child  he  called  unto  him  now. 
Looked  on  it  once  with  thoughtful  brow. 
And  worshiping  witli  reverent  face 
The  beauty  of  its  wondrous  grace. 
Bent  all  abashed,  her  infant  head. 
And,  "It  is  Jesus  Christ,"  she  said. 


CHRIST'S  HUMANITY. 
O !  Babe  upon  thy  mother's  breast. 
In  our  weak  garb  of  suffering  drest. 
So  lowly,  yet  so  wondrous  high 
That  angels  might  not  pass  thee  by. 
And  wise  men  came  from  di.stant  lands. 
With  kingly  offerings  in  their  hands; 
What  dreams  prophetic,  strange  and  old 
Thy  heritage  and  work  foretold ! 
O!  Child  within  the  temple's  court. 
Where  priest  and  prophet  wisdom  sought. 
And  thy  young  lips  first  ope'  to  tell, 
Tlie  message  that  they  knew  so  well; 
O !  Man  upon  the  upward  way 
Beneath  the  heat  and  toil  of  day, 
With  weary  feet  and  tender  frame, 
Yet  ever,  always,  just  the  same: 
Mighty  to  heal,  lowly  and  mild. 
Yet  grand  in  justice,  undeflled. 
And  blending  with  a  god-like  love 
Thy  life  work  with  Thy  place  above! 
O!  Savior  at  the  awful  close. 
Forsook  by  friends,  beset  by  foes  — 
Before  the  vengeful  bar  arraign'd 
With  brow  and  garments  crimson-stained. 
Amidst  the  mob,  whose  only  cry. 
In  thirsty  voice  was,  •  Crucify !' 


LIFE. 

How  beautiful  is  Life !  When  the  first  streak 

Touches  the  sunrise  hills,         [of  dawning 
And  all  the  glint  and  glow   of  early  morning 

The  ^vide  east  fills. 
How  beautiful  is  life !    At  noontide's  hour 

When,  glowing  like  the  sun, 
Man's  widening  pathway  lit  with  wondrous 
Is  mapped  and  run.  [power. 

How  beautiful  is  life !    When  eventide 

Steals  softly  on. 
And  sunset's  gates  are  flining  open  wide 

Till  day  is  done. 
How  beautiful  is  life!    When  mystic   night 

Disrobes  her  starry  breast. 
Gleaming  with  other  world's  far  distant  light. 

And  man  must  rest. 


^ 


©- 


100 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMEHICA. 


WILLIAM    PEBERDY. 

BOHN:  England,  July  13, 1860. 
Mr.  Peberdy  is  now  a  resident  of  Middletown 

Conn.,  where  he  follow.s  the  ocfupittiim  of  an 


.\  I  I   I   I  \.\1  PEBERDY. 

engineer.  Hi.s  poems  have  appeared  in  the 
press  since  his  youth.  He  was  married  in 
1884  to  Miss  Belle  M.  Patrick,  of  Gorham,  Me. 


©- 


AN  AGED  MAN, 
Old  man,  of  hoary  years  and  age, 

Late  falling  of  its  bloom. 
Thy  history  marks  the  w:irrior's  page 

And  shares  its  honored  doom. 
Thy  traveling  days  are  nearly  o'er. 

And  far  advjineed  the  day 
When  thou  shalt  be  lo  work  to  more; 

But  silent  death  shall  say, 
Come  liiy  thee  down,  thou  weary  one, 

My  shoulders  broad  and  square 
Shall  bear  thee  off,  thy  duties  done. 

Thy  days  should  end  in  prayer. 
The  part  ye  liave  chose  from  the  chalice  of 

Hath  carried  thee  well  to  the  last; 
Hard  frozen  and  frosty,  thy  season  of  strife. 

Now  bie:ik  blows  its  wintrly  blast,        [head. 
Such  numbers  of  seasons  hath  changed  thine 

Ne'er  again  shall  we  see  its  bright  glow; 
All  fairness  lias  gone,  and  all  traces  have  tied 

And  left  it  as  white  as  the  snow. 
Those  long  deep  lines  across  thy  brow. 

Designs  of  nn.xious  care. 
Bf^speaks  that  it  hath  made  a  blow. 


[life 


Which  left  impression  there. 
Thy  tottering  steps  old  age  proclaims 

She's  master  of  her  will,  ^ 

And  toward  the  tomb  she  guides  her  reins, 

Where  death  shall  make  thee  still. 
Then  laid  at  last  within  the  tomb, 

That  churchyard's  quiet  bed. 
Where  leaves  will  drop  and  daises  bloom 

As  though  thou  were  not  dead. 
And  all  the  world  will  still  pursue 

Every  motion  as  before, 
Feeling  not  the  loss  of  you. 

Because  thou  art  not  with  us  more. 
Prepare,  or  yet  the  breeze  of  June, 

Or  one  bright  ray  from  that  great  zone 
May  mark  the  mantle  of  our  tomb. 

Or  glance  upon  a  new  laid  stone 
That  bears  thy  name  or  scores  our  years. 

The  nightlj-  shades  which  o'er  us  waves. 
Unnerves  the  stranger,  breeds  his  fears; 

Such  lonely  sentinels  of  our  graves. 


THE  FOREST  GLADE. 
Warble,  dear  bird,  with  thy  notes  to  the  sky, 
This  place  is  a  home  for  thy  kind; 
Thy  songs  are  so  cheery.    Oh,  where  were  ye 

taught';:' 
Is  thy  teacher  still  living?    Can  thy  lessons  be 

bought? 
Or  is  it  a  song  of  thy  mind? 
I  know  not  a  place  that  is  lovely  as  this, 
On  my  memory  impress  it  with  love; 
Oh,  find   me  the  builder,  and  say  when  his 

birth. 
Are  there  any  more  places  so  like  this   on 

earth? 
Or  a  scene  that  has  fell  from  above. 
What  photo   could  picture,  what  artist   can 

paint, 
With  impressions  that  make  such  a  bliss; 
Oh,  could  I  but  model  thy  looks  with  a  pen. 
What  art  would  exceed  or  price  buy  such  a 

gem. 
With  them  there  are  no  low  nor  high. 
Now  may  it  i>reach  or  rather  teach 
appeared  in  tln>  leading  pei'iodicals.     He  was 
one  of  the  founders  of  the  'I'heta-Delta-Chi. 
Til  sun  is  now  setting  low  down  in  the  west. 
Each  plant  in  itself  doth  exclaim; 
To  separate  one  from  its  friend  I  could  ne'er. 
Yet  each  one  to  my  heart  I  will  cherish  as 
dear, 
I  must  them,  for  want  of  a  name. 
Does  it  not  in  itself  quite  proclaim  wliat  it  is? 
The  Niglitingale's  song  1  can  heai-, 
Its  soft  silvery  voice  re-echoes  the  hill. 
And  then  in  a  moment,  again  it  is  still,— 
My  footsteps  hath  filled  it  with  fear. 
Such  salubi'io\is  air  with  a  soft  balmy  breeze. 
That  silently  glides  through  the  dell,     [glade. 
So  the  stream  with  a  swiftness  adds  life  to  the 


-« 


EB- 


m 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


101 


MILLIE  E.  NOECKER. 

Born:  Kendall ville,  Ind.,  Sept.  14, 1863. 
Miss  NOEckER  has  written  for  some  of  the 
leading  periodicals  for  the  past  ten   years; 
among-  whicli  might  be  mentioned  the  Metli- 
odist  Advocate.   Fort  Wayne   News  and  the 


Mir-LIE  E.   NOECKER. 

Brakeman's  Journal.  In  person  she  is  a  little 
below  the  medium  height.  Millie  is  a  great 
admirer  of  poetry,  and  takes  great  pleasure 
in  her  literary  work. 


FORGIVE. 
We  hear  them  saying,  here  and  there, 

I  can  ne'er  forgive  a  wrong! 
Think  well  each  one,  before  you  speak. 

Does  all  blame  on  one  belong ! 
You  think  a  sin  you  can't  forgive! 

Who  is  free  from  every  sin? 
The  day  will  come,  when  you  think  not. 

Then  you'll  say,  "  what  might  have  been. 
And  when  beside  your  bed  you  kneel. 

Asking  Jesus  to  forgive, 
Do  you  expect  his  tender  love. 

When  a  wrong  you'd  not  forgive? 
Loving  hearts  oft  drift  asunder. 

By  these  words,  "  I'll  not  forgive," 
When  by  lo\'ing  words  and  reason. 

You  in  sweetest  joy  might  live. 
Soon  beside  the  unforgiven 

You  will  stand  in  deepest  grief. 


You  will  try  to  ease  your  conscience. 

And  to  lull  your  Soul  to  sleep. 
But  "too  late,"  will  be  your  answer. 

You  refused  their  last  request. 
But  to  make  amends  to  conscience, 

You  will  theii  forgive  in  death. 
What  is  love,  when  life  is  ended? 

What's  forgiveness  in  death ! 
Arms  that  clasped  thee  once  are  folded. 

Lips  of  smiles  for  e'er  bereft ! 


FORGOTTEN. 

Oh !  how  soon  we  are  forgotten, 

In  this  busy  world  of  ours. 
If  our  paths  were  only  strewn. 

Not  with  thorns,  but  sweetest  flowers. 
All  our  life  long,  we'd  be  happy. 

We  would  never  more  be  sad, 
Scores  of  friends  would  then  surround  us. 

Friends  by  thousands  we  would  have. 
But  when  thorns  thus  sorely  wound  us; 

And  the  pains  thus  pierce  our  hearts. 
Quickly  those  proclaiming  friendship. 

Hasten  from  us  to  depart. 
Oft  we  see  the  truest  friendship, 

Fade  like  dewdrops  from  our  view. 
For  alas !  this  world  soon  wearies 

Of  the  old  friends,  and  wants  new. 
But  how  sweet  in  deepest  sorrow. 

Is  a  tried,  true,  loyal  friend; 
Tho'  the  world  would  scorn,  condemn  us. 

Faithful  they'd  be  to  the  end. 


A  LEAP  IN  THE  DARK. 

A  leap  in  the  darlj,  oh !  what's  beyond. 

The  matrimonial  brink? 
Will  the  paths  to  tread  be  rocks  of  love! 

Or  sands  in  which  to  sink? 
Will  there  be  a  sun  of  Love  to  shine, 

Along  life's  weary  way ! 
Or  the  Sun  of  Love,  forever  set, 

On  our  wedding  day? 
Ah!  who  can  see  o'er  the  brink  of  time 

And  tell  us,  what  is  there? 
It  may  be  joy,  or  it  may  be  pain, 

Be  comfort  or  despair ! 
If  a  Bride  was  sure  her  Lover  would 

Crown  her  queen  of  his  heart. 
She'd  gladly  place  her  hand  in  his,  and 

Take  the  leap  in  the  dark. 


Tho'  you  try,  you  can't  forget  me. 

Strive  as  hard  as  e'er  you  might. 
For  remember  after  twilight 

Comes  the  dark'ning  of  the  night; 
Yes,  a  night  so  dark  and  dreary. 

E'en  the  stars  cannot  shine  through; 
Then  with  mingled  joy  and  sorrow. 

You'll  think  of  her  who  loved  you  true. 


©- 


-© 


©- 


-® 


102 


LOCAL   AND  NxVTIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


RAY  RICHMOND. 

Ray  Richmond  is  hardly  more  than  a  school 
girl,  and  is  at  present  flnishiug- in  music  and 
painting  at  the  Boston  N.  E.   conservatory. 


KAY   KICHMOND. 


She  has  already  edited  the  juvenile  depart- 
ment of  two  monthly  publications,  and  is  a 
paid  contributor  of  short  stories  for  two  or 
three  other  publications. 


MORNING. 
The  purple  mists  of  morning 

Float  o'er  the  sunlit  space 
With  white  smoke  interwoven 

Like  fllmy,  frost-work  lace. 

Tlie  dark  clouds  on  the  river 
Rise  up  and  disaiii)ear. 

The  pearly  beams  of  suidight 
All  greet  the  morning  here. 


®- 


DAWN. 
flushing  morning  is  at  liand; 
Rosy  tints  light  up  the  land. 

Distant  liills  against  the  gray 
Silent  watch  they  for  the  day. 

Dreaming  cities  lie  in  sleep 
Close  beside  the  murmuriiit;- 

On  whose  breast  the  mists  stil 
Waiting  for  the  coming  day. 


play 


A  REVERIE. 

Faintly,  softly  fades  the  light 
Of  the  chill  November  day. 
Slowly,  surely  creeps  the  night 
O'er  the  hill-tops  faraway. 

Grayer,  darker  grow  the  clouds, 
O'er  the  brown  hills,  lowering 
With  the  first  snow  of  the  year. 
Sullen,  dismal,  glowering. 
All,  at  last,  dies  from  the  sight 
And  the  darkness,  falling 
Ushers  out  another  day 
Ever  past  recalling. 


IN  ANSWER. 

A  little  message  comes  to  me 
From  o'er  the  distant  rolling  sea: 
A  message,  sweet,  that  gladdens  me. 

My  kindest  friend  has  sailed  away. 
Beyond  the  wide  and  glistening  bay. 
To  distant  lands,  far,  far  away. 

His  going  leaves  me  saddened,  too. 
For  fear  I  dangers  on  the  blue. 
Yet  sailor  lads  are  brave  and  true. 

But  light  of  heart  I'll  strive  to  be. 
And  send  my  thoughts  across  the  sea, 
To  him  whose  friend  I  hope  to  be. 


A  SONNET. 
As  the  sweet  warm  days  of  summer. 

Heavy-laden  with  fragrant  air. 
Bade  farewell  to  spring's  bright  sunshine 

Met  I,  Love  most  wondrous  fair. 
She  was  tripping  thro'  the  meadow; 

■I  was  fishing  by  the  brook; 
I  gazed  long,  and  long  upon  her 

She  gave  back  a  startled  look. 

Afterward  we  met  together. 
And  our  looks  said  more  than  aye. 

Deep  into  her  heart  I  gazed,  'till 
Blushing  red,  she  turned  away. 

May  perhaps,  my  looks  meant  nothing. 

May  perhaps,  she  smiled  for  naught; 
What  care  I,  if  people  prattle  ';:' 

Would  I  change  for  tlieir's,  my  lot ';' 
For  I  love  her  and  slu>  knows  it ; 

And  she  loves  me.  1  can  tell, 
Not  by  words  of  adoration 

But  l)y  looks  I  know  so  well. 

If  our  love  is  hot  or  scorching 

Who  about  us  need  complain  ? 
Perfi'ct  love  is  never  freezing; 

Ever  will  our  love  remain. 
Warm  and  pleasant,  as  the  sunmier, 

Never  chilled  by  ;iiitumn  air. 
How  I  love  my  darling  sweetheart, 

Who  is  always  wondrous  fair. 


-® 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


103 


-« 


BUTLER  S.  SMISER. 

Born:  Oldham  Co.,  Ky.,  July  6, 1863. 
Mr.  Smiser  is  now  t'ligngcd  in  publisliing-  tlic 
Indian    Citizen  at  Atoka,   Indian  Territory. 


BUTLER  S.   SMISER. 

He  has  been  reading-   law  for  the    past  few 
years,  and  intends  to  follow  that  profession. 


« 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  A  RUSTIC. 
Dear  old  rustic,  famous  rustic. 

Oft  I've  on  thy  lap  reclined 
While  I  read  tlie  worlds  of  Dickens— 

Copperfleld  and  Old  Hard  Times; 
Many  a  peaceful  liour  I've  lingered 

With  thee,  'neath  the  cooling-  shade 
Of  that  old  grape  vine,  so  precious. 

When  its  fruit  red-ripe  is  made. 
Day  by  day  I've  kept  thee  company, 

Heeding  not  the  flight  of  time; 
Hour  by  hour  I  lingered  with  thee. 

Musing  o'er  some  pleasant  rhj'me. 
Heat  and  sun  were  all  forgotten, 

'Neath  thy  cool  and  balmy  shades 
As  the  downy  breeze  came  rustling 

Through  thy  green  inviting  blades. 
How  I  grieve  to  know  that  early 

You  and  I  are  doomed  to  part. 
But  I'll  always  cherish  fondly 

Sweetest  memories  in  my  heart. 
Other  friends  will  hover  'round  thee, 

Seek  thy  shade  with  calm  delight. 


While  I  court  another's  shadow, 

Lingering  'neath  its  folds  'till  night. 
Then  it  is  I'll  fondly  chcrisli 

Sweetest  thoughts  of  olden  times 
Spent  in  calm  communion  with  thee 

And  some  poet's  pleasant  rhymes. 
Lovers  fondly  seek  thy  slu'lter. 

Seal  their  vows  beneath  thy  shade ; 
For  no  one  will  ever  shun  thee 

'Till  thy  vines  are  all  decayed. 
Now,  I  leave  thee,  lovely  rustic. 

To  thy  future  friends  and  fates 
But  I'll  ne'er  forget  thy  friendship. 

Though  I  roam  in  other  states. 
Time  may  leave  its  marks  upon  me. 

Turn  my  locks  to  aged  white. 
But  I'll  never  cease  to  love  thee 

While  my  eyes  have  earthly  sight. 


MOONLIGHT  MUSINGS. 
I  love  to  sit  on  a  calm,  clear  night. 
When   the   moon   is   hid   and   the   stars  are 

bright ; 
And  ponder  the  depth  and  power  of  love 
That  prompted  the  God  of  nature  above 
To  fashion  this  world  by  his  wondrous  might, 
And  give  it  such  gems  of  peace  and  light. 
Till  I  see  in  the  east  the  nightly  Queen 
As  slowly  she  rises,  so  calm  and  serene; 
And  ghostly  shadows  of  peering  height 
Are  made  by  the  flickering,  misty  light. 
All  nature  is  clothed  in  peace,  profound; 
Made  more  sublime  by  the  distant  sound. 
Of  a  bugle  song,  on  some  neighboring  hill; 
Or  the  gurgling  eddy  of  a  rippling  rill; 
Or  the  mournful  howl  of  a  lonely  hound 
That  echoes  back  from  the  hills  around. 
My  soul  seems  to  rise  and  float  with  the  wind. 
While  to  tangible  things  my  vision  is  blind. 
On,  on  through  eternity's  ages  I  roll. 
As  I  follow  the  steps  of  my  wandering  soul. 


MAY  DAY. 

Oh!  the  chattering   children,  with   faces  so 
bright;  [delight! 

How  they  frolic  and   ramble,  with  childish 
The  time  has  seemed  ages,  as  day  after  day. 
They  looked  for  the    coming  of   the  mei-ry 
spring  May. 

The  mind  and  the  heart  are  the  soul  of  a  man. 
Which  recks  not  of  sin  in  its  beautiful  plan; 
But  the  body  is  human,  and  wars  with  the 

soul; 
As  it  passes  through  time  to  eternity's  goal. 
We  dream  of  the  future,  we  dream  of  the  past; 
The  one  -we  have  blasted,  tlie  other  we  blast. 
We  hope  while  we  live  if  we  die  in  despair, 
And  trust  all  the  future  to  mercy,  through 

prayer. 


-m 


©- 


104 


m 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


These  words  from  the  lips  of  a  poor  ballad 
boy. 
As  he  poured  out  his  heart  in  a  song: 

"  To  honor  in  life  your  neighbor  and  friend 
You  may  struggle  the  best  that  you  can, 

Yet  you'll  find  in  the  hour  of  trouble  and 
need 
A  Mr.  's  not  always  a  man." 

Though  years  have  sped  by  since  that  after- 
noon, 

And  time  wrought  her  changes  below. 
Vet  somehow  those  words  still  ring  in  my  ears 

And  court  me  wherever  I  go. 

But  why  should  I  marvel  if  into  my  mind 
Those  phrases  should  oftentimes  rise? 

For  truth  like  the  sea  can  never  be  stilled, 
And  error  is  all  that  e'er  dies. 

••  To  honor  in  life  your  neighbor  and  friend. 
You  may  struggle  the  best  that  you  can. 

Yet  you'll   find  in  the  hour  of  trouble  and 
need 
A  Mr.'s  not  always  a  man." 


PHIL  HOFFMANN. 

Born:  Oskaxoosa,  Iowa,  Aug.  16, 1868. 
In  1885  Phil  Hoffmann  entered  the  field  of 
journalism;  he  also  about  this  time  tended 
the  Penn  college  for  several  terms.  In  1887-8 
he  acted  as  correspondent  of  the  Oskaloosa 
Daily  Herald,  during  the  session  of  the  legis- 
lature at  Des  Moines.  So  thoroughly  pleased 
were  the  proprietors  of  the  Herald  that  he 
was  installed  upon  the  editorial  staff,  a  posi- 
tion he  still  retains  with  merit.    He  is  a  fre- 


PHIL  HOFFMANN. 

quent  contributor  to  numerous  periodicals, 
including  the  Chicago  Herald  ana  Burlington 
Hawkeye,  and  is  one  of  the  editorial  staff  of 
the  Midland  Montlily.  His  prospects  for  a 
briglit  future  ai'c  voi'y  encouraging,  consider- 
ing tlio  fact  that  lie  lias  only  just  attained  his 
majority.  Mr.  Hott'manu  is  orderly  sergeant 
of  tlu!  military  company  of  liis  native  city, 
and  in  business  and  social  circles  he  is  a  gen- 
eral favorite. 


®- 


A  MR.'S  NOT  ALWAYS  A  MAN. 
As  I  sat  in  my  nwm  one  bright  afternoon 

With  the  shades  of  my  window  t  hrown  higli, 
And  watched  far  lielow  midst  the  dust  and  the 
din 
Th(!  crowd  as  it  liurricd  fast  by, 

I  cauglit  from  tlit!  breeze  tliat  silently  stole 
Oil  angelic  wings  o'er  the  tlirong. 


IN   REVERENCE. 
Last  night  in  the  beautiful  moonlight, 

I  sat  by  my  window  alone. 
And  peered  with  an  awful  pleasure. 

Far  into  the  great  unknown. 
And  each  little  constellation. 

With  its  tliousand,  thousand  skies. 
Seemed  bursting  with  laughter  in  basking 

Before  my  wistful  ej-es. 
While  Venus,  the  star  of  the  evening. 

That  beautiful  gem  of  gems. 
Seemed  singing  in  tones  that  resounded 

Through  all  the  heavenly  realm. 
And  I  thought  of  He  who  created 

This  wonderful  universe, 
Witli  movements  so  silent,  so  perfect. 

With  beauties  so  grand  and  diverse. 
Of  He  who  masters  creation 

With  a  gentle  and  lenient  hand 
Who  was,  ere  time  was  unfolded. 

And  will  be  after  its  end. 
He  who  upon  world;!  without  number 

For  his  credits  of  reverence  calls  — 
Yet  who  sees  and  tenderly  cares  for. 

Each  poor  little  sparrow  tliat  falls. 
Ah:  Sweet  were  tlie  A-isions  th:U   thrilled 
me. 

Each  atom  seemed  laden  with  jt)y ! 
As  loudly  I  cried  in  my  musings 

With  a  feeling  that  knew  no  alloy. 
Vain  spirit  of  mortal  polluted 

Look  lip  at  the  hi'iivens  above 
And  tell  me,  Oh!  how  canst  thou  battle. 

Against  yon  fountain  of  love? 


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LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


105 


-« 


RUFUS  J.  CHILDRESS. 

The  poems  of  this  gentleniau  have  appeared 
quite  extensively  in  the  periodical  press.    He 


HUFUS  J.  CHILDRESS. 


is  a  resident  of  Louisville,  Kentucky,  where 
he  has  a  wide  circle  of  friends  and  admirers. 

MY  HEART. 

My  heart  is  like  the  lonely  shell. 

That  trembles  on  the  beach, 
Within  when  e'er  its  billows  swell 

The  ocean's  reach. 
The  dawn  hath  kissed  with  rose  its  lips, 

And  they  no  grief  should  know; 
Yet  from  the  mournful  tide  it  dips 

Some  kindred  woe. 
And  though  the  tide  dies  down  again, 

Caug'ht  from  its  sombre  stave. 
The  shell  still  breathes  a  mystic  strain  — 

One  with  the  wave. 
So  this  poor  shell-like  heart  of  mine 

Echoes  a  kindred  mite 
Caug-ht  from  the  realms  of  song'  diviue 

And  infinite! 
The  tides  that  stir  within  my  soul 

Swell  upward  wild  and  strong-, 
Unfathomed  through  my  spirit  roll 

Such  floods  of  song'! 
I  cry  aloud  for  fitting-  speech 

That  throug:h  me  earth  mig-ht  hear, 


For  oh!  my  glad  Htart  in  their  reach 

Feels  Heaven  is  near! 
But  on  my  lips  their  music  dies. 

Too  great  tbe  rapture  given ; 
God  suffers  few  to  pierce  the  skies 

And  leap  in  Heaven ! 
And  so,  though  like  the  voice  of  June, 

My  soul  g-lad  anthems  fill. 
My  heart  at  length  must  tire  and  swoon 

Of  longing  still. 
And  I,  though  stirred  by  passion  strong. 

But  for  this  feeble  strain. 
Stand  looking  toward  the  skies  of  song  — 

In  vain!  in  vain! 

Yet,  mourn  on,  touched  with  grief  sublime, 

O  heart,  for  joys  that  flee ! 
Still  breathe  unheard  thy  lowly  rhyme 

One  with  the  sea! 
Mourn  on  !    For  soon  the  glowing  skies 

Will  break  their  seals  of  blue, 
When  like  a  lark  my  soul  shall  rise 

And  flutter  through ! 
No  more  then  in  that  golden  noon, 

Of  song  and  sorrow's  might; 
No  more  my  heart  will  tire  and  swoon  — 

No  more  of  night! 


MUSIC. 
I  love  thee  when  the  leaves  are  brown. 
When  bending  skies  with  tempests  frown. 
When  gleaming  snows  the  hill-tops  crown, 

At  morn  or  noon. 
Or  when  the  happy  day  dies  down 

In  joyous  June. 
I  love  thy  sweet,  inspiring  powers, 
Love  thee  on  art's  harmonious  towers, 
Love  thee  amongst  the  dewy  flowers 

In  throat  of  bird. 
Or  flooding  earth's  enchanted  bowers 

Wherever  heard. 
When  brooding  shadows  o'er  me  fly. 
And  all  the  stars  seem  large  and  nigh, 
I  love  the  strange  aerial  sigh 

That  softly  falls. 
Like  some  sweet  whisper  breathed  on  high, 

O'er  sky-built  walls. 
I  love  thee  —  love  thy  lightest  form    • 
In  throats  with  mirth  and  laughter  warm. 
Love  thy  loud  voice  in  night  and  storm  — 

And  strangely  feel. 
But  pleasure  in  the  dire  alarm 

Of  thunder's  peal. 
But  love  thee  most  'mid  yellow  glooms 
Wliich  many  a  vestal  star  illumes. 
Where  floodest  thou  cathedral  rooms 

From  floor  to  dome. 
With  echoes  Ijlown  like  scented  blooms 

From  glory's  home. 


-® 


©^ 


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106 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


WILLIAM  ROBERT  FISHER. 

Born  :  Jefferson  Co.,  Iowa,  July  IS,  1865. 
William  commenced  writing-  poetry  at  the 
age  of  sixteen,  and  two  years  later  publislied 
a  volume  of  poems  in  pamphlet  form.  At  the 
ajre  of  twenty  he  wrote  a  jxiem  of  one  thou- 


WILLIAM  ROBERT  FISUEK. 

sand  lines,  and  has  written  ten  times  as  much 
more  since  that  time,  of  which  there  are  a 
number  of  translations  from  German,  Danish 
and  Norwegian  authors.  Mr.  Fisher  has  higli 
aspirations,  ami  his  literary  career  has  yet 
hut  just  begun. 


e&- 


K(,)UALITV. 
Our  fathers  told  us  long  ago, 
And  pledged  to  die  for  what  we  kTiow, 
That  all  arc  equal  born; 
Among  the  nations  lot  it  lly. 
And  shout  that  message  to  the  sky 
Till  earth  hath  learned  to  scorn. 

To  scorn  the  despot  on  his  throni>. 
But  not  the  royal  born  silonis 
The  iisurer  as  well ; 
The  triumi)her  o'er  innocence. 
Ill-gotten,  blood-bouglit  cinincnce. 
And  all  that  speaks  of  hell. 

With  them  tliere  are  no  low  nor  liigli, 
And  w<!  are  brollicrs,  you  nnd  I, 
And  bi'others  of  llic  king. 


Though  lessened  is  his  manhood's  claim. 
For  being  duped  with  notions  tame 
Of    "  blood  right "  —  such  a  thing. 

His"  blood  right  "  and  man's  only  one. 

Is  right  to  live  as  man  has  done 

In  fellowship  with  man ; 

To  have  his  dangers,  hopes  and  fears. 

With  him  rejoice,  with  him  shed  tears. 

Win  honor  if  he  can. 

But  not  alone  we  scorn  the  base. 

For  love  hath  claims  upon  the  race, 

Tliat  love  called  charity. 

Which  earth  must  have  ere  that  bright  day 

Wlien  knowledge  hath  eternal  sway 

And  all  mankind  are  free. 


SIGHT. 
The  eyelids  cannot  dim  the  sight,  — 
Nay  when  they're  closed    'tis    far   more 

bright. 
Both  In  day  dreams  and  dreams  of  night. 

In  dreams  of  day  mine  eyes  may  see, 
A  castle  and  an  ley  tree. 
Glossed  by  the  sun  all  gorgeously. 

In  dreams  of  night  a  thousand  things. 
Wondrous  as  Saturn  with  his  rings, 
O'ershadow  me  with  condor  wings. 


TOO  LATE. 

0  mock  me  not  with  glorious  eye. 
Too  late,  too  late; 

Nor  pity  to  a  soul  deny 
Accursed  of  fate. 

Thou'rt  victor,  let  thy  love   forlnd 
Thou  be  elate, 

1  cannot  hope  as  once  I  did. 

Too  late,  too  late. 


THE  SONG  OF  YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

There's  potency  in  youthful  dreams. 
As  Keats,  and  White,  and  Drake  attest. 

Who  dared  to  touch  immortal  themes 
Ere  their  frail  beings  sank  to  rest. 

A'et  highest  glory  is  for  him 

Who  like  old  Milton  sings  with  jtower. 
The  song  which  Meditation  grim. 

Has  given  in  life's  silver  hour. 


THE  DWELLING  PLACE. 

Where wo\ild  you  dwell  my  love"::'  said  1. 

Your  dwelling  i>lace  where  would  it   be  ': 
In  mansion  on  a  mountain  high, 

Or  in  a  cottage  by  the  sea  'r 

■  ■  A  dwellinti  place,"  ni>-  Icive  replied, 
..On  numiitain  orbyocean  blue, 

M'diild  lie  t  lie  same  if  by  your  side; 
11'  living  there,  my  love,  with  you." 


-« 


*- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL    POETS   OF   A3IERICA. 


-© 


107 


MRS.  ANNIE  MARIA  CLARK. 

Born:  Still  Bi\t:r,  Mass.,  Sept.  21, 1835. 
Mrs.  Clark  has  written  two  volumes  of 
prose  —  Light  from  the  Cross  and  Olive  Lor- 
Ing's  Mission,  both  of  which  have  been  highly 
praised.  Her  poems  have  appeared  in  many 
prominent  periodicals.  She  now  resides  in 
the  beautiful  and  historic  old  town  of  Lan- 
caster, Mass. 


CHRISTMAS  THOUGHTS. 

"  A  kiss  for  your  thoughts.  Sister  Alice," 

I  heard  little  Charlie  say. 
As  we  sat  'mid  the  twilight  in  silence 

At  the  close  of  a  busy  day. 
And  Alice  said,  speaking  softly, 

"  My  fancies  have  wandered  afar. 
To  Bethlehem,  where  the  wise  men  came. 

Led  on  by  that  wonderful  star. 
"  To-morrow,  you  know,  is  Christmas, 

And  close  to  my  heart  to-night. 
Came  thoughts  of  the  watching  shepherds 

And  the  glorious,  beautiful  sight. 
•>  When  the  angels  stood  all  around  them 

In  the  midnight,  calm  and  still. 
Singing  '  Glory  to  God  in  the  Highest, 

On  earth  peace  and  to  men  good  will.' 
"And  sweeter  than  all,  dearest  Charlie, 

Was  the  thought  that  came  to  me  then. 
Of  how  much  the  Lord  must  have  loved  us. 

To  have  come  as  a  child  among  men. 
"To live  here  and  labor  to  save  us. 

If  we  will  but  love  and  obey. 
And  striving  to  keep  his  commandments. 

Seek  to  walk  in  the  heavenly  waj'." 
"  And  it  almost  seemed  that  an  angel 

Whispered  close  to  my  heart,  soft  and  clear, 
'  Fear  not,  for  I  bring  you  good  tidings,  my 
child, 

Greatest  joy  to  bless  and  to  cheer. 
"And,  Charlie,  I  think  that  to-morrow 

Will  be  bright  with  a  clearer  light. 
And  I  hope  I  shall  do  more  to  make  you  glad. 

For  the    thoughts  that  have  blest  me  to- 
night." 


JOHN  LAWRENCE  CLARK. 

Born:  Still  Eiver,  Mass.,  Nov.  30, 1871. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  is  the  son  of  Mrs. 
Annie  Clark,  whose  name  appears  on  this 
same  page.  Although  quite  a  j-oung  man, 
John  has  written  several  poems  of  merit  that 
have  received  publication. 


®- 


BALLAD  OF  ST.  VALENTINE. 
In  early  times  there  lived  a  saint, 
None  better  in  the  almanac  , 


Who  used  to  kiss  the  pretty  maids. 
Of  whom  in  Rome  there  was  no  lack. 

At  length  the  pagans  did  destroy 
This  somewhat  amatory  bishop, 

And,  as  he  perished  at  the  stake. 
He  sent  a  very  pious  wish  up,  — 

Tliat  he  might  reach  a  paradise 

Wheie  there  were  girls  in  goodly  host. 

Then,  with  this  very  saintly  prayer, 
The  holy  man  gave  up  the  ghost. 

'Tis  told,  when  by  such  cruelty 

The  sweet  St.  Valentine  was  dying, 
That  every  little  maid  in  Rome 

Did  make  her  black  eyes  red  with  cry- 
ing. 
On  second  month  and  fourteenth  day 

This  good  saint's  martyrdom  befell. 
And  since  that  year  the  day  has  been 

A  sentimental  festival. 


BRIDGET. 
A  pleasant  friend  to  me 
It  little  Bridget  Nee, 

Though   her   grandpa  came   from  Erin 
long  ago; 
But  in  her  pretty  face 
There  never  is  a  trace 

But  a  true  New  England  blossom  she 
did  blow. 
The  ancestors,  may  be, 
Of  pretty  Bridget  Nee 

Were  barons  very  grand  and  very  harsh; 
I  really  hope  'tis  so. 
For  'twould  pain  me  much  to  know 

They  were  ordinary  trotters  of  the  marsh. 

The  Yankee  girls  can  say 
Whatever  things  they  may. 

And  laugh  and  sneer  at  pretty  Bridget 
Nee; 
That's  but  another  reason 
Why  in  this  summer  season 

She  is  a  friend  very  pleasant  unto  me. 
Should  you  be  cast  awhile 
On  the  shoi-e  of  Erin's  Isle, 

Young  ladies  of    a  certain    high-toned 
school. 
And  the  people  looked  askance 
With  a  very  scornful  glance. 

Would  you  say  those  people    kept   the 
Golden  Rule. 
But  I  will  moralize. 
Which  is  something  I  despise. 

Though   of  coui'se  'tis    ajipropriate    at 
times ; 
And  now  I'll  have  to  close. 
And  go  to  writing  prose, 

Which  is   not   as  interesting   as    these 
rhymes. 


-1^ 


-^ 


108 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


JAMES  ARTHUR  EDGERTON. 

Born:  Plantsville,  C,  Jan.  30, 1869. 
Receiving  the  degree  of  A.  B.  at  the  age  of 
eighteen,  Arthur  then  went  to  Michigan, 
where  he  became  associate  editor  of  a  state 
historical  and  biographical  encyclopedia, 
with  headquarters  at  Kalamazoo ;  and  later 
was  manasring  editor  of  the  Evening  Herald 


JAMES    ARTHUR   EDGERTON. 

at  the  same  place.  In  188-S  he  became  con- 
nected with  the  Marietta  Register  of  Ohio, 
with  which  he  is  still  at  work.  His  first  pub- 
lication of  poems  was  made  in  1889,  which  is 
a  work  that  has  been  liberally  noticed  by  the 
American  press,  and  has  received  a  fair  cir- 
culation. 


BIRTH  OF  A  DAV. 
Once,  when  over  the  north 
A  wealth  of  grass  and  flowers, 
A  nnisic  in  the  air 
Proclaimed  that  it  was  June, 
A  beautiful  day  was  born, 
That  witli  an  uiilieard  step, 
liod  by  the  kindly  Sun, 
Sped  round  the  sleeping  earth. 

She  was  the  youngest  babe 
Born  unto  passing  time. 
From  out  the  sable  folds. 
That  cling  about  the  night- 


Night's  spotless,  gemmed  skirts, 
Her  roseate  face  peeped  fortli. 

The  jeweled  stars  looked  down 

Upon  her  ruddy  glow 

And  paling  shrank,  abashed. 

The  moon's  white  face  grew  dark. 

Her  dreamy  flood  of  light. 

As  neath  an  ashen  veil. 

Was  buried  in  the  sky. 

Tlie  night  grew  old  and  died. 
A  blush  spread  o'er  and  far 
Along  the  somber  dome. 
And  as  over  the  sky 
The  smile  of  day  grew  bright. 
Breaking  upon  the  earth, 
Fi'om  off  the  flowery  fields. 
The  still  earth  answering  snfiiled. 

Supreme  as  any  King 

Tliat  ruled  in  days  of  Eld, 

Upon  a  shifting  throne 

Whose  feet  stood  on  the  hills. 

The  young  queen  ruled  alone. 

The  ancient  Sun  rose  up 

And  crowned  the  new-born  day. 

With  dark-hued  light  and  deep 

He  gilded  as  he  rose 

All  the  wood-crowned  heights ; 

And  with  a  softer  glow 

The  verdured,  grass-clad  slopes. 

Witli  kindly  eye  he  looked. 
From  out  his  morning  home. 
Far  in  the  blushing  east. 
Looked  down  on  Nature's  face 
And  straightway  she  grew  glad; 
Upon  the  tinkling  brook 
That  laughed  its  answer  back; 
Upon  the  drooping  flowers 
That  hid  from  sterner  night. 
That  raised  their  jeweled  heads 
And  ope'd  their  wondering  eyes; 
Upon  the  meadows,  strewn 
With  tear-tlrops  that  were  shed. 
By  elfs  that  live  in  air. 
For  the  departed  night. 
And  thousand  glinting  gems 
Sparkled  with  shimmering  light. 

The  moving  shadows  crept 
Long-<lrawn  across  tlie  fields; 
The  scattered  lierds  rose  up 
To  r^rop  the  dewy  grass; 
The  glad-voiced  birds  sang  out 
The  melodies  of  morn; 
And  o'er  the  outstretched  fields 
Of  sunrise  far  and  wide. 
Where  busy  haunts  of  men 
Doited  and  blotched  their  face, 
Tlie  sound  of  wakened  life 
Resumed  its  echoing  sway. 


©- 


-8B 


m- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


109 


-^ 


MRS.  SARAH  A.  THOMAS. 

Born:  Hoitlton,  Maine. 
Reared  In  an  atmosphere  of  literature,  it  has 
been  the  ruling  passion  of  her  life.  Her  fatlier 
was  a  man  of  high  mental  culture,  brilliant 
in  conversation,  and  a  fine  reader  of  prose 
and  poetry.  She  commenced  to  write  poetry 
at  the  age  of  ten,  and  shortly  afterward  sev- 
eral short  stories.which  were  never  published. 
In  1873  Mrs.  Thomas  contributed  to  a  New 
York  Magazine  entitled  For  Everybody ;  since 
then  she  lias  contributed  to  the  leading  perio- 
dicals  of  America,    including    tlie    Waverly 


MRS.  SARAH  H.  THOJIAS. 

Magazine,  Ballou's  Magazine,  Saturday  Eve- 
ning Post  and  the  Chicago  Ledger.  Mrs. 
Thomas  has  about  twelve  hundred  pages  of 
unpublished  manuscript  that  she  intends  to 
issue  at  some  future  time.  She  has  written 
for  publication  under  the  noms  de  plume 
Rena  Snow,  Blanche  Raymond,  Mary  F.  Schuy- 
ler, and  Josephus.  Mrs.  W.  H.  Thomas  now 
resides  in  a  beautiful  little  home  near  the 
city  of  El  Dorado,  Kansas,  where  she  numbers 
amongst  her  friends  many  ardent  and  enthu- 
siastic admii'ers. 


TO  MY  HUSBAND. 
Twelve  years  of  sunshine,  and  of  storms 
Since  first  our  lives  were  joined  in  one; 


©- 


But,  had  the  sky  no  threatening  clouds. 
We  would  forget  to  prize  tlie  sun. 

And,  gliding  down  life's  quiet  stream, 
With  life  one  joyous  summer  day. 

We  would  not  note  our  rapid  flight 
Were  there  no  landmarks  by  the  way. 

I  would  not  call  to  memory  now 

The  sorrows  of  those  vanished  years: 
Our  steps  led  through  affliction's  path. 

Bordered  by  bitter  falling  tears. 
But  I  would  have  you  think  to-day 

Of  all  that  made  life  seem  most  dear, 
Of  hopes  that  tint  with  pleasmg  ray 

The  prospects  of  the  coming  year. 

It  seems  that  those  who  love  are  doomed 

Affliction's  bitterest  cup  to  drain. 
As  if  they  with  their  mutual  strength 

Were  better  formed  to  bear  the  pain. 
Or  it  maj'  be,  had  fortune  smiled. 

Our  love  with  years  had  colder  grown: 
Yours  might  have  followed  fancy's  paths. 

And  I  have  doubted  e'en  my  own. 

Perhaps  that  Fate  has  been  more  kind 

Then  we,  dear  heart,  shall  ever  know: 
The  purest  gem  may  worthless  seem 

If  scanned  by  firelight's  fitful  glow. 
Then  at  our  lot  we'll  not  repine. 

Though  cold  and  dreary  seem  the  way. 
But  journey  on,  heart  joined  to  heart. 

Until  we  find  the  perfect  day. 


A  DREAM. 

In  the  gathering  twilight  calm  and  gray. 
My  thoughts  take  wings  and  fly  away. 
To  a  wooded  glen  where  the  fallen  leaves 
Lie  yellow  as  grain  in  its  golden  sheaves; 
But  even  there  no  rest  I  find. 

For  rest  is  not  for  me. 
Then  I  fly  to  a  fair,  Elysian  land 
With  sparkling  waters  and  golden  sand. 
Where  perfumed  breezes  lightly  blow. 
And  the  orange  and  palm  together  grow. 
And  the  air  is  music's  soft  refrain. 
Yet  they  do  not  soothe  my  pain. 

For  rest  is  not  for  me. 
I  rise  on  the  wings  of  the  silent  night 
And  soar  through  realms  of  starry  light. 
To  a  land  whose  streets  are  paved  with  gold, 
(Oh!  half  its  beauty  has  ne'er  been  told,) 
Where  a  thousand  years  shall  be  as  one. 
And  songs  of  joy  are  never  done, 

Ah !  here  is  rest  for  me. 
I  awake  to  find  it  only  a  dream; 
But  this  one  thought  is  a  joy  supreme, 
That  I,  wl'cn  my  mission  here  is  o'er. 
Shall  reach  that  land  and  weep  no  more ; 
For  though  life's  cares  may  dim  the  light. 
There's  One  who  will  guide  my  steps  aright, 

To  that  rest  which  waits  for  me. 


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110 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF    AMERICA. 


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A  QUESTION. 

"  AVhat's  a  sigh,  infant?  "  an  old  man  said 
As  he  phiced  his  hand  on  the  curly  liead; 
The  child  glanced  up,  in  mild  surprise. 
With  a  question  in  its  laughing-  ejes: 
•I  Oil,  man  of  learning  hast  thou  never  read 
'Tis   an    effort   to   strengthen   life's   slender 
thi-ead?  " 

"  What's  a  sigh,  school-boy?"    the  sage  then 

asked. 
As  the  little  fellow  whistling  passed; 
"  Know  you  not—  you,  who,  once  like  me. 
Thought  only  of  days  that  are  to  be? 
Have  you  never  felt  the  rapturous  thrUl 
Of  climbing  a  little  higher  still?  " 
"What's  a  sigh,  maiden?"  she  paused  in  the 

dance. 
With  her  winning  smile  and  sparkling  glance; 
"  'Tis    the    coquette's  shield,   'mid    the    gay 

throng  — 
The  lover's  plea  in  his  plaintive  song; 
Fate  has  been  kind,  for  my  heart  is  free; 
Neither  lovers  nor  sighs  ever  trouble  me." 
"  What's  a  sigh,  mother?  "  she  leaned  o'er  her 

child, 
A  tear  in  her  eye  —the  infant  smiled, 
"  'Tis  a  whispered  prayer  —  a  hope  —  a  fear 
For  the  absent  one,  or  the  darling  near. 
And  no  earthly  sound  can  reach  as  high 
As  a  mother's  prayer  —  a  mother's  sigh !  " 


*- 


LINES  TO  MY  FRIEND: 

MRS.   N.   W.   FOWLER,   MEADVILLE,   PA. 

I  know  that  we  shall  meet  again,  somewhere; 

It  may  be  when  we  both  are  growing  old. 
And  youth  has  lost  its  bloom  —  we  shall  not 
care. 
Our  hearts  need  not  have  in  that  time  grown 
cold. 
Yes,  in  some  other    clime  — some  other 

land. 
I  know  that  I  shall  clasp  your  warm,  true 
hand. 
Perhaps  'twill  be  in   spring    lime,  when    the 
earth 
(iives  kindly  welcome  to  the  sun's  bright 
rays  — 
la  springing  grass  and  modest  violets. 
With  robins  trilling  forth  their  pure,  sweet, 
lays. 
I  would  not  hope  to  meet  you  in  the  strife 
Of  worldly  care.s,  which   mar  the    joys  of 
life. 

And  we  may  meet  in  sumnu-v,  when  the  tiekls 
Are  rich  with  golden  grain;  when  blooming 

flowers 
And  ii|iiMiing    fruits    shed    fi'agraiice    on  the 

air; 


^^Eoliann    breezes    speed    the  swift-winged 
hours. 
Our  time  of  meeting  may  be  far  away. 
But  still,  I  know  that  we  shall  meet  some 
day. 

It  may  be  in  the  autumn,  when  the  trees 
Have  changed  their  airy  hues  for  gold  and 
brown. 
And  earth,   robbed  of  its  vei-dure,  seems  to 
plead 
For  every  faded  leaf  slow  fluttering  down. 
But  though  the  autumn  winds  may  sadly 

sigh. 
We  may  not  meet  in  sorrow,  you  and  I. 

Or  we  may  meet  in  winter  when  the  earth 
Is  robed  in  fleecy  folds  of  purest  white ; 
With  crystal   gems   on   house  top,  tree  and 
lower, 
Reflecting  beauteous  rays  of  changing  light. 
We  may  have  reached  the  winter  of  our 

age. 
With  teardrops  blotting  life's  close-writ- 
ten page. 
Or  we  may  meet  in  that  bright  world  above. 
Beyond   death's    valley,    in    that    Aidenn 
where 
Lost  joys  are   all  legained;    loved  ones   re- 
stored ; 
No    restless     yearnings  —  no    unanswered 
prayer. 
Ah!    yes,   dear  friend,  I  know    we  shall 

meet  there. 
And  we  may  meet  on  earth,  some  day, 
somewhere. 


YEARNINGS. 
Only  to  lay  my  poor,  weary  head 
On  some  faithful  breast  and  whisper  my 
pain. 
Only  to  know  that  life  holds  for  me 
Some  pledge  that  I  have  not  lived  in  vain. 

Only  to  glance  at  the  mystical  page 
Of  the  future  and  read  my  own  dreary  lot, 

Only  to  know  one  heart  beats  for  me  — 
That  I  in  my  loneliness  am  not  forgot. . 

Onlj'  to  drink  from  Lethe's  .still  stream 
And  feel  its  sweet  calm  o'er  my  worn  senses 
creep; 

Only  to  lie  with  cold  fold«d  hands. 
Never  again  to  wake  or  to  weep. 

f)nly  to  know  that  heaven  will  be  mine 

After  life's  tiresome  journey  is  done  — 
Only  to  know  thougli    the  storm-clouds  be 
dark 
lU'liind   tlieniis  hidden   the  bright  shining 
sun. 


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LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


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111 


ARNOLD  HENRY  ISLER. 

Born:  Switzerland,  1848. 
At  the  age  of  five  the  subject  of  this  sketch 
was  brought  to  America.  Wlien  riiue  years  of 
age  he  ran  away  from  home;  and  three  years 
later,  when  the  civil  war  broke  out,  he  again 
ran  away  from  the  place  he  was  tlien  making- 
his  home,  and  became  a  member  of  the  23rd 
Ohio  Infantry.  He  served  through  the  war 
from  beg-inning-  to  the  end,  as  a  private,  scout, 
spy,  and  color-bearer,  and  has  often  been 
written  up  as  the  youngest  soldier  of  the  war. 
After  the  war  young'  Isler   settled  down   in 


©■ 


ARNOLD  HENRY   ISLEK. 

Columbus,  Ohio  wlieie  lie  soon  developed 
into  a  verse-writer  and  journalist.  In  1872  he 
published  a  volume  entitled  Wild  Thoug-hts  in 
Rhyme,  and  the  edition  of  twelve  hundred 
copies  was  disposed  of  in  less  than  six 
mouths;  and  for  several  years  his  verses  ap- 
peared in  the  leading-  dailies  and  weeklies  of 
America.  Mr.  Isler  then  wrole  stories  and 
humorous  sketches,  and  started  several 
newspapers  with  considerable  success.  In  1886 
he  was  offered  the  position  of  exchang-e  and 
literary  editor  of  the  Cincinnati  Enquirer, 
which  he  still  fills.  Mr.  Isler  is  married,  lives 
happily,  and  his  hobby  is  making-  scrap-books 
and  collecting-  rare  pictures. 

A  LONGING. 

O,  sweet  is  the  sleer;  of  the  dead ! 
Quiet  their  rest  in  the  clay ; 


Unmoved  by  tlie  strife  and  tread 
Of  humanity,  day  by  day 
Unmoved  by  the  terrible  sway 

Of  the  masses  fighting-  for  bread. 

Oh,  sweet  is  tlie  sleep  of  the  dead! 
Quiet  their  rest  in  the  clay. 

I'm  weary;  I  would  I  were  dead! 

At  rest  in  the  cold  dark  clay. 
I'm  tired  of  the  strife  I've  led. 

Of  the  strug-g-le  day  by  day, ' 

Just  to  live  like  a  slave  and  say, 
I  drink,  and  I  eat  my  own  bread. 
I'm  weary;  I  would  I  were  dead! 

At  rest  in  the  cold  dark  clay. 


PAINTER,  PAINT  A  PICTURE. 

Painter,  paint  a  picture, 

Of  a  maid  most  fair; 
Make  the  colors  richer 

Than  June  roses  are; 
Give  it  all  the  sweetness 

Of  the  song-  of  birds. 
Graced  with  the  completeness 

Of  the  poet's  words. 

Give  the  face  the  brightness 

Of  a  summer  day. 
With  a  look  of  lightness 

Anda  touch  of  play; 
Give  the  mouth  a  splendor 

Of  the  budding- rose. 
Tempting-,  soft  and  tender 

In  its  sweet  repose. 

Give  the  eyes  the  fire 

And  passion  of  a  soul 
Strong-  in  its  desire 

To  break  beyond  control; 
Give  the  hair  the  beauty 

Of  weird  loveliness. 
Truant  in  its  duty 

To  its  fair  mistress. 

Give  the  form  the  glorj-. 

And  the  queenly  mien. 
Of  her  who  lives  in  story — 

Egypt's  fairest  queen; 
Give  it  airy  motion 

Of  a  fairy  sprite. 
Claiming-  heart  devotion 

By  a  royal  right. 

Painter,  paint  a  picture 

Of  a  maid  most  fair; 
Make  the  colors  richer 

Than  June  roses  are; 
Give  it  all  the  sweetness 

Of  the  song-  of  birds. 
Graced  with  the  completeness 

Of  the  poet's  words. 


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112 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


i 


DO  I  LOVE  THEE? 
"Do  I  love  thee?" 
Ask  of  the  bee, 

If  it  loves  not  the  flowers  of  Spring; 
Ask  of  the  bird. 
If  it  loves  not  to  fly  and  sing; 
The  answer  they  return  to  thee  — 
Is  mine, 
And  thine, 
Marie. 

"Do  Hove  thee?" 
Ask  of  tlie  sea. 

If  it  loves  not  the  wind's  shrill  hiss; 
Ask  of  the  rose, 

If  it  loves  not  the  dewdrop's  kiss: 
The  answer  they  return  to  thee  — 
Is  mine. 
And  thine, 
Marie. 

"Do  I  love  thee?" 
Ask  not  of  me, 

Look  in  my  eyes  and  read  love  there : 
List  to  my  heart. 
And  hear  it  beat  in  sad  despair; 
The  answer  they  return  to  thee— 
Is  mine. 
And  thine, 
Marie. 


THE  MONTHS  OF  THE  FLOWERS  ARE 
OVER. 

The  months  of  the  flowers  are  over, 

The  fair,  sweet  summer  is  dead ; 
The  perfume  of  the  sweet-scented  clover, 

With  the  soft,  warm  breezes  has  fled; 
The  green  woods,  but  yesterday  ringing 
With  the  voices  of  glad  birds  singing. 

Are  silent,  yellow  and  red; 
Alas,  for  the  soul  of  the  rover. 

That  on  summer  joys  has  fed! 
For  the  months  of  the  flowers  are  over. 

The  fair,  sweet  summer  is  dead. 

Tlie  joys  of  the  singer  are  over. 

The  days  of  his  youth  have  fled; 
No  longer  will  fields  of  gre-jn  clover. 

And  flowers  respond  to  his  tread : 
The  world,  that  was  yesterday  rin<;itig 
With  notes  of  a  joyous  youtli's  singing. 

To  anotlier  gay  songster  is  wed; 
Alas,  for  the  soul  of  the  rover. 

That  on  summer  joys  has  fed ! 
For  the  months  of  the  flowers  are  over. 

The  fair,  sweet  summer  is  dead. 


©- 


THE  KISS. 
I  met  her  one  night 

O  sweet  little  Miss! 
'Neath  the  stars  so  bright. 


I  met  her  one  niglit. 
And  to  my  delight 
She  gave  me  a  kiss ! 

Perhaps  'twas  amiss 

In  that  fairy  sprite 
To  give  me  a  kiss: 
Perliaps  'twas  amiss  — 
But  oh!  the  sweet  bliss 
I  tasted  that  night. 

'Neath  the  stars  so  bright, 

O  sweet  little  Miss! 
With  no  one  in  sight, 
'Neath  the  stars  so  bright, 
To  our  hearts'  delight 
We  gave  kiss  for  kiss. 

O  sweet  little  Miss ! 

What  intense  delight— 
What  infinite  bliss  — 
O  sweet  little  Miss! 
Lies  hid  in  a  kiss. 

On  a  starlit  night. 


A  GLANCE. 
I  caught  but  a  glance  of  her  eye. 
So  tender,  and  blue  as  the  sky. 
As  she  hurriedly  passed  me  by. 

Her  face  —  more  worthy  than  my  praise. 
So  sweet  and  so  pure  in  its  grace, 
I  caught  but  a  glimpse  of  her  face. 

Though  she  hurriedly  passed  me  by, 
Her  face,  and  the  glance  of  her  eye. 
Will  haunt  me  until  I  die. 


MY  VALENTINE. 
A  girlish  face  with  wondrous  grace. 

With  features  passing  fair; 
With  mouth  like  rose  in  calm  repose. 

As  of  Love's  presence  unaware. 

Cheeks  soft  as  plush  and  quick  to  blush 
When  word  or  look  surprise; 

And  auburn  hair  —  ah !  I  declare. 
None  know  how  much  her  hair  I  prize. 

Sad,  blue  gray  eyes  that  ne'er  disguise 

The  soul  from  out  the  graj', 
A  soul  so  good  that  womanhood 

Seems  bettered  by  its  magic  sway. 

A  form  of  mold  as  fine  as  gold 
And  graced  with  queenly  air; 

A  fairy  step,  by  which  she  crept 
Into  my  heart  and  nestled  there. 

O  sad,  sweet  face!  in  all  this  place, 

Tiiere  is  no  love  like  thine. 
O  heart  so  true!  it  is  for  you 

1  pray— "God  bless  my  Valentine." 


-© 


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LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


113 


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EUGENIE  E.CLARK. 

Born:  Paducah,  Ky.,  Dec.  10, 1869. 
The  young  lady  whose  pieture  and  u;ime  ap- 
pear here  is  one  of  the  quite  accomjilished 
young  hxdies  of  Paducah.  Graduating  from 
college.  Miss  Clark,  has  devoted  much  of  her 
time  and  her  talent  since  to  literary  pursuits, 
mostly  over  the  nom  de  plume  of  Geneva. 
Her  writings  on  various  subjects,  both  in 
prose  and  poetry,  have  won  for  her  a  very  en- 
viable reputation,  both  at  home  and  abroad. 
Her  first  literary  effort  was  at  the  age  of  ten, 
when  she  wrote  a  poem  which  promised  her 
subsequent  literary   ability.    She  has  lately 


© 


EUGENIE  E.   CLAKK. 

written  an  opera,  which  she  is  now  setting  to 
music,  and  which  competent  critics  who  have 
examined  it  pronounce  a  sure  success,  as  the 
pubUc  will  soon  have  a  chance  to  vei-ify.  Miss 
Clark  has  also  written  a  novel,  which  East- 
ern publishers  have  examined  and  declared 
full  of  power  and  great  promise.  As  a  con- 
tributor to  the  local  literature  of  the  city  her 
articles  have  been  most  flatteringly  criticised, 
and  show  a  graceful  and  easy  flow  of  lan- 
guage and  tliought.  There  is  evidently  quite 
a  brilliant  future  before  Miss  Clark  if  she  shall 
decide  to  utilize  the  talent  she  has  for  author- 
ship. Her  poems  have  been  widely  read  and 
admired  by  lovers  of  the  muse  throughout 
the  United  States. 


TO  A  ROSE.      LA  BRIDE. 
Pale,  perfect  flower,  to  thy  petals  cling 
A  sweetness  born  of  dew,  of  sun,  of  heaven; 
An  incense  that  upborne  to  paradise. 
Meets  wafts  of  angels'   breath  in  downward 

sighs 
Swayed  earthward,  that  to  mortal   souls  it 

bring 
The  dream  of  happiness  that  shall  be  given. 

I  gaze  upon^'our  leaves  now  curled  and  dry 
And  yellowed  into  pale  and  softened  gold. 
The  days  and  weeks  and  months  —  a  year  has 

past 
Since  he  who  gave  thee  sighed,  when  we  at 

last 
Knew  that  the  time  had  come  to  say  good-bye 
Till  many  moons  should  wave  and  buds  un- 
fold. 

Thy  faint  breath  whispers  of  one  sunny  hour 
Passed  where  the  trees  and  blossoms  wove 

their  spell 
Of  trembling  sweetness  in  the  dappled  shade; 
The  drowsy  note  of  birds  borne  from  the  glade 
Came  on  the  truant  breeze,  that  wooed  the 

flower 
Then  tossed  her  fragrant  kisses  o'er  the  fell. 
In  thy  pure  heart  the  subtle  perfume  lives. 
As  lives  in  mine  the  sweetness  of  that  hour. 
Whate'er  betide, whate'er  the  years  may  bring. 
The  fragrance  of  a  thought  to  thee  will  cling. 
Though  fame  or  place  —  whate'er  the  future 

gives 
To  me,  to  thee  I  give  all  in  my  power  — 
A  kiss,  a  tear,  a  sigh,  pale,  perfect  flower. 


PATIENCE. 
Long  and  wearily  I  waited, 
Waited  Jamie  for  thy  coming. 
Listened  for  thy  loved  footsteps  — 
Tearful  leaflets  sighed:  "  He  comes  not." 
Long  and  wearily  I  waited ; 
Pitying  skies  wept  all  day  with  me; 
E'en  the  birds  were  silent,  while  I 
Watched  and  waited,  but  you  come  not. 
Shall  I  ever  feel  your  hand-clasp 
Warm  my  blood  like  wine,  and  tingle 
Thi-ough  my  veins  like  drops  of  ichor? 
Feel  your  warm  Ups'  tender  clinging? 
Yes,  I  hear  your  solemn  promise. 
And  a  soothing  peace  falls  o'er  me 
Like  a  heavenly  benediction; 
And  my  waiting  heart  hath  patience. 


EXTRACT. 
Oh!  golden  moon,  that  sifts  thy  yellow  dust 
In  gleaming  mist  o'er  all  the  silent  earth. 
Tell  me,  dost  look  upon  another  face 
So  sad  as  mine,  another  heart  so  sad? 


m 


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114 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


ANNA  C.  L.  BOTTA. 

Born:  Bennington,  Vt.,  in  1828. 
This  lady  was  educated  in  Albany,  N.  T.,  and 
began  early  to  write  for  literary  periodicals. 
Mrs.  Botta's  style  is  musical,  elegant  and  fin- 
ished. Among  her  best  poems  are  Paul  at 
Athens,  Webster  Books,  and  Wasted  Foun- 
tains. She  has  published  in  periodicals  num- 
erous stories,  essays  aud  criticisms,  and  has 
edited  various  works.  A  new  e^tioa  of  her 
poems  appeared  in  1884. 


© 


THE  DUMB  CREATION. 

Deal  kindly  with  those  speechless  ones. 
That  throng  our  gladsome  earth ; 

Say  not  the  bounteous  gift  of  life 
Alone  is  nothing  worth. 

What  though  with  mournful  memories 

They  sigh  not  for  the  past? 
What  though  their  ever  joyous  Now 

No  future  overcast? 

No  aspirations  fill  their  breast 

With  longings  undefined: 
They  live,  they  love,  and  they  are  blest, 
For  what  they  seek  they  find. 

They  see  no  mystery  in  the  stars, 

No  wonder  in  the  plain; 
And  Life's  enigma  wakes  in  them 

No  questions  dark  and  vain. 

To  them  earth  is  a  fi  nal  home, 

A  bright  and  blest  abode; 
Their  lives  unconsciously  flow  on 

In  harmony  with  God. 

To  this  fair  world  our  human  hearts 
Their  hopes  and  longings  bring. 

And  o'er  its  beauty  and  its  bloom 
Their  own  dark  shadows  fling. 

Between  the  future  and  the  past 

In  wild  unrest  we  stand: 
And  ever  as  our  feet  advance. 

Retreats  the  promised  laud. 

And  though  Love,  Fame,  and  Wealth  aud 
Tower, 

Bind  in  their  gilded  bond. 
We  puie  to  grasp  the  unattained. 

The  something  still  beyond. 

And,  beating  on  their  prison  bars, 

Our  spirits  ask  more  room. 
And  with  \inanswered  (luostlonings. 

They  pierce  beyond  the  tomb. 

Then  say  thou  not,  oh  doubtful  heart. 

There  is  no  life  to  come: 
That  in  some  tearless,  cloudless  land. 

Thou  Shalt  not  find  thy  home. 


JOHN  HAY. 

Born:  Salem,  Ind.,  Oct.  8, 1838. 
John  Hay  practiced  law  in  Illinois  in  1861,  but 
immediately  after  went  to  Washington  as  as- 
sistant secretary  to  President  Lincoln,  remain- 
ing with  him,  both  as  a  secretary  and  a  trusted 
friend,  almost  constantly  till  the  death  of  Mr. 
Lincoln.  He  then  served  the  government  in 
various  capacities.  In  18V0  he  became  an  edi- 
torial writer, on  the  New  York  Tribune,  where 
he  remained  about  five  years.  Pike  County 
Ballads  is  his  best  book  of  verse.  Col.  Hay  is 
supposed  to  be  the  author  of  Breadwinners. 


JIM  BLUDSO,  OP   THE  PRAIRIE  BELLE. 

Wall,  no !  I  can't  tell  where  he  lives, 

Becase  he  don't  live,  you  see; 
Leastways,  he's  got  out  of  the  habit 

Of  livin'  like  you  and  me. 
Whar  have  you  been  for  the  last  three  year 

That  you  hav  n't  heard  folks  teU 
How  Jimmy  Bludso  passed  in  his  checks 

The  night  of  the  Prairie  Belle? 

He  were  n't  no  saint,— them  engineers 

Is  ail  pretty  much  alike, — 
One  wife  in  Natchez-under-the-Hill 

And  another  one  here,  in  Pike ; 
A  keerless  man  in  his  talk  was  Jim, 

And  an  awkward  hand  in  u  row. 
But  he  never  funked,  and  he  never  Ued, — 

I  reckon  he  never  knew  how. 

All  boats  had  their  day  on  the  Mississip 

And  her  day  came  at  last, — 
The  Movastar  was  a  better  boat. 

But  the  Belle  she  would  n't  be  passed. 
And  so  she  came  tearin'  along  that  night  — 

The  oldest  craft  on  the  line  — 
With  a  nigger  squat  on  the  safety-valve, 

And  her  furnace  crammed,  rosin  and  pine. 

The  flre  bust  out  as  she  clared  the  bar. 

And  burnt  a  hole  m  the  night. 
And  quick  as  a  flash  s^^  e  turned,  and  made 

For  that  willar-bankon  the  right. 
There  was  runuiu'  and  cursin',  but  Jim  yelled 
out. 

Over  all  the  infernal  roar, 
••  I'll  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  galoot's  ashore." 

Through  the  hot,  black  breath  of  the  burnln' 
boat 

Jim  Bludso's  voice  was  heard. 
And  they  all  bad  trust  in  his  cussedness. 

And  kuowed  he  would  keep  his  word. 
And,  siu'c's  you're  born,  they  all  gt)t  off 

Al'on^  the  smokestacks  fell,— 
And  lUiidso's  ghost  went  up  alone 

In  the  smoke  of  the  Prairie  Belle. 


-© 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


115 


© 


BLANCHE  HERMINE  ADAMS. 

BoRs:  Vancouver, Wash.,  Oct.  23, 1871. 

Miss  Adams  is  the  daughter  of  Major  Enoch 
George  Adam.s,  the  poet,  lecturer,  journalist 
and  soldier,  wlio  is  fully  represented  elsewhere 
in  tills  work.   In   1885  she   removed  with  her 


BLANCHE  HERMINE  ADAMS. 

mother  to  Berwick,  Maine,  and  entered  South 
Berwick  Academy,  where  she  will  soon  gradu- 
ate. Miss  Adams  is  editor-in  chief  of  the  Ber- 
wick Scholar,  which  is  published  in  connection 
with  the  Academy. 


51 


ARBOR  DAY  POEM. 

O'er  castle  old  where  wealth  untold 

In  years  long  since  gone  hy 
Had  held  its  sway  for  manj-  a  day, 

Wliich  now  in  ruins  lie. 
The  ivy  green  how  oft  'tis  seen 

By  some  observant  guest '. 
To  him  the  thought  with  trutli  well  fraught 

Comes  with  a  sudden  zest. 
That  wealth  may  flee  on  land  and  sea. 

But  we  maj'  safely  hold 
Close  to  the  right  with  all  our  might. 

As  ivy  ruins  old. 
Our  ivy  green  that  you  have  seen 

Is  planted  here  to-day. 
Now  maj'  it  preach  or  may  teach 

A  lesson  in  its  way. 


And  may  our  class  as  time  shall  pass 

Forever  to  the  riglit. 
Aye  cling  with  zeal,  and  always  feel 

We  ev'ry  wrong  must  fight. 

When  life  shall  fail  with  ache  and  ail. 

And  earthly  hopes  decline. 
Then  let  us  cling  like  ivy  ring. 

To  higher  things  divine. 

Aspire  to  heaven  with  sins  forgiven. 

As  ivy  climbs  the  steeple 
And  lieavenward  go  from  things  below, 

Alluring  other  people. 


MT.  HOOD. 
In  the  far  and  glorious  West, 
Rearing  aloft  its  snowy  crest. 
Stands  a  mountain  lone  and  grand 
Like  a  sentinel  at  hand. 
Overlooking  fir  and  pine. 
Overlooking  New  World's  Rhine, 
Lordly  stream  of  Oregon, 
River  poets  boast  upon 
Hood  in  purity  sublime. 
Changeless  still  in  lapse  of  time, 
Show'st  how  great  thy  beauties  are, 
Nothing  can  thy  whiteness  mar. 
'Gainst  the  azure  hemisphere, 
Standest  thou  without  a  peer. 
Hard  thj-  summit  is  to  reach. 
As  the  fame  desired  bj'  each. 
Only  birds  that  strongest  spring 
Brush  thy  summit  with  their  wing. 
Though  the  seasons  come  and  go. 
Summer's  heat  and  winter's  snow. 
Thou  remain'st  still  the  same. 
Like  unto  the  spotless  name 
Of  some  great  soul  that  has  fame 
Left  untarnished  still  and  pure. 
Name  that  ever  will  endure. 
Through  the  ages  long  to  come. 
Till  are  all  men  summoned  home. 
Scorn  by  it  is  heeded  not. 
All  mere  trouble  is  forgot. 
Towering  above  llie  ills  of  life 
Beneath  it  sinks  all  din  and  strife. 
Thus  tliou,  monarch  of  Cascades, 
Where  beneath,  o'er  hills  and  glades. 
Roar  the  streams  and  water  falls. 
Disregarding  Ijanks  and  walls. 

Or  when  on  a  sultry  day. 
Through  dry  forest  fires  play, 
Tliou  dost  firm  untainted  stand. 
Luring  with  a  beckoning  hand 
Like  a  saint  in  saintly  robe. 
Grandest  monarch  on  the  globe, 
I  within  thy  shadow  born. 
Hail  thee,  glorious  as  the  morn! 


^ 


ge- 


ne 


-a&i 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


ALEXANDER  J.  FARROW. 

Born:  Orangeburg,  Ky.,  Jan.  3, 1843. 
The  poems  of   Mr.    Farrow    have   appeared 
quite  extensivelj'  in  the  local  press.    He  was 
married  in  1865  ti)  Sai;ili  V.  Hanisay,  and  now 


m 


ALEXANDER  JAMKS  FARROW. 

resides  on  a  farm  In  Putnam  county,  Ind. 
After  graduating-  at  a  college  in  Missouri,  Mr. 
Farrow  taught  scliool  for  some  time  in  the 
city  of  St.  Joseph  and  other  places. 

WOMAN. 
Heavenly  muse!  my  mind  inspire, 
And  fill  me  witli  poetic  fire; 
Direct  my  liand  the  lyre  to  string. 
Of  lovely  woman,  godde.ss  sing. 
God  made  man  in  Eden's  bowers. 
To  walk  amid  the  fairest  flowers; 
But  looking  from  His  golden  throne. 
He  saw  that  Adam  was  alone. 
He  laid  him  down  in  sweet  repose. 
And  made  his  eyes  in  slumber  close; 
But  when  the  drowsy  god  had  fled. 
He  heard  a  light  and  fiiiry  tread. 
He  started  up,  and  looking  'round, 
Beheld  the  sigiitthat  made  the  sound  — 
So  lovely,  i)leasing  was  the  sight, 
He  thouglit  it  was  an  angel  bright. 
There  gentle  Eve  befon^  him  stood. 
In  all  tlie  grace  of  womanhood  — 
He  saw  lier  fair  and  faultless  form, 
And  felt  his  breast  wUh  1 1 aiisport  warm. 
She  turned  to  fly  in  wild  affrigjit,— 
For  man  was  terror  to  lier  sight; 


But  vain  it  was  from  him  to  part: 

He  clasped  her  to  his  beating  heart. 

Oh  man !  how  good  was  God  to  send. 

Fair  Eve  to  be  thy  bosom  friend  I 

To  share  thy  joys,  thy  sorrows  know. 

To  soothe  thy  soul  in  grief  or  woe. 

Though  mighty  oceans,  deep  blue  seas. 

Towering  mountains,  waving  trees. 

Diversify  this  mundane  sphere, 

All  would  be  drear,  but  thou  art  hei-e. 

The  placid  lake,  the  silver  stream. 

Where  wandering  poets  love  to  dream ; 

The  shady  dell,  the  winding  vale 

Where  fragrance  sweet  the  flowers  exhale; 

The  golden  sands  the  streamlet  laves. 

Refulgent  gems  in  ocean's  caves. 

Could  only  empty  pleasure  give. 

If  man  were  doomed  alone  to  live. 

O  woman !  gentle  as  the  dove, 

'Tis  thee  we  honor,  thee  we  love; 

Our  infant  years  have  been  thy  care. 

And  at  thy  knees  we  knelt  in  prayer. 

A  mother!  sacred  be  that  name. 

Far  sweeter  than  the  voice  of  fame ; 

Can  her  dear  image  e'er  depart. 

Long  as  life's  current  thrills  the  heart? 

No!  far  within  the  heart's  deep  cells. 

Her  cherished  image  ever  dwells; 

Her  guardian  spirit  hovers  'round, 

When  slumber  holds  all  nature  bound. 

When  death  has  thrown  his  flaming  dart. 

And  stopped  the  current  of  her  heart, 

Her  sacred  memory  lingers  near 

And  claims  the  tribute  of  a  tear. 

A  mother's  love,  how  deep!  how  true! 

Pure  as  the  crystal  drop  of  dew; 

It  penetrates  the  dungeon's  gloom. 

And  fondly  lingers  'round  the  tomb. 

The  wretch  that  on  the  scaffold  stands 

With  human  blood  upon  his  hands. 

Feels,  while  his  fleeting  life  remains, 

A  mother's  love  he  still  retains. 

No  crime  that  stains  fair  nature's  face. 

No  damning  deed  of  dire  disgrace 

That  cries  aloud  to  hea%en  above, 

Can  alienate  a  mother's  love. 

When  stretched  upon  his  dying  bed. 

And  death  his  flaming  dart  liath  sped. 

To  lay  the  fond  loved  husband  low. 

Who  can  depict  his  ct)nport's  woe. 

Away,  ye  sensele.ss  knaves!  for  shame. 

Who  speak  so  lightly  of  her  name; 

Her  name  should  make  your  bosom  thrill. 

Till  death  your  throbbing  hearts  sliall  still. 

This  world  would  be  a  gloomy  place  — 

This  life  would  be  a,  dreary  waste  — 

Yea,  heaven  itself  would  be  a  hell. 

If  woman  ceased  with  us  to  dwell. 


© 


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LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


11- 


-* 


MRS.  JESSIE  W.  MANNING. 

Born  :  Mount  Pleasant,  Iowa,  Oct.  26, 185.5. 
Jessie  made  verses  in  her  childhood;  was 
fairly  studious  as  a  little  girl ;  and  music  was 
a  passion  with  lier.  Graduating  in  1874,  she 
became  enthusiastic  in  science  and  literature. 
She  made  up  her  mind  to  adopt  the  lecture 
platform  as  a  profession,  and  lectured 
throughout  tlie  western  states  on  literary 
subjects  and  on  temperance  for  five  years, 
when  slu'  was  married  to  Mr.  Eli  Manning,  a 


MR.S.   JLsNlh    W.    .MA>MNG. 

merchant  of  Chariton.  Mrs.  Manning  never 
regretted  her  abandonment  of  the  platform, 
content  in  the  seclusion  of  home  with  hus- 
band and  children.  She  has  written  a  long 
poem  entitled  The  Passion  of  Life,  which  has 
earned  her  favorable  notice.  Mrs.  Manning 
writes  critical  essays  and  reviews  for  the 
press.  She  also  has  another  long  poem  com- 
pleted, which  will  soon  be  published. 


®- 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  YOUTH. 
Why  art  thou  sobbing  low  — 
Wherefore  th j'  weary  woe  — 
Whence  comes  this   pain    that  through  thy 
fair  life  quivers  ? 
Joy  sits  at  thy  right  hand; 
Love  waits  for  thy  command ; 
Carest  thou  that  bitter  wind  rare  blossoms 
shivers  ? 


See  what  a  glory  falls 
Through  the  moon's  fairy  walls; 
Now  shows  the  pageant  fair  of  the  world's 
splendor: 
Ah !  not  thy  fairest  dream 
Rarer  than  this  could  .seem  — 
Life  looking  futureward,  smiles  sweet  and 
tender. 
Why  then,  thy  sad  regret  ? 
Why  art  thou  weeping  yet  ? 
Why  waiting  desolate,  gladness  untasted  ? 
Cease  now  thy  wailing  cry. 
Hush  now  thy  sobbing  sigh'— 
Else  might   the   sweetness   of   thy   fate   be 
wasted. 
Nay!  nay!  the  secret  comes 
Which  all  the  burden  seems 
Of  the  world's  woe  and  tears,  counted  and 
singled. 
This  the  sad  lesson  taught  — 
This,  with  its  dreams  fraught, 
Life's   joy    is    bitter    sweet,    foul   and   fair 
mingled. 


THE  GLAMOUR  OF  YOUTH. 

What  is  so  fair,  so  fair  — 
In  all  this  world  of  care  — 

So  fair  as  youth  ? 
Youth  with  its  rhyme  and  chime. 
Faith  in  grand  things  subhme, 
Hope  for  great  deeds  in  time, 

Yearnings  for  truth. 
Ah,  how  the  golden  haze 
Flushes  the  fleeting  days ! 

Dreams  and  romance 
Flood  with  a  grace  divine 
All  common  things  or  fine ; 
Turn  water  into  wine  — 

Walk  into  dance. 
Nature's  sweet  grace  is  wrought 
On  every  ardent  thought. 

Impulse  and  aim. 
Not  yet  has  caution  chilled  — 
Not  yet  has  passion  thrilled  — 
Not  yet  despair  has  filled 

Youth's  heart  of  flame ; 
Pulsing  with  prescient  beat 
To  the  advancing  feet 

Of  life's  events; 
Eager  for  strife  to  come  — 
Forecasting  ti-iumph's  sun  — 
Knowing  no  fear  to  numb 

Youth's  sanguine  sense. 
All  promise  molded  there, 
Folded  in  youth  so  fair  — 

Youth  in  its  purity. 
Wliat  wiU  the  sequel  tell  ? 
Will  it  prove  ill  or  well  ? 
How  wiU  the  promise  swell 

In  the  futurity  ? 


-* 


©- 


-m 


lis 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


ELLA  A.GILES. 

Born  in  Wisconsin,  Feb.  3, 1851. 
Miss  Giles  has  already  written  and  publish- 
ed sevei-al  works,  including-  Bachelor  Ben, 
Out  From  tlie  Shadows,  and  Maiden  Rachel. 
Her  poems  and  sketches  have  appeared  in  the 
leading    periodicals,    and  liave   been  widely 


ELLA    A.   GILES. 

copied  by  the  western  local  press.  Miss  Giles 
is  rather  tall,  slender,  and  a  decided  brunette. 
She  now  resides  in  Madison,  Wisconsin,  with 
her  father,  engaged  in  housekeeping  and  lit- 
erary work. 


f^- 


DEFEAT. 
I  know  thee  not!    Alas  for  those 
To  whom  thou  canst  thy  form  disclose. 
Oft  I  discern  flend-sliapes  afar 
In  dim  outlines,  but  lo,  a  star 
Sliiiics  also  from  black  space;  a  friend, 
Disguised  as  foe,  fiticc  storm-clouds  send. 
M.y  will  hath  taught  me  how  lo  gain 
Profit  fi'om  loss,  pleasure  from  pain. 
Will  is  supreme!    Grim  specters  rise 
No  more  when  I  have  missed  a  prize. 
I  fear  no  foes  but  those  within, 
My  soul  di'eads  no  defeat  but  sin. 
And  wliat  sin  is  I  can  decid(! 
For  self  alone,  1  am  my  gnide. 
Suc(H'ss  ill  myself  at  any  cost. 
Attain  1  that  aiifl  naught  is  lost. 


BEGONE  SUSPENSE. 

Thou  wretched,  haggard,  tottering  dame ! 
Exile  from  Hades!  without  name 
Save  such  as  in  thy  changeful  moods 
Thou  givest  thyself;  thy  form  obtrudes 
Its  ugly  shape  into  tlio  mind 
And  hungers  there  with  looks  unkind 
When  men  dare  dream  of  being  blest 
With  Hope;  that  loss  exacting  guest 
Of  whom  thou  jealous  art  whene'er 
Thou  see'st  her  timidly  draw  near. 
Begone,  Suspense,  from  hearts  that  ache 
With  dim  forebodings !  Better  break 
'Neath  one  fell  blow  of  certainty 
Than  meet  thy  cruel,  treacherous  eye 
Which  nothing  tells,  yet  doth  suggest 
Ills  that  elude  the  keenest  quest. 
Begone  forever,  evil  hag ! 
When  thou'rt  away  no  more  wiU  lag 
Life's  weary  hours;  with  swifter  pace 
Time's  feet  will  run  their  destined  race. 


OH,  YE  BEAUTEOUS  HILLS  OF 
FRANKFORT. 
Oh,  ye  beauteous  hills  of  Frankfort, 

Wist  j'e  why  to-day  we  sigh  ? 
Gentle  hills  that  sit  and  listen 

To  the  tender,  leaning  sky ; 
Shadowed  hills,  enlaced  with  sunshine, 

Mist-embosomed,  silence-clad, — 
Do  ye  feel  our  yearning  homage; 

Know  why  we  no  more  are  glad  ? 
'Tis  because,  amid  your  forests. 

In  the  hush  of  "Arnold's  wold," 
Walks  a  baid  who  speaks  your  language, — 

One  to  wliom  ye  oft  have  told 
Secrets  of  transcendent  sadness. 

Which  so  freely  forth  he  breathes 
That  he  low-rebukes  our  rapture, 

And  to  us  your  sigh  bequeaths. 
Oh,  wild-tangled  wold,  soul-wooing, 

Stretched  in  smiling,  careless  grace 
'Neath  the  arch  of  clouds  far  distant, 

But  for  him,  upon  your  face 
We  could  only  read  a  story 

Fraught  with  radiant  joy's  deep  thrills; 
But  he  lives,  and  he  your  voice  is,~ 

Your  own  voice,  ye  once-mute  hills! 
Griefs  vicarious  does  he  suffer. 

Till  your  strength  is  the  world's  gain; 
Hai)i)y  hills?    Nay,  mounts  transfigured 

By  tlie  poet's  .steadfast  pain. 


FORGIVENESS. 
Forgiveness  is  the  fragrance,  rare  and  swoet, 
Tliat  flowers  yield  when  trampled  on  by  feet 
That  reckless  tread  the  tender,  teeming  earth; 
For  blossoms  crushed  and  bleeding  yet  give 

birtb 
To  pardon's  perfume;  from  the  stern  decrees 
Of  unfoigiveness.  Nature  ever  flees. 


© 


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LOCAL   AXD  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA, 


119 


:« 


HJALMRR  H.  BOYESEN. 

Born  jn  Norway,  Sept.  23, 1848. 

In  1868  Mr.  Boyesen  came  to  America,  and  the 
following  year  he  became  editor  of  the  Frcmad, 
a  Scandinavian  paper  published  in  Chicag-o. 
He  has  since  been  professor  of  German  in  Cor- 
nell and  Columbia  universities.  The  contribu- 
tions of  this  author  to  the  periodicals  of  the 
day  soon  attracted  attention,  and  he  became 
popular  as  a  story-teller  in  prose  and  verse. 
He  is  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Author's  club 
in  New  York  City.  Many  of  his  books  and 
short  stories  have  been  translated  into  Ger- 
man, Norwegian,  and  at  least  one  of  them  into 
Russian. 


®- 


EGIL  SCALD' S  LAMENT. 
Strangely,  son,  thou  starest; 

And  thy  sight  is  sunken; 
Still  thou  art  and  silent. 

As  with  slumber  drunken: 
Lo,  thy  lips  are  li^nd ; 

Loud  erewhile  their  laughter! 
Shall  I  vainly  listen 

For  thy  voice  hereafter? 

Dumb  thou  art,  and  dampness 

In  dark  drops  descending 
For  thy  brow  is  breaking, 

With  thy  bright  beard  blending. 
Foam-fiakes  fleck  thy  forehead; 

Fixed  thine  eyes  and  frigid; 
And  thy  mighty  frame  is 

Faint  with  frost  and  rigid. 

Swift  spreads  slumber's  shadow! 

Speak  ere  strength  forsake  thee ! 
Woe!  my  witless  wailing 

Never  moi'e  will  wake  thee  I 
Dead  thou  art,  my  darling; 

Long  the  n'ght  before  thee. 
Thou  hast  left  thy  father 

Lonely  to  deplore  thee. 

Bodvar !  best  beloved ! 

Of  bold  sons  the  boldest ! 
In  thy  helpless  hand  my 

Life's  snapped  thread  thou  boldest. 
Swordless  Death  has  sought  thee 

Mid  the  sea-weeds  swelling; 
Fain  thy  father  follows 

Thee  to  Hela's  dwelUng. 

For  thy  birth's  bright  hour 

Blessings  bloomed  ai-ound  thee: 
Fast  about  my  heart-roots 

Wound,  each  fresh  year  found  thee; 
On  thy  brave  young  boy-face 

Glad  my  sight  would  linger. 
As  thou  fed'st  me  lightly 

With  thy  baby  finger. 


Oft  I  stood  in  spirit, 

By  strong  sons  surrounded; 
Whose  sonorous  saga 

Through  my  soul  resounded; 
Saw  their  fearless  phalanx 

Fame  and  fortune  gather, — 
Safe  within  their  shield  burgh 

I,  their  happy  father ! 

Saw  them  swords  unsheathing; 

Heard  their  armors'  rattle; 
Saw  them  storming,  shouting 

With  the  joj'  of  battle: 
Bodvar  foremost  fighting, 

Fair  and  fierce  and  glorious, 
And  his  falchion  flashing 

In  his  path  victorious. 


IF  THE  ROSE  COULD  SPEAK. 
Within  the  rose  I  found  a  trembling  tear. 
Close  curtained  in  a  gloom  of  crimson  night 
By  tender  petals  from  the  outer  light. 
I  plucked  the  flower  and  held  it  to  my  ear. 
And  thought  within  its  fervid  breast  to  hear 
A  smothered  heart-beat  throbbing  soft  and  low. 
I  heard  its  busy  life-blood  gently  flow. 
Now  far  away  and  now  so  strangely  near. 
Ah,  thought  I,  if  these  silent  lips  of  flame 
Could  be  unsealed  and  fling  into  the  air 
Their  woe,  their  passion, and  in  speech  proclaim 
Their  warm  intoxication  of  despair;  — 
Then  would  I  give  the  rose  into  thy  hand; 
Thou  couldst  its  voice,  beloved,  not  withstand. 


HENRY  MILLS  ALDEN. 

Born:  Mount  Tabor, Vt.,  Nov.  11, 1836. 
Henry  had  a  good  collegiate  education.  In 
1869  he  became  managing  editor  of  Harper's 
Magazine.  He  is  the  author  of  the  poem,  The 
Ancient  Lady  of  Sorrow;  and,  jointly  with  A. 
H.  Guernsey,  Harper's  Pictorial  History  of 
the  Great  Rebellion,  Mr.  Guernsey  writing  the 
eastern  campaigns  and  Mr.  Alden  the  western. 


THE  MAGIC  MIRROR. 
The  magic  mirror  makes  not  nor  unmakes; 
Charms  none  to  sleep,  nor  any  from  it  wakes — 
It  only  giveth  back  the  thing  it  takes. 
'Tis  but  the  heart's  own  cheer  that  makes  it 

glad, 
And  one's  own  bitterness  will  drive  him  mad; 
It  needeth  not  that  other  help  be  had. 

Dame  Fortune  maketh  none  to  rise  or  fall ; 
To  him  that  hath  not  doth  no  portion  call; 
To  him  that  hath  is  freely  given  all. 
They  see  themselves  who  look  in  Fortune's  face, 
Unto  the  sad  in  sadness  Heaven's  grace; 
And  to  the  souls  that  love  is  love's  embrace. 


© 


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120 


LOCAL   AND   XATIOXAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


-a 


ABEL  BEACH. 

Born:  Gkoton.N.  Y.,  Feb.  7,1829. 
After   graduating:   in  1849,  he  taug-ht  Latin 
.and  Greek  in  tlie  Iowa  state  university.     He 
was  admitted  to  the  bar,  but  has  never  prac- 
ticed law.     Mr.   Beach    later  on  ensjaat'ii   in 


ABEL    BEACH. 

mercantile  business  in  the  stationery  trade, 
and  is  now  insurance  and  pension  attorney  at 
Iowa  City,  where  he  resides.  Mr.  Beach  was 
one  of  the  seven  original  founders  of  Theta- 
Delta-Chi  college  fraternity  organized  in  1847. 

FANCY  AND  FACT. 
Last  night  in  sweet  transport  of  vision  me- 

thought 
I  was  hajjpy  a(  liome  with  my  loved  and  lost 

boys, 
AVIi((  liad  coriie  as  of    yore  and  endearingly 

souglit 
My  time  to  l)eguile  with  tlieir  innocent  joys. 

Home  lieavenly  joys! 
Their  past  was  with    many  dear    memories 

crowned, 
Willi  many  sweet  cliarms  and  good  deeds  was 

briglit; 
Their  ])reseiit  tlie  halo  of  youth  slione  around, 
Theirfuture  waslitwitli  liojies heavenly  liglit. 

Resplendent  the  light! 
O  i)rcsenco   most  dear!  O  sweet    iiKiment   of 

I'liss!  [part 

I    No  rapture  more  liallowea  could  angels  Im- 


® 


To  man  from  the  mansions  above  than  was 

this 
Brief  hour  of  delight  to  a  fond  father's  heart. 

O'erflowing  my  heart! 
But,  alas !  the  bright  vision   dispelled  is  soon 

made  [gleam 

To  deepen  the  darkness  where  light  seemed  to 
My  boys  in  their  silent  beds  long  since  were 

laid:—  [Dream. 

I  wake    but  to  find  that    my  bliss  was  —  a 

Delusive  the  dream ! 
Tis  well  that  the  future  lies  hid  in  the  mist 
When  dreaming  we  need  but  to  reach  and 

receive. 
The  goal  of  ambition  is  often  a  tryst       [ceive. 
Where  fortune  and  honor  but  gleam  and  de- 
Dreams  only  deceive! 
The  ocean  of  life,  to  the  young  and  the  bold,— 
With  its  beauteous  expanse  and  its  perfume 

of  breeze, — 
With  Utopian  isles  hiding  treasures  untold. 
Has  a  thousand  alluring    charms  suited  to 

please. 
In  prospect  to  please ! 
O  how  often  at  morn,  under  calm  sunlit  skies. 
The  gallant  bark  glides  o'er  the  gem-crested 

wave 
But  to  sink  'neath  the  mountainous  billows 

that  rise  [save ! 

In  the  lightning  torn  night  when  no  effort  can 

Heaven  only  could  save! 
And  now  as  I  gaze  on    the   wreck   stricken 

shore,  [wind. 

Or  am  tossed  on  the  deep  at  the  sport  of  the 
My  spirit  in  anguish  cries  out  —  >•  Nevermore 
Will  peace  be  my  lot  till  the  haven  I  find. 
Shall  finally  find!" 


IN  FUTURO. 

The  day  is  short,  the  night  is  long. 

And  tediouslj'  I  wait  the  dawn 

Of  rising  sun  upon  my  sky: 

But  its  first  ray  says  "by-and-by." 

At  my  right  hand  I  see  a  friend 

Grasp  golden  treasures  without  end; 

And  then  again  I  vow  to  try 

For  better  fortunes  "  by-and-by." 

I  find  but  few  have  luck,  'tis  not 

Ordained,  it  seems  to  be  my  lot. 

And  if  it  deigns  to  e'er  draw  nigh 

"  Not  yet,"  it  says,  "but  by-and-by." 

Like  .sea  tossed  mariner,  at  night 

I  see  the  luring  stars  shine  bright 

Which  only  sjieak  of  heights  too  high 

To  be  in  reach  of  ••  by-and-by." 

And  yet  with  compass  true,  and  chart, 

I'll  aim  for  a  still  l)e1ter  mart 

Wliere  faithful  work  and  worth  may  vie 

Witli  wealth  for  happy  "by-and-by. 


I 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


121 


-* 


WILLIAM  HENRY  H.  HINDS. 

Born:  West  Milan,  N.  H.,  Jan. 30, 182L 
Mr.  Hinds  is  a  dentist  by  profession ;  he  lias 

■written  Poems  fur  oNcr  liiilf  a  cciii  im\-,  which 
have  a  PI  M 'ail  ■!  I    iiiihc    Iriidiiiij-    pci  ic  xiifals   of 


WILLIAM    HI:NKY    H.    HINDS. 

tlie  East.  Capt.  Hinds  passed  through  the 
war  of  the  rebellion.  He  has  a  family  of  tliree, 
and  now  resides  in  Kennebunliport,  Maine. 


©- 


WELCOME,  SWEET  BIRDS  OF  SPRING. 

Welcome,  sweet  Ijii-ds  of  spring, — 
Again  on  tireless  wing, — 
Ye  came  your  songs  to  sing. 
And  flowei's  and  sunshine  bring. 

How  we  love  your  singing, — 
To  hear  your  sweet  notes  ringing, — 
Which  abroad  you're  flinging, 
On  the  morning  air. 

In  the  tree-tops  clinging, 
On  the  green  turf  springing. 
O'er  the  blue  waves  winging. 
We  hear  you  everywhere. 

Welcome,  blithesome,  bluebird. 
Your  twtter  first  we  heard, 
And  like  some  magic  word. 
Our  inmost  heart  is  stirred. 

Far  your  lone  flight  winging, 
Fir.st  were  you  in  bringing, 


News  of  Nature's  springing. 
Into  new  life  again. 

We  love  your  song  out-pouring. 
While  northward  you  are  soaring. 
And  Nature's  God  adoring. 
In  musical  refrain. 

Welcome,  robin  red-breast,— 
In  pretty  crimson  vest. 
And  coat  of  ash,  you're  dressed, — 
Of  all  spring  birds,  loved  best. 

For  'twas  dear  "  Cock  Robin  " 
Set  our  young  heart    throbbing. 
And  our  bosom  sobbing. 
As  on  parental  knee. 

We  sat,  and  saw  in  sorrow. 
The  "  cruel,  cruel  sparrow. 
With  bow  and  blood-stained  arrow,' 
And  him  dead,  under  the  tree. 

Welcome,  sweet  merry  lark. 
All  Nature  seems  to  hai-k. 
For  thy  morning  songs,  that  mark, 
'Twixt  the  dawning  and  the  dark. 

Welcome,  Bob  o' Lincoln, 
We  hear  j'ou  now,  we  think,  on 
Some  quiet  river's  bi'ink,  on 
A  water-willow  bow. 

You're  a  jolly  fellow. 
Dressed  in  black  and  yellow. 
And  your  voice's  so  mellow. 
We  seem  to  hear  j'ou  now. 

Yes,  you're  looking  down. 
With  such  a  comical  frown. 
Now  you're  bobbing  round 
Just  like  a  feathered  clown. 

Welcome,  twittering  swallow, 
Scarce  our  eyes  can  follow. 
As  o'er  hill  and  hollow. 
You're  flitting  everywhere. 

You  are  such  happy  creatures, 
You  seem  like  winged  preachers. 
Sent  from  Heaven,  to  teach  us 
Of  God's  loving  care. 

Then  welcome,  birds  of  spring. 
Ye  make  our  hearts  to  sing, 
And  praise  our  Heavenly  King, 
•'  Wlio  giveth  each  good  thing." 

Ye  bring  us  joy  and  gladness. 
And  drive  away  our  sadness. 
Ye  free  our  hearts    of     badness, 
With  your  innocence  and  song. 

God  bless  you  happy  singers. 
For  while  your  sweet  note  lingers. 
It  still  shall  serve  to  bring  us 
To  Heaven's  happy  throng. 


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122 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A3IERICA. 


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THE  WRECK  OF  THE  ISADORE. 

People  still  show. 

When  the  tide  is  low, 
Where  that  new  ship  went  ashore. 

On  that  fearful  night, 

Near  no  beacon  light, 
'Mid  the  breakers'  crash  and  roar. 

Forty-five  years 

The  Heavenly  spheres 
Have  sped  on  their  shining  way, 

Since  one  day  at  noon. 

When  there  was  no  moon, 
She  left  the  Kennebunk  bay. 

Tlie  captain  said 

As  he  went  ahead. 
His  "Ship  must  sail  that  day; 

Tho'  the  winds  and  wave 

Might  storm  and  might  rave, 
His  ship  should  be  on  her  way." 

The  clouds  shut  down 

With  a  seeming  frown, 
That  told  of  a  coming  storm; 

And  the  south  winds  blew 

As  lost  to  their  view. 
Were  their  homes  so  snug  and  warm. 

Tlie  wind   shifts  east 

And  the  briny  yeast 
Is  blown  far  on  to  the  shore, 
^  The  ship  with  full  sail 

Is  caught  in  the  gale. 
Her  shrouds  in  ribbons  it  tore. 

No  one  can  go 

For  the  blinding  snow 
Up  aloft  to  reef  tlic  sail; 

And  the  surging  dec  p 

Seems  ever  to  leap 
Into  mountains  in  the  gale. 

In  vain  they  shout 

And  try  to  >.  about  " 
Their  ship  in  its  mad  careei-. 

It  is  "  pitchy  dark  " 

And  there's  not  a  spark 
To  tell  them  wliich  way  to  steer. 

With  sails  all  rent 

The  "  Isadore  "  went 
Straight  on  to  the  rocky  reef, 

AVhere  no  arm  can  save 

From  a  watery  gra^^e. 
And  no  life  boat  give  relief. 

O  tho  anguish  then 

Of  those  tlftoen  men, 
As  they  saw  tlieir  horrible  fate, 

Tliat  tlioy  there  nnist  die 

Willi  kind  friends  so  nigh, 
All  unconscious  of  tlieir  state. 

At  early  dawn 

On  tho  coming  morn 


When  their  neighbors  sought  the  shore. 

They  saw  on  the  beach 

Almost  within  reach 
The  wreck  of  the  "  Isadore." 

And  along  the  strand 

On  every  hand 
In  death's  cold  and  silent  sleep, 

Those  sailors  so  true. 

That  Kennebunk  crew 
Were  strewn  by  the  angry  deep. 

Their  spirits  now  free, 

On  a  stormless  sea 
Are  sailing  forevermore; 

And  cables  of  love 

Fast  anchored  above. 
Still  draw  their  friends  to  its  shore. 


WONDERFUL,  BEAUTIFUL  WORLD. 
Wonderful,  beautiful  world  is  this, 
Tho'  little  understood; 
Yet  brimming  full  of  joy  and  bliss 
For  each  one's  highest  good. 
O,  wonderful,  beautiful  world. 
How  happy  man  will  be 
When  all  its  wonders  are  unfurled 
Their  beauties  he  can  see. 
O,  wonderful,  beautiful  world  — 
God  speed  the  glorious  day 
When  error  from  Truth's  throne  is  hurled. 
And  Truth  shall  hold  full  sway. 
When  man  himself  shall  understand  — 
His  body  and  his  mind; 
"The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man," 
The  greatest  good  to  find. 
He  is  God's  temple,  where  he  dwells, 
"  A  house  not  made  with  hands," 
And  in  his  inmost  heart  there  wells 
A  wish  God  understands. 
A  wish  to  know  "  whence,  what  and  where," 
And  all  about  his  kind; 
A  wish  to  search  earth,  ocean,  air. 
Their  unknown  source  to  find. 
To  know  the  whence,  the  why  and  where  t'(,)re, 
Of  everything  around  — 
To  know  of  wliMl  had  gone  before 
Man  here  on  earlli  was  found. 
Of  wonderful  worlds  on  worlds  still  sought, 
Beyond  man's  utmost  ken ; 
Beyond  man's  utmost  reacli  of  thouglit. 
His  power  of  speech  or  pen. 
Of  wonderful  worlds,  of  beings,  too, 
Too  small  for  human  sight, 
E.xcept  as  they  arc  brought  to  view 
By  micro.scopic  light. 
Wonderful,  beautiful  world  is  this. 
Yet  chills  our  blood  to  tell, 
Tho'  brimming  full  of  joy  and  bliss, 
Man  makes  himself  the  hell. 


^ 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


123 


-ffl 


JACOB  P.  PRICKETT. 

Born  :  Benton,  Ind.,  May  10, 1836. 
Mr.  Prickett  is  editor  of  the  Albion  New 
Eraof  his  native  state.    He  lias   written  for 


JACOB  P.  PBICKETT. 

the  press  for  the  past  twenty-five  years,  and 
his  poems  have  appeared  from  time  to  time 
in  the  leading-  periodicals. 


©- 


THE  PICTUEE  FANCY  PAINTED. 
An  old   man  dreaming-   sits.    His  streaming- 
locks 
Are  whiten'd  by  the  flecks  of  foaming-  spray, 
From  off  the  crested  waves  of  passing-  years. 
That  ebb  and  flow  on  Time's  tempest'ous  sea. 
Whose  waters  separate  the  Fairy  Land 
Of  far-off  Childhood  from  life's  Sunset  Land. 
Tlie  murm'ring-  breezes  softly  whisper  as 
They  gently  blow  from  off  that  distant  shore 
Of  life's  sweet  Springtime  Land,  and,  blend- 
ing with 
The  sad,  sweet  music  of  the  murm'ring  sea, 
The  long-  forgotten  songs  of  childhood  sing 
In  silv'ry  cadence,  soft,  and  sweet  and  low. 
And  lull,  with  golden  symphonies  from  chords 
Of  mem'ries  long  forgot,  the  wearied  brain. 
And  heart,  and  soul,  to  dreamland's  sweet  re- 
pose. 
And  by  the  rose-wing'd  messengers  of  sleep. 
And  through  the  mystic  mazes  of  dreamland. 
He  back  transported  was  across  the  gulf 


Of  Time's  relentless  sea,  to  that  sweet  realm  — 
The  Fairyland  of  childhood's  happy  days. 

He,  dreaming,  sits  upon  the  hilltop's  once 
Familiar  brow,  where  stands  the  old  log-  home ; 
To  him  a  palace  now,  because  it  holds 
Life's  sweetest  memories ;  and  form  so  dear 
Of  a  sweet  mother,  whose  unchanging  love, 
Like  golden  sunbeam,  gilded  life's  pathway 
Through   cliildhood's   happy   years.     Before 

him  now. 
He  sees  the  old,  loved  scenes  of  years  agone. 
At  foot  of  hill,  and  in  its  shadow  deep, 
At  sunset's  hour,  there  stands  the  silent  mill. 
And  from  it  flows,  o'er  pebbly  bottom  bright, 
The  little  streamlet,  bearing  on  its  breast, 
A  flood  of  old-time  memories  so  dear. 
Beyond  it  lies,  like  dimpled  smile  upon 
The  placid  face  of  gufleless  innocence. 
The  little  raeadow  with  its  nodding  plumes 
Of  gold  and  purple  flow'rs,  and  sweet  per- 
fume — 
A  gem  of  Nature's  setting  in  the  crown 
Of  the  old  home !    Beyond  the  meadow's  rim. 
In  shadow  of  the  overhanging  trees. 
The  more  majestic  river  calmly  flows  — 
A  silv'ry  framework  for  the  picture  dear, 
In  Mem'ry's  chamber  hanging,  and  which  tide 
Of  passing  years  cannot  deface  nor  dim. 

And  as  he  dreaming  sits,  and  lives  again 
Amid  the  scenes  to  which  the  golden  chain 
Of  mem'ry  binds  his  heart  and  soul.  Estrange 
Poetic  fire  and  ardor  sweetly  thriU 
His  being,  and  the  inspii-ation,  felt 
By  artists  who  to  canvas  have  transferred 
Their  golden   glow'd   conceptions   rare  and 
Fills  mind  and  soul,  and  he  an  artist  is.  [pure. 
With  rare  conception  —  execution  true  — 
The  inspiration  of  his  magic  touch. 
To  spotless  canvas  the  loved  picture  gives. 
The  rude,  log  home;  the  gently  sloping  hill; 
The  pebble-bottom'd  brooklet  at  its  base ; 
Ti.ellow'r-decked  meadow  with  its  gilded  rim 
Of  silv'ry  waters,  and  the  grand  old  trees. 
Deep  in  whose  shadow's  heard  the  river's  flow. 
Ah,  sweet  the  picture,  and  so  true  complete, 
'Twas  Art  with  Nature  vieing;  but  just  then 
The  Master  Artist  of  the  Universe, 
With  rainbow  tints,  and  sunsets'  golden  glow 
And  mellow'd  hues,  touch'd  topmost  branches 
of  [hand 

The  grand  old  forest   trees.    Then  with  the 
Of  inspiration,  quick  the  golden  hues 
To  canvas  were  transferred.    And  as  he  gazed 
Admiringly  upon  his  work,  a  hand 
Upon  each  shoulder  then  was  gently  laid ; 
Two  soft  and  dimpled  arms  stole  lovingly 
About  his  neck,  and  bending  o'er  him  then. 
With  face  and  form  angelic  and  divine, 
Was  his  soul's  idol,  who,  with  holy  kiss,  [true. 
Sealed  her  pure  heart's  devotion  deep  and 


-© 


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124 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  CLARA  D.  DAVIDSON. 

BORX :  Lacon,  III.,  Nov.  30, 1851. 
Having  taught  school  about  five  years,  Clara 
subsequently  edited  a  woman's  department 
in  a  number  of  Iowa  publications.  In  1870 
she  married  Georg-e  M.  Davidson,  who  is  a 
lawyer  by  profession.    Mrs.  Davidson  has  a 


son  who  lias  nearly  reached  manhood.  She 
wrote  and  published  verses  at  an  early  age, 
which  liave  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the 
Yankee  Blade,  "Waverly  Magazine,  Cincinnati 
Enquirer,  Woman's  Journal,  and  a  score  of 
other  equally  prominent  journals. 


©- 


ON  THE  DES  MOINES. 
A  sweep  of  woodland  on  the  shore, 

A  glow  of  moonshine  on  the  bar; 
A  light-rimmed  cloudlet  loaning  o'er 

Waters  tliat  mirror  every  siar. 
O  brightly,  marvelou.sly  blue 

The  sky  about  the  low-hung  moon, 
O  weird  tlie  woodland  ways,  that  grew 

Dark  'neat  h  the  shadows  of  liigli  moon ! 
A  swish  of  waves  against  tlie  boat. 

Oars  dipping  gently,  lifting  strong. 
An  owl's  wild,  melancholy  note, 

A  Hslierman's  exultant  song. 
These  are  the  sounds  that  rise  above 

The  flowing  river's  cliangeless  chant. 


I  watch  the  light-kissed  waters  move, 

I  watch  the  shadows'  even  slant. 
Below,  the  river  seems  to  end 

In  a  chaotic  mass  of  sand; 
Above,  the  sharp  sweep  of  a  bend 

Gives  us  a  vision  of  near  land. 
And  so  the  river  seems  a  lake 

By  a  deceit  of  vision.    So 
Life  seems  a  journey  that  we  take. 

Bounded  by  things  we  cannot  know. 


THE  TEST. 
Who  dares  not  follow  Truth  where'er 

Her  footsteps  lead. 
But  says,  "  O,  guide  not  there,  nor  there. 
I  have  not  strength  to  follow  where 

My  feet  would  bleed ; 
But  show  me  worn  ways  trodden  fair 

By  feet  more  brave,—  " 
Who  fears  to  stand  in  Truth's  broad  glare, 
What  others  dared  not  will  not  dare. 

Is  taut  a  slave. 


FOR  ME. 


Was  it  the  wind  that  in  prophetic  mood, 
Despite  the  ice,  foretold  the  coming  good. 

Or  had  the  timid  Spring,  so  late  uncrowned. 

Burst  from  her  wintry  silence  at  a  bound. 
And,  free  at  last  and  flushed  with  victory, 
Come  whispering  low  her  happiness  to  me? 

Or  had  the  birds,  far  south  but  northward 
bound. 

Discovered  some  new  subtlety  in  sound 
And  sent  into  my  soul  the  thrill  and  stir 
Harmony  wakes  in  music's  worshiper? 

For  O  my  heart  beat  lightly  on  that  day. 

Though  shadows  gathered  close  about  my 
way. 
I  said, —  "  Whatever  gift  fate  has  denied. 
The  trees  are  tall,  the  sky  is  blue  and  wide. 

The  sunshine  glitters  on  the  ice-bound  brook 

And  sparkles  on  the  snow-heights  a  I  look; 
And  every  sunbeam,  every  ice-hung  tree. 
And  everj'thing  for  beauty  is  for  me. 

For  me  —  for  all!    O  beauteous,  bounteous 
earth. 

What   new  delights  do  ye  each  day  bring 
forth ! 
Not  thine  the  blame  if  in  these  lives  of  ours 
Our  rising  tears  shut  out  the  bloom  of  flowers. 


WHAT  IS  ETERNITY? 
An  ever  outward-sti'otohing  .sea. 
Shoreless  and  boundless,  strong  and   free, 
A  vast,  self-singing  hymn; 
Whose  rhythm  the  circling  ages  keep. 
Whose  music,  mighty,  strong  and  deep 
Hushet.li  a^ons  of  time  to  sleep. 
And,  laying  one  away  to  rest 
Cradles  another  on  its  breast. 


■* 


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125 


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EDNA  JANE  CAMPBELL. 

Born:  Alamo,  Ind.,  March  17, 1855. 
Edna  began  teucliiiig  at  the  age  of  fifteen 
years,  and  the  money  she  thus  earned  was 
apphed  lo  better  her  own  education,  until  she 


EDNA    JANE    CAMPBELL. 

graduated  in  1881.  Miss  Campbell's  produc- 
tions have  chiefly  appeared  without  her  signa- 
ture.   She  still  resides  in  her  native  town. 


THE  OLD  CHURCH. 

Stands  this  old  church  from  the  town  apart; 

Old  fashioned  porch  and  half  decayed. 

Where  the  ivy  new  in  early  spring 

Its  leaves  of  green  so  kindly  bring, 

Tlie  faulty  spots  and  chinks  to  hide. 

Like  charity  pure  for  sins  essayed. 

A  withered  tree  a  century  old, 

That's  bending  'neath  the  blade  of  time, 

Spreads  wide  its  boughs  in  christian  grace, 

Affords'the  weary  a  resting  place. 

The  good,  the  bad,  alike  to  shield. 

From  storm,  and  heat  and  lurid  clime. 

In  this  church  'neath  the  word  of  God, 

Have  met  together  the  grave  and  gay. 

The  thoughtless  too  with  hearts  of  joy. 

By  care  unknown  or  times  annoy. 

And  those  bent  low  'neath  the  chastening  rod. 

Buoy  faith  in  holy  ecstacy. 

In  this  church  so  anxious  stood. 

With  quivering  breath  the  girlish  bride; 

A  clinging  mantle  of  snowy  white 


©- 


Half  hides  her  shrinking  form  from  sight 
As  from  youth's  mooring  toward  womanhood. 
She  launched  her  craft  on  an  unknown  tide. 
The  dead  here  too  in  frigid  state 
Lay  waiting  silent  by  friends  bewept, 
While  the  pastor  old  spoke  words  of  peace 
And  comfort  in  the  souls  release. 
Ere  gentle  hands  had  borne  to  rest 
This  clay,  where  many  kindred  slept. 
Stands  this  old  church  almost  forgot; 
A  monitor  old  of  times  defect. 
No  more  the  aisles  resound  with  tread. 
No  more  the  grave  nor  honored  dead. 
No  more  the  gay  with  buoyant  step. 
In  prescribed  shapes  sit  circumspect. 
The  change  of  time  as  earthly  law. 
Progression's  stride,  advancement's  sway. 
New  thoughts,  new  hopes,  and  new  designs. 
Do  now  possess  the  present  minds. 
But  like  that  church  each  one  may  tell 
Of  sunshine,  storms,  and  wintry  fray. 


GLENDORA. 

Glendora,  the  mist  and  the  shadow 
Fall  damp  on  the  bare  of  my  brow,    [meadow. 
The  sunbeams  of  liope  and  the  sweet  of  the 
That  have  tucked  their  shy  heads  'neath  the 
thick  of  the  fallow,        [vision  now. 
Bursts   bright    from   the   wold  on  my  soul's 
Glendora,  mortality  shrinks. 
Because  of  my  love  which  is  true. 
With  heaven  to  lure  me,  on  eternity's  brinks. 
From  its  beauty  and  rest  and  sunshine,  me 
I  may  turn  in  my  love  back  to  you.       [thinks 
Glendora,  the  hour  draws  near, 
When  Time  relaxes  liis  hold. 
As  the  waters  break  chill,  there  slumbers  no 
fear  [near. 

Of  Death,  for  he  brought  you  in  tenderness 
To  cheer  my  lone  bark  on  the  waters  so  cold. 
Death  has  been  holy,  forsooth. 
He  brought  me  best  joy  of  time. 
You,  the  life,  the  soul  of  my  youth. 
And  fastened  the  cord  of  faith  and  of  truth 
And  tinged  his  pathway  with  treasures   su- 
blime. 
My  spirit  may  burst  from  on  high,— 
The  soul's  sanhedrim  of  tenderness  true  — 
Your  spirit  awaken  as  tlie  hour  draws  nigh. 
As  in  earnestness  great  I  pass  through  the 

sky 
And  linger  awhile  in  communion  with  you. 
The  clouds  weep  in  tears  to-night. 
The  wail  of  the  wind  whispers  low,  [light 

That   Death    mourns    his   duty,  at   morning 
Eternity's  vision  will  burst  on  my  sight. 
And  he'll  snatch  my  lone  spirit  from  you. 
Glendora,  my  darling  in  death. 
Torn  apart  in  the  wayfare  of  life. 


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LOCAL    AXr>   NATIONAL    POETS   OF    AMEKICA. 


The  angel  has  come  to  shoi-ten  my  breath; 

And  bear  my  lone  spirit  a  heavenly  wraith 

From  you,  and  the  landmarks  of  strife. 

The  beams  of  the  sun  as  he  sank 

Kissed  your  brow  so  holy  and  white. 

Then  fell  on  my  lii)S  as  I  eagerly  drank 

The   kiss.      Welcome   messenger    harbinger 

Your  beauty  for  me  ends  to-night.       [frank  1 

Life  suffered  the  tic  to  be  broken 

That  held  j'our  warm  hands  in  mine. 

And  ne'er  in  his  reign  was  there  spoken 

A  word,  nor  he  brought  not  a  token. 

But  Death  placed  my  hand  here  in  thine. 

Glendora,  my  constant  of  heart. 

The  holiest  rapture  Death  brings  to  my  bed, 

The  quiver  of  fear  and  of  anguish  depart, 

In  dreariness  lone  on  the  river  so  dark  — 

But  I  know  you  will  watch  when  my  spirit 

is  fled. 
My  spirit  may  weep  on  the  waters  of  night. 
When  Death  moves  the  boat  from  this  desolate 

shore,  [light. 

When  he  waves  his  dark  banner  and  vanishes 
And  mortality's  portals  are    shut  from  my 

sight,  [more. 

When  the  waters  recede  and  I  see  you  no 
The  birds  have  all  ceased  to  sing. 
Nature  locked  up  is  staying  his  breath. 
The  angel  of  Death  by  the  might  of  his  wing- 
Will  wipe  out  what's  mortal,  but  the  spirit 

will  cling  [deatli. 

To  its  idol  and  worship,  o'er  the  slumbers  of 
The  cui'tain  of  darkness  has  closed  on  my  view. 
Your  face  is  shut  out  as  I  grope  on  the  strand. 
The  storm  god,  fantastic,  rides  high;  in  lieu 
Of  billows  that  rage, that  beat  me  from  you; 
As  we  part  on  the  beech  of  mortality's  land. 
Glendora,  farewell,  life  slips  from  my  grasp. 
The  veil  is  loosened  which  darkens  my  eyes. 
When  life  grows  heavy  as  it  glides  from  your 

clasp, 
Wlien  'tis  sabled  with  time  and  turbid  at  last, 
Witli  the  angel  of  light  come  home  to  the  skies. 


»- 


THE  ROSE. 
Emblem  of  purity,  spotless  in  chastity. 
Safe  on  thy  pedestal,  symbol  of  truth. 
No  wind  hath  soiled  you,  unsullied,  unruffled 
you,  [youth. 

Thy  food  the  moist  dews  which  cherish  tliy 
Queen  in  thy  royalty,  superb  in  thy  rarity. 
Head  bowed  to  shield  the  blush  on  thy  face. 
Warmed  by  tlu;  snnl)eam,  kissed  l)y  the  rain- 
drop. 
Etched  by  the  liaiid  (if  Tinie  in  delicate  grace. 
S<x)n  will  frost  beset  and  wild  winds  beget, 
Tliy  lioney  tiie  wild  bee  in  bounty  icj)lete. 
Plucked  aw.-iy  ruthlessly,  boriu!   away  care- 
Thy  folioles scattered  as  requiem  meet,  [lessly, 


LEROY  STONER. 

Mr.  Stoner  has  written  quite  a  few  poems, 
and  herewith  is  given  a  few  stanzas  from 
America,  a  poem  from  his  pen  that  has  been 
published  in  pamphlet  fomi. 


AMERICA. 

America,  great  domain. 
Blest  land  of  Liberty. 
Praise  to  thy  God,  Great  King, 
Ruler  of  the  Universe, 
Who  out  of  nothing  made 
The  Earth,  Sun,  Moon,  and  Stars. 

Bounteous  Earth, 
Garden  and  habitation  of  man 
Of  whom  many  families  there  be; 
Some  in  darkness,  some  in  light. 
Those  who  live  in  the  light  receive 
The  richest  blessings  of  the  Great  King. 

America,  fertile  land. 
Inhabited  by  a  noble  race  of  men ; 
Men  of  courage,  and  shrewd  device. 
Land  of  pretty  women,  queen  of  her  sex. 
Men  and  women  chaste  and  refined  — 
Greatest  nation  on  the  Earth. 

Nation,  soul  divine. 
Born  of  an  industrious  and  pious  maid. 
Who  sought  the  wilderness  to  escape 
The  designs  of  evil  minded  men. 
Who  did  seek  to  destroy 
The  bloom  on  lier  fair  cheek. 

Child  of  divine  paternity. 
Nursed  in  the  wilderness  by  a  mother 
Who  by  patience  and  much  toil. 
Converted  the  wilderness  into  a  garden 
Laid  out  into  thirteen  plats 
In  which  grew  all  manner  of  fruits. 

The  garden,  beautiful  and  i-are. 
Was  claimed  by  a  certain  lord  and  trader 
Who  owned  a  host  of  ships 
That  sailed,  loaded  with  merchandise, 
From  tlie  trader's  mart  and  port 
To  all  known  ports  on  the  Earth. 

The  lord,  crafty  and  bold. 
Denied  the  maid  a  choice  of  marts 
Wherein  her  produce  she  might  dispose; 
Decreed  that  all  her  trading  she  should  do 
At  Ills  port  or  mart,  and  her  exports 
Must  be  carried  in  eit  her  his  ship  or  cart. 

The  maid,  virtuous  and  just, 
For  his  discovery  of  the  land. 
Allowed  tiie  claims  of  the  lord  so  far 
As  to  appoint  governors  in  tlie  garden. 
One  to  preside  over  each  i>lat 
In  the  execution  of  civil  law. 

But  liberty  and  justice 
Claimed  the  maid  of  strong  ciliaracter, 
Gave  her  the  exclusive  right      .... 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


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127 


CHARLES  C.ARNOLD. 

Born:  Monroe  Co.,  N.  Y.,  June  8, 1857. 
Although  but  recently  has  Mr.  Arnold  com- 
menced to  court  the  muse,  his  poems  are  at- 
tracting universal  admiration  in  the  state  of 
his  adoption  —  NebrasJia,  where  he  now  re- 


CHARLES    C.    ARNOLD. 

sides  at  Culbertsou.  He  is  a  painter  by  pro- 
fession. The  rang-e  of  his  poetic  subjects  are 
remarkable,  and  the  Culbertson  Sun  speaks 
highly  of  his  poetical  genius. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  SNOW. 
The  snow,  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow. 
Falling  so  gently  to  the  earth  below. 
In  thj'  lovely  garb  on  a  mild  March  morn 
To  deck  the  eartli  in  thy  cloudless  form. 
Thou  wertsent  by  the  hand  of  an  all-wise  one, 
Those  numberless  flakes  falling  one  by  one. 

Thou  beautiful  form  of  spotless  white 
Falling  to  earth  for  our  delight. 
Thou  makest  us  glad  by  thy  presence  here. 
Which  doubtless  betokens  a  plentiful  year; 
The  people  all  hail  thy  advent  below. 
Thou  spotless  form,  this  beautiful  snow. 


©- 


TO  A  PRETTY  MAID. 

Pretty  maid  with  eyes  so  bright 
That  sparkle  like  the  summer's  night! 
In  whose  orbs  a  beauty  lies 
That's  likened  unto  summer  skies, 


And  thou  with  silken  nut  brown  hair 
Crown  of  glory  dost  thou  wear. 
Form  of  which  a  god  is  pi'oud. 
And  a  brow  without  a  cloud. 
Lips  which  put  a  rose  to  shame, 
And  in  whose  eyes  a  brightness  flame, 
Standing  in  thy  sweetness  there 
Forever  be  thou  without  care. 
Prettj'  maid  with  neck  like  snow 
One  whose  cheeks  do  ruddy  grow. 
Graceful  form  and  step  so  liglit 
And  wliose  eyes  are  ever  bright, 
Like  the  stars  of  summer's  niglit. 
Pretty  maid  of  pure  desires 
In  whose  heart  as  burns  a  Are, 
Thou  that  always  free  from  care, 
Light  as  birds  of  summer  air, 
Happy  art  thou  everywhere. 
This  thou  art,  and  many  more 
Could  be  named  by  the  score. 
In  whose  orbs  a  beauty  lies. 
That's  likened  unto  summer  skies. 
And  thou  with  silken  nut  brown  hair, 
Crown  of  glory  dost  thou  wear. 


MEMORY'S  PICTURE. 

Of  all  the  beautiful  pictures 
That  hang  on  memory's  wall. 

Is  one  of  a  dear  kind  mother,      « 
The  fairest  and  sweetest  of  all. 

She  was  taken  peacefully  away. 

To  the  land  of  blissful  rest. 
And  now  is  among  the  numbered 

Who  dwell  in  the  land  of  blest. 
She  was  a  good  kind  mother. 

That  oft  our  hearts  did  cheer; 
But  now  she  veigns  in  glory. 

Where  heavenly  beings  appear. 
This  beautiful  memory's  picture, 

Doth  often  haunt  me  still. 
As  when  the  spirit  departed. 

And  death  her  brow  did  chill. 
And  to  the  days  of  childhood. 

Does  my  memory  often  roam ; 
As  we  gathered  round  the  fireside 

In  our  far  away  eastern  home. 


THE  CLASSIC  FRENCHMAN. 

Down  the  beautiful  valley 
Flows  the  classic  Frenchman  stream, 

How  its  pretty  waters  glisten. 
How  its  sparkling  waters  gleam. 

They  flow  along  so  smoothly 
And  pass  along  so  gi-and. 

We  think  it  the  finest  river 
Out  in  this  western  land. 

They  wind  about  those  waters  pure 
And  glisten  on  their  way, 


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128 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  A3IEKICA. 


© 


Tliey  pass  along-  tliroug-h  l^ridg-es, 
How  those  sparkling-  waters  play. 

Was  there  ever  such  a  river 
As  this  classic  Frenchman  stream, 

Mingling-  with  the  old  Republican 
Grand  and  beautiful  they  seem. 

What  a  mighty  power  these  waters 
Which  in  combination  flow, 

Passing  gently  down  the  valley 
And  in  the  sunlight  glow. 

BEAUTIFUL  MOONLIGHT. 
Beautiful  moonlight  so  starry  and  bright; 
O!  What  rejoicing  this  lovely  night  — 
Beautiful  stars  in  the  flrmanent  shine: 
You  are  held  in  space  by  one  Divine. 
Emeralds  set  in  Heaven's  crown  so  fair, 
Sparkling  like  diamonds  rich  and  rare; 
Beautiful  moonlight  we  love  of  tliee  to  tell. 
To  express  all  thy  glories  we  cannot  well. 
Thou  cometh  at  the  close  of  day, 
And  of  thy  beauties  what  shall  we  saj-; 
To  mention  the  charms  thy  grandeur  unfold. 
Has  not  been  accomplished  by  poets  of  old. 
Thou  has  led  the  traveler  on  his  way. 
And  by  thy  light  he's  not  gone  astray ; 
Thou  hast  turned  the  darkness  into  light 
Thou  beautiful  emblem  —  the  orb  of  night. 

THOSE  FLEECY  AND  SILVERY  CLOUDS. 
A  sheen  of  clouds  a  silvery  white 
Were  in  the  summer  sky, 
And  marvelous  beauty  did  appear 
Unfolded  to  the  eye. 
'Twas  tinged  with  silver  purest  white: 
No  refiner  could  compare 
With  those  white  and  fleecy  cloudlets 
Up  in  the  Heavens  there. 
Tliey  moved  about  in  wondrous  beauty; 
They  appeared  a  misty  light 
Pure  as  the  snow  immaculate  — 
Those  fleecy  clouds  of  white. 
They  unfolded  their  silvery  outlines 
With  Heaven's  background  of  blue. 
Then  vanished  soon  and  sank  away  — 
Those  clouds  of  wondrous  hue* 


m 


THE  RIVER. 
Thou  beautiful  river  that  flows  along. 
Bright  thy  waters  and  sweet  tliy  .song; 
Low  tliy  iiiiirnuir,  tliy  melody  sweet, 
TJiat  swiftly  runs  in  tliy  channel  .so  deep. 
Beautiful  river  how  thy  waters  gleam. 
Broad  is  tliy  way  and  briglit  tliy  stream, 
Onward  tliy  cour.se  to  tlieticean  flow 
Bearing  tliy  ships  as  t  lie  winds  do  blow. 
Beautiful  river  that  murmurs  all  day: 
What  is  it  tliat  tiiy  liriglit  waters  say, 
Running  along  in  thy  diannei  so  strong, 
Pj'iiy.  O,  jiray  tell  me  wliat  is  tliy  song. 


HON.  THOMAS  J.  BUTLER. 

Born  :  Bedford,  Ind.,  Feb.  5, 1836. 
This  gentleman  has  filled  the  position  of  re- 
porter, editor,  etc.,  and  wielded  the  pen  more 
or  less  for  the  past  thirty  five  years,  his  writ- 
ings having  appeared  chiefly  in  local  news- 
papers in  California,  Nevada,  Idaho,  Arizona, 
and  the  western  states  generally.  He  was 
married  in  1881  to  Miss  Carrie  E.  Blake,  and 
now  resides  in  Prescott,  Arizona.  Mr.  Butler 
is  now  receiver  of  public  moneys.  In  person 
he  is  of  very  large  stature,  being  six  feet  and 
four  inches  in  height,  and  weighs  two  hun- 
dred pounds.  Mr.  Butler  is  well  known  and 
highly  respected  in  his  adopted  city  as  a  man 
of  gi'eat  integrity  and  business  ability. 


EXTRACT. 
From  Fourth  of  July  Poem,  1886. 
Of  human  progress,  every  age 
Begets  an  impulse  most  sublime 
That  may  be  measured  by  a  gauge 
Peculiar  to  its  day  and  time. 
Coeur  de  Leon  clad  in  steel. 
The  holy  Sepulcher  to  gain. 
An  impulse  of  religious  zeal 
Impelled  him  and  his  faithful  train. 
Columbus  bore  the  flag  of  Spain 
Beyond  the  world,  as  wise  men  thought, 
Adventurous  impulse  o'er  the  main 
Impelled  him  to  the  goal  he  sought. 
Extent  of  Empire  o'er  the  world 
Impelled  the  nations  to  these  coasts, 
And  colonies,  with  flags  unfurled. 
Pressed  on  his  track  in  mighty  hosts. 
They  builded  better  than  they  knew 
Tliose  Kings  and  Queens  of  foreign  lands: 
The  seeds  of  Liberty  to  strew 
Was  not  a  part  of  what  they  planned. 
They  hoped  the  fealty  to  retain 
Of  subjects  born  to  be  their  slaves. 
E'en  though  beyond  the  raging  main. 
The  Atlantic's  wild  and  stormy  waves. 
Divini!  the  right  of  Kings  had  been 
To  reign  and  rule  with  high  behest. 
The  subject  deemed  it  mortal  sin 
To  thwart  the  ruler  (iod  had  bles.sed. 
But  now,  tliree  tliousand  miles  across 
The  Ocean's  heaving,  billowy  breast, 
Fri'i;dom  dared  her  mane  to  toss 
And  Liberty  to  raise  lier  crest; 
To  own  and  till  the  virgin  soil 
New  tliouglits  and  new  t'motions  bring; 
The  powei-  that  ga\'e  them  ii-ave  to  toil 
They  realized  was  King  of  Kings. 
Tlie  spirit,  surging  Ihroiigh  I'acli  frame 
Of  .self  dominion  wide  and  strong. 
And  boundless  as  tlie  land  they  claim. 
Would  ne'er  again  .submit  to  wrong. 


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LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


129 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE. 

Born:  Albany,  N.  Y.,  1839. 
Bret  Hartk  is  a  thoroug'h  American  poet,  a 
man  of  brilliant  wit,  wide  information  and 
strong  purposes.  In  1864  he  removed,  with  his 
parents,  to  California,  where  he  became  a  com- 
positor in  a  printing  office,  then  he  mined  for 
himself,  then  became  a  school  teacher,  then  an 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE. 

express  messenger.  In  185"  he  returned  to  the 
compositor's  case  on  the  Golden  Era,  where  he 
was  soon  assigned  a  place  in  the  literary  de- 
partment. All  the  works  of  Bret  Harte  show 
keen  wit  and  pungency  of  expression,  and  his 
prose  tales  teem  with  noble  thoughts. 


"To  the  man  who'll  bring  to  me," 

Cried  Intendant  Harry  Lee,— 
Harry  Lee,  the  English  foreman  of  the  mme,- 
"  Bring  the  sot,  alive  or  dead, 
I  will  give  to  him,"  he  said, 
"Fifteen  hundred  pesos  down, 
Just  to  set  the  rascal's  crown 
Underneath  this  heel  of  mine; 
Since  but  death 
Deserves  the  man  whose  deed, 
Be  it  vice  or  want  of  heed. 

Stops  the  pumps  that  give  us  breath,- 
Stops  the  pumps  that  suck  the  death 
From  the  poisoned  lower  levels  of  the  mine." 


^ 


"JIM," 
Say,  there!  P'r'aps 

Some  on  you  chaps 

Might  know  Jim  Wild? 
Well  —  no  offence; 
Thar  ain't  no  sense 

In  gettin'  riled! 
Jim  was  my  chum 

Up  on  the  Bar; 
That's  why  I  come 

Down  from  up  yar. 
Looking  for  Jim. 

Thank  ye,  sir!    You 
Ain't  of  that  crew  — 

Blest  if  you  are  I 
Money ;—  Not  much ; 

That  ain't  my  kind; 
I  ain't  no  such. 

Rum?  —  I  don't  mind, 
Seein'  it's  you. 

Well,  this  yer  Jim, 
Did  you  know  him? — 
Jess  about  your  size; 
Same  kind  of  eyes  — 
Well,  that  is  strange; 
Why,  it's  two  year 
Since  he  came  here 
Sick,  for  a  change. 

Well,  here's  to  us: 

Eh? 

The  h you  say! 

Dead?  — 
That  little  cuss? 
What  makes  you  star— 
You  over  thar? 
Can't  a  man  drop 
A  glass  in  yer  shop 
But  you  must  r'ar? 
It  wouldn't  take 
D  —  much  to  break 
You  and  your  bar. 

Dead! 
Poor  —  little  —  Jim ! 
Why,  thar  was  me, 
Jones,  and  Bob  Lee, 
Harry  and  Ben  — 
No-account  men: 
Then  to  take  him ! 
Well,  thar— Good-bye — 
No  more,  sir  —  I  — 

Eh? 
What's  that  you  say? 
Why,  dern  it !  —  sho !  — 
No?    Yes?    By  Jo! 

Sold! 
Sold!    Why,  you  limb. 
You  ornery, 

Derned  old 
Long-legged  Jim ! 


-© 


©- 


130 


LOCAL  AXD  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


THE  HEATHEN  CHINEE. 

"Which  I  wish  to  remark,— 

And  my  language  Is  plain  — 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark. 

And  tor  tricks  that  are  vain. 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar,— 

Which  the  same  I  would  rise  to  explain. 

Ah  Sin  was  his  name. 

And  I  shall  not  deny 
In  regard  to  the  same 

What  that  name  might  imply; 
But  his  smile  it  was  pensive  and  childlike. 

As  I  frequent  remarked  to  Bill  Nye. 


And  for  tricks  that  are  vain. 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar,— 

Which  the  same  I  am  free  to  maintain. 


It  was  August  the  third; 

And  quite  soft  was  the  skies; 
Which  it  might  be  inferred 

That  Ah  Sin  was  likewise; 
Yet  he  played  it  that  day  upon  WiUiam 

And  me  in  a  way  I  despise. 
Which  we  had  a  .small  game. 
And  Ah  Sin  took  a  hand : 
It  was  euchre.    The  same 
He  did  not  understand ; 
But  he  smiled  as  he  sat  by  the  table. 

With  a  smile  that  was  childlike  and  bland. 
Yet  the  cards  they  were  stocked 

In  a  way  that  I  grieve, 
And  my  feelings  were  shocked 
At  the  state  of  Nye's  sleeve: 
Which  was  stuffed  full  of  aces  and  bowers. 

And  the  same  with  intent  to  deceive. 
But  the  hands  that  were  played 

By  that  heathen  Chinee, 
And  the  points  that  he  made. 

Were  quite  frightful  to  see- 
Till  at  last  he  put  down  a  right  bowei". 

Which  the  same  Nye  had  dealt  unto  me. 
Then  I  looked  up  at  Nye, 

And  he  gazed  upon  me; 
And  he  rose  with  a  sigh. 

And  said,  -Can  this  be? 
We  are  ruined  by  Chinese  cheap  lalior;" 
And  he  went  for  that  heathen  Chinee. 
In  the  scene  that  ensued 
I  did  not  take  a  hand; 
But  the  floor  it  was  strewed 

Like  the  leaves  on  the  strand 
With  the  cards  that  Aii  Sin  had  been  hiding. 

In  the  game  "  ho  did  not  understand." 
In  his  sleeves,  which  were  long. 
He  had  twenty-four  packs,— 
Which  was  coining  it  strong. 
Yet  I  state  but  the  facts; 
And  we  found  on  his  nails,  which  were  taper 
What  is  f  HMiuont  in  tjijiers,—  that's  wax. 
Which  is  why  I  remark. 

And  my  language  is  j)lain. 
That  for  ways  that  arc  dark. 


MRS.  JUDGE  JENKINS. 

THE  ONLY  GENUINE  SEQUEL  TO  MAUD  MULLER. 

Maud  Muller,  all  that  summer  day. 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay; 
l''et,  looking  down  the  distant  lane. 
She  hoped  the  Judge  would  come  again. 
But  when  he  came,  with  smile  and  bow, 
Maud  only  blushed,  and  stammered  "Ha-owV" 
And  spoke  of  her  -pa,"  and  wondered  whether 
He'd  give  consent  they  should  wed  together. 
Old  Muller  burst  in  tears,  and  then 
Begged  that  the  Judge  would  lend  him  -ten;" 
Tor  trade  was  dull,  and  wages  low. 
And  the  -craps"  this  year, was  somewhat  slow. 
And  ere  the  languid  summer  died. 
Sweet  Maud  became  the  Judge's  bride. 
But,  on  the  day  that  they  were  mated, 
Maud's  brother  Bob  was  intoxicated: 
And  Maud's  relations,  twelve  in  all. 
Were  very  drunk  at  the  Judge's  hall. 
And  when  the  summer  came  again. 
The  young  bride  bore  him  babies  twain. 
And  the  Judge  was  blest,but  thought  it  strange 
That  bearing  children  made  such  a  change: 
For  Maud  grew  broad  and  red  and  stout '. 
And  the  waist  that  his  arm  once  clasped  about 
Was  more  than  he  now  could  span.    And  he 
Sighed  as  he  pondered,  ruefully. 
How  that  which  in  Maud  was  native  grace 
In  Mrs.  Jenkins  was  out  of  place; 
And  thought  of  the  twins.and  wished  that  they 
Looked  less  like  the  man  who  raked  the  hay 
On  Muller's  farm,  and  dreamed  with  pain 
Of  the  day  he  wandered  down  the  lane 
And,  looking  down  that  dreary  track. 
He  half  regretted  that  he  came  back. 
For,  had  ho  waited,  he  might  have  wed 
Some  maiden  fair  and  thoroughbred; 
For  there  be  women  fair  as  she. 
Whose  verbs  and  nouns  do  more  agree. 
Alas  for  maiden !  alas  for  Judge : 
And  the  sent imental,-thal  's  one-half  -fudge . 
For  Maud  soon  thought  the  Judge  a  bore, 
With  all  his  learning  and  all  his  lore. 
Andlhe  Judge  would   have  bartered   Maud- 
fair  lace 
For  more  retinement  and  social  grace. 
If,  of  all  words  of  tongue  and  pen. 
The  saddest  are,  -  It  might  have  been," 
More  sad  are  these  we  daily  see: 
-  It  is,  but  hadn't  ought  to  be." 


»- 


-* 


®- 


-^ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


181 


JEAN  KATE  LUDLUM. 

Born:  New  York  City,  Feb.  20, 1862. 
Miss    LuDLUM    has   written   for  the  leading 
periodicals  of  America,  including-  Demorest's, 
Godev's  Lailv's  Book,  Ladies'  Home  Journal, 


JENNIE  KATE   LUI>LUiM. 

and  other  equall.y  prominent  journals.  Her 
poems  have  received  favorable  notice  from 
critics  and  the  press  generally,  and  have  been 
widely  copied.  During  1890  three  novels  from 
the  pen  of  this  lady  were  given  to  the  public. 


©- 


HOW  MY  SHIP  CAME  IN. 

I  stood  on  the  shore  at  sunset 

And  watched  the  tide  flow  by. 
Mirroring  clear  on  its  restless  breast 

The  crimson  and  gold  of  the  sky. 
The  boats  that  had  entered  the  harbor 

Were  anchored  safe  in  the  bay 
Lazily  rocking,  with  white  wings  set 

At  rest  till  another  day. 
Faint  on  the  far  horizon 

Glimmered  a  lonely  sail. 
And  I  watciied  with  eager,  anxious  eyes 

To  see  if  'twould  win  or  fail. 
The  wind  was  dead  against  it. 

The  tide  flowed  strong  and  still; 
But  steady  and  sure  as  the  wind  and  tide. 

And  just  as  certain  a  will. 
Tlie  sail  grew  large  and  larger. 

Wavered  and  faded  awaj'. 


Yet  still  I  watched  with  anxious  eyes 

To  see  it  re-enter  the  bay. 
In  the  west  the  colors  deepened. 

And  a  golden  sunset  ray 
Fell  aslant  the  ocean  and  rested  on 

The  ship  that  had  entered  the  bay! 

•  '  My  ship !"  I  cried  out  gladly. 

Watching  the  shining  sail 
That  was  touched  to  a  delicate,  roseate  hue 

By  that  ray  from  the  sunset  pale. 
"  But  how  did  it  enter  the  harboi'";"' 

I  asked  of  a  sailor  hale. 
"Why,  child,  it  tacked  'gainst  wind  and  tide. 

And  came  in  with  glowing  sail !  " 

•  '  But  the  wind  and  tide  o'ercame  it," 

I. said,  "as  'twas  entering  the  ba3'."    ["yes, 
"Yes,"  answered  this  gray -haired  sailor, 

But,  child,  it  tacked,  I  say  I" 
..  Tacked?"  I  repeated  vaguely, 

"Tacked'?    And  what  is  that,  please?" 
"  Why,"  laughed  the  sailor,  "  why,  my  child, 

'Tis  coming  in  'gainst  the  breeze!" 
"  But  how  is  it  done?"  I  queried, 

Watching  the  stately  ship; 
"'Tis  sailing  hither  and  fro,  my  child," 

Said  the  sailor,  with  smiling  lip, 
"Till  at  last,  with  stern  endeavor 

Gaining  against  the  tide  — 
Tho'  that  and  the  wind  may  both  be  strong  — 

Into  port  'twill  certainly  ride; 
"  For,  child,  a  patient  waiting 

O'ercomes  the  strongest  ill!" 
As  the  sailor  paused,  the  ship  hove  to. 

At  rest  beneath  the  hill. 
"  In  life,"  the  sailor  continued, 

"  The  winds  and  tides  of  fate  Lj'ield 

Are   strong   and  relentless  for  those  who 

To  its  swelling  waves  of  hate; 
"  But,  friend,  there  is  One  above  us 

Who  watches  with  sleepless  eyes. 
Guiding  the  ship  with  loving  hand 

Thro'  tides  that  are  sweeping  by. 
"  'Tis  true  He  calls  to  us  often 

To  tack,  and  tack  again ;  [sail 

But  when  harbor  is  entered  with  shining 

We  see  'twas  not  all  in  vain!" 
The  sunset  colors  faded. 

The  tide  flowed  steadily  still. 
Bearing  away  in  its  restless  grasp 

The  seaweed  and  shells  at  will; 
But  the  ship  rode  safe  in  the  harbor. 

Its  white  wings  folded  down;        [the  hills 
While  the  strong,  sweet  breeze  from  over 

Swept  out  thro'  the  quiet  town. 

No  sail  to  be  seen  on  the  ocean  — 

All  was  peaceful  and  still; 
But  I'd  learned  a  lesson  grave  and  true 

That  evening  under  tlie  hill! 


-® 


GEORGE  WALDO  BROWNE. 

BORN  :   DEERFIELD,  N.  H.,  OCT.  8, 1851. 

AT  the  age  of  twenty  Mr.  Browne  commenced 
writing  prose,  of  wliich  he  has  written  over 
onehm^dred  serials  and  three  hundred  short 
stories  that  have  received  pubUcation.  In  ad- 
dition to  tliese  stories  lie  has  written  numer- 


THE  KING  OF  KINGS. 
The  master  sits  behind  his  desk, 
With  a  solemn  mien  and  stern. 
Declaring,  "  I'm  the  king  of  minds, 
For  the  sons  of  men  must  learn." 
The  statesman  sends  abroad  his  word. 

And  tlie  author  plies  his  pen. 
Each  saying,  "  I'm  the  king  of  power, 

For  I  shape  the  fates  of  men." 
His  Ijountcous  stori^  the  husbandman 

(itithers  with  pride,  and  tlicn 
He  answers,  ■>  I'm  tlie  king  of  life. 

For  I  feed  the  sons  of  men." 
Tlu^  i)astor  meek  instructs  liis  lloclc 
'I'd  oliey  the  commandments,  ten. 
While  tliinking,  "I'm  the  king  of  liglil, 
For  I  save  the  souls  of  men." 


GEOKOE  WALDO   BHOWNE. 

ous  poetical  productions,  and  has  in  prepara- 
tion a  book  entitled  Lyrics  and  Legends. 
In  1883  Mr.  Browne  assumed  editorial  charge 
of  the  American  Young  Folks,  a  position  that 
he  still  retains. 


Alas!  for  scholar,  sage  and  them 

Of  the  saving  prayer  and  pen; 
The  reaper  Death  spares  none,  but  says: 

..  I  conquer  the  kings  of  men." 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  looks  calmly  down 

On  his  subjects  great  and  small. 
And  says  in  terms  well  understood, 

..  I'm  the  King  of  Kings  o'er  all. 

THE  WHITE  STEED. 
Like  a  meteor  bright  he  flashed  in  sight 

On  the  distant  line  of  blue; 
O'er  the  trackless  green  a  rushing  sheen. 

Till  in  size  and  form  he  grew. 
Swift  as  arrow  sent  from  bow  strong  bent. 

As  the  wild  bird's  airy  flight. 
As  the  ocean  breeze  from  o'er  the  seas. 

Came  the  matchless  steed  of  white. 
Then  with  nostrils  glowing,  mane  outflowing. 

And  a  restless,  fearless  eye. 
With   a   proud-stepping   grace,    and  tireless 
pace. 
Sped  the  white  steed  rushing  by. 
Let  the  bounding  deer  glance  back  with  fear. 

And  the  eagle  gaze  from  yonder; 
Never  bird  of  wing  nor  fleeing  thing 
Can  outmatch  this  prairie  wonder! 
Prom  his  unshod  heel  no  ringing  steel 

Breaks  the  freedom  of  his  glee; 
While  his  footsteps  airy,  light  as  a  fairy. 

Leave  no  imprint  on  the  lea. 
Till  a  speck  of  white  he  fades  from  sight. 

Where  as  one  the  bending  blue 
And  the  level  green  are  dimly  seen 
On  the  far-sought  western  view. 
Boast  not  of  your  steed  with  railroad  speed. 

Or  your  ships  that  plow  the  mam; 
Even  swifter  far  than  sail  or  car 
Is  the  white  steed  of  the  plain ! 
Let  the  swift-footed  deer  live  his  career 

And  the  eagle  reach  the  sun; 
While  the  earth  we've  span'd  w.th   an  uon 
band. 
And  the  steam-king's  reign  is  won. 
Long  my  gallant  steed  with  wondrous  spciil 

May  you  roam  your  native  plaui ; 
And  your  arching  neck  ne'er  feel  tlie  cluvk 
Of  a  master's  cruel  rein. 


LOVE. 

Distill  the  dew  from  roses. 

Steal  the  starlight  from  above. 
Bind  with  the  breatli  of  morning, 

And  you've  impii'^«»»''l  Love! 
As  fades  the  dew  at  daylight. 

Flee  the  stars  before  tlie  sun. 
As  yonder  wings  the  /.epliyr. 

So  is  Love's  illusion  done. 


®- 


«- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK  AJIEHICA. 


m 


133 


MRS.  E.  0.  DANNELLY. 

Born:  Monticello,  Ga.,  June  13, 1838. 

This  lady  graduated  from  the  Madison  female 
college  in  1855,  afterward  spending  a  year  in 
New  York  City  receiving-  instructions  in  oil 
Itainting.  In  1863  she  was  married  to  Dr.  F. 
Olin  Dantiellj%  at  that  time  a  surgeon  iii  the 
armv.    After  the  war  she  removed  to  Balti- 


MKS.   ELIZABETH   OTIS  DANNELLY. 

more,  and  in  1870  to  Waxahatchi,  and  is  now 
left  a  widow.  Mrs.  Dannelly  published  in 
1879  a  volume  of  poems  entitled  Cactus,  and  in 
1891  Wayside  Flowers,  from  the  press  of  the 
American  Publishers' Association.  The  poems 
of  Mrs.  Dannelly  have  been  well  received,  and 
have  been  favorably  noticed  in  Hart's  Ameri- 
can Literature  and  the  Living  Writers  of  the 
South. 


© 


FIRST  LOVE. 

Love  is  not  a  fleeting  passion. 

Born  to  cheer  us  but  a  day, 
'Tis  not  love  that  comes  to  vanish. 

Like  the  transient  dews  of  May. 
Strange  and  mystic  is  this  feeling, 

Noblest  that  survives  the  fall; 
Like  the  soul,  it  is  immortal. 

Something  we  can  ne'er  recall. 
Think  not  then  thy  hopes  are  vanished. 

Though  long  years  have  passed  away. 


Though  the  blooming  cheeks  have  faded. 
And  the  raven  locks  are  gray ; 

Though  another  fondly  loved  her, 
Tliough  she  knelt  at  Hymen's  shrine. 

If  her  heart  was  truly  given, 
Falter  not,  it  still  is  thine. 

Tell  the  same  sweet  story  over. 
Though  together  you've  grown  old. 

And  her  heart  'twill  touch  and  lighten. 
E'en  as  when  at  first  'twas  told. 

Though  the  A'oice  with  age  may  tremble. 
And  the  ear  has  duller  grown. 

If  she  loved  thee  when  a  maiden. 
She  will  hear  thy  faintest  tone. 

For  'tis  true  that  love's  immortal. 

And  its  essence  is  divine, 
Though  she  may  have  drifted  from  thee, 

Doubt  no  more  her  heart  is  thine. 

Time,  with  all  its  cruel  changes. 
May  have  brought  her  care  and  grief. 

Yet  age  yearns  for  love  and  pity. 
In  its  sere  and  yellow  leaf. 

Widow's  weeds  her  form  ma.v  cover. 
And  Iier  face,  the  mourner's  vail, 

Y'et  she'll  listen,  if  thou'lt  tell  it. 
To  the  same  old  lover's  tale ; 

And  methinks  her  eyes  will  brighten. 

With  the  love-light  as  of  old. 
If,  with  half  the  zeal  of  boyhood. 

It  should  be  as  sweetly  told. 


IF  IN  THE  vol' AGE  OF  LIFE. 
If,  in  the  voyage  of  life,  dear  Lord, 

I've  drifted  far  at  sea. 
Send  gentle  bi-eczes,  fraught  with  love. 

To  waft  me  back  to  Thee; 
Let  not  mj'  fragile  bark  go  down 

'Mid  waters  dark,  and  deep. 
But  gently  turn  the  wayward  sails 

From  where  the  dangers  sleep. 

If  storms  It  takes  to  rescue  me. 

Then,  Savior,  let  them  come; 
I'll  soon  forget  the  billows'  roar 

When  anchored  safe  at  home; 
The  blood-djed  streamers  on  my  bark 

Will  float  as  glad  and  free. 
As  though  in  calmness  they  had  waved 

Above  a  placid  sea. 

If  in  the  voj'age  of  life,  dear  Lord, 

Weights  have  beset  my  bark. 
To  sink  her  down  with  burdens  great. 

Beneath  the  ocean  dark. 
Cast  over-board  the  gathered  freight, 

Reject  the  worthless  lore; 
But  let  her,  though  in  emptiness, 

Land  on  the  other  shore. 


-m 


WEDDED  TO  ART. 

Tell  me  true,  O  son  of  Genius, 

Devotee  to  ancient  art. 
Hath  it  satisfied  thy  longings, 

Hath  its  pleasures  filled  thy  heart? 
As  you've  looked  with  admiration 

On  the  sky's  ethereal  blue, 
Hath  it  e'er  suggested  to  thee 

Love-lit  eyes  of  brighter  hue? 
Does  the  face  of  radiant  beauty. 

Fair  creation  of  thy  brush, 
Bring  to  mind  some  fadeless  vision 

Of  a  cheek  with  roseate  blush? 
Does  the  life-like  form  before  thee. 

Lacking  but  the  human  heart. 
In  its  silent,  pulseless  beauty, 

'Wake  no  yearnings,  child  of  art? 
Hast  thou  met  no  kindred  spirit, 

With  its  influence  sweet,  divme; 
Hath  no  heart,  with  fond  emotions 

Beat  in  unison  with  thine? 
Tell  me  true,  O  son  of  Genius, 
Favored  by  the  gods  above. 
Hast  thou  ne'er,  with  such  endowments, 

Felt  the  passion  known  as  love? 
Does  not  something,  all  unbidden. 

Not  the  growth  of  human  will,         [ings 
Though  thou  hush  the  whispered  breath 

Linger  on  and  haunt  thee  still. 
Are  there  not  some  tones  or  glances 

That  thy  heart  can  ne'er  forget; 
Do  they  not  like  distant  music, 

Linger  in  thy  memory  yet? 
Tell  me  true,  O  son  of  Genius, 
Wedded,  as  you  say,  to  art. 
Does  this  fair,  long-worshiped  goddess 

Always  cheer  and  fill  thy  heart? 
Does  she  smile  serenely  on  thee 

Through  the  long,  long  weary  day? 
Does  she  drive  away  thy  sadness? 
Art  thou  always  briglit  and  gay? 
Hath  no  fairer  living  mortal 

Rivaled  yet  this  ideal  queen? 
Does  she  reign,  the  only  sovereign. 
Strange  and  mystic,  all  unseen? 
Far  o'er  distant  seas  you've  wandered. 
Where  are  daughters  wondrous  fair; 
Hath  thy  heart  been  proof  against  them? 

Have  they  made  no  impress  there? 
Tell  me  true,  O  gifted  Genius, 

With  such  wealth  of  mind  and  heart, 
Can  noluiman  charms  enchain  thee? 
Wilt  tbou  cleave  alone  to  art? 

ALL  THINGS. 
O  can  it  be  that  all  these  things. 
So  fraught  with  mystery  and  woe. 


These  evils  that  beset  my  life, 

These  seeming  ills  that  grieve  me  so 
Must  work  for  good  to  me ! 


That  all  these  strange,  these  wondrous  things. 

Wherein  we  can  discern  no  good. 
Must  one  day  wear  another  phase. 
Must  one  day  all  be  understood. 
And  deemed  the  best  for  me! 
Yes  as  the  varied,  scattered  threads 

Within  the  weaver's  hands,  combine 
To  form  the  fabric,  slowly  wrought. 
Into  the  beauteous,  chaste  design. 
From  tangled,  knotted  floss. 
So  must  these  things  together  work. 

To  form  a  grand,  harmonious  whole. 
Perfect  our  Maker's  great  design. 

And  fit  on  earth  the  immortal  soul 
For  happiness  and  Heaven. 
Beneath  the  chemist's  skillful  hand, 

'Tis  known  that  bitters  sometimes  meet. 
And  in  a  combination  strange. 

Unite  to  form  a  substance  sweet. 
And  pleasant  to  the  taste. 
Then  let  me  not  refuse  to  drink 

The  bitter  wormwood  and  the  gall. 
For  e'en  the  dregs,  were  I  compelled 

In  tears  and  grief,  to  drain  them  all. 
Must  yet  to  sweetness  turn. 
For  all  things  work  for  good  to  me. 
Not  separate,  they  together  meet. 
And  strana-ely  too,  they  each  combine 
To  make  my  life  in  Christ  complete. 
And  consummate  His  will. 
Then  let  me  never  more  repine. 
Or  e'er  indulge  a  vain  regret. 
While  God's  eternal  Word  proclaims 

That  all  things  whatsoever,  yet. 
Must  work  for  good  to  me. 

A  CURIOUS  FACT. 
When  old  and  young,  the  rich  and  poor. 

In  finery  come  out. 
It,  is  a  fact  significant. 

They  seem  to  grow  devout; 
When  all  have  spent  their  ready  casn 

To  purchase  something  new. 
You'll  scarcely  find  in  any  church 

A  single  vacant  pew. 
But  when  the  outfit's  been  disph.yed. 

The  bonnet's  wearing  old. 
How  strange  it  is  as  ribbons  fade. 

Devotion,  too,  grows  cold: 
How  very  strange  when  pretty  clothes 

Appear  no  longer  new. 
That  those  who  still  frequent  the  church 
Find  worshipers  so  few.  


—^ 


5<- 


® 


-^ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


135 


MRS.  CELESTE  MAY. 

Horn:  Lee  Co.,  Iowa,  Oct.  20,  1850. 
Mrs.  May  has  written  and  published  a  work 
entitled  Sounds  of  the  Prairie,  which  has  re- 
ceived favorable  notice  from  press  and  public. 
She  occasionallj'  lectures  in  the  cause  of  tem- 


MRS.   CELESTE  MAV. 

perancc,  of  which  she  is  a  stanch  advocate. 
She  was  married  and  lived  for  a  number  of 
years  in  the  state  of  Iowa,  but  now  resides  in 
Nelson,  Nebraska. 


®- 


THE  LOST  ..  NARRATIVE." 

Letters  I've  written,  long  and  short  — 
Letters  of  love  and  of  retort; 
Letters  of  friendship,  and  all  sort; 
Letters  to  South  and  letters  to  Nortli ; 
Letters  to  East  and  letters  to  West  — 
But  never,  no  never,  'mong'  all  the  rest. 
Was  accused  of  giving,  to  tliose  I  love  best  - 
Not  even  to  tliose  T  called  but  friend  — 
That  part  of  ray  time  you  call  tlie  ••  tail-end. 
Time  flies!  and,  like  Tam  O'Shanter's  mare, 
Is  tailless  long  ere  one's  aware. 
Or  reaches  the  running  water,  where 
The  witches  of  hurry  and  of  care 
Cease  annojing  us,  and  stare; 
And  there  is  only  left  us,  there. 
The  bare  escape ;  while,  everywhere. 
Duties  unpleasant  and  duties  fair. 
Burdens  hea^-y  and  hard  to  bear. 


Others  pleasing  and  light  as  air. 

Crowd,  unfinished,  plucking  lime's  hair; 

Till  we,  in  utter  and  blank  despair. 

Wonder  if  ever,  or  anywhere. 

Before  was  seen  such  a  tailless  mare 

As  the  flying  steed,  so  bald  and  bare. 

Which  the  penniless  writer  rides  with  care. 

So  accuse  me  not  of  giving  to  you 

The  narrative  to  which  I've  lost  all  clue; 

I've    plucked    from    Time's     forelock    some 

moments  new  — 
In  which  I  could  write  some  sentiments  true; 
Though  poorly  expressed,  I  iiope  that  a  few 
May  revive  my  true  image,  in  your  heart, 

anew. 
That  blessings  on  earth  and  in  heaven  accrue 
To  your  share,  is  the  wish  of  —  adieu. 


NOTHING  "WORTH  WHILE. 

There  is  nothing  worth  while 

Unless  shared  by  another; 
What  is  fortune's  sweet  smile 

If  it  glads  not  our  brother?  — 
It  is  nothing  worth  while. 
The  sweetest  of  song 

The  sirens  can  sing 
Allures  us  not  long. 

Unless  we  can  bring 
Our  best  friend  along. 
The  joy  of  beholding 

A  beauteous  picture. 
Loses  half  tlie  unfolding 

Of  its  soft-tinted  feature. 
To  a  lonely  heart  viewing. 
And  wisest  tales  known, 

If  they  do  not  beguile 
Other  hearts  than  our  own. 

Are  hardly  worth  while. 
Though  in  Izard's  sweetest  tone. 

The  choicest  of  food. 

To  the  one  who  prepares  it. 
Is  not  half  so  good 

If  nobody  shares  it. 
And  in  silence  he  brood. 
What  a  bauble  is  fame. 

If  there  is  none 
To  speak  our  own  name 

As  the  dearest  one! 
Ah!  life  is  tame. 
So  there's  nothing  worth  while. 

If  enkindles  no  eye 
With  a  thought  or  a  smile 

At  the  same  glad  sky  — 
O  there's  nothing  worth  while. 
'Tis  companionship  sweet 

The  heart  most  craves; 
Love's  glances  meet. 

And  the  spirit  laves 
In  a  honeyed  retreat. 


-^ 


-* 


^- 


136 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  JEANIE  OLIVER  SMITH. 

Bohn:  Tkoy,  N.Y. 

THE  girlhood  of  the  subject  of  this  sketch  was 
passed  in  Scotland,  and  on  her  return  to  this 
country  she  was  married  to  Horace  E.  Smith, 
LL  D  of  Johnstown,  N.Y.,  who  for  ten  years 
was  dean  of  the  Albany  law  school.  Mrs. 
Smith  hast\v<,  beautiful  daughters.  Her  writ- 


MRS.  JEANIE  OLIVER  SMITH. 

ingshave  appeared  in  nearly  all  of  the  first- 
class  magazines  and  .iournals  of  the  country, 
and  in  1889  appeared  Day  Lilies,  a  magnificent 
volume  of  poems  from  the  pen  of  this  writer. 
Her  versification  is  smooth,  the  rhymes  good 
and  strong,  and  the  work  has  been  favorably 
commented  upon  by  competent  critics 


A  MINOR  SYMPHONY. 

The  winds  liave  cadences  at  eventide, 

That  pulseless  lie 

Ueneatli  the  morning  sky; 
Fi'oin  reiilms  of  deepest  mystery  they  glide. 
Gr;iv(^  autumn  hatl>  a  grand  deep   underlone 

In  anlliem  times. 

Which  huighing,  leaf-crowned  Junes 
In  all  tlieir  clioral  wealth  have   never  known. 
When   harps  that  we  have  loved  tliiough  all 
lliese  years 

In  rhythmic  flow 

Sound  oft  the  tremolo, 
How  broken  our  antiphony  l)y  tears'. 


When  far  from  shore  sounds  some  melodious 
psalm 
Which  once  most  near  ^ 

Entranced  the  listening  ear,  [calm. 

How  huslied  we  pray  that  wind  and  wave  be 
But  far,  oh,  far  the  dark  horizon  line;  - 
Our  comrades  still. 
To  whom  we  call  at  will. 
Held  fast  by  love-chords  from  the  sea's  incline 
And  when  the  diapason  swells  at  even. 
Spell-bound  we  stand. 
As  by  some  border  land 
Where  all  the  harmonies   are   caught  from 
heaven.  

THE  SECRET  OF  POWEK. 
.. Kuler  of  men !  "    W^hatever  greatness  lies 
Wrapped  in  those  three  short  words,  'tis  born 

of  Mind. 
No  prowess  stands  for  this.    The  brawny  god 
Of  muscle  and  of  limb  may  sometime  swaj- 
The  gaping  multitudes  who  court  meanwhile 
The  bustle  and  the  tumult  and  the  fray. 
The  rushing,  foaming,  angry  surface  whirl 
Of  that  great  cauldron  called  Society; 
But  far  below  the  troubled  surface  dwells. 
Among  space-deeps  that  only  Mind  can  reach, 
A  pulsing  heart  that  dominates  the  world! 

SUNRISE  FROM  THE  TOWER. 
We  breatbe  at  times  a  purer  air. 
And  taste  the  joys  of  nobler  birth; 
As  if  'twere  given  again  to  earth 
Its  pristine,  Eden  charm  to  wear. 
And  such  an  hour  is  this.    The  morn. 
In  white  robes  o'er  the  Orient  hills. 
Hies  blushing,  wliile  the  welkin  fills 
With  song,  from  myriad  sources  born. 
The  winds  of  night  are  hushed  to  rest. 
The  clouds  have  vanished,  fold  on  fo  d. 
This  isle,  "An  emerald  chased  in  gold. 
Lies  fair  and  bright  on  ocean's  breast. 
Far  out  to  sea  white  sails  are  seen. 
Where  sky  with  ocean  seems  to  meet. 
Ah,  yonder  weird  and  mystic  fleet 
From  out  the  heaven  has  sailed,  I  ween. 
They  float  far  off  through  ether  seas. 
Like  thoughts  of  peace,  on  wings  of  prayer 
Like  doves  that  love's  fond  missives  bean- 
Sail  on,  riv'h  freigliled  argosies'. 


MY  LASSIE. 
Bonnie  lUue  een. 
Like  stars  tlieir  sheen; 
Stars  in  tlie  lieaven  o'  a  lovely  face. 
That  flash  sotil-liclit  from  tlieir  secret  place, 
Fnmi  tlie  fountain  o'  he:ivenly  ruth,  1  ween; 
None   but  a  flend  could  sudi  licht  efface. 
Or  bring  ae  cloud  to  that  brow  serene. 


^ 


©- 


*- 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL   POETS  OV  AMElilCA. 


137 


« 


STEDMAX  A.CHAPLIN. 

Bokn:  Baltimore,  Vt.,  June:^,  18U9. 
In  1842  this  g-eiitk>man  wusorchiined  a  Baptist 
minisier;  and  later  joined  tlie  Church  of  God. 
All  his  life  Mr.  Chaplin  has  been  a  close  stu- 
dent, and  has  attained  a  fair  knowledge  of 
langunfres.    mathemntics,    the    sciences    and 


STE.-VDMAN   A.  CH  U'L,IN. 

biblical  lore.  He  has  l)eeii  a  teacher,  farmer, 
minister,  and  editor  —  occupying-  the  editor- 
ial chair  for  thirteen  years  with  marked 
ability;  and  as  a  pastor  was  g-reatly  beloved. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Chaplin  have  appeared 
quite  extensively  in  tlie  religious  and  secular 
press.  He  is  now  a  resident  of  Plymouth,  Ind. 


S- 


FADTNG  LEAVES. 
Cold  Boreas  breatlies  and  the  shroud  of  white 

rime 
Wraps   the   deatli-stricken  bloom   at  morn's 

dawning  pi-inie. 
From  petals  of  bloom  h.js  laded  the  hue 
That    yesterday   smiled     to   the    sun   in    the 

blue. 
The  ice  bands  with  crystal  the  bem  of  the 

reef. 
The  crimson  and  yellow,  deep  color  the  leaf; 
Sad    wailings    of    autumn,    deep    requiem's 

sound 
O'er  the  rose  and  the  lily  that  mix  with  the 

ground. 
Like  the  leaf  we  all  fade  — we  blast  like  the 

tiloom. 


The  form  that  is  human,  the  chill  from  the 
tomb 

Blights  as  frost  blights  the  verdure;  the  tem- 
pest that  wings 

Its  flight  o'er  our  graves,  our  final  dirge 
sings. 

How  short  is  the    summer    for  leaf  ou  the 

spray; 
How  short  like  the  leaf-life,  humanity's  day  ; 
Of  the  leaf  —  of  the  man  —  how  soon  it  is  told 
That  the  frost-breath  has  come  and  both  are 

but  mold. 


PAST,  PRESENT,  FUTURE. 

Sweet  childhood  hours  —  life's  opening  scenes 
How  fondly  memory  backward  leans. 
Toward  its  first  dreams,  and  ardent  prays, 
Let  me  re-live  those  blissful  days. 
How  gay  was  spring  enrobed  in  bloom 
And  dewy  pearls,  when  morn's  perfume, 
And  bright  aurora's  crimson  flush. 
Were  sweet  as  bridal  beauty's  blush. 
'Neath  summer's  sun  in  sportive  race, 
I  watched  the  light  the  shadows  chase; — 
Looked  up  to  heaven's  majestic  blue. 
That  worlds  of  light  were  moving  through,— 
Then,  in  the  streamlet's  mirror  glow. 
Looked  down  on  heavens  that  shone  below. 
How  oft,  before  sins  shadow  black. 
Had  yet  eclipsed  life's  shining  track. 
On  mountain  heights,  I  wondering  stood, 
In  nature's  awful  solitude. 
Before  the  painted  foliage  fell, 
O'er  rising  peak,  or  sinking  dell;— 
E'er  withering  flowers  were  laid  in  death, 
Cut  down  by  winter's  killing  breath,— 
And  heard  prophetic  whispers  saj\ 
Youth's  transient  visions  fleet  away! 

Those  years  are  passed,—  upon  my  brow. 

The  snows  of  time  are  falling  now. 

The  scliool-house  troops,  with  whom  I  played, 

Are  slumbering  'rieath  tlie  yew-tree's  shade; 

Parents,  that  saw  my  life-dawn  day. 

Are  coffined  yonder  in  the  clay; 

Green  mounds  are  heaved  above  the  breast 

Of  sisters  in  their  dreamless  rest. 

And  graven  marbles,  give  the  date 

When  children  passed  the  stream  of  fate; 

And  she  I  name  my  youthful  bride 

Is  sleeping  by  these  children's  side. 

And  brotliers,  once  beloved,  are  bound 

In  prison-house  beneath  the  ground; 

The  grass  has  often  grown  above. 

The  saints,  who  taught  me  God  to  love. 

And,  while  I  wait  the  grave  for  me. 

Is  ready  as  once  Job  for  thee. 

For  as  1  list  with  bated  breath, 

I  hear  thy  steps,  O  coming  death  I 


-)5 


5*- 


138 


LOCAI.    A^'l)    NATIONAL    POETS   OF  A3IEK1CA. 


■>5 


But  Judah's  seers  foretell  an  hour. 
When  death  shall  lose  his  cruel  power; 
That  one  shall  come  with  might    to  save 
And  break  the  holts  that  bar  the  grave. 
When  tliat  dear  dust  on  which  we  tread. 
In  deathless  shape  shall  leave  that  bed; 
They  say  upon  fate's  farther  shore 
No  tempests  beat,  no  billows  roar, 
Tliat  fadeless  Paradise  s  bloom 
Beyond  the  deserts  and  the  tomb; 
That  on  those  shores,  Jerusalem 
Has  golden  streets  and  walls  of  gem. 
No  sorrows  there,  no  grief,  no  sigh. 
For  tears  are  wiped  from  every  eye; 
That  tlie  eternal  raptures  there. 
The  pure,  the  good,  the  holy  share; 
That  sin  shall  ne'er  invade  our  home 
In  the  deliglitf  ul  world  to  come ! 
Then  Heavenly  Father,  me  1  pray 
Give  youth  eternal  in  that  day. 


MRS.  AMAI^DA  J.  SMART. 

Born:  Thornton,  N.  H.,  1830. 
At  the  age  of  twenty-one  this  lady  was  mar- 
ried to  Lewis   B.  Smart.       For  nearly  a  year 
she  lived  in  Kansas,  but  not  liking  the  west. 


* 


MRS.  AMANUA  J.  SMART. 

she  soon  returned  to  her  native  state,  wliere 
she  lias  lived  the  gTe.-iter  part  of  her  life.  Mrs. 
Smart  is  now  a  resident  of  Pauvers,  Mass., 
where  she  expects  to  remain. 


ODE  TO  BLACK  MOUNTAIN. 

O,  wondrous  Black  Mountain, 

Why  such  a  dark  name? 
Why  were  you  not  christened 

Tlie  Mountain  of  P'ame? 
Methinks  this  more  fitting 

A  visuge  like  thine. 
Beneath  which  is  hidden, 

Percliance,  a  rich  mine; 
Though  rutlilesslj-  clambered 

By  lady  and  brave. 
Than  dark  appellation 

Your  god-father  gave. 
Your  colors,  moreover, 

Presented  to  view. 
When  kissed  by  the  sunlight 

Are  red,  white  and  blue. 


OUR  HERO. 

U.  S.  and  G. —  initials  three, — 
Familiar  over  land  and  sea. 
With  U.  S.  A.  will  live  for  aye, 
Though  nations  rise  and  melt  away. 
For  royal  sons  —  the  martyred  ones. 
Our  counti-y  sombre  garment  dons; 
Then  lol  apace,  with  rev'rent  grace, 
For  dauntless  hero  veils  her  face. 

From  favored  mount  could  he  recount 
The  glories  of  the  Living  Fount; 
Like  Muses,  too,  his  eye  could  view 
The  nearing  heights  of  pastures  new. 
Brave  conq'ror  he,  amazed  we  see! 
Henceforth  his  ruled  spirit  free; 
No  monarch's  throne  hath  ever  known. 
More  overwhelming-  vict'ry  shown. 

Then  U.  S.  A.  forever  may, 
Witli  loving  pride  her  tribute  pay; 
And  early  plant,  in  world-wide  haunt, 
A  laurel  wreath  for  U.  S.  Grant. 


TO  MAD  RIVER. 

Who  calls  thee  Mad,  dear  River, 

Sees  not  thy  smiling  face 
When  summer  sunbeams  quiver, 

Tliy  bosom  to  embrace; 
Nor  as  gray  twilight  neareth. 

Athwart  thy  waters  glad. 
Yon  shad'wy  arch  appeareth, 

Shiill  blindly  call  thee  mad! 
'Tis  when  dark  summer  showers 

Down  terraced  hill-sides  pour. 
Or  cloud  of  autumn  lowers. 

Till  by  the  deaf'ning  roar. 
Of  mad'ning  waters  swelling 

Thy  banks  to  overflow. 
Thou  teachest  field  and  dwelling 

Thy  frantic  name  to  know. 


^ 


©- 


-^ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


139 


JACOB  HUFF. 

Born:  Chatham  Run,  Pa.,  Jan.  31,  1853. 
Jacob  Huff's  writiug-s  g-eiierally  appear  un- 
der the  nom  de  plume  of  Faraway  Moses.  At 
an  early  ag'e  ho  was  employed  in  tlie  lumber 
woods  of  Pennsylvania.  Mr.  Hutf  lias  written 
numerous     liiiiiii)ri)us     sketches    and   serial 


JACOB    HUFF. 

stories,  in  which  he  is  at  present  engaged. 
Both  his  verse  and  prose  have  appeared  from 
time  to  time  in  the  Detroit  Free  Press,  Pitts- 
burgh Post,  Henry  George's  Standard,  and 
other  equally  prominent  journals. 


IF  WE  KNEW. 


^- 


No  one  knows  the  secret  sighing,— 

Sobbing  in  a  neighbor's  heart; 
No  one  knows  the  fond  hopes  dying  — 

Nd  one  knows  the  cruel  smai't. 
Nc^one  knows  the  hungry  yearning 

Of  a  neighbor's  cheerless  soul ; 
No  one  knows  how  grief  is  burning 

In  the  heart  where  love  grows  cold. 
None  but  God  knows  each  desire; 

He  alone  knows  griefs  untold: 
Ah,  He  sees  the  heart's  slow  Are 

Dying  out  as  love  grows  cold. 
Ah,  I  see  your  neighbor  sitting, 

Often  with  a  low  bowed  head; 
And  I  know  how  grief  is  flitting 

Through  his  heart,  where  hope  is  dead. 


BALM  OF  LIFE. 

The  greatest  thing  in  life  — 

A  balm  for  its  sorrows  and  strife  — 

And  this  one  tiling  will  prove 

Better  than  all  else  to  me: 

'Tis  merely  to  live  and  to  be 

With  the  people  I  love. 

I  love  these  bare,  bald  hills. 

Where  the  song  of  the  spring  bird  trills, 

And  I  hear  the  coo  of  the  dove; 

But  better  than  all  to  me. 

Is  to  always  live  and  be 

Among  the  people  I  love. 

Oh,  what  is  wealth  and  fame? 

Or,  what  is  an  honored  name. 

If  from  my  friends  I'm  removed? 

Give  me  my  cot  on  the  hill. 

And  the  song  of  the  whip-poor-will. 

And  the  friends  I  have  always  loved. 


THE  WARNING. 

Before  the  glass  I  stood  this  morning 

Combing  the  hair  of  my  frivolous  head; 
Then  I  beheld,  oh,  solemn  warning! 

A  silvered  strand  of  hirsute  thread. 
Firmly  I  grasp'd  it  with  my  fingers, 

Pluck'd  it  out,  but  oh!  the  cold 
Realization  behind  it  lingers  — 

God  in  Heaven !  I'm  growing  old! 

Then  I  noticed  the  crow-foot  wrinkles 

Deeply  indented  around  each  eye,   [twinkles 
And    tears    of    regret    down    my   sad  face 

While  thinking  how  soon  I  must  surely  die. 

I    smooth    out   the    wrinkles    with    careful 

fingers,  [grows  cold; 

And  pluck  out  gray  hair  while  my   heart 
For,  oh!  thai  terrible  thought  still  lingers  — 

God  in  Heaven !  I'm  growing  old! 
Oh,  this  stern  flat  of  nature 

Under  which  all  mortals  lie! 
Suspended  over  every  creature 

Hangs  this  sentence  —all  must  die! 
Execution  day  draws  nearer. 

And  each  gray  hair  I  behold 
Speaks  of  death  and  graveyards  dreary  — 

Oh!  my  God,  I'm  growing  old! 
Soon  these  hands  will  cease  their  labor. 

And  upon  this  bosom  lay, 
Down  beside  a  silent  neighbor. 

Flesh  and  bone  and  heart  decay. 
What  comes  after?  Ah,  the  mj'stery. 

Half  of  which  has  ne'er  been  told; 
For  the  dead  send  back  no  history 

To  poor  mortals  growing  old. 

EXTRACT. 
Take  away  those  little  dresses. 

Gently  lay  them  out  of  sight; 
I  am  sad,  and  it  distresses 

Me  to  look  at  them  to-night. 


-® 


©- 


140 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


-® 


JOHN  J.  MCGIRR. 

Born  :  Youngstown,  Pa.,  Makch  13,  1855. 
The  principal  work  of  Mr.  McGirr  is  the  De- 
struction of  the  World,  a  poem  which  was 
published  in  1886.  Although  comparatively 
unknown  as  yet,  he  is  a  poet  of  no  mean  abil- 
ity.   His  conceptions  iuc  lofty  —his  language 


JOHN    J.   .M  UIHK. 

clear  and  musical.  This  work  also  contains 
various  other  shorter  poems  that  have  been 
well  received.  Mr.  McGirr  is  a  newspaper  ed- 
itor by  profession,  and  now  resides  in 
McKeesport,  Pa. 


AVE  MARIA. 


»- 


Ave  Maria!  the  evening  shadows  fail; 
Ave  Maria!  We  pray  thee  guard  us  all. 

Over  the  land  and  the  sea  the  night  is  coming 

on; 
Ave  Sancti.ssima!  guard  us  till  the  dawn. 

Star  of  life's  stormy  sea,  hear  onr  humble 
priiyer. 

And  wlien  the  tempests  rise,  save  \is  from  de- 
spair. 

Ouid(!  onr  wand'ring  footstei)s  tlirougli  tliis 

world  ariglit; 
Safely  througli    tlie  darkness  upward  to  the 

light. 

Ave  Sanctissiraa!  liear  our  earnest  cry ! 
Ave  Maria!  draw  near  us  wlien  we  die. 


THE  AUTUMN  EVENING. 

Sadly  dies  the  autumn  day. 
In  moaning  winds  and  sunset  gray; 
The  forest  trees,  with  branches  bare, 
Upraise  their  arms  as  tliough  in  prayer. 
While  at  their  feet  the  dead  leaves  lie 
Hushed  and  sad  and  silently. 

The  gray  squirrel  from  his  dizzy  height 
Perceives  tlie  fast  approaching  night. 
And  with  quick  and  startled  leap. 
Scrambles  to  his  nest  and  sleep. 
While  deep  within  the  wood  is  heard 
The  plaintive  cry  of  the  midnight  bird. 

Now  just  above  the  western  hills. 
The  gray  clouds  part,  and  suiiliglit  fills 
The  forest,  and  the  saddened  scene 
Is  glorified  in  the  golden  sheen 
Of  the  setting  sun. 

So,  sweetly  on  my  saddened  life. 
Dark  witii  sickness  and  with  strife. 
There  falls  the  sunlight  of  God's  love, 
With  hope  that  in  His  home  above. 
When  life  and  sorrow  both  be  past, 
My  weary  feet  sliall  rest  at  last. 


DESTRUCTION  OF  THE  WORLD. 

EXTRACT. 

And  now  the  lightning,  as  a  storm  of  rain 
Pours  from  the  heavens,  making  all  things 

plain: 
The  cowering  millions  kneeling  on  the  ground. 
The  beasts  and  reptiles  gathered  close  around ; 
The  awful  secrets  of  the  mighty  sea. 
Which  now  are  shown  so  plain  and  vividly; 
The  falling  houses  and  the  bursting  rocks; 
The  trees  uprooted,  as  by  tempest  shocks,— 
All,  all  the  horrors  of  this  awful  night 
Stand    out  distinct   befoi-e    poor  mankind's 

sight. 
Oh,  God  of  mercy !  listen  to  that  cry,— 
Tliat  cry  of  anguish  unto  Thee  on  liigh  ! 
That  tliou  would'st  end  the  lives  of  those  be- 

k)w. 
And  thus  cut  short  their  agonies  and  woe. 
As  if  in  answer  to  that  fearful  cry, 
Tlie   lightning   .streams  the  faster  from    the 

sky. 
The  eartli  in  places  ope's  in  fissures  deep, 
Wiiere  man  and  beast  sink  in  a  writhing  heap. 
Tlien   fi'om  th'  abyss  there  come  despairing 

cries; 
Tlien  a  faint  moaning,  which  in  silence  dies. 


WOMAN'S  TEARS. 
More  powerful  tlian  tlie  sword  or  pen, 
More  potent  than  the  fi'owns  of  men. 
More  tducliing  than  a  lover's  sighs, 
Ai'e  the  tears  that  tiow  frt)m  woman's  e.ves. 


-m 


© 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POJETS   OF   AMERICA. 


141 


-® 


MRS.  CONSTANCE  RUNCIE. 

Bokn:  INDlA^APOLIs,  IND.,  Jan.  15, 1836. 
Constance  studied  in  Germany  for  six  year.s, 
and  upon  lier  return  to  America,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-flve,  she  was  married  to  the  Kev. 
James  Runcie,  D.  D.  Mrs.  Runcie  lias  led  a 
life  of  wonderful  mental  activity,  and  at  an 
early  nge  befran  to  compose  music.  Herg-reat- 


MRS.  COXsT.iXCE   FAUNT   1,1,  ]ii>\     id   m  |  k. 

est  success  in  prose  literatuie  was  Divinely 
Led,  a  work  which  attained  a  wide  popularity, 
and  was  repeatedly  quoted  from  by  i^ress  aiid 
pulpit.  In  1888  Poems  Dramatic  and  Lyric  ap- 
peared, which  met  with  still  more  gratifying 
success.  In  person  Mrs.  Constance  Faunt 
LeRoy  Runcie  is  very  petite. 


©- 


MEMORY'S  PICTURE. 

My  love  came  through  the  door,  and  lo! 

Her  very  form  and  face. 
So  purely  simple,  seemed  to  glow 

With  new,  peculiar  grace. 
Her  dress  was  black,  and  made  of  gauze. 

Which  veiled  but  did  not  hide 
Her  perfect  arms,  so  softly  white. 

They  with  the  lily  vied. 
The  crimson  flowers  at  her  throat 

Were  all  the  jewels  worn. 
Except  her  eyes,  which  shone  above 

With  light  that  was  love-born. 


She  held  within  her  graceful  hands 

Her  hat,  which,  hanging  down. 
Broke,  with  its  strings  of  ribbon  bright, 

The  dead  black  of  her  gown. 
She  was  a  picture  standing  there, 

Altho'  she  did  not  know  it. 
My  love,  with  earnest,  truthful  brow, 

My  dreamer  and  my  ijoet. 
I  would  have  fallen  at  her  feet, 

I  could  have  worshiijed  there. 
So  graceful  in  her  flowing  robes, 

But  that  I  did  not  dare. 
I  in  my  very  soul  and  heart. 

Would  paint  her  if  I  could. 
As  coming  through  the  door  that  night 

We  saw  her  as  she  stood. 


BROKEN  FRIENDSHIP. 
I  send  no  greeting;  I  do  not  even  feel 
Your  name  forgotten  when  in  prayer  I  kneel. 
You  came  into  my  life  and  passed  away, 
A  troubled  dream  which  flies  before  the  day. 
You  ask  too  much. 

There  comes,  at  last,  an  end 
Of  what  one  ought  to  suffer  for  a  friend. 
It  then  becomes  ignoble  —  self-abase,— 
Not  sacrifice  -  pure  —  holy  -  full  of  grace. 
I  suffered  much  where  now  I  cannot  feel; 
I  do  not  still  pretend  a  friendly  zeal 
In  what  you  do  —  or  are  —  or  where  you  go; 
A  calm  indifference  is  all  I  know. 
I  am  not  angry  even,  nor  doth  there  burn 
Resentment  in  my  heart!  —  No! 

You  must  learn 
How  wholly  I  forgive  and  can  forget. 
The  sun,  upon  two  friends. 

Hath  simply  set. 

THIS  WOULD  I  DO. 
If  I  were  a  rose. 

This  would  I  do: 
I  would  lie  upon  the  white  neck  of  her  I  love. 
And  let  my  life  go  out  upon  the  fragrance 

Of  her  breath. 
If  I  were  a  star. 

This  would  I  do: 
I  would  look  deep  down  into  her  eyes. 
Into  the  eyes  I  love,  and  learn  there 
How  to  shine. 
If  I  were  a  truth  strong  as  the  Eternal  One, 

This  would  I  do: 
I  would  live  in  her  heai-t,  in  the  heart 
I  know  so  well,  and 

Be  at  home. 
If  I  were  a  sin. 

This  would  I  do: 
I  would  fly  far  away,  and  tho'  her  soft  hand 
In  pity  was  stretched  out,  I  would  not  stay, 
but  fly. 

And  leave  her  pure ! 


-® 


©- 


142 


-* 


LOCAL    AXD    NATIONAL    POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


JAMES  H.  ASHABRANNER. 

Born  :  New  Albany,  Ind.,  Dec.  31, 1861. 
Brought  up  on  a  farm,  at  eighteen  years  of 
age  James  was  apprenticed  for  one  year  to  the 
blacksmith's    trade,   subsequently    teaching 
school  for  al)(iui   livf  >(;ns.      He  was  then 


JAMES   H. ASHABRANNER. 

elected  assistant  secretary  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A., 
and  is  now  city  librarian  of  tlie  public  library 
in  liis  native  town.  His  poems  have  appeared 
from  time  to  time  in  the  Current,  Toledo 
Blade,  and  other  periodicals. 


©- 


MUTABILITY. 
How  soon  the  joys  which  we  have  known. 

The  treasures  of  our  greener  years. 
Become  with  moss  and  rust  o'ergrown. 

Till  scarce  the  sculptured  name  appears. 

The  relics  of  the  past,  though'few. 
Neglected  lie  within  the  heart ; 

The  weeds  of  time  conceal  their  hue. 
Or  but  reveal  the  tints  in  part. 

The  playtiiing  of  the  prattling  boy 

Is  all  the  world  to  him  to-day; 
To-morrow  brings  another  toy. 

For  which  he  flings  the  old  away. 

But  not  alone  to  infant  mind 
But  to  the  gray-haii-ed  children  too, 

A  toy  appears  of  tair  design. 
Until  replaced  by  something  new. 

And  friends  to  wliom  we  said,  adieu. 
And  wept  to  clasp  the  parting  hand 

Fade  fi'om  the  memory,  like  the  hue 
Of  words  engraven  on  the  sand. 


The  vows  that  made  the  parting  sweet. 
On  memory's  tablet  yield  their  place 

To  words  of  love  and  smiles  that  meet 
Reflection  in  a  fairer  face. 

And  love  that  we  regard  as  true 
Leaps  into  flame,  and  then  expires. 

Or  bursts  from  other  vents  anew. 
Relit  by  flames  from  other  fires. 

And  yet  I  deem  it  weU,  that  such 

Is  life  and  all  that  it  contains; 
For  memory  comes  with  softened  touch 

And  brings  to  mind  our  lessened  pains. 

And  oh,  the  past!  the  silent  past! 

What-shudders  seize  the  maddened  brain. 
When  scarce  we  dare  to  think,  at  last 

The  past  might  come  to  light  again. 

For  deeply  buried  in  the  dust. 
Are  secrets  that  we  fain  would  keep. 

Their  tombs  we  guard  with  sacred  trust 
Till  we,  with  them,  lie  down  to  sleep. 


SONG  OF  SUMMER  TIME. 

The  fields  are  bright  with  the  golden  grain. 
That  waves  in  the  subtile  breeze; 

The  partridge  calls  in  his  loud  refrain. 
To  his  mate  from  the  apple-trees. 

Sweet  and  low  is  the  hum  of  bees. 
And  the  hum  of  the  reaper's  tune. 

As,  one  by  one,  thej'  bind  the  sheaves 
Beneath  the  skies  of  June. 

Deep  in  the  shade  of  the  beechen  grove. 
Where  the  sun  and  the  shadows  play. 

The  oriole  swings  with  his  mated  love. 
And  blends  his  tuneful  lay. 

Silent  and  grand  with  a  lurid  glow. 

Behind  the  hills  of  the  west. 
The  chariot  of  Sol  is  sinking  low. 

And  bids  the  liarvester  rest. 


AMOR  FATUM  VINCIT. 

I  witnessed,  last  night,  in  a  vision. 

Two  pathways  trom  opposite  coves. 
Converge  in  the  regions  elysian. 

And  wend  through  celestial  groves. 
As  (ine  single  pathwaj  they  wandered, 

Liki'  I'ivcrs  that  flow  to  the  main. 
But  while  in  my  vision  I  pondered, 

1  saw  them  diverging  again. 
And  widely  asuiidei'  they  tended. 

As  fashioned  by  ilestiny's  might. 
But  in  the  dark  valU'j-  tin'y  blended 

And  entered  the  realms  of  light. 
Oh,  loving  hearts  here  disunited. 

Look  up  through  your  iinguisli  and  tears. 
For  love  now  so  cruelly  blighted. 

Will  bloom  thi-ough  eternity's  j'ears. 


-® 


m- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


143 


-* 


nellip:  corinne  bergen. 

Born:  Del^nco,  N.  J.,  Oct.  14,  1868. 
When  a  child  Nellie  lived  in  Washing-ton  and 
Philadelphia,  and  at  four  years  of  age  came 
to  East  Saginaw,  where  she  has  lived  ever 
since.  Graduating-  in  1887  from  the  high 
school,  she  continued  her  studies  foroiie  year 


NELIilE  CORINNE  BERGEN. 

at  St.  Clair,  Michigan.  Miss  Bergen  has  made 
elocution  one  of  her  principal  studies,  and 
has  appeared  at  several  private  concerts  as 
Parthenia  in  Ingomar.  Her  poems  have  ap- 
peared in  several  prominent  papers,  and  have 
received  favorable  mention  from  the  press 
and  public  generally. 


©- 


CIRCUMSTANCES  ALTER  CASES. 
Fame!  what,  I  pray  is  fame? 

A  thing  to  drive  men  mad! 
And  gold!  'tis  but  a  curse. 

To  make  our  hearts  more  sad. 
I'd  rather  a  hundred  times 

Sit  here  and  drub  and  write. 
And  have  returned  each  poem 

I  send,  than  wear  so  bright 
A  crown,  yet  heavy,  too. 

As  wealth  puts  on  your  head; 
To  drive  you  till  you'd  wish 

You  rested  with  the  dead! 
Why,  man;  it's  awfully  hard 

To  bear  the  burden  Fame 


Imposes.    Better  far. 
To  live,  unknown  by  name, 

Than  be  sought  after,  times 
When  you  for  I'est  most  long, 

For  autograph,  or  theme. 
On  which  to  write  a  song! 

Here  do  I  sit  all  day. 

And  none  so  poor  to  seek 
My  hiding-  place  secure. 

Yes,  here  from  week  to  week,    • 

I  sit,  and  none  molest; 

While  if  the  magazines 
Should  t;ike  each  poem  I  write. 

What  lively  times  and  scenes! 

This  little  room  would  be 

Not  large  enough  by  far; 
I'd  have  to  move  up-town. 

And  "  run  down  "  on  the  car. 

Why  Fame!  it  only  means 

No  rest  from  morn  to  eve. 
What's  that— the  postman's  knock? 

A  check !    I  scarcely  b'lieve. 

'Tis  I.    It's  for  same  name 

Perhaps;  but  —  here  —  what's  this? 
"Ten  dollars  for  your  poem  — 

A  Rosebud  for  One  Kiss.'  " 

Strange,  strange  indeed!    It  was 

My  very  poorest  one  — 
And  yet,  for  me,  it  has 

The  best  and  noblest  done ! 

Fame !  man,  it's  glorious  good ! 

The  best  born  earth  can  give. 
And  money?    That's  good,  too; 

We  must  have  that  to  live. 


THE  YELLOW  ROSE. 
The  yellow  rose,—  I  have  it  now; 

The  rose  I  sent  my  love ! 
The  beauteous  rose  once  wet  with  dew. 

The  rose  I  sent  my  love! 

The  petals  fine  were  emblems  true. 

Oh  love  I  bore  to  her. 
The  tender  flower  a  token  true. 

Oh  love  I  bore  to  her. 

And  here  it  is  all  faded  now. 

She  sent  it  back  to  me; 
And  here  it  is  all  dead  and  sere; 

She  sent  it  back  to  me. 


STELLA,  MY  STAR. 
Oh  Stella,  mj'  star,  bright  star. 

Say  where  are  j'ou  shining  to-night? 
If  I,  bj'  my  heart,  could  tell. 

To  you  would  I  wing  my  flight. 


-^ 


© 


5< 


144 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


ELLA  S.  JOHNSON. 

THIS  lady  is  a  resident  of  Houston,  Texas, 
where  she  is  welL  and  favorably  known  by 
her  many  admirers.  She  has  written  poetry 
quite  extensively  for  the  periodical  press,  and 


EI.LA  S.  JOHNSOM. 

is  represented  in  Gems  From  a  Texas  Quarry. 
Her  poems  have  been  highly  praised  by  tlie 
press,  and  have  been  copied  extensively 
throughout  the  western  states. 

PEKDITA  IN  DEO. 
In  a  dim  and  haunted  forest 
By  a  dark  and  silent  lake. 
Where  the  coral-hued  flamingos 

Come  at  eve  their  thirst  to  slake; 
Where  the  blue-bird  prinks  its  feathers 
In  the  silence  and  the  dark. 
And  the  vivid  red-bird  flutters 

Through  the  branches  like  a  spark. 
Sleeps  my  child-wife  wee  Perdita, 
Underneath  the  moss  and  ferns. 
With  the  giant  trees  above  her. 

Where  the  wind  at  midnight  yearns. 
In  the  evening,  in  the  dark  night. 

Evermore  my  heart  returns 
To  this  dim  atid  mystic  forest. 
With  its  mosses  and  its  ferns. 

IHermit-liko  I  rove  its  vastness. 
From  the  twilight  till  tlie  dawn, 
There's  a  new  face  in  the  city  — 
From  the  sky  a  star  is  gone. 

© — : 


A  DREAM  POEM. 

WHITE  VIOLET. 

Thou  small,  exquisite  flower, 

Dyiug  on  my  heart. 

An  thou  of  the  universe 

A  spirit,  or  a  part? 

Thy  fr;igrance  is  thy  soul,— 

O!  breathe  it  into  mine. 

That  tluiught  may  be  divine. 

Thy  subtle  odor  thrills 

Me  with  intense  delight; 

The  day  becomes  a  dream, 

A  memory  the  night. 

Thou  hast  entranced  me  quite; 

Thy  sweet  escaping  soul 

Hath  mine  in  its  control. 

Now  far,  now  near,  it  floats. 

The  voice  that  haunts  my  dreams. 

Tender  as  winds  that  stir  — 

At  midnight  lonely  streams; 

All  wildly,  sadly  sweet; 

So  fond  and  kind,  so  low. 

And  faint  with  happy  woe. 

My  own,  my  own,  it  breathes. 

And  dies  upon  the  air; 

My  pulses  thrill  to  life  — 

Sweet  is  love's  answered  prayer  — 

O!  most  divinely  sweet! 

A  spirit  hiiunts  the  hour. 

Thou  wan,  exquisite  flower. 

THE  WOUNDED  BIRD. 

Upon  the  greenwood  tree  apart 

I  sang  for  thee  my  sweetest  song; 
Thy  arrow  almost  struck  my  heart; 
I  fell  the  withered  leaves  among. 
Why  hast  thou  shot  the  little  bird 

That  sang  its  sweetest  song  to  thee? 
Oh,  when  my  heart  by  love  was  stirred. 

That  love  burst  forth  in  melody. 
My  little  heart  was  full  of  love: 

God's  sunshine  kept  it  strong  and  warm. 
Oh,  how  couldst  thou  so  cruel  prove? 

l' never  did  thee  any  harm. 
No  more  across  the  bright  blue  sky 

With  bounding  heart  I'll  speed  my  way: 
No  more  my  little  mate  and  I 

Will  watch  the  breaking  of  the  day. 
The  speckled  eggs  within  my  nest  - 

Oh,  long  ere  this  are  cold  -stone  cold. 
More  painful  grows  my  wounded  breast. 

And  blood  is  on  my  plumes  of  gold. 
Is  that  my  wild  mate's  note  T  hear 

Within  the  leafy  tree  close  by? 
My  cry  it  heard  and  has  flown  near 

Only,  alasl  to  see  me  die. 
Why  hast  thou  shot  the  little  bird 

That  sang  its  sweetest  song  for  thee? 
Oh,  when  my  heart  by  love  was  stirred? 
That  love  burst  into  melody ! 


-© 


© 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


145 


« 


HELEN  LEE  CAREY. 

Born:  Ipswich,  Mass.,  September,  1857. 
At  the  age  of  twenty  Miss  Carey  became  a 
school  teuclier.    The  first  poem  of  this  lady 
appeared    in    the  Cottag-e   Hearth  when  she 


HELKN  LEE  CAREY. 

was  eighteen  years  of  age:  and  since  that 
time  they  liave  appeared  in  the  Boston  Tran- 
script, Youth's  Companion  and  many  other 
periodicals  of  equal  prominence.  Miss  Carey 
is  still  a  resident  of  lier  native  state  at  Mal- 
den; 


® 


SLEIGHING. 
Here  are  we  nestled,  warm  and  snug-. 
Within  the  cutter's  perfumed  rug-. 
And  swiftly  o'er  the  light  road  skim 
Toward  the  hills  that  far  and  dim 
Lie  on  the  cold  horizon's  rim. 
Away,  away!  the  snow  is  white. 
The  air  is  clear,  the  moon  is  bright. 
To  backward  g-lance  the  village  spires. 
Tipped  with  their  pale  up-pointing-  fires, 
Fade  as  a  holy  thought  expires. 
Away!  to-night  our  company 
Tlie  spirits  of  the  frost  shall  be; 
We'll  chase  the  flying  bells  whose  play 
On  moonlit  meadows  far  away 
Is  softened  to  a  murmur  gay. 
Away  through  villages  that  lie 
Like  silver  jewels,  gliding  by 


The  river's  gleaming-  stream  of  steel. 
Whose  fringe  of  ice  the  waves  conceal 
Tliat  echo  back  our  sleigh-bolls'  peal. 
Here  stands  a  quiet  farm-house;  there 
A  stretch  of  glistening-  fields  lies  bare; 
Here  thickets,  robed  in  v/liite  array. 
Climb  the  steep  banks,  and  sliarply  laj' 
Dark  sliadows  o'er  our  rapid  way. 
The  shaken  trees  their  crystals  fling, 
Tliat  shatter  will)  an  airy  ring; 
And  hark!  a  mocking  ripple  swells 
From  where  the  covered  streamlet  wells 
And  tinkles  through  its  icy  cells. 

Awaj-  again!  yon  pine-trees  tall 

Close  round  us  a  mysterious  wall; 

Through  their  great  harps  the  solemn  moan 

Of  winds  is  sweeping,  long  and  lone. 

In  melancholy  minor  tone. 

Away  through  spicy  forests,  hung 

With  mantles  by  the  storm-winds  flung, 

Fi-om  out  whose  solitude  the  sigh 

Of  breezes  brings  some  weird,  wild  crj% 

To  scare  us  as  we  glimmer  by. 

Ah,  see!  the  watch-fire  on  the  lake. 

Where  merry  skaters  pleasure  take! 

Their  voices,  as  we  onward  go. 

Die  to  a  light  cadenza  low. 

As  sounds  through  dreams  of  music  flow. 

The  prospect  widens;  on  before 

Stretches  the  broad  lake's  dazzling-  floor; 

And  far,  where  pearly  vapors  rise. 

Shine  through  a  mist  the  peaceful  skies 

And  azure  hills  of  paradise. 

The  distance  shuts  like  wings  behind; 

Before,  it  opens  silver-lined; 

The  angel  of  the  radiant  niaht 

Leads  ever  on  before  our  flight. 

And  past  us  stream  its  robes  of  liglit. 


EXOTICS. 
Thou!    I  love  thee!  cool,  dim  green  and  car- 
mine, 
Creamy,  pure    white    and  frail  pink  deep- 
'ning-  down  — 
Kare  mingling    forms  and  perfumed  colors 
mingling  — 
O  sweetest  soundless  music  that  can  drown 
All  feelings  save  this  longing  thou  dost  wake 
Toward  — I   know  not  what! — Art  thou   a 
key 
To  ope  the  door  of  the  mysterious  Life 

Whose  fire  leaps  into  mj-  heart  through  thee? 
Ah!  now  I  know  the  secret  of  thy  power! 

Poem  of  Nature!  the  Promethean  flame  — 
The  infinite  Thought  breathes  in  thy  perfect 
beauty. 
And  writes  on  thee  the  glory  of  a  name. 


-© 


SB 


1^ 


146 


LOCAL    A^V   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMKKICA. 


ELIZA  H.  MORTON. 

Bokn:  Deering,  Me.,  July  18,1853. 
COMMENCING  to  leach  school  at  the  age  of 
sixteen,  Miss  Eliza  Morton  taught  constantly 
in  the  public  schools  of  Maine  until  1879, 
meanwhile  writing-  quite  a  little  poetry  and 
prose  for  prominent  periodicals.  In  1879  she 
went  to  Michigan  and  taught  for  three  years 
in  the  normal  department  of  Battle  Creek 
College,  giving  special  attention   to  the  sub- 


51- 


HIAZA    H.  MOKTON. 

ject  of  geographical  science;  and  as  a  result 
she  iMiblislied  Potter's  series  of  Geographies, 
which  were  enthusiastically  received,  and 
had  a  wide  sale.  In  1881  appeared  a  volume 
from  the  pen  of  this  writer  entitled  Still  Wa- 
ters. The  subject  of  this  sketch  is  also  well 
known  as  the  author  of  The  Songs  My  Mother 
Sang.  My  Mission,  1  Glory  in  the  Cross,  and 
many  other  hymns  made  popular  in  D.  L. 
Moody's  revival  meetings.  Poor  health  ob- 
liged Miss  Morton  to  return  to  her  native 
state,  where  she  now  resides  in  Portland. 

WEAKNESS. 

In  weakness  held  by  hands  unseen 

I  struggle  with  the  strong. 
And  vaiidy  strive  to  rise,  to  work. 

To  mingle  with  the  throng. 
Life  looks  so  bright,  so  full  of  joy 

To  those  who  daily  feel 


The  glow  of  health  within  their  veins. 

Of  strength  to  work  with  zeal. 
The  days  and  weeks  and  months  below 

Are  slipping  from  life's  string. 
Like  pearls,  and  gliding  from  my  grasp 

Like  summer  birds  on  wing. 
Like  ghosts  my  wasted  years  arise 

And  haunt  each  passing  hour; 
They  lift  to  me  their  spectral  hands 

And  boast  of  wasted  power. 
In  weakness  sick  and  faint  I  wait. 

And  calmly  bide  the  daj'. 
When  like  the  mist  upon  the  hills 

My  pain  will  pass  away. 

THE  SONG  OF  LIFE. 
Life  is  a  song,  tender  and  low  — 

Baby  on  bi-east  — 
Prelude  of  joy,  thrilling  the  heart. 

Lullaby,  rest. 
Life  is  a  song,  merry  and  wild. 

Sung  in  a  day; 
Chorus  of  fun,  innocent  glee. 

Laughter  and  play. 
Life  is  a  song,  rhythmic  and  sweet. 

Love  is  its  tune; 
Treble  and  base  blended  in  one. 

Perfect  as  June. 
Life  is  a  song,  solemn  and  sad  — 

Music  most  slow  I 
Death  plays  the  harp  when  it  is  eve. 

Anthem  of  woe! 
Life  is  a  song;  sing  it  with  smiles. 

Sing  it  with  tears. 
Earnestly  sing,  prayerfully  sing. 

Months,  days  and  years. 
Sing  for  the  poor,  sing  for  the  sick, 

Sing  for  the  sad. 
Sing  till  some  heart,  catching  the  tune, 

Groweth  more  glad. 
What  if  the  song  floateth  away 

Into  the  air? 
What  if  the  earth  holds  in  its  arms 

All  we  deem  fair? 
Lips  that  are  dustonce  more  will  sing, 

"  Praise  ye  the  Lord!" 
Jubilee  songs  once  more  will  ring. 

Glory  to  God! 

WEARY. 

Weary  of  self,  weary  of  sin. 
Weary  of  conllicts  fierce  within. 
Weary  of  toil,  weary  of  pain. 
Weary  of  failure  oft  and  again. 
Weary  of  living,  weary  of  life. 
Weary  of  turmoil,  noise  and  strife, 
Weary  of  earth  with  all  its  woe. 
Weary  and  homesick  here  below. 
Weary  of  all  but  Him  who  died. 
Weary  of  all  but  the  Crucified. 


m 


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LOCAL   AXD    NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


147 


-* 


MRS.  SADIE  LEWIS. 

Born:  Pleasant  Gap,  Pa.,  Feb.  14, 1859. 
S.\DiE  commeut'cd  wi'iting:  poems  at  an  eai'ly 
age,  many  of  wliich  have  appeared  from  time 
to  time  ill  the  local  daily  and  weekly  newspa- 


MRS.   SADIE  LEWIS. 

pers  of  her  native  state.  Mrs.  Lewis  was 
married  in  1879,  and  now  resides  in  Lock 
Haven,  Pa. 


«- 


IN  THE  FIELDS. 
I've  been  out  in  the  fields  to-day. 

The  fields  around  my  home; 
I  have  gathered  the  fern  and  flowers  gay. 
And  drank  from  the  watei's,  'neath  Heav- 
en's blue  dome. 

I  have  gazed  on  tlie  golden  beauty. 

Of  summer  bravely  drest. 
Heard  tlie  chorus  of  feathered  songsters. 

And  the  chatter  of  woodland  guest. 

I  hear  the  drowsy  humming  bee, 
And  the  rush  of  the  waterfall; 

But  the  distant  sound  of  chiming  bells. 
Stern  thoughts  of  life  recall. 

And  a  prayer  ascends  for  strength  and 
grace. 

As  I  pass  through  the  summer  of  life; 
While  the  rustling  leaves  of  autumn. 

Foretell  the  winter's  strife. 


I  stretch  out  my  hand  for  guidance. 
Through  the  darkness,  mist  and  rain. 

So  tiiat  n.y  heart  and  I  '11  find  ri-st, 
From  our  infinite  .sorrow  and  pain. 


LINES  FOR  AN  ALBUM. 

Let  your  life  be  a  book  of  light, 
Each  page  a  glittering  gem; 

No  frowning  fate,  or  task  so  great. 
But  you  will  conquer  them. 

In  thought  and  deed,  if  you  succeed, 

On  record  true  and  wise. 
Some  day  will  light  the  way. 

To  the  gates  of  Paradise. 


THE  FIVE  SENSES. 

To  see  God's  green  earth  with  myriad  flowers, 

The  whispering  ti-ees  and  climbing  vines, 
Churches,  palaces,  world-famed  towers. 

Compound  a  picture  divine  sublime. 
The  fields  of  waving  grain,  the  hills, 

The  clear  spring  overflowing. 
Thank  God  for  sight— his  law  fulfills. 

In  nature  bright  and  glowing. 

To  hear  the  song  of  singing  birds. 

The  music  of  the  mountain  rills. 
The  humming  noise  of  insect  life. 

The  tramp  of  mighty  western  herds. 
Machinery's  rushing  roar  and  sound. 

Creates  a  din  we  love  to  hear. 
It  tells  of  pi-ogress  the  world  around; 

Thank  God  for  hearing  so  much  cheer. 

To  swell  the  perfumes  God  has  given. 

In  countless  flowers  with  dainty  life. 
The  southwind's  balmy  sweetest  breath. 

Bring  spices  to  our  dwelling; 
The  fruit  now  ripe  on  tree  and  stalk. 

Contend  in  luscious  strife. 
Unwritten  poems  who  can  tell. 

But  I  thank  God  for  the  sense  of  smelling. 

To  touch  the  velvet  petaled  rose. 

Or  kiss  the  face  of  a  little  child, 
Is  a  world  of  sweets  in  verse  or  prose. 

Without  a  flaw  or  speck  of  guile. 
To  touch  the  silver  hair  of  age. 

In  blessing  kind  with  words  of  cheer. 
Will  reach  the  heart,  God's  eye  engage. 

Ah !  yes  the  sense  of  touch  is  dear. 

To  taste  the  sweetest  nectared  wine. 

Or  feel  the  glow  of  beauty  thrill  you. 
Or  hear  a  witching,  tender  sound. 

Or  see  the  star-gemmed  sky  of  blue. 
Then  let  us  keep  these  graces  given. 

Pure  as  all  thnigs  in  nature  are. 
Defile  them  not.  Lord  keep  us  clean. 

That  we  may  enter  Heaven. 


-® 


©- 


-® 


148 


LOCAL    AND  NATIONAL    POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


LEVI  BEACH. 


Born  :  Basin  Harbor,  Vt.,  Feb.  3, 1810. 
The  poetical  productions  of  Mr.  Beach  have 
been  chiefly  of  a  religious  character,  which 
have  been  largely  copied  by  the  local  press. 
He  has  also  contributed  many  campaign 
poems.    The  verses  of  Mr.  Beach  are  varied  in 


NATURAL  GAS. 

Deep  in  the  eartli,  rich  treasures  lie. 

Men  reach  them  with  a  drill, 

With  force  they  come  forth  unto  them, 

Their  homes  with  comfort  fill. 

The  hidden  treasures  now  are  found 

Which  long  have  been  secret ; 

Tliey  spring  forth  now  a  rich  supply, 

Our  many  wants  to  meet. 

No  wood  nor  coal,  now  do  we  need 

'Tis  gas  that  takes  the  lead; 

We  will  dispense  with  ax  and  saw 

Of  them  we  have  no  need. 

We  have  no  kindling  to  bring  in 

Or  wood  that  is  too  green; 

We  hold  the  match  and  turn  the  key- 
Then  what  a  Are  is  seen. 

It  is  too  fine  for  eyes  to  see. 

Our  ears  can  hear  the  sound ; 

It  was  a  glorious  day,  indeed; 

When  this  rich  gift  was  found. 

What  wondrous  changes  I  have  seen 

Since  eighteen  hundred  ten. 

What  great  discoveries  there  have  been, 

Since  1  that  year  began. 


LEVI  BEACH. 

Character,  and  illustrative  of  his  skill  In  de- 
picting scenes  and  incidents.  Lining  in  Paola, 
Kansas  known  as  one  of  the  Natural  Gas 
towns,  it  is  but  natural  that  this  fact  should 
eUcit  a  poem  on  that  subject  from  his  pen. 

A  FAITHFUL  SHEPHERD  DOG. 
Will  Pedro's  voice  be  heard  no  more 
To  tell  when  rogues  are  at  the  door? 
How  oft  we've  left  him  all  alone. 
To  guard  the  house,  while  we  were  gone. 
How  glad  he  was  of  our  return 
And  proud  to  show  what  he  had  done; 
His  duties  he  did  well  perform. 
And  met  us  with  affection  warm. 
He  will  no  more  come  at  our  call 
He'll  fetch  the  cows  no  more  at  nil. 
His  age  has  freed  him  from  his  cares 
But  still  he  dotb  our  memory  share. 
'Twas  in  the  field  when  all  alone. 
With  no  one  near  to  hear  his  groans. 
And  no  one  knew  where  Pedro  fell 
Until  the  crows  this  fact  did  tell. 

® — 


TO  ROSA. 
Thy  name,  dear  Rose,  cannot  be  beat. 
Mid  all  the  flowers,  there's  none  so  sweet. 
Put  all  the  flowers  in  one  row. 
There's  none  can  with  the  Rosy  show. 
Buttercup,  Tulip,  Datfodil, 
Or  all  that  grows  along  the  rill. 
The  rose  still  now  doth  take  the  lead. 
And  leaves  the  rest  quite  in  the  shade. 
Now  with  the  bunch  still  let  her  stay. 
And  beautify  the  whole  bouquet. 
Her  fragrance  will  the  whole  pei'f ume— 
What  odor  then  will  fill  the  room. 
Now  when  this  Rose  shall  pass  away. 
There  may  she  bloom  in  endless  day; 
Where  frosts  and  death  can  never  come, 
But  there  to  have  eternal  bloom. 

TO  ANNA. 
Now  eighteen  years  have  passed  away- 
Like  former  years  they  do  not  stay; 
Now  on  your  nineteenth  year  you  start. 
May  God's  rich  blessing  now  impart. 
May  all  you  do  be  to  His  praise. 
Who  kindly  lengthens  out  your  days; 
What  e'er  He  bids  that  may  you  do. 
And  ever  to  your  God  prove  true. 
Siiould  you  like  me,  see  seventy-eight, 
Mav  peace  and  joy  then  be  your  fate; 
And  all  your  works  in  Ilini  be  wrought. 
Who  hath  for  us  our  pardon  brought.  .  • 


-^ 


*- 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


149 


•® 


MRS.  p:lLxV  gay  hull. 

Born:  Flint,  Mich.,  July  26, 1858. 
When  but  a  few  months  old,  Ella  was  left 
fatherless,  and  lier  mother  took  her  to  her 
mountain  home  in  Vermont,  where  Ella  re- 
mained until  her  twelfth  year,  when  she  was 
bereft  of  her  mother.  She  was  then  kindly 
cared  for  by  an  uncle,  George  E.  Pomeroy, 
living'  in  Michigan.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  Miss 
Ella  taught  school,  applying  her  earnings  for 
her  own  education,  graduating  at  the  Michi- 


MKS.    ELLA   (iAY    HULL. 

gan  State  Normal  in  1883,  and  taking  special 
work  at  Albion  college  in  the  spring  of  1886. 
In  1884  a  volume  of  her  poems  entitled  A  Score 
of  Thoughts,  containing  twenty  selections, 
was  published,  which  met  with  a  ready  sale. 
She  was  married  to  Dr.  Philo  Hull  in  1887.  The 
prose  writings  of  Mrs.  Ella  Gay  Hull  have  ap- 
peared under  the  nom  de  plume  of  Flossy.  She 
now  is  engaged  in  literary  work,  and  resides 
with  her  husband  in  Grand  Rapids,  Michigan. 


88- 


MOTHER. 
Down  through  tiie  vista  of  years. 

Doth  a  beautiful  memory  stray, 
Leaving  each  time  in  my  heart. 

When  it  goes,  a  golden  ray. 

'Tis  the  memory  of  one  that  T  loved. 
Yes,  loved,  in  the  long  ago. 


With  a  face  as  pure  as  the  angels'. 
And  white  as  the  drifted  snow; 

With  hair  that  was  soft  and  brown. 
And  eyes  of  heaven's  own  blue; 

And  hands  that  were  gentle  and  kind, 
My  mother,  so  loving  and  true. 

Oft-times,  in  dreams,  I  am  kneeling 
Again  by  the  side  of  her  knee. 

And  softly  breathing  the  prayer 
She  taught  so  early  to  me. 

But  she's  nearer  me  now  than  ever. 
For  now  she  is  at  my  heart; 

She's  my  beautiful  "angel-mother," 
With  whom  I  shall  nevei'  part. 


THE  WHITE  CANOE. 
As  down  to  rest  I  dropped 

One  night,  I  had  a  dream; 
Methought  I  stood  beside 

A  quickly  flowing  stream; 
And  while  I  stood  and  gazed 

Upon  its  rippling  tide, 
A  tiny  white  canoe 

Was  anchored  at  my  side. 

The  boatman's  silvery  tones 

Rang  out  >•  I've  come  for  thee;" 
And  then  he  stepped  ashore. 

And  standing  close  by  me. 
He  looked  adown  tlie  stream. 

Where  clouds  we  hanging  low. 
And  asked  if  I  could  trust 

When  all  the  light  should  g^. 

I  breathed  to  God  a  prayer. 

Then  quickly  gave  my  hand. 
And  in  that  white  canoe 

We  floated  down  the  strand; 
The  way  was  sometimes  dark. 

But  joy  slept  in  my  soul  — 
And  strains  from  far-off  choirs 

Upon  the  breezes  stole. 

I've  often  wondered  since. 

What  might  the  meaning  be  — 
And  who,  the  IjiJatman  brave. 

Who  came  that  night  for  me; 
But  now  I  know  'twas  Jesus 

Who  called  me  from  the  strand, 
I've  felt  that  same  sweet  peace 

Since  giving  him  my  hand. 

And  down  the  strand  of  life, 

1  safely  sail  to-night, 
Witli  Jesus  at  the  oars. 

To  realms  of  joy  and  light. 
I  know  that  clouds  are  near. 

And  many  an  angry  wave, 
But  I  have  naught  to  fear. 

With  such  an  arm  to  save. 


■^ 


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150 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK    AMERICA. 


-* 


m 


THE  FOUNT  OF  LIFE. 
Something  of  murmuring  brooklets. 

Over  green  mosses  and  stones. 
Something  of  sunlight,  and  breezes 

ChaTiting  in  low,  sweet  tones, 
Fancy's  mysterious  web  has  now  caught ; 
How  shall  I,  tell  to  me,  bring  you  the  thought? 
Words,  oh !  how  little  you  carry ! 

Depths  there  are  you  can  not  reach  I 
Down  within  nature's  own  heart. 

Truth's  lie  that  you  can  not  teach ; 
Out  of  the  beautiful  springtime,  I  pray. 
Weave  me  a  poem,  just  one,  if  you  may. 
Go  to  that  sih'ery  streamlet, 

Bring  a  sweet  lesson  of  life  — 
Paint  me  a  beautiful  picture. 

Sunlight,  with  beauty  all  rife; 
Give  it,  you  may,  just  a  touch  of  the  shade. 
Perfect,  without  that  it  can  not  be  made. 
Wander  through  long,  winding  footpaths 

Leading  past  woodlands  so  wild. 
Breathe,  soft  and  low,  some  sweet  secret. 

Known  to  nature's  own  child; 
Down  in  the  heart  of  some  gnarled  old  tree. 
Truths  may  be  buried  of  value  to  thee. 
Drink  from  yon  bubbling  springlet, 

Bursting  its  prison-house  wall, 
Up  through  the  earth  and  the  rocks. 

Leaping  at  nature's  first  call; 
Drmk,  and  great  truths  shall  be  thine  hour  by 
hour,  [power. 

Giving   you   life  with  their  strange   hidden 
Softly  it  tells  of  a  well-spring. 

Clear  and  more  wonderful  still, 
Down  in  the  depths  of  the  spirit. 

Moved  but  by  man  at  his  will; 
Out  of  this  curious  spring  may  be  bi'ought. 
Power,  affections,  impulses  and  thought. 
Speak  and  its  waters  shall  issue. 

Pure  and  yet  purer  shall  be,— 
Check  not  a  (iod-givcn  feeling. 

Let  them  liow  out  full  and  free; 
Out  of  this  mystical  spring  down  within. 
Come  at  thy  choice,  either  virtue  or  sin. 
Open  thy  heart  to  the  sunlight. 

Purity  comes  with  eacli  ray; 
Notliing  of  sin  need  remain  there, 

Jes\is  can  take  tliat  away: 
Out  of  this  spi'ing  in  the  soul's  de<'p  cell, 
Only  the  good  and  the  pure  siiould  well. 

FRIENDSHIP. 
My  friends:  I  find  you  everywhere. 
Warm  iiearts  harmonious  with  my  own; 
A  symi)athy  s(j  sweet  and  rare. 
That  comes  to  make  my  life  less  lone. 
It  matters  not  whei'e'ei'  1  roam, 
Some  loving  heart  gi\es  me  a  home. 
You  gathei'  for  me  sweetest  Howers, 
And  strew  them  all  along  my  way. 


With  brightness  fill  the  darkest  hours. 
And  turn  my  longest  night  to  day. 
This  must  be  heaven-like,  1  know, 
A  foretaste  of  those  joys,  below. 
O,  precious  ties  of  heavenly  birth, 
Our  Father  gives  them  every  one, 
More  lasting  than  the  things  of  earth, 
For  they  I'cmain  when  life  is  done; 
And  with  the  white-robed  throng  on  high. 
These  friendships  may  go  on  for  aj'e. 

OUR  MAE. 

Only  a  frail  little  bark; 

Adrift  on  the  sea  of  life, 

VVhere  rocks,  and  reefs  and  billows 

And  dangers  great  are  rife. 

Stretching  her  tiny  sails. 

She  struggled  against  the  tide; 

Some  times  away  up  on  the  l^illows. 

Then  down  in  the  furrows  wide. 

Until,  one  day,  an  angel. 

Low  hanging  o'er  our  world. 

Caught  sight  of  the  fairy  vessel. 

With  its  snowy  sails  unfurled. 

And,  wrapped  in  admiration. 

The  angel  lingered  long  — 

At  length  his  face  was  saddened. 

And  ceased  his  joyous  song. 

For  he  saw  a  storm-cloud  nearing, 

He  had  heard  the  breakers  roar. 

And  he  knew  that  just  beyond  them 

Lay  a  rough  and  rocky  shore. 

He  snatched  her  from  the  water. 

And  he  bore  her  far  away; 

In  the  harbor  up  in  Heaven, 

Floats  our  life-boat  •>  Mae." 

And  so  we  must  not  sorrow. 

Kind  friends  and  loved  ones  dear. 

Although  we  long  to  have  her. 

And  memory  brings  a  tear. 

For  the  waves  of  sin  and  sorrow. 

Might  hold  her  evermore; 

And  now,  we  trust,  she  waits  us. 

Beside  the  ••  Golden  Shore." 


A  LIFE  BLOSSOM. 
Down  by  the  river  of  life, 

A  beat  if  ul  flower  grew  — 
White,  with  a  touch  of  led. 

And  fresh  as  the  evening  dew; 
Each  day  it  grew  more  fair. 
Each  day  became  more  rart>. 
For  a  time  it  busked  in  the  sun. 

Earth's  storms  it  did  not  know. 
But  one  dark  night  they  came. 

And  tierce  the  winds  did  blow,— 
It  drooped  beneath  the  blast. 
And  ere  the  stortn  was  i>ast 
Torn  w;is  that  delicate  robe. 

Scattered  the  calyx  of  gold.    • 


* 


«- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


151 


-* 


OLIVER  W.  BARNARD. 

Born  :  Economy,  Ind.,  Aug.  4, 1828. 
The    poems  of  Mr.  Barnard  have  appeared 
from  time  to  time,  during:  the  past  decade,  in 
many   pioniiiu'iit    iiewspajiers,   especially  in 


OLIVER  W.   BARNARD. 

the  states  of  New  York  and  Illinois.  He  is  at 
present  engaged  in  farming  at  Manteno,  111. 
Mr.  Barnard  is  of  large  stature,  and  is  a  very 
pleasant  and  intellectual  gentleman. 


®- 


MOMENTS. 
How  the  moments  come  and  go! 
Bright  with  joy,  or  black  with  woe. 
Speeding  on  with  tireless  wing. 
Life  or  death  to  all  they  bring  — 
To  the  wretched  and  the  blest 
Dark  despair,  or  sweetest  rest  — 
Through  the  sunshine,  through  the  dark. 
Moving  like  the  lightning's  spark  — 
Through  the  cottage  of  the  poor  — 
Through  the  rich  man's  palace  door; 
To  the  living  and  the  dying  — 
Swiftly  on  they're  ever  flying  — 
Here  they  plunge  a  soul  in  night. 
There  another's  borne  to  light  — 
Here  is  born  a  household  wonder," 
There  a  household  burst  asunder  — 
Here  they  spread  the  earth  with  grain, 
There  their  gift  is  want  and  pain  — 
Here  they  kiss  the  new-born  child. 
There  they  hiss  with  frenzy  wild  — 


Here  they  cool  the  keen  desire. 
There  they  burn  with  fiercest  fire  — 
Some  they  raise  toa  di^zy  height  — 
Some  they  plunge  in  abysmal  night. 
Some  they  bear  on  beds  of  ease  — 
Some  they  scourge  with  dire  disease. 
Some  they  load  with  foulest  shame  — 
Some  they  crown  with  glorious  fame; 
Some  they  hide  in  polar  snows. 
Some  they  soothe  with  sweet  repose; 
Some  they  rest  on  fruitful  soil. 
Some  they  curse  with  constant  toil; 
Some  they  bless  with  peaceful  life; 
Some  they  drive  through  ceaseless  strife; 
Thus  their  reign  they  ne'er  give  o'er  — 
Firm  and  steadfast  evermore  — 
Thus  through  all  the  worlds  of  space. 
Ever  keeping  time  and  pace  — 
Witness  every  act  of  man  — 
Every  motion  closely  scan  — 
And  forever  in  the  past. 
And  while  coming  ages  last. 
All  things  thus  are  ever  done 
By  the  moments  as  they  run. 


MUSING. 
I  love  to  sit  and  muse  upon  the  past, 
When  through  the  lighted  chambers  of  my 

soul  [pure. 

There  come  and  go  those  gentle  thoughts  so 
Like  troops  of  fairy  sprites  with  laughing  eyes 
That  shine  with  love  so  full  of  lambent  flame. 
And  through  my  soul     difl'use  their  witching 

power  ; 
Then  backward  floating  comes  to  me  again 
The  spicy  breath  of  childhood's  happy  dreams- 
The  golden  hours  when  life  was  young  and 

fresh. 
And  all  the  world  was  like  a  morn  in  May, 
So  fresh  and  sweet  with  odors  of  the  spring  — 
The  beams  of  morn  shone  bright  upon  the 

hills  Lhope, 

And  life's  young  day  was  glowing  fresh  with 
Ere  care  had  dulled  the  pulses  of  my  heart. 
Thence  turning  to  the  golden  West,  my  gaze 
I  fix  upon  the  setting  sun  of  life  — 
Beholding  now  the  grandeur  that  appears. 
And  casts  a  softer  radiance  o'er  the  scene; 
The  heat  anc^  'burden  now  of  midday  past, 
Ambition'sflame  has  burned  itself  away. 
And  breezes  cool  from  o'er  the  western  seas 
Pass  calmly  by  and  fan  the  faded  cheek; 
And  when  the  sun  has  dropped  into  the  sea. 
And  left  a  golden  radiance  on  the  sky; 
Then  hope,  elate,  doth  fl.x  his  steadfast  gaze 
Intently  on  the  far  horizon's  brim. 
His  wont  to  pierce  the  intervening  space,   [life. 
Whence  far  has  gone  the  source  of  light  and 
But  no  reward  returns  to  bless  the  sight; 
Yet,  on  the  evening  air  is  heard  a  voice 
That  falls  upon  the  inner  ear  so  sweet. 


-© 


© 


-m 


152 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A3IERICA. 


Across  that  bourne  whence  Avon's  bard  has 

said. 
Once  passed,    '-No  trav'ler    yet  has  e'er  re- 
turned." 
And  soothes  away  the  bitter  pangs  of  doubt, 
And  satisfies  the  longing-  of  the  soul  — 
Then  high  upon  the  mountain  top  of  life 
It  comes  again  far  sweeter  than  at  first. 
Unfolding  all  the  beauties  that  are  found, 
Wherein  the    hope   of   childhood  fresh    and 

strong, 
Combined  with  wisdom's  golden  ray,  serene. 
Gives  life  fruition,  full  for  hopes  deferred. 
And    like    the   rising   sun    gives   light    and 

warmth 
To  all  the  world,  awakened  fresh  from  sleep; 
And  thus  my  soul's  refreshed  with  hope  su- 
blime, 
While  calmly  treading  life's  uneven  way. 


a&- 


MRS.  ANNA  R.  HENDERSON. 

Born:  Cheraw,S.C.,  July  1,1853. 
After  leaving  school  Anna  traveled  with  her 
parents  in  South  America,  living  over  a  year 
on  a  coffee  plantation  near  Rio  Janeiro,  Bra- 
zil. After  returning  to  the  United  States,  sev- 
eral years  of  her  life  were  spent  in  Marietta, 
Ohio;  finally  locating  in  Willianistown,  W. 
Va.,  she  was  there  married  in  1878,  and  is  still 
a  resident  of  that  place.  Her  poems  have 
found  their  way  in  various  periodicals,  and 
for  the  past  few  years  she  has  been  a  constant 
contributor  to  Wide  Awake,  Pansy,  Little 
Men  and  Women,  and  others.  In  person  she  is 
tall  and  slender  witli  dark  brown  eyes  and  hair. 

BLOSSOMS. 
When  first  the  springtime's  fair  array 

I  n  Northern  lands  I  saw  around  me. 
An  apple  tree,  a  great  bouquet. 

With  showers  of  lilushing  petals  crowned  me. 
I  shook  them  lightly  from  my  brow; 

"Your  charms,"  1  said,  "Can  never  please  me, 
Weary  with  winter's  cold  and  snow. 

No  Northern  pleasure  can  appease  me. 
I  h;irdly  see,  I  cannot  prize 

Tlie  l)eauty  which  each  bloom  discloses; 
For,  O,  my  heart  is  all  in  love 

With  orange  flowi^rs  and  Southern  roses. 
Yea  more,  methinks  I  shall  not  find 

Room  in  my  lieart  for  Northern  faces. 
So  closely  are  its  tendrils  twined 

Round  far-off  friends  with  Sout  hern  graces." 
Succ(>ssive  years  'rn-alh  Nortliern  skies 

Faraljseiit  from  my  native  bowers. 
Have  weakeiUMi  not  those  blessed  ties 

That  bind  me  to  tlie  land  of  flowers. 
Yet  am  I  changed,  when  blossoms  fall, 

I  greet  them  with  as  true  a  blessing. 
As  those  which  crowned  me  at  tne  call, 

Of  coating  South  winds  soft  caressing. 


My  stubborn  heart  has  larger  grown. 

And  has  a  thousand  sacred  places. 
Where  Love  shall  evermore  enthrone. 
Most  fondly  cherished  Northern  faces. 
With  earnest  love  1  gladly  clasp 

The  palm  where  Northern  flrmness^lingers. 
But  reach  my  other  hand  to  grasp 

Tlie  precious  warmth  of  Southern  fingers. 
The  songs  I  sing  shall  breathe  a  strain 

In  praise  of  Northern  vales  and  mountains. 
But  evermore  the  sweet  refrain 

Shall  be  of  Southern  palms  and  fountains; 
And  for  the  flowers  I  love  the  most 

Their  beauty  in  my  heart  enshrining; 
With  apple  blossoms  of  the  North 

Shall  Southern  orange  blooms  be  twining. 


A  CHILD'S  FANCY. 
My  dear  little  girl  climbed  up  on  my  knee 

in  the  dusk,  in  the  sunmier  weather; 
And  as  happy  as  two  who  love  can  be. 

We  quietly  talked  together. 
We  had  stories  of  bees,  of  the  birds,  and  the 
trees. 

Of  the  moon  and  the  stars  of  even,     [these. 
But  the  little  one's  thoughts  went  beyond  all 

And  she  wanted  to  talk  of  heaven. 
"O,  mamma,  they  say  it  is  far  away, 

The  land  where  there  is  no  dying; 
And  I  wonder  so  how  we  ever  can  go 

When  we  have  no  wings  for  flying." 
"  My  little  dear,  we  never  should  fear; 

Our  Father  will  not  forsake  us; 
And  when  he  doth  care  to  have  us  there. 

He  will  find  some  way  to  take  us." 
Then  the  eyes  of  brown  looked  dreamily  down 

O'er  the  question  a  sage  might  ponder. 
A  little  while,  then  there  came  a  smile. 

Which  was  more  of  delight  than  wonder. 
"  O,  mamma  dear,  I've  thought  of  a  plan. 

As  good  as  you  ever  can  teach  me, 
I'll  climb  on  the  fence  just  as  high  as  I  can, 

And  the  Lord  won't  have  far  to  reach  me." 
Perhaps  I  smiled  at  the  thought  of  the  child. 

But  there  flashed   through   my  heart  a  feel- 
ing [pie  word 
That  its  depths  should  be  stirred  by  each  sim- 

Such  a  lesson  to  me  revealing. 
How  much  I  had  dreamed  of  the  good  which 
it  seemed 

The  Father  might  give  or  teach  me. 
And  yet  my  feet  had  never  been  fleet 

In  climbing  to  help  him  to  reach  me. 
And  the  thought  of  the  child,  sweet  and  unde- 
liled. 

Lisped  out  on  that  summer  even. 
Sank  down  like  a  seed  in  a  soil  which  had  need 

Of  a  growth  for  God  and  heaven. 


* 


SB 


« 


LOCAL,   AND    NATIONAL   I'OETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


15:j 


MINNIE  C.  BALLARD. 

Born  :  Troy,  Pa.,  1852. 
The  first  poem  of  this  writer  appeared  in  the 
New  York  Eveuiug-  Post   about  1873.    Since 
that  time  she  lias   contributed  to  the  Phila- 
delphia Times,    Cincinnati    Enquirer,   Louis- 


Mi  nnu:   (  .  BAr.LAKD. 

ville  Courier-Journal,  Godey's  Lady's  Book, 
Peterson's  Magazine,  St.  Louis  Mag-azine  and 
numerous  other  periodicals  of  equal  promi- 
nence. Miss  Ballard  still  resides  in  her  native 
city.  In  person  she  is  a  little  below  the  aver- 
ag-e  heig-ht,  with  lig-ht-brown  hair  and  dark- 
blue  eyes. 


SO  MANY  SHIPS. 
So  many  ships  sail  on  the  main. 
So  many  ships  come  home  again. 
But  one  ship  lost  no  more  for  me 
Shall  any  ship  sail  on  the  sea. 
With  it  lie  buried  all  my  pearls. 
My  stock  of  hope  and  joy  and  love. 
No  richer  freight  the  seaweed  curls. 
Or  waves  of  ocean  dash  above. 


©- 


SANCTITY. 
They  say  beneath  the  ocean's  breast 

There  is  a  place  of  perfect  calm. 
Where  winds  and  storms  dare  not  molest 

The  sea-folks  safe  from  harm. 
They  say  within  the  rude  cyclone 

There  is  a  place  revolving:  not; 


They  say  the  fiercest  flame  must  own 

One  cool,  unburning  spot. 
So  in  the  human  heart  should  be 

A  place  where  cares  may  not  intrude; 
Where  peace  and  love  secure  and  free, 

Maintain  sweet  solitude. 


WHY  I  SING. 
Mj'  dearest  heart  in  all  the  world. 

What  praise  is  praise  enough  for  thee? 
What  words  enough  express  thy  worth? 

What  value  in  tiiis  minstrelsy? 

Yet  as  a  bird  unconscious  sings. 

Its  own  g-reat  love  compelling  song', 
I  must  assuage  my  heart  with  this 

Or  do  my  surging-  spirit  wrong-. 
O.  love  more  great  than  I  can  show. 

My  orient  sun  in  splendor  decked! 
I  must  expel  my  longing  so 

Or  be  like  ship  o'erweighted,  wrecked. 


THE  ROYAL  LOVER. 

If  some  most  roj".il  lover. 

Come  kingly  to  his  own. 
Should  in  his  own  discover 

Some  littleness  unknown. 
He  in  his  love  would  hide  her 

And  with  his  worth  atone 
For  all  her  faults,  would  guide  her 

To  heights  himself  hiid  known. 
And  thus  the  two  together  — 

She  raised  by  his  true  strength  — 
Should  tread  the  broom  and  heather 

In  firm  accord  at  length. 


CONTRASTED  FATES. 
Safe  in  the  harbor  your  ship's  at  rest. 

While  mine  is  afloat  on  a  stormy  sea; 
All  things  sweet  are  by  you  possessed. 

Only  the  bitter  remains  for  me. 
"  To  you  the  haven,  to  me  the  shoal." 

For  soon  shall  the  wreck  of  my  ship  goby; 
One  utterly  lost,  one  g-aining  tlip  goal. 

And  the  same  white  sta-rs  aloft  in  the  sky. 


COULD  I  DO  WITHOUT  YOU? 
Could  I  do  without  you,  darling? 
Earth  could  do  without  the  sun. 
Or  the  rosy  clouds  of  morning- 
Heralding-  the  day  begun. 
Could  I  do  without  you,  darling? 
Night  could  do  without  her  stars. 
Or  the  glorious  moon  adorning 
All  the  atmospheric  bars. 
Could  I  do  without  you.  darling? 
I  could  liv^e  in  endless  dark; 
For  you  shine  my  star  of  evening-. 
And  the  only  sun  I  mark. 


-® 


^■ 


-* 


154 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    TOETS    OK  AMERICA. 


JACOB  G.GROSSBERG. 

Born  :  Russia,  April  10, 18T0. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  emigrated  with 
his  parents  to  America  iu  1882,  residing-  for  a 
while  in  Cleveland  and  finally  settled  down  in 
Chicago.  Mr.  Grossberg  has  received  a  good 
education,  having  studied    Latin,  French  and 


.JACOB  G.  GROSSBERG. 

German.  In  1888  he  entered  the  Chicago 
Union  College  of  Law,  and  after  graduating 
became  one  of  the  attorneys  for  the  Bureau 
of  Justice,  in  the  city  of  Chicago.  Ever  since 
his  youth  he  has  written  verse,  and  in  1889 
published  a  pamphlet  of  Poems,  which  was 
favorably  noticed  by  the  press. 


LOVE  AND  THE  MUSE. 

Now  my  pillow,  tear-drenched  nightly. 

Is  my  throbbing  temple's  bath; 
When  a  zephyr  comes,  that  sprightly 

Bears  me  off  on  scented    patli     • 
Green  and  frsigrance  l)alsam  kindly 

My  heart'sdeep  sore;  — 
Ne'er  lias  mortal  wandered  blindly 

In  an  Eden  such  before: 

To  the  right  each  crystal  glittered  — 

Every  droplet  of  the  lake; 
To  the  left  tlie  chorus  twittered. 

Followed  chanting  in  my  wake; 
Rainbow  hues,  more  lovely  tinted, 

Of  each  flower-bed. 


In  best  beauty  vying,  hinted 
To  my  ease  a  couch  soft-spread. 

And  a  Nymph  came  to  me  smiling. 

In  all  grace  and  beauty  robed; 
With  me  soft  the  hours  beguiling. 

My  most  tender  passions  probed. 
Leading  me  through  lawns  sweet-scented 

To  her  proud  throne. 
To  me  her  domains  presented  — 

Grandeurs,  wonders,  all  her  own ! 

At  her  bid  spright  fairies  folded 

Softest  music  on  my  soul, 
Fore  my  eyes  mailed  heroes  molded, 

Wliose  mien  Virtue's  graces  stofe. 
Then  smiled  on  me,  sweet,  benignly. 

Of  these  the  queen: 
"  All  here  lovely,  all  divinely, 

Mayst  thou  share,  if  so  1  mean." 

Then  did  seize  me  one  desire : 

This,  to  woo  the  royal  maid; 
And  when  rose  my  scorned  fire, 

I  with  tresses  golden  played. 
And  to  eyes  the  stars  out-beaming, 

My  heart  laid  bare; 
That  my  hours  with  dreams  set  teeming. 

For  bright  visions  changed  despair! 


THE  WEDDING  SONG. 
My  sister!  this  thy  wedding-day 

To  me  is  such  sweet  sorrow; 
Though  joj-Qus,  still  my  heart  doth  say, 

I  part  with  thee  to-morrow. 

Of  faces  first  remembered  dear 
Thine  'tis  I'm  first  to  part  with; 

Of  separations  with  those  near, 
'Tis  thee  I'm  doomed  to  start  with  I 

Ye  players!  pour  some  pensive  strain,— 

To  me  it  is  the  sweetest; 
For  soothing  my  heai't's  passing  pain. 

Your  sadder  note's  the  meetest. 

O,  why  must  happiness  be  bought 

With  years  of  separation ! 
Is  there  not  joy  witliout  the  thought 

It  has  a  termination"/ 

But  since  such  must  be  human  joy 
Let  not  my  gloom  restrain  it; 

Reji)ice,  my  soul!  do  not  destroy 
Such  gladness,  wlien  I  gain  it. 

Forgive  me,  sister,  pardon  all. 

This  sadness  of  a  monu'iit ! 
Henceforth  my  spirits  shall  not  fall 

To  gloom :—  I  have  not  .so  meant . 

And  though  we  part  with  aching  lieart, 

'Tis  for  a  hiippy  future; — 
Henceforward,  though  we're  rent  apart. 

Still  joined  we're  by  love's  suture. 


«- 


* 


SB- 


LOCAL   AND   XATIONAL   POETS   OB"  AMERICA. 


-ee 


WILL  WALLACE  HARNEY. 

Born:  Bloomington,  Ind..  June  30,  1831. 
Five  years  Mr.  Harney  taught  school,  mean- 
while study  in  "•  law  and  graduating-  in  1855. 
He  next  was  principal  of  tlie  Louisville  high 
school,  and  for  two  years  professor  in  the 
Kentucky  normal  school  at  Lexington.  Mr. 
Harney  was  married  in  1868,  but  lost  his 
wife  two  years  later.     For  niof  years  he  w;is 


WILL  WALLACE  HAKNEV. 

editor  of  tlie  Louisville  Democrat.  In  1809  Mr. 
Harney  removed  to  Florida,  and  now  resides 
at  Pinecastle,  varying  Ins  ag-ricultural  activ- 
ity with  occasional  literary  worlv.  In  addi- 
tion to  his  poetical  productions,  he  has  writ- 
ten several  stories ;  Who  Won  the  Pretty 
Widow,  appeared  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Harney  have  appeared  in 
the  most  prominent  publications,  and  he  is 
ranked  among  the  best  poets  of  America. 


SB- 


THE  STAB. 
On  the  road,  the  lonely  road. 

Under  tlie  cold,  white  moon, 
Under  the  ragged  trees  he  strode: 
He  whistled,  and  shifted  his  heavy  load,— 

Whistled  a  foolisli  tune. 
There  was  a  step  timed  with  his  own, 

A  figure  that  stooped  and  bowed; 
A  cold,  white  blade  that  gleamed  and  shone 
Like    a     splinter    of    daylight    downward 
thrown, 


And  the  moon  went  behind  a  cloud. 
But  the  moon  came  out  so  broad  and  g-ood 

The  liarn  cock  woke  and  crowed; 
Then  roughed  his  feathers  in  drowsy  mood, 
And  the  brown  owl  called  to  his  mate  in  the 
wood 

That  a  dead  man  lay  in  the  road. 


MIDNIGHT. 

The  rain  floats  off;  a  crescent  moon 

Holds  in  its  cup  a  round  of  dusk, 
Like  palm  buds,  in  the  month  of  June, 

Half  breaking  from  its  vernal  husk; 
While  breathes  alow,  sweet  undertone. 

Like  brooks  that  grieve  through  beds  of 
fern ; 
As  if  by  curve  and  pebble  stone 

The  moon  had  spilled  her  silver  urn. 

Night  blooming  agave's  part  the  sheaf. 

To  catch  the  light  distilled  in  showers. 
Till  overflowing  cup  and  leaf 

The  cluster  breaks  in  midnight  flowers; 
Like  merchants  breaking-  kids  of  nard 

And  jars  of  olives,  desert  born. 
Pineapples  burst  a  pi-ickiy  shard. 

And  show  the  seeds  of  fragrant  corn. 
Like  Hebrew  maids,  the  citrons  hold. 

Their  pitchers  to  the  vapor  spring. 
And  All  the  hollow  rind  of  gold. 

With  midnight's  musky  offering; 
So  once,  I  think,  earth  knew  her  Lord, 

In  lands  like  these  of  palm  and  vine. 
When  midnight  knew  the  sweet  accord 

That  turns  the  water  into  wine. 


THE  PHANTOM  TRAIN. 

In  the  dead  of  the  night,  the  dead  of  the 
night 

There's  a  sound  along  the  rails. 
The  creaking  of  a  whirling  crank 

Like  the  flapping  of  iron  flails. 

With  the  long,  low  roll  that  heralds  a  storm. 

Over  sunburnt  flelds  of  grain; 
With  the  sullen  roar  of  rain  in  the  wood 

Comes  the  Invisible  Train. 

It  stops  nor  stands  by  station  or  town. 

But  sweeps  in  its  viewless  flight 
To  a  citywho.se  beautiful  walls  are  hewn 

From  splendid  quarries  of  light. 

Unseen  from  the  silent  land,  it  comes 
Where  the  mist  lies  low  and  deep. 

In  the  beating-  pulses  like  rolling  di-ums. 
While  the  passengers  wake  or  sleep. 

And  dream  till  the  morning-  white  and  cold 

Comes  out  of  the  shining-  east. 
And  wakens  the  Lazarus  sleep  of  night 

With  a  touch,  as  of  God's  High  Priest. 


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15G 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMEKICA. 


MILTON  A.MCRAE. 

This  geutlemun  has  managed  to  spare  a  few 
moments  from  a  busy  life  to  court  tlie  muse, 
and  poems   from   liis  ])en   liave  occasionally 


MILTON   A.   M  KAE. 

appeared  in  tlie  periodical  press.  Mr.  McRae 
resides  in  Cincinnati,  Oliio,  where  lie  is  well 
known  among-  the  journalists  of  that  city. 

REQUIESCAT  IN  PACE. 
Sleep  on  in  peace,  oh,  honored  dead, 
Wliile  flowers  we  strew  upon  each  bed; 
Surviving  comrades  honor  claim. 
But  thine  tlie  true,  undying  fame  — 
Who  bore  the  burden  of  the  day 
And  fell  in  strife  of  blue  and  gray. 
Each  patriot  heart  will  cherish  thee 
While  honor  lives  and  men  are  free. 
No  booming  gun,  no  screaming  shell; 
No  thrilling  cheer,  noanswering  yell; 
Nocharges,  mingling  with  the  foe; 
No  shouts  of  joy,  no  shrieks  of  woe. 
Fair  flowers  of  blue,  and  white,  and  red. 
Now  deck  tlie  warriors'  verdant  bed. 
While  'neatli  the  sod,  their  trials  past, 
'I'licy  wait  tlie  last  dread  trumpet's  blast. 
Though  centuries  come  and  pass  away, 
On  this,  our  Decoration  Day, 
While  proud  and  grand  tlie  old  Hag  waves. 
We'll  ])laiit  sweet  flowers  round  thy  graves. 
We'll  jrntiipi.  iioi-o  from  far  and  near, 
While  mournful  music  giwts  the  ear, 


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And  tread  with  awe  the  sacred  ground. 
And  drop  a  tear  on  every  mound. 
Thy  fame  with  us  shall  ever  stand 
In  honored  memory  o'er  our  land; 
Thy  deeds  in  history  shall  remain, 
Though  countless  ages  wax  and  wane. 
Sleep  on,  ye  braves,  while  sad  bells  toll. 
And  anthems  to  your  praises  roll; 
A  myriad  grateful  hearts  to-day 
Combine  to  sound  the  lofty  lay. 
Rest  till  the  last  long-  roll  shall  sound 
To  call  you  from  the  hallowed  ground. 
Till  then  our  flag  in  memory  wave 
In  honor  o'er  eacli  hero's  grave. 


ONLY  A  BEGGAR! 

Down  through  the  bustling,  busy  street, 
Witir  echoing  sound  of  horses'  feet. 
Across  tiie  curbstone,  stopping  to  gaze, 
Pausing,  bewildered,  g-lancingboth  waj's  — 
His  gray  hair  streaming;  unkempt  o'er  his 

face. 
Again  he  strives  to  quicken  his  pace;  [crowd. 
He   stumbles,    he    falls,    'mid   the  hurrying: 
And  lies  in  his  agony,  moaning  aloud. 
A  crowd  gathers  round,  the  police  help  him 

rise. 
There's  a  wistful  look  in  his  fast  glazing  eyes. 
He  falls  down  again  on  the  pavement  so  cold. 
Ah  me!  small  pity  for  one  so  old. 
"Oh,  he's  only  a  beggar,"  the  officer  said. 
He  came  to  the  station  last  night  for  some 

bread.  [gray! 

What?    Starving!    And  hurt!    So  feeble  and 
That's  nothing  new  here.   Sir;   occurs  every 

day. 
As  over  the  road  to  the  station  they  ride 
He  gasped  out,  "  Dear  Mary  '."  and  turned  on 

his  side.  [skill 

Stand  back,   oh  physician,  no  need  for  your 
On  that  poor,   broken  body,  so  worn  and  so 

still. 
In  a  small,  cheerless  room,   both   empty  and 

cold. 
Lies  a  woman  alone  so  feeble  and  old. 
She    rises,    she   calls,    as  she  struggles  with 

pain;  [again. 

But  slie  never  will  hear  those  loved  accents 
Then  back  on  the  couch  the  sufferer  falls. 
Her  soul  goes  out    from  those  cold,   barren 

walls  — 
One  gasp,  all  is  quiet  —  the  Fatlier  has  come. 
No  suffering  now;    "Tliy  will  be  done." 
They  were  only  beggars.tlie  old  man  and  wife. 
But    still   they    were    honest,    in    their   liard 

cliei'rless  life; 
But  when  they  passed  to  the  golden  shore 
They  had  riches  forever;    were  beggars  no 

more. 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


157 


ROSA  VERTNER  JEFFREY. 

Born:  Natchez,  Miss. 
Having  lost  lier  motlier  in  infancy,  Rosa  was 
adopted  by  lier  maternal  aunt,  Mrs.  Vertner, 
by  whose  name  slie  was  known.  Miss  Vertner 
was  married  at  seventeen  to  Claude  M.  John- 
son, Lexington.  Although  assuming-  at  this 
youthful  age  the  domestic  and  maternal 
cares  of  life,  she  wrote  incessantly,  and  her 
poems  were  readily  accepted  by  prominent 
periodicals.  Her  first  volume  appeared  in 
1859;  Woodburn,  a  novel  of  southern  life,  was 
brought  out  just  at  the  beginning-  of  the 
civil    war;    this    was     followed    by  Crimson 


^- 


MliS.    HUSA    \'i:i!TXi:i!   .lEFKKEV, 

Hand,  Daisy  Dare,  with  other  shorter  poems. 
Alexander  Jeffrey,  the  present  husband  of 
the  subject  of  this  sketch,  is  a  gentleman  of 
Scotch  descent,  with  whom  she  lives  quietly 
at  her  home  in  Lexington.  Through  all  the 
varied  experiences  of  later  life, not  untouched 
by  sorrow  and  suffering,  slie  is  gentle  and 
patient;  and  George  D.  Prentice  speaks  none 
too  highly  of  her,  when  he    beautifully  says: 

"And  thou  hast  that  strange  gift  — 
The  giftof  genius,  high  and  proud  and  strong. 
At  whose  behest  thoughts  beautiful  and  swift 

Around  thee  throng." 

GRECIAN  POETRY  vs.  MODERN  SCIENCE. 
There  dwelt  a  youth  in  ancient  Tiirace, 

Whose  voice  and  lyre  entrancing 
Bewitched  with  song  the  human  race, 

And  set  creation  dancing. 


The  gods  and  goddesses  above 

Heard  him  in  silent  wonder; 
Juno  forgot  to  lecture  Jove, 

And  Jove  forgot  to  thunder; 
The  sea-snakes  heard  and  wagged  their  tails. 

The  porpoise  burst  with  pleasure. 
The  fishes  weighed  it  on  their  scales. 

And  founa  a  perfect  measure; 
The  mermaids  gathered  round  in  flocks. 

And  strewed  his  path  with  corals; 
The  syrens  heard,  and  from  the  rocks 

Cast  down  their  watery  laurels; 
The  trees  picked  up  their  trunks  and   swayed 

About  in  measures  mazy; 
The  rocks  rolled  round  and  danced  and  played 

In  waltzes  wild  and  crazy. 
There  comes  a  thrill  down  listening  years 

Throughout  creation  ringing. 
Perchance  the  "  music  of  the  spheres  " 

Still  echoes  his  sweet  singing. 
Now,  Orpheus  loved  a  maid  who  died 

The  day  they  were  united; 
He  ruslied  below  to  seek  his  bride. 

And  Pluto's  realm  delighted 
By  striking  soft  his  "golden  shell." 

I  never  have  forgiven 
This  seeking  for  his  love  in  hell 

Before  he  searched  through  heaven. 
'Twas  like  a  man  to  go  there  first. 

And  scarcely  worth  remarking, 
But  Tantalus  forgot  his  thirst 

And  Cerberus  ceased  barking. 
Things  witliout  motion  swayed  about 

While  Ixion's  wlieel  stopped  turning; 
The  fire  was  stirred,  but  not  put  out. 

And  Orpheus  left  it  burning. 
The  vulture  even  forgot  to  prey 

While  listening  to  that  lyre: 
Some  creatui-es  of  the  present  day 

Might  show  a  like  desire. 
But  truth  must  triumph.    Lo!  a  glance 

Our  modern  science  merits. 
She  says  no  wonder  rocks  can  dance 

When  they're  possessed  by  spirits. 
A  savant  gives  mysterious  hints 

That  modern  quartz  are  leaking. 
And  that  tlie  fiery  hearts  of  flints 

With  vinous  streams  are  reeking. 

Let  modern  humbug  still  increase: 

I  fling  with  fierce  defiance 
Tlie  gauntlet  of  poetic  Greece 

At  prosy  modern  science. 
I  swear  the  strains  of  Orpheus'  lyre 

Did  cause  the  stones  to  frolic. 
And  left  them  all  with  hearts  of  fire 

And  nature's  alcoholic ! 
O  shade  of  Bacchus!  see  with  scorn 

Thy  purple  glories  flicker. 
When  mortals,  drunk  on  rye  and  corn. 

Press  rocks  for  stronger  liquor. 


© 


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158 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF    AMERICA. 


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BABY  POWER. 

Six  little  feet  to  cover. 

Six  little  hauds  to  fill. 
Tumbling  out  iu  the  clover. 

Stumbling-  over  the  sill; 
Six  little  stocking's  ripping-. 

Six  little  sboes  half  worn. 
Spite  of  that  promised  whipping. 

Skirts,  shirts,  and  aprons  torn: 
Bugs  and  bumble-bees  catching. 

Heedless  of  bites  and  stings. 
Walls  and  furniture  scratching. 

Twisting  off  buttons  and  strings. 
Into  the  sugar  and  flour. 

Into  the  salt  and  meal. 
Their  royal  baby  power. 

All  through  the  house  we  feel  I 
Behind  the  big  stove  creeping. 

To  steal  the  kindling-wood; 
Into  the  cupboard  peeping. 

To  hunt  for  .-somesin  dood." 
The  dogs  they  tease  to  snarling. 

The  chickens  know  no  rest. 
Yet  the  old  nurse  calls  them  '■  darling 

And  loves  each  one  ••  the  best." 

Smearing  each  other's  faces 

With  sinut  or  blacking-brush. 
To  forbidden  things  and  places 

Always  making  a  rush. 
Over  a  chair  or  table 

They'll  flght,  and  kiss  again 
When  told  of  slaughtered  Abel. 

Or  cruel,  wicked  Cain. 

All  sorts  of  mischief  trying. 

On  sunny  days  in-doors. 
And  then  perversely  crjing 

To  rush  out  when  it  pours. 
A  raid  on  Grandma  making. 

In  spite  her  nice  new  cap. 
Its  strings  for  bridles  taking. 

While  riding  on  her  lap. 

Three  rose-bud  mouths  beguiling. 

Prattling  the  livelong  day. 
Six  sweet  eyes  on  me  smiling. 

Hazel,  and  blue,  and  gray,— 
Hazel  with  heart-light  sparkling. 

Too  happy,  we  trust,  to  fade  — 
Blue  "neath  long  lashes  darkling. 

Like  violets  in  the  shade. 

Gray,  full  of  earnest  meaning, 

A  dawning  light  so  fair; 
Of  woman's  life  beginning. 

We  dread  the  noon-tide  glare 
Of  earthly  strife  and  passion. 

May  spoil  its  tender  glow. 
Change  its  celestial  fashion. 

As  earth-stains  change  the  snow! 

Six  little  clasped  hands  lifted. 
Tliree  white  brows  upward  turned. 


One  prayer  thrice  heavenward  drifted 

To  Him  who  never  spurned 
The  lisp  of  lips,  where  laughter 

Fading  away  in  prayer. 
Leaves  holy  twilight  after 

A  noon  of  gladness  there. 
Tliree  little  heads,  all  sunny. 

To  pillow  and  bless  at  night. 
Riotous  Alick  and  Dunnie, 

Jinnie,  so  bonnie  and  bright! 
Three  souls  immortal  slumber. 

Crowned  by  that  golden  hair. 
When  Christ  his  flock  shall  number. 

Will  all  my  lambs  be  there? 
Now  with  the  stillness  round  me, 

I  bow  my  head  and  pray, 
"Since  this  faint  heart  has  found  thee. 

Suffer  them  not  to  stray.' 
Up  to  the  shining  portals. 

Over  life's  stormy  tide. 
Treasures  I  bring—  Immortal: 

Saviour,  be  thou  my  guide. 


EMILY  ELIZA^HILDRETH. 

Born;  Chelsea,  Mass.,  May  25, 1839. 
Miss  Hildreth  has  been  an  invalid  for  a 
number  of  years,  and  is  now  living  in  the 
quiet  country  town  of  Harvard,  Mass.  Her 
poems  have  been  published  from  time  to  time 
in  many  periodicals  of  prominence. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 
Hark,  'tis  the  chime  of  the  midnight  bell. 
Resounding  far  over  hill  and  dell. 
Just  to  remind  us.  that  to-day 
Has  passed  forever  from  us  away. 
Nothing  strange  —  yet  each  stroke  brings 
So  many  thoughts  of  so  many  things; 
For  the  year  is  dying  with  the  day. 
And  the  Past  is  gone,—  forever  and  aye. 
What  does  the  year  carry  forth  for  me. 
To  the  wide  embrace  of  Eternity? 
What  does  it  take  from  uiy  life  away? 
—  Not  one  thing,  surely,  that  ought  to  stay. 

Last  year's  green  lies  under  the  snow;~ 
But  the  daisies  are  only  waiting  below. 

Ring  on  to  the  end.  Sweet,  Hallowed  Chime  I 
Thou  art  bringing  to  me  a  glad,  new  time; 
For   my  heart    hears  this   answer   to  every 

doubt,— 
•  •The  Father's  arms  leave  none  without  I  " 


EXTRACT. 
I  iisk  of  the  stars  their  mystery. 

As  they  wink  In  the  distant  blue. 
And  I  could  be  content  with  all. 

If  I  but  life's  mystery  knew. 


* 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


159 


MxVBEL  CRONISE. 

Born:  Tiffin,  O.,  June  18,1860. 
When  nine  years  of  age  Mabel  removed  to  To- 
ledo, Ohio,  her  father  having- died  in  the  same 
year.  Ten  year.s  later  she  graduated,  subse- 
quently teaching  Latin  and  universal  histo- 
ry for  several  years.  In  188T  Miss  Cronise 
went  to  Europe,  and  wrote  letters  from  there 
for  various  papers.     She  now  is  on  the  editnr- 


MABEL   CRONISE. 

lal  Staff  of  the  Toldeo  Commercial.  Her  writ- 
ings have  appeared  in  the  leading  periodicals, 
including  the  Toledo  Blade,  Detroit  Free 
Press,  Chicago  Interior,  Arthur's  Home  Maga- 
zine, and  many  other  equally  prominent  jour- 
nals. In  personal  appearance  Miss  Cronise  is 
rather  tall  and  slender,  with  dark  brown  hair 
and  eyes. 


fr 


LENTEN  DAYS. 
Lenten  days!  supreme  revealment 
Of  the  human  and  Divine, 
When  the  soul's  grand  thoughts  awakened. 
Glow  like  water  changed  to  wine. 
When,  in  resurrection  garments, 
Nature  writes  upon  the  sod. 
On  the  grass  blade  and  the  lily. 
The  Apocalypse  of  God! 
Days  of  quiet  and  contrition; 
Days  of  peace  and  joy  and  rest ! 
Legacy  of  our  Messiah ! 
Holy  days,  forever  blest. 


LEGEND  OF  THE  FLEUR-DE-LIS. 

Sweetest  of  all  the  traditions 

Burgundian  annals  hold. 
Is  one  of  the  royal  banner. 

With  its  lilies  white  and  gold. 

Burgundian  monks  and  writers. 
Still  the  legend  quaint  repeat. 

Of  Clovis  dauntless  and  daring. 
And  Clotilda  fair  and  sweet. 

This  prayer  before  her  altar 

Clotilda  offered  each  day : 
"  Oh  Christ,  appear  to  my  husband. 

Show  him  the  Truth  and  the  Way ! 

"  He  worships  his  heathen  idols. 

Is  blind  to  Thy  love  divine; 
On  his  darkened,  inner  vision 

Let  Thy  endless  goodness  shine!  " 

Months  grew  into  years,  but  Clovis 

Still  bowed  to  his  idols  cold. 
Scorning  the  Monarch  of  nations. 

Adoring  his  gods  of  gold! 

One  day  in  a  fateful  battle 

The  Huns  made  a  deadly  raid. 
The  King  saw  his  forces  scattered 

And  his  martial  glory  fade! 
His  men  were  falling  like  snowflakes. 

On  ev'ry  side  was  the  foe 
Retreat  meant  death  and  dishonor. 

Advance  meant  ruin  and  woe! 
In  vain  he  cried  to  his  idols. 

In  vain  imploi-ed  lie  their  aid. 
The  jeweled  Ishon  was  powerless 

To  check  the  terrible  raid. 
With  despairing,  hopeless  courage 

He  rallied  his  troops  that  day,— 
"  Will  you  let  our  nation  perish? 

Charge  on  that  savage  array!  " 
Repulsed  by  myriad  lances. 

Forced  back  through  heaps  of  the  slain, 
Wounded,  defeated  and  helpless 

He  cried  in  his  bitter  pain: 
•i  Oh  Christ  whom  the  greatest  worship, 

Oh  Christ  of  mercy  and  love. 
Declare  Thy  marvelous  goodness, 

Send  aid  to  me  from  above ! 
••The  human  is  weak  and  erring, 

I  have  not  seen  Thee  aright. 
Grant  to  me  a  clearer  vision. 

Give  to  me  the  inner  sight! 
••  I  feel  Thou  art  pure  and  holy, 

Incarnate   mercy  and  right. 
Invisible  pow'r  and  splendor. 

Ruler  of  darkness  and  light! 
"  Avenge  me  of  my  aggressors. 

Thy  glance  can  put  tliem  to  flight. 
Speak!  and  their  legions  shall  vanish 

In  the  breath  of  Thy  own  might ! 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  A3IERICA. 


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©- 


Lo  I  as  he  breathed  this  petition, 

Halted  the  Huns  in  affrig-ht 
And  Clovis  with  heav'n-lent  valor 

Dashed  on  with  resistless  might! 

Thousands  were  conquered  hy  hundreds, 
For  Christ  nerved  his  hand  that  day. 

And  Burgundy's  blood-stained  banner 
Waved  high  in  the  deadly  array. 

At  night  he  knelt  by  Clotilda,— 
"Oh  wife,  thy  God  shall  be  mine, 

For  He  is  able  to  succor. 
He  is  mercy  and  love  divine! 

"  The  Son  He  sent  to  redeem  us. 
My  brother  and  Priest  shall  be; 

I  know  His  boundless  compassion, 
His  wondrous  beauty  I  see. 

"Oh  Christ!  by  Burg-undy's  standard, 
I  pledge  to  Tiiee  service  true. 

Omnipotence,  might  and  grandeur. 
Thy  mercy  falletli  like  dew! 

"  Long  suffering,  kind  and  patient, 

Tiiy  promise  never  shall  fail, 
Supremest  homage  I  yield  Tliee, 

My  Sov'reign  Divine  I  hail!  " 

His  hand  ligiitly  grasped  the  standard 
As  he  breathed  his  solemn  vow, 

But  lo!  a  glory  resplendent 
Hath  gilded  that  banner  now! 

A  voice  of  surpassing  sweetness 
Speaks  low  to  the  startled  king, 

'•  To  my  brother  won  from  idols 
Good  tidings  of  joy  I  bring ! 

"  Your  eyes  once  blind  are  now  opened, 

The  truth  eternal  you  see. 
My  peace  that  passeth  all  knowledge 

On  both  of  you  henceforth  be! 

"Your  standard  shall  bear  my  symbol 

On  its  field  of  azure  blue. 
Celestial  hlies  I  give  you, 

I  bring  you  a  banner  new! 

"  Transcendently  fair  and  holy. 
Be  pure  as  these  flow'rs  divine. 

Be  wortiiy  to  bear  My  eml)lem. 
Be  worthy  too,  to  be  Mine!  " 

A  vision  sweet  and  surprising 

Tlie  astonished  monnrchs  see: 
Tlie  bk)()d-stained  biiiuicr  gi-ows  spotless- 

And  blossoms  witii  lleur-de-Iis. 
Tlirec  lilies  stately  and  noble. 

Power  and  comfort  and  love. 
Type  of  the  Tri-un*;  God-head, 

The  Fat  her,  the  Son.  the  Dove ! 

In  awe  they  knelt  by  the  lilies 
And  worshiped  the  Christ  of  Love— 

Wlio  is  king  of  all  earths  nations, 
And  king  of  the  worlds  above! 


Still  over  a  tranquil  nation 

The  beauteous  lilies  wave. 
The  symbol  of  Him,  our  Brother 

Whose  arm  is  mighty  to  sa%-e. 
Sweet  lilies,  so  fair  and  stately. 

The  pledge  of  old  ye  renew. 
For  Christ  was  the  Rose  of  Sharon, 

But  the  Valley's  Lily  too ! 


ROBERT  D.  DODGE. 

Born:  Warren  Co.,  III.,  Dec.  16, 1838. 
Mr.  Dodge  has  written  poems  for  the  press 
more  or  less  for  the  past  twentj'-flve  years, 
many  of  which  have  received  favorable  men- 
tion. He  now  resides  near  Adel,  Iowa,  on  a 
fruit  and  seed  farm. 


MIDNIGHT  REVERIE. 
Dimly  the  languid  planets  glow, 
Softly  the  dewy  night  winds  blow. 
Bearing  perfume  of  leaf  and  flower 
And  dreamy  sounds  of  midnight  hour. 
While  over  all  like  a  m.vstie  pall 
The  gath'ring  shadows  rise  and  fall; 
Fantastic  shapes  before  my  sight 
Come  for  a  moment  then  take  flight. 
How  sights  and  sounds  of  nature  seem. 
Now  strangely  mingling  with  my  dream; 
What  mystic  raptures  do  contend, 
How  earth  and  ether  seem  to  blend. 
When  sounds  of  earth  to  dreamland  soar 
And  faintly  echo  on  the  shore, 
I  hear  them  now,  the  watcli-dog's  moan, 
The  chicken's  long-drawn  plaintive  tone, 
The  little  night-bug's  tuneful  strain. 
Like  to  fall  of  a  gentle  rain. 
Going  —  not  gone,  T  hear  them  still 
Calling  in  turn  from  hill  to  hill; 
The  stars  sink  deeper  in  the  sky. 
The  blending  shadows  hover  nigh. 
At  last  oblivion's  veil  is  drawn. 
And  dog  and  bug  and  chicken  gone. 


A  PEEP  INTO  THK  FUTI'RE. 

Now  all  aboard  the  Edison  lightning  train 
Of  flying  cars  that  cleave  the  starry  main. 
We  .scorn  the  steam-car's  crawling  snail  like 

pace; 
The  storm  cloud,  too,  makes  such  a  sorry  race. 
It  seems  to  turn  and  fly  the  other  way. 
As  we  pass  by  and  swiftly  onwai'd  stray. 
Away  we  fly  athwart  the  sky.  and  soon 
We  leave  behind  the  failing  earth  and  moon; 
The  affrighted    sun   darts    from    his    proper 

place. 
The  flaming  stars  fly  backward  into  space; 
At  last  when  past  the  f art! lest  world  we  fly. 
We  dash  and  flatten   'gainst  th' iiU  bounding 
sky! 


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LOCAL   AXD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


161 


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ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX. 

Born:  Johnstown, Wis.,  about  1850. 
When  thirteen  years  of  age,  Ella  first  began  to 
write  poetry,  but  it  was  many  j-ears  before  she 
received  any  financial  return  for  these  early 
efforts.  Poems  of  Passion  at  once  brought  her 
into  prominence,  and  she  is  now  in  receipt  of  a 


ELL\  WHEELER  WlLtOX. 

good  income.  She  is  married,  and  resides  in  a 
beautiful  home  in  the  City  of  New  York.  In 
speaking  of  past  events,  she  says:  "I had  ceas- 
ed to  expect  any  sudden  success  in  literature 
when  I  published  Poems  of  Passion.  The  in- 
tense excitement  th  book  caused,  the  hue  and 
cry  against  its  alleged  immorrjty,  and  the  con- 
seqviently  rem.a-kable  sales, wei-e  all  a  stunnir.g 
sui-prise  to  me."  She  has  vv'ritteu  a  novel,  and 
still  writes  poetry  for  the  leafiiiig  periodicals. 


®- 


EXTKACTS. 
Love,  to  endure  life's  sorrow  and  earth's  woe. 
Needs  friendship's  solid  masonwork  below. 

Hearts  are  much  the  Fame; 
The  loves  of  men  but  vary  in  degree— 
They  find  no  new  expressions  for  ihe  flame. 

But  now  I  know  that  there  is  no  killing 
A  thing  like  Love,  for  it  laughs  at  Death. 
There  is  no  hushing,  there  is  no  stilling 
That  which  is  part  of  your  life  and  breath. 
You  may  bury  it  deep,  and  leave  behind  you 
The  land,  the  people  that  knew  j-our  slain; 
It  will  push  the  sods  from  its  grave,  and  find 

you 
On  wastes  of  water  or  desert  plain. 


How  poor  that  love  that  needeth  word  or  mes- 
sage. 
To  banish  doubt  or  nourish  tenderness. 

Daj-s  will  grow  cold,  and  moons  wax  old. 
And  then  a  heart  that's  true 

Is  better  far  than  grace  or  gold  — 
And  so  my  love,  adieu ! 
I  cannot  wed  with  you. 

Whoever  was  begotten  by  pure  love. 
And  came  desired  and  welcome  into  life, 
Is  of  immaculate  conception. 

Life  is  loo  short  for  any  vain  regretting; 
Let  dead  delight  bury  its  dead. 

Laugh,  and  the  world  laughs  with  you; 
Weep,  and  you  weep  alone. 

Rejoice,  and  men  will  seek  you : 
Grieve,  and  they  turn  and  go. 

Be  glad,  and  your  friends  are  many; 
Be  sad,  and  you  lose  them  all. 

Come,  cuddle  your  head  on  my  shoulder,  dear. 

Your  head  like  the  golden-rod. 
And  we  will  go  sailing  away  from  here 

To  the  beautiful  Land  of  Nod. 

Waste  no  tears 
Upon  the  blotted  record  of  lost  years 
But  turn  the  leaf,  and  smile,  oh,  smile,  to  see 
The  fair  white  pages  that  remain  for  thee. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  STORKS  AND 
BABIES. 
Have  you  heard  of  the  Valley  of  Babj'land 

The  realm  where  the  dear  little  darlings  stay 
Till  the  kind  storks  go,  as  all  men  know, 
And  O  so  tenderly  bring  them  away? 

The  paths  are  winding,  and  past  all  finding 
By  all  save  the  storks,  who  understand 

The  gates,  and  the  highways,  and  the  intricate 
by-ways 
That  lead  to  Babyland. 

The  path  to  the  Valley  of  Babyland 
Only  the  kind  white  storks  know. 

If  they  fly  over  mountains,  or  wade  through 
fountains. 
No  man  sees  them  come  or  go. 

But  an  angel,  maybe,  who  guards  some  baby. 
Or  a  fair.v,  perhaps,  with  her  magic  wand, 

Brings  them  straightwaj-  to    the  wonderful 
gateway 
That  leads  to  Babyland. 

All  over  the  Valley  of  Babyland 
Sweet  flowers  bloom  in  the  soft  green  moss ; 
And  under  the  fei-ns  fair,  and  under  the  leaves 
there 
Lie  little  heads  Uke  spools  of  floss. 


-m 


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162 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


JOESPH  S.  GITT. 

BOKs:  Adams  Co.,  Pa.,  Sept.  9, 1815. 
For  several  years  Mr.  Gilt  taught  school  and 
later  was  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Han- 
over Democrat,  Planet    and    Weekly  News. 
In  1841  he  was  married  to  Anna  M.  Bachman. 


JOSEPH  S.  GlTT. 

and  has  two  children  now  living-.  He  has 
held  prominent  railroad  positions.  During 
his  brief  busy  life  Mr.  Gitt  has  been  a  very 
successful  man,  and  has  now  retired. 


*- 


ODE  TO  PENNSYLVANIA. 

Ai'ouse,  and  with  spirit. 

Frail  Muse  toucli  the  string. 
Assist  me  the  grandeur 

Of  Nature  to  sing, 
Despel  all  tliy  sadness. 

Awake  fi'oin  thy  dream. 
Let  proud  Pennsylvania 

Be  niarlii'd  as  the  theme. 
First  under  the  l)Oughs 

Of  the  aged  elm  1  ree, 
Tliy  founder  in  council 

Did  barter  ft>r  tlioe. 
In  friendsliip  the  compact 

Was  ordered  and  given. 
And  sealed  with  a  vow  — 

Recorded  in  Heaven. 
The  war-whoop's  shrill  echo. 

No  more  now  is  heard. 
But  sleeps  in  thy  valleys, 

Long,  long  since  interred; 


The  scalp  axe  reposes 

Within  the  dark  tomb  — 
The  calumet  has  given 

Its  last  lingering  fume. 
Tlie  silence  tliat  hovered. 

In  solitude  dressed. 
And  in  thy  cool  arbors 

Young  fancj- caressed; 
Unbroken,  except  bj' 

The  Savage's  tread. 
Before  the  swift  march  of 

Improvement  has  fled. 
Thy  mineral  caverns. 

Supplied  and  well  stored, 
Y'ield  columns  of  riches, 
E'en  faintly  explored ; 
Thy  mellow-breezed  climate, 

And  rich  fertile  soil, 
Reward  in  gi'eat  plenty, 

Tlie  husbandman's  toil. 
A  well-defined  system 

Is  strung  through  the  land. 
By  which  education 

All  dare  command; 
Thy  people  have  anchored 

Within  its  great  sea. 
And  cherished  the  motto,— 

Let  knowledge  be  free. 
Philosophy,  also. 

Has  boldly  appeared. 
And  o'er  thy  wide  vegas 

Its  canopy  reared, 
A  Franklin  has  flourished. 

Whose  much-honored  name. 
Has  long  been  thy  passport 

To  regions  of  fame. 
He  rode  on  the  tempest- 
Reserved  —undismayed  — 
When  thunder  and  lightning 

Their  terror  displayed; 
And  from  earth's  low  bosom, 

Taught  men  to  converse, 
In  electrical  signals 

With  clouds  in  their  course. 
And  Poetry's  lyre. 

With  elegance  strung. 
Already  its  ode  of 

Ascription  has  sung; 
The  tiniljrel  has  sounded, 

And  who  yet  can  tell. 
How  far  o'er  thy  confines 

Its  echo  may  swell? 
God  prosper  the  Keystone 

Of  freedom's  firm  arch, 
And  light  her  to  glory 

By  liberty's  torch; 
I  envy  not  scepters, 

Nt)r  wi-alth's  hollow  fame; 
Content  but  to  call  thee 

"My  dear  inttive  home." 


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LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


163 


HENRY  RYDER-TAYLOR. 

BOKN  IN  England,  May  5,  1850. 
Whkn  a  boy,  Henry  wrote  a  Poetical  History 
of  England.  He  was  attached  to  the  London 
Telegraph  and  All  The  Year  Round,  and  at 
one  time  was  amanuensis  to  Charles  Dick- 
ens. He  was  subsequently  employed  by 
several  prominent  London  and  provincial  pa- 
pers, and  wrote  several  able  i)ami)lilets,  soon 
gaining  a  reputation  as  a  forcible,  witty,  ele- 
gant and  entertaining  writer.  Mr.  Ryder- 
Taylor  has  edited  various  other  publications 


HENin    HYI)LK-T  VVLOK 

of  note;  has  filled  several  public  offices;  was 
for  a  time  professor  of  English  literature  and 
elocution,  and  gave  lectures  on  important  sub- 
jects. In  1881  he  came  to  the  United  States, 
settling  in  San  Antonio,  Texas,  where  he  .soon 
became  an  American  citizen.  He  is  now  edi- 
tor of  the  Texas  World,  and  contributes  to 
several  prominent  journals.  Mr.  Ryder-Tay- 
lor has  a  wife  and  a  family  of  several  children, 
of  whom  he  is  very  proud. 


«- 


THE  BETTER  BY  AND  BY. 

As  onward  through  the  world  we  go. 

We  many  trials  see. 
And  troubles  oft  oppress  us  sore. 

They  seem  so  hard  to  be ; 
But  when  the  heart  is  lone  and  sad. 

Then  hope  to  us  is  nigh. 
And  shows  a  happy  prospect 

In  the  better  by  and  by. 
Tlie  children  think  it  very  hard. 

That  elders  bear  the  rule; 
And  harder  still  the  lessons 

They  learn  in  life's  great  school. 
Hope  gives  them  courage  as  they  think. 

It  sparkles  in  the  eye  — 


They'll  soon  grow  big  and  alter  things, 
In  tlie  better  by  and  by. 

The  lovers  often  quarrel. 

And  think  each  other  hard. 
As  often  thej'  make  up  their  tififs, 

And  greater  grows  regard. 
They  think  upon  the  future. 

When  bound  by  dearer  tie. 
And  hope  for  wedded  happiness, 

In  the  better  by  and  by. 

When  man  and  wife  are  parted, 

As  oft  we  see  in  life. 
By  cruel  fate,  or  worse  yet  still. 

Perhaps  by  cankerous  strife : 
If  pure  love  in  their  hearts  has  burned. 

This  solace  they  apply,— 
The  hope  of  blessed  reunion, 

In  the  better  by  and  by. 

The  widow,  in  her  sore  distress. 

Is  turned  from  lier  grief. 
To  her  dear,  loving  little  child. 

And  in  it  finds  relief; 
By  want  and  care  she  is  oppressed. 

And  under  ban  doth  lie. 
Yet  waits  in  patience  and  in  hope. 

The  better  by  and  by. 

The  rich  man's  often  envied. 

By  reasons  of  his  wealth; 
He  trials  has,  vexations  too. 

And  often  bad  his  health. 
Surrounded  by  his  riches. 

His  heart  has  .still  its  cry, 
And  even  he  looks  forward 

To  the  better  l)y  and  by. 

The  poor  man  going  forth  at  dawn 

Toils  very  hard  all  day. 
His  wages  small,  his  comforts  few. 

And  very  rough  his  way; 
To  make  the  most  of  humble  means. 

He  and  his  wife  doth  try. 
Encouraged  l)y  the  goodly  hope. 

Of  the  better  by  and  by. 

The  prisoner  in  his  lonely  cell. 

As  punished  for  crime. 
Toils  sadly  on  throughout  the  day. 

And  wears  away  his  time : 
He  thinks  of  wife  and  loving  friends. 

And  on  them  doth  rely. 
And  longs  for  Freedom's  happy  hour,- 

In  the  better  by  and  by. 

The  sick  man  tossing  on  his  bed. 
Racked  by  the  body's  pain. 

For  him  there  seems  but  little  hope 
He  may  be  well  again ; 

But  when  folks  come  to  see  him. 
How  welcome  the  reply, 

"  You  are  doing  very  nicely  — 
You'll  be  better  by  and  by." 


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I 


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164 


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LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


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But  when  we  mourn  our  loved,  our  dead, 

How  bitter  is  tlie  lieart! 
'Tis  then  we  feel  the  foi-ee  of  love  — 

How  hard  it  is  to  part! 
But  hope  stands  by  to  cheer  us, 

While  we  with  fate  comply. 
And  says  that  we  shall  meet  again 

In  the  better  by  and  by. 
Since  all  of  us,  both  rich  and  poor, 

Of  trials  have  a  share, 
To  each  let's  give  a  helping  hand, 

And  have  a  friendly  care; 
Let's  do  our  duty  in  this  world, 

And  when  we  come  to  die. 
We'll  surely  be  rewarded. 

In  the  better  by  and  by. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  WEARY. 

I  am  weary,  oh  !  my  darling. 

Of  this  fell  earthly  strife. 
That  day  by  day  I'm  waging 

Just  to  sustain  our  life. 
But  I  struggle  on  still  hoping 

That  Time  will  right  the  wrong; 
And  yet  my  weary  heart  will  .sigh, 

"  How  long.  Oh !  Lord,  how  long?" 
I  am  weary,  oh !  my  darling. 

Of  the  sights  I  daily  see. 
Of  vice  in  glorious  splendor. 

The  poor  in  misery. 
The  gilded  herd,  with  iron  rule. 

Oppress  the  common  throng; 
I'm  patient,  yet  the  heart  will  cry: 

"  How  long,  oh !  Lord,  how  long?" 
I  am  weary,  oh !  my  darling. 

Of  the  friendship  that's  not  true. 
And  sigh  that  we  no  Damons  find 

To  gild  life's  dreary  hue. 
I  am  weary  of  the  love  that  comes 

Just  like  a  Syren's  song; 
And  sadly  does  my  heart  repeat, 

"  How  long,  oh!  Lord,  how  long?" 
I  am  weary,  oh !  my  darling. 

Of  the  fashions  of  the  time. 
That  only  make  dressed  dummies 

Of  womanhood  sublime. 
That  make  of  young  men  noodles, 

ElTeminate,  not  strong; 
And,  sickened,  then  1  sadly  cry, 

"How  long,  oh!  Lord,  ht)w  long?'' 
I  am  weary,  oh !  my  darling. 

Of  pontic's  shrewd  game. 
Where  bosses  rule  in  all  tilings. 

Defile  the  people's  name; 
Where  the  "  sharp"  and  not  the  honest. 

To  power  i)ass  along; 
And,  heart-sick,  1  cry  the  louder, 

"  How  long,  oh  I  Lord,  how  long"?" 
I  am  weary,  oh !  my  darling. 
And  I  long  to  be  at  rest. 


Where  oppression  cannot  trouble. 
In  the  haven  of  the  blest. 

I  have  fought  the  fight  now  fairly. 
But  I  seem  to  be  awrong 

And  waiting  still  1  sadly  cry, 
•'  How  long,  oh !  Lord,  how  long?" 


MRS.  JANE  R.H. CARPENTER. 

Born  :  Rockingham,  Vt.,  Jan.  2, 1834. 
This  lady  has  written  poems  from  time  to 
time  for  the  past  quarter  of  a  century,  many 
of  which  have  appeared  in  the  local  press. 
She  was  married  in  185.3  to  Byron  F.  Carpenter ; 
removed  to  Orient,  Iowa,  in  1874,  where  she 
now  resides  with  her  husband  and  family. 


FANCY'S  PICTURE. 
Beautiful  moonlight  over  me  falling  — 
Dearly  loved  scenes  to  my  mind  thou'rt  call- 
ing. 
Scenes  of  my  childhood,  long  gone   though 

they  be. 
Thou  bringest  these  back  in  bright  mem'ries 

to  me. 
In  the  old  home,  nestled  'mong  forest-crown- 
ed hills, 
I  list  to  the  music  of  swift  dancing  rills. 
And  musical  voices  far  sweeter  than  these 
Are  floating  to  me  on  the  soft  evening  breeze. 
Over  my  heart,  long  shaded  in  sadness. 
Softly  there  falleth  a  feeling  of  gladness. 
For  the  dear  old  days  have  come  back  to  me. 
When  I  was  a  child  so  careless  and  free. 
Here  in  their  prime  I  find  Father  and  Mother; 
Once  more  I  frolic  with  sister  and  brother. 
Building  a  playhouse  in  some  pleasant  nook. 
Or  romp  in  the  orchard  or  down  by  the  brook. 
Sweet  as  the  flowers  that  bloom  in  the  wild- 
wood 
Are  the  beautiful  days  of  innocent  childhood. 
And  like  the  fair  flowers  how  short  is  their 

stay. 
The  swift  passing  years  soon  bear  them  away. 
E'en  as  I  gaze,  fancy's  picture  is  fading. 
Realities,  stern  my  pathway  are  shading. 
Life's  bin-dens  and  years  have  furrowed  my 

l)r()w. 
And  my  loved  ones  dwell  not  in  the  old  home 
now. 


EXTRACT. 

Many  a  time  comes  sorrow  and  care. 
And  trials  tlie  heart  can  scarcely  bear.— 
But  seldom  will  come  a  uieasure  of  bliss. 
In  a  world  as  cold  and  careless  as  this; 
The  strangest  of  things  will  sometimes  befall 
Yet  the  pleasures  we  know  as  the  sweetest  of 

all 
May  come  but  once  in  a  lifetime. 


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LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


165 


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THOMAS  O'HAGAN. 

Born  in  Canada  in  1855. 
This  gentleman  has  recei%'ecl  a  tlioiougli  ed- 
ucation, having  become  proficient  in  Latin, 
French,  German,  and  other  languages,  and  is 
oiieof  the  rising  litterateurs  of  the  new  world. 
In  1874  Mr.  O'Hagan  entered  the  profession  of 
teaching.and  during  the  succeeding  nine  years 
held  positions  of  great  prominence.  Later 
on  the  degrees  of  B.  A.  and  M.  A.   were  coii- 


THOMAS  O'HAGAN. 

f erred  upon  him.  The  literary  activity  of 
the  subject  of  this  sketch  has  been  incessant. 
His  volume  of  poems  entitled  A  Gate  of 
Flowers  has  won  for  him  an  honored  place 
among  poets.  Mr.  O'Hagan  has  commenced 
tlie  study  of  law,  and  hopes  also  to  soon  re- 
ceive the  cou rse  for  the  LL.B.  degree;  he  will 
certainly  win  increased  distinction  in  his  new 
field.  This  gentlemen  is  a  voluminous  con- 
tributor to  the  )>eri()iiical  jires.s,  and  is  now  a 
resident  of  Duluth,  Minn. 


©- 


A  DREAM  OF  ERIN. 

I  dreamt  a  dream,  'twas  Ireland  seen 

In  distant  years  beyond, 

Enthron'd  and  crown'd,  a  beauteous  gem, 

Earth's  idol,  cherish'd  fond,— 

And  nations  pass'd  before  her. 

And  courtiers  grac'd  her  halls. 

And  the  song  of  Mirth  and  Freedom 

Prov'd  her  battlement  and  walls. 


The  wounds  and  scars  of  olden  days 
Had  left  her  maiden  brow, 
And  manly  hearts  stood  by  her  side. 
And  swords  spoke  of  a  vow  — 
That  Ireland,  dear  old  Ireland, 
Should  forever  more  be  free. 
And  her  patriot  sons  in  union 
Drive  the  Saxon  o'er  the  sea. 

I  saw  the  Shannon  pour  along 

In  joyous  accents  clear. 

Its  tide  of  music  sweet  and  strong  — 

Each  wave  was  filled  with  cheer; 

And  hast'ning  on  in  proud  acclaim 

Swept  Barrow  Suir  and  Lee; 

For  a  nation's  heart  was  throbl)ing 

In  each  wavelet  to  the  sea. 

0  land  of  woe  and  sorrow. 

When  shall  come  this  vision  bright? 
When  shall  beam  a  glad  to-morrow? 
When  shall  fade  thy  starless  night? 

1  have  watch'd  and  waited  for  thee, 
I  have  hoped  for  thee  in  fear, 

I  have  caught  thy  ray  of  sunshine 
Tlirough  the  ocean  of  a  tear! 


RIPENED  FRUIT. 
I  know  not  what  my  heart  hath  lost, 
I  cannot  strike  the  chords  of  old; 
The  breath  that  charmed  my  morning  life 
Hath  chilled  each  leaf  within  the  wold. 

The  swallows  twitter  in  the  sky, 
But  bare  the  nest  beneath  the  eaves; 
The  fledglings  of  my  care  are  gone. 
And  left  me  but  the  rustling  leaves. 

And  yet  I  know  my  life  hath  strength. 
And  firmer  hope  and  sweeter  prayer, 
For  leaves  that  murmur  on  the  ground 
Have  now  for  me  a  double  care. 

I  see  in  them  the  hope  of  spring. 
That  erst  did  plan  the  autumn  day; 
I  see  in  them  each  gift  of  man 
Grow  strong  in  years,  then  turn  to  clay. 

Not  all  is  lost  —  the  fruit  remains 
That  ripen'd  through  the  summer's  ray; 
The  nurslings  of  the  nest  are  gone. 
Yet  hear  we  still  their  warbling  lay. 

The  glory  of  the  summer  sky 
May  change  to  tints  of  autumn  hue; 
But  faith  that  sheds  its  amber  light. 
Will  lend  our  heaven  a  tender  blue. 

O  altar  of  eternal  youth ! 
O  faith  that  beckons  from  afar! 
Give  to  our  lives  a  blossomed  fruit  — 
Give  to  our  morns  an  evening  star! 


•® 


® 


-« 


106 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    FOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  MARGARET  A.  GROWL. 

Born  :  Canada,  Sept.  14, 1849. 
This   lady  was  married  in   1869  to  Amus  T. 
Crowl,   and   now   resides  at  Merriara   Park, 
Minn.    Her   poems   )ia\e  appeared  in  the  Pio- 


MUS.  MARGARET  A.  CKOWL. 

neer,  Tracy  Trumpet,  Republican  and  the 
local  press  generally.  Personally  Mrs.  Crowl  is 
about  the  averag'c  heiglit,  rather  slender,  with 
blacls  hair  and  gray  eyes. 


«- 


NETTIE. 
Just  a  score  of  happy  summers 

Have  passed  over  your  dear  head; 
And  you've  brought  us  naught  but  blessing 

With  the  years  that  now  have  fled. 
May  the  hand  of  time  touch  lightly, 

As  the  seasons  come  and  go. 
Your  dear  l)row;  and  may  no  sorrow 

O'er  your  life  its  shadow  throw. 
May  th(>  coming  years  be  freighted 

Willi  a  love  steadfast  and  tine, 
Health,  and  friends,  and  every  blessing. 

Without  number,  come  to  you. 
And  when  calls  the  voice  of  duty. 

May  you  thoughts  of  self  lay  down; 
Knowing  we  must  bear  Life's  crosses 

If  we'd  wear  the  victor's  crown. 
May  you  hear  that  welcome  pliiudit. 

When  old  age  to  you  has  come: 
"  Come  yc  blessed  of  my  Father, 

Welcome  to  your  heavenly  home." 


SNOWFLAKES. 

Oil !  ye  tiny  little  snowtiakes 

Falling  softly  to  the  ground. 
Covering  valley,  hill  and  hamlet. 

Yet  not  making  any  sound; 
Ye  remind  me  of  the  dewdrops 

Falling  in  the  silent  night; 
Watering  this  great  earth-garden 

Ere  the  dawning  of  the  light. 
Likewise  sands  of  Time  are  falling 

Through  his  hour-glass  sure  and  slow, 
Leaving  not  a  trace  of  footprints 

Of  our  pilgrimage  below. 
All  are  mighty !  yet  how  gentle ! 

We  can  here  a  lesson  find; 
In  the  paths  of  love  and  duty. 

Gently  work  with  willing  mind. 
Work!  until  Life's  sands  have  fallen 

Through  the  hour-glass,  the  last  time; 
And  our  hearts  has  ceased  its  beating, 

And  the  bell  tolls  its  last  chime. 
Work  until  the  gentle  dewdrops 

Water  flowers  above  our  dust ; 
And  the  Autumn  winds  are  sighing 

A  low  requiem  over  us. 
Then  may  gently-falling  snowflakes 

Wrap  us  in  their  snowy  sheen; 
And  our  sleep  be  calm  and  peaceful 

Till  the  "  Morning"  dawn  serene. 


TWENTIETH  ANNIVERSARY. 
In  a  quiet  village 

Down  among  the  hills. 
Two  hearts  were  united 

To  bear  life's  joys  and  ills. 
It  was  in  the  Autumn, 

And  was  cold  enough  to  snow. 
But  we  heeded  not  the  weather. 

For  'twas  twenty  years  ago. 
Then  this  happy  couple 

Settled  down  in  life; 
Will  was  a  loving  husband. 

And  Jean  a  faithful  wife. 
They  worked  from  early  morning 

Until  the  sun  was  low. 
For  people  had  so  much  to  do 

Some  twenty  years  ago. 
Their  cup  of  joy  has  oft  been  full. 

And  sometimes  running  o'er; 
They've  also  drank  at  sorrow's  fount 

'Till  hearts  were  tired  and  sore; 
But  we're  told  with  every  gloomy  cloud 

Some  silvt'ry  linings  go; 
And  they'll  be  happy  as  they  were 

Just  twenty  years  ago. 
And  as  the  years  fly  swiftly  by. 

May  they  more  trustful  be; 
Knowing  a  Heavenly  Father's  love. 

Can  all  their  troubles  see. 


-© 


©- 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


167 


-® 


SAMUEL  PHELPS  LELAND. 

Born:  Huntsbukg,  O.,  March  4, 18:39. 
After  being  admitted  to  the  bar  in  LaGrange 
county,  Ind.,  Mr.  Leland  moved  to  Chicago  in 
1863,  and  thence  to  Aurora,  Illinois.  About 
this  time  he  published  a  book  of  poems, 
which  passed  through  two  editions.  In  1867 
he  went  to  Charles  City,  Iowa,  where  he  prac- 


SAMUEL  PHELPS  LELAND. 

ticed  law  until  1880;  thence  he  went  to  Europe 
for  a  year.  Entering  the  lectvire  field  in  1881, 
he  still  continues  to  follow  that  profession. 
Mr.  Leland  is  in  comfortable  circumstances, 
happy  and  content  with  his  wife  and  a  host  of 
friends,  residing  in  Charles  City  in  summer 
and  in  Chicago  in  the  winter  months. 


©- 


WHERE? 

They  tell  of  a  land  where  pain  is  unknown. 
Where  sorrow  and  grief  have  no  name ; 
Where  Eden  flowers,  when  once  they  have 
blown. 
Bud,  blossom  eternal,  the  same;  [burn. 

Where  no   wild   discontent  in  madness  can 

To  pierce  the  proud  heart  to  despair  — 
Where  anguish  on  earth   felt  can  never  re- 
turn— 
O,  where  is  that  land?  tell  me  where ! 
They  tell  of  a  time  in  the  distant  To  Come  — 

An  age  born  of  Wisdom  and  Peace  — 
When  the  poor  shall  not  beg  of  the  rich  man 
the  crumb. 


That  might  hunger's  keen  pang  release; 
The  many  shall  not  bow  to  the  tyrannous  few. 

But  all  men  be  treated  as  men!     [ing  sue- 
When  the  poor  for  their  lives  shall  not  kneel- 

O,  when  is  that  time?  tell  me  when! 
Yes,  there  is  a  land  where  the  weary  can  rest, 

A  home  for  the  grief-laden  heart;   [pressed, 
A  time  when  true  manhood  shall  not  be  op- 

Nor  groan  under  poverty's  smart;       [come, 
A  clime  where  no  grief  and  no  sorrow  can 

Where  riches  all  shall  alike  share! 
To  reach  it,  with  Christ  we  must  enter  the 
tomb ; 

With  Him  we  must  pass  it,— 'tis  there. 


POSTHUMOUS  APPRECIATION. 
There  grew  a  plant,  the  legends  tell. 

While  many  years  went  by ; 
It  held  all  fragrance,  as  a  spell, 
And  mirrored  earth  and  sky: 
It  garnered  all  the  sweets  of  air, 

From  every  wind  that  blew. 
And  in  its  life  held  treasured  rare 

Worth,  more  than  wise  men  knew. 
One  day  rough  feet,  with  cruel  tread 

Had  crushed  it  to  the  ground, 
Lo!  when  'twas  crushed  it  fragrance  shed. 

And  filled  the  air  around. 
Men  marveled  that  to  plant  not  fair 

Such  f  ragi-ance  had  been  given ; 
Nor  dreamed,  till  crushed,  it  was  so  rare 

And  held  incense  of  Heaven. 


GEORGE  RUDDELL. 

Born:  Utica,  Ind.,  April  1, 1868. 
Removing  to  Paola,  Kansas,  at  an  early  age 
George  was  there  educated,  and  later  attended 
the  Baker  university  at  Baldwin  City,  passing 
examination  in  that  in.stitution  two  years 
later.  About  this  time  George  commenced 
teaching  school,  which  avocation  he  has  since 
followed. 


LIFE  IS  A  RIVER. 
We  can  fight  a  lively  battle 
To  the  end  if  we  are  true ; 
We  can  make  our  firearms  rattle 
And  the  enemj-  pursue. 
If  our  cause  is  what  it  should  be 
And  we  do  what  we  think  right, 
W^e  shall  live  a  life  as  happy 
As  the  noonday  sun  is  bright. 
Can't  we  light  the  ever  tempter 
With  a  will  and  all  our  might. 
For  the  joys  the  Savior's  otter. 
For  the  peace  and  truth  and  light? 
We  have  but  to  push  sin  backward. 
And  our  will  then  to  control; 
And  we'ell  find  our  path  clear'd  homeward 
There  with  Christ  our  Savior  stroll. 


© 


gB- 


168 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


-« 


WILL  J.  WEAVER. 

Born  :  Mill  Hall,  Pa.,  Dec.  24,  1856. 
At  eighteen  years  of  age  Will  taught  school 
in  the  winter  months,  attending  the  normal 
school  during  the  summer;  he  subsequently 
graduated  at  the  state  normal  school  in  1880. 
While  attending  the  normal  school  Mr.  Weav- 
er was  chosen  editor  of  the  Normal  Gazette, 
which  position  he  filled  for  several  terms,  his 
writings  at  that  time  appearing  under  the 


will  j.  weaver. 
nom  de  plume  of  Edgar  A.  Po-etic.  At  the 
annual  meeting  of  the  Alumni  association  in 
1880  lie  was  chosen  poet  for  the  meeting  of 
1881,  whicli  brought  out  his  poem  of  Our  Alma 
Mater.  Mr.  Weaver's  productions  have  ap- 
peared from  time  to  time  in  numerous  publi- 
cations, and  have  received  favorable  mention. 
He  is  at  present  engaged  in  teaching  school 
in  his  native  county. 


*- 


PERPLEXITY. 

TO  MY  FELIiOW  SHORTHAND  STUDENTS. 

Phonography's  a  lovely  art. 

Yet  when  I  try  to  learn  it, 
I  twist  and  squirm,  for  in  a  trice 

I'm  all  mixed  up;  and  "dern  it" 
Whene  "er  I  try  to  study  hard. 

And  ll.\  in  memory  clearly,  [my  guard, 
Thes(!  "hooks"  and  " crooks"  onee  ofl' 
I'm  vexed,  so  that  I'm  nearly  — 


If  not  quite  all  broke  up;  but  still 

I  reason  thus,  and  ponder. 
If  "  pigs  in  clover  "  baffle    skill. 

Lord !  what  does  this,  I  wonder. 
I   start   with    "Pee,"    then    "Ef"  and 
"  Vee," 

And  travel  on  to  "Eshon;" 
I  tangle  "  Ray  "  with  "  Dee  "  and  ..Gay," 

Regardless  of  discretion. 
I  strive  to  get  the  word-signs  fixed. 

But  something  .seems  to  blur  them. 
And  all  the  ».  hooks  "  and  »  curves  "  get 
mixed. 

Whene'er  I  try  to  ..Ster"  them. 
An.'Iss"  with  ..Tee"  makes  it  a  "Stee," 

It  seems  most  like  a  fable, 
"  Yeh-lay"  with  ..  Bee  "  is  "  You-will-be," 

And  ..Bee"  with  ..El-hook"  ..Able." 
An  ..Em "means  ..me,"  ..my,"  ..him" 
and  ..may," 

While    ..Em"   with     ..  Shon"    means 
..  motion," 
'•Pee"  stands  for  ..hope,"  ..Pee-el"  for 
play." 

And  .'Dee-Vee-Shon  "  ..Devotion." 
A  sign  that's  halved  adds  ..T"  or  .-D," 

And  lengthened  ..  t-h-r-ther  "  — 
So  ..Ef,"  which  commonly  means  ..far," 

Stretched     out     full     length    means 
..farther." 
>.  Em  "  widened  adds  a  <.P"  or  ..B," 

As  .'Emb"  with  ..Dee"  "Embody," 
"Tee"  shortened  with  the  vowel  ..e" 

Transforms  it  into  ..Toddy." 
"Experience"  wefind  in  ..Sprens," 

..Kend-Shon"  for  ..Condescension," 
Along  with  many  other  blends 

Too  numerous  to  mention. 

At  night,  in  troubled  dreams  I  see. 

This  science  so  fantastic. 
So  that  my  rest  is  constantly. 

Confused  and  rhinoplastic. 

And  shall  I  ever  reach  the  goal? 

Will  hoping  make  me  stronger? 
While  crying  from  my  inmost  .soul. 

How  long,  oh!  how  much  longer! 


EXTRACT. 

While  sojourning  on  this  tern^strial  hall. 
With  trials  and  troubles  to  grieve  us: 

May  this  maxim  be  firmly  impressed  uixai  i 
..  Aspiramus  Noblisinuis  Itebus." 

Like  the,  swift    flying    clouds    are    our    dii 
fleeting  by  — 

Soon  or  later  grim  death  will  receive  us; 
Be  not  overcome,  but  this  maxim  apply,— 

..  Aspiramus  Noblisimus  Rebus." 


* 


©- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMElilOA. 


1G1> 


-^ 


JOHN  HILL  LUTHER,!).  D. 

Born:  Wakken,  H.  L,  June 21, 1824. 

This  g-ei>tleman  was  the  prcsidentof  the  Bay- 
lor Female  Collefre  of  Beltoii,  Te.xas,  which 
position  lie  has  held  since  1879.  Mr.  Luther 
has  had  a  g-roat  deal  of  experience  as  a  preach- 
er, teacher  and  editor.    In  1885  he  published  a 


JOHN  HILL  LUTHER.  D.  D. 

little  volume  of  liis  productions  entitled  My 
Verses,  and  since  that  time  in  another  neat 
volume  has  appeared  Souvenir  Verses.  Dr. 
Luther  is  small  in  stature,  with  a  keen,  bright 
eye,  and  dark  hair  sprinkled  with  silver  gray. 
He  is  a  most  entertaining-  and  scholarly  gren- 
tleman,  and  is  beloved  and  respected  wherev- 
er he  is  known. 


*- 


THOU  KNOWEST. 
Thou  knowest  all,  O  Teacher, 

My  future  as  well  as  my  past; 
The  clouds  may  be  drifting-  toward  me. 

The  shadows  gathering-  fast. 
But  will)  thee  there  is  no  dang-er: 

Sunshine  must  come  at  last. 

Thou  knowest  all.  O  Teaclicr, 

How  in  weariness  and  fears 
I  have  soug-lit  Thee,  found  The,  heard  Tliee 

Utter  words  that  dried  my  tears. 


O  'twere  sin  to  doubt  Thy  goodness 
After  all  the  proofs  of  years. 

Thou  knowest  all,  O  Teacher, 

Better  than  my  lips  can  tell, 
How  the  world  allures  and  mocks  me. 

And  what  foes  witliiu  me  dwell  — 
Knowest  all;  yet  in  my  weakness 

Comes  the  message.  All  is  well. 

Thou  Knowest  all,  O  Teacher; 

Knowest  when  mj-  weary  feet 
Shall  reach  the  pearly  gates  on  liigh; 

When  loved  ones  gone  before  shall  greet 
The  chastened  spirit,  longing-  most 

Thee,  Oh  my  Prince,  my  Love,  to  meet. 

Then  I  can  wait,  and  waiting,  watch, 
And  as  I  watch  toil  while  1  may; 

For  well  T  know  He  waits  for  me  — 
Nay,  often  meets  me  in  the  way, 

Foresliadowing-,  as  he  passes  by, 
Tlie  glories  of  the  latter  day. 


NOW  — THEN. 
I  know  not  what  may  come,  ere  life 

Runs  to  its  close  — 
Defeat  or  triumph,  'mid  the  strife, 

Tliat  brings  repose. 

Fresh  burdens  may  await  the  heart. 

Now  faint  and  worn; 
And  honors,  deemed  mine  own,  depart. 

By  others  borne. 

A  gentle  liand  is  holding  mine 

B.v  day  —  by  night ; 
And  paths,  untrod  before,  now  shine 
With  glorious  light. 

Oh  soul,  thy  lot  is  princely  now. 

And  ever  more  — 
To  toil,  to  wait,  and  then  to  know 

Him  gone  before  — 

To  watch  and  listen  till  He  come. 

To  bear  me  where 
The  loved  ones  are,  my  Heaven,  my  home. 

My  Eden  fair. 

I  only  ask  to  share  while  here 

Tlie  toil  divine; 
To  crushed  and  wounded  ones  to  bear 

The  oil  and  w-ine; 

Then  'neath  the  cross  to  lay  me  down 

To  take  sweet  rest; 
And  wake  to  wear  tlie  promised  crown. 

Forever  blest. 


-* 


®- 


170 


© 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


HELEN  MAUD  MERRILL. 

Born:  Bangor, Me., May 5, 1865. 
During  the  last  decade  Heleu  Maud  Merrill 
has    foiitrlbuted    numerous    poems    to  the 
St.  Nicholas,  Portland  Transcript,  and  other 

r 


HELEN  MAUD  MERRILL. 

equally  prominent  joui'nals.  In  person  she 
is  a  little  below  t  he  medium  height,  with  blue 
eyes  and  light-brown  hair.  Slie  still  resides 
in  the  city  of  Portland,  engaged  in  painting 
and  literary  wofk. 


ALL  ALONE. 

"  Alone!  "  ah,  well  I  know  the  word, 

For  I  have  .soi'rows  of  my  own, 
And  in  the  broad  highway  of  life 

I,  too,  stand  "  all  alone." 
For  who  can  tell    the  cai'eless  crowd. 

How  slimild  tlicj-  know  or  iindiTstaiiil 
That  hiddt'n  underneath  this  mask 

Lie  aspirations,  high  and  grand. 
Wliat  matters  it  they  i)ass  nu'  by. 

Nor  stay  to  oll'ei'  comfort-  crude, 
.Since  licre  alone,  1  silently 

Hold  converse  with  a  multitude. 


®- 


Why  should  I  care  for  those  who  gaze  • 

On  me  with  cold,  indifferent  eye. 
Since  oft  there  comes  a  loving  throng 

Who  never  once  have  passed  me  by. 
And  yet,  this  human  heart  of  mine 

For  human  sympathy  oft  yearns; 
Yet  that  in  which  deception  lurks 

My  whole  soul  lises  up  and  spurns. 
For  peace  and  truth  and  love  are  mine. 

And  wheresoe'er  these  powers  are  known 
1  walk  serene,  content  to  know 

That  I  am  never  all  alone. 
But  human  eye  a  limit  has 

Which  may  not  penetrate  the  heart; 
And  so  I  clasp  my  faith  more  close, 

And  patiently  I  walk  apart. 
For  well  I  know  there'll  come  a  time 

When  I'll  no  longer  walk  alone. 
For  in  the  home  that  is  to  be 

My  heart  shall  know  and  claim  its  own. 


THE  ANGEL  WIFE. 

Death's  mystery  is  hers  at  last. 

Through  mystic  portals  she  has  passed 
Into  the  limitless  unknown, — 

The  journey  each  must  take  —  alone. 
What  was  the  secret  dying  brought  'i 

How  was  that  icy  stillness  wrought':' 
What  were  the  visions,  floating  far. 

That  greeted  her  from  the  •>  gates  ajar':'  " 
For  with  that  heavenly  smile  of  peace. 

When  her  pure  spirit  found  release. 
Bright  angels  in  the  azure  dome 

Were  sent  to  guide  her  safely  home. 
Now  to  my  waiting  ear  there  seems 

A  voice  to  come,  as  in  my  dreams; 
These  are  the  words  I  .seem  to  hear 

From  the  beautiful  soul  that  hovers  near: 
"  Life  in  the  spirit  world  is  sweet. 

But  needs  j-ou,  dear,  to  be  complete; 
Grieve  not  for  that  frail  form  of  clay 

Which  mother  earth  enfolds  to-day; 
"  Nor  think  that  I  am  gone  from  you 

To  a  far-off  Iieaven,  beyond  the  blue: 
Tliought  cannot  bind  this  world,  so  fair. 

It's  'many  mansions'  are  ev'rywherf. 
"  And  do  not  think,  because  your  sight 

Is  wrapped  in  earth's  gray  mist  of  iiiglit. 
That  I  forget  my  promise,  deai-. 

To  come  again  your  heart  to  cheer. 
•  '  With  soul  to  soul,  and  mind  to  mind. 

A  closer  union  we  shall  Ihui; 
Hut  lives  on  earth  are  liviil  alone. 

But  here  we  know  as  we  are  known  ! 
These  are  the  words  that  come  to  me 

From  the  beautiful  soid  I  cannot  see. 
As  I  sit  in  the  twilight  shades  alone, 

To  catch  the  sound  of  w.  seraph's  tone. 


-© 


88- 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    i'OETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


171 


ALONZO  L.RICE. 

Born  :  Little  Blue  River,  Ind.,  June  12, '07. 
The  poems  of  Mi-.  Rice  liuve  appeared  in  tlie 
Yankee  Blade,  Tndiiinapolis  Ji)urnal.  and  the 
periodieal  press  peueially.   "S\i\  Uiee  is  known 


ALONZO   L.  RICE. 

as  the  Shelb.v  eoup.ty  poet,  and  his  produc- 
tions have  attracted  quite  a  little  attention  in 
the  world  of  literature,  and  he  is  undoubtedly 
making-  a  name  for  himself.  He  is  still  a  resi- 
dent of  his  native  place. 


©■ 


THE  DESERTED  MANSION. 

Deserted  mansion,  fallen  to  decay. 
The  marble  lion  on  thy  gateway  sleeps 
Serene;    tlie  hawk   upon   thy  arras 
sweeps 

On  never-wearj'  pinions,  and  tlie  prey 

Is  toiling  upward,  from  the  fields  away. 
In  hope  of  vain  escape;  in  tangled  deeps 
The  weary. pan  ting  liound  unchanging  keeps 

The  wounded  stag  forevermore  at  bay. 
All  is  unclianged,  but  never  on  tlie  liills. 

With  dawnhig  glimpses  of  the  early  morn. 
Is  seen  Diana's  god,  as  deep  he  tills 

With  rounded  cheeks  his  loud  and  alien  horn. 
Nor  evermore  along-  the  sunset  rills. 

Return  the  reapers  with  the  slieaves  of  corn. 

DEAR  LOVE,  COULD  I  HOPE. 
Dear  love,  could  T  hope  in  the  future  to  know, 
Tlie  sun  from  the  ocean  of  sorrow 


Would  rise  in  his  splendor  and  inllow  his  glow 
On  the  bosom  of  cloudless  to-morruw  : 
The  rim  of  the  bubbles 
Gives  token  of  troubles. 
And  over  tlie  waste  of  the  threatening-  skj-, 
Tlie  sabre  of    cranes    on    its    former  couise 
doubles, 
Uncertain  and  doubtful  as  whither  to  lly. 
The  sun  in  his  weakness  lias  sunk  in  the  sea, 

With  clouds  are  his  tributes  remaining; 
The  sheep  are  gone  liome,  and  the  birds  in  the 
tree. 
The  owl  in  the  turret's  complaining-; 
And,  in  the  dark  thicket, 
Anear,  the  lone  cricket. 
Forever  is  cliirping-  and  singing-  his  tuue; 
The  sentry  of  sorrow,  the  citadel's  picket. 

Awaiting- the  orb  of  the  rounded,  red  moon. 
The  day  lias  departed  and  calm  is  the  night. 

The  elfins  speed  by  on  their  rambles; 
The  glow-worms  their  lanterns  have  hung  to 
the  sight. 
On  points  of  the  grasses  and  brambles; 
On  pinions  of  leather. 
Alone  and  together. 
The  bats  are  now  -winging  in  reveland  rout; 
The  owl  in  his  bower  sits  wondering-  whether 
To  dream  or  to  waken  the  vale  with  a  shout. 
The  insects  are  harping,  the  dark  colonnade 

Of  tlie  forest  resounds  to  the  revel; 
And,  Dian's  red  orb  for  an  hour  delayed. 
Now  gleams  o'er  the  meadow's  low  level: 
And.  thro'  her  dominions 
On  fluttering-  pinions. 
The  night-hawk  is  sailing-  in  ominous  dread, 
And  over  the  vallej's  and  marshes  the  minions 

Of  darkness  are  trailing  in  mantles  of  red. 
My  heart  and  affection  turns  ever  to  thee. 

And  swerves  like  the  needle's  emotion; 
Unknowing-  the  place  where  the  fairest  can 
be. 
So  fervent  and  deep  the  devotion: 
A  hope  that  abideth, 
Wliatever  betideth, 
Tho' dimmed  like  tlie  glance  of  a  glittering 
star. 
Is  sought  for  the  first,  when  the  storm-cloud 
divideth 
Outshining  the  rest  of  tlie  circle  liv  far. 


ADIEU. 

Out  o'er  the  ocean  of  the  mornnig-  blue. 
The  wliite  sail  lessens  in  the  misty  haze; 
And,    on    the    lieadlands,   weary  watchers 
raise 

Their  hands  against  the  sun  and  peering- thro' 

The  intervening-  vapors,  cry :  >•  Adieu 
To  thy  delightful  presence;  'mid  the  days 
The  mem'ry  of  thy  being-  sweetly  stays. 

But  grace  and  beauty  fade  away  with  you.' 


-* 


©- 


® 


172 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


ISAAC  MCLELLAN. 

Born  :  Portland,  Me.,  May  21, 1806. 
Several  volumes  of  poems  have  appeared 
from  the  pen  of  this  writer.    Three  were  pub- 
lished in  Boston,  entitled  Fall  of  tlie  Indian, 

■riir  Vr.ir.  aihOruint  Auburn.  In  is^ti  lie  pub- 


J^^- 


\^ 


ISAAC   M'[.E[.LAN". 

lished  a  neat  volume  of  some  two  liuiidred 
and  seventj'-two  pages,  entitled  Poems  of  the 
Rod  and  Gun,  which  has  been  well  and  favor- 
ably received.  Mr.  McLellan  is  now  a  resident 
of  Long  Island  at  Green  port. 


®- 


SEA-GULL. 

Sea-bird,  skimmer  of  the  waves, 

Whitlier  doth  tliy  journey  tend? 
Is  it  to  some  soutliern  sliore. 

Where  the  meadow-rushes  bend, 
Wliere  the  orange-l)lossoms  blow. 

Where  the  aloe  and  tlie  i)alm 
Flourish,  and  magnolias  glow. 

Filling  all  the  air  with  balm? 
Katlier  is  thy  pilgrim  wing 

Fleeting  to  some  nortiiern  bar. 
Where  tiie  rocky  reef  juts  out. 

And  the  sand-beach  strotciics  far? 
There  in  hot  and  silvery  sand 

All  thy  pearly  eggs  to  lay. 
There  to  teach  thy  little  brood 

O'er  the  t  umbling  surf  to  play, 
llap'ly  sailing  o'er  the  brine. 

Painted  'gainst  a  lurid  sky, 


On  the  gray  horizon's  verge 

Thou  dost  even  now  descry 
Some  lone  bark  with  shatter'd  mast, 

Bulwarks  swept,  and  ragged  sail. 
Fighting  with  the  ocean-blast. 

Lost  in  shipwreck  and  iu  gale. 
Restless,  roving,  lonely  bird. 

Wanderer  of  the  pathless  seas. 
Now  where  tropic  woods  are  stirr'd, 

Now  where  floating  icebergs  freeze; 
Seldom  doth  the  solid  shore 

See  thy  wings  expand  no  more. 


ON  LONG  ISLAND  SOUND. 
I  wander  daily  by  thy  shore. 

Thy  rocky  shore,  Long  Island  Sound, 
And  in  my  little  boat  explore 

The  secrets  of  thy  depths  profound. 
I  trace  the  great  brown  rocks  far  down, 

O'er  which  the  salt  tides  ebb  and  flow. 
Encrusted  with  their  rugged  shells. 

Rocks  where  the  ribbon'd  seaweeds  grow; 
And  there  the  glancing  flsh  I  view. 

The  weakfish  and  the  dusky  bass: 
The  bergalls  and  the  blackflsh  schools. 

And  silvery  porgees  as  they  pass. 
Fast-anchor'd  in  my  swinging  boat. 

The  welcome  nibble  to  await, 
I  feel  the  sheepshead  at  the  line. 

The  sea-bass  tugging  at  the  bait; 
And  as  I  gaze  across  the  wave 

I  see  the  shining  sturgeon  leap. 
Springing  in  air  with  sudden  flash. 

Then  splashing,  plunging  to  the  deep; 
I  see  the  porpoise  schools  sweep  by. 

In  sportive  gambolings  at  their  play, 
PuflBng  and  snorting  as  they  rise. 

Wheeling  and  tumbling  on  their  way; 
And  never  wearied  in  my  gaze 

As  o'er  the  blue  expanse  it  roams. 
Viewing  the  endless  billows  roll. 

White-crested  with  the  yeasty  foams. 


THE  SHOT  AT  THE  START. 

The  sun  had  tipt  the  horizon's  edge. 

Launching  in  air  a  shaft  of  gold. 
Across  tlie  stream,  athwart  the  sedge. 

And  where  the  rippling  currents  roU'd: 
A  boat  was  pushing  from  the  shore, 

A  fowler's  heart  beat  high  with  glee. 
Yet  ere  the  boatman  touch'dan  oar. 

To  reach  the  wooded  island  near. 
An  early  flock,  on  rushing  wing. 

Flew  o'er  the  stream's  iH'Uucid  face; 
When  sudden  report  did  ring. 

And  ceas'd  a  wild  duck  from  the  race. 
The  artist  hatli  depicted  well 
Tha  "Starting  Shot,"  and  what  befell. 


-® 


ee- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


178 


-S 


REV.  DRYDEN  WM.  PHELPS. 

Born:  New  Haven,  Conn., 
After  gnuluatiiig  at  the  Hopkins  granimai' 
scliool  in  liis  native  city,  Dryden  passed  one 
year  in  Yale  college,  and  three  in  Brown  uni- 
versity, graduating  at  the  latter  institution  in 
1877.  The  three  years  following  he  was  as- 
sistant editor  of  tlie  Christian  Secretary, 
when  lie  entered  the  Hai'tford  theological 
seminary,  iu  which  he  spent  two  years.    In 


^^%^ 


REV.   DRYDEN  WM.   PHELPS. 

1887  he  was  ordained  as  pastor  of  the  Baptist 
church  in  Wilmington,  Vt.,  a  position  tliat 
terminated  in  1889.  The  poems  of  the  Kev. 
D.  W.  Phelps  have  appeared  in  the  Christian 
Secretary,  the  World's  Crisis,  Vermont  Phoe- 
nix, Our  Home  Guards,  and  other  journals  of 
prominence.  In  person  he  is  a  little  above 
the  average  height,  yet  he  weighs  about  180 
pounds,  and  is  a  very  pleasant  and  intellectual 
gentleman. 


©- 


THOUGHTS  AT  THE  WATER-SIDE. 

Look  at  the  bright  blue  sea, 

Think  of  thy  Father's  care; 

Child  of  mortality, 

O  look  to  Him  in  prayer. 

He  calleth  thee  to-day, 

"  My  son,  give  me  thy  lieart." 

How  canst  thou  still  delay? 

Choose  now  the  better  part. 


Then  shalt  thou  joyful  look 
Upon  the  bright  blue  sea, 
And  read  as  in  a  book 
Thy  immortality. 


TO  THE  MOURNER. 

In  hours  of  grief,  oppressed  with  tribulation. 
When  storms  beat  sore  within  the  troubled 
breast. 
How  sweet  to  know  the  author  of  salvation 
Said:   "Come  to  me,  and  1  will  give  you 
rest." 
Those   words   attend,    O    mourner   sad   and 
lonely; 
Our  Lord  on  earth  was  often  lone  and  sad. 
When  loved  ones  sleep,  the  thought  of  Jesus 
only 
Can  dry  our  teai's  and  bid  the  heart  be  glad. 
The  day  draws  nigh  —  how  joyous  the  reflec- 
tion! — 
When  Christ  shall  come,      ;ii  j;l(.ry     from 
above. 
The  Lord  Himself,  our  life  ;uk1  resurrection. 
Shall  crow^n  us  His  wlioni    now  unseen  we 
love. 


THE  LIGHTS  OF  THE  EARTH. 
Sun,  thou  king  of   day  who  sendest  light  to 

our  dwelling, 
O  how  grand  thou  appearest  at  noon  in  fiery 

splendor ! 
Who  can  stand  thy  glare?  'tis  not  poor  earth- 

holden  mortals: 
No,  thy  bliudint!-  gaze  o'eiconies  our  shnii- 

Sigbtea  vision. 
Thou  art  a  work  of  God,  and  manifestest  His 

splendor. 
'Tis  no  wonder  that  people  of  old,  not  knowing 

their  Maker, 
Should  have  worshiped  tliee,  and  paid  their 

devout  adoration 
Which  belonged  to  God,  to  thee  His  horrible 

emblem! 
Moon,  thou  queen  of  tlie  night,  of  thesvma 

poor  imitation, 
Where  would  be  thy  light  if  the  sun  did  not 

freely  be.'^tow  it? 
Yet  thou  art  gentler  far  than  tiie  hot  burning 

day-king  who  lights  thee. 
And  we  love  thy  beautiful  gentleness,  pride 

of  the  evening! 
Stars,  ye  jewels  who  deck  the  lovely  expanse 

of  the  heavens 
When  the  moon  has  come  to  whisper  of  love 

and  the  angels. 
Yes,  we  love  ye  the  best,  O  bright  magnificent 

gold  drops ! 
And  in  ye  the  most  can  we  praise  the  Eternal 

Creator. 


* 


©- 


174 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OF    AMERICA. 


BIRCH  ARNOLD. 

Born  :  Delavan,  Wis. 
Birch  Arnold  is  the  author  of  Until  the  Day 
Breals,  au  essentially  American   novel,  which 
has  been  verj'  favorably  received.    Her  poems 
have  aijpeared  in  tlie    leading-    periodicals  of 


birch  arnolu. 
America.  This  lady  is  a  g-if  ted  conversation- 
alist, a  graceful  elocutionist,  and  ably  renders 
selections  from  her  writing's  in  a  very  pleas- 
ing manner.  She  now  resides  in  Armada, 
Michigan. 


©- 


FORGETFULNESS. 
If,  in  the  viewless  haunts  of  time. 

Some  gift  of  fortune,  treasured  there 
In  garnered  fullness,  might  be  mine. 

In  answer  to  entreating  prayer, 
I  scarce  could  claim  a  boon  to  bless. 

To  equal  thine  —  Forgctfulness! 

A  haunting  shadow  sups  with  me, 
To  greet  tlie  morning's  glad  surprise. 

With  oidy  .sense  of  misery 
And  bitter  meaning  in  it's  eyes; 

Alas!  I  cannot  se(>k  redress 
Except  in  thee  —  Forgetf ulncss ! 

The  summer  suns  may  rise  and  set. 
And  blossomed  fragrance  fill  the  air, 

I  see  thro'  tears,  nor  can  forget 
That  ever  liovering  wraith  of  caie; 


Though  sorrow  makes  the  sunshine  less. 
They're  one  with  thee,  Forgetf  uluessl 

Each  heart  must  know  its  day  of  grief. 
All  earthly  things  must  fade  and  die. 

Remembrance  brings  perchance  relief. 
Or  bitterness  of  tear  and  sigh : 

For  me,  no  other  boon  can  bless 
Alike  to  thee,—  Forgctfulness! 


THE  ROUND  OF  BLUE. 
Oh,  Maude,  sweet  Maude,  with  your  golden 

hair. 
Your  witching  eyes,  and  your  winsome  air  — 
Do  you  know  the  mischievous  things  you  do. 
Crocheting  the  endless  round  of  blue";:' 

I  have  watched  your  taper  fingers,  white  — 
Now  in,  now  out,  now  left,  now  right. 
As  the  glittering  needle  willing  flew. 
Crocheting  the  endless  round  of  blue. 

At  first  my  eyes  you  sought  to  chain 
To  the  tangled  threads  of  your  azure  skein; 
At  length,  I  think,  you  bolder  grew. 
Crocheting  the  endless  round  of  blue. 

For  over  my  heart  that  tangled  thread, 
Over  my  eyes,  and  over  my  head. 
In  a  filmy  chain,  you  deftly  threw. 
Crocheting  the  endless  round  of  blue. 

I  do  not  ask,  sweet  Maude,  to  be 
From  the  pretty  prison  e'er  set  free; 
I  know  full  well  there  are  jailers  few 
Like  the  one  crocheting  the  round  of  blue. 

If  the  fairy  chain  is  woven  strong. 
To  hold  me  fast,  and  hold  me  long  — 
Then,  Maude,  weave  on,  if  this  be  true; 
Weave  ever  on  the  round  of  blue. 


A  WIND-BLOWN  SOUL. 

"The  deepest  pang  of  hell? 

'Tis  this  remembering 
In  present  griefs,  the  joys  of  yesterday." 

Aye,  look  upon  me  while  I  linger 

Behind  the  prison  bars  of  sin  ! 
I  can  no  longer  bear  in  silence. 

Or  shut  the  burning  truth  within. 

I  saw  it  speak  in  eye  and  gesture, 

Tho'  dead  upon  my  lips  it  lay. 
Until  It  burst  its  bonds  asunder. 

And  found  my  soul  the  potter's  clay. 

That  kiss!    Oh,  angels  in  yon  heaven. 
Is  yours  a  deari-r  joy  than  mine'? 

Upon  my  tlirobbing  lips  it  lingers. 
And  maddens  me  with  love's  strong  wine. 

And  no  remor.se!  Ah,  Jcsu!  shrive  me! 

A  dagger  stroke  my  l)roken  vow  — 
But  deepiM- still  lives  unforgottcn 

The  love  1  had  and  might  have  now. 


-« 


© 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


© 


REV.  JOHN  WESLEY  ADAMS. 

Born:  May  23,  1832. 

This  gentleman  is  a  lineal  descendant  of  the 
presidents  of  tliat  name.  In  1858  he  joined 
the  New  Hampshire  Conference  of  the  M.  E. 
church,  and  has  held  pastorates  in  Rye, 
Derry,  So.  Xewmarkot,  No.  Salem,  E.  Canaan, 


REV.  JOHN  WESLEY  ADAMS. 

Winchester.  Gt.  Falls— Hig-h  St.,  Tilton,  New- 
port, Exeter,  Keene,  and  in  1889  he  took  a 
j'ear's  rest  at  Chelsea,  Mass.,  where  he  is  still 
located.  For  several  years  Rev.  J.  W.  Adams 
has  been  president  of  the  trustees  of  the  Con- 
ference Seminary  and  Female  College. 


m- 


OUR  BABY. 

Though  babies  count  up  by  the  million. 

And  all  of  them  fit  for  ilie  show. 
Yet  ours  beats  the  sum  total  billion. 

Because  she  is  our  baby,  you  know. 
Her  ringlets!  O,  their  like  never  can  be, 

They  all  of  them  curl  just  so; 
You  ought  not  to  smile  at  my  fancy. 

Because  she's  our  baby,  you  know. 
Her  complexion  out-rivals  the  fairest; 

The  cheeks  have  an  ang-elic  glow; 
The  dimples  that  fleck  them  the  rarest, 

Because  she's  our  baby,  you  know. 
Transcendant  expression  and  lustre. 

And  clear  as  the  waters  that  flow. 


Are  the  eyes  with  which  heaven  hath  blessed 
her. 
Because  she's  our  baby,  you  know. 

Herlips  are  like  lilacs  in  blossom, 
And  the  nectar  with  which  tliey  o'erflow 

Is  sweeter  than  hive-stores  in  autumn. 
Because  she's  our  baby,  you  know. 

Her  laughter  is  seraph-like  music 

Wafted  through  the  dear  home  here  below, 
And  her  sayings  more  sage  than  the  Delphic, 

Because  she's  our  baby,  you  know. 

She's  a  darling,  a  picture,  a  pet, 
A  cherub  from  the  crown  to  the  toe; 

She  has  ne'er  found  her  equal  as  yet, 
Because  she's  our  baby,  you  know. 


DEDICATION   OF   HEDDING   CHAUTAU- 
QUA HALL. 

Chautauqua  hall !  Tlie  People's  College, 
Now  offers  to  the  million  knowledge. 
True  Science,  joined  with  classic  lore. 
For  all  doth  open  wide  the  door. 
Chautauqua  hall,  all  hail  to  thee. 
The  plebeian's  university. 
Where  maid  and  matron,  son  and  sire, 
A  broader  culture  may  acquire  I 

To-daj'  we  enter  and  possess 

This  Temple  in  the  wilderness. 

Now  with  the  sainted  Hedding's  name. 

We  liumbly,  solemly  proclaim 

That  it  is  herewith  blest,  baptized; 

And  thus  may  it  be  recognized. 

Translated  and  regenerate, 
This  Ijuilding-  we  now  dedicate 
To  God,  for  worship  and  for  praise  — 
To  man,  tliat  he  may  learn  God's  ways  — 
To  science,  as  by  God  revealed  — 
To  nature,  now  a  book  unsealed  — 
To  preaching  of  the  sacred  Word  — 
To  teaching-  what  may  be  inferred 
Fiom  all  the  Great  Revealer  writes. 
Or  by  his  Spirit's  voice  indites. 

And  may  this  good  work  so  prevail 
That  its  good  fruit  sliall  never  fail! 
'Tis  not  too  much  to  hope  and  pray 
That,  when  we  all  have  passed  away. 
Our  children's  children  here  shall  crown 
This  alma  mater  as  their  own. 

From  henceforth  this  shall  be  a  shrine  — 

A  Mecca,  hallowed  and  divine  — 

A  fount  of  light,  and  life,  and  love  — 

A  helper  to  the  heaven  above, 

God  bless  this  place,  this  work,  this  day: 

So  mote  it  be,  let  all  now  saj'! 


•® 


*■ 


17G 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


© 


© 


DEDICATION    2nd  N.  H.  REGT,  GETTYS- 
BURG MONUMENT. 

Ye  martj'red  braves,  in  whom  the  flame 

Of  ferveut  patriotism  glowed; 
Who  to  avert  your  Nation's  shame 

Sinceritj-  bj-  valor  showed, 

If  it  is  given  j'ou  to  see 

What  here  transpired,  if  from 
The  hills  of  immortality, 

To  join  our  ranks,  once  more  you"ve  come  ; 

As  guests  unseen,  but  ne'er  forgot. 

Chief  honors  we  accord  to  you ; 
And  bid  you  welcome  to  this  spot, 

To  join  in  mem'ry's  grand  review. 

If  still  a  comrade's  mundane  voice 

May  vibrate  on  the  spirit's  ear. 
Ye  host  invisible  rejoice. 

The  cause  you  died  for  triumphed  here. 

The  Nation's  verdict  is  "Well  done!" 
Tlie  Union,  Treason  sought  to  sever. 

Binds  sixty  millions  into  one. 
And  one  they  shall  remain  forever. 

Your  grateful  country  watches  o'er 

your  mold'ring  forms  which  round  us  lie, 

And  bids  each  patriot  adore 
Tlie  names  that  were  not  born  to  die. 

Among  New  Hampshire's  rugged  hills, 
Tlie  old  and  young  your  deeds  rehearse; 

Your  memory  like  dew  distills. 
And  poets  praise  you  in  their  verse. 

In  our  enduring  granite,  we 
Have  symbolized  your  worthy  fame; 

And  we  shall  teach  posterity 
To  honor  j'ou  the  same. 

A  part  of  the  old  Granite  State, 

We  bring  this  day  atid  rear  to  you ; 
This  comely  shaft  we  dedicate 

To  those  who  died  so  brave  and  true. 
Long  as  this  monument  shiill  stand. 

And  cold  and  heat  and  storm  defy; 
May  it  tell  where  your  honored  band. 

The  heroes  of  the  Second  lie. 
And  now  ye  braves,  once  more  adieu ! 

Sleep  on,  ye  torn  and  weary  ones; 
We'll  meet  you  at  the  grand  review; 

Sleep  on.  New  Hampshire's  honored  sons. 

Ye  sun,  watch  o'er  them  day  by  day: 

Keep  guard  ye  moon  and  stars  by  night: 
Ye  breath  of  morn  and  even  play 

Sweet  requiems,  where  they  won  the  fight. 
Not  for  yourselves,  ye  lived  and  died; 

Devotion  so  unselflsli  still 
Inspires  us  with  a  patriot's  pride. 

Our  own  great  mission  to  fulfill. 
Once  more,  O  Gettysburg,  to  thee 

We  bid  a  long  and  sad  adieu; 


Thou  w;:st  our  great  Thermopyle  — 
Thou  wast  our  bloody  Waterloo. 

We  sigh  o'er  what  thy  victory  cost; 

But  since  the  oblation  was  to  be; 
We  count  the  life  and  treasure  lost. 

As  naught  to  Union,  Liberty. 

Adieu  then  Gettysburg  again  I 
To  all  these  scenes  which  we  review  — 

This  sacred  liill,  where  lies  the  slain. 
Sublime,  historic  field,  adieu. 


MEMORIAL  DAY. 
'Tls  well  to  close  the  marts  of  trade. 

To  hush  the  din  of  bands  and  wheels; 
In  mournful  columns  to  parade. 

And  speak  the  loss  the  nation  fells. 

Let  the  drum  again  be  muffled. 
And  once  more  the  dirge  be  chanted; 

For  in  that  long  sleep  unruffled. 
Lie  the  loved  and  the  lamented. 

Clothe  the  flag  with  funeral  emblems, 

Toll  the  church  bell  softly,  slowly, 
Sweetlj'  sing  the  solemn  anthems. 

Bend  before  your  maker  holy. 
Daily  o'er  their  quiet  pillows. 

May  be  heard  the  breezes  sighing: 
Morn  and  eve  the  dewy  willows. 

Wet  the  sod  where  they  are  lying. 
O'er  each  unknown  grave  in  glorj% 

Waves  the  flag  they  loved  so  well; 
O'er  each  battle  field  so  gory. 

Each  star  walks  a  sentinel. 
Let  us  then  like  worthy  brothers. 

Who  were  with  them  when  they  perished, 
Show  that  wLiile  we  love  all  others. 

They  are  still  most  fondly  cherished. 
Bring  for  those  in  whom  you  trusted. 

Spring-time's  choiciest,  virgin  flowers, 
Plucked  from  the  old  cherished  liomestead. 

Once  to  them  familiar  bowers. 
Let  their  fragrance  and  their  beauty. 

Symbolize  their  noble  vicing. 
Virtuous  in  doing  duty. 

Virtuous  in  bravely  dying. 
Bring  from  God's  conservatory. 

Evergreens:  Let  wreaths  and  crosses 
Tell  again  the  wondrous  story 

Of  Salvation,  won  by  losses. 
Pausing  wliere  the  flags  are  found. 

Lay  them  doM-n,  where  rest  tiie  braves; 
Let  each  grave  each  year  be  crowned 

Decorate  the  soldiers'  graves. 
And  may  you  forevermore, 

Guard  the  jewels  they  have  won. 
Till  freedom  reai'hes  every  slion' 

Tliat  the  sun  now  shines  upon. 


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LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL  POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


177 


-© 


BELLA  FRENCH  SWISHER. 

Born  in  Georgia. 

In  1867-8  Bella  was  engaged  in  the  literary 
departnaent  of  Pomeroy's  La  Crosse  Demo- 
crat. In  1869,  with  less  than  a  hundred  dollars 
capital,  she  leased  a  newspaper  office  at 
Brownsville,  Minn.,  and  there  started  the 
Western  Progress.  Two  years  later  she  ac- 
cepted a  position  on  tlie  St.  Paul  Pioneer,  since 
coiisolidatod  with  tli<>  Pn»ss.  Bella  also  edited 
iiiul   iiublislicil   thf    Uiisy    Wfst,    thr   pioneer 


^ 


MRS.  BELLA  F.   SWISHER. 

literary  magazine  of  Minnesota.  In  1874  she 
began  issuing  at  La  Crosse,  The  American 
Sketch  Book,  an  illustrated  historical  maga- 
zine of  eighty  pages,  which  publication  was 
removed  to  Texas  in  1877,  and  was  published 
regularly  until  the  year  18*3.  Married  in  1878 
to  Col.  John  M.  Swisher,  a  well  known  Texan, 
she  now  has  a  beautiful  home  surrounded  by 
every  comfort.  During  1889  two  of  her  works 
were  published:  Rocks  and  Shoals,  a  story 
that  shows  fine  ability,  both  in  the  carefully 
constructed  plot  and  style  of  the  romance; 
the  other,  Florecita,  a  poem-novel,  is  her 
master-piece,  which  is  written  as  plainly  as 
prose,  yet  having  all  the  melody  of  true  poet- 
ry. The  short  poems  of  Mrs.  Bella  F.  Swisher, 
if  published,  would  fill  several  volumes.  She 
now  resides  with  her  husband  in  Austin, 
Texas,  engaged  in  literary  work.  The  career 
of  Mrs.  Swisher  has  been  a  very  eventful  one, 
in  which  she  has  shown  great  ability. 


EXTRACTS. 

FROM  THE   "SIN  OF  EDITH  DEAN." 

Though  just  above  the  hill-tops,  shone  the 

sun, 
The  farmer's  day  of  toil  was  well  begun. 
Slow-stepping  oxen,  patient  and  sad-eyed. 
Moved  in  obedience  by  their  master's  side, 
While  going  forth  to  drag  the  heavy  plow. 
Preparing  land  for  later  crops;  and  now. 
Released  from  barnyards,  here  and  there,  a 

cow 
Went  lowing  down  a  path  or  lane  to  say, 
To  her  companions,  she  was  on  her  way 
And  soon  would   join  them  at  the  meadow 

brook. 
But,  each  and  all,  without  a  backward  look  — 
Though  pausing,  now  and    then,  to  nip  the 

grass 
Which  offered  tempting  morsels,  hard  to  pass 
And  touch  not,  trudged  along,  no  thought  in 

mind 
Of  any  mate,  that,  lowing,  came  behind. 

The  smooth-plumed  pigeons  circled  in  the  air, 
With  full  intent  to  gain  an  ample  share 
Of  yellow  grain  which  little  Marguirite 
Was  scattering  about  for  fowls  to  eat.    •    . 

The  glory  of  the  spring  was  everywhere  — 
'Twas  breathed  forth  in  the  sweetness  of  the 

air. 
Reflected  from  the  cloud-flecked  skies  of  blue 
And  from  the  rippling  water's  deeper  hue; 
It  glistened    in    the    thorn's   sweet,    snowy 

flowers; 
And  in  the  May-blooms  falling  down  in  show- 
ers. 
When  stirred  by  gust  of  wind,  that  bore  along 
The  blossoms'  fragrance  and  the  wild  birds' 
song. 

The  scene  was  ever  changing.    Willows  threw 
Their   shadows    where   the    yellow  cowslips 

grew 
Beside  the  placid  pools ;  and  near  to  these. 
Were  less  adventurous  oaks  and  other  trees: 
And,  here  and  there,  were  piles  of  maple  keys ; 
The  Dutchman's  breeches  bent  above  the  rills; 
The  pink  arbutus  trailed  adown  the  hills; 
And  modest  violets,  both  white  and  blue, 
Which  everywhere  in  great  abundance  grew. 
Their  fragrance,  to  the  balmy  breezes,  tlirew. 

As  sunset    neared,  the    hills  became  more 

steep. 
And  the  ravines  proportionately  deep. 
A  table-land  was  reached;  from  which  high 

plain. 
Was  seen,  beyond  the  fields  of  growing  grain, 
A  winding  river.    On  the  other  side. 
Arose  the  houses  of  the  village  Clyde, 
Which  nestled  in  a  valley;  and  away 
Toward  the  west,  a  range  of  mountains  laj-. 


m 


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LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


WHAT  WILL  THE  WEATHER  BE  TO- 
MORROW. 
"  What  will  the  weather  be  to-morrow?  "— 

Soft  southern  breezes  and  a  cloudless  sky  ?— 
Or  will  the  sun,  his  beaming'  face,  be  hiding- 
While  comes  the  storm-king  rushing  madly 
by? 
Or  it  may  be  the  lightest  clouds  will  gather. 

And  earth  will  be  refreshed  by  gentle  rain ! 
Ah !  to  this  heart  of  mine  may  come  to-morrow 

A  sweeter  happiness  or  deeper  pain. 
"  What  will  the  weather  be  to-morrow?  "  — 

If  it  be  storm,  we  would  not  sit  in  fear. 
Imagining  a  thousand  nameless  terrors. 

Relentless    and  swift-winged,  are   drawing 
near. 
And  if  the  sun  of  hope  and  joy  is  waiting 

Another  morning,  on  our  path,  to  rise. 
We  would  not  ask  lor  some  clairvoyant  vision 

To  rob  the  morrow  of  its  glad  surprise. 
•'  What  will  the  weather  be  to-morrow?  " 

Ah  I  it  is  well  for  us  we  do  not  know ; 
For  life  has  many,  many  storms  that  gather 

And,  breaking,  lay  our  dreamland  temples 
low! 
And  Hope  would  oft  be  crushed  beneath  the 
ruins  — 

Since  she  had  not  the  strength  to  fight  her 
way. 
If     burdened   with    to-morrow's    storm  and 
darkness. 

While  struggling  with  the  burdens  of  to-day. 
"  What  will  the  weather  be  to-morrow?  " 

Why  should  we  care  at  all  to  know? 
Our  Father's  loving  will  hath  planned  It, 

And  be  it  sun  or  storm,  'tis  Ijetter  so. 
While  we  are  peering  with  our  clouded  vision 

To  find  what  each  to-morrow  has  in  store. 
He,  with  a  clearer  sight  our  feet  is  guiding; 

And  knowing  this,  why  should  we  wish  for 
more? 


O,  many  are  the  dark  clouds,  passing 
Between  the  earth  and  glorious  sun ; 

And  many  ai-e  the  doubts,  obscuring 
The  ligiit  of  the  Eternal  One. 


Si 


THE  YOUNGSTER  WHO  SURVIVED. 
Oft  mothers  speak  and  poets  sing, 

In  tones  of  mournful  pride. 
Which  to  our  eyi's  the  teardrops  bring. 

Of  '.  the  little  l)oy  that  died." 
But  far  more  real,  though  less  sublime, 
Will  be  the  subject  of  this  rhyme: — 
The  impish  youngster  who  survived 
And  from  his  cradle  grew  and  thrived. 
He  has  more  tricks  than  magic  art; 

More  phases  than  the  moon ; 
Has  neither  conscience  nor  a  lieai't ; 


At  work,  an  idle  loon. 
His  stomach  is  of  iron  make. 
Though,  rubber  like,  it  will  not  break; 
And  every  mischief,  yet  contrived. 
The  youngster  knows  who  has  survived. 
At  sight  of  him  dogs  disappear 

As  though  a  cyclone  came; 
And  kitty  lifts  her  back,  in  fear. 

At  mention  of  his  name. 
E'en  mamma  oft  is  heard  to  sigh 
And  pant  for  breath  when  he  is  nigh; 
For  good  resolves  are  all  short-lived, 
Made  by  the  youngster  who  survived. 
He  worries,  teases,  snubs  us  all, 

And,  like  a  whirlwind,  lays 
Our  hopes  in  ruins  —  great  and  small; 

And,  with  our  heart-strings,  plays. 
But  answer  this,  all  ye  who  can  — 
Who  makes  the  darling  duck  of  a  man? 
Why  just  the  youngster  who  survived. 
And  from  his  cradle  grew  and  thrived. 


I've  seen  a  plant,  that  might  have  raised 
A  form  of  grace  the  world  had  praised, 

Encumbered  by  some  foreign  thing. 
Until  in  reaching  for  the  light. 
Its  shape  became  distorted,  quite. 

While  meager  was  its  blossoming. 
I've  seen  a  soul  direct  from  God, 
Encumbered  thus,  and  downward  trod 

Ry  cruel  and  unpitying  feet. 
Till  it,  as  well,  distorted  grew. 
And  'round  it,  little  sweetness  threw. 

Before  its  ruin  was  complete. 


EXTRACT  FROM  "  FLORECITA." 

CLAIRE  TO  PAUt,. 

"Paul,  mj'  Cousin: 

"  It  is  long 

Since  you  sent  a  scratch  of  pen. 
Fearing  something  may  be  wrong, 

I  now  write  to  you  again. 
"  We  will  have  a  wedding  soon! 

Do  you  by  my  words  abide? 
On  the  thirtieth  of  June, 

Papa  takes  another  bride  I 
"  He  has  won  a  noble  heart  — 

She  is  rich  and  young  and  fair! 
Mine  were  not  a  daughter's  part 

Did  my  face  no  pleasure  wear. 

"  They  have  bidden  me  invite 

You  to  see  their  happiness; 
And  although  with  teai-s  I  write, 

I  would  have  it  be  no  less. 
•I  They  are  in  each  other  lost  — 

They  find  sunshine  everywhere! 
I  am  lone  and  tempest-tossed. 

Come  —  if  but  to  comfort— Claire." 


■^ 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   I'OKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


179 


THOMAS  J.  MACMURRAY. 

BoKN  IN  Scotland,  July  23, 1852. 
As  minister,  lawyer,  printer,  poet,  author,  ed- 
itor, Mr.  Macmurray  lias  had  somewhat  of  a 
varied  career,  considering-  that  he  Is  yet  but 
comparatively  a  young-  man.  He  came  to 
Canada  when  ten  years  of  age,  and  was  thor- 
oughly educated,  graduating-  at  a  theological 
college.  He  was  connected  with  the  Detroit 
conference  in  187",  and  four  years  later  came 


THOMAS  J.   MACMURKAY. 

to  the  Wisconsin  conference.  In  1883  he  was 
admitted  to  the  Wisconsin  bar.  He  has  pub- 
lished several  books,  one  of  which  is  entitled 
The  Legend  of  Delaware  Valley  and  Other 
Poems,  the  titular  poem  being  an  intensely  in- 
teresting one,  and  is  beautifully  told  by  this 
brilliant  author.  Many  of  his  poems  have  re- 
ceived especial  recognition.  Mr.  Macmurray 
has  also  lectured  with  great  success.  Person- 
ally this  editor,  autlior  and  lecturer  is  of  good 
stature,  with  brown  hair  and  eyes,  and  is 
witiial  a  very  pleasant  gentleman. 


88- 


LIFE'S  PROBLEM. 
A  rosy  morn  and  a  cloudless  sky; 

Hope  in  the  heart; 

No  teardrops  start; 
Never  a  pain  and  never  a  sigh. 
A  child's  sweet  laugh,  and  its  little  kiss 

Upon  tlie  check, 

And  voices  speak 


In  tend'rest  tones,  and  there's   naught  but 

bliss. 
Then  come  distress  and  corroding-  care ; 

The  joy  has  gone, 

The  face  is  wan, 
And  there  is  an  agonizing-  prayer. 
Blue  eyes  are  closed,  and  the  child's  sweet 
hymn 

Is  heard  no  more 

On  earth's  dark  shore, 
And  a  mother  weeps  till  her  eyes  are  dim. 
Then  mem'ry  calls  back  the  long  ago. 

And  hair  g-rows  gray. 

While  shadows  play 
Long-  after  the  autumn  evening's  glow. 
Folded  the  hands,  and  ended  the  strife 

Of  weary  j^ears; 

Dried  are  the  tears ; 
Thus  closes  the  scene;  and  such  is  life! 


MANHOOD. 
Be  wise  to-day.    Folly  drags  down 

Its  votaries  to  vice  and  shame; 
But  wisdom  gives  to  man  a  crown 

Of  honor  and  a  noble  name. 
Let  justice  guide  thee  every  hour; 

Nor  let  one  narrow  prejudice 
Rob  thee  of  moral  worth  and  power 

And  fill  thy  soul  with  selfishness. 
Be  tender  and  affectionate 

In  all  thy  intercourse  with  men; 
Harbor  no  jealousy  nor  hate. 

Nor  manifest  a  proud  disdain. 
Look  up  in  faith  to  God  above. 

In  recognition  of  his  care. 
And  thank  him  for  his  boundless  love 

That  comes  to  soothe  thee  everywhere. 
So,  having  wisdom,  justice,  love. 

And  simple  faitli  in  the  unseen. 
Thou  shalt  in  manhood's  beauty  move. 

With  heavenward  gaze  and  lotty  mien. 


EARNESTNESS. 
Be  earnest  in  this  life;  be  true; 
And  whatsoe'er  tliou  hast  to  do. 
Perform  it  with  thy  zeal  and  might, 
For  soon  will  come  death's  solemn  night. 
Success  depends  on  earnest  work; 
The  men  -who  daily  duties  shirk 
Are  cowards  wlio  will  never  rise; 
For  such  there  is  no  victor's  prize. 
Only  the  earnest,  noble,  brave. 
Who  battle  with  each  wind  and  wave. 
Nor  ever  heed  misfortune's  frown. 
Attain  tlie  heights  of  fair  renown. 
This  is  no  dreamland  where  we  may 
Shimber  and  dream  the  years  away; 
But  'tis  the  scene  of  active  life  — 
The  battle-field  — the  school  of  strife! 


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180 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


Here  the  contestants  rise  or  fall. 
They  soar  in  thoug-ht,  or  else  they  crawl; 
But  earnest  souls,  whose  hearts  are  pure. 
Shall  rise,  and  their  reward  is  sure. 

Be  earnest,  then,  for  time  is  brief. 
And  brolsen  hearts  sigh  for  relief; 
Work  zealously  while  shines  the  sun. 
If  thou  would'st   hear  the  words  "Well 
done  I" 


SEPARATION. 
Slowly  the  years  creep  l)y. 

Since  thou  art  g'one; 
Around  me  shadows  lie. 

And  I'm  alone. 

A  fragment  of  a  hj-mn  — 

A  braid  of  hair  — 
A  portrait  old  and  dim  — 

A  vacant  chair- 
Are  all  that  speak  to  me 

This  lone  midnight. 
Telling  their  talc  of  thee. 

Now  out  of  sight. 

Whisper  thy  love  once  more. 

Nor  silent  be; 
Send  from  that  fadeless  shore 
Love's  blessing-  free. 

Come  back,  bright  days,  long  dead  ■ 

Come  back  again ! 
Return,  O  joys  that  fled, 

And  ease  my  pain  I 

But  why  this  anxious  plea"' — 

'Tis  vain  indeed ; 
For  by  fate's  stern  decree 

This  heart  must  bleed. 


JESSE  T.  CRAIG. 

Born  :  Ray  Co.,  Mo.,  Oct.  0, 1851. 
Mr.  Craig  is  an  editor  and  publisher  by  i>ro- 
fession,  and  his  writings,  including  a  number 
of  very  fine  poems,  liave  appeared  from  time 
to  time  in  his  own  publications  and  the  local 
press  generjilly.  He  is  now  editor  of  the  Bee, 
publislied  in  Hunnewell,  Mo. 


«- 


A  VISION. 
Tlie  editor  ate  too  mucli;  the  editor  ate  lot) 

long; 
Tlie  turkey  was  fat  and  tender,  tlie  dressing 

was  ricli  and  si  vong. 
He  went,  (the  editor  did,,  when  tlie  succulent 

feast  was  o'er. 
And  sat  by  tlie  parlor  stove,  and  thereafter 

began  to  snoi-e. 
And  lie  dreamed  this  weiid  (li-c;nii ;    it  seemed 

that  he  was  dead 


And  stood  at  the  judgment  place,  and  quaked 

with  horror  and  dread. 
The  place  was  a  lofty  hall,  and  it  did  not  allay 

his  fear, 
Tliat  it  looked  unpleasantly  like  a  criminal 

court  down  here. 

But  the  judge  on   the   bench  —  Good   lack  I 

What  a  strange  uncanny  sight?  — 
Was  a  turkey  >•  gobbler"  lieree,  just  a  hundred 

feet  in  height; 
And  the  jury  in  the  box,  sheriff,  and  state's 

attorney,— all 
Were  "gobblers  "  like  the  judge,  and  equally 

grim  and  taU. 
He  stood  in  the  prisoner's  dock  (the  editor  did^ 

and  heard 
The  State's  Attorney,  a  shrewd,  a  learned  and 

eloquent  bird. 
Say:  "If  it  please  the  court,  it  becomes  my 

dutj'  to  read 
The   indictment   as   herein  contained,   after 

which  the  prisoner  may  plead. 
Whereas,  heretofore,  to  wit:  in  November  of 

eighty-eight. 
At  the  township  of  Jackson  in  Shelby,  in  the 

commonwealth,  (otherwise  state  | 
Of  Missouri,  the  defendant,  one  Richard  Roe, 
Whose  proper  appellation  this  affiant  does  not 

know) 
"Then  and  there  being,  on  the  aforesaid  day 

and  date. 
Maliciously,  unlawfully,  and    feloniously  kill- 
ed and  ate 
One  large  adult  male  turkey,  Johannes  Doe 

by  name. 
Violently  and  by  force  of  arms;  the  same 

"  Being-  directly  and  expressly  against  the 
statutes  made 

And  provided  in  such  cases;  and  beyond  the 
slig-htest  shade 

Of  doubt  against  the  peace  and  dignity 

Of  the  King  of  turkeys.  His  august  and  graci- 
ous majesty. 

"And  we  further  pre.sent  and  charge  that 
the  prisoner,  Richard  Roe, 

Who  committed  this  unholy  crime  was  actua- 
ted thereunto 

By  a  false  and  frivolous  pretext  thai  mi  this 
most  cruel  plan 

lie  was  returning  thanks  to  Heaven  for  its 
manifold  blessings  to  man." 

His  hair  rose  up  (the  editor's  did,  straight    ui> 

on  t<ip  of  his  head 

For  he  saw  the  stern   look  of  the  jury  and 

judge  when  this  iiidictnienl  was  read. 

"  Whal-  is  your  plea'/  "  said  the  judge  to  him, 

and  his  voice  was  harsh  when  he  spoke. 

The  editor  tried    to  speak    and  — trying  to 

speak  lie  —  woke. 


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LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL    I'OETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-ee 


181 


A.  J.SCHAEFFER. 

UouN :  Edgekton,  Ohio,  June  26, 1864. 

FOK  a  while  lie  taught  school,  and  in  1881  en- 
tered Oberliii  college.  About  this  time  he 
contributed  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  Hor- 
ace Raven  a  number  of  poems  and  prose  ar- 
ticles to  the   Deti'oit    Free  Pr.ws    and   T.ile.lo 

Hhlilr.       Hi--  r\.--iL;lit    l.-illili 


A.  J.  SCHAEFFER. 

for  awhile,  and  from  188-4  to  1888  agaiti  taught 
school.  He  next  became  editor  of  The  Earth, 
a  literary  paper  published  in  his  native  town ; 
then  held  a  similar  position  on  the  Clyde 
Democrat;  and  in  1889  purchased  the  Spen- 
eerville  Journal.  The  same  year  Mr.  Schaeffer 
was  married  to  Miss  Flora  Yackee. 


* 


THOSE  BEAUTIFUL  EYES. 

Those  beautiful  eyes. 

Their  color  vies 
The  tints  of  the  sunset  skies; 

And  purple  and  pearl. 

And  rainbow  dj-es, 

All  mildly  mingle 

1  n  those  sweet  eyes, 
And  light  their  blue  depth  mellowly. 
Like  moonlight  on  a  summer  sea; 
Or  like  the  glow  in  northern  night. 
When  wanes  Aurora's  mystic  light. 


At  dawn's  soft  surprise, 
I  think  of  those  eyes; 
And  the  day  never  dies, 
But  I  dream  of  those  eyes  — 
Those  luminous,  lucid  eyes  — 
Those  beautiful  violet  eyes. 


TO  BERENICE. 

Bright  black  eyes  and  raven  hair; 
Face  so  wonderfully  fair; 
Heart  so  pure  and  looks  so  free, 
That  the  angels  envj'  thee. 
Berenice,  ere  we  met, 

I  was  free;  but  now  I'm  slave 
To  thy  loveliness,  and  yet 
I  would  not  my  freedom  have. 

'Tis  a  pleasure,  not  a  pain, 
With  aflBiction's  golden  chain 
To  be  bound  to  a  soul  like  thiue  — 
Soul  that  seemeth  half  divine. 
Well  miglit  monarch  give  his  throne. 

To  be  lord  of  such  a  heart; 
For  the  common  heart  is  stone  — 
Hardened  so  by  social  art. 

Thy  sweet,  seraph  spirit 
All  the  virtues  did  inherit; 
All  the  passions  thou  wert  given. 
And  yet  chaste  thou  art  as  heaven. 
Paradise  hath  not  an  houri 

Half  so  lovelj',  I  opine; 
And  never  song  or  story 
Told  of  nobler  life  tlian  thine. 


VICTOR  HUGO. 
Weep  France!  weep  world!  let  every  eye 

Its  tributes  pay  of  tears 
To  him  whose  soul-inspiring  words 

Will  echo  down  the  years. 

He's  gone.    The  mighty  brain  of  France 

Has  turned  to  worthless  clay. 
But  thoughts  that  flowed  from  that  great 
brain 

Will  never  pass  away. 

His  name  is  deathless,  and  will  live 

Within  the  souls  of  men, 
And  from  their  hearts  time  cannot  blot 

The  tracings  of  his  pen. 

He  lived  to  help  his  fellow  men. 

His  task  at  last  is  done; 
And  years  will  wreathe  a  crown  for  him 

From  laurels  nobly  won. 

His  requiem  let  angels  sing. 

While  nations  bow  and  weep 
Their  tears  were  never  wept  above 

A  nobler  mortal's  sleep. 


■m 


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LOCAI^   AXD   NATIONAI-   POETS   OF  AMEllICA. 


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COL.  J.  M.  RICHARDSON. 

Born  :  South  Carolina,  March  13,  1831. 
After  graduating  at  Harvard  iu  1854  with  the 
degree  of  B.  S.,  Mr.  Ricliardsnii  engaged  in 
teaching  as  a  profession  in  Perry,  Ga.,  in 
1855;  And  in  the  same  year  he  was  married 
to   Miss    La\inia  E.   King.     Mr.    Kiehardson 


COIi.  JOHN  M.  RICHAKD.-uiN,. 

served  in  the  confederate  army  and  lost  a  leg 
at  Winchester,  Va.,  in  1864.  After  the  war  he 
returned  to  Georgia  and  resumed  teaching; 
removed  to  Texas  in  1876,  where  he  also  con- 
tinued teaeliing.  In  1887  Mr.  Richardson  lost 
his  wife,  wlio  died  in  Daingerfleld,  Texas, 
whore  lie  now  resides.  In  1888  Col.  Richard 
son  engaged  in  the  newspaper  business  in 
connection  with  his  son.  Col.  Richardson  is 
a  polished  scholar,  and  lias  written  both 
prose  and  verse  for  the  periodical  press. 


m 


A  WISHING   WORD. 

Some  MTOiips  of  merry  girls  and  boys, 
With  laugli  and  siiout  and  gleeful  noise. 
Were  playing  just  before  my  gate 
As  home  I  came  one  evening  late. 
Please,  Sir,  one  said  -  slie  held  a  book 
Which  gently  from  her  hand  1  took  — 
Please,  Sir,  write  me  a  wishing  word! 
So  spake  the  winsome  little  bird. 
I  love  Tlice.  Lord,  so  grea,t,  so  mild  I 
I  love  Thy  clioicest  gift,  a  child. 


Of  Him,  O  Cliild,  he  ever  blest. 
Of  every  rarest  gift  possessed! 
May  all  thy  life,  as  now,  be  pure! 
Thy  days,  as  now,  from  care  secure! 
And  at  its  peaceful  close,  be  thou 
A  child  of  God.  beloved  as  now ! 


PRAYER  OF  MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS. 
"  O  Domine  Deus 
Speravi  in  Te !" 
O  Holy  and  Just  God, 
My  hope  is  in  Thee! 

0  Jesus,  Tliou  Strong  Rod, 

1  lean  upon  Tliee! 

My  body  with  chains  bound. 
My  spirit  in  pains  found. 
None  love  1  but  Thee! 
Knees  bending,  eyes  flending. 
Sighs  blending,  heart  rending. 
Adoring, 
Imploring, 
O  liberate  me! 


SOLDIER  SOUTH  TO  SOLDIER  NORTH. 

0  Soldier  North,  of  thee  no  plaint; 
Tliou  wast  but  man —  no  flend,  no  saint, 

1  meet  with  thee  without  constraint. 

And  thouwastgen'rous,  as  all  know. 
At  Appomattox  to  thy  foe; 
Tliat  meed  thou  hast,  come  weal,  come  woe. 

Thy  duty  didst  thou?  I  did  mine. 
Defeat  my  portion,  vict'ry  thine. 
At  thee  nor  fate,  will  I  repine; 

Far  nobler  is  It  to  endure 

What  skill  of  man  can  never  cure; 

Reward,  though  slow,  is  large  and  sure. 

A  soldier's  rage  with  combats  done; 
He  sheathes  his  sword,  peace  is  begun; 
To  help  the  fallen  doth  he  run. 

Not  so  the  laggard,  coward  ci'ew. 
Who,  safe,  the  battle  would  renew. 
The  prostrate  rob,  berate,  pursue. 

Those  jaw-gun  soldiers,  I  despise. 
As,  loaded  down  with  hate  and  lies. 
They'd  strife  renew  in  jiatriot  guise. 

Begone!  As  clouds  that  dim  iho  sun. 
Cut  off  its  light,  embane,  tiien  run. 
As  conscience  smit,  God's  eye  to  shun; 

So  they  would  veil  the  people's  hearts. 
So  the.v  would  plant  emjioisoncd  darts. 
So  they  should  flee  to  hellish  parts. 

But  for  tlie  soldier  whose  brave  lieart 
Would  from  defeat  remove  eacli  smart. 
My  soul  with  love  shall  never  part. 


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LOCAL,   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


183 


® 


JOHN  NILAND  HIGHLAND. 

Born  :   Ireland,  1831. 

Mr.  Highland  is  now  a  lumber  inspector  in 
Galveston,  Texas.  He  is  very  fond  of  litera- 
ture and  has  written  quite  a  few  poems  whicii 


JOHN  NILAND  highland. 

have  appeared  In  the  local  press.  He  was 
married  in  New  Orleans  to  Miss  Mary  Daley 
in  1858,  but  is  now  a  widower. 


m 


MY  CHILDHOOD  DAYS. 
Give  me  back  the  sweet  days  of  my  childhood, 

Wliere  I  oft  with  my  schoolmates  did  roam 
Among-  the  green  trees  in  the  wildwood, 

That  bloomed  near  my  dear  happj-  home. 
For  there  sung-  the  thrushes  and  linnets. 

And  the  larks  warbled  in  the  blue  sky, 
The  hours  seemed  as  short  as  the  minutes. 

For  joyous  were  my  schoolmates  and  I. 

But  alas!  we  were  doomed  soon  to  sever, 

Never  more  in  loved  Erin  to  meet. 
Some  are  gone  to  strange  countries  forever. 

Where  none  of  their  friends  will  them  greet. 
And  here  far  away  as  I  ponder. 

And  hear  the  waves  break  on  the  shore. 
My  love  for  my  schoolmates  grows  fonder. 

For  I  know  I  will  see  them  no  more 

They  are  all  gone  away  and  forever. 
Life's  burdens  with  courage  to  bear. 


And  to  meet  them  again  I  shall  never. 
They  are  gone  and  I  cannot  tell  where. 

In  sorrow  they  left  broken-hearted. 
As  they  bade  their  beloved  ones  good-bye. 

And  forever  and  aye  we  have  parted, 
My  fondly-loved  schoolmates  and  I. 

When  at  night  in  my  peaceful  slumbers, 

1  revisit  past  scenes  in  my  dreams, 
I  play  with  my  schoolmates  in  numbers. 

And  call  them  all  'round  by  their  names. 
And  hear  the  sweet  notes  of  the  thrushes. 

As  of  yore  in  the  cool  sununer's  breeze. 
Among  the  wild  flowers  and  bushes. 

As  we  played  neath  the  spreading  beech 
trees 


ELIZA  JANE  M'GOWAN, 
Fondly  and  remembered  Eliza  Jane, 

Schoolmate  of  my  earlj'  days. 
Sweet  thoughts  of  you  I  well  i-etain. 

And  all  our  sports  and  plays. 
It  is  a  long  time  since  we  parted. 

And  crossed  the  ocean's  foam. 
With  grief  and  sorrow  broken-hearted 

For  loved  ones  left  at  home. 

Farewell  sweet  days  of  childhood's  pleasure, 

When  we  were  going  to  school. 
Rehearsing  our  lessons  at  our  leisure. 

Or  working  out  some  rule. 
And  away  amongst  the  pale  primroses 

That  grew  on  Drumfln  brae. 
And  o'er  the  fields  gathering  posies. 

All  in  the  hour  to  play. 

Do  you  remember  green  fields  of  Cloonlur- 
ragh, 

Where  all  our  flocks  did  graze. 
Or  the  blooming  heather  in  the  curragh. 

When  blossomed  in  those  days; 
And  that  green,  pleasing,  rushj'  bottom. 

That  often  we  did  cross. 
1  know  you  can't  have  yet  forgotten. 

Its  soft;  silkj%  curly  moss. 

How  sweetly  grew  the  hawthorn  bushes 

In  the  lovely  month  of  June, 
.\nd  the  loud  whistling  of  the  thrushes. 

All  'round  their  rich  perfume; 
And  the  high  soaring  of  the  skylark. 

With  the  notes  of  the  cuckoo 
Resounding  through  the  groves  of  Newpark 

And  o'er  tlie  hills  of  Doo. 

Do  you  think  of  the  river  meadows, 

Where  we  many  times  did  plaj'. 
Romping  through  tlie  winding  windrows 

Made  of  the  new  mown  hay. 
And  that  whitened  field  with  daisies 

Whei'e  we  first  begun  to  spell. 
In  little  books  called  Reading  Made  Easy,— 

You  must  remember  well. 


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184 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


GEORGE  DUDLEY  DODGE. 

Born:  Hampton  Falls,  N.  H.,  May  4, 1836. 
Graduating  from  the  academy  of  liis  native 
village,  George  entered  Brown  university  in 
1853.  He  lias  always  i-esided  in  his  native 
place,  with  the  exception  of  three  years  while 
in  trade  in  the  state  of  Georgia,  just  before  and 
during  tlie  war.  Since  that  time  Mr.  Dodge 
has  been  engaged  in  cotton  manufacture,  and 
as  country  merchant  and  postmaster,  until 
compelled  by  ill-heal  III  to  seek  the  larger  liber- 


GI  ()!{(. I     1)1  ni  E  '^     DOIX.I 

ty  of  farm  life.  In  1880  lie  was  the  nominee  of 
the  prohibition  party  for  governor;  afterward 
chairman  of  the  state  executive  committee, 
and  chosen  a  delegate  to  the  national  conven- 
tion of  that  party  in  1884.  As  a  writer,  Mr. 
Dodge  is  best  known  through  his  prose  con- 
tributions to  the  jiress,  although  his  poems 
have  been  widely  copied  and  favorably  com- 
mented upon.  Mr.  Dodge  conies  from  old 
stock,  dating  !)ack  to  the  sixteenth  century. 


®- 


THR  FADKD  LEAF. 

Silently,  softly,  the  faded  leaf. 
Downward  flits  to  the  earth  beneath. 
Oi'  roughly  wliirled  Viy  wintry  blast, 
In  far  off  nook  alights  at  last. 


Its  duty  done,  its  season  past, 
To  earth  it  finds  its  way  at  last. 
Soon  to  mingle  in  common  dust. 
As  all  below  at  some  time  must. 
In  living  green  it  nourished  well. 
The  lofty  tree  before  it  fell. 
In  gorgeous  colors  glowing  bright. 
Touched  bj'  the  frost,  enrapt  the  sight. 
Thus  may  we  all  our  task  perform. 
In  sunshine  and  in  bitter  storm. 
And  always  show  our  beauty  best. 
When  chill  misfortune  makes  the  test. 


TEMPTED  AND  TRIED. 
O  kindest  Father,  friend  and  God, 
O  dear  Redeemer,  Brother,  Lord, 
O  blessed  Comforter  divine, 
O  wond'rous  three  that  one  combine. 
Let  ev'rj'  stormy  wind  that  blows. 
But  drive  me  to  thy  side  more  close. 
Then  Satan's  arts  shall  not  prevail, 
That  oft  my  trembling  heart  assail. 
So  let  me  watch  and  pray  each  hour. 
As  threatening  clouds  around  me  lower. 
That  quickened  faith  with  help  divine 
Shall  all  my  steps  aright  incline. 


PEACE  BE  STILL. 
Tempest  tost  on  the  billows  of  life. 
Weary  and  worn  with  struggle  and  strife. 
Upward  I  glance  to  heaven  above, 
And  list  to  words  of  tender  love, 
Peace  be  still,  O  weeping  soul, 
I  will  all  thy  grief  console. 
Hope  would  vanish  and  the  giant  Despair, 
Would  drag  my  soul  to  his  dreadful  lair, 
But  for  the  voice  of  tender  love. 
Speaking  to  me  from  heaven  above. 
Peace  be  still,  O  trembling  soul, 
I  will  ev'ry  foe  control. 
Let  the  tempest  roar  and  the  billows  roll. 
Naught  shall  disturb  my  peaceful  .soul. 
While  come  to  me  from  heaven  above. 
These  cheering  words  of  tender  love. 
Peace  be  still,  O  trusting  soul, 
I  will  ev'ry  storm  control. 
God  help  poor  souls  on  the  voyage  of  life. 
Weary  and  worn  with  struggle  and  .strife. 
Who  h(>ar  no  voice  of  tt'ndt'i-  love. 
Speaking  to  them  from  heaven  above. 
Peace  be  still,  O  weary  soul, 
I  will  all  thy  grief  console. 


MAYQITEEN. 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  long  live  the  Queen, 
Whom  we  to-night  have  crowned, 
May  health,  and  wealth  and  peace  be  hers. 
And  ev'ry  joy  abound. 


* 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


186 


-* 


REV.  MILTON  H.  TIPTOX. 

Born:  Boone  Co.,  Ind.,  in  1852. 
The  father  of  Milton  eulisting  into  tlie  union 
army  wlien  his  son  was  but  ten  years  of  age, 
the  subject  of  this  sketch  became  the  chief 
stay  of  his  niotlior,  and  at  the  age  of  twelve 
cultivated  tliirty-tive  acres  of  corn  in  one  sea- 
son. Altliough  he  had  little  opportunity  of 
securing-  an  education,  so  persevering  was  he 
in  educating  liimself  that  he  became  a  teach- 
er at  the  age  of  seventeen;  later  he  studied 


REV.   MILTON  H.   TIPTON. 

law  in  the  office  of  his  uncle,  but  before  being 
admitted  to  the  bar  he  united  with  the  chris- 
tian church.in  which  he  was  ordained  minister 
in  1876.  Rev.  M.  H.  Tipton  has  had  remark- 
able success  in  his  educational  temperance 
work,  and  has  become  extensively  known  and 
highly  esteemed  alike  for  his  courteous  bear- 
ing and  his  enterprise,  especially  in  the  direc- 
twn  of  religious  work.  The  poem  of  Rouse 
Ye  Soldiers  has  been  set  to  music.  He  is  now 
president  of  a  college  in  E.xcelsior,  Minn. 


m 


ROUSE  YE  SOLDIERS! 

Rouse,  ye  soldiers  of  the  cross! 

And  put  your  armor  on; 
Bravely  flght  tor  truth  and  right 

Till  victory  is  won. 
C'HO.-Rouse  ye!  Rouse  ye!  Rouse  ye,  soldiers, 

Brave  and  strong,  (brave  and  strong,, 
Boldly  flg-ht  for  the  truth  and  right. 

And  win  the  victor's  crown,  (crown., 


Rouse,  ye  soldiers,  brave  and  true! 

L^nfurl  your  banner  high! 
Boldly  stand  at  Christ's  command. 

For,  see,  the  foe  is  nigh ! 
Rouse,  ye  soldiers,  to  the  charge! 

Our  Captain's  gone  before; 
Grandly  march  with  shout  and  song. 

Until  the  war  is  o'er. 


TO  A  DECEASED  SISTER. 
Dear  Sister  thou  art  gone  to  rest. 
Thy  earthly  life  is  o'er; 
Among  the  pleasant  scenes  of  home, 
We'll  see  thy  face  no  more. 
Those  eyes  from  which  thy  soul  hath  looked. 
No  more  will  smile  for  me; 
That  soul  itself,  so  pure  and  chaste,     ' 
Is  from  the  flesh  set  free. 
Is  not  thy  spirit  with  the  Lord? 
And  shall  I  meet  thee  there';' 
When  this  frail  flesh  is  still  in  death, 
Away  from  pain  and  care? 
Will  not  this  body  now  so  cold 
Be  brought  to  life  again? 
And  you  and  I  each  other  know. 
And  with  the  Savior  reign? 


FOR  A  YOUNG  LADY'S  ALBUM. 
Keep  thy  heart  with  earnest  care ; 
The  issues  of  life  are  hidden  there; 
Bestow  it  alone  on  him  who  can 
Give  back  the  heart  of  a  Noble  Man. 


HATTIE  L.  HORNER. 

Born:  Muscatine,  Iowa,  Feb.  5, 1864. 
This  lady  is  undoubtedly  one  of  Kansas' most 
gifted  writers.  She  has  published  a  neat  Ut- 
tle  volume  of  some  sixty  poems,  each  a  gem. 
In  addition  to  this  work  she  has  published  Not 
at  Home,  a  book  of  travels,  consisting  of  a 
compilation  of  bright,  sparkling  and  intense- 
ly interesting  letters  written  during  her  jour- 
neyings.  The  fine  poem,  Kansas,  was  well  re- 
ceived in  her  adopted  state,  and  has  been 
recited  before  many  of  the  choicest  literary 
gatherings  of  the  west,  and  is  ever  a  favorite. 
Personally  she  is  a  little  below  the  medium 
height,  with  brown  eyes  and  luxuriant  hair. 
She  now  resides  at  Whitewater,  Kansas,  en- 
gaged in  literary  work,  and  surrounded  by  a 
host  of  friends  and  ardent  admirers. 


KANSAS:  1874  —  1884. 
1874  —  Per  Aspera. 
Cheerless  prairie  stretching  southward. 

Barren  prairie  stretching  north; 
Not  a  green  herb,  fresh  and  sturdy. 
From  the  hard  earth  springing  forth. 


-© 


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186 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


* 


Every  tree  Ijereft  of  foliag-e. 

Every  shrub  devoid  of  life. 
And  the  two  great  ills  seemed  blighting- 

All  things  in  their  wasting  strife. 

As  the  human  heart,  in  anguish. 

Sinks  beneath  the  stroke  of  fate, 
So  at  last,  despairing,  weary. 

Bowed  the  great  heart  of  our  State. 
She  had  seen  her  corn-blades  wither 

'Neath  the  hot  wind's  scorching  breath; 
She  had  seen  the  wheat-heads  bending 

To  the  sting  of  cruel  death. 

She  had  seen  the  plague  descending 

Thro'  the  darkened,  stifling  air. 
And  she  bent  her  head  in  sorrow. 

Breathing  forth  a  fervent  prayer. 
And  the  fierce  winds,  growing  fiercer, 

Kissed  to  brown  her  forehead  fair. 
While  the  sun  shone  down  unpitying 

On  the  brownness  of  her  hair. 

Then  she  looked  into  the  future, 

Saw  the  winters,  ruthless,  bold. 
Bringing  her  disheartened  people 

Only  hunger,  want  and  cold. 
Looking,  saw  her  barefoot  children 

Walk  where  snow-sprites  shrink  to  tread; 
Listening,  heard  their  child-lips  utter 

Childish  prayers  for  daily  bread. 

Low  she  bowed  her  head,  still  thinking 

O'er  her  people's  woes  and  weal, 
And  the  ones  anear  her  only 

Heard  the  words  of  her  appeal. 
Send  that  faint  cry  onward,  outward. 

Swift  as  wire  wings  can  bear, 
"  Sisters,  help  me  or  I  perish  — 

Heaven  pity  my  despair!" 

1884  — Ad  Astra. 

Verdant  wheat-fields  .stretching  southward, 

Fruitful  orchards  east  and  west; 
Not  a  spot  in  all  the  prairie 

That  the  spring-time  has  not  blessed. 
Every  field  a  smiling  jiromise. 

Every  home  an  Eden  fair. 
And  the  angels.  Peace  and  Plenty, 

Strewing  blessings  everywhere. 

As  the  heart  of  nature  quivers 

At  tbi^  touch  of  S])iiiig-tiin(>  fair. 
So  along  the  State's  wide  being 

Thrilled  the  answer  to  her  prayer. 
She  has  seen  her  dauntless  people 

Ten  times  turn  and  sow  the  soil; 
She  has  seen  the  .same  earth  answer 

Ten  times  to  their  faithful  toil. 

She  has  felt  the  ripe  fruit  falling 

In  her  laj)  from  bended  limbs; 
She  has  heard  lier  hapiiy  diildren 

Shouting  their  tlianksgiving  hymns. 


She  has  seen  ten  golden  harvests; 

Now,  with  grateful  joy  complete. 
She  has  ijoured  tlie  tenth,  a  guerdon. 

At  her  benefactor's  feet. 

Thou  canst  not  forget,  O  Kansas, 

All  thine  own  despair  and  woe; 
Who  hath  long  and  keenly  suffered 

Can  the  tenderest  pity  show. 
Not  in  vain  the  needy  calleth  — 

Charity  her  own  repays. 
And  thy  bread,  cast  on  the  waters. 

Will  return  ere  many  days. 

Peace,  thine  angel,  pointeth  upward. 

Where  the  gray  clouds  break  away ; 
And  athwart  the  azure  heavens 

Shineth  forth  Hope's  placid  ray. 
Look  to  Heaven  and  to  the  future  — 

Grieve  no  longer  o'er  the  past; 
Through  thy  trials,  God  bless  thee,  Kansas  - 

See,  the  stars  appear  at  last. 


THOUGHTS  ADRIFT. 
1. 

As  some  lone  bird  that  o'er  the  desert  sailing. 
Beholds  a  spot  of  green  with  waters  fair. 

And  heedless  of  its  mission, —  fainting,  failing, 
Descends  to  drink,  to  live,  to  linger  there. 

E'en  so  my  soul  while  o'er  life's  desert  flying, 
Belield  the  fount  of  love  within  your  heart. 
Forgetting  fate  it  sank  athirst  and  dying. 
To  live,— to  love.    Oh!  will  you  say  "De- 
part"?" 

II. 
From  his  tiny  nest  aswing. 
Sped  the  bird  with  southwaVd  wing. 
Lingering-  there  till  fickle  Spring 
Returning,  kept  her  vow; 
Now  he  singeth  soft  and  clear, 
'Mong  the  apple  blossoms  near; 
And  our  lilacs  too  are  here, — 
But  where,  O  Love,  art  thou'? 

On  his  winter  path  astray. 
E'en  the  sun  sheds  colder  ray; 
Long  the  storm  his  -wrathful  sway 
The  ocean  sprites  allow ; 
May  draws  nigh,  o'er  hilltops  steep 
liO!  the  sunshine.    On  the  deep. 
Oil,  tiie  calm  that  bringeth  sleep! 
My  loved  one,  where  art  thou? 
IH. 
The  diver  has  sailed  on  the  boundless  sea. 

O'er  its  wrecks  and  Its  woes  he  doth  -weep, 
But  he'll  brave  it  and  ride  again  with  glee 
For  the  pearl  that  he  finds  in  the  deep. 

Oh,  life  is  a  wide  and  an  untried  sea. 
And  1  weep  o'er  its  storms  and  its  strife, 

And  yet  I  will  dare  it,  defy  it,  for  thee. 
Thou  Pearl  of  my  love  and  my  life! 


■m 


SB- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    I'OKTS   OF  AMERICA. 


187 


© 


CLARENCE  H.PEARSON. 

Born:  Ossipee,  N.H.,  Feb.  21, 1859. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  evinced  a  taste  for 
litcrut  are  at  a  very  early  age,  and  at  four- 
teen published  for  one  year  an  amateur 
journal.  In  1883  lie  was  for  a  time  city  editor 
of  the  Saginaw  Herald.  Subseciuently  Mr. 
I'earsoii  was  admitted  to   llic   l>:ii'.  :in(l  in  lw:> 


(I,  \I!l;.N(   K    H.   I>E  ARSON. 

began  tlie  pi'actice  of  his  profession  at  Glad- 
win. In  1884  lie  was  married  to  Miss  Flora  O. 
Biehn.  Mr.  Pearson  has  contributed  to  the 
Detroit  Free  Press,  Drake's  Magazine,  Texas 
Sifting-s,  and  other  prominent  publications. 
Suffering-  much  from  rheumatism,  Mr.  Pear- 
son removed  to  his  old  home  at  Laconia,  N.H., 
where,  as  he  has  humorously  remarked,  he  is 
dividing-  his  time  between  law,  literature  and 
lumbag-o. 


®- 


PENSEE. 
They  say  the  shades  of  those  who  pass 

Death's  mystic  river  o'er. 
Anon  return  to  scenes  and  friends 

Beloved  of  them  of  yore. 
Tliey  tell  of  wondrous  secrets  learned. 

From  those  whose  souls  abide 
In  that  dim,  distant  land  that  lies 

Beyond  the  Stygian  tide. 
I  listen  unbelieving  still. 

For  were  thy  spirit    free 
To  leave  Death's  realm,  I  know  that  thou 

Would'st  sometime  come  to  me: 


And  hold  some  friendly  token  uji 
To  glad  my  yearning  sight. 

Or  clasp  tlie  hand  1  sadly  stretch 
Into  the  empty  niglit. 


LIFE'S  GAME. 
We  strolled  across  tlie  moonlit  fields. 

The  air  was  laden  with  perfume. 
And  all  the  earth  seemed  filled  with  mirili, 

Moonlight  and  love  and  apple  bleu  in  i; 
She  raised  her  eyes  of  azure  liue 

And  all  her  soul  was  sliining  tliro', 
For  hearts  were  trumps. 
But  ere  the  trees  bore  fruit  there  came 

A  rival  suitor  to  her  door 
With  jewels  rare  to  deck  her  hair, 

Of  gold  and  silver  muckle  store. 
She  slew  the  love  her  lips  confessed 

And  wore  his  gems  upon  her  breast  — 
Diamonds  were  trumps. 
Maddened  with  grief  I  rashly  strove 

To  drown  my  woes  in  ruddy  wine. 
My  wurldlypelf,  my  hopes,  myself 

I  sacrificed  at  Bacchus'  shrine. 
My  days  were  dregs,  my  nights  were  foam. 

And  every  club  house  was  my  home. 
For  clubs  were  trumps. 
Old  Time  and  I  sit  vis-a-vis. 

Outside  the  winter's  wind  doth  moan. 
No  friend  is  near  to  aid  or  cheer 

And  I  must  play  my  hand  alone. 
The  cards  are  dealt,  the  trump  is  turned. 

Grim  reaper,  thou  the  stake  hast  earned. 
For  spades  are  trumps. 

LLORENTA. 
Thou  wert  a  blossom  beautiful  and  sweet 
That  bloomed  a  space   to  glad  our  worldly 

sight. 
But  envious  angels  thought  it  was  not  meet 
That  earth  should  wear  a  flower  so  pure  and 

bright  [fleet 

And  bore  thee  hence  on  noiseless  wing  and 
To  deck  the  bosom  of  the  Infinite. 


MY  AUTOGRAPH. 

My  autograph  she  beggred  the  night 
When  first  her  beauty  filled  iny  siglit; 

Not  just  3'our  name,  you  know,  quoth  she, 

But  something  nice  beside,  maybe 
A  poem  or  a  maxim  trite. 
I  yielded  to  the  witching  light 
Of  her  soft  eyes  and  did  indite. 

Entwined  with  flowers  of  poesy. 
My  autograph. 
She  perches  on  my  knee  to-night. 
And  in  her  eyes  so  clear  and  bright 

The  old  light  dwells—  ah,  woe  is  nie ! 

My  check-book  in  her  hand  T  see. 

And  (nice  again  she  begrs  me  write 

My  autograph. 


-* 


*- 


-® 


188 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


R.  G.  SCOTT. 

Born:  Le  Claike,  Iowa,  April",  1846. 
Mr.  Scott  commeucod  literary  work  at  an 
early  age,  aud  his  poems  have  appeared  from 
time  to  time  in  the  Des  Moines  Register,  Wo- 
man's Public  Opinion,  New  York  Grapliic  and 
other  periodicals  of  equal  prominence.  He 
served  in  Company  B,  34th  Iowa,  during  tlio 
civil  war;  was  a  member  of  Gov.  Kirkwood's 
staff,  with  rank  of  lieutenant-colonel;  and 
subsequently  Mr.  Scott  was  twice  a  member 
of  the  Iowa  legislature.  For  some  time  he 
was  engaged  in  the  real  estate  bu.siness.  In 
1889  Mr.  Scott  became  one  of  the  editors  of  a 
prominent  Des  Moines  periodical,  in  which 
city  he  now  resides. 


*- 


EXTRACT  FROM  CHAUTAUQUA  POEM. 
Again  on  freedom's  soil  we  stand 
And  greet  with  joy  our  native  land; 
Here  English  pride  was  made  to  feel 
The  shock  of  freedom's  conquering  steel. 
'Twas  here  the  "Cincinnatis  of  the  west" 
With  freedom's  heroes  stood  the  test 
Of  battle's  shock  and  war's  recoil. 
And  planted  deep  in  freedom's  soil. 
That  starry  flag,  long  may  it  wave. 
O'er  patriot  hero's  hallowed  grave. 

Yet  not  alone  on  sanguine  field 
Was  British  prowess  forced  to  yield, 
While  Yankee  heroes  gained  the  day, 
Yankee  pluck  and  genius  led  the  way. 
And,  in  all  the  ranks  of  life  and  trade, 
Tlu!  grandest  progress  here  was  made: 
And  not  alone  was  progress  made 
In  gilded  art  and  ranks  of  trade. 
But  men  of  letters  paved  the  way 
For  higher  life  and  grander  day. 
Here  Cooper  wove  the  legend  strife 
Of  Indian  war  and  border  life; 
While  Whittier  told  of  summer  day. 
Where  "bare-foot  maiden  raked  the  hay;" 
The  "  Psalm  of  Life"  Longfellow  gave; 
And  Bryant  wrote  of  death  and  grave: 
Wliile  Morris  bade  us  "  spare  that  tree;" 
Bret  Harte  went  for  the  "Heathen  Chinee:" 
While    'mid  it   all    most    sweetly    rang    the 

rhythmic  flow 
Of  "  Raven  "  song  and  "  Bells  "  of  Poe. 

Thougli  rich  in  all  of  beaut  ies  best. 

By  nature's  liandso  grandly  drest. 

Yet,  we  boast  not  all  in  grove  or  glen  — 

Our  ricliest  heritage  is  men  — 

Men  wlio  not  alone  resolve. 

But  men  who  meet  and  solve 

The  problems  grand  and  great 

Tliat  mark  the  onward  strides  of  ehurcli  and 

state ; 
And  not  alone  in  men  is  all  our  pride; 


Our  women,  too,  stand  side  by  side 
With  men  of  rank  and  high  renown. 
And  give  to  us  a  triple  crown. 
No  brighter  names  on  history's  page. 
In  any  land  or  any  age 
In  all  the  past—  does  histoi-y  give 
Than  marks  the  age  in  which  we  live. 
Our  hope  is  this,  as  season's  roll, 
And  time  shall  write  on  honored  scroll 
In  burnished  words  on  tablet  high. 
Names  that  were  not  born  to  die, 
Chautauquan  ranks  may  have  their  share. 
Of  honored  names  emblazoned  there. 


BE  A  WOMAN. 

Be  a  woman,  'tis  thy  mission. 

Love's  every  labor  you  must  fill ; 
Let  the  parlor,  hall  and  kitchen 

See  the  triumph  of  your  skill. 
For  though  duty  call  thee  higher 

Other  spheres  to  grace  and  fill. 
None  the  less  will  household  duties 

Claim  your  love  and  labor  still. 


PRAIRIE  FLOWERS. 

No  fairy  hand  on  magic  loom 

E'er  wove  for  elfln  bowers 
A  fabric  fine  as  Nature  spreads  o'er  west- 
tern  lands. 

When  decked  with  prairie  flowers. 
No  poet's  pen  can  e'er  portray 

The  beauty  of  those  wondrous  bowers, 
Where  Nature  paints  in  brilliant  hues 

Our  western  plains  with  prairie  flowers. 
No  gilded  hall  by  painter's  hand 

Can  flU  those  hearts  of  ours. 
With  wonder  and  surprise  like  that, 

When  first  we  see  those  prairie  flowers. 
No  sculptured  work  in  bronze  or  stone. 

In  foreign  land  or  ours. 
Can  so  enchant  our  wondering  gaze 

As  boundless  fields  of  prairie  flowers. 


IS  MARRIAGE  A  FAILURE. 
Is  marriage  a  failui-e?  Aye,  no. 
'Tis  the  one  sweet  tie  to  mortal  given. 
The  essence  of  all  earthly  bliss. 
The  tie  that  links  our  earth  to  iieaveu. 
Man  may  fail,  and  rt^cri'ant  prove 
To  all  the  ties  of  home  and  wife, 
May  sunder  every  golden  l)and 
That  love  entwines  round  wt>dded  life. 
Aye,  lovely  woman,  too,  reci'cant 
To  all  iier  vows  of  love  may  prove. 
May  sunder  every  silver  tic 
That  binds  her  heart  to  home  and  love. 
And  yet  'tis  they  wlio  fail, 
.•\nd  not  the  lieavenly  rite 
That  in  tiie  bonds  of  perfect  bliss 
Two  souls  in  mortal  bonds  luiite. 


-* 


®- 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIOXAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


\m 


LOUISE  MCCLOY. 

Born:  Ridgeville,  Ohio,  June  15,1868. 
Louise  grraduated  from  the  Elj-ria  hig-li  scliool 
in  1888,  and  is  now  eng-aged  as  teaelier  in  the 
pnlilic  seliools  of  Lorain,  near  ritvcland.   Her 


J.OUJSE    JICLUV. 

poems  have  appeared  extensively  in  the  local 
press,  and  have  been  favorably  commented 
upon. 


®- 


POST  TENEBRAS  LUX. 

Through  the  valleys  slowly  wending-, 
Hope  and  doul5t  forever  blending-, 
Prayer  for  g-uidance  upward  sending, 

■    We  await  the  dawning  day. 

Through  the  darkness  piercing  never, 

Held  by  bonds  we  can  not  sever 

Still  out-reaching,  striving  ever. 

We  are  guided  on  our  way. 

Woe  and  gladness  mingled  meet  us. 
Voice  of  foe  and  lover  greet  us. 
Upward  still  the  pathways  lead  u-s. 

On  to  joy,  and  peace  and  rest. 
Weary  hands  shall  soon  be  light. 
Mortal  vision  dim  grow  bright. 
Waiting  hearts  shall  see  aright. 

Freedom  comes  to  souls  opprest. 

Though  the  pathway  be  but  drear, 
See!  the  hill-tops  grow  more  clear, 
Draweth  now  the  dawning  near. 


Heart,  look  upward,  onward  press  1 
Still  the  beck'ning  hand  pursue; 
Failing  strength  again  renew; 
Power  will  come  to  be  and  do; 

Soon  we'll  wear  Immortal  dress. 

And,  at  last,  the  journey  ending. 
We,  the  mountain  tops  ascending. 
View  the  daybreak  glories  blending 

With  the  scat'ring  shades  of  night. 
Free  from  all  the  chains  that  bound  us. 
Free  from  all  the  shadows  'round  us, 
Soon  the  sunrise  shall  have  found  us,— 

After  darkness  comes  the  light. 


SUNSET. 
We  stood  upon  a  bluff,  out-jutting  bold. 
The  turbid  waters  dashed  and  broke  below,- 
And  watched  the  cloudless  western  sky  o'er- 

swept 
By  slowly  bright'ning  beauty,  till  it  grew 
A  glorious,  gleaming  mass  of  color  rolled 
From  all  the  Universe.    Tlie  sun  aglow. 
Broad,  brilliant, blinding.lower,  lower  stept; 
The  rolling  lake  cauglit  on  its  face  a  hue 
So  marvelous  our  sight  could  grasp  no  more. 
And  tongue  of  power  to  speak  it  were  bereft. 
A  dye  as  if  the  pulsing  heart  of  Time 
Eternity's  relentless  dart  had  cleft. 
And  let  its  blood  gush  out  a  sudden  o'er 
The  heaving  world,  deep-stained  with  all  its 

crime. 


CHRISTIAN  ENDEAVOR. 
Let  us  broaden  our  hearts,  O  Brothers; 

Let  love  grow  up  in  our  souls 
Till  over  the  whole  wide,  suffering  earth. 

The  tidal  wave.  Charity,  rolls. 

Let  us  scorn  not  humanity.  Brothers, 
Out  of  Nazareth  cometh  the  Christ, 

For  the  lowly,  the  sinful,  the  weary. 
Were  his  glory  and  life  sacrificed. 

Let  us  rise  above  selfishness.  Brothers; 
'Round  us  heaven  showers  its  store. 

There  are  many  of  earth  who  have  nothing- 
Can  their  poverty  be  at  our  door? 

Aye,  many  and  many,  my  Brothers: 

Born  to  suffering,  wretcliedness.  shame. 

O  can  we  not  reach  them,  and  help  them. 
In  His  love  and  the  power  of  His  name? 

"To  the  least  of  these,"  think, O  my  Brothers; 

We  living  for  self  and  for  friend. 
To  our  ears  is  the  "Inasmuch  "  coming. 

When  life  shall  have  rounded  the  end. 

Tlien  low  at  the  feet  of  the  Master, 
In  love  and  in  shame  let  us  bow; 

"The  world  Thou  hast  died  for,  our  Savior, 
O,  help  us  to  live  for  it  now." 


■© 


©- 


190 


-* 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


DOSSIE  C.  FREEMAN. 

Born:  Bainbridge,  Ohio,  Feb.  24, 1873. 
At  an  early  age  the  parents  of  Dossie  remov- 
ed to  the  southern  part  of  Kansas.  Desiring 
to  complete  his  education  he  was  sent  to  the 
Indiana  SnlditTs'  and  Sailors'  Home  which  is 
located  ;it   Kniehtstowii,   Iiidi;iii;i.  where    he 


III  ISSIK    C.    FHKKMAN 

graduated  in  the  class  of  l<s!tu.  \\  liilr  at  this 
liome  lie  has  also  been  engaged  in  jjrintingthe 
Home  Journal  published  at  tliat  institution. 
Considering  the  youth  of  Dossie,  his  poems 
are  indeed  very  commendable. 


«- 


SOMETHING  FOR  OUR  GAIN. 

All  tliese  years  of  waiting 

All  tliese  liours  of  pain. 
All  the  trials  of  this  life- 
Is  something  for  our  gain. 
We  cannot  see  the  reason, 

Wliile  we  try  to  still  sustain 
The  many  injuries  we  receive  — 

It's  something  for  our  gain. 
While  we  wish  for  sunshine, 

Others  long*  for  rain, 
Tlio'  'tis  not  wliat  we  wanted  — 

It's  something  for  oui'  gain 
When  we  forget  our  disappointments 

From  our  temptations  to  abstain 
If  wo  can  only  become  the  victor  — 

It's  something  for  our  gain. 


When  we  overcome  some  hal>it. 
And  our  uprightness  maintain, 

Wlien  we  win  our  contests  over, — 
It's  sometliing  for  our  gain. 

There  are  overwhelming  troubles, 
That  makes  us  numb  with  pain. 

But  in  the  end,  if  we  are  faithful. 
It  willmalie  us  endless  gain. 


WANTED— ANEW  SUBJECT. 

If  you  would  have  me  sing  a  tune 
Of  my  troubles,  I'll  begin  right  soon; 
Well  then,  to  commence  exactly  square, 
I  fain  would  praise  "the  moon  so  fair," 
I  could  comment  on  the  •>  blue  vault," 
( »r  the  "  )3 right  and  twinliling  star  "  exalt, 
lUit  when  I  come  to  thinli  it  o'er. 
It's  all  been  done  so  well  before. 

1  might  write  "  the  world  at  Eventide  "  serene, 
And  tails  of  the  many  waters  I  have  seen; 
1  could  probably  sing  of  the  '•  rose's  blush," 
And  describe  the  linnet,  blue  bird  or  thrush. 
There  are  many  subjects  that  are  no  more, 
Because,  you  see  they've  been  written  on  be- 
fore. 

I  might  turn  moralist  and  to  man  explain, 
That  everything  in  life  is  fraught  with  pain; 
1  miglit  write  the  virtues  of  the  elixir  of  life, 
And  discuss    matrimony  between  man  and 

wife. 
I  >\\  "  could  I  write  a  bools  on  vale  and  hill, 
And  eloquently  talk  of  rock  or  rill?  " — 
Yes  — I  could,  but  it's  sucli  a  bore 
It's  all  been  done  so  well  before. 

"  Cupid's  Darts  "  I  could  tell  anew. 

But  rliymes  for  "love  "  are  very  few. 

"  Could  I  write  love-stories  that  take  the  cake. 

And  such  thrilling  tragedies  make?  " — 

But  —  people's  passions  have  been  expressed. 

Yes,  every  one  the  very  worst  and  Ijest. 

Romances  of  old  dukes  —  they  are  no  more. 

But  it's  all  been  done  so  well  before. 


WILL  THE  EARTHLY  PARTING  BE  FOR- 
EYER? 

Shall  this  earthly  parting  be  forever. 

Will  thcu-e  be  no  future  day. 
When  our  souls  shall  be  united. 

In  the  bliss  of  the  Eternal  day? 

Will  the  earthly  parting  be  forever. 

Will  there  not  come  a  time. 
When  over  that  river  of  waters. 

Away  from  the  earth  and  crime  — 

Will  this  earthly  parting  be  forever. 

Can  we  not  see  that  Day, 
When  we  once  more  meet  the  loved  ones. 

That  we  lost  along  the  way? 


-® 


«- 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


191 


-)5 


JANE  MARIA  READ. 

Born:  Bakn.stable,  Mass.,  Oct.  4,  18;>3. 
For  many  years  the  poems  of  Miss  Read  have 
appeared  in  the  leading  periodicals,  and  have 
been  extensively  copied  by  the  local  press.  In 
1887  she  issued  a  neat  volume  of  poems  enti- 
tled Between  the  Centuries  and  Other  Poems, 
which  has  gained  for  her  many  laurels.  In 
person  she  is  a  little  below  the  average  height, 
with  dark  brown  hair  and  eyes,  and  is  at  pres- 
ent engaged  in  literary  pursuits  and  the  study 
and  practice  of  art.  Miss  Read  resides  at  Cold- 
brook  Springs,  Mass.,  where  her  father,  a  bap- 
tist clergyman,  has  a  pastoral  charge. 


SINGING  IN  THE  RAIN. 
Outiu  the  rain,  the  dripping  rain, 

A  little  robin  sings 
A  song  of  love,  a  sweet  refrain 

As  to  the  twig  he  clings. 
He  sings,  "  Good-night,  I  go  to  rest, 
Good-night,  good-night,  I  seek  my  nest, 

Secure  I  sleep. 

In  darkness  deep. 
My  wing  above  my  crest." 

Out  in  the  storm  of  care  and  pain, 

My  heart,  O  Father,  sings 
A  pleading  song,  a  sweet  refrain. 

And  peace  and  trust  it  brings. 
I  sing,  O  Lord,  I  seek  thy  breast. 
On  thy  sure  promises  I  rest; 

Thy  power  can  keep. 

In  darkness  deep. 
And  make  that  darkness  blest. 


®- 


WILFUL  PEGASUS. 
I  hae  a  steed,  wi'  gleaming  wings, 

And  mane  as  briclit  as  gold. 
But  oft,  when  I  would  take  a  ride, 

He  will  na  be  controlled. 
He  comes  to  me,  in  storms  that  beat 

Direct  fra  land  of  snaw; 
And,  neighing,  shakes  his  coltish  head; 

And  looks  sae  very  brau, 
I  mind  nor  sleet  nor  biting  wind. 

But  mounting  at  his  ca'. 
Full  many  bitter  rides  I  liae. 

Led  by  this  steed  awa'. 
Again,  when  owls  are  out  at  nicht, 

Pegasus  neighs  to  me; 
And,  at  his  will.  I  take  my  ride 

Across  yon  moonlit  lea. 
Then,  when  the  summer  roses  smile. 

And  woo  the  zephyrs  sweet, 
I  ca'  in  turn,  but  strange  to  tell. 

He  lifts  his  golden  feet. 
And  skims  across  the  fields,  Indeed, 

But  leaves  me  far  behind; 


Ah!  beautiful  and  winged  steed, 

I  canna'  make  ye  mind. 
Then  wonder  not  I  sing  sae  oft 

Of  storms  and  driving  snaw; 
I  tune  my  harp  when,  round  my  form. 

The  stinging  tempests  blaw. 
I  fain  would  ride  when  suns  are  warm 

And  sing  a  gladsome  song. 
Until  the  mountains,  far  awa'. 

The  echoed  notes  prolong. 
I  fain  would  ride  in  daylicht  brau, 

But,  since  I  canna'  then. 
Just  when  that  pony  wills  to  gae 

I  take  my  rides,  ye  ken. 


IN  WINTER. 

When  winter  fields  are  white  with  snow. 
And  forest  boughs  are  brown  and  sere, 

How  oft  we  think  our  earthly  life 
Is,  like  the  prospect,  cold  and  drear. 

But  soon  the  spring  shall  wake  to  life 
The  flowers  that  sleep  beneath  the  ground. 

And  even  now  some  tended  flower 
Within  the  window  may  be  found. 

So  heaven  shall  bring  eternal  spring. 
With  joys  that  ne'er  shall  fade  again: 

And  e'en  our  saddest  hours  may  yield 
The  tended  flower  of  hope  in  pain. 


IN  THE  WOODBINE. 
Two  little  sparrows  are  building  a  nest, 

Busily  building  and  singing; 
Here  and  away  flits  a  crimson  crest; 

Each  sparrow  a  straw  is  bringing. 
Two  little  sparrows  have  finished  their  nest;— 

Beautiful  leaves  droop  above  it; — 
Lined  with  soft  down  from  a  living  breast. 

We  see  how  the  birdies  love  it. 
Four  little  mouths  for  the  sparrows  to  feed. 

Eight  little  wings  that  are  growing; 
Patient,  the  parents  supply  their  need. 

While  June's  mellow  sunlight  is  glowing, 
Gone  are  the  birds  from  the  empty  nest. 

Vainly  I  list  for  their  singing. 
Vainly  I  watch  for  a  crimson  crest; 

No  bird  to  the  vine  is  clinging. 
Summer  again  with  its  June  may  come; 

Birds  may  around  me  be  singing; 
None  will  return  to  the  empty  home. 

Up  there  in  the  woodbine  swinging. 


EXTRACT. 

Throb  on,  O  Sea,  in  solemn  woe. 
Throb  on,  while  storms  shall  o'er  thee  blow; 
Throb  on,  while  suns  shall  on  thee  glow. 
Deep  hidden  'neath  thy  heaving  breast. 
There  seems  a  longing  after  rest. 
However  rough  thy  tossing  crest. 


* 


®- 


192 


-m 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


HARRY  LYMAN  KOOPMAN. 

Born:  Freeport, Me., July  1, 1860. 
Graduating  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  Mr.  Koop- 
man  has  since  supported  himself  chiefly  with 
his  pen.  He  has  published  sevei-al  books  of 
both  prose  and  verse  which  liave  attained  fair 
circulations.  Mr.  Koopman  has  been  exten- 
sively engaged  in  library  worli.  The  Great 
Admiral;  Woman's  Will,  a  love  play  of  five 
acts  with  other  poems ;  and  Orestes,  a  drama- 
tic sketch  with  other  poems,  are  among  his 
principal  published  works.  Mr.  Koopman  was 
united  in  wedlock  in  June,  1889,  and  now  re- 
sides in  Burlington,  Vt. 


*- 


THE  DEATH  OF  GUINEVERE. 

The  tale  the  abbess  told,  she  that  liad  been 

The  little  novice,  maid  to  Guinevere. 

It  was  the  season  when  there  falls  no  night. 

But  all  the  dusk,  from  sun  to  sun,  is  filled 

With  golden  twilight  deepening  into  dawn. 

Then  all  the  air  is  fragrance,  all  the  earth 

Fit  carpeted  for  footstool  of  its  King 

With  bloom  and  softness.    Everj'  hour  is  fair. 

But  fairest  glows  the  even,  when  the  west 

Uplifts  its  gates  of  pearl,  and  over  them 

The  roofs  and  towers  and  spires  of  ruby  and 

gold. 
Then  pious  hearts  think  on  the  heavenly  city. 
And  saintly  eyes,  wept  dim  o'er  sins  forgiven. 
Now  weep  for  rapture  of  the  glory  revealed. 
But  song  of   bird    nor    breath  of    blossom 

touched 
With  any  thrill  the  sick  heart  of  the  queen. 
Upon  her  bed  she  lay.    Around,  her  maids 
Stood  weeping,  while  her  fevered  dreams  out- 
brake: 
"  He  loves  me  still,  and  now  I  go  to  him 

To  be  his  bride  within  the  halls  of  light. 
He  loves  me.    But  with  earthly  lips  he  spake. 
Will  he  now  love  me  in  the  spirit  world. 
Where    hearts   are    undisguised,  no  beauty 

shines 
But  of  the  soul,  nor  any  charm  allures, 
Save  only  purity  and  holiness? 
Are  there  not  myriads  in  the  world  of  bliss, 
To  be  wliose  handmaid  I  were  all  unmeet? 
Consorts  he  not  with  these,  and  how  tlirough 

them 
Should  I  win  way  to  him?  Far  other  thoughts 
Than  memory  of  me  must  fill  his  soul. 
Who  wronged  him  so  and  served  him  here  so 

ill. 
He  loves  me;  rather  say  he  hates  me  not, 
So  at  least  unrebuked  I  may  behold  him. 
Only  to  see  liim,  this  were  joy  enough, 
My  Arthur.    Nay,  l)ut  shall  I  be  content 
Only  to  see  liim?    Was  it  but  for  this  [on 

My  soul  hath  yearned  and  hoped  and  struggled 


These  weary  years!  Hath  he  no  kiss  for  me? 
May  I  not  clasp  his  knees,  and  in  my  love 
Have  him  again  all  mine,  my  own? 

But  what 
If  in  that  world  the  sight  of  me  were  pain. 
Despite  his  love?    As  how  should  it  not  be, 
Seeing  that  sin  o'erlived  is  not  undone. 
Nor  can  forgiveness  blot  out  memory? 
Were  .sight  of  me  to  waken  in  his  heart 
Old  woes,  and  quicken  anguish  of  slain  hopes, 
Could  it  be  love  should  lead  me  to  his  side? 
Shall  I  buy  joy  again  with  pain  to  him? 
Have  1  not  wronged  his  love  enough  on  earth. 
But  I  must  haunt  him  in  the  heavenly  world, 
And  be  his  hindrance  there?    O  Arthur,  Ar- 
thur, 
Must  I  then  see  thee  not?  May  nevermore 
Thy  kingly  glance  of  love  sink  in  my  heart? 
I  love  thee,  love  thee  I    All  my  penitence 
Hath  been  made  light  bj-  promise  of  thy  love; 
But  do  I  love  thee  so  that  for  love's  sake 
I  will  not  see  thee  more;  that  for  all  years 
Of  all  eternity  I  can  deny 
Myself  thj-  face,  to  spare  thee  sight  of  mine. 
My  love,  mj-  hope,  my  strength,  my  life,  mj- 

king? 
Yea  for  thy  sake  I  will." 

Here  ceased  the  queen, 
And  on  her  face  a  deadly  pallor  fell. 
The  light  sank  from  her  eyes;— then  leaped 

again. 
And  in  her  cheek  the  rosy  flush  of  youth 
Flashed,  and  a  smile  like  summer  bent  her 

lips; 
She  cried  again  >>  O  Arthur  1  "  and  the  smile 
Lingered,  but  she  had  gone  to  meet  lier  king. 
Through  the  bowed  window  came  the  breath 

of  morn. 
And  high  in  heaven  the  bright  lark  sang  for 
glee. 

PRINCESS  EYEBRIGHT. 

Princess  Eyebright's  seventeen. 

No  more  princess  but  a  queen 

Who  would  ever  guess  'twas  she 

Used  to  sit  upon  my  knee. 

Bid  me  tell  of  sleeping  Kip, 

Culprit  Fay  and  flying  ship. 

Or,  from  old-world  bi'ing  her  back 

Pus.s-in-boots  and  cliniljing  Jaek; 

Then,  when  I  had  said  my  say. 

Pouted  her  bright  lips  ft)r  p:iy: 

Though  she's  grown  since  tlieii,  somehow 

Her  lips  are  farther  from  me  now. 

Yet  she  lifts  in  olden  wise 

Dusky  veiled,  violet  eyes; 

But  the  look  they  wear  is  new. 

Shy,  and  yet  so  ti'ustful  too, 

That  I  swear  the  girl  I  miss 

Charmed  me  never  so  as  this. 


-© 


©- 


-® 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


193 


WALT  WHITMAN. 

Bobn:  West  Hills,  N.  Y.,  May  31,1819. 
Of  English  origin,  the  Whitmans  have  hved 
three  centuries  in  America.  Walt,  in  one  of 
his  poems,  says :  "  My  tongue,  every  atom  of 
my  blood,  formed  from  this  soil,  this  air.  Born 
here  of  parents  born  liere,  from  parents  the 
same,  and  their  parents  the  same."  His  youth 
was  passed  in  New  York  and  Brooklyn,  receiv- 


WAIiT  WHITMAN. 

ing  but  a  common  school  education.  When  a 
young  man  he  worked  in  a  printing  office.  Dur- 
ing the  Rebellion  he  was  a  volunteer  nurse 
without  pay,  supporting  himself  during  this 
time  by  writing  letters  to  various  newspapers. 
It  is  said  that  during  the  course  of  the  war  he 
attended  to  the  wants  of  a  hundred  thousand 
wounded  soldiers,  treating  both  confederates 
and  federals  alike.  Walt  Whitman's  crowning 
poetical  work  is  Leaves  of  Grass,  a  record  of 
the  author's  thoughts,  in  song— solely  of  Amer- 
ica and  to-day.  He  has  also  written  two  vol- 
umes of  prose :  Specimen  Days  and  Collect,  and 
November  Boughs. 


©- 


WHAT  AM  I  AFTER  ALL. 

What  am  I  after  all  but  a  child,  pleas'd  with 
the  sound  of  my  own  name?  repeat- 
ing it  over  and  over; 

I  stand  apart  to  hear — it  never  tires  me. 

To  you  your  name  also; 

Did  you  think  there  was  nothing  but  two  or 
three  pronunciations  in  the  sound  in 
your  name? 


LOVE. 
Blow  again  trumpeter !  and  for  thy  theme, 
Take  now  the  enclosing  theme  of  all,  the  solv- 
ent and  the  setting. 
Love,  that  is  pulse  of  all,  the  sustenance  and 

the  pang. 
The  heart  of  man  and  woman  all  for  lo\o. 
No  other  theme  but  love  —  knitting,  enclosing, 
all-diffusing  love. 

0  how  the  immortal  phantoms  crowd  around 

me! 

1  see  the  vast  alembic  ever  working,  I  see  and 

know  the  flames  that  heat  the  world. 
The  glow,  the  blush,  the  breathing  hearts  of 

lovers. 
So  blissful  happy  some,  and  some  so  silent, 

dark,  and  nigh  to  death : 
Love,  that  is  all  the  earth  to  lovers  —  love,  that 

mocks  time  and  space. 
Love,  that  is  day  and  night  — love,  that  is  sun 

and  moon  and  stars. 
Love,  that  is  crimson,  sumptuous,  sick  with 

perfume. 
No  other  words  but  words  of  love,  no  other 

thought  but  love. 


THE  WORLD  BELOW  THE  BRINE. 

The  world  below  the  brine. 

Forests  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  the  branches 

and  leaves, 
Sea-lettuce,  vast  lichens,  strange  flowers  and 

seeds,  the  thick  tangle,  and  pink  turf. 
Different  colors,  pale  gray  and  green,  purple, 

white,    and    gold,   the  play  of    white 

through  the  water. 
Dumb  swimmers  there  among  the  rocks,  coral, 

gluten,  grass,  rushes,  and  the  aliment 

of  the  swimmei'S, 
Sluggish  existences  grazing  there  suspended, 

or  slowly  crawling  close  to  the  bottom. 
The  sperm-whale  at  the  surface  blowing  air 

and  spray,  or  disporting  with  his  flukes. 
The  leaden-eyed  shark,  the  walrus,  the  turtle, 

the  hairy  sea-leopard,  and  the  sting- 
ray. 
Passions  there,  wars,  pursuits,  tribes,  sight  in 

those    ocean-depths,     breathing    that 

thick-breathing  air,  as  so  many  do. 
The  change  thence  to  the  sight  here,  and  to 

the  subtle  air  breathed  by  beings  like 

us  who  walk  this  sphere. 
The  change  onward  from  ours  to  that  of  beings 

who  walk  other  spheres. 


LIFE. 

The  same  old  role,  the  role  that  is  what  we 

make  it,  as  great  as  we  like. 
Or  as  small  as  we  like,  or  both  great  and  small, 


-© 


MARGARET  MCRAE LACKEY. 

Bokn:  Copiah  Co.,  Miss.,  Oct.  24, 1858. 
The  poems  of  Miss  Lackey  have  appeared  in 
tbe  New  Orleans  Picayune,  Southern  Culti- 
vator   and    the    periodical    press   generally. 


MAliCAUKT  .M'KAfc;  r>A('KK.V. 

She  follows  tlie  profession  of  teaching,  and 
resides  iu  her  native  state  at  Crystal  Springs. 
Miss  Lackey  hopes  soon  to  issue  a  volume. 

EVEN  THIS  WILL  PASS  AWAY. 
Of  all  the  proverbs  quaint  and  sweet, 
That  burdened  .souls  so  often  greet. 

As  some  wise  voice  from  ancient  clay, 
There  sure  is  none  in  whose  belief. 
The  worn  heart  finds  such  sweet  relief. 

As  "Even  this  will  pass  away!" 
When  weary  hands  from  early  dawn 
Till  lengthening  eve  must  labor  on. 

And  know  not  surcease  day  by  day; 
How  gladly  comes  the  sweet  refrain. 
That  echoes  o'er  and  o'er  again, 

..This,  even  this,  will  pass  away." 
When  burdens  that  are  hard  to  bear 
Would  sink  the  soul  'neath  black  Despair, 

And  whitening  lips  refuse  to  pray; 
Faith's  lovely  face  e'en  then  will  glow. 
And  sweet  her  voice  that  whispers  low, 

..  Uut  even  tli's  will  pass  away." 
When  earth  to  earth  and  dust  to  dust 
Is  read  above  our  heart's  best  trust. 


* 


And  we  in  anguish  turn  away: 
The  bitter  cup  less  bitter  seems. 
When    through   its   dregs   the   bright  truth 
gleams. 

That  even  this  will  pass  away. 
Yea,  even  this !    With  hearts  bowed  down 
We  stand  before  the  new-made  mound. 

And  long  to  greet  the  coming  day. 
When  weary  feet  have  found  a  rest; 
When  hands  are  folded  o'er  the  breast; 

And  all  life's  woes  have  passed  away. 

V/HEN  THE  SUN  GOES  DOWN. 
When  the  sun  goes  down, 
And  lengthening  shadows  round  me  fall, 
And  night  enwraps  the  world  in  its  dark  pall, 
I  wonder  if  I'll  sit  at  close  of  day 
And  backward  glance  along  the  dreary  way. 
And  count  with  blinding  tears  its  anguished 

(blow 
woe,  .   ^ 

And  mark  the  spots  where  adverse  wuids  did 
And  storms  did  lash  me  ere  the  sun  went 
down. 
When  the  sun  goes  down, 
I  wonder  if  I'll  weep  o'er  graves  we  made. 
O'er  brightest  hopes  so  dear  within  them  laid; 
O'er  friends  who  left  me  e'en  at  morning's 

dawn. 
To  bear  the  burden  of  the  day  alone. 
O'er  others  who  beside  me  fainting  fell. 
When  naught  could  noontides  scorching  heat 
dispel,  td'^wu. 

And  sought  the  shade  before  the  sun  went 

When  tho  sun  goes  down. 
And  crimson  glory  floods  the  western  skies. 
And  veils  th'  eternal  hills  in  beauty's  guise. 
I  wonder  if  this  glad,  entrancing  light 
Will  fill  my  earth-worn  soul  with  such  delight. 
That  I'll  forget  the  day  was  long  and  drear. 
Forget  each  blasted  hope,  each  idle  fear. 
That  saddened  life  before  the  sun  went  down. 

When  the  sun  goes  down, 
I  think  I  will  not  sigh  because  the  day 
Had  more  of    Winter's  chill  than  smiles  of 

May; 
Because  'twas  crowded  full  of  weary  toil. 
And  griefs  that  made  the  aching  heart  recoil; 
Because  so  many  blinding  tears  were  shed. 
Above  low  mounds  which  held  my  cherished 

dead. 
Who  left  me  lonely  ere  the  sun  went  down. 

When  the  sun  goes  down, 
I  think  the  twilight  rest  will  be  so  sweet. 
Which  gre(>ts  the  tired  heart,  the  restless  feet. 
That  I  will  gladly  fold  these  weary  hands. 
And  thinking  naught  of  this  past  day's  de- 
mands, t""»'-"' 
Will  gaze    enraptured  toward    tbat    C(nning 
To  which  my  longing  soul  shall  soon  be  borne, 
And  his  eternal  sun  shall  ne'er  go  down 


SB- 


^- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   I'OETS   OF  AMERICA. 


195 


-m 


LOTTIE  CAiMERON  EFNOR. 

Born:  Liverpool,  N.  Y. 
Mrs.  Efnor  is  best  known  by  lier  poems  and 
letters  published    in  the  leading  papers    of 
Texas  for  the  past  twenty  years,  although  she 
has  contributed  quite  extensively  to  the  east- 


AMERON  EFNOR. 

ern  press.  She  will  doubtless  publish  her  en- 
tire works  in  book-form  at  an  early  date.  Per- 
sonally she  is  of  medium  height,  with  black 
hair  and  eyes. 


88- 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE  OF  LIFE. 

Ah !  joyously  murmur  of  life's  brightest  side, 

The  side  we  deem  nearest  the  sun ; 
A  well-spring  of  joy  they  tell  us  we'll  tind. 

If  in  earnest  the  search  is  begun. 
Yea,  it  is  true!  there  is  a  bright  side  of  life 

When  little  feet  patter  the  floor, 
And  sweet,  childish  laughter  out  on  the  lawn 

Comes  "  rollicking"  in  at  the  door. 
But  how  can  we  say  there  is  a  bright  side  of 
life 

When  these  sunny  echoes  are  o'er. 
And  little  feet  turning  to  mold  in  the  grave 

Will  gladden  these  hauntings  no  more? 
Can  the  mother  well  look  on  the  bright  side 
of  life  — 

Whose  anguish  and  meanings  are  heard  — 
When  her  heart  and  arms  are  empty  and  bare 

As  winter's  cold  nest  of  a  bird? 


A  lover  will  call  it  the  bright  side  of  life 
When  he  looks  in  the  eyes  of  his  love. 
And  reads  in  their  depths  the  return  of  his 
hopes. 
The  truths  that  his  happiness  wove. 
Her  smiles  like  the  moonbeams  appeal  to  his 
soul, 
Her  laughter,  like  ripples  of  pearls. 
Keeps  filling  his  heart  with  the  rarest  of  gems, 

As  it  playfully  floats  through  her  curls. 
But  his  mind  is  all  changed  when  the  bright 
side  of  life 
Has  turned  the  dark  side  to  his  view; 
And  eyes  that  looked  up  to  his  own  manly 
face 
Will  never  be  those  that  he  knew 
In  days  that  are  fled  with  the  bright  side  of 
life, 
While  leaving  him  only  its  pain ;         [own  — 
New   lovers  have  taken  the  heart  once  his 

The  heart  now  no  longer  his  fane. 
A  lord  of  the  earth  finds  the  bright  side  of  life 

In  thousands  that  add  to  his  store; 
And  his  proud-stepping  dame  but  adds  to  its 
light. 
While  driving  her  carriage  and  four; 
The  masses  throng  by  and  each  giving  his  hand 

'Though  many  wear  treachery's  smile. 
For  him  it  is  truly  the  bright  side  of  life 

His  own  heart  is  happy  the  whUe. 
But  changes  have  come  to  his  bright  side  of 
Ufe, 
Misfortunes  have  reached  him  at  last; 
The  friends  that  so  warmly  extended  a  hand 

Seem  scarcely  to  know  he  has  past : 
His  heart  being  tender,  his  pride  being  bowed. 

He  feels  in  his  soul  for  the  poor; 
And  wonders  if  follows  the  dark  side  of  life, 

The  many  once  turned  from  his  door. 
Ah !  Well  may  we  deem  it  the  bright  side  of 
life 
When  all  of  life's  blessings  are  near, 
When  beauty  and  wealth,  like  a  glorious  boon. 

Shelter  the  eye  from  a  frown  or  a  tear. 
The  world  is  so  bright  when  the  laurel-crown- 
ed brow 
Grows  calm  and  content  with  its  rest; 
When  the  fruitage  of  toil  to  the  weary,  worn 
soul 
Has  anchored  its  hopes  in  the  breast. 
But  when  these  have  all  sunk  in  life's  dark- 
ened sea. 
And  blessings  gone  down  with  the  tide; 
Or  heartaches  and  sorrows  assume  their  con- 
trol. 
And  loving  ones  sickened  and  died ; 
'Tls  then  we  look  out  on  the  dark  side  of  life, 

Well  knowing  its  shadows  are  here; 
And  better  it  were  to  take  burdens  of  life 
With  seldom  a  murmur  or  tear. 


m 


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196 


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LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


L.  A.  MARTIN. 

Born:  Fayette  Co., Ohio,  Jan.  14,186.5. 
After  receiving'  a  good  education,  Mr.  Martin 
entered  tlie  profession  of  a  scbool  teaclaer.  In 
1889  he  was  seiiool  commissioner  of  Livingston 
county,  and  also  editor  of  the  Teachers'  Re- 


®- 


Li.   a.   martin. 

view,  an  educational  journal  published  at 
Chillicothe,  Mo.  The  poems  of  Mr.  Martin  have 
appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the  periodical 
press. 

THE  WITHERED  FLOWER. 
I  saw  a  withered  flower. 
On  a  low  disheveled  lK)wer, 

Fading  fast; 
For  the  north  wind  then  did  blow. 
And  tlie  skies  with  clouds  of  snow 

Were  o'ercast. 
"iJut  its  leaves  were  folded  quiet 
On  its  tiny  stem  so  light. 

So  resigned ; 
To  await  the  Reapei''.s  call. 
As  fate  has  for  us  all 

So  designed. 
Oh,  I  .almost  slicd  a  tear, 
As  I  gazed  upon  tl\e  bier 

Of  tliat  flower; 
Tliough  its  leaves  were  sere  and  brown, 
'Twas  as  sweet  as  when  spring's  down 

Decked  its  bower. 


And  its  humble  dying  smile 
Seemed  so  calm  and  free  from 

That  its  death 
Showed  signs  of  brightest  hope. 
Fulfilled  when  spring  shall  ope 

I  ts  sweet  breath ; 
Oh,  a  lesson  it  me  taught. 
That  with  use  is  deeply  fraught. 

Oh,  may  I, 
As  that  humble  dying  flower, 
On  its  low,  disheveled  bower. 

Live  and  die. 
Let  me  e'er,  as  it,  when  spring 
Verdant  beauties  o'er  all  fling. 

Sweetly  bloom. 
And  contented  dwell  alone 
In  my  humble  cottage  home 

With  no  gloom. 
And  when  life's  end  is  near, 
And  the  frosts  of  death  appear. 

Let  me  hope 
That  bright  again  once  more. 
When  the  winter  death  is  o'er 

Spring  will  ope. 


uile. 


AMOUR  PRIMUS. 
O,  evening  long  ago. 
When  first  we  love  did  know. 
When  first  we  told  love's  tale. 
As  over  the  dewy  dale, 

We  passed  along; 
Sweet  zephyr  ceased  to  blow. 
The  blushing  stars  did  glow. 
And  shone  with  crimson  pale, 
Wliile  hushed  the  nightingale 

His  gladdening  song. 
O,  love  that  young  hearts  speak. 
When  first  the  crimsoned  cheek 
Bears  plain  the  tell-tale  hue 
It  is  immortal  true: 

It  never  dies ; 
Tliough  vain  may  be  its  flame, 
Fond  memories  it  reclaim; 
And  where  fond  treasured  lie 
The  thouglits  that  cannot  die. 

It  there  dotli  rise. 


MEMORIAL. 
We  stand  upon  death's  tlireshold. 

With  the  olive  wreath  of  peace. 
As  o'er  the  dear  dead  fallen. 

Fond  tributes  of  love  increase; 
And  we  lay  the  hei'o's  laurel 

Above  each  nnmarl)U'(l  gi'ave, 
Wliile  we  sing  love's  Ijurning  anthems 

In  memorials  of  the  brave. 
The  bi'ave  and  the  bold  we  honor, 

We  love  the  true  and  the  tried. 
And  glory's  green  garlands  blossom, 

Where  the  heroes  fought  and  died. 


© 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


197 


JUNIUS  L.HEMPSTEAD. 

Born:  Dubuque,  Ia„  Nov.  14, 1842. 
Always  studious  and  fond  of  art,  music  and 
literature,  Junius  when  a  youth  secured  tiie 
blue  riljbon  two  successive  seasons  at  the  St. 
Louis  fair,  and  also  two  premium  prizes  of 
seventy-five  and  one  hundred  dollars  for  the 
best  original  statuettes  in  marble.  Drifting 
into  booli-keepiug-,  Mr.  Hempstead  has  follow- 
ed that  profession  until  about  1886,  since  which 


JUNIUS  L.   HEMPSTEAD. 

time  he  has  devoted  himself  entirely  to  litera- 
ture. He  has  written  five  good  serial  stories, 
besides  a  number  of  short  poems,  reviews  and 
scientific  articles,  all  of  which  have  received 
publication.  He  has  now  in  preparation  a 
novel,  which  he  hopes  to  publish  in  1890.  His 
poems  are  certainly  vei-y  fine,  and  show  much 
genius  and  study  in  their  composition. 


CREDO. 
I  believe  that  should  I  die. 
To  lie  within  the  eartli's  dull  mold, 
Every  laughing  breeze  would  sigh, 
And  every  flower  unfold 
To  fatten  on  decay. 

I  believe  that  should  I  die. 
To  mingle  with  the  clay 
Every  changing  shrub  would  vie. 
And  claim  me  for  its  praj' 
When  I  am  dead. 


©- 


I  believe  that  should  I  die. 
To  dreamless  melt  in  dust. 
My  mother  earth  will  beautify 
The  autumn's  tinted  rust 
Through  me. 

I  believe  that  should  I  die. 
This  mortal  part  will  bloom. 
The  quickening  seed  will  vivify 
Yet  slumber  in  the  toml). 
To  blossom  in  the  sky. 
I  believe  that  should  I  die. 
To  lie  in  earth's  deep  mold, 
The  chrysalis  will  sanctify 
The  Psyche's  perfect  mould. 


A  TEAR. 

Was  this  a  tear?  ah !  well, 
A  crystal  drop  that  fell 
From  sorrow's  trembling  lid, 
To  soothe  the  aching  spell 
Where  silent  grief  lay  hid. 
Beneath  the  desert's  barren  swell. 
Where  crumbling  stone  and  pyramid 
Their  tear-stained  stories  tell. 

Is  this  a  tear?  ah!  me. 

That  trembles  on  mj^  cheek; 

'Tis  not  the  sign  of  glee. 

But  woe  too  dumb  to  speak. 

That  finds  on  bended  knee 

A  lonely  heart  too  bleak 

For  other  eyes  to  see. 

Is  this  a  tear?  why!  yes, 

A  crystal  drop  that  wells 

From  healing  springs  to  bless 

The  woe  that  hath  a  voiceless  knell. 

And  with  feolian  strains  to  cheer 

The  heart  whose  bolted  citadel 

Is  opened  by  a  tear. 


HOPE. 
Hope  is  a  sea,  whose  tideless  unrest 
Sweeps   o'er  the  soul,  with  a  zephyrs   soft 

balm. 
An  ocean  of  pleasure,  where  sirens  becalm 
The  barks,  that  drift  o'er  its  bright  crested 

breast. 
Ladened    with  wishes,  beautiful  dreams  to  be 

blest. 
Its  waves  may  be  kissed  by  sweet  islands  of 

palm  — 
Beneficent  isles,  where  our  memories  embalm, 
FadedJiopes  we  so  fondly  caressed. 
The  mystical  shore  of  this  boundless  sea 
Receding,  retreating,  and  ever  beyond. 
Is  strewn  with  the  wrecks  of  the  never  to  be. 
But  Hope  is  a  slave,  whose  gold  woven-bond 
Is  the  dream  of  to-day,  a  quaint  jubilee. 
Where  voices  are  singing,  while  spirits  re- 
spond [sea. 
From  out  of  the  depths  of  the  shimmering 


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198 


LOCAT.   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


PROCRASTINATION. 
A  startled  gaze,  and  burning'  glance. 
Flashed  from  the  deep-brimmed  hat, 
His  bloodless  fingers,  soft  and  fat. 
Were  tightly  clasped.    The  deathly  trance 
Of  agony  chilled  the  warm  blood,  while  the 

semblance 
Of  a  rigid  statue,  grimly  sat 
Upon  the  moveless  form  that 
Bended  o'er  the  dial's  sunlit  utterance. 
The  shadow  swept  the  plUar'd  mark. 
Where  Time  had  called  the  turn, 
While  Pleasure,  in  her  gilded  l)ark. 
Had  frittered  Life's  sojourn. 
To  kiss  the  specter  of  a  dark 
Unwelcome  guest,  whose  gift,  a  marble  urn. 


8&- 


THE  SONG  OF  DEATH. 
I  ride  on  the  wings  of  the  storm, 
I  float  in  the  soft  summer  air, 
I  breathe,  while  I  move  without  form, 
I  smite  and  the  reaper  is  there. 
In  the  midst  of  the  battle  so  fell. 
In  the  leaden  balls'  shower  of  deatli. 
With  the  hissing  of  shot,  and  the  bursting 

of  shell, 
I  sweep  them  away  with  a  breath. 
In  the  crash  of  the  swift-coming  train. 
That    sinks  thro'    the    bridge    o'er    the 
stream,  [vain. 

The  shrieks  of  the  dying,  each  praying  in 
And  I  count  them  by  thousands  again. 
Old  ocean  with  turbulent  waves. 
Its  billows  of  death  sweeping  o'er. 
Countless  and  drear  are  the  graves, 
The  dirge  of  my  song  ever  more. 
I  kiss  with  a  poisonous  breath. 
High  fever,  dull  stupor,  and  pain, 
Tlie  fair  cheek  of  slumbering  health. 
As  I  gloat  o'er  my  victims  again. 
I  lurk  in  the  wine  cup  and  smile. 
As  each  sip  quickly  steals  to  the  brain. 
Young  innocence  thus  1  beguile. 
While  they  falter,  but  turn  not  again. 
I  darken  the  earth  with  a  storm, 
I  flash  in  the  cloud-ladened  air. 
To  strike  from  my  pathway  eacii  form, 
As  I  bound  fnjm  my  desohite  lair. 
I  rusli  in  tlie  roar  of  the  river, 
Wliile  it  sweeps  from  tlie  craig  to  the  sea. 
To  strangle  the  wretch  with  a  shiver. 
As  he  pays  his  last  tribute  to  me. 
All  life  is  a  harvest  to  claim. 
From  the  gnat  to  the  sweet-scented  flower. 
E'en  the  mammoth  that  sports  in  the  main. 
Succumbs  to  my  death-dealing  power. 
I  live  in  the  hope  of  despair. 
To  crush,  to  slay  and  to  kill. 


To  madden,  till  death  seems  so  fail'. 

To  die,  is  to  shorten  the  ill. 

A  stranger  to  mercy  and  love. 

Compassion,  tenderness,  tears. 

My  arrows  of  death  from  above, 

Mark  the  flight  of  the  numberless  years. 


ART  THOU  A  FRIEND. 

Art  thou  a  friend  to  me? 
Oh !  no,  it  cannot  be. 
Or  did  the  heart  grow  cold 
With  time's  neglect.    The  mold 
Of  years  has  in  the  buried  past 
Grown  greenly  to  break  at  last 
Tlie  ties  that  bound  us  then. 
Art  thou  a  friend  in  need? 
"Tis  not  the  summer  shine  we  heed, 
Whose  brightness  shimmers  all; 
And  golden  May  day  showers  fall 
Upon  the  heart  where  fortune  smiled. 
While   fleet-wiug'd    pleasure    time    be- 
guiled. 
The  hours  that  then  belonged  to  thee. 
Art  thou  a  friend  indeed. 
To  nourish  \varm  and  feed 
The  hungry  heart  whose  wintry  tears 
Are  rustecj  leaflets  of  the  years. 
That  have  so  quickly  flown? 
Can  you  be  true  in  woe,  as  weal. 
To  bind  our  hearts  with  hooks  of  steel? 


GREAT  THOUGHTS  CAN  NEVER  DIE. 
Great  thoughts   are    monuments   upon    the 

shores  of  time,  [blime. 

To  cast  long  shadows  from  their  heights  su- 
Their  fadeless  luster  is  the  deathless  cycle's 

roll,  [fading  scroll,— 

To  light  with  vivid  splendor  the  world's  un- 
Tliey  live  beyond  the  deeds  with  knightly  val- 
or crowned,  [nowned. 
The  marbled  bust  by  sculptor's  hand  re- 
The    crumbling  walls,  the  king's  embattled 

tower,  [ruthless  power. 

The  conquering  squadrons  and  the  tyi  ant's 
They  live  beyond  the  mitred  churches'  creed. 
Beyond  the  truth,  from  papal  error  freed. 
The  earth  does  move,  and  grand  Galileo  dead. 
His  thought  is  ma.stcr  though   his   soul  has 

fled. 
They  live  beyond  the  martyr's  torturiiigdealh. 
The  .sacred  ashes,  and  the  fleeting  breath, 
A  crowned  king,  upon  the  globes  empyrean 

throne, 
To  gather  untold  harvests  from  the  seed  that 

thought  has  sown. 
They  live  beyond  the  i)at  riot's  glorious  grave. 
The  rich  liliatlons,  the  willing  blood  he  gave. 
That  future  years  should  halo  living  thought. 
And   dim  the    stars  with  deeds  such  valor 

wrought. 


-* 


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LOCAI^   AND   NATIONAI,   POETS   OF  AMEIllCA. 


199 


© 


MRS.  L.  R.  BETHEL. 

This  lady  bas  written  both  prose  and  verse 
extensively  under  the  nom  de  plume  of 
Monnie    Moore.    She   is   a   member   of     the 


MRS.  Ij.  R.  bethel. 

Western  Authors'  and  Artists'  Association, 
and  is  a  regular  contributor  to  sevtnal  prom- 
inent newspapers  and  magazines. 


®- 


A  HEART'S  SONG. 
Oh!  autumn  rain,  so  gently  faUing, 
Alike  some  spirit  softly  calling. 

In  measured  tones  of  scenes  that  were, 
My  heart  in  unison,  is  now  besting. 
My  thoughts  tiie  days  now  gone  repeating. 

Those  happier  days  with  love  so  fair. 

Oh!  life,  why  must  ye  change  so  grimly? 
Or,  will  the  future  showing  dimly, 

Some  sweeter  recompense  bestow? 
Some  solace  for  the  heart-aclie  borne,  love. 
Some  joys  known  in  this  life  we  live,  love. 

Ere  to  the  seraph's  land  we  go? 

Soft  falls  the  rain  on  dying  leaves,  dear. 
Like  a  knell  my  aching  heart  must  hear. 

Of  liopes  that  rest  as  dying  leaves  — 
But  as  those  leaves  fair  blooms  may  cover. 
So  may  I  through  life's  gloom  discover 

The  joy  for  which  my  spirit  grieves. 

So  may  thine  arms  some  day  entwine  me, 
Tliy  very  soul  as  mine,  mine  with  thee 


In  heaven  to  be,  if  not  while  here; 
Foi',  though  this  life  nuiy  part  us  ever. 
Tile  vows  we  pledged  sweetheart  can  never 
Be  broken,  we  will  hold  tliem  dear. 

E'en  as  the  rain  out  side  is  falling. 
We  may  in  future  years  recalling. 

The  days  of  gloom,   our  liearts  have  known, 
Know  that  the  sun  somewhere  was  shining 
Behind  a  cloud  with  silver  lining. 

And  from  each  lieart  will  grief  have  flown. 

Know  that  this  life  holds  much  of  gladness. 
That  sweetest  joy  is  born  of  sadness, 

As  trodden  blooms  yield  perfume  sweet; 
Know  that  our  waiting  found  award  here, 
When  heart  with  lieart,  may  beat  as  one  dear,. 

And  souls  in  joyous  union  meet. 


WITHIN  MY  FATHER'S  CARE. 

Within  my  Father's  care 
Have  I  bestowed  one  flower; 
From  off  my  loving  breast 
'Twas  plucked  one  dreadful  hour. 
Rebellion  thrilled  my  being  then  — 
And  grief,  untold  by  voice,  or  pen. 
At  first  I  would  not  have  it  so; 
Proud  was  my  neck  beneatli  its  woe. 
While  flinching  'neath  the  rod. 

She  was  mj-  all;  the  first — 
Sweet  gift  from  lieaveii  sent, 
I  murmured;  "  Why,  dear  Lord, 
Was  this  sweet  bud  lent. 
Until  mine  arms  had  twined  around 
Her  baby  form;  and  love  profound  — 
Sweet  mother-love  my  heart  had  filled? 
Why  was  it,  dearest  Lord,  thus  willed. 
And  I  must  give  her  up?" 

But  time  with  soft'ning  touch 

Hath  soothed,  not  healed,  the  wound; 

In  faith,  a  solace  sweet, 

My  saddened  heart  hatli  found. 

And,  Oh!  how  sweet  by  trust  to  feel 

Slie's  safe  with  Christ,   through  woe  oi 

weal, 
'Tis  tlius  I  make  no  half-way  gift. 
Nor  have  witliin  the  lute  one  rift. 
To  mar  its  perfect  lone. 

So  sweetly  faitli  has  taught 

This  boundless  trust  in  God. 

I  cannot  murmur  now. 

But  bow  beneatli  the  rod; 

Nor  could  a  doubt  of  Him  imply 

To  ask  her  spirit  from  on  iiigli. 

So  in  my  heart  I  liold  her  there. 

Through  days  and  years,  a  memory  fair,— 

A  presence,  sweet  and  dear. 


-® 


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200 


-© 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE. 

Born:  Hanover,  N.  H  ,  April  4, 1810. 
From  1833  till  1840  ho  was  pastor  of  the  Untari- 
an  church  in  Louisville,  Ky.,  also  editing  the 
Western  Messenger  during  part  of  this  time. 
He  then  returned  to  Boston,  where  in  1844  he 
founded  the  Church  of  the  Disciples,  of  which 
he  was  pastor  for  forty-five  years.  He  has 
written  about  two  score  of  different  works  of 
prose,  and  many  fine  poems  have  appeared 
from  bis  pen. 

HOW  TO  JUDGE. 
J  udge  the  people  by  their  actions  —'tis  a  rule 

you  often  get  - 
Judge  the  actions  by  their  people  is  a  wiser 

ma.\im  yet. 
Have  I  known  you,  brother,  sister?  have  I  look- 
ed into  your  heart? 
Mingled  with  your  thoughts  my  feelings,  taken 

of  your  life  my  part? 
Now  I  hear  of  this  wrong  action  —  what  is  that 

to  you  and  me? 
Sin  within  you  may  have  done  it  —  fruit  not 

nature  to  the  tree. 
Foreign  graft  has  come  to  bearing  —  mistletoe 

grows  on  your  bough  — 
If  I  ever  really  knew  you,  then  my  friend  I 

know  you  now. 


»- 


VINETA. 

A  TRANSLATION  FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

Under  ocean  evening  bells  are  swinging. 

Muffled  by  the  waters,  faint  and  slow  — 
Telling  by  their  wild,  unearthly  ringing 

Of  a  strange  old  city  down  below. 
Looking  downward,  mid  the  currents  darkling. 

Spires  and  towers  and  walls  are  dimly  seen ; 
Radiance  from  tbeir  roofs  of  silver  sparkling 

Glitters  upward  through  the  waters  green. 
He,  whose  bark  above  that  sunken  city 

Through  the  evening  twilight  once  has  gone. 
Drawn  henceforth  by  secret  love  and  pity. 

Steers  forever  to  that  mystery  lone. 
So  within  my  heart  the  bells  are  swinging. 

Faint  and  slow  they  sound    on    memory's 
shore. 
Ah !  I  hear  their  strange,  unearthly  ringing. 

Telling  of  the  Love  which  comes  no  more. 
Dearest  hopes  therein  are  sunk  forever. 

Through   the   tide   of   time   their   memory 
gleams; 
Faith  and  Truth,  whose  glory  faileih  never, 

Glitter  through  the  current  of  my  dreams. 
And  those  dear  illusive  echoes  falling 

From  an  unseen  world,  so  far  apart, 
Sound  like  angel-voices,  ever  calling 

From  that  sunken  city,  In  my  heart. 


WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY. 

Born:  Salem,  Mass.,  Feb,  13, 1819. 
Graduating  at  Harvard  in  1838,  and  also  at 
its  law  department  two  years  later,  he  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar,  and  at  once  devoted  himself 
In  compiling  and  publishing  law  works.  At 
the  same  time  he  contributed  both  prose  and 
verse  to  the  Boston  Miscellany  and  other  peri- 
odicals. His  first  volume  of  Poems  was  pub- 
lished in  1847.  In  1848  his  fondness  for  art  led 
to  his  going  to  Italy,  where  he  has  since  resid- 
ed, devoting  his  attention  chiefly  to  sculpture. 

PRAXITELES  AND  PHRYNE. 
A  thousand  silent  years  ago. 

The  twilight  faint  and  pale 
Was  drawing  o'er  the  sunset  glow 

lis  soft  and  shadowy  veil ; 
When  from  his  work  the  sculptor  stayed 

His  hand,  and  turned  to  one 
Who  stood  beside  him,  half  in  shade. 

Said,  with  a  sigh,  "  'Tis  done. 
"Thus  much  is  saved  from  chance  and  change. 

That  waits  for  me  and  thee ; 
Thus  much  —  how  little !  —  from  the  range 

Of  death  and  destiny. 
"  Phryne,  thy  human  lips  shall  pale. 

Thy  rounded  limbs  decay,— 
Nor  love  nor  prayers  can  aught  avail 

To  bid  thy  beauty  stay. 
"  But  there  thy  smiles  for  centuries 

On  marble  lips  shall  live,— 
For  art  can  grant  what  love  denies. 

And  fi.x  the  fugitive. 
"  Sad  thought!  nor  age  nor  death  shall  fade 

The  youth  of  this  cold  bust; 
When  this  quick  brain  and  hand  that  made. 

And  thou  and  I  are  dust! 
"  When  all  our  hopes  and  fears  are  dead. 

And  both  our  hearts  are  cold. 
And  love  is  like  a  tune  that's  played. 

And  life  a  tale  that's  told, 
"  This  senseless  stone,  so  coldly  fair, 

That  love  nor  life  can  warm. 
The  same  enchanting  loolc  shall  wear. 

The  same  enchanting  form. 
"Its  peace  no  sorrow  shall  destroy; 

Its  beauty  age  shall  spare 
The  bitterness  of  vanished  joy. 

The  wearing  waste  of  care. 
"  And  there  upon  that  silent  face 

Shall  unborn  ages  see 
Perennial  youth,  perennial  grace. 

And  sealed  serenity. 
"  And  strangers,  when  we  sleep  in  peace, 

Sliall  say,  not  (luite  unmoved. 
So  smiled  upon  Praxiteles 

The  Phryao  whom  he  loved." 


-® 


Si 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


201 


ALEXANDER  H.  MORRISON. 

Born:  Jefferson  Co.,  0.,Aug.  18, 1841. 
The  pnTns  ot  Mr.  Morrison   liave  apitt'ai'ed  in 
the  Stiubciiville  Gazette,  Herald.  Oliio  Press 


ALEX.-iXDER  HENRV  MORRISON. 

and  tlie  local  press  generallj'.  He  was  mar- 
ried in  1863  to  Miss  Mary  Elizabeth  Taylor, 
and  now  resides  on  a  farm  in  Fayette  Co.,  Pa. 


THE  EAGLES  AND  THE  INDIAN'S 
GRAVES. 
With  sweeping  wing-s,  from  the  far  gloomy 
ledges 
Of  cataract  and  pine  — 
Where  -Allegheny  rears  its  broken  ridges, 

Beneatli  the  cold  sunshine  — 
From  where  those  icy  summits.rent  and  riven 

Stand,  ghost-like,  clad  in  white  — 
Plunged  midst  the  wrecked  and  stormy  clouds 
of  lieaven. 
The  eagle  wheels  her  flight. 

Long  has  she  lingered  'round  those  moniitaius 
towering 
On  which  their  aeries  rest, 
Througli  wintry  gloom  and  summer's  storm- 
cloud  lowering. 
For  her  mate's  dauntless  breast; 
Till  now.  despairing  of  his  e'er  returning. 

She  mounts  tlie  snowy  cloud. 
And,  with  tierce  anguish   in  lier  bosom  burn- 
ing. 
Shrieks  to  the  winds  aloud. 


SB- 


Dashed  on  the  tempest's  breath,  she  does  not 
ponder 

But  wildly  sweeps  away—  [yonder 

Where  dead  pines'  skeleton  fingers  point  her 

Toward  the  setting  day. 

She  leaves  their  moldering  aeries  on  the 

mountains. 
Their  eaglet  broods  now  grown  to  full  estate. 
And  by  Ohio's  gold  and  silver  fountains. 

She  comes  to  seek  her  mate  — 
O'er  broad  Ohio's  frozen  bosom  sweeping, 
Wlieremany  apine  its  funeral  branches  waves 
She  seeks  her  mate,  wLere  he  his  grave  is 
keeping 

Beside  the  Indian  graves. 
Like  the  red  man  of  the  forest. 

The  eagle's  reign  is  o'er; 
He  is  dying  on  the  mountain. 

And  from  the  ship-haunted  shore; 
He  plumed  the  Indian's  quiver. 

And  he  shared  his  woodland  prey, 
And  from  forest,  plain  and  river 

Thej-  have  sternly  past  away. 

And  here  this  wandering  eagle 

Has  sought  her  resting  place. 
By  tlie  green  mounds  and  moldering  bones 

Of  the  lost  Indian  race. 
Here  let  them  sleep  together. 

And  sacred  be  their  rest! 
The  hauglity  Indian  chieftain. 

And  the  bird  of  haughty  crest. 

Their  doom  is  like,  and  let  them  sleep 

In  peace  in  our  great  land; 
Let  the  Great  Spirit  o'er  them  keep 

His  merciful  strong  hand. 
Here  lies  the  Indian  and  his  mate, 

Their  arrows  by  tliem  rust; 
And  the  lonely  Eagle,  smote  by  fate. 

Here  joins  her  mate  in  dust. 
Like  the  stern  Indian  chieftain 

When  all  his  tribe  were  gone. 
Calmly  and  firmly  waited  he 

Beside  the  desert  stone. 
Sadly,  without  a  tear,  he  gazed 

Upon  their  rounded  graves. 
Waiting  for  the  Great  Spirit 

Who  sends  his  death  and  saves. 
Until  at  length,  from  roiling  clouds. 

He  heard  liis  voice  in  storms; 
And  in  the  sunny  hunting  grounds 

He  joined  his  fathers'  forms. 
Farewell!  farewell!  proud  emblem 

Of  the  mighty  and  the  free. 
There's  many  and  many  a  luiman  heart. 

That's  emblemed  well  by  thee. 
For  their  hearts  are  buried  in  the  graves 

Of  those  who've  gone  before. 
And  they  fly  to  meet  them,  o'er  the  earth. 

Upon  the  "  sliining  shore." 


ee 


n 


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-^ 


202 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


HARRIET  p.  SPOFFORD. 

Born  :  Calais.  Me.,  April  3, 1835. 
In  her  youth  Harriet  was  taken  by  her  parents 
to  Newburyport.  Mass..  which  has  ever  since 
been  her  home.  She  received  a  good  education, 
and  at  an  early  age  contributed  to  the  story- 
papers  of  Boston,  earning  small  pay  with  a 
great  deal  of  labor.  Her  first  notable  hit  was 
a  sparkling  story  of  Parisian  life,  which  ap- 
peared in  1859  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  under 
the  title  of  In  the  Cellar;  and  from  that  day 
she  was  a  welcome  contributor,  of  both  poetry 
and  prose,  to  the  chief  periodicals  of  the  coun- 
try. A  volume  of  poems  appeared  in  iaS3.  and 
Ballads  About  Authors  in  1888,  in  addition  to 
which  she  has  written  numerous  prose  works. 


MOTHER  MINE. 
When  by  the  ruddy  Are  I  spelled 

In  one  old  volume  and  another. 
Those  ballads  haunted  by  fair  women. 

One  of  them  always  seemed  my  mother. 
In  storied  song  she  dwelt,  where  dwell 

Strange  things  and  sweet  of  eld  and  eerie. 
The  foam  of  Binnorie's  bonny  mill-dams, 

The  bowing  birks,  the  wells  o'  Wearie. 
All  the  Queen's  Maries  she  did  know. 

The  eldritch  knight,  the  sisters  seven, 
The  lad  that  lay  upon  the  Lomonds 

And  saw  the  perch  play  in  Lochleven. 
Burd  Helen  had  those  great  gray  ejes. 

Their  rays  from  shadowy  lashes  flingmg; 
That  smile  the  winsome  bride  of  Yarrow 

Before  her  teai'S  were  set  to  singing. 
That  mouth  was  just  the  mouth  that  kissed 

Sir  Cradocke  under  the  green  wildwood; 
Fair  Rosamond  was  tall  as  she  was 

In  those  fixed  fancies  of  ray  childhood. 
And  when  she  sang  —  ah,  when  she  sang ! 

Birds  are  less  sweet,  and  flutes  not  clearer  - 
In  ancient  hallo  I  sr.w  the  minstrel. 

And  shapes  long  dead  arose  fo  hear  her! 
Darlings  of  song  I've  heard  since  then. 

But  no  such  voice  as  hers  was,  swelling 
Like  bell-notes  on  the  winds  of  morning. 

All  angelhood  about  it  dwelling. 
No  more  within  those  regions  dim 

Of  rich  romance  my  thoughts  w(juld  place  hei 
Her  life  itself  is  such  a  poem 

She  does  not  need  old  names  to  grace  her. 
Long  years  have  tied,  but  left  her  charm 

Smiling  to  see  that  years  are  fleeter. 
Those  ballads  are  as  sweet  as  ever. 

But  she  is  infinitely  sweeter. 
For  love,  that  shines  through  all  her  ways. 

Hinders  the  stealthy  hours  from  duty, 
A  soul  divinely  self-forgetful 

Has  come  to  blossom  in  her  beauty. 


While  the  low  brow,  the  silver  curl. 

The  twilight  glance,  the  perfect  features. 
The  rose  upon  a  creamy  pallor. 

Make  her  the  loveliest  of  creatures. 
Now  with  the  glow  that  on  the  face 

Like  moonlight  on  a  flower  has  found  her. 
With  the  tone's  thrill,  a  faint  remoteness. 

Half  like  a  halo  hangs  around  her. 
Half  like  a  halo?  Nay.  indeed. 

I  never  saw  a  picture  painted  — 
Such  holy  work  the  years  have  rendered  — 

So  like  a  woman  that  is  sainted. 


»- 


COL.  THOMAS  W.  HIGGINSON. 

Born:  Cambridge.  Mass..  Dec.  22. 1823. 
This  great  anti-slavist,  minister,  soldier,  and 
author  has  had  a  varied  career.  He  is  an  earn-  I 
est  advocate  of  woman   sufFi-age  and  of  the 
higher  education  for  both  sexes.    He  has  con-  j 
tributedlargely  to  current  literature.and  is  the  i 
author  of  a  score  or  more  volumes  of  prose, 
besides  editing  several  large  and  important 
works.    Col.  Higginson  was  also  a  member  of 
the  Massachusetts  legislature  in  1880  and  1881, 
serving  as  chief  of  staff  to  the  governor  at  the 
same  time;  and  in  1881-83  was  a  member  of  the 
state  board  of  education. 

DECORATION. 

MANIBUS  DATE  LILIA  PLENIS. 

Mid  the  flower-wreathed  tombs  I  stand 
Bearing  lilies  in  my  hand. 
Comrades  I  in  what  soldier-grave 
Sleeps  the  bravest  of  the  brave? 
Is  it  he  who  sank  to  rest 
With  his  colors  round  his  breast? 
Friendship  makes  his  tomb  a  shrine; 
Garlands  veil  it;  ask  not  mine. 
One  low  grave,  yon  trees  beneath. 
Bears  no  roses,  wears  no  wreath: 
Yet  no  heart  more  high  and  warm 
Ever  dared  the  battle-storm ; 
Never  gleamed  a  prouder  eye 
In  the  front  of  victory. 
Never  foot  had  firmer  tread 
On  the  field  where  hope  lay  dead, 
Than  are  hid  within  this  tomb. 
Where  the  untended  grasses  bloom; 
And  no  stone,  with  fcign'd  distress. 
Mocks  the  sacred  loneliness. 
Youth  and  beauty,  dauntless  will. 
Dreams  that  life  could  ne'er  fulfill. 
Here  lie  buried;  here  in  peace 
Wrongs  and  woes  have  found  release. 
Turning  from  my  comrades'  eyes. 
Kneeling  where  a  woman  lies, 
I  strew  lilies  on  the  grave 
Of  the  bravest  of  the  brave. 


© 


s- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


203 


-® 


LYDIA  A.PLATT  RICHARDS. 

Born  :  Malone,  N.  Y.,  Oct.  5, 1844. 
The  poems  of  this  lady  have  been  published 
in  the  Chicag-o  Times.Tribune  and  Inter-Ocean, 
and  otiicr  papers  of  equal  prominence,  from 
which  llicv  havf  been  copied  extcnsi\rly  liy 


LYDIA  A.  PLATT   lilCHARDS. 

the  local  press.  The  lineage  of  Mrs.  Piatt 
Richards  dates  back  to  the  English  nolDility. 
and  her  American  ancestors  were  officers  and 
prominent  in  all  our  wars.  She  is  now  a  widow, 
and  resides  on  her  property  in  Momeuce,  111. 


®- 


THE  OUTCAST. 
She  may  have  sinned  I  never  knew. 
There  were  reports  — how  false,  or  true, 
I  had  no  cause  to  ask,  or  know  — 
The  world  condemned,  and  made  it  so. 
She  may  have  sinned  —  the  reckless  child, 
Or  been  deceived,  mistaught,  beguiled; 
Judge  not,  —the  measure  which  you  mete, 
You  shall  receive  at  Jesus'  feet. 
She  may  have  sinned  —  is  sinning  yet. 
These  least,  these  low  ones  you  forget. 
Are  God's  own  children,  whom  you  spurn; 
They  sin  no  more  than  you  who  turn. 
She  may  have  sinned  —  tliere  is  no  doubt, 
Her  sins  have  someway  found  her  out; 
Who  has  no  sin  —  may  cast  a  stone  — 
By  sinless  hands,  no  stones  are  thrown. 


She  may  have  sinned  — O,  womankind. 
Are  you  so  stupid—  doubly  blind  — 
To  cast  her  out —  is  Satan's  joy. 
He  would  doom  her  — and  you  destroy. 


LOVE'S  VAGARIES. 
FIRST  voice: 
In  pride  and  wrath  I  fled  his  side. 
Yet  loved  him  so;  his  promised  bride  — 
For  lying  tongues  had  sown  the  seed 
Of  rank  distrust,  that  venomed  weed, 
From  sea  to  sea;  we  dwell  apart  — 
Though  sundered  far,  yet  near  at  heart, 
He  wed  another,  .so  did  I  — 
Both  learn  too  late,  love  will  not  die ; 
The  years  fly  past;  my  hair  is  gray — 
My  one  mad-love  is  young  to-day. 
Age  does  not  reach  the  heart  they  say. 
Nor  love  grow  old  or  fade  — decay. 
While  vengeful  wrath  will  cool,  subside. 
And  love,  alone,  remain,  abide. 
I  feel  his  warm  breath  on  my  brow. 
Past  thirty  years ;  it  seems  as  now. 
His  strong  arms,  too ;  they  haunt  my  waist. 
Persistent,  as  his  last  embrace; 
His  soft,  sweet  tones,  I  hear  them  still. 
And  shall,  till  heart  itself,  grows  chill. 
Ah,  saddest  fate!  I  hopeless  cry. 
That  woman's  love  can  never  die. 

SECOND  voice: 

I  wed  my  love  of  the  tender  tone. 
Him  that  I  loved,  and  loved  alone. 
His  kisses  now  are  few  and  cold. 
His  arms  have  ceased  to  clasp,  enfold  — 
I  saw  him  kiss  my  servant-maid. 
And   know  that   love   was   doomed— be- 
trayed. 
The  vile  saloon,  the  billiard  hall. 
The  club  and  lodge,  I  hate  them  all. 
Too  late,  I  learn,  the  pure  in  heart 
From  vicious  comrades  stand  apart. 
Who  flirts  with  vice,  and  sin  and  shame. 
No  wifely  hand  can  e'er  reclaim; 
Divorce  and  courts  are  useless,  vain; 
Confiding  love,  no  laws  regain. 
Rough,  cruel  words  are  often  mine; 
Foi-  tender  tones  I've  ceased  to  pine; 
Wliile  want,  and  taunts  and  even  blows. 
Have  taught  me  much  of  wedded  woes. 
Deep,  burled  down  from  sneering  eye. 
Where  human  jackals  dare  not  pry: 
I  .shroud  that  old  love,  stark  and  dead. 
And  o'er  its  grave,  lone  tears  are  shed. 
Ah,  saddest  fate!  I  mournful  cry. 
When  woman  lives,  and  love,  will  die. 


EXTRACT. 
A  noble  purpose  kept  her  strong, 
While  taint  of  labor  seems  so  wrong. 
As  though  her  labor  was  a  shame ; 


■® 


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204 


-m 


LOCAL  AKD  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


ALICE  W.  ROLLINS. 

Born:  Boston,  Mass.,  June  12, 1847. 
Alice  Wellington  was  taught  by  her  father, 
and  completed  her  studies  in  Europe.  She 
taught  lor  several  years  in  Boston,  and  in  18T6 
married  Daniel  M.  Eollins  of  New  York.  The 
Ring  of  Amethyst  is  the  title  of  her  volume  of 
poems.    She  has  written  several  prose  works. 


SB- 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Linger,  O  day ! 
Let  not  thy  purple  haze 

Fade  utterly  away. 
The  Indian  summer  lays 
Her  tender  touch  upon  the  emerald  hUls, 

Exquisite  thrills 
Of  delicate  gladness  fill  the  hlue-veined  air. 

More  restful  even  than  rest. 
The  passionate  sweetness  that  is  everywhere. 

Soft  splendors  in  the  west 
Touch  with  the  charm  of  coming  changef  ulness 

The  yielding  hills. 

O  linger,  day ! 

Let  not  the  dear 
Delicious  languor  of  thy  dreamf  ulness 

Vanish  away! 

Serene  and  clear. 
The  brooding  stillness  of  the  delicate  air. 
Dreamier  than  the  dreamiest  depths  of  sleep 

Fall  softly  everywhere. 

Still  let  me  keep 
One  little  hour  longer  tryst  with  thee, 

O  day  of  days ! 

Lean  down  to  me, 
In  tender  beauty  of  thy  amethyst  haze 

Upon  the  vine 
Rich  clinging  clusters  of  the  ripening  grape 

Hang  silent  in  the  sun, 

Butin  each  one  [wine. 

Beats  with  full  throb  the  quickening  purple 
Whose  pulse  shall  round  the  perfect  fruit  to 
shape. 

Too  dreamy  even  to  dreaii. 
I  hear  the  murmuring  bee  and  gliding  stream; 
The  singing  silence  of  the  afternoon. 
Lulling  my  jielding  senses  till  they  swoon 

Into  still  deeper  rest. 

While  soul  released  from  sense, 

Passionate  and  intense. 
With  quick  exultant  quiver  in  its  wings, 
Prophetic  longing  for  diviner  things. 

Escapes  the  unthinking  breast; 
Pierces  rejoicing  through  the  shining  mist. 
But  shrinks  before  the  keen,  cold  ether,  kissed 
By  burning  stars;  delirious  foretaste 
Of  joys  the  soul  —  too  eager  in  its  haste 
To  grasp  ere  won  by  the  diviner  right      [bear. 
Of  birth  through  death  — is  far  too  weak  to 

Bathed  in  earth's  lesser  light. 
Slipping  down  slowly  througli  the  shining  air. 
Once  more  it  steals  into  the  dreaming  l)reast, 


Praying  again  to  be  its  patient  guest. 

And  as  my  senses  wake, 
The  beautiful  glad  soul  to  take, 

The  twilight  falls: 

A  lonely  wood-thrush  calls 

The  day  awaj-. 
"Where  hast  thou  been  to-day, 
O  soul  of  mine?  "   I  wondering  question  her. 
She  will  not  answer  while  the  light  winds  stir 
And  rustle  near  to  hear  what  she  may  say. 

Thou  needst  not  linger,  day ! 

My  soul  and  I 
Would  hold  high  converse  of  diviner  things 
Than  blossom  underneath  thy  tender  sky. 

Unfold  thy  wings; 
Wrap  softly  round  thyself  thy  delicate  haze. 
And  gliding  down  the  slowly  darkening  ways, 

Vanish  away  I 


JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

Born:  Roxbury,  N.  Y.,  Aprils,  1837. 
After  receiving  an  academic  education,  John 
taught  school  eight  or  nine  years,  and  then  be- 
came a  journalist  in  New  York.  For  ten  years 
he  was  a  clerk  in  the  treasury  department  at 
Washington,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  was 
appointed  receiver  of  a  national  bank.  In  1874 
he  settled  on  a  farm  in  Esopus,  N.  Y.,  devoting 
his  time  to  literature  and  fruit  cultui-e,  except 
the  months  when  his  duties  as  bank-examiner 
called  him  awaj*.  He  has  issued  several  vol- 
umes of  prose,  and  has  contributed  largely 
both  prose  and  verse  to  periodicals. 


WAITING. 
Serene,  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait, 

Nor  care  for  wind,  or  tide,  or  sea; 
I  rave  no  more  'gainst  time  or  fate. 

For  lo!  my  own  shall  come  to  me. 
I  stay  my  haste,  I  make  delays. 

For  what  avails  this  eager  pace? 
I  stand  amid  the  eternal  ways. 

And  what  is  mine  shall  know  my  face. 
Asleep,  awake,  by  night  or  day 

The  friends  I  seek  are  seeking  me : 
No  wind  can  drive  my  bark  astray. 

Nor  change  the  tide  ot  destiny. 
What  matter  if  I  stand  alone? 

I  wait  with  joy  the  coming  years; 
My  heart  shall  reaji  where  it  has  sown. 

And  garner  up  its  fruit  of  tears. 
The  waters  know  their  own  and  draw 

The  broolv  that  sjirings  in  yonder  height; 
So  flows  the  good  with  equal  law 

Unto  the  soul  of  luire  delight. 
The  stars  come  nightly  to  the  sky: 

The  tidal  wave  unto  the  sea; 
Nor  time,   nor  space,  nor  deep,  nor  higli. 

Can  keep  my  own  away  from  nie. 


-® 


s 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


205 


JOHN  GOSSE  FREEZE. 

Born:  Lycoming  Co.,  Pa.,  Nov.  4, 1825. 
John  received  a  common  school  and  academic 
education,  including-  Latin  and  Greek,  taught 
school  for  several  years,  studied  law  and  was 
admitted  to  the  bar  of  Columbia  county,  Penn- 
sylvania, in  1848.  Mr.  Freeze  has  resided  in 
Bloomsburg:  since  that  date,  in  the  constant 
practice  of  liis  profession.  This  gentleman 
was  married  in  1851;  has  had  five  children,  all 
of  whom  are  dead.  In  person  Mr.  Freeze  is 
about  five  feet  nine  inches  in  height,  of  spare 
build,  weigliingabout  130  pounds,  eyes  of  gray 
color,  hair  and  beard  darls  in  youth,  but  now 
gray.  His  life,  the  life  of  a  lawyer,  has  been 
uneventful,  and  the  reports  of  the  supreme 
court  of  the  state  attest  liis  .standing  in  his 
profession.  He  has  been  register  and  recorder 
of  his  county,  was  elected  a  member  of  the 
Pennsylvania  constitutional  convention  of 
1873,  from  which  body  he  resigned;  is  a  mem- 
ber of  the  episcopal  church,  and  chancelor  of 
the  diocese  of  Central  Pennsylvania.  He  is  the 
author  of  a  History  of  Columbia  county,  Penn- 
sylvania, and  of  a  volume  of  verse  entitled  A 
Royal  Pastoral  and  Other  Poems. 


©- 


SPIRIT  MELODY. 
The  spirit  said  •'  Sing,''  as  I  wandered 

Alone  by  the  babbling  brools, 
Wliose  music  welled  up  as  I  pondered, 

Entranced  o'er  some  magical  boolj ; 
The  days  glided  by  me  unheeded. 

Their  coming  no  pleasure  could  bring. 
For  the  (fay  and  the  night  which  succeeded 

Unceasingly  whispered  me,  "Sing." 
That  voice  was  the  first  in  the  morning,— 

It  came  with  the  sun  o'er  the  hill. 
It  seemed  like  a  spirit-land  warning 

Mysteriously  working  its  will ; 
The  wind  bore  that  voice  to  me  often. 

It  came  with  the  zephyrs  ot  spring. 
Low  breathing,  "The  best  way  to  soften 

The  harshness  of  life  is  to  sing." 
It  came  in  the  cool  breeze  of  noontide, 

While  nature  was  musing  at  rest; 
Though  deep  silence  reigned  o'er  the  hillside. 

My  ear  with  its  music  was  blest; 
Tlie  notes  of  the  birds,  as  they  wended 

Away  on  the  swift  speeding  wing. 
With  the  hum  of  the  bright  insect  blended. 

And  whispered  me  gently  to  "  sing." 
As  comes  a  sweet  love-tale  at  evening 

To  the  heart,  it  thrillingly  came. 
Still  into  my  willing  ear  breathing 

Its  story  of  greatness  and  fame. 
I  listened  with  joy,  though  I  trembled,— 

It  seemed  the  behest  of  a  king: 
I  doubted  no  more,  nor  dissembled, 

"Twas  certain  the  voice  bade  me  "  sing." 


When  the  stars  in  their  beauty  were  pouring 

A  silvery  sheen  o'er  the  niglit. 
My  soul,  with  that  spirit-voice  soaring. 

Was  off  in  far  regions  of  light: 
Its  music  was  in  and  around  me. 

Pervading  each  visible  tiling; 
Like  a  low,  distant  echo  it  bound  me. 

Repeating  that  mystic  word,  "Sing." 

The  song  of  the  syren  subdued  me, — 

I  boast  no  Ulyssean  art, — 
With  all  of  itself  it  imbued  me. 

Enshrining  itself  in  my  heart; 
With  Fate  I  could  struggle  no  longer, 

The  air  seemed  with  music  to  ring. 
Each  moment  the  soft  voice  grew  stronger. 

Till  it  bade  me,  in  thunder  tones,  "  Sing." 
I  sang  —  but  how  lame  was  the  metre ! 

I  sang  —  but  how  common  the  theme ! 
Oh,  teach  me  some  strain  that  is  sweeter, 

And  grant  me  pure  poesy's  dream. 
Since  now  to  thy  mandate  I  bow  me, 

Deign  o'er  me  thy  mantle  to  fling; 
With  all  of  thy  spirit  endow  me,— 

Enable  me  truly  to  "sing." 

TO  MARGARET. 
Have  thou  a  care,  most  trustful  Margaret, 
Who  comes  a-wooing  to  thy  garden  gate; 
Keep  him  a  suppliant. 
Nor  grant  a  favor  thou  canst  not  recall. 
It  is  enough  that  he  in  Eden  walks. 
And  the  sweet  perfume  of  its  shrubs  inhales, 
Nor  let  him  cross  the  stream 
That  keeps  the  way  twixt  him  and  Para- 
dise. 
Oft  shall  he  circle  the  forbidding  walls. 
Oft  seek  the  breeze  that  wantoned  with  thy 
hair. 
Reach  for  thy  absent  self. 
And  think  he  sees  thee  though  thou  be 
not  there. 
Thou  unessayed  art  ever  fair  and  pure, 
A  kiss,  a  touch,  a  step  may  break  the  charm. 
Then  keep  thee  to  thyself  — 
The  sought   for  gem  is  ever  prized    the 
most. 
While  thus  he  stands  an  humble  suppliant. 
Thou  art  the  mistress  of  his  fate  and  thine; 
Pass  but  the  Rubicon, 
He  is  the  Ca?sar,  thou  the  fallen  Rome. 
Therefore  beware,  most  trustful  Margaret, 
Who  comes  a  wooing  to  thy  garden  gate; 
While  ignorance  is  bliss 
The  Tree  of  Knowledge  grows  in  Paradise ! 

EXTRACT. 
Why  do  I  love  thee'?  It  is  naught  to  me 
That  high  estates  are  wanting  unto  tliee. 
That  jewels  flash  not  o'er  thee  brilliantly- 
Mere  dross  are  they !       •       •       • 


® 


®- 


206 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


-© 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 

Born:  Bokdentown.  N.  J.,  Feb.  8, 1844. 
Beginning  life  with  a  clerical  engagement  in 
a  railroad  oiiice,  he  pushed  on  into  the  sanc- 
tum, and  soon  found  his  way  into  the  editorial 
chair.  Mr.  Gilder  succeeded  Dr.  Holland  as 
editor-in-chief  of  the  Century  Magazine.  All 
this  time  Mr.  Gilder  was  singing  the  songs  of  a 
trvie  poet.  Mr.  Gilder's  life  is  indeed  a  success, 
and  his  happiness  is  crowned  by  a  beautiful 
^vife  and  four  children,  for  an  ideal  American 
home  is  the  next  place  to  heaven. 


AT  NIGHT. 


The  sky  is  dark,  and  dark  the  bay  below 
Save  where  the  midnight  city's  pallid  glow 
Lies  like  a  lily  white 
On  the  black  pool  of  night. 

O  rushing  steamer,  hurry  on  thy  way 
Across  the  swirling  Kills  and  gusty  bay, 
To  where  the  eddying  tide 
Strikes  hard  the  city's  side! 

For  there,  between  the  river  and  the  sea. 
Beneath  that  glow,—  the  lily's  heart  to  me,- 
A  sleeping  mother  mild. 
And  by  her  breast  a  child. 


«- 


THE  POET'S  FAME. 
Many  the  songs  of  power  the  poet  wrought 
To  shake  the  hearts  of  men.  Yea,he  had  caught 
The  inarticulate  and  murmuring  sound 
That  comes  at  midnight  from  the  darkened 

ground 
When  the  earth  sleeps;  for  this  he  framed  a 

word 
Of  human  speech,  and  heart  were  strangely 

stirred 
That  listened.    And  for  him  the  evening  dew 
Fell  with  a  sound  of  music,  and  the  blue 
Of  the  deep,  starry  sky  he  had  the  art 
To  put  in  language  that  did  seem  a  part 
Of  the  great  scope  and  progeny  of  nature. 
In  woods,  or  waves,  or  winds,  there  was  no 

creature 
Mysterious  to  him.    He  was  too  wise 
Either  to  fear,  or  follow,  or  despise 
Whom  men  call  Science,— for  he  knew  full 

well 
All  she  had  told,  or  still  might  live  to  tell. 
Was  known  to  him  before  her  very  birth: 
Yea,  that  there  was  no  secret  of  the  earth. 
Nor  of  Uie  waters  under,  nor  the  skies. 
That  had  been  hidden  from  the  poet's  eyes; 
By  him  there  was  no  ocean  unexplored. 
Nor  any  savage  coast  that  had  not  roared 
Its  music  in  his  ears. 

He  loved  the  town,— 
Nor  less  he  loved  the  ever-deepening  brown 


Of  summer  twilights  on  the  enchanted  hills; 
Where  he  might  listen  to  the  starts  and  trills 
Of  birds  that  saug  and  rustled  in  the  trees. 
Or  watch  the  footsteps  of  the  wandering  breeze 
And  the  birds"  shadows  as  they  fluttered  by 
Or  slowly  wheeled  across   the  unclouded  sky. 
All  these  were  written  on  the  poet's  soul,  — 
But  he  knew,  too,  the  utmost,  distant  goal 
Of  the  human  mind.  His  flery  thought  did  run 
To  Time's  beginning,  ere  yon  central  sun 
Had  warmed  to  life  the  swarming  broods  of 
men. 

In  waking  dreams  his  many-visioned  ken 
Clutched  the  large,  final  destiny  of  things. 
He  heard  the  starry  music,  and  the  wings 
Of  beings  uufelt  by  others  thrilled  the  air 
About  him.    Yet  the  loud  and  angry  blare 
Of  tempest  found  an  echo  in  his  verse. 
And  it  was  here  that  lovers  did  rehearse 
The  ditties  they  would  sing  when,  not  too  soon. 
Came  the  warm  night,—  shadows,  and  stars, 

and  moon. 
Who  heard  his  songs  were  filled  with  noble 

rage. 
And  wars  took  fire  from  his  prophetic  page: 
Most  righteous  wars,  wherein,  'midst  blood  and 

tears. 
The  world  rushed  onward  through  a  thousand 

years. 
And  still  he  made  the  gentle  sounds  of  peace 
Heroic,— bade  the  nation's  anger  cease ! 
Bitter  his  songs  of  grief  for  those  who  fell  — 
And  for  all  this  the  people  loved  him  well. 

They  loved  him  well,  and  therefore,  on  a  day, 
They  said  with  one  accord :  "  Behold  how  gray 
Our  poet's  head  hath  grown!  Ere  'tis  too  late 
Come,  let  us  ci'own  him  in  our  Hall  of  State: 
Ring  loud  the  bells,  give  to  the  winds  his  praise, 
And  urge  his  fame  to  other  lands  and  days!  " 

So  was  it  done,  and  deep  his  joy  therein. 
But  passing  home  at  night,  from  out  the  din 
Of  the  loud  Hall,  the  poet,  unaware. 
Moved  through  a  lonely  and  dim-lighted  square 
There  was  the  smell  of  lilacs  in  the  air 
And  then  the  sudden  singing  of  a  bird. 
Startled  by  his  slow  tread.      What  memory 

stirred 
Within  his  brain  he  told  not.    Yet  this  night  — 
Lone  lingering  when  the  eastern  heavens  were 

bright  — 
He  wove  a  song  of  such  immortal  art 
That  there  is  not  in  all  the  world  one  heart- 
One  human  heart  unmoved  by  it.  Long!  long! 
The  laurel-crown  has  failed,  but  not  that  song 
IJorn  of  the  niglit  and  sorrow. 

Where  he  lies 
At  rest  beneath  the  ever-shifting  skies. 
Age  after  age,  from  far-off  lands  they  come. 
With  tears  and  flowers,  to  seek  the  poet's  tomb. 


-© 


« 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


-^ 


2U7 


ELLA  CHANDLER. 

Born:  Chestnut  Level,  Pa. 
The  poems  of  Miss  Chandler  have  appeared  in 
the  Lancaster  Inlellig-encer,  Philadelpliia  Free 


ELLA  CHANDLER. 


Press,  and  other  papers  of  prominence.  Miss 
Chandler  is  still  a  resident  of  her  native  place, 
where  she  has  numerous  friends  and  ardent 
admirers. 


©- 


WIFE  JENNIE. 
Jennie  we  two  are  old  and  useless, 

Wrinkled  skin  and  sallow  g-rown. 
And  to  look  at  our  seamed  faces 

With  the  crows'  feet  thicklj-  sown ; 
Who  would  think  we  loved  each  other 

With  a  love  that  lasts  for  aye? 
Who  would  think  I  loved  you  better 

Thau  upon  our  wedding-  day? 

But  our  love  has  braved  the  billows 

That  would  wreck  a  lighter  craft; 
Now  we  float  in  peaceful  waters 

And  our  pleasures  cometh  oft. 
I've  often  thought  that  man's  broad  shoul- 
ders, 

After  all,  were  weak  and  small. 
Compared  with  the  patient  toiling 

Of  those  fingers  for  us  all. 

And  in  the  evening,  wife  and  mother. 
With  the  babies  on  her  knee. 


Tells  some  quaint  old  Scottish  story 

Of  a  cottage  by  the  Dee. 
For  my  wife  was  a  Scotch  lassie. 

And  she  loves  old  Scotland's  hills  — 
Here  and  there  a  low-thatched  cottage  — 

And  its  gently  flowing  rills. 

And  some  day  we'll  wander  there. 

Bride  and  bridegroom,  old  and  gray. 
With  our  comic  old-time  costumes 

That  have  seen  a  better  day. 
But  what  care  we  for  things  in  fashion? 

Jennie'll  look  so  bright  and  glad 
That  I'll  think  I'm  wooing  the  lassie 

In  her  highland  checkered  plaid. 


WAITING. 
Only  waiting  for  the  evening 

With  its  twilight  soft  and  sweet, 
Only  waiting  for  the  shadows 

Till  we  meet  at  Jesus'  feet. 

Only  waiting  till  the  stars  come 
In  their  brightness,  one  by  one. 

Missing  not  the  light  of  day  time. 
Or  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

Sweetest  time  for  recollection 
When  the  day  draws  to  a  close. 

When  the  crickets  sing  their  night  song 
And  the  bees  forsake  the  rose. 

Only  waiting  till  the  birdlings 

In  their  tiny  home  of  nest. 
Find  a  shelter,  helpless  creatures. 

Find  a  safe  and  grateful  rest. 

Waiting,  what  a  time  of  waiting  — 

Will  we  ever  cease  to  wait? 
Will  our  Savior,  to  rebuke  us. 

Will  he  say,  alas,  too  late? 

'Twas  the  same  in  ancient  ages 
With  the  poet,  priest  and  king. 

And  the  vaults  of  rocky  caverns. 
With  their  echoes  ever  ring. 

And  the  walls  give  back  the  echoes. 
With  their  sound  reverberate; 

Pause  not  in  life's  journey  waiting 
Lest  you  be  forever  late. 


MAN'S  MOUSTACHE. 
Wonderful!  Mystical!  Etherial  creature, 

From  whence  comest  thou? 
Didst  thou  spring  from  some  medieval  age? 

Pray  answerest  now 

Methinks  a  moss  from  the  land  of  Ctopia, 

Soft  as  a  damsel's  eye-lash. 
Has  in  some  mysterious  way  come  forth 

To  mold  thy  moustache. 


■« 


*- 


^08 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


* 


MRS.  SALLIE  B.  HARRIS 

Born:  Todd  Co.,  Ky.,  1840. 
The  poems  of  tliis  lady  have  appeared  for  the 
past  quarter  of  a  century  iu  the  papers  of  her 
native  state.    She  has  heen  an  invalid  for  a 


MUS.  SALLIE    U.    llAKlilS. 

number  of  years,  and  whenever  she  wishes  to 
admire  the  worlds  of  nature  she  is  obliged  to 
be  moved  in  a  rolling:  cliair.  Mrs.  Harris  is 
now  a  resident  of  Greenville,  Kentucky. 


©- 


COMMUNION  WITH  THE  ROSES. 
I  sat  'neath  a  loved  vine-clad  bower, 

Inhaling-  the  soft  and  balmy  breath  of  May, 
Listening  for  a  voice  from  the  opening  flowers 

To  tell  of  pain  of  sorrow  and  decay, 
Of  autumn  winds,  and  wintry  snows, 

That  scatters  the  roses  far,  far,  away. 
But  alas!  not  a  whispering  voice  e'er  came. 

To  tell  of  blighted  breath,  or  faded  leaves. 
Of  summer's  fleeting  liours,  that  went  away. 

Of  November's  winds  that  shook  the  leaves. 
And  bore  them  from  their  parent  stem. 

To  witlier,  to  molder,  and  cease  to  bloom. 
No,  in  their  wliispering  tlie  ro.ses  ne'er  spake. 

Of  bitter  despair,  of  fading  or  dying; 
Their  murmurings  were  of  beauty  and  hope. 

Of  cheerful  greeting,  and  not  of  sighing; 
They  came,  their  bcuiuty  and    fragrance  to 
bring. 

To  linger  for  a  sliort  season,  then  leave. 


They  came  with  greeting  to  the  morning  air. 

Not  to  tell  wliy  summer  roses  fade. 
But  peeping  through  pearls  of  dewdrops  fair. 

That  on  the  blushing  rose  cheeks  lay. 
To  quaff  the  fragrant  early  breath  of  May, 

And  woo  the  sunshine  to  their  feet. 
From  earth's  carpet  of  green  they  spring 

To   deck  the   bower   with   roses   rare   and 
bright. 
And  revel  in  the  music  the  cat-bird  trills. 

To  sip    from  the  chalice  pure  nectar  of  de- 
light. 
To  wave  o'er  the  graves  of  loved  ones  gone. 

And  wreathe  fresh  garlands  for  their  tombs. 


AN  ODE. 
The  warm  sweet  month  of  June  is  near. 

The  soft  breathing  zephyrs  I  now  can  hear; 
And  nature  spreads  in  bounty  and  gorgeous 
array 
Her  beauteous  tribute  of  blessings  each  day. 

'Tis  morn,  all  nature  seems  lovely  and  fair; 

The  leaves  sip  sweet  nectar  from  the  air. 
The  rose,  kissed  by  the  sunbeams  at  play. 

Mingles  its  fragrance  with  fresh  blooming 
hay. 
How  lovely  at  eventide!  doth  nature  seem. 

The  trees  all  decked  in  foliage  so  green 
Reaching  out  their  shadowy  arms  for  light. 

And  to  catch  the  soft-falling  dews  of  night. 


FOR  THE  ECHO. 

Vanished  the  gilded  dreams  of  youth  may  be. 

And  buried  my  many  fond  hopes,  untold. 
The  pleasures  of  other  days  I  ne'er  maj-  see; 

But  my  heart  shall  never  grow  old. 
Tho  the  summer  of  life's  now  upon  me. 

And  the  bliss  of  youth  I'll  feel  no  more; 
Tho  the  shade  of  life's  winter  is  near  me. 

My  heart  shall  never,  never,  grow  old. 
Tho  the  wings  of  time  may  onward  sweep, 

And  bend  this  form  and  its  strength  witii 
hold. 
And  leave  a  heart  all  torn,  to  bleed  in  grief; 

Yet  my  heart  shall  never  grow  old. 
The  snow  of  age  may  fall  upon  me  now. 

And  silver  my  hair  with  its  icy  hold ; 
And  lines  of  sorrow  enstamp  my  brow. 

But  my  heart  shall  never  grow  old. 
Friends  may  be  scattered,  and  I  left  alone 

To  drink  from  the  chalice  that's  full  of  woe; 
With   a  lieart   all   chilled    from    fate's  stern 
frown. 

But  it  shall  never,  never,  grow  old. 
Tho'  I'm  tossed  on  misfortune's  billowy  baik, 

And  am  called  through  deep  waters  of  woe; 
Or  ruthlessly  forced  from  loved  ones  to  part. 

Yet  my  heart  shall  never,  never,  grow  old. 


-® 


s- 


® 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


209 


THOMAS  E.TATE. 

Born:  Saint  Tamany  Parish,  La. 
This  gentleman  has  written  quite  extensive- 
ly for  the  periodical  press,  and  has  received 
three  prizes  for  best  poems.  In  person  Mr. 
Tate  is  six  feet  in  height,  of  fine  stature,  and 
resides  in  Osyka,  Miss. 


CHARITIES. 


The  charities  and  kindnesses 

That  flow  from  regal  hands, 
Are  heralded  both  far  and  wide 

And  published  in  all  lands. 
While  simple  deeds  of  christian  love 

That  every  day  are  done. 
Accomplished  by  the  humble  poor 

Are  rarely  ever  known. 
We  praise,  we  honor,  we  exalt 

Small  deeds  by  noble's  done, 
While  noble  deeds  from  humble  hands 

Are  known  to  heaven  alone. 
Oh!  may  each  virtuous  action  rest 

On  inner  worth  alone, 
Alike  let  prince  and  peasant  share 

For  all  their  kindness  done. 


©- 


FARMERS  ODE. 
The  sun,  great  orb  of  beaming  fire. 

Dyes  the  horizon  red. 
And  all  Night's  sable  shades  retire 
Where'er  his  banners  spread. 
The  grass  appears 
Like  angel  tears 
Upon  it  had  been  hung. 
Or  fairy  hands 
From  crystal  lands 
A  pearly  shower  had  flung. 
The  woodland  songsters  sport  and  sing 

In  every  gay-green  tree. 
And  soon  the  emerald  forests  ring 
With  bursts  of  minstrelsy. 
Then  farmers  gay 
At  dawn  of  day 
To  grassy  fields  repair. 
While  maidens  bright 
At  morning  light 
To  milk  the  cows  prepare. 
Bright,  laughing  boys  with  iiappy  looks 

Drive  in  the  lowing  herds, 
While  little  misses  con  their  books. 
Or  watch  the  fleeting  birds. 
And  some  it  suits 
To  gather  fruits; 
Some  help  to  dust  the  house  — 
Some  guide  the  reel 
Or  spinning  wheel. 
While  some  in  play  carouse. 


And  now  the  morning  work  all  done. 

The  breakfast  o'er  at  last. 
Out  to  the  fields  the  boys  all  run 
To  ply  their  daily  task. 

Beneath  the  sky 

Of  bright  July 
They  toss  the  shining  hoe, — 

No  idle  hand 

In  all  the  band 
Fails  to  keep  up  his  row. 
At  length  the  dinner  horn,  glad  sound. 

Peals  through  the  heated  air. 
The  hoes  are  tossed  upon  the  ground 
And  homeward  all  repair. 

And  many  a  jump 

And  many  a  bump 
Our  little  worker  takes, 

While  the  old  man 

With  steadier  plan 
A  soberer  journey  makes. 
The  house  now  reached,  the  thirsty  horde 

Rush  to  the  water  shelf. 
With  life  elixir  filled,  the  gourd. 
Dispenses  living  health. 

No  epicure 

I'm  very  sure 
E'er  quaffed  his  rich  champaigns 

With  such  a  pride 

As  they  imbibe 
This  nectar  from  earth's  veins. 
And  now,  in  right  old  country  style. 

They  take  their  frugiil  dinner. 
Each  face  wears  just  that  jovial  smile 
So  ill  becomes  a  sinner. 

The  meal  now  done 

Away  they  run 
To  sport,  to  climb  or  swim. 

While  true  pleasure 

Without  measure 
Is  found  in  every  whim. 

When  these  two  blissful  hours  are  spent. 

Again  they  seek  the  field,— 
Till  darkness  shrouds  the  continent 
Their  hoes  they  nimbly  wield. 

No  cares  annoy 

The  Farmer  Boy 
No  troubles  can  depress. 

Who  toiling  still 

With  iron  will 
Subdues  a  wilderness. 
All  honor  to  our  Farmer  Band, 
Our  nation's  crown  are  they. 
And  when  stern  war  assails  our  land 
They  proved  that  nation's  stay. 

To  their  lasses 

Fill  your  glasses 
To  the  foaming  brim  and  drain. 

Our  toast  shall  be 

Our  Country  Free, 
And  her  noble  Farmer  Men. 


-® 


®- 


210 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


-® 


MRS.  JULIA  A.  A.WOOD. 

Born:  New  London,  N.  H. 
In  1849  this  ladj'  was  married  to  William  Wood, 
a  lawyer  and  journalist.  Two  years  later  she 
removed  to  Sauk  Eapids,  Minn.,  where  Mr. 
Wdod  w;is  ;ii>iinintod  T^.  S.  rt'cciver  of  jnihlic 
ril(iiir\-.     II.T  liu^h:iiiil  ;il-..    Iictv   cslabli-^lird 


MHS.  JULIA  A.  A.  WOOD. 

the  Sauk  Rapids  New  Era,  the  literary  depart- 
ment of  which  was  edited  by  Mrs.  Wood.  This 
writer  is  tlie  author  of  several  books,  Tlie 
Heart  of  Myrrha  Lake,  Brown  House  of  Duf- 
fleld,  Story  of  Annette  and  Basil,  and  Beatrice. 


© 


TWO  NIGHTS  IN  AUGUST. 

Tlie  night  is  dark  and  full  of  storms. 
Near  thunders  roll  most  deep  and  loud. 
Fierce  liglitnings  leap  from  cloud  to  cloud 

Displaying-  strang-e  and  weirdly  forms. 

My  soul  is  full  of  wild  unrest; 
True  memory  a  gate  doth  ope. 
Revealing'  down  a  shaded  slope, 

A  scene  that  in  my  life  is  prest, 

I  had  a  noble,  fair-haired  boy; 
Like  every  first-born  did  he  grow. 
The  dearest  idol  earth  can  know, 

A  constant,  precious,  untold  joy. 

When  darkened  o'er  the  Heavens  liigh, 
Wil-h  thunder-clouds  all  dark  and  stern. 
And  vivid  liglitniiig-  'gaii  to  burn 

Its  imagery  in  the  frigiitened  sky: 


When  all  our  smiles  with  fear  were  laid. 
And  whispers  took  of  words  the  pluce,— 
He  lifted  up  his  fair  young-  face. 

And  said,  "O,  Willie's  not  afraid." 

Four  years  ag-o,  this  sad,  sad  night, 
The  stoim  raged  fierce  and  wild. 
Within  my  heart  more  fierce  and  wild, 

A  bitterer  storm  put  out  the  light. 
My  boy  was  stricken  in  an  hour; 
Convulsed  with  torture  was  bis  brain; 
Our  prayers,  our  tears,  all,  all  were  vain  — 

Death  claimed  my  blossoming  flower. 

The  thunder  o'er  us  solemn  stole  — 
I  knelt  beside  his  cold,  white  form. 
And  thought  how  never  had  the  storm 

Brought  terror  to  his  dauntless  soul. 

And  that  as  his  dear  feet  should  near 
The  fearful  waves  of  death's  dark  river. 
His  sweetest  lips  should  know  no  quiver. 

As  said  he,  "  Willie  doth  not  fear." 

Nor  would  be  journey  far  alone. 
But,  loving-,  clasp  the  Savior's  hand. 
Till  his  pure  sotil  should  spotless  stand. 

And  calm,  before  the  great  white  Throne. 

Thus  Peace  stole  to  me  in  that  hour; 
But  O,  how  oft,  how  oft  since  then. 
In  doubt  and  agony  and  pain, 

I  miss  and  mourn  my  perished  flower. 

O,  thou  whoread'st  these  lines  of  mine. 
Forgive  the  tears  that  in  them  melt; 
Perhaps  it  has  been  thine  to  have  knelt 

Before  some  broken,  earthly  shrine; 

To  have  wept  thine  idol  lying  low; 
O  let  us  gather  Hope  and  Faith, 
That  shall  be  stronger  even  than  Death, 

Triumphant  over  evei-y  woe. 

BABY   MAY. 
My  daughter  one  —  my  baby  May! 
What  shall  I  say  this  natal  day 
Unto  my  darling-  Baby  May'/' 
With  thoughts  of  thee  I  seem  to  see 
As  .yesterday  dear  baby  May, 
A  little  girl;  a  golden  curl. 
Doth  shade  a  face  whose  sunny  grace 
.    Is  fair  to  see  and  sweet  to  me. 
And  beautiful  as  aught  can  be. 
Her  eye  is  blue,  her  smile  is  sweet. 
Her  mouth  a  rosebud  fresh  with  dew, 
And  O,  the  music  of  lier  feet! 
The  little  Elf,  she  keeiis  herself 
Within  my  waj',  fair  baby  Ma.v, 
A  cheery  sunbeam  all  the  day. 
Thus  dot  h  it  seem  —  ah  me  —  I  dream ! 
'Tis  many  a  day  since  baby  May 
A  sunbeam  brightened  all  my  way. 
A  woman  now,  of  thoughtful  brow. 
In  form  a  queen,  in  face  serene. 
Somebody's  wife,  all,  let  me  dream! 


^ 


m 


-© 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL,   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


211 


REV.JAMES  W.  D.ANDERSON. 

Born:  Coffey  Co.,  BLvn..  March  3,  1859. 
Rev.  J.  W.  D.  Anderson  is  a  minister  of  tlie 
Methodist  Episcopal  cliureli,  and  is  now  en- 
gaged ill  liis  professional  calling  at  Elk  City, 
Kansas.     His  writing's   have  appt'aicd  i>i  the 


rev.  JAMES   W.  D.  ANDERSON. 

leading  periodicals  of  America.  Mr.  Anderson 
is  a  lover  of  poetry,  and  has  delivered  exten- 
sively a  popular  lecture  on  Kansas  Poets  and 
Poetry.  In  1890  he  published  a  book  entitled 
The  Kansas  Metliodist  Pulpit. 

MORTITA. 
They  told  me  yesterday  that  she  was  dead. 
And,  at  the  word,  the  scalding,  blinding  tears 
Gushed  from  tlieir  fount.    Stricken  1  bowed 

my  head 
Wliile   Memorj-    brought  again    the  by-gone 

years. 
When,  at  a  distance,  I  had  walked  and  loved, 
But  never  dared  to  make  my  loving  known. 
So  coldly  looked  she  on  me.    Un  reproved 
Because  unnoticed,  worshiped  I  alone. 
Gods,  how  I  loved  I  As  Eastern  Devotee 
Finds  in  Nirvana  all  his  soul's  desire. 
So  found  I  in  her.    Life  she  was  to  me. 
And  heavenly  manna  and  celestial  choir. 
Soul,  body,  mind  and  spirit  owned  tlie  thrall. 
Found  satisfaction  where  her  presence  shed 
Its  radiant  glory.    Yet,  throughout  it  all, 
I  knew  she  loved  me  not ;  and  she  is  dead. 


And  this  is  saddest:  If  the  Priests  say  true. 
Somewhere  there  lies  a  fairer  land  than  this. 
Where  lovers  meet,  and  skies  bend  ever  l)lue. 
And  earthlj-  sorrows  end  in  heavenly  bliss: 
But  in  that  world  my  .soul  will  still  make  moan. 
Nor  know  a  hope,  tnougli  ages  shall  have  fled; 
In  life  she  gave  to  me  no  loving  tone; 
Eternity  is  powerless:  She  is  dead! 


BY  THE  RIVER. 

We  walked  on  the  banks  of  a  beautiful   river. 

And  slowly  and  idly  we  loitered  along; 
Its  musical  murmurs  made  melody  ever. 

Harmoniously  blending  in  low.rippling  song. 
We  whispered  of  love  as  we  walked  by  the 
river. 
Of  love  that  found  joy  just  in  loving,  alone. 
And  our  hearts,  as  we  spoke,  throbbed  with 
tremulous  quiver, 
111  unison  throbbed   with  each   gladdening 
tone. 
We  sat  on  the  banks  and  tossed  flowers  in  the 

river. 
And  said,  as  we  watched  them  float  lightly 
away: 
"  So  our  lives  will  flow  on,  full  of  praise  to 
the  Giver, 
And  crowned  with  bright  flowers  as  we  crown 
thee  to-day." 

But  the  death  angel  carried  her  over  a  river 
More  dark  than  the  one  where  I  claimed  her 
as  mine. 
Spake  she  softly  while  crossing:  "Death  only 
can  sever 
My   soul  but  a  moment,  my  darling,  from 
thine." 
So,  with  heart  full  of  longing,  and  eyes  full  of 
weeping, 
I  look  toward  that  river  on  whose  farther 
shore 
My  loved  one  is  waiting.    And  life's  shadows 
creeping 
Toward  sunset  give  comfort :    I  soon  will  be 
o'er. 


©- 


MY  IDEAL. 
A  being  bright  from  Paradise, 
So  seems  she  to  my  vision. 
Whose  presence  gladdens  earth-dimmed 
eyes. 
And  tempts  to  fields  Elysian. 
A  stately  form  of  perfect  mold. 

Yet  often  lowly  bending, 
A  face  whose  beauty  grows  not  old 

Since  passing  years  are  lending 
Charms  ever  new.    Bright  eyes  that  hold 

A  score  of  nymphs  contending. 
A  mind  that  holds  by  conqueror's  right 
The  wisdom  of  the  ages, 
® 


©- 


212 


LOCAL    AND   NATIOXAL  POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


© 


Triumphant  climbs  the  dazzling-  height 
Where  stand  the  world's  great  sages, 
Yet  in  that  book  takes  most  delight 

Where  human  hearts  are  pages. 
A  soul  completely  purged  from  sin 

By  God's  all-cleansing  Are, 
That  all  its  spacious  courts  within, 

Holds  not  one  base  desire. 
And  fit,  by  innate  worth,  to  win 
A  place  in  heavenly  choir. 
From  Paradise,  a  being  bright, 
So  seems  my  fair  Ideal 
Who  sits  beside  me  as  I  write, 
A  soul  sufficing  real. 


THE  MOUNT  OF  VISION. 

Before    us   loomed    the   towering   Mount  of 
Vision; 
We  stood  together  at  the  very  base. 
And,  looking  upward,  made  the  firm  decision 
We'd  test  the  rough  ascent  with  even  pace. 
We  saw  the  beetling  crags  and  deep  recesses 

O'erwhicliourway  must  lie.but  we  were  told 
That  he  who  to  the  highest  summit  presses 

Will  see  the  gates  to  Elysian  fields  unfold. 
Hand  joined  in  hand,  we  climbed  the  lofty 

mountain; 
We  passed  the  jutting  crags  and  threatening 
peaks ; 
No  pleasant  grove  was  there,  nor  cooling 
fountain. 
Nor  rest,  .save  that  which  high  ambition  seeks. 
Yet  sweet  companionship  made  labor  lighter. 
And  obstacles  surmounted  trained  the  feet 
For  fresh  exertions,and  the  way  grew  brighter 
Illumed  by  hght  tliat  shone  from  Victory's 
seat. 
We  stand  together  on  the  Mount  of  Vision, 

And  now  we  know  the  iiath  our  feet  have  trod 

Has  led  to  Duty's  fields,  not  fields       Elysian, 

And  far  above  us  stretch  the  heights  of  God. 

But  toward  those  regions  i)ure  we  turn  our 

faces. 

Oh  comrades !  May  our  life-work,  just  begun. 

Though  other  hopes  the  liaiul  of  Time  erases. 

Receive  at  last  the  crowning  word:   Well 

doiu>! 


®- 


MARIA  LOUISE  ICVR. 

Born:  Augusta,  Ga. 
The  first  literary  success  of  Miss  Eve  was  an 
essayentillcdTluniglits  About  Talking,  which 
rec«'ived  the  prize  of  one  hundred  dollars  ofl- 
ered  by  Scott's  Monthly  of  Atlanta,  and  in 
187il  the  i»oem  Concpiered  at  Last  received  a 
prize.  Tlie  sliort  poem  of  A  Brier  Rose  also 
received  a  prize  in  1KH!(  from  the  Augusta 
Chronicle.  Mi.ss  Eve  ho|)es  soon  to  publish  a 
complete  book  of  her  jioems. 


A  BRIER  ROSE. 
Is  this  the  boon  desired  so  much. 
This  thorny  rose  we  cannot  touch, 
But  we  are  wounded  for  our  pains, 
Yet  clasp  it  while  the  thorn  remains? 
For  Love  did  once  in  Eden  dwell, 
Ere  yet  among  the  tliorns  it  fell. 
That  now  is  but  a  brier  rose 
Amid  the  wilderness  that  grows. 
No  sweeter  rose  was  ever  seen ; 
But  ah !  her  thorns,  how  sharp  and  keen, 
How  deep  they  pierce,  how  long  abide, 
How  closely  in  her  beauty  hide. 
For  every  rose  a  thorn,  a  tear  — 
Who  wants  a  flower  that  costs  so  dear? 
For  Love  is  but  a  brier  rose, 
A  thing  of  joy,  beset  with  woes. 
But  ah !  how  rich  and  red  and  rare 
Her  roses  are.    Who  would  not  dare 
The  wounding  of  her  thorns  to  bear 
This  fairest  earthly  rose  to  wear ! 
For  there  is  nothing  sweeter  liere, 
Tho'  full  of  thorns  and  costing  dear; 
And  it  will  bloom  one  day,  be  sure, 
A  brier  rose  no  more,  no  more. 


DADDY  JIM. 

"Daddy  Jim?  Daddy  Jim!    are  you  deaf  and 
blind';"' 

The  boys  are  shouting  it  loud  and  clear; 

But  faintly  it  falls  on  the  old  man's  ear. 
Like  a  muffled  bell,  that  we  hardly  mind. 

Daddy  Jim  stood  still,  and  he  looked  so  good. 
With  his  old  hands  crossed  on  his  oaken  staff. 
That   the   boys   all  stopped  and  forgot  to 
laugh, 

And  gathered  around  where  the  old  man  stood. 

•'  Nay,  boys,  I  am  not  deaf,"  said  Daddy  Jim, 
"Though   very   faint   and  far  your  voices 

sound. 
And  I  am  not  blind, though  everythitigurouna 

Is  fading  on  my  sight  and  getting  dim. 

"  I  have  gone  so  far  on  the  wide,  wide  river. 
That  the  shores  of  earth  are  a  melting  vieAv, 
And  the  sounds  that  reach  me  are  faint  and 
few ; 

Tliey'll  come  to  me  soon  no  more  forever. 

"  But  neither  deaf  nor  blind  is  Daddy  Jim. 
When  his  name  is  called  from  the  nearer 

shore, 
Where  the  hearts  that  loved  him  are  gone 
before. 
And  their  white  hands  beckon  across  to  him. 

"  So  I  strain  my  eyes  and  ears  no  longer 
For  the  sights  and  sounds  of  that    fading 

shore; 
But  I  fix  tliem  full  on  the  Land  before. 

And  every  day  they  are  getting  stronger.' 


-© 


© 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


213 


-« 


THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 

Born:  Philadelpia,  Pa.,  June  29,  1819. 
Receiving  a  good  education  he  graduated  in 
medicine  in  1839,  but  after  a  short  practice 
studied  law  in  Philadelphia,  and  was  admitted 
to  the  bar  in  1842.  In  1814  he  edited  a  daily  pa- 
per in  New  York,  and  the  foilowing  year  began 
the  publication  of  a  literary  magazine,  of  which 
only  a  single  number  was  issued.  He  is  the 
author  of  several  novels,  and  of  more  than 
twenty  dramas.  Ben  Holt,  the  popular  song,  is 
from  his  pen.  American  Ballads  appeared  in 
1883,  and  in  1886  Book  of  Battle  Lyrics. 


© 


OUT  IN  THE  STREETS. 
The  light  is  shining  through  the  window-panes; 

It  is  a  laughing  group  that  side  the  glass. 
Within,  all  light;  without,  pitch-dark  and  rain, 
I  see,  but  feel  no  pleasure  as  I  pass, 
Out  in  the  streets. 
Another  casement,  with  the  curtain  drawn; 

There  the  light  throws  the  shadow  of  aform- 
A  woman's,  with  a  child  —  a  man's,  all  gone! 
They  with  each  other.    I  am  with  the  storm. 
Out  iu  the  streets. 
There  at  the  open  window  sits  a  man. 

His  day's  toil  over,  with  his  pipe  alight: 
His  wife  leans  o'er  him  with  her  tale  began 
Of  the  day's  doings.    I  am  with  the  night. 
Out  in  the  streets. 
All  these  have  homes,  and  hopes,  and  light,  and 
cheer. 
And  those  arou  nd  who  love  them.  Ah  I  for  me 
Who  have  no  home,  but  wander  sadly  here. 
Alone  vnth  storm,  and  night,  and  misery, 
Out  in  the  streets. 
The  rain  soaks  thi-ough  my  clothing  to  the 
skin; 
So  let  it.    Curses  on  that  cheery  light  1 
There  is  no  light  with  me  and  shame  and  sin; 
I  wander  in  the  night  and  of  the  night. 
Out  in  the  streets. 
You  who  betrayed  me  with  a  loving  kiss. 
Whose  every  touch,  could  thrill  me  through 
and  through. 
When  you  first  sought  me  did  you  think  of  this'? 
My  curse  — but  why  waste  time  in  cursing 
you. 

Out  in  the  streets? 
You  are  beyond  my  hati-ed  now.    You  stand 
Above  reproach;   you  know  no  wrong  nor 
guile; 
Foremost  among  the  worthies  of  the  land. 
You  are  all  good,  and  I  a  wretch  all  %ilo. 
Out  in  the  streets. 
You  have  a  daughter,  young  and  innocent; 

You  love  her.  doubtless.    I  was  pure  as  she 
Before  my  heart  to  be  your  lackey  went. 


God  guard  her!  Never  let  her  roam  like  me. 
Out  in  the  streets. 
I  was  a  father's  darling  long  ago; 

'Twas  well  he  died  before  my  babe  was  born ; 
And  that's  dead,   too  — some  comfort  in  my 
woe  I 
Wet,  cold  and  hungered,  homeless,  sick,  for- 
lorn, 

Out  in  the  streets. 
How  the  cold  rain  benumbs  my  weary  limbs ! 
What  makes  the  pavement  heave?   Ah!  wet 
and  chill, 
I  hear  the  little  children  singing  hymns 
In  the  village  church  —  how  peaceful  now 
and  still 

Out  in  the  streets. 
But  why  this  vision  of  my  early  days? 
Why  comes  the  church-door  in  the  public 
way? 
Hence  with  this  mocking  sound  of  pi-ayer  and 
praise  I 
I  have  no  cause  to  praise  —  I  dare  not  pray 
Out  in  the  streets. 
What  change  is  here?    The  night  again  grows 
warm ; 
The  air  is  fragrant  as  an  infant's  breath. 
Why,  Where's  my  hunger?    Left   me  in  the 
storm? 
Now,  God  forgive  my  sins !  This,  this  is  death. 
Out  in  the  streets. 


MINOT  JUDSON  SAVAGE. 

Born:  Norridgewock,  Me.,  June,  10, 1841. 
Educated  at  Bowdoin,  he  graduated  at  Ban- 
gor theological  seminary  in  18(54,  and  became 
a  congregational  missionary  in  California.  He 
has  been  pastor  in  several  prominent  churches, 
and  now  has  charge  of  the  Church  of  the  Unity 
in  Boston.  In  addition  to  his  volume  of  poems 
published  in  1883,  he  has  written  numerous 
volumes  on  religious  subjects. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 
Beside  the  ocean,  wandering  on  the  shore, 

I  seek  no  measure  of  the  infinite  sea; 

Peneath  the  solemn  stars  that  speak  to  me 
I  may  not  care  to  reason  out  their  lore;  [o'er 
Among  the  mountains,  whoso  bright  summits 

The  flush  of    morning  brightens,  there 
may  be 

Only  a  sense  of  might  and  mystery; 
And  yet,  a  thrill  of  infinite  life  they  pour 
Through  all  my  being,  and  uplift  me  high 

Above  my  little  self  and  weary  days. 

So  in  thy  presence,  Emerson,  I  hear 
A  sea-voice  sounding  'neath  a  boundless  sky. 

While  mountainous  thoughts  tower  o'er 
life's  common  ways. 

And  in  thy  sky  the  stars  of  truth  appear. 


^■ 


-fS 


214 


LOCAL    AMD    NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  ELLA  E.  RANDALL. 

Born  :  Momence,  III.,  Oct.  5, 1853. 
Under  the  uom  de  plume  of  Eglantine,  this 
lady  has  written  extensively  for  the  Chicago 
Inter-Ocean,  Ledger  and  the  local  press  gen- 
erally. She  was  married  in  1875  to  George  M. 
Randall,  who  is  now  engaged  in  the  loan  and 
insurance  liusiness  at   Stockton.  Kansas.    As 


MRS.  ELLA.  E.  RANDALL. 

an  editor's  wife  Mrs.  Randall  has  been  a  type 
setter;  as  a  postmaster's  Ivifo  has  assisted  in 
the  distribution  of  the  mail;  as  a  grocer's 
wife,  at  weighing  out  goods,  and  is  at  present 
occur)ied  on  a  Remington  typewriter.  Mrs. 
Randall  is  a  very  close  student,  fond  of  litera- 
ture, and  hopes  to  attain  some  prominence  as 
a  writer. 


fiB- 


AT  BITTER  COST. 
Tliere  is  something  I   miss   from   my  liappy 
life, 
I  can  scarcely  tell  you  its  name; 
Tliere  is  nothing  between  us  of  scorn  or  of 
.Kirifc, 
Thcic  is  nowliere  to  lay  th(>  blame. 

He  promised  to  cherish  and  love  me  ahvay, 

I  complain  of  no  broken  vow; 
Yet  the  life  T  once  fancied  a  summer  day, 

Lieth  oft  in  the  shadows  now. 


I  know  that  a  husband  has  struggles  fierce. 
For  the  fortune  which  he  must  gain. 

And  he  knoweth  naught  of  the  sorrows  that 
pierce 
My  heart  with  a  weary  pain. 

Where  then  is  the  blame?   Where  lieth  the 
fault? 

More  can  I  ask?    Perha))s  I'm  weak. 
But  my  heart  seems  locked  in  an  iron  vault 

And  my  life  is  a  desert  bleak. 

I  know  that  he  loves  me!  Ah,  yes,  indeed! 

His  lips  tell  a  love  sincere: 
His  arms  caress  me;  "  What  more  do  I  need, 

While  of  honor  I  have  no  fear?" 

Ah !  the  arms  about  me  but  carelessly  press, 
The  lips  brush  but  lightly  my  own ; 

His  heart  is  not  in  the  careless  caress^ 
The  love  is  gone  from  his  tone. 

And  so,  as  I  answer,  with  tender  smile. 
The  words  with  their  meaning  lost, 

Do  you  wonder  I  cannot  but  think  the  while, 
"Wealth  comes  at  a  bitter  cost?" 


REMEMBRANCE. 

You  ask  if  I  remember  — 

Do  you  think  I  could  e'er  forget? 
Each  "hour  we  have  spent  together 

Is  fresh  in  my  memory  yet. 
Since  the  summer  day  I  met  you 

You've  held  in  my  heart  a  place. 
And  the  darkest  days  grow  brighter 

At  the  sight  of  your  welcome  face. 

What  our  future  hath  in  its  trust. 

Dear  Alice,  we  cannot  know; 
It  holds  in  merciful  silence 

Our  portions  of  weal  or  woe; 
But  though  leagues  may  lie  between  us. 

In  the  years  that  come  and  go, 
Tiie  flame  of  our  holy  friendship, 

Tho'  the  wild  chill  winds  may  blow. 

Shall  burn  but  the  brighter,  clearer. 

In  brilliant  and  changeless  ray; 
For  ours  was  no  girlish  friendship 

To  spend  its  strength  in  a  day, 
But  a  meeting  of  liearts  maturer 

In  a  love  wlueli  shall  last  for  aye; 
A  love  whicli  sliall  scatter  fragrance 

Like  roses  along  our  way. 

Though  roses  and  thorns  together 

In  tliesheaves  of  our  lives  may  be  bound 
Tlio'  silence  may  fall  between  us, 

Tiie  world's  cares  hedge  around; 
Though  a  narrow  and  beaten  circle 

Our  stern  eartlily  d\ities  bound; 
Still,  deep  in  the  hearts'  recesses 

Will  sweet  memory's  bells  resound. 


* 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


215 


■© 


JOHN  A.WEBSTER. 

Born:  Putnam  Co.,  Ind.,  July  9,1863. 
After  graduating'  at  Central  colleg-e,  Dan- 
ville, Indiana,  Mr.  Webster  taught  school  for 
five  years,  and  entered  upon  a  journalistic  ca- 
reer in  1887,  first  publishing-  the  Gazette  in 
Golden,  Kansas.    In  the   same  year  he  pur- 


JOHN  A.  WEBSTER. 

chased  the  Eclipse  in  Johnson  City,  and  in  1889 
boughtthe  World  of  the  same  place;  both  of 
the  latter  papers  have  been  consolidated  into 
the  Journal,  which  he  still  publishes.  Mr.  Web- 
ster is  also  postmaster  of  the  same  town. 


g&- 


CLASS  POEM. 
Man's  existence  —  the  chain  of  life. 

Is  joined  by  links  of  precious  worth; 
Time  ever  onward  in  his  strife. 

Weaves  each  a  chain  while  here  on  earth. 

Our  childhood  days,  so  dear  to  all. 
Our  childish  thoughts  so  innocent, 

Pleasantly  each  of  us  recall 
With  many  a  happy  incident. 

Bright  was  the  morn  and  fair  the  day— 
The  great,  wide  world  glowed  anew, 

Tlie  blackbird  chirped  its  merry  lay 
As  from  branch  to  branch  it  flew. 

Thick  by  the  roadside,  blooming  near. 
Were  the  sweetest  and  gayest  flowers, 

Tlie  hum  of  the  bee,  still  I  can  hear. 
As  it  sped  from  bower  to  bower. 

Little  I  knew  of  the  Heaven  above. 
Little  of  the  earth's  wide  sphere; 


The  stars  to  me  were  lamps  of  love, 
The  dewdrop  one  of  God's  tears. 

The  fair  blue  canopy  above, 

So  inviting  seemed  to  be, 
And  all  nature,  wliose  song  is  love. 

Whispered  wonderful  things  to  me. 

I  sorrowed  when  any  doubted  this, 

To  me  it  all  seemed  plain, 
The  good  would  have  eternal  bliss. 

And  the  wicked  have  endless  pain. 

Our  childhood  days  are  with  the  past. 

Memory  is  all  that's  left  us  now. 
We  fondly  hoped  they'd  longer  last, 

A  vision  is  all  time  will  allow. 

Next  came  youth  ever  bright  and  gay. 
With  golden  days  without  a  tear; 

Other  fancies  then  led  the  way. 
And  life's  pathway  again  was  dear. 

'Twas  then  the  light  of  sunny  days. 
Brought  brighter  beauties  to  our  view, 

'Twas  then  our  feet  were  wont  to  stray, 
Whei-e  taller,  gayer  flowers  grew. 

The  prize  of  life  was  then  to  win. 
Our  hearts  and  hands  seemed  strong. 

And  our  ears  caught  the  far  off  din. 
Echoing  low  the  welcome  song. 

But  time  has  hurried  us  along. 

To  youth  we  bid  a  sad  adieu. 
We  enter  college  firm  and  strong-. 

And  other  beauties  we  pursue. 

Pleasant  to  us  has  been  the  work 

Assigned  by  teachers  dear; 
"'E%^er  Onward  "  is  our  motto—  to  shirk 

We  have  long  learned  to  fear. 

Mathematics  we've  pondered  hard. 
Triangles  right,  obtuse,  acute, 

Have  taught  us  e'er  to  be  on  guard 
Their  sides  or  angles  to  compute. 

Next  came  Latin,  hardest  of  all, 

Illud,  amabamus  studere. 
The  wooden  horse  witliin  the  wall 

Offered  sacred  to  Minerva\ 

Mistakes  we  have  made,  it  is  true. 
Though  these  we  always  tried  to  shun; 

Errors  — mirabile  dictu, 
Were  frequent,  not  always  in  fun. 

The  Sciences  perfect,  complete. 
We've  foUow'd  from  flower  to  star. 

The  Heaven,  like  a  silver  sheet. 
Its  beauties  to  us  has  unbarred. 

The  pebble  now  in  beauty  abounds: 
The  flowers  new  beauties  impart; 

The  world  in  harmony  resounds 
Its  Maker,  itself  a  counterpart. 


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216 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMERICA. 


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How  pleasant  have  been  our  school  days 
Within  these  dear  and  agred  walls. 

We'll  think  of  theuion  our  journeys 
As  future  years  around  us  fall. 

Together  we've  walked  life's  pathway, 
Culling  flow'rs  from  Wisdom's  garden  fair, 

The  summons  to  part  we  must  obey, 
And  with  others  our  pleasures  share. 

These  cherished  days  are  ended. 
They  are  numbered  with  the  past; 

Time,  in  his  ever  onward  tread. 
Holds  them  forever  in  his  grasp. 

How  oft  we  will  think  with  pleasure 
Of  the  school  room  —our  friendly  ties. 

No  clouds  their  luster  can  obscure. 
They'll  dearer  grow  as  in  our  minds  they 
rise. 

We've  clambered  gaily  the  liills  of  truth. 
Hand  in  hand  'long  the  radiant  way. 

To  teachers,  kind  guardians  of  our  youtli, 
We  bid  a  sad  farewell  to-day. 

A  hope  is  left  us,  a  solace  great. 
To  cheer  our  hearts  of  grief  and  pain, 

'Tis  this,  as  our  pathways  separate. 
We  part  some  time  to  meet  again. 

Glad  in  strength  of  new  found  youth, 
Glad  in  the  thought  of  other  days. 

We'll  climb  the  coveted  hills  of  truth. 
And  live  again  our  happiest  days. 

Deeper  will  grow  our  love  of  faith, 
In  things  we're  unable  to  prove, 

In  a  life  that  is  free  from  death. 
And  a  power  that  works  by  love. 

The  future  is  ours  with  hopes  untold. 

New  fields  of  labor  yet  remain. 
New  beauties  in  nature  we'll  behold 

If  "  Onward  and  Upward  "  is  our  aim. 

Time  will  bring  some  shadows,  too. 
Cares  and  pleasures  that'll  never  fade. 

Life  is  a  picture,  old  yet  new, 
A  commingling  of  light  and  shade. 

But  while  the  thoughts  of  other  times 
So  bright,  so  free,  we  wander  o'er, 

Tliere  comes  a  thought,  in  another  clime 
We'll  meet  again  to  part  no  more. 

By  and  by  in  a  world  that's  new, 

In  a  life  that  is  all  untried. 
We'll  pluck  with  pleasure,  glad  and  true, 

Flowers  eternal  on  the  other  side. 

Teachers,  friends,  it  is  hard  to  leave 
The  i)lace  wo  have  loved  so  well, 

But   tlie   hour    has   come   when    we  must 
breathe 
The  i)arting  words,  farewell,  farewell. 


ROSAWYATT. 

This  lady  has  a  prose  work  which  she  hopes 
soon  to  place  upon  the  market.  Her  poems 
have  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the  peri- 
odical press. 

THE  ANGEL'S  MESSAGE. 
An  angel  came  from  Heaven  one  day, 

Dowu  through  the  realms  of  space. 
He  sought  a  nearer  -view  of  earth. 

It  seemed  a  lovely  place. 

When  he  had  reached  the  home  of  men 

What  anguish  filled  his  heart ! 
He  saw  'twas  sorrow,  guilt  and  sin 

Kept  Heaven  and  earth  apart. 

Where'er  he  turned  a  scene  of  woe 

Fell  on  his  wondering  sight. 
Of  helpless  ones  as  cowering  slaves 

Crushed  'neath  the  heel  of  might. 

He  saw  the  world  in  sorrow  steeped, 

He  knew  'twas  caused  by  sin ; 
The  germs  of  Satan's  vicious  seeds 

Sown  in  the  hearts  of  men. 

He  saw  the  tempter  weave  a  net, 

A  wilj'  subtle  snare; 
And  in  its  meshes  saw  entrapped 

A  maiden  young  and  fair. 

He  saw  him  place  a  shimmering  screen 

Before  the  face  of  truth ; 
And  in  this  filmy  flattering  guise 

Presented  it  to  youth. 

At  last,  with  pity,  grief  and  love, 

His  angel  lieart  o'erflowed; 
The  story  of  those  wrongs  he  bore 

To  the  great  heart  of  God. 

And  that  same  hour  in  Heaven  w^s  born 

A  gem  of  purest  light; 
The  child  of  virtue  joined  to  Truth, 

Its  christening  name  was  Kight. 

The  watching  angel  saw  with  joy 

Its  glorious  nature  mold 
The  livening  rays  from  out  its  heart. 

Brighter  than  burnished  gold. 

Then  to  the  one  whose  heart  was  touched, 

With  grief  for  sins  of  men. 
Was  given  the  message  sweet  to  bring 

Back  to  the  earth  again. 

The  loving  angels  gathered  'round  — 
They  knew  its  priceless  worth ; 

In  Heaven  all  things  arc  Right,  they  said. 
Go  bear  it  to  the  eartli. 

Then  hold  it  up  and  hold  it  liigh. 

And  keeii  it  e'er  in  sight ; 
An  attribute  from  Gml's  own  heart, 

Tlie  precious  name  of  Right. 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


217 


TOM  MOORE. 

Born:  Piketon,  Ohio,  March  1, 18G1. 
The  father  of  the  subject  of  this  sketcli  being- 
an  attorney  and  a  man  of  refined  and  cultivat- 
ed literary  tastes,  tlie  son  had  not  only  the  ad- 
vantage of  a  good  education,  but  also  the  ad- 
vice and  instruction  of  his  gifted  father.  Mr. 
Moore,  Jr.,  studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to 
the  practice  of  that  profession  at  the  age  of 


TOM  MOORE. 

twenty-two.  He  is  still  a  member  of  the  pro- 
fession, and  engaged  with  his  father  In  active 
practice.  The  poems  of  this  rising  young  bar- 
rister have  been  published  from  time  to  time 
in  the  local  press,  and  have  been  favorably 
commented  upon.  He  was  married  in  1881  to 
Mary  L.  Tripp,  and  now  lives  in  Jaclsson,  in 
his  native  state. 


©- 


AUTUMN  DAYS. 
Far  off  or  near,  in  woody  copse  or  hedge. 
The  stately  sumach's  beacon  flames 
Defiance  to  the  sun. 
From  fallow    land    where  waves  the  tufted 

sedge, 
A  myriad-tongued  voice  proclaims 
The  autumn  days  begun. 

A  dreamy  haze  enshrouds  the  landscape  wide ; 
Tall  golden-columned  liickories  gleam 
On  many  a  wooded  steep. 

On  wand'ring  winds,  the  wood-elves  laughing 
ride 


Tlieir  oak-leaf  steeds  of  russet  sheen. 

And  down  tlie  air-tide  sweep. 

Where  ivy  tendrils  bind  yon  mossy  rail, 

I  see  the  pretty  chipmunk  flee 

Trembling-  to  her  brood. 

I  hear  the  mellow  whistle  of  the  quail, 

And  list'ning  Echo  wakes  for  me 

Her  sylvan  solitude. 

The  air  is  rich  with  smell  of  walnut  trees, 

And  odorous  balsam  of  the  field 

Its  faint  aroma  shares. 

Gay  primiosp  ships  sail  o'er  the  pasture  seas 

And  gt)ld  dust  freight,  reluctant  yield 

To  rainbow-winged  corsairs. 

From  distant  sloping  hillsides  brown,  1  hear 

A  drowsy  tinkling  sound  of  bells, 

'Tis  silvery,  low  and  sweet. 

I  see  the  white  flocks  sweeping  o'er  the  sere 

Expanse,— their  plaintive  voicing  tells 

Of  rest  and  calm  retreat. 

Afar,  the  golden-rod  bends  to  the  breeze. 

The  aster  lifts  its  modest  face. 

And  Clematis  spreads  her  sail ; 

I  hear  the  sobbing  phiint  of  forest  trees. 

Where  in  each  distant  woodland  place. 

The  winds  of  autumn  wail. 

I  feel  the  spirit  of  the  changing  year 

Close  by  my  side,  his  quiet  tread 

Responsive  to  my  own; 

I  touch  his  icy  luind,  I  have  no  fear. 

For  me  lie  bears  no  fateful  message  dread. 

Of  autumn  days  to  come. 


THOUGHTS. 

Who  huth  touched  the  stars  with  liis  hands. 

And  lighted  their  waving  fires. 
Who  hath  numbered  the  ocean  sands, 

And  smote  the  mountain  lyres? 
Who  planted  the  pillars  of  the  sky, 

And  swung  the  earth  in  air. 
Who  limned  yon  boundless  canopy 

With  colors  rich  and  rare? 
What  high  immortal  hand  controls 

The  dreamy  cloudland  l)rigiit. 
What  vast,  stupendous  power  unrolls 

The  curtain  of  the  night? 
I  wandered  earlj'  yester  morn, 

Across  the  barren  fields. 

And  lo !  a  thousand  blades  of  corn 

To  day  the  dai-k  ground  yields. 
What  potent  power  hath  touched  the  earth. 

With  fairy  finger  light. 
And  caused  the  still,  mysterious  birth. 

While  I  reposed  at  night? 
A  gentle  mist  hangs  on  the  hills, 

A  thousand  kine  are  lowing, 
I  hear  from  many  falling  rills. 

The  sound  of  waters  flowing. 
I  drink  the  sweet  music,  but  why  do  they  flow 


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218 


LOCAL,    AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


Down  to  the  pathless  sea? 
No  more  can  I  tell  why  the  fierce  winds  blow 

Across  the  grassy  lea. 
I  sit  me  down  on  the  craggy  shore. 

And  vainly  wring  my  hands, 
I  watch  the  wan  gulls  hover  and  soar 

Above  the  gleaming  sands. 
The  answer  I  crave,  from  the  starry  deep, 

Comes  never  —  oh,  never,  to  me! 
I  question  the  winds,  the  visioned  sleep. 

And  waves  of  the  throbbing  sea; 
Silent  the  winds,  silent  the  waves, 

Voiceless  the  realms  of  dream; 
Silent  all  as  the  dreary  caves. 

By  Lethe's  rolling  stream. 
But  as  I  ponder,  a  fiash  of  light 

Gilds  the  bars  of  the  golden  east. 
As  forth  from  its  portals  like  spirit  bright. 

Or  flower-crowned  maiden  for  bridal  feast, 
Tlie  full  moon  mounts  the  sky. 

And  her  echoless  voice  seems  to  breathe  in 
my  ear. 
As  her  radiance  sleeps  on  the  sea. 

Let  your  soul,  troubled  thinker,  be  free  from 
care. 
For  being,  and  music,  and  thought  shall  still 
be; 

Their  source,  the  Almlght.v, —  most  High, 
Truth  rides  in  the  train  of  the  sailing  moon, 

She  sweeps  with  the  whirling  wind. 
She  blazes  in  the  torrid  noon. 

And  he  who  seeks  shall  find. 
Loud  o'er  the  boom  of  the  sullen  wave. 

Her  trumpet  notes  resound. 
And  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  gloomy  grave. 

Are  her  guarded  secrets  found. 


®- 


MORNING  ON  THE  HILLS. 
1  stood  upon  a  wooded  hill 
'Mid  ling'ring  shadows  dark  and  chill; 
The  wan  stars  shed  a  fitful  light 
Athwart  the  rim  of  circling  night. 
When  lo!  a  miracle,  the  dawn! 
O'er  forest,  field,  and  jeweled  lawn, 
Aurora  smiles;  straightway  retires 
The  dark-robed  night,  and  sylvan  choirs 
Awake;  their  tuneful  voices  rise 
In  rliythmic  chorus  to  the  skies. 
Ah,  never  through  cathedral  aisle. 
Or  lofty  monumental  pile. 
Was  heard  such  music  as  the  while 
In  liquid  notes. 
Swelled  peal  on    peal,  from  out   those 

wiIdw(K)d  throats. 
And  see,  hard  by  in  hazel  bush 
The  lithe-limbed  s<juirr<'I,  playful  rush 
To  gaml)()l  in  the  daisied  grass, 
Or,  bounding  upward  tlirough  the  mass 
Of  emerald  shade,  securely  rest 
Within  the  shadow  of  liis  nest. 
Ha!  there  amid  the  dewy  leaves. 


Her  net,  the  patient  spider  weaves. 
While  from  yon  distant  mountain  tree, 
A  turtle  moans  her  monody; 
And  from  the  valleys  far  and  near, 
Is  heard  the  mead-larks  chee-ar-cheer. 
From  glade  and  thicket,  sweet  and  clear. 
The  minstrelsy 

Of  joy,  tumultuous  joy,  is  borne  to  me. 
Around  me  high  on  everj-  hand. 
The  giant  woodland  monarchs  stand. 
And  now  the  sunbeams  slowly  creep 
To  kiss  the  flow'rets  as  they  sleep, 
And  I,  low  kneeling  on  the  sod. 
Lift  up  my  heart  to  nature's  God. 
Oh,  how  I  love  the  sweet  wildwood. 
The  bursting  bloom,  the  brown  quail's 

brood. 
The  wren,  the  thrush,  the  saucy  jay; 
What  joy  to  hear  the  robin's  lay. 
When  from  the  snowy  bough  of  thorn. 
He  wakes  the  echoes  of  the  morn  1 
I  love  the  sun-glint  on  the  corn 
In  far  off  fields. 
And  feel,  for  me,  these   sweets   sweet 

Nature  yields. 
Oh,  who  would  not  forsake  the  town. 
The  busy  mart,  the  student's  gown. 
For  morning  on  the  wooded  hills. 
For  sylvan  pipe  and  crystal  rills, 
For  whisp'ring  grass  and  singing  birds. 
The  vital  air,  the  voiceless  words 
Which  greet  the  ardent  soul  alone. 
As  wind-kiss  greets  the  rugged  stone? 
Oh,  bliss!  to  bathe  in  curling  mist, 
Or  wander  freely  where  we  list. 
Enchanted  by  the  mystic  spell 
That  lingers  o'er  each  silent  fell. 
Each  pulsing  stream  and  shady  dell ! 
Then  i'way,  away! 
To  the  wood-nymph's  arms  in  the  forest 

gray. 

ORPHEUS. 
O  bard  divine! 
Thy  ancient  shrine, 
'Neath  Tliracian  skies. 
Neglected  lies. 

No  more  thy  music's  soft  sad  swell 
May  echo  through  the  leafy  dell. 
Or  from  cool  grotto  sounding. 
Charm  the  wild  stag  bounding, 
O  son  of  Apollo! 
Through  broken  strings. 
The  night  wind  sings; 
Thy  golden  sliell. 
Whose  mystic  spell. 
Did  charm  the  wild  beasts  of  the  wood. 
And  calm  the  rising  of  the  tkwd. 
Moans  by  the  falling  fountain. 
Alone  on  the  desolate  mountain, 
Oson  of  Apollo! 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


219 


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MRS.  CLARA  V.  EASTLAND. 

Born:  Rutland,  Vt.,  June  16, 1835. 
The    poems  of   this  Itidy  have  appeared  in 
Deniorest's  Monthly  and  other  papers  of  equal 
prominence,  from  whii-li  they  have  been  ex- 
tensively copied  hy  the  local  press.    In  jierson 


CLAHA  k\   EA8TLAND. 

she  is  very  small  and  frail,  with  auburn  hair 
and  hazel  eyes.  Mrs.  Eastland  is  now  a  resi- 
dent of  Muscoda,  Wisconsin,  wliere  she  is  well 
known  and  highly  respected. 


©- 


OLD  SONGS,  AND  OLD  FOLKS. 
Come  sit  in  the  twilight  with  me  my  dear. 

And  I'll  sing  tlie  old  songs  for  you; 
While  curtains  of  night  are  drawing  around, 

And  only  the  stars  peeping  through. 
Bring  a  lamp?    Oh  no!  For  there  soon  will  be 

A  night-lamp  hung  up  in  the  sky; 
Its  soft  light  will  blend  with  the  old  refrain. 

Of  "  Lang  Syne  "  and  ••  Sweet  By  and  By." 
With  the  dear  old  songs  comes  the  sweet  per- 
fume. 

Ever  born  on  mystical  wings; 
Of  Mignonette,  Pink  and  Sweet  Brier  Rose, 

And  groves  where  the  Mourning  Dove  sings. 
The  wild  apple  blooms  I  gathered  in  youth, 

And  twined  with  the  buds  in  my  hair; 
And  thought,  with  a  smile,  a  Queen  might  be 
glad 

To  be  crowned  with  a  chaplet  so  fair. 


Do  fragrance  and  beauty  again  take  tlie  form 

They  wore  in  the  gardens  below; 
Are  frost-flowers  traced  on  the  window  pane, 

Their  pictures  remodeled  in  saow? 
In  essence  perhaps,  they're  a  counterpart, 

Of  the  beautiful  flowers  above; 
Only  sent  to  us  here  for  a  little  while, 

A  token  of  Infinite  Love. 
My  flowers  are  faded,  but  new  ones  are  sweet. 

And  the  old  ones  ever  shall  be,— 
With  old  songs  and  old   friends  in   memory 
shrined 

As  I  sing  "  Do  they  think  of  me?  " 
"  Oft  in  the  stilly  night"  then  "Bonnie  Boon," 

"  Sweet  Afton,"  and  "  Sweet  Home  "  at  last, 
I'll  sing  nothing  sad  we're  all  going  home. 

And  moments  are  flitting  by  fast. 
Come  in  the  twilight  and  join  in  the  songs. 

To  you  it  will  be  something  new; 
Old  sougs,like  old  folks, are  old-fashioned  now, 

And  the  songs  that  they  sing  are  but  few. 


THE  WORLD  AS  I'D  HAVE  IT. 
Oh!  this  world  is  a  beautiful  world,  I  know. 
And  a  blessing  to  all  who  will  have  it  so; 
It  is  just  as  I'd  have  it  —  only  in  life, 
I  would  banish  all  discord,  anger,  and  strife. 

'Tis  a  beautiful  world  with  its  lofty  hills, 
Its  valleys  green  and  its  rippling  rills; 
'Tis  just  as  I'd  have  it  if  evil  would  cease. 
And   weapons  of  war  become   emblems  of 

peace. 
Oh !  this  world  is  a  beautiful  world  to  me,' 
From  flowers  of  earth  to  the  birds  on  the  tree; 
It  is  just  as  I'd  have  it  —  only  I'd  seek 
To  disarm  the  mighty,  who  injure  the  weak. 

Oh!  this  world  is  a  beautiful  world  and  good 
If  "  discord  is  harmony  not  understood ;" 
It  is  as  I'd  have  it  —  except,  if  you  please, 
I'd  banish  all  sorrow,  discontent,  and  disease. 

'Tis  a  beautiful  world  in  spite  of  our  fears. 
Our  gloomy  foreboding,  disorder  and  tears; 
'Tis  just  as  I'd  have  it  —  only  leave  out  the 

wrong. 
Helping  each  to  grow  better,  and  all  to  be 

strong. 
'Tis  a  beautiful  world  and  its  glory  appears 
In  flowers  looking  up  through  spring's  gentle 

tears. 
In   summer's    full    harvest   of     rich    golden 

sheaves. 
In    the   bright   tinted    showers   of    autumn 

leaves. 
Oh!  this  world  is  a  beautiful  world  to  all, 
Whose  hearts  are  not  deluged  with  wormwood 

and  gall; 
It  is  just  as  I'd  have  it  —  only  please  "  Do 
As  you  would  have  others  do  unto  you." 


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LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


'Tis  a  beautiful  world  ia  spite  of  Its  jars. 
Darkness  onlj'  makes  brighter  the  glimmering 

stars ; 
'Tis  just  as  I'd  have  it  if  all  were  at  peace, 
If  virtue  would  prosper,  and  wickedness  cease. 

The  merry  stream  sparkles  in  swift  dashing 
glee. 

As  she  dances  along  to  the  restless  sea; 

Yet  she  speaks  not  a  word  in  her  wild  free 
gracev 

Of  the  King  she  must  meet,  or  the  cold  em- 
brace 

Wliich    fetters  her   freedom  and  hushes  her 

voice; 
Though  silent  awhile, with  new  strength  she'll 

rejoice. 
When  life  the  giving  current  retouches  once 

more 
This   beautiful   earth    from    the   hitherward 

shore. 

The  bare  earth  was    robed    in    not-work  of 

frost, 
'Till  spring's  busy  shuttle  on  t  he  zephyr  was 

tossed ; 
Wea\nng  of  sunbeams  some  joy  for  each  heart 
Nature  does  her  work  well,  it  is  only  our  part 

Which  hangs  in  the  loom,  soiled,  ragged  and 

torn. 
And  wrings  forth  the  crj-,  I  am  weary  and 

worn;" 
'Tis  just  as  I'd  have  it  —  if  I  could  but  feel 
We  all  did  our  best  with  our  knowledge  and 

zeal. 


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THE  BATTLE  OF  LIFE. 
My  bark  is  out  onjife's  dark  sea, 

The  wild-winds  murmur  and  rave; 
The  Storm-King  threatens  and  revels  free. 
He  whistles  and  dances  in  savage  glee. 

But  I'm  not  alone  on  the  wave. 

Many  sail  on  the  same  rough  tide. 

Sighing  lor  glory  and  sti'ifc; 
To  wr(ing  and  oppression  they're  allied; 
They   sail   without    anchor,    compass   or 
guide. 

And  sink  in  the  combat  of  life. 

Some  embark  in  a  night  of  gloom. 

But  hope  with  resistless  sway 
Bears  them  o'er  deserts,  beyond  the  tomb. 
Where  souls  in  immortal  beauty  liloom 

In  the  light  of  Eternal  day. 

There  is  a  light  that  guides  me  on, 

And  I  will  not  pause  to  weep; 
With  a  hopeful  heart  and  cheerful  song. 
In  tlie  Battle  of  life  I  will  be  strong. 

For  I'm  not  alone  on  the  deep. 


EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR. 

Born:  Henxiker.  N.  H.,  Oct.  10,  1838. 
She  received  her  early  education  in  Concord, 
N.  H.,  subsequently  removing  to  Brooklyn,  N. 
Y.,  where  she  has  since  resided.  Her  volumes 
of  verse  are  Poems,  and  A  Russian  Journey. 
She  has  contributed  largely  to  periodicals. 


MOSCOW  BELLS. 

That  distant  chime '.  As  soft  it  swells. 

What  memories  o'er  me  steal  I 
Again  I  hear  the  Moscow  bells 

Across  the  moorland  peal ! 
The  bells  that  rock  the  Kremlin  tower 

Like  a  strong  wind,  to  and  fro, — 
Silver-sweet  in  its  topmost  bower. 

And  the  thunder's  boom  below. 
They  say  that  oft  at  Eastern  dawn 

When  all  the  world  is  fair, 
God's  angels  out  of  heaven  are  drawn 

To  list  the  music  there. 
And  while  the  rose-clouds  with  the  breeze 

Drift  onward, —  like  a  dream, 
High  in  the  ether's  pearly  seas 

Their  radiant  faces  gleam. 
O  when  some  Merlin  with  his  spells 

A  new  delight  would  bring. 
Say:  I  will  hear  the  Moscow  bells 

Across  the  moorland  ring! 
The  bells  that  rock  the  Kremlin  tower 

Like  a  strong  %vind,  to  and  fro, — 
Silver-sweet  in  its  topmost  bower, 

And  the  thunder's  boom  below! 


FORWARD. 
Dreamer,  waiting  for  darkness  with  sorrowful, 
drooping  eyes. 
Linger  not  in  the  valley,  bemoaning  the  day 
that  is  done ! 
Climb  the  eastern  mountains  and  welcome  the 
rosy  skies  — 
Never  yet  was  the  setting  so  fair  as  the  ris- 
ing sun! 
Dear  is  the  past;  its  treasures  we  hold  in  our 
hearts  for  aye ; 
Woe  to  the  hand    that  would    scatter   one 
wreath  of  its  garnered  flowers; 
But  larger  blessing  and  honor  will  come  with 
the  waking  day  — 
Hail,  then,  To-morrow,  nor  tarry  with  Yester- 
day's shostly  hours! 
Mark  how  the  sunnners  hasten  through  blos- 
soming fields  of  June 
To  the  purple  lanes  of  the  vintage  and  levels  of 

golden  corn; 
••Splendors  of  life  I  lavish,"  runs  nature's  ex- 
ultant rune, 
"  For  myriads  press  to  follow,  and  the  rarest 
are  yet  unborn." 


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GAY  WATERS. 

Born:  London,  Eng.,  1856. 
The  literary  aspirations  of  Gay  Waters,  the 
western  poet  and  lecturer,  were  first  awaken- 
ed by  a  boyish  habit  of  rambling-  among-  the 
famous  burial  places  of  old  English  writers. 
During-  the  past  five  years  he  has  been  chosen 
poet  for  Alumni  societies,  college  commence- 
ments, decoration  days  and  fourth  of  July 
celebrations.  His  works  have  the  enviable 
distinction  of  liaving  received  more  distin- 
guished considciatioii  from  t  lie  crowned  heads 


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GAY  WATEHS. 


of  Europe  than  any  other  western  poet.  He 
is  of  average  height,  rather  slender,  and  in 
features  somewliat  resembles  Hartley  Camp- 
bell, the  playwright.  In  addition  to  his  two 
published  books,  Wicota,  and  Alma,  which  ap- 
peared in  1887  and  1888,  another  poetical  work 
The  Love  of  Pocahontas  and  Other  Poems,  is 
in  preparation  for  the  press.  He  is  .33  years  of 
age,  and  at  this  writing,  in  connection  with 
his  poetical  work,  his  name  appears  on  the 
editorial  page  of  the  St.  Louis  Critic  as  the 
humorist  of  that  paper,  for  whicli  periodical 
he  is  now  supplying  from  four  to  six  columns 
of  humor  weekly. 

NEGRO  OPTIMISM. 
Woodpecker  on  de  oak  keeps  on  a  tappin', 
Sparrow-hawk  flies  a  swoopin'  'nd  drappin", 
Yo'  darkies  don't  'eer  'em  whinin' ! 


Brook  still  laughs  when  weathers'  sneezin', 
'Spects  ter  sing  when  things  ez  a  freezin', 
Zez    de    Brook,    "I'se   gwine    ter  still   keep 
pleasin' 

De  sun'U  soon  be  a  shinin' !" 
Yallarhammers  clothed  in  goren  yallar, 
Snappin'-turtle  coat  looks  kin'  o'  sallar, 

Yo'  darkies  doan'  'eer  'em  whinin! 
Field-mouse  jumps  from  his  nest  a  peepin', 
Lizard  takes  aU  his  care  out  in  sleepin', 
Black  snake  keeps  on  wriggUn'  'nd  creepin', 

Desun'llsoou  be  a  shinin' I 
Lilies  sit  in  de  streamlet  dreamin'. 
Silver  stars  shinin'  'nd  streamin', 

Yo  'dai'kies  doan'  'eer  'em  whinin' ! 
Robins'  al'ays  th'  music  bringing. 
Cat-bird  keeps  on  screechin'  'nd  ringing, 
Winter  bells  ez  al'ays  a  singing, 

De  sun  'ill  soon  be  a  shinin'! 
Trouble  is  only  part  ob  our  growin', 
Ole  book  zez  dat  when  yo's  hoein' 

Yo'  darkies  shouldn't  be  whinin' ! 
Lijah  wuz  fed  when  he  didn't  have  a  dollar. 
Prayed  so  loud  de  ravens  'eerd  'em  holler. 
Good  Lawd  lifted  'im  out  by  de  collar, 

De  sun  'ill  soon  be  a  shinin ! 


THE  FALLS  OE  NIAGARA. 

Savage,  King  and  Sages, 
Bronzed  in  winds  that  roared  in  music  from 
the  Gates  of  Long  Ago, 
Gates  of  Long  Ago, 
Harkened  to  tliy  beck  and  calling! 
At  thy  wave  in  thunder  falling! 
As  the  dews  of  Ancient  Morning  mingled  with 
thy  mighty  How ! 
Mighty  waters  leaping 
With  a  roar  that  breaks  in  foaming  on  the 
ashes  of  a  world ! 
Ashes  of  a  world ! 
Sun,  as  maiden  throwing 
Passion  red  and  glowing 
On  thy  foam  of  wrath  and  glory  where  thy 
majesty  is  hurled! 
Hoarse  majestic  teacher. 
Of  the  nations  of  the  ages,  as  tliy  whilom  wis- 
dom pours. 
Whilom  wisdom  pours; 
Fame  in  shrieking  hunger. 
War  in  sanguine  thunder. 
Hath  no  voice  to  warn  the  ages  like  thy  mil- 
lioned-passioned  roar! 
Tliy  foamy  breakers 
Swirl  on  the  moaning  shores  with  deepening 
cry 
With  deepening  cry. 
Clamorous  and  plashing. 
Thundering-  and  crashing. 
As  loom  the  singing  worlds  in  pallid  sky! 
On  booming  ever! 


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LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


JOHN   T.  TROWBRIDGE. 

Born  :  Ogden,  N.  Y.,  Sept.  18, 1827. 
At  fourteen  years  of  age,  while  at  the  plow,  he 
began  to  make  verses,  and  in  the  evening 
wrote  them,  down;  two  years  later  The  Tomb 
of  Napoleonappeared  in  the  Rochester  Kepub- 
lican.  Farm  work  becoming'  distasteful  to  the 
rising  young  author,  he  entered  a  classical 
school  at  Lockport,  where  he  began  the  study 
of  Greek,  and  improved  his  French  and  Latin. 
After  a  while  he  returned  to  farming,  and 
later  became  a  schoolmaster.  However,  his 
heart  being  set  on  literature,  at  nineteen  yeai-s 
of  age  he  went  to  New  York,  where  he  support- 
ed himself  by  his  pen.  Mr.  Trowbridge's  work 
has  been  divided  between  verse  and  pure  fic- 
tion. 


PEWEE. 


« 


For  so  I  found  my  forest  bird,— 

The  pewee  of  the  loneliest  woods, 
Sole  singer  la  these  solitudes. 
Which  never  robin's  whistle  stirred. 

Where  never  bluebird's  plume  Intruder. 
Quick  darting  through  the  dewy  morn. 
The  redstart  trilled  his  twittering  horn. 
And  vanished  in  thick  boughs :  at  even. 
Like  liquid  pearls  fresh  showering  from  heaven 
The  high  notes  of  the  lone  wood-thrush 
Fall  on  the  forest's  holy  hush: 
But  thou  all  day  complainest  here, — 
"Pe-wee!  pe-wee!  perrl  " 

EXTRACTS. 

AN  ODIOUS  COMPARISON. 

When  to  my  haughty  spirit  I  rehearse 

My  verse. 
Faulty  enough  it  seems;  yet  sometimes  when 
I  measure  it  by  that  of  other  men. 

Why,  then  — 
I  see  how  easily  it  might  be  worse. 

WOMAN. 

Women  can  do  with  us  what  they  will: 
'Twas  only  a  village  girl,  but  she. 

With  the  flash  of  a  glance,  had  shown  to  me 
The  wretch  I  was,  and  the  self  I  still 
Might  strive  to  be. 

PATIENCE. 

Learn  patience  from  the  lesson! 

Though  the  night  be  drear  and  long. 
To  the  darkest  sorrow  there  comes  a  morrow, 

A  right  to  every  wrong. 

HARUIET   BEECH ER  STOWE. 

She  loosed  the  rivets  of  the  slave; 

She  likewise  lifted  woman. 
And  proved  her  riglit  to  share  with  man 

All  labors  pure  and  human. 


Women,  they  say,  must  yield,  obey. 
Rear  children,  dance  cotillons: 

While  this  one  wrote,  she  cast  the  vote 
Of  unenfranchised  millions! 


When  all  is  lost,  one  refuge  yet  remains. 
One  sacred  solace,  after  all  our  pains: 
Go  lay  thy  head  and  weep  thy  tears,  O  youth  I 
Upon  the  dear  maternal  breast  of  Truth. 

CULTURE. 

And  men  are  polished,  through  act  and  speech. 

Each  by  each. 
As  pebbles  are  smoothed  on  the  rolling  beach. 


Men  call  him  crazed  whose  eyes  are  raised 

To  look  beyond  his  times ; 
And  they  are  learned,  who  too  fast 
Are  anchored  in  the  changeless  past. 

To  seek  Truth's  newer  climes! 
Yet  act  thy  part,  heroic  heart! 

For  only  by  the  strong 
Are  great  and  noble  deeds  achieved; — 
No  truth  was  ever  yet  believed 

That  had  not  struggled  long. 


MARY  MAPES  DODGE. 

Born:  New  York  Ciiy,  in  1838. 
Married  early  in  life  to  William  Dodge,  a  law- 
yer of  high  standing,  she  was  soon  left  a  widow 
with  two  sons.  She  wove  her  fireside  stories, 
told  to  her  boys,  into  the  tales  which  have  made 
her  famous,  and  has  been  the  editor  of  St. 
Nicholas  from  its  first  number.  Much  of  her 
poetry  has  been  gathered  into  two  volumes: 
Rhymes  and  Jingles,  for  children;  and  Along 
the  Way,  for  adult  readers.  Her  prose  works 
are  much  more  voluminous. 


INVERTED. 
Youth  has  its  griefs,  its  disappointments  keen. 

Its  baffled  longings  and  its  memories; 
Its  anguish  in  a  joy  that  once  hath  been; 

Its  languid  settling  in  a  sinful  ease. 
And  age  has  pleasures,  rosy,  fresh  and  warm, 

And  glad  begiiilomciits  and  expectancies; 
Its  heart  of  boldness  for  a  tlircatencd  storm; 

Its  eager  launching  upon  sunny  seas. 

Youth  has  its  losses,  sad  and  desolate; 

Its  wreck  of  precious  freight  where  all  was 
sent; 
Its  blight  of  trust,  its  helpless  heart  of  fate. 

Its  dreary  knowledge  of  ilhisicMi  spent. 
For  life  is  but  a  day;  and,  dawn  or  eve. 

The  slia<lows  must  be  long  when  suns  are  low. 
Old  age  may  be  surprised  and  loth  to  leave. 

And  youth  may  weary  wait  and  long  to  go, 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


223 


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ALBERT  BRACHT. 

BoKN  IN  Mexico,  Oct.  3,  1866. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Braeht  have  appeared  in 
the  Rockport  Transcript,  and  the  periodical 


ALBERT  BRACHT. 

press  generally.  He  is  a  printer  by  trade,  and 
is  now  in  business  at  Rockport,  Texas,  where 
he  is  well  known  and  highly  respected. 


© 


FISHERMEN'S  LUCK. 
A  happy  jovial  Ashing  party, 

Went  out  their  luck  as  fishermen  to  try. 
When  on  the  pier,  long  did  they  tarry 

For  a  whale  to  catch  they  could  not  carry. 
The  whale—  as  with  fear  —  did  not  appear. 
Nor  could  the  fish  be  charmed  with  music 
sweet. 
And  as  they  were  not  hungry,  no  bait  would 
they  eat. 
But  at  last  a  cat-flsh  was  hauled  out  on  the 
pier. 
Never  heeding  or  minding  the  ill  luck. 
On  this   beautiful    night   over   the  waters 
dreary. 
Excepting  that  one  of  the  party,  with  a  cat- 
flsh  fln,  was  stuck. 
The  lonely  and  only  one  treasured  so  dearly. 
And  with  the  ill  luck  home  they  went. 

The  party  of  fishermen  and  fisher  girls  seven 
With  lines  all  broke,  and  hooks  all  bent, 
But  all  happy  as  angels  in  Heaven. 


"  Home,  Sweet  Home  "  the  dearest  place, 
In  the  parlor  they  came  to  a  halt. 

And  as  Miss to  the  piano  paced 

The  walls  resounded  with  music  sweet. 


GOSSIP. 
Gossip,  gossip  the  livelong  day, 

There  is  never  an  end  to  the  lies  you  say. 
From  morning  till  night,  'tis  every  day. 

In  spite  and  deceit  must  have  your  way. 

Gossip,  gossips  you  know  very  well 
That  the  people  will  listen  to  all  you  tell. 

No  matter  who,  and  where  they  dwell. 
In  Heaven,  on  earth  or  in  hell. 

Gossip,  gossips  the  day  will  come. 

When  nothing  whatever  will  be  left  undone, 
Your  hard-earned  share  you'll  surely  get. 

Never  you  mind  you're  somebody's  pet. 

Gossip,  gossips  an  advice  I  give. 

If  you,  a  life  long  happiness  want  to  live. 
Listen  to  all,  but  never  carry  nor  take. 

Or  else  some  day  you'll  make  a  mistake. 


KIND  FRIENDS. 
A  merry,  merry  Christmas, 

To  one  and  all  of  you 
In  this  little  city  on  the  coast  of  Texas. 

Happily  spend  the  day,  and  kindness  strew 
On  the  poor  and  needy  true. 

To  gladden  their  hearts  on  Xmas. 

This  night,  a  chance  you'll  see. 
Whereby  your  kind  nature  can  show; 

A  Christmas-ship  there  will  be 
At  the  Methodist  church  you  know; 

Those  who  a  present  from  you  will  get 
Will  never  forget,  no  matter  how  old  they 
may  grow. 

Sweet  music  also  there,  will  be 
Orations,  speeches,  large  and  small ; 

Come  all  you  good  people  it  is  free 
And  see  the  ship  in  holy  hall. 

She  will  arrive  from  the  roaring  sea 
This  eve,  so  say    consignees  and  all. 


CHARMING  CREATURES. 

Darling,  charming  little  creatures. 
In  mischief  are  they  smiling. 

Which  is  seen  in  their  "Cute  "  features, 
And  their  life  with  joy  shining. 

Their  mischief  is  tremendous. 
And  the  boys  get  fooled  you  bet 

With  their  sweet  stories  enormous, 
When  they  believe  and  do  not  forget. 

Their  smiles  of  mischief  captures  you, 
When  first  you  see  without  delaj', 

Like  spiders,  flies  in  cobwebs  catch. 
And  with  crippled  wings  you  fly  away. 


© 


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224 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA . 


WILLIAM  J.  DAVENPORT. 

Born  in  1834. 
In  1879  Mr.  Davenport  published  a  small  vol- 
ume of  poems.  He  lias  been  afflicted  for  ma- 
ny years  with  nervous  depression  of  the  brain, 
owing-  to  injury  of  the  spine.  He  has  had  a 
good  education,  and  takes  great  interest  in 
literature.  Mr.  Davenport  hopes  to  publish  a 
complete  volume  of  his  poems  in  the  near  fu- 
ture. He  now  resides  in  Bethany,  in  the  state 
of  Louisiana. 


J  AROSE. 
I  arose  in  my  night-clothes,  looked  out  on  the 

night,  [eye ; 

Wlien  there  came  unbidden,  a  tear  to  mine 
Oh!  what  a  sad  world,  in  what  a  pitiful  plight! 
When  the  night-winds  gave  me  a  sigh  for  a 

sigh. 
And  does  my  love  ride  on  the  misty  cold  air? 
With  the  warmth  of  an  angel  clothed  is  she? 
Was  that  her  that  sighed,  so  sorrowful  there? 
And  the  niglit-wiuds  gave  me  a  sigh  for  a  sigh, 
I  loved  my  love,  as  she  whispering  told  me. 
All  yet  will  be  well,  in  the  land  o'er  the  sea. 
Ah!  when  will  that  rest,  in  its  beauty  enfold 

me?  [sigh. 

When  the  night-winds  g-ave  me  a  sigh  for  a 


*■ 


THE  SNOW  SPIRIT. 
The  snow  spirit  whispered  as  he  passed. 
By  the  poppies  that  in  the  sunlight  basked. 
To  an  unco'  spirit  covered  and  masked. 
You  may  ride  your  shining  coal-black  steed ; 
Though  you  spur  and  spur,  spur  and  speed; 
You  cannot  come,  it  can  never  be. 
With  the  snow  spirit  over  land  and  sea. 
He  alight    where  the  red  rose  lovelit  shines. 
Amid  daffodils  and  jessamines. 
Sweet-scented  pinks  and  trellis  vines: 
This  when  spring  nor  summer  was  not; 
You  can  never  find  that  very  spot; 
You  cannot  come,  it  can  never  be. 
With  the  snow  spirit  over  land  and  sea. 
The   snow  spirit   trucked   in    the    mountain 

lieight. 
Where  the  angels  did  sometimes  alight. 
From  missions  of  love  in  their  starry  flight; 
Out  of  the  snow  they  brought  Are  and  wood. 
Honey  and  cream,  and  sweet  manna  food : 
You  cannot  come,  it  can  never  be. 
With  the  snow  spirit  over  land  and  sea. 
You  may  leap  the  crag,  the  wild  torrent; 
Ride  the  air,  till  your  force  is  siieiit. 
With  your  red-beaded  plume  still  unbent; 
You  may  push  and  i)ush  your  coal-black  steed, 
Till  lie  sliivci's  and  iniivers  like  any  reed; 
You  (•!iiiiio(  conie,  it  can  never  be. 
With  the  snow  spirit  over  land  and  sea. 


My  garment  is  made  of  the  rainbow  gleams, 
Of  the  ocean  mist  when  morning  Ijeams, 
Like  a  blood-red  banner  with  g-olden  seams; 
It  sparkles  and  shines  the  livelong-  day; 
And  as  pretty  at  night  with  a  milder  raj": 
You  cannot  come,  it  can  never  be. 
Witli  the  snow  spirit  over  land  and  sea. 


LAND  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

O  land  of  the  south,  what  sweet,  soul-stirring- 
visions 

Arise  at  the  call  of  love  and  of  feeling; 

Though  mournful  the  strain  of  time's  painful 
incisions. 

Sleep  has  its  waking,  and  time  has  its  healing. 

O  visions  of  rapture  that  in  fancy  are  glowing-, 

Though  time's  cruel  waves  oft  have  covered 
us  quite; 

We  would  come  forth  with  birds  when  the 
flowers  are  blowing. 

And  sing-  all  elate  in  the  new  morning  light. 

We  mourn  not  for  glory  that  now  is  departed; 

Of  bright  smiles  and  sweet  faces  laid  in  the 
grave ; 

Though  oft  we've  wandered  almost  broken 
hearted ; 

When  their  spirits  above  us  their  laurels  do 
wave. 

Thy  land  to  my  heart  is  wrapped  in  g-lory ; 

Thy  fields,  meads  and  flowers  and  smooth 
rolling  streams 

With  sweetest  emotions  are  enameled  in  story 

That  break  o'er  the  heart  like  life's  young 
morning  dreams. 

When  time  shall  have  failed  us,  and  life  is  de- 
parting, 

A  soft  vision  of  thee  would  steal  t)'er  my 
frame ; 

My  heart's  last  sigh,  the  last  of  its  harping. 

Would  bethatGod's  blessing  on  thee  would 
remain. 


I  WOULD  I  WERE. 
I  would  I  were  a  careless  child 

Unknown  to  wretched  fame. 
To  roam  along  the  woodland  wild 

In  mind  and  heart  the  same. 
To  climb  upon  the  rocky  steep 

And  watch  the  dawning  day, 
To  see  the  shadows  .softly  creep 

Along-  their  sun-biight  way. 
The  glow  of  life  to  burst  upon 

My  cheerful  happy  heart. 
The  happy  days  sliould  swift  roll  on 

And  never  sliould  depart. 
Unless  it  were,  O!  happy  thought, 

Otdy  in  heaven  to  dwell. 
Where  love  with  bliss  supi-eine  is  fraught 

Anil  hath  no  parting  knell. 


-* 


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I.OCAL   AXD   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


225 


^ 


WILL  CARLETON. 

Born  :  Hudson,  Michigan,  1845. 
Will  Carleton  is  a  master-hand  in  sounding- 
the  human  heart-strings,  and  no  one  among  the 
younger  American  jtoets  is  better  known  or 
monf  universally  admired.  It  is  a  singular 
fact  that  the  western  poets  seem  always  to 
strike  a  new  vein  of  thought  or  feeling. 
Brought  up  as  farm  boys  usually  are,  his 


WILL  CARLETON. 

desire  for  knowledge  led  him  to  walk  five  miles 
to  the  district  school.  In  1866  he  entered  col- 
lege, graduating  four  years  later.  He  then 
joined  the  editorial  staff  of  a  Chicago  paper, 
and  later  became  editor  of  the  Detroit  Weekly 
Tribune.  In  1868  Will  Carleton  wrote  his  first 
poem,  and  three  years  later  appeared  his  mas- 
ter work,  Betsey  and  I  Are  Out.  Then  followed 
Farm  Ballads,  Farm  Legends,  Farm  Festivals, 
etc.,  all  of  which  are  handsomely  illustrated. 


» 


Cover  them  over  with  beautiful  flowers; 
Deck  them  with  garlands,  those  brothers  of  ours 
Lying  so  silent,  by  night  and  by  day. 
Sleeping  the  years  of  their  manhood  away: 
Years  they  had  marked  for  the  joys  of  the 

brave ; 
Years  they  must  waste  in  the  sloth  of  the  grave. 

Cover  them  over— yes,  cover  them  over  — 
Parent,  and  husband,  and  brother,  and  lover: 
Crown  in  your  heart  those  dead  heroes  of  ours. 
And  cover  them  over  with  beautiful  flowers. 


APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 
Underneath  an  apple-tree 

Sat  a  maiden  and  her  lover: 
And  the  thoughts  within  her  he 

Yearned,  in  silence,  to  discover. 
Round  them  danced  the  sunbeams  bright. 

Green  the  grass-lawn  stretched  before  him; 
While  the  apple  blossoms  white 

Hung  in  rich  profusion  o'er  them. 

Naught  within  her  eyes  he  read 

That  would  tell  her  mind  unto  him; 
Though  their  light,  he  after  said. 

Quivered  swiftly  through  and  through  him; 
Till  at  last  his  heart  burst  free 

From  the  prayer  with  which  t'was  laden, 
And  he  said,  •>  When  wilt  thou  be 

Mine  for  evermore,  fair  maiden?  " 

"  When,"  said  she,  "  the  breeze  of  May 

With  white  flakes  our  heads  shall  cover, 
I  will  be  thy  brideiing  gay  — 

Thou  Shalt  be  my  husband-lover  " 
•■  How,"  said  he,  in  sorrow  bowed, 

"  Can  I  hope  such  hopeful  weather? 
Breeze  of  May  and  Winter's  cloud 

Do  not  often  fly  together." 

Quickly  as  the  words  he  said. 

From  the  west  a  wind  came  sighing. 
And  on  each  uncovered  head 

Sent  the  apple-blossoms  flying; 
"  >  Flakes  of  white! '  thou'rt  mine,"  said  he, 

"  Sooner  than  thy  wish  or  knowing!  " 
"  Nay,  I  heard  the  breeze,"  quoth  she, 

"When  in  yonder  forest  blowing." 


BETSEY  AND  I  ARE  OUT. 
Draw  up  the  papers,  lawyer,  and  make  'em 

good  and  stout; 
For  things  at  home  are  crossways,  and  Betsey 

and  I  are  out. 
We,  who  have  worked  together  so  long  as  man 

and  wife. 
Must  pull  in  single  harness  for  the  rest  of  our 

uat'ral  life. 
"What  is  the  matter?"  say  you.    I  swan  it's 

hard  to  tell ! 
Most  of  the  years  behind  us  we've  passed  by 

very  well; 
I  have  no  other  woman,  she  has  no  other  man — 
Only  we've  lived  together  as  long  as  we  ever 

can. 
So  I  have  talked  with  Betsey,  and  Betsey  has 

talked  with  me, 
And  so  we've  agreed  together  that  we  can't 

never  agi-ee : 
Not  that  we've  catched  each  other  in  any  terri- 
ble crime; 
We've  been  a-gathering  this  for  years,  a  little 

at  a  time. 


-m 


OJ- 


-© 


226 


I.OCAL,   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


There  was  a  stock  of  temper  we  both  had  for 

a  start, 
Althoug-h  we  never  suspected  'twould  take  us 

two  apart : 
I  had  my  various  failings,  bred  in  the  flesh 

and  bone; 
And  Betsey,  like  all  good  women,  had  a  temper 

of  her  own. 
*  *  *  *  *         *         * 

And  so  I  have  talked  with  Betsey,  and  Betsey 

has  talked  with  me , 
And  we  have  agreed  together  that  we  can't 

never  agree ; 
And  what  is  hers  shall  be  hers,  and  what  is 

mine  shall  be  mine; 
And  I'll  put  it  into  the  agreement,  and  take  it 

to  her  to  sign. 

Write  on  the  paper,  lawyer— the  very  first 

paragraph  — 
Of  all  the  farm  and  live-stock  that  she  shall 

have  her  half; 
For  she  has  helped  to  earn  it,  through  many  a 

weary  day. 
And  it's  nothing  more  than  justice  that  Betsey 

has  her  pay. 

Give  her  the  house  and  homestead  —  a  man  can 

thrive  and  roam: 
But  women  are  skeery  critters,  unless  they 

have  a  home ; 
And  I  have  always  determined,  and  never  fail- 
ed to  say. 
That  Betsey  never  should  want  a  home  if  I 

was  taken  awa'y. 
There  Is  a  little   hard  money  that's  drawin' 

tol'rable  pay: 
A  couple  of  hundred  dollars  laid  by  for  a  rainy 

day; 
Safe  in  the  hands  of  good  men,  and  easy  to  get 

at; 
Put  in  another  clause  there,  and  give  her  half 

of  that. 
Yes,  I  see  you  smile.  Sir,  at  my  givin'  her  so 

much; 
Yes,  divorce  is  cheap.  Sir,  but  I  take  no  stock 

in  such ! 
True  and  fair  I   married  her,  when  she  was 

blithe  and  young; 
And  Betsey  was  al'ays  good  to  me,  exceptin' 

with  her  tongue. 
Once,  when  I  was  young  as  you,  and  not  so 

smart,  perhaps, 
For  me  she  mittened  a  lawyer,  and  several 

other  chaps; 
And  all(jf  them  was  flustered,  and  fairly  taken 

down. 
And  I  for  a  time  was  counted  the  luckiest  man 

In  town. 

Once  when  I  had  the  fever  — I  won't  forget  it 
soon  — 

® 


I  was  hot  as  a  basted  turkey  and  crazj-  as  a 

loon; 
Never  an  hour  went  by  me  when  she  was  out 

of  sight  — 
She  nursed  me  true  and  tender,  and  stuck  to 

me  day  and  night. 

And  if  ever  a  house  was  tidy,  and  ever  a  kitch- 
en clean. 

Her  house  and  kitchen  was  tidy  as  any  I  ever 
seen; 

And  I  don't  complain  of  Betsey,  or  any  of  her 
acts, 

Excei)tin'  when  we've  quarreled,  and  told  each 
other  facts. 

So  draw  up  the  paper,  lawyer,  and  I'll  go  home 

to-night. 
And  read  the  agreement  to  her,  and  see  if  it's 

all  right ; 
And  then,  in  the  mornin',  I'll  sell  to  a  tradin' 

man  I  know. 
And  kiss  the  child  that  was  left  to  us,  and  out 

in  the  world  I'll  go. 
And  one  thing  put  in  the  paper,  that  first  to 

me  didn't  occur: 
That  when  I  am  dead  at  last  she'll  bi-ing  me 

back  to  her; 
And  lay  me  under  the  maples  I  planted  years 

ago. 
When  she  and  I  was  happy  before  we  quarreled 

so. 

And  when  she  dies  I  wish  that  she  would  be 

laid  by  me. 
And,  Ijin'  together  in  silence,  perhaps  we  will 

agree; 
And,  if  ever  we  meet  in  heaveu,  I  wouldn't 

think  it  queer 
If  we  loved  each  other  the  better  because  we 

quarreled  here. 


The  foregoing  poem  was  soon  followed  by  How 
Betsey  and  I  Made  Up,  from  which  is  given 
below  an  extract  of  two  verses: 

And  after  she'd  read  a  little  she  give  my  arm 

a  touch, 
And  kindly  said  she  was  afraid  I  was  'lowiu'  her 

too  much; 
But  when  she  was  throiigii  she  went  for  me. 

her  face  a-streaming  with  tears. 
And  kissed  me  for  the  first  time  in  over  twenty 

years ! 

I  don't  know  what  you'll  think.  Sir  — I  didn't 

come  to  iiKiuire  — 
But  I  picked  up  tliai  agieement  and  stuffed  it 

in  the  fire; 
And  I  told  hcr-\\.'d  bury  the  hatchet  alongside 

of  the  cow ; 
And  we  struck  an  agreement  never  to  lunc 

another  ix)w. 


S 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


227 


® 


WILLIAM  CUNDILL. 

Born  in  England,  July,  1816. 
Mk.  Cl'nuill,  with  liis  wife,  emigrated  to  Clin- 
ton county,  Iowa,  in  1850,  which  at  that  time 
was  considered  the  far  west,  and  sparsely 
settled  — in  fact  quite  a,  wilderness.  The 
poems  of  this  gentleman  have  ai>peared  from 


WILLIAM   CUNDILL. 

time  to  time  in  tiie  periodical  press,  and  have 
been  extensively  copied  and  favorably  com- 
mented upon.  The  city  of  Maquoketa  has 
been  the  residence  of  Mr.  Cundill  since  the 
year  1855. 


BURT'S  CAVE. 

NEAR  MAQUOKETA,  IOWA. 

Ages  have  roU'd  the  endless  wheel  of  time. 
Since  first  was  heard  the  zephyr's  whispering 

chime 
Among  those  rocks; 
Nature  has  fashion'd  in  her  rudest  form. 
In  all  the  wildness  of  her  wildest  charm, 

Those  moss-grown  blocks. 
Some  huge  upheaval  in  long  years  gone  by. 
When  this  great  world  was  in  its  infancy. 

Ere  order  reign'd; 
Those   rocks,    this   arch,  the  chasm  and  the 

stream, 
While  Nature  yet  was  a  chaotic  dream, 

All  were  design'd. 
Seasons  since  then  have  pass'd  iind  left  their 

trace 


* 


Of  winter's  frost  and  summer's  verdant  face, 

By  this  lone  grot; 
And  form'd  a  fit  recluse  for  timid  deer. 
In  quietude  to  drink  those  waters  clear. 

In  this  rude  spot. 

Save  when  the  red  man  came  with  gun  or  bow. 
Searching  with  stealthy  tread  both  high  and 
low, 

Those  haunts  to  find; 
Then  with  undaunted  step  from  rock  to  rock. 
The  cunning-  footsteps  of  their  foe  they  mock, 

And  leave  behind. 

Or  when  the  trapper  in  this  far-off  west. 
In  whom  no  social  harmony  could  rest  — 

Silent,  alone  — 
Would  wander  'mong  those  forest  trees  to 

seek 
Shelter  from  summer's  sun  or  winter's  bleak. 

In  moody  tone. 

Here  could  he  rest  in  lonely  quietude. 
With  naught  to  break  the  solemn  solitude 

By  nature  made; 
Nor  think  of  far-off  homes,  but  set  his  snare, 
To  trap  the  otter,  coon,  or  elk,  or  deer 

That  here  had  stray'd. 

Such  are  the  pictures  that  my  thoughts  im- 
press. 

While  gazing  on  the  charms  of  this  recess. 
So  weird,  serene; 

While  high  above,  amid  the  topmost  trees. 

The  gentle  sighing  of  the  spring-time  breeze 
Add  to  the  scene. 


BURT'S  CAVE  REVISITED. 

Changes  have  come  across  the  march  of  time 
Since  first  was  heard  the  zephyr's  whispering 
chime 

In  this  lone  spot; 
For  now  in  joyful  mirth  and  merry  tune. 
Along  the  flowery  month  of  sunny  June, 

The  sward  we  dot 
With  festive  sport  and  spread  the  picnic  fare, 
In  ringing  shouts  and  laughter  till  the  air 

With  joy  and  glee,  [rest. 

The  aged  'neath  the  shade  trees  take  their 
The  young  with  dance  and  music  do  their  best. 

So  merrily; 
While  quietly  the  lovers'  footsteps  stray 
Where  rill  and  rock  mark  out  with  devious  way 

Fresh  scenes  to  find. 
The  zephyr's  whispers  blending  with  a  charm 
Of  shady  nooks  love's  untuned  notes  to  warm 

With  accents  kind.  [roam. 

Thus  since  the  red  man  o'er  this  spot  would 
Or  the  lone  trapper  made  his  sheltering  home 

From  wind  or  rain, 
The  march  of  modern  wealth  and  beauty  flings 
A  halo  o'er  the  scenes,  and  nature  brings 

A  majesty  serene. 


-© 


®- 


228 


LOCAL   AXD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-* 


OUR  COUNTRY. 
Our  country  spreads  from  east  to  west, 

A  graud  three  thousand  miles; 
Her  wide-spread  land  is  happ'ly  blest 

With  verdure's  pleasant  smiles. 
The  laws  throughout  her  wide  domain 

Are  made  so  just  and  wise, 
The  poor  can  live  in  rich  content 

And  share  industry's  prize. 
Her  wood-crowned  hills,  her  prairies  green, 

The  springs  and  rivers  great. 
Tell  all  who  have  our  country  seen 

How  great  can  be  her  might. 
Her  mineral  wealth  and  rich  deep  soil. 

Her  grains  and  fruits  in  store. 
Reward  the  poor  for  all  their  toil, 

And  still  there's  room  for  more. 
Our  country's  laws  do  well  provide 

For  all  who  want  a  home. 
And  all  who  on  her  lands  reside 

Need  never  have  to  roam. 
And  those  who  wish  for  liberty 

As  freemen  join  our  band. 
We  all  invite  across  the  sea. 

To  this,  our  wide-spread  land. 


BE  A  MONEY  MAN. 
There's  some  adore  the  goddess  love. 

And  some  the  god  of  wine, 
Some  high  sounding  names  approve, 

'Midst  martial  glory  shine; 
But  all  agree  with  one  acclaim. 

Whichever  way  you  scan. 
The  highest  pinnacle  of  fame 

Is  —  be  a  money  man. 
No  matter  if  you're  plebian  stock  — 

Big  headed  or  pug  nose  — 
Thousands  at  your  door  will  flock, 

liid  gloves  and  silken  hose; 
They  heed  not  if  you're  imbecile. 

And  little  tricks  liave  done, 
Tliey'll  greet  you  with  their  sweetest  smiles 

If  you're  a  money  man. 
So  I  advise  you  all  to  try  — 

Remember  this  and  me. 
No  matter  how  you  monej'  buy, 

Nor  heed  not  who  you  be; 
For  all  agree  with  one  acclaim. 

How  great  or  small  your  plan. 
The  highest  pinnacle  of  fame 

Is  —  be  a  money  man. 


« 


SUNSET  HOURS. 
An  old  man  siglicd  o'er  moments  gone, 

And  wishing  for  one  hour  of  joy  — 
While  thinking  over  pleasures  flown. 

Would  like  to  be  again  a  boy. 
Sighing  for  cliildhood  .scenes  to  come. 

And  strew  his  lliorny  path  with  flowers  — 
He  wished  through  youthful  hours  to  roam. 


And  woo  again  in  maiden  bowers; 
And  yet  he  wished  to  be  a  man. 

With  husband's  love  and  father's  joy; 
Forgetting  life's  mysterious  plan. 

Could  youth  and  age  the  hours  employ: 
And  thus  he  sung  his  plaintive  tune: 

"  One  youthful  hour  again  I  pray  — 
Turn  back  the  wheel  and  let  the  sun 

Give  for  one  hour  life's  morning  ray. 
Oh  guardian  angel  fill  the  cup. 

Youth's  blissful  nectar  let  me  quaff. 
And  as  with  aged  lips  I  sup. 

In  flaxen  boyhood  let  me  laugh." 
Could  youth  and  age  for  once  agree. 

We,  too,  would  wish  in  maiden's  bower. 
To  live  in  sinless  ecstacy 

Of  youthful  love,  one  sunny  hour; 
We,  too,  would  live  life's  youthful  hour. 

And  see  the  rays  of  morning  beam  — 
And  as  the  clouds  of  sunset  lower. 

Would  like  to  feel  it  all  a  dream. 
But  youthful  hours  will  pass  away. 

And  life  is  a  reality. 
And  when  we  lose  life's  morning  ray. 

Our  manho(xl  hours,  our  life  should  be. 
So,  dear  old  man,  sing  not  your  lay. 

Nor  wish  to  be  again  a  boy ; 
But  think  the  sun's  last  setting  ray 

Can  bring  your  heart  its  greatest  joy. 


WOOED  AND  WON. 
He  said  to  win  me  was  his  pride. 

I  thought  his  love  would  ever  be. 
While  pledging  him  his  lawful  bride, 

A  paradise  on  earth  to  me. 
Will  Carleton  says,  "'Tis  often  best 

If  you  would  know  of  heaven  well, 
To  give  your  heavenly  love  a  zest, 

To  live  a  little  while  in  hell." 
Well,  be  it  so!  If  such  is  true, 

I  hope  of  heaven  to  have  my  share; 
But  'twill  no  pleasure  be  to  know 

That  men  like  mine  will  visit  there. 
The  "  wee  sma'  hours  "  of  night  pass  on 

Before  he  comes  to  home  and  me. 
His  breatli  I  try  my  best  to  shun ; 

His  wine-song  look  I  loathe  to  see. 

My  mother,  in  my  girlhood,  taught 
Tliat   marriage    vows  are  pledged  in 
heaven ; 
And  from  on  liigh  the  bonds  are  brought. 
Each  otlior's  love  on  earth  to  leaven. 
'Twas  thus  I  gave  myself  as  wife. 

And  thus  I  tliought  he  came  to  me. 
I  gave  my  vows  on  earth  through  life. 

And  onward  through  eternity. 
My  luisband  gave  his  vows  like  mine. 

And  breaks  them  to  our  God  and  me. 
And  if  in  other  realms  I  shine, 
1  never  hope  his  face  to  see. 


* 


^ 


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LOCAL   AND   XATIOKAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


229 


TRESSIE  E.MOSETTE. 

Born:  Morrison  Co.,  Minn.,  Jan.  7, 1870. 
Commencing  to  write  at  a  very  early  age,  the 
poems  of  Tressie  have  always  been  gladly  re- 
ceived by  the  county  papers.    Memories  of 


Monterey  was  written  on  returning  home  af- 
ter a  winter's  visit  at  that  famous  resort. 
Grand  Forks  I  Love  Thee  Best  was  written 
when  she  was  but  eleven  years  of  age. 


MEMORIES  OF  MONTEREY,  CAL. 

While  skies  above  all  azure  blue 

Looked  down  on  flowers  bedecked  with  dew, 
'Neath  classic  shades  and  sj'lvan  bowers, 

I  wandered  on  through  happy  hours; 
Beneath,  on  grassy  turf  I  tread, 

The  graceful  pines  towered  overhead, 
While  on  my  right  broad  hills  arrayed  — 

Some  in  sunshine  and  some  in  shade. 
And  on  my  left  below,  cliff  and  sands 

With  foaming  waves  and  tumult  grand 
The  Pacific  l^eat  on  its  rock-bound  coast 

With  many  a  ceaseless  surge  and  boast; 
The  tide  ebbing  in  from  sea  to  bay 

As  it  will  till  the  old  world  wears  away; 
My  path  curves  'round  the  base  of  a  hill. 

Sloping  e'en  to  the  sea  by  nature's  will. 
And  half  way  up  in  dark  decay. 

The  Mexican  fort  in  ruins  lay. 
Tlien  further  still  on  the  summit's  crown, 
© 


With  whitewash'd  walls  and  barracks  brown, 
The  brave  old  forts  of  Fremont  stand. 

Frowning  o'er  harbor,  foe  and  land,— 
One  dark  mouth'd  cannon  covering  still. 
On  the  foemen's  fort  just  down  the  hill, 
Traces  of  days  when  brave  men  came 

From  o'er  the  Rockies  and  o'er  the  plain. 
And  bought  through  the  trials  of  travel  and 
toil 
In  weary  marching  and  war's  turmoil. 
And  presented  a  title  which  long  will  stand 

Allying  this  coast  to  our  native  land. 
And  now  when  the  days  of  strife  are  past. 
And  peace  reigns  over  our  land  at  la.st; 
There  are  grassy  graves  where  the  old  fort 
towers, 
Where   the    foeman  and    stranger   scatter 
flowers, 
And  hand  clasps  hand  where  those  brave  ones 
fell. 
And  the  zephyrs  whisper  "  All  is  well." 
But  as  I  emerg^  from  the  shades  of  the  hill 
Where  those  warriors  brave  lie  so  silent  and 

still, 
A  vision  of  beauty  and  life  meets  my  glance ; 
'Tis  a  sunlighted  valeon  whose  grassy  expanse 

The  turrets  and  cots  of  abode  still  lay 
In  this  quaintest  of  cities,  famed  Monterey. 
As  a  vision  of  grandeur  and  power  from  the 
past, 
The  gems    of  the  ancient  with  modern  are 
cast. 
The  remains  of  broad  homes  built  by  sons 
of  fair  Spain,— 
Their  proud  walls  the  victims  of  weather  and 
rain, 
The  green  moss  still  mantling  their  roofs 
and  decay 
Fed  by  sea  fog  each  morn  all  these  years  pass- 
ed away. 
And  then  grim  and  snow-capped  guarding 
the  town 
The  Gabilan  mountains  majestically  frown. 

Surrounding  this  vale  even  down  to  the  bay ; 
From  their  base  to  their  summits  tall  pine 
trees  arrayed. 
Shaking  down  their  dry  burrs  as  in  scorn  to 
provoke 
Their   less    fortunate  brothers,  gnarled   and 
bearded  live-oaks. 
To  the  left  of  the  town  at  the  foot  of  the  hills 
Rears  a  zenith  of  architectural  skill, 
Contrasting  so  strange  with  the  quaint  an- 
cient town, 
Is  the  hotel  Del  Monte,  a  resort  of  renown. 

The  goal  of  each  tourist  who  far,  far  away. 
Dreams  of  heavens  of  sunlight  in  fair  Mon- 
terey ; 
But  e'en  as  I  ponder,  I  see  'neath  my  feet. 
As  I  walk  o'er  the  foot-bridge  which  leads  to 
a  street, 


® 


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230 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


^ 


Bright  mosses  and  shells  from  their  ocean 
bed  torn. 
And   cast  in  this  gulch  which  the   liigh  tide 
has  worn. 
On  a  hank  of  the  gulch  just  a  step  to  my 
right, 
I  see  a  plain  cross  standing  lonely  and  white, 

"June  3rd,  1770,"  ])ainted  I  see 
On  its  gaunt,  stretching  arms  I  know  it  to  be. 

That  here  Missionary  Serra  then  came 
And   planted  the  cross  and  the  standard  of 
Spain. 
And  now  o'er  my  head  as  I  walk  up  the 
street 
Tlie  blue  gums  are  shedding  aroma  so  sweet; 
Commingling  their  scents  with  the  blossoms 
so  rare 
Of  the  rose  and  the  flg  tree,  the  almond  and 
pear. 
While  tliat  rich  southern  beauty  "  flora  fon- 
da"  so  white 
Nods  her  head  to  her  brother,  the  pepper  tree 
bright. 
While  from  one  cottage  roof  with  green  moss 
for  a  bed. 
Hang  three  double  roses, a  pink,  white  and  red, 
And  there  'round  a  house  that  has  gone  to 
decay. 
In  a  hedge  row  of  callas  in  blooming  array. 
Then  I  walk  past  the  wharf  where  scores  of 
small  boats. 
Tied  strong  by  the  fishermen,  now  idly  float. 
While  far  out  on  the  bay  the  white  sails  of  a 
bark 
And  a  Chinaman's  fishing  junk,  clumsy  and 
dark ; 
To  my  right  the  old  custom  house  left  to  its 
fate. 
Near  a  battered  afl^^air,  first  brick  house  in  the 
state. 
Gem  of  antiquity,  how  dare  my  frail  powers. 
Attempt  to  describe  thy  sweet  zephyrs  and 
flowers? 
How  can  I  portray  the  clear  songs  of  tliy 
birds. 
The  grace  of  thy  dark   soutliern  children  in 
words? 
The  first  capitol  Innldnig  where  wise  men 
once  sate. 
Dealt  justice,   passed    sentence  niid    framed 
laws  of  state. 
The  strong  iron  bars  of  the  grim  jiiil  of 
stone,  alone. 

The  spot  where  the  convent  stood  wall'd  in 
And  the  crumbling  walls  of  the  old  quartel. 
Where  the  Mexican  ollicers  used  to  dwell. 
With  their  .swords  and  their  armor  in  wait 
f(»r  the  fray. 
And  prayed  for  by  maidens  of  Monterey. 

Tlien  beyond  the  town  and  a  century  old, 
Its  adobe  walls  in  a  cypress  fold, 


The    San    Carlos    mission    from    evergreen 
bower 
Chimes    forth   from  its  turret    the  noontide 
hour. 
To  the  mariners  far   o'er    the   billows  and 
brine. 
To  the  quiet  townspeople  sounds  the  chime; 

It  reaches  the  ears  of  society's  throng. 
Who  at  Del  Monte  Park  idly  wander  along 
Lagunita  del  Suenos,  peaceful  and  calm. 
Catches  the  echoes  and  wafts  them  along; 

Out  through  the  woodland  and  far,  far  away, 
Methinks  I  can  hear  them  in  fair  Monterey. 


GRAND  FORKS,  I  LOVE  THEE  BEST. 
There's  a  town  on  the  banks  of  Red  River, 

Far,  far  out  in  the  west. 
And  of  all  the  towns  I  know 

I  like  Grand  Forks  the  best. 
There  in  summer  the  steamboats  pass 

On  the  river  as  smooth  as  glass; 
As  the  cars  come  whistling  in 

And  still  go  further  west. 
I  came  to  this  town  in  its  infancy. 

About  three  years  ago. 
And  few  thought  at  that  time 

This  town  would  .so  rapidly  grow; 
And  now  where  stands  our  depot  neat 

Was  then  a  waving  field  of  wheat. 
Then  for  miles  and  miles  around 

Scarcely  a  farm  house  could  be  found. 
But  now  go  as  far  as  you  will 

You  will  find  farm  houses  still. 
Of  all  the  towns  in  the  northwest 

Dear  Grand  Forks,  I  love  thee  best. 
The  Black  Hills  may   boast  of  its  gold  so 
bright, 

Fisher's  Landing  may  boast  of  its  flour  so 
white. 
Turtle  River  may  boast  of  its  fertile  ground ; 

But  the  equal  of  Grand   Forks  can't  be 
found. 


FAREWELL  TO  A  FRIEND. 
A  long  fai'ewcll,  my  friend. 

We  must  utter  the  word  at  last; 
For  a  few  short  iiours  our  pathways  blend 

Moments  that  cannot  last. 
A  few  short  hours  in  a  lifetime. 

They'll  be  only  memories  now,— 
Onlj'a  stanza  in  life's  rhyme 

Neath  whose  .sorrows  or  joys  we  bow. 

Only  a  mystic  line  or  two 

On  the  record  of  our  fates; 
A  shadow  of  moonlight  comes  to  view 

O'er  the  ice  where  we  used  to  skate. 
A  ha|)py  whirl  in  the  mazy  dance, 

A  fragment  of  nnisic  low,  [glance 

Will  come  to  our  minds  in  each  backward 

At  the  happy  long  ago. 


-© 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


231 


-© 


JOHN  B.KETCHUM. 

Born:  New  York  City,  July  11, 1837. 
In  the  year  of  his  birth  John  removed  with 
his  parents  to  Cayuga  count}-,  N.  Y.,  where 
the  first  twelve  years  of  his  early  life  were 
passed,  when  the  family  again  returned  to 
New  York  City.  In  1856-57  he  worked  as  a  report- 
er and  writer  on  the  staff  of  the  New  Yorker 
and  New  York  Leader,  and  had  the  friendship 
of  many  literary  young  men  of  tliat  day.  In 
1860  he  proposed  to  read  law,  and  was  offered 
the  freedom  of  the  office  otthe  late  Hon.  Wm. 
Noyes,  but  tlie  outbreak  of  the  war  in  1861 
aroused  his  latent  patriotism  and  interrupted 


S 


JOHN  B.   KETCHUM. 

his  studies ;  and  he  became  associated  with 
various  movements  for  the  temporal  welfare 
and  religious  benefit  of  union  soldiers  — 
serving,  at  the  close  of  the  war,  with  the  late 
Vincent  Colyer  upon  the  staff  of  Governor  R. 
E.  Fenton  in  the  reception  and  care  of  return- 
ing N.  Y.  state  troops.  In  1866  he  aided  in  the 
formation  of  a  new  organization  for  the  moral, 
religious  and  temporal  welfare  of  the  troops 
composing  tlie  regular  army  of  the  U.  S.,  and 
it  is  in  connection  with  this  patriotic  work 
that  he  is  best  known  to  liis  countrymen  — 
having  been  corresponding  secretary  of  the 
society  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century.  Mr. 
Ketchum  was  married  in  1858  to  Miss  Raehelle 
A.  Terliune  of  New  York.  In  1879  he  moved 
to  the  township  of  Ramapo,  in  his  native  state, 


where  he  led  a  kind  of  pastoral  life  for  nearly 
nine  years;  but  in  1888  he  became  a  resident 
of  Brooklyn.  The  poetry  of  Mr.  Ketchum  is 
very  tender  and  melodious,  and  will  always  be 
cherished  by  every  lover  of  the  true  poet. 


THE  LAST  GUEST. 

Alone !—  and  have  all  gone  from  hence? 

Those  forms  that  gaily  paced 
These  silent  floors,  these  spacious  halls. 

But  now  so  richly  graced! 
Gone!  ah,  my  sad  and  lonely  heart, 

'Tis  thine,  at  last,  to  know 
That  even  liere  the  steps  of  joy 

Are  tracked  by  those  of  woe. 
Alone!  no  more  I  meet  them  now. 

Where'er  I  turn  mj'  gaze  — 
Gone  are  the  greetings  and  the  smiles 

That  blest  the  earlier  days! 
Alone,  low,  sadly  on  my  ear 

Falls  autumn's  wailing  song! 
While  'round  my  steps  the  faded  leaves 

Of  summer  sadly  throng. 
Adieu,  ye  transient,  fading  forms. 

We  may  not  meet  again; 
Joy  go  with  you,  while  memory  haunts 

My  heart  with  tender  pain !  ' 

Regret  nor  tears  can  aught  avail 

These  dear  scenes  to  renew. 
To  which  my  lonely,  lingering  heart 

Must  also  breathe  adieu ! 


OLD  WOODEN  CHURCH  IN  THE  GROVE. 
A  song   for   the   old  wooden  church  in  the 
grove. 

And  that  hour  of  hallowed  repose. 
When  the  Spirit  comes  down  within  the  old 
walls. 

In  the  hush  of  the  Sabbath-day's  close; 
When  the  sun  sinks  low  in  the  far  distant  west 

And  the  shadows  of  night  are  falling. 
As  the  calm  of  the  even  steals  over  all. 

And  the  bell  is  lovingly  calling. 
In  fancy  I  sit  in  the  pew  by  the  wall. 

And  my  spirit  is  pensive  and  grieves;— 
And  I  hear  the  low  prayers  that  trembled  and 
rose 

As  the  summer-wind  sang  thro'  the  eaves:— 
I  hear  the  same  voices  that  chanted  in  tune 

In  the  days  of  the  long,  long  ago. 
Yet  singing  those  hymns  as  the  eve  closes  in. 

And  the  music  comes  sweetly  and  low. 
Though  absent  and  distant  an  exile  I  roam, 

I  will  think  of  those  hours  and  the  time. 
And  memory  keep  green  the  little,  old  church. 

And  ijreserve  it  in  story  and  rhj'me:  — 
Let  them  bury  me  where  the  tones  of  the  bell, 

There  my  spirit  forever  will  move,    [praise, 
Where  the  voice  of  worshiper  riseth  in 

From  the  old  wooden  church  in  the  grove. 


1^ 


©- 


-^ 


LOCAL    AXD   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


A  SERENADE. 

Sleep,  lady,  sleep!  it  is  the  hour  of  rest; 

The  sun  sinks  deep  a-down  the  distant  west; 

The  nig-ht-winds  rock  the  wild-bird's  freighted 
nest, — 
Good-night,  Good-night! 

Sleep,  lady,  sleep !  naught  hreak  thy  soft  re- 
pose! 

The  whip-o-will proclaims  the  evening's  close; 

And  nature  over  all  her  hush-hush    throws,- 
Good-night,  Good-night ! 

Sleep,  ladj-,  sleep!  thy  love  and  sentinel 

Will  ^igil  keep; — and  soothe  thy  slumber  well 

With  mystic  music  from  Apollo's  shell, — 
Good-night,  Good-night ! 


SUNSET. 
Softly  underneath  Hesperian  curtains 

Crimson-hued,  with  gold  and  purple  f  ring'd. 
Fades  away  the  cloud  of  pleasant  sunshine, 

Leaving  all  the  fair  west  ruby-tinged. 
Sweetly  from  its  white  tent  of  June  blossoms. 

Shaking  out  their  fragrance  in  the  air, — 
Swells  the  eve-liymn  of  the  joyous  wild-bird. 

Chasing  from  the  burdened  heart  its  care. 
Slowly  in  the  silver-tinted  heavens 

Wakes   the  first   star,    faint  with  dazzling 
light; 
Growing  stronger  in  the  thick'ning  shadows, 

Settling  fast  before  the  closing  night. 
Majestatic  —  with  sudden  shimmer. 

Comes  the  white  moon  out  the  Orient  sea  ; 
Scatt'ring  blessings  from  the  distant  region  — 

Light  and  promise  and  full  liberty. 
When  the  sunlight  of  my  life  is  sinking 

O'er  the  Hesper  hill  of  twilight  time, — 
May  God's  angel  ever  then  be  near  me. 

Leading  where  tliere  is  no  sunset  clime. 


*- 


FOREVER  THINE. 
Forever  thine,  though  hills  and  seas  divide  — 

Though  storms  combine ; 
Though  stars  withdraw,  or  deserts  part  us 
wide  — 

Forever  thine. 
Forever  thine!    In  all  the  waste  of  years. 

Love's  Mecca-shrine! 
When  frii'nds  forsake — through  sorrows,  cares 
and  tears. 

Still  ever  thine. 
Forever  thine !  'mid  swell  of  woi'ldly  ,)oys  — 

In  pledge  of  wine! 
Thou  angel    voice   above   earth's   wliir   and 
noise  — 

1'liiiic,  fondly  thine. 
Forever  tliincl  unto  high  Heaven's  control, 

Tliysflf  resign ; 
Point  the  worn  spirit  to  its  matchless  goal  — 

Pi'edcstined  thine. 


WHERE?—  IMPROMPTU. 
How  have  these  well-known  scenes  renewed 

The  thoughts  and  hopes  of  earlier  hours. 
When  life  —  a  desert  now  — was  strewed 
With  fairest  flowers? 

Then  life  was  young,  and  thou  wert  fair; 
Now  flowers  are  faded  —  joys  are  fled  -  - 
And  youth  and  love  are  with  the  dead, — 
And  thou  art  —  where? 


THE  SPELL  OF  SONG. 

Sing  on,  sweet  maid,  thy  witching  strain,  for 

it  hath  joys  for  me ; 
And  I  would  hear  ihy  rich-toned  voice  utter 

its  melody ; 
Bringing  to  mind  my  boyhood's  hours,  when 

in  the  woods  we  stray'd. 
And  life's  pathway  was  strewn  with  flowers, 

ere  fate  our  hopes  betray'd. 

No  power,  or  wealth,  can  ever  buy  a  simple 
strain  like  thine. 

Yet  both  would  I  most  willing  give,  if  by- 
gone days  were  mine ; 

And  list'ning  to  that  simple  song,  I  feel  my 
bosom  swell. 

The  warm  blood  leap  within  my  veins,  be- 
neath the  potent  spell. 

There's  wondrous  power  in  that  sweet  strain, 
tho'  simple  is  its  art. 

For  it  is  tuned  to  reach  the  chords  that  vibrate 
in  the  heart; 

Its  magic  bursts  the  bright  sun  forth,  illum- 
ining my  track. 

And  on  the  dial  of  my  soul  the  shadow  has 
gone  back. 


OH,  TAKE  THE  LUTE. 

Oh,  take  the  lute  away, —  no  nnire  I'll  sing;— 

The  minstrel   here    must  breathe  liis  last 
farewell ! 
Like  winter's  bird  o'ertakeii  by  the  spring. 

My  lyre  is  silenced  by  a  mystic  spell. 
Tliese  old,  old  songs  tliat  I  have  sung  to-night, 

In  otlier  days  awoke  the  i>uri>st  joy: 
But  time  can  give  to  fondest  hope  a  bligiit, 

And  fill  all  raptures  with  a  base  alloy. 

Youth's  laurel-wreatli  lies  sprinkled  o'er  with 
dust; 
Corroding    cares    liave    doni-    the    work  of 
years ; 
Vainly  I  watcii  witli  tendei',  lingring  trust,— 

No  promise  of  lost  yinith  or  hope  appears. 

Fond  meni'ries  of  long  vanish'd  years  return; 

And  visions  sweet  come  to  the  failing  sight  :- 

No  more  with  .song  this  bosom  proud  siiali 

burn,~ 

The  fragile  lute's  unstrung  for  aye  to-night. 


« 


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LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


233 


-© 


JACOB  C.JOHNSON. 

Born:  Pamlico  Co.,  N.  C,  Feb.  20,  1865. 
Jacob  grarluated  in  1887  at  the  university  of 
North  Carolina  at  Chapel   Hill,  since  which 
time  he  has  been  enfiaged  in  teaching-  and  do- 


.  <;'^,-f- 


-X^ 


JACOB  C.  JOHNSON. 

ing  newspaper  work.  Mr.  Johnson's  poems 
have  appeared  in  the  Raleigh  News  and  Ob- 
server, and  other  local  papers. 

GROWTH. 

A  germ  —  a  bud  —  a  leaflet  then, 
A  little  flower  and  next  a  seed  — 
Then  all  as  if  it  had  not  been 
Save  but  a  worthless  weed. 
But  no,  there  will  in  some  place  be 
A  soil  wherein  the  seed  may  grow. 
And  others  will  on  some  day  see 
A  beauteous  flower  blow. 
A  shape,  a  vague  intelligence, 
A  youth,  a  man,  a  mind,  a  bloom 
Of  human  love,  a  higher  sense  — 
And  then  the  lifeless  tomb. 
But  no,  I  wist  a  germ  is  there 
Which,  kissed  by  heavenly  light. 
Will  be  revivified,  and  fair 
Will  bloom  in  beauty  bright. 


IB- 


QUESTIONINGS. 
If  I  should  die  to-night,  my  love, 
If  I  should  close  my  eyes. 
If  I  should  softly  fold  my  hand 


And  in  a  few  faint  sighs 

Breathe  out  my  breath; 

Would  any  one  be  sad,  my  love. 
Would  any  tears  be  shed? 
Would  any  friends  come  reverently 
About  my  quiet  bed 

And  weep  at  death? 

I  fear  me  very  few  would  come, 
I  fear  me  very  few. 
But  then  I  know  that  those,  my  love, 
Are  the  truest  of  earth's  true 
And  love  me  well. 

Among  them  too  a  face  would  be 
Half-marred  by  sorrow's  stain. 
And  yet  so  beautiful  and  pure 
It  makes  description  vain— 
Too  sweet  too  tell. 

And  gazing  on  that  one  loved  face 
Would  cozen  death's  dread  sting. 
And  grasping  that  soft  kindly  hand 
Would  nearer  heaven  bring 
My  eriing  soul. 

And  those  true  eyes  beaming  on  my  own 
With  the  haze  of  death  all  dim. 
While  on  their  crj'stal  tides  I  see 
Celestial  blessings  swim. 
And  joys  unroll. 


THAT  LASS  OF  MINE. 
My  love  she  is  a  cunning  lass  — 
She's  past  all  comprehension; 
Her  wit  it  does  my  own  surpass 
By  infinite  extension. 

To  me  she  vows  her  kisses  mine, 
I  never  will  dispute  it; 
If  'tis  a  fault  I  am  too  kind  - 
To  her  dear  heart  impute  it. 

But  then  they  say  that  others  too 
Receive    the  same  sweet  favor. 
And  breezes  which  do  lightly  blow. 
Bear  much  that  cutting  savor. 

And  so  one  day  I  made  so  Ijold 
To  ask  about  that  rumor: 
She  flashed  upon  me  her  dark  eyes 
In  sweet,  coquettish  humor. 

"  Oh,  well,"  she  said,  "Suppose  I  do— 
You  still  have  kisses  plenty. 
For  every  one  I  give  to  them 
I  save  you  one  and  twenty." 

My  love  is  such  a  cunning  lass  — 
She  always  does  out-do  me. 
For  then  the  kisses  that  she  owed 
She  promptly  gave  them  to  me. 

Did  I  forgive?    How  could  I  else 
When  eyes  so  tender  pleaded. 
And  lips  gave  kisses  which  by  far 
All  other  sweets  exceeded? 


-© 


©- 


© 


234 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  MARY  C.  WOODWARD. 

Born:  Jersey  Shore,  Pa.,  July  3, 1833. 
This  lady  takes  great  delight  in  everything 
that  is  beautiful  in  nature  and  art.    She  is 
passionately  fond  of  flowers  and  of  their  cul- 
ture, and  in  her  collection  she  has  forty-four 


Mi;S.   MARY   C.  WOUUWAKl). 

varieties  of  the  rose.  Literature  also  occupies 
a  great  deal  of  her  time,  and  the  poems  from 
her  pen  have  been  widely  copied  by  the  press. 


RETROSPECT. 

Another  year  my  dear  friend  has  flown. 
Swallowed  up  in  the  boundless  eternity. 

And  our  feet  still  press  these  mundane  sands. 
Our  bark  is  yet  tossed  on  life's  billowy  sea. 

How  many  have  passed  to  the  unseen  shore. 
And  their  tenantless  forms  lie  cold  and  still; 

They  have  entered  the  grander  life  beyond. 
And  others  their  vacant  places  fill. 

Tlie  year  that  is  dead  and  is  gone,  for  aye, 
To  some  has  brought  i)leasures  and  calm 
delight. 

While  others  have  drank  of  the  cii])  of  woe. 
And  morning  has  vanished  in  deepest  night. 

How  many  in  billows  of  smoke  and  flame. 
In  agony  bitter,  and  anguisli  dire,  [mained. 

While   naught  but  the  blackencKl   forms  re- 
Have  yielded  tlieir  lives  to  the  dcMuoii  flre. 

'Mid  the  foaming  billows  mad  and  wild. 
In  the  shadowy  depths  of  the  ocean  wave, 


How  many  have  sunk  'neath  the  waters  cold. 

And  the   forms    uncofiined    have    found  a 
grave. 
Destruction  and  death  have  been  left  behind. 

In  the  storm-king's  devasted  path 
The  homes  laid  waste  by  his  ruthless  hand, 

He  has  scattered  wide  in  his  furious  wrath. 
Farewell  old  year;  to  the  stern  behest 

Of  Infinite  Power  we  all  must  bow; 
Our  paths  are  marked  to  life's  furthest  bound. 

And  Destiny's  seal  is  on  every  brow. 
He  holds  us  all  in  his  iron  grasp. 

Along  each  pathway  lurks  seeming  ill; 
But  the  end  is  good,  let  us  calmly  wait, 

"  Each  cloud  has  a  silver  lining"  still. 
It  must  all  be  best,  the  hope  deferred. 

The  wish  unfulfilled,  the  vanished  dream. 
In  the  clearer  light  we  shall  sometime  see. 

That  the  shadows  obscured  the  sunlight's 
gleam. 
And  sometime  my  friend,  when  the  New  Year 
comes. 

We'll  be  anchored  safe  on  the  further  shore. 


TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 

My   youthful  friend,    now  in  life's  glowing 

morn 
Set  careful  watch  and  guard  upon  thy  life. 
For  know  that  every  wrongful  act  will  leave 
A  stain  indelible  upon  thy  soul. 
After  the  wound  is  healed,  the  scar  remains  — 
The  storm-king  leaves  his  devastating  track; 
So  ever  wrongful  action  of  our  lives  — 
Howe'er  regretted  or  repented  of. 
Will  mar  the  spirit  by  its  darkening  shade. 
O!  if  mankind  but  fully  realized 
This,  Nature's  holy  truth,  and  all  could  feel 
That  every  sin  will  stain  and  scar  the  soul. 
How  'twould  restrain  fi'om  wrong;  and  there 

would  be 
Less  grief  in  human  hearts,  and  more  of  joy. 
And  earth  would  be  a  happier  dwelling  place. 


FOR  MY  COUSIN'S  ALBUM. 
In  the  after  yi'ars,  dear  Emma, 
In  the  sometime  far  away. 
When  your  cheek  has  lost  its  freshness 
And  your  locks  are  tinged  wifli  gray; 
When  your  children  stand  around  you 
In  tlie  strength  of  manhood's  pride  — 
Strong  in  lofty  aim  and  purpose 
As  adown  life's  stream  they  glide, 
Yon  may  chance  to  turn  those  pages 
And  this  earnest  wish  I'll  trace: 
Thal^  through  all  life's  weaiy  .iourney 
As  the  years  liave  fldwn  apace,  [ing  — 

You'll  have  walked  with  strength  unfaltei^ 
Nobly  wrought  in  word  and  deed. 
Have  fought  bravely  life's  great  battles 
And  may  claim  the  Victor's  mead. 


-© 


s- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  A3IEK1CA. 


235 


-® 


FRANKLIN  F.PHILLIPS,  A.M. 

Born:  Searsmont, Me.,  Dec.  21, 18.53. 

When  Franklin  was  four  years  old  his  parents 
went  to  S.Montville,where  he  lived  till  1871.  He 
graduated  from  Nichols  Latin  school  of  Lew- 
iston  in  1873,  and  from  Bate's  college  with 
high  honors  in  1877.  After  leaving  college  he 
was  engaged  in  teaching  for  six  years,  five  of 
them  as  principal  of  Kockland  high  school. 


FRANKLIN   F.  PHILLIPS,  A.M. 

He  was  commissioned  sta,te  assayer  of  Maine 
in  1880,  and  served  in  that  capacity  three  years. 
Since  1883  he  has  been  engaged  in  a  very  suc- 
cessful business,  which  has  allowed  him  to 
gratify  his  taste  for  scientific  investigation. 
He  is  by  nature  a  poet,  and  has  written  an 
amount  of  spirited  and  graceful  poetry  that 
promises  much  for  the  future. 


SB- 


SNOW-FALL. 

With  crystal  eyes 

Ope'd  in  the  skies, 
With  wings  of  sparry  spangles. 

In  ghostly  plight, 

A  habit  light. 
That  loosely  round  me  dangles, 

I  fill  the  air 

With  visions  rare. 
And  blanch  the  sombre  meadows; 

My  woolly  feet 

The  cold  earth  meet 
As  noiselessly  as  shadows. 


From  frith  and  bay 

And  ocean's  way 
I  climbed  the  sunbeams  golden; 

O'er  mountain  walls, 

In  castle  halls. 
By  dewy  hands  was  holden. 

A  pompous  king 

Bade  menials  bring 
Me  robes  of  downy  feather; 

Then  called  me  snow. 

And  let  me  go. 
To  grace  the  winter  weather. 

O'er  field  and  down 

And  road  and  town 
I  toy  and  twirl  and  flutter; 

Fair  cheeks  I  kiss 

Of  lad  and  miss. 
But  praises  never  utter. 

The  fen's  meek  crest. 

The  marsh-grass  nest, 
By  waterfowl  forsaken, 

I  cover  o'er 

With  wrappings  hoar. 
Till  spring  their  life  shall  waken. 

Caressing  now 

The  mountain's  brow, 
I  court  the  spectral  stillness; 

From  one  lone  bird 

A  note  is  heard 
To  trill  the  air  in  shrillness. 

Through  woods  T  wend, 

The  branches  bend, 
I  make  an  arch  and  ceiling; 

The  pine's  low  boughs 

Whisper  their  vows 
'Mid  incense  heavenward  stealing. 

I  nestle  round 

The  grassy  mound. 
The  sere  blades  stoop  and  shiver, 

And  sadly  sigh 

That  life's  fond  tie 
Is  sundered  by  its  Giver. 

From  turret  gray, 

At  break  of  daj'. 
The  startled  pigeon's  cooing, 

And  sparrow's  prate 

Unto  his  mate 
Proclaim  my  magic  doing. 

As  night  shades  fall. 

My  silent  call 
Is  made  at  every  dwelling. 

The  plenty-blessed. 

The  want-oppressed. 
Alike  my  steps  repelling. 

The  cliff's  dun  verge 

My  feet  would  urge. 
To  meet  the  bounding  billows; 

I  go  to  sleep 

Within  the  deep. 
On  soft  and  foam-white  pillows. 


-© 


®^ 


236 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-® 


THE  SILENCE  AT  MOUNT  McGREGOR. 

Mute  midnight  the  Mount  is  holding-, 
Forest,  glade  and  fount  enfolding, 
Sentry-pace  the  stars  are  keeping. 
Round  the  silent  soldier,  sleeping 
On  his  country's  bosom,  throbbing 
'Neath  the  low  boughs'  stifled  sobbing. 
Silent  forest,  silent  fountain, 
Silent  midnight,  silent  mountain. 
Silent  stars,  O  witness  ye, 
Silent  death  and  victory ! 
Think  we  on  the  world's  commanders. 
On  the  Caesars,  Alexanders, 
On  the  Corsican's  campaigning. 
With  ambition's  glory  waning. 
Freedom,  through  the  ripening  ages. 
Names  of  thine  fill  brightest  pages. 
Silent  forest,  silent  fountain. 
Silent  midnight,  silent  mountain, 
Silent  stars,  O  witness  ye. 
Silent  Grant's  great  victory! 
Battles  fought  and  states-toil  ended, 
World-round  our  Ulysses  wended. 
Bane  of  lotus  quick  discerning. 
Siren  voices  ever  spurning. 
Home  the  way  he  fain  would  single  — 
With  our  dust  his  ashes  mingle. 
Silent  forest,  silent  fountain. 
Silent  midnight,  silent  mountain. 
Silent  stars,  O  witness  ye. 
Silent  loving  victory! 
Lo!  a  blest  transfiguration 
Thi'ows  its  halo  round  the  nation! 
Alienation,  to  devotion 
Turning  Uke  the  tide  of  ocean. 
Sees  above  the  pale  corse  shrouded 
Mighty  virtues  all  unclouded. 
Silent  forest,  silent  fountain. 
Silent  midnight,  silent  mountain, 
Silent  stars,  O  witness  ye. 
Silent  crowning  victory ! 


©- 


BOREAS. 
A  hardy  and  brusque  Titan,  born 
Of  the  sweet,  rosy  Goddess  of  morn. 
From  my  wild,  rock-ribbed  cavern  I  go 
To  wantonlj'  buffet  tlie  snow; 

But  I  sigli  and  sob  and  sough 
On  the  moss  and  fir-clad  bluff 
O'erlooking  the  gray,  salt  sea 
I  have  vexed  uproariously. 

My  father,  stern  Astreaus,  frowns, 
Wlieii  he  ponders  what  kingdoms  and  crowns 
Could  be  bouglit  witli  the  wealth  i  have  strewn 
In  the  ocean  depths  soundless  and  lone. 
Then  I  sigh  and  sob  and  .sough 
On  tiie  moss  and  fli'-chid  blutl'. 
For  the  stubborn,  gray,  salt  main 
Will  not  give  it  back  again. 


My  brothers  —  the  fairest,  I  ween. 
Have  Auster  and  Zephyr  e'er  been  — 
And  my  sisters,  loved  stars  in  the  sky. 
Oft  reproach  me  with  look  and  with  sigh ; 
And  I  sigh  and  sob  and  sough 
On  the  moss  and  fir-clad  bluff. 
For,  down  the  gray,  salt  strand 
There's  a  blanched  corse  on  the  sand. 
The  mariner  knows  my  slirill  voice. 
Now  cheering  the  way  of  his  choice, 
Now  calling  the  storms  on  his  path. 
Provoking  his  fear  and  his  wrath; 

But  I  sigh  and  sob  and  sough 
On  the  moss  and  flr-clad  bluff, 
O'erlooking  the  gray,  salt  waves 
That  fashion  my  victim's  graves. 
Disdaining  all  guile  and  intrigue. 
But  regardless  of  treaty  and  league. 
Many  good  ships  and  stores  I've  destroyed. 
As  with  war's  fitful  fortunes  I've  toyed. 
Still  I  sigh  and  sob  and  sough 
On  the  moss  and  flr-clad  bluff. 
For  round  the  gray,  salt  deep, 
The  slave  and  exile  weep. 
Though  far  from  my  dim,  mountain  home 
On  most  mischievous  missions  I  roam. 
From  the  blest  Hyperborean  lands 
I  withhold  mj-  rough,  riotous  hands; 
And  1  sigh  and  sob  and  sough 
On  the  moss  and  flr-clad  bluff. 
And  gaze  o'er  the  gray,  salt  way. 
On  their  long  and  gladsome  day. 


EXTRACTS. 

FROM   "THE  EAGLE  AT  LAKE  GEORGE." 

Fi-om  some  dim  height  may  be  thy  glance 
Oft  runs  the  mazy  water-way  along. 

At  thought  that  yet  again  perchance. 
In  pomp,  with  bugle  note  and  martial  song, 

Down  forest  ways,  through  lake  and  gorge. 

Shall  come  the  bannered  host  of  George. 

FROM  "ODE  TO  HOPE." 

Now  is,  glad  Hoi>e,  thy  way 
Imbosomed  in  the  fondness  of  the  spring, 

Cheered  for  the  livelong  day, 
Till  eve's  dull  eyes  behold  night's  spreading 
wing. 

And  flowers  enfold  the  dew, 

To  wait  tlie  morrow  new. 

FROM  "  MEMORIAL  DAY." 

O  wilderness  of  bloom,  O  day 

To  loyal  lieai'ts  an  lionored  trust! 
How  tltly  do  je  meet  and  l)lend 

Above  tli(!  brave  boys'  silent  dust 
And  asiies  dull,  that  fell  beneath 
Fair  Freedom's  fervid  altar  flames. 
While  they,  cheering  tlie  Union  grand, 
Went  the  star  way  witli  deathless  names. 


•)S 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


23^ 


-)5l 


JULIA  CARTER  ALDRICH. 

Born:  Liverpool,  Ohio,  1835. 
Commencing  to  write  prose  and  verse  for  the 
local  papers  in  her  youth,  it  was  not  long  be- 
fore the  contributions  of  the  subject  of  this 
sketch  were  g-ladly  accepted  bj'  Godey's  Lady's 
Book,  Arthur's  Magazine  and  otlier  well  known 
magazines.  At  seventeen  years  of  age  she 
taught  scliool,  and  three   years  lattT  was  mar- 


ried. 


MRS.  JULIA  C.  ALDRICH. 

Mrs.  Aldricli  is  now  engaged  in  prepar- 


ing a  volume  of  poems  that  will  probably  ap- 
pear in  1890.  She  has  three  sons  who  have  be- 
come prominent  respectively  as  civil  engi- 
neer, judge  and  minister.  Maple  Grove  Home, 
the  residence  of  this  lady,  is  a  beautiful  rural 
retreat  with  spacious  lawns,  and  groves  with 
ferns  and  plants  and  flowers  and  vines. 


* 


RONDEAUX. 

A  brilliant  thought  leaps  out  and  glows. 

Or  scatters  fragrance  like  the  rose. 
Nor  needs  an  artisan's  design 
To  plan  and  shape  to  make  it  shine,— 

Not  all  is  brilliance  in  rondeaux. 

The  labored  effort  plainly  shows 

The  mind  has  passed  through  mighty  throes 
To  give  the  world  with  stamp  divine 
A  brilliant  thought. 

That  music  wins  which  sweetly  flows. 

Not  that  which  falls  like  stunning  blows. 


And  ease  and  grace  with  sense  combine 
To  clothe  with  elegance  the  line 
Where  genius  gives,  in  verse  or  prose, 
A  brilliant  thought. 


YOSEMITE. 
With    bumbled  heart,  subdued  and  awed  I 
look  on  thee,  [rapt 

Thou  time-defying  granite  pile ;  with  senses 
I  see   thee,    grand    and    world-renowned  — 
Yosemite  — 
Thy  spray-enwreathing  stream  — 
Thy  rock-walled  vale  and  sunset  clouds,  all 
glory  capped 
With  evanescent  gleam. 
Aye,  see,  and  wondering  gaze,  until  the  cen- 
turies swing 
Their  massive  doors  ajar,  and  glimpses  give 

when  earth  was  young; 

But  farthest  grasp  of  human  thought  but 

weakling  reasons  bring 

To  solve  thy  problem  vast;  [hung 

In    vain   we  ask    the  voiceless  silences  that 

Their  mysteries  o'er  the  past  — 
The  far,  dim  past,  that  wrapped  our  sphere  in 

shoreless  sea  — 
The  mantling  gloom,  that  swathed  its  Infancy 
in  mist,  [cree 

While  yet  the  sun  did  wait  Omnipotent  de- 

To  bless  the  world  with  light  — 
Ere  Day's  first  smiling  morn,  with  rosy  beams 
had  kissed 
Away  the  brooding  night. 
What  engine  wrought  in  Nature's  great  com- 
pleting plan  [deeps? 
To  ope  for  thee  thj-  chasm's  broad,  abysmal 
Was   it   the   glacier's   ponderous    plow,  that 
smoothed  for  man 
Tlie  verdant  fertile  plain. 
Or,  rolling  waters,  that  through  circling  eons 
wore  thy  steeps 
With  solemn,  sad  refrain? 
Or,  from  earth's  central  fires,  did  fierce  vol- 
canic throes 
Expel,  in  molten  mass,  the  elemental  rock, 
That  o'er  the  wilds  to  mountain  majesty  arose. 
And  while  yet  warm  with  throbbing  strain, 
Did   earthquake   rend    with    pole-disturbing 
shock 
Thy  mighty  walls  amain? 
Oh,  puny  mind,  be  still  and  catch  the   chant 

sublime. 
Of    Nature's   psalm,  that   here  is  poured  in 
never-ending  praise;         [did  raise 
Accept  the  truth,  that  God  by  His  right  hand 
These  templed  rocks,   to  stand    through  an 
eternity  of  time. 
An  altar  place  of  worship,  where  [lays 

All  nations  come  and  every  heart  an  offering 
Of  mingled  praise  and  prayer. 


-© 


*- 


-* 


238 


LOCAL    A>JD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


GILBERT  LORD  WILSON. 

Born:   Center  Point,  Iowa,  March  4, 1856. 

Mr.  Wilson  was  a  close  student,  and  has  a 
good  knowledge  of  Greek,  Latin,  German  and 
Hebrew.  For  the  past  decade  he  has  been  a 
prolific  writer,  contributing  to  a  number  of 
the  best  publications  of  the  United  States.  In 
18TT  Ml'-  \\'il<()ii  was   niaiiifil   In   Miss  F.mnia 


(ill.UERT    LORD  WILSON. 

Beaman;  and  in  1887  the  union  was  blessed 
with  a  son.  Mr.  Wilson  has  taken  numerotis 
prizes  in  literary  contests,  and  is  now  engaged 
on  several  works.  He  is  a  member  of  the  Am- 
erican association  of  writers,  and  also  of  the 
Iowa  state  pharmaceutical  association.  Mr. 
Wilson  still  resides  at  the  place  of  his  birth. 


ffi- 


A  TIME  THAT  IS  GOLDEN. 
There's  a  time  that  is  golden ! 

A  time  of  all  times: 
When  the  wedding  bells  olden 

In  annual  cliiines 
Ring  fifty  returns  of  the  day; 

When  the  love  that  was  plighted 
In  days  of  the  past 

Groweth  stronger;  not  blighted 
By  frost  time  lias  cast, 

Tho'  our  locks  become  silvery  gray. 
When  the  moments  are  treasures 

More  precious  than  gold. 


Which  the  hand  as  it  measures 

Is  wont  to  withhold. 
As  treasures  are  held  'neath  the  wave; 

When  the  love  that's  to  brighten 
Our  way  never  dims, 

Tho'  our  loads  never  lighten. 
And,  trembling,  our  limbs 

Bear  us,  tottering,  down  to  the  grave. 

There's  a  time  that  is  golden 

More  glittering,  far. 
Than  the  brightest  ones  holden 

In  early  days  are, — 
As  ripens  the  fruitage  of  right; 

When  we  gather  the  blessings 
Of  life's  endless  day, 

With  the  doubtings  and  guessings 
All  vanished  away. 

As  darkness  recedes  from  the  light. 

When  the  growth  of  the  roses 

Each  side  of  death's  stream 
Interlaces  and  closes 

O'er  death;  — the  thorns  seem 
To  flee  at  the  wave  of  love's  wand; 

While  tlie  shuttle,  close  wedging 
'Twixt  threads  that  are  gray. 

Form  a  silvery  edging 
For  life's  golden  day: 

The  sunset  is  sunrise  beyond. 


AS  A  SUNBEAM  DRAWS  THE  DEW. 

'Mid  the  petals  of  the  roses 

Trembling  dewdrops  hide  apart. 
Till  the  morning  soon  discloses 

Sunbeams  mirrored  in  each  heart; 

Till  each  heart  is  warmed  and  lightened 
And  its  sphere  of  action  heightened ; 
Ah,  the  lieart  of  hearts  doth  woo 
As  a  sunbeam  draws  the  dew. 

Thou,  my  sunbeam,  warming,  gleaming. 
Art  the  someone  of  my  heart; 

With  thy  heav'n  alluring  beaming 
Blessing  of  thy  joy  impart! 

To  thy  somewliere  heaven  take  me; 
What  thou  liopest  of  me  make  me; 

Lo!  my  hand  and  heart  are  thine; 

In  mv  lieiirt,  too,  thou  art  mine. 


STANZA  FROM  SUBTRUDERE. 
If  I  were  a  king  in  a  kingdom. 

If  1  were  a  prince  with  a  crown. 
If  1  were  a  duke  in  a  dukedom, 

1  f  I  were  a  wit  or  a  clown, 
]  f  1  were  a  poet  or  author. 

If  I  were  a  sawyer  of  wood. 
If  T  were  a  ricli  man  or  pauper, 

I'd  simply  do  what  1  could. 


-» 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


239 


-© 


HEXRY  F.  O'BEIRXE. 

BOKN  IN  Ireland,  May  5, 1857. 
At  ill!  early  ag-e  Henry  left  his  home  to  enlist 
in  the  Texas  Rangers.  He  commenced  his  lit- 
erary career  in  1870,  and  at  the  same  time  was 
engaged  by  Chambers  Journal  to  write  up 
Texas.  Four  years  later  Mr.  O'Beirne  entered 
on  the  career  of  a  plainsman  in  western  Texas, 
for  years  followed  the  buffalo,  and  scouted  for 
Uncle  Sam.  We  next  find  him  in  Texas  and 
New  Mexico  fighting  Comanchcs  and  Apaches. 
In   is.s:.>  111.  tnuk   cliargc'iif   the   ('lioctaw   and 


HENRY  F.   O'BEIRNE. 

Chickasaw  national  organ,  published  at  Atoka, 
Indian  Ter.,  which  newspaper  he  ran  siccess- 
fully  for  four  years.  He  then  experienced  a 
series  of  startling  events  in  which  he  took  part. 
Since  1890  H.  F.  O'Beirne  has  been  connected 
with  the  American  Publishers' Association  of 
Chicago,  l)eing  engaged  In  collecting  material 
and  data  for  a  work  entitled  The  Leaders  and 
Leading  Men  of  the  Indian  Territory.  This 
work  will  comprise  three  volumes,  the  first 
volume  of  which  has  just  been  published. 
The  greater  number  of  the  poems  of  this  au- 
thor have  been  published  anonymously,  but 
he  has  now  a  volume  in  preparation  that  will 
appear  under  his  own  signature. 


© 


BELLA  STARR. 
A  cowboy  hat,  and  underneath. 
Two  weapons  flashing  from  a  sheath 
Of  knitted  brows  —  brows  that  are  clear 


Of  storm  and  wrath  p'rhaps  once  a  year. 

A  woman  she,  and  with  such  eyes 

Like  watch  dogs  kenneled  in  her  brain. 

Woe  to  the  fool  who  gapes,  likewise 

To  him  who  views  her  with  disdain. 

A  queen  self-crowned,  by  self-reliance, 

The  laws  —  she  holds  them  in  defiance. 

Laughs  long  and  loud  at  Sheriflf's  writ. 

And  somehow  that's  the  last  of  it. 

But  who  is  she,  so  indiscreet. 

Who  overrides  you  on  the  street. 

Not  caring  who  the  hell  you  are? 

That's  Bella  Starr. 

Brunette  with  raven  hair  is  she. 

And  calls  Herself  a  Cherokee; 

But  who  would  dare  dispute  her  claim, 

Or  even  question  whence  she  came? 

The  timid  press  reporter  sneaks 

Closer  and  closer  to  her  gown. 

She  turns  abruptly,  seldom  speaks. 

But  always  checks  him  with  a  frown 

Which  plainly  means,  "down,  Pompey  down." 

Arrest  her,  ah!  you  try  that  game; 

In  Dallas  many  years  ago 

Tlie  county  sheriff  tried  the  same; 

One  rapid  shot  —  the  rest  you  know. 

Still  Bella  loves  to  air  her  name; 

Please  let  me  have  your  best  cigar  — 

I'm  Bella  Starr. 
We  knew  her  when  her  fingers  strayed 
O'er  ivory  keys.    How  well  she  played 
In  Texas,  nights  long,  long  ago. 
But  things  have  changed  since  then  you  know. 
Once,  while  we  sought  her  out  next  day. 
She  laughed  full  fifty  miles  away, 
At  Dallas,  fashions  and  the  fools 
Who  followed  after  social  rules. 
To  see  her  mounted  and  with  speed 
Ride  far  into  the  setting  Sun, 
Meant  simply  this  —  a  daring  deed 
Scarce  thought  of  ere  the  deed  was  done. 
With  lawless  men  the  most  at  ease 
She  bets  and  gambles,  but  you'll  please 
Observe  she  never  goes  too  far. 

That's  Bella  Starr. 
Who  says  she  never  loved  —  he  lies. 
A  woman's  heart  in  such  disguise 
Must  surely  be  the  wreck  that  bides 
When  love  drifts  outward  with  the  tides. 
Alas  I  for  those  who  live  to  feel 
The  months  and  years  around  them  reel 
And  crumble  into  space,  with  still 
Tlie  same  old  yearning  to  fulfill. 
Be  merciful,  condemn  her  not 
By  scornful  word  or  evil  thought. 
For  should  you  strike  her  mountain  glen 
Where  only  bide  the  roughest  men, 
And  tap  the  door  some  stormy  night, 
A  voice  will  bid  you  to  alight; 
"  Come  in.  I  care  not  who  you  are, 
I'm  Bella  Starr." 


■® 


©- 


-* 


240 


LOCAIi   AND   NATIONAL,  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


® 


SUNRISE  IN  THE  SOUTHWEST. 
From  far  gray  ridg-es  bald  and  bare 
Bewildered  darkness  glides  away; 
The  gaunt  wolf  shrinking  to  his  lair, 
Howls  dismal  in  the  face  of  day. 
The  Eagle  from  his  misty  height 
Surveys  the  dawn  with  sanguine  eye, 
Beyond  the  distant  shores  of  light 
He  sees  the  star  of  morning  die; 
He  spreads  his  wings  above  the  peak, 
The  smoky  vapors  round  him  curled, 
And  rising  with  exultant  shriek 
Defies  the  featliered  world. 
As  hope  disperses  human  care. 
So  morning  clears  the  mist  away; 
There  is  a  freshness  in  the  air, 
A  vigor  in  the  dawning  day. 
The  clam'rous  flocks  beside  the  aood 
Fly  from  the  timid  footed  fawn; 
The  whirhng  wreck  of  drifted  wood 
Rolls,  and  the  river  rumbles  on. 
And  whereso'er  the  eye  may  rest, 
From  North  to  South,  from  East  to  West, 
Rock,  river,  lake  and  mountain  height 
Are  wrapped  in  universal  light. 
Sublimest  work  of  Master  hand. 
The  sunrise  in  a  lonely  land 
With  naught  that's  human  to  impair 
The  luster,  and  the  glory  there. 
King  of  the  Choir  —  the  mocking  bird 
Remote  in  shadowj'  cedars  heard, 
Tells  to  the  breeze  with  swelling  throat 
The  wonders  of  his  varied  note. 
Ere  first  the  shadows  have  reclined 
On  waters  brisk  with  morning  wind. 
Before  the  sunbeam  reaches  there, 
A  thousand  voices  fill  the  air; 
Yet,  not  a  single  bar  is  wrong 
In  all  that  wilderness  of  song. 
What  melody  where  every  throat 
Is  gifted  with  a  native  note! 
The  very  liawk  on  deadly  trail 
With  stormy  music  fill  the  gale! 
Whilst  we,  in  voiceless  wonder  stand. 
Dumb  dreamers  in  a  desert  land. 

Tlie  longing  eyes  —  the  lips  compressed. 
Do  well  betray  the  yearning  breast; 
Our  naked  thoughts  like  fledgeless  birds 
Still  flutter  for  tlieir  winged  words; 
Yet  ne'er  to  mortal  doth  Ix'long 
The  art  to  reacli  t  lie  depth  of  song. 
We  live,  and  with  sublime  distress. 
Behold  and  feel  what  none  express. 

The  poot  'rapt  in  metric  lore. 
Is  nature's  mimic,  nothing  more; 
Poor  mote  of  heaven's  central  beam, 
He  reaches  forth  to  grasp  the  dream 
As  though  his  very  soul  were  drawn 
Beyond  the  red  expanding  dawn. 


OUR  HOPES. 
We  nurse  our  hopes  as  mothers  do 

Their  infants  at  the  breast. 
For  they  —  the  children  of  our  dreams  — 

Were  born  to  be  caressed ; 
And  as  they  grow  we  long  to  find 

Fulfillment  of  their  youth, 
And  laugh  to  see  them  loiter  round 

The  blossom-fields  of  truth. 
Devoted  parents,  while  we  watch 

Their  fast  maturing  powers, 
The  buoyant  step,  the  brightening  eye. 

The  love  of  Life  is  ours. 
Not  so  —  when  sorry  seasons  come  — 

When  smiles  and  tears  are  vain  — 
To  lure  the  lovely  truant  ones 

Back  to  the  heart  again. 
Ah?  then  the  light  of  life  dies  out. 

The  singing  birds  grow  sad. 
And  neither  hill,  nor  vale,  nor  sky. 

Can  ever  make  us  glad. 
They  came  to  us  as  children  come 

To  bless  our  lonely  lives. 
And  blest  is  he  who  hath  one  hope 

That  all  the  rest  survives. 
For  ah !  the  saddest  gifts  are  they 

That  God  did  ever  send, 
When  hopes  that  we  have  nourished  long 

Desert  us  in  the  end. 


WE  TWO  ARE  ONE. 

Oh !  let  it  never  more  be  said 

Our  lives  are  far  apart. 

Despite  the  law  we  two  are  wed 

Who  claim  a  kindred  heart. 

By  whom  can  we  be  dispossessed 

On  earth  —  in  heaven  above? 

Can  aught  divide  us  —  we  who  rest 

Upon  each  other's  love? 

Thou  gav'st  thine  all  without  regard 

To  self,  nor  gave  amiss ; 

Tile  love  that  seeketh  no  reward  — 

There  is  no  love  like  this. 

Thou  art  beloved,  and  from  this  hour 

Let  peace  perch  on  thy  brow. 

Misfortune  hath  no  subtle  power 

To  separate  us  now. 

Tliough  far  apart  —  we  two  are  one, 

Our  hearts  are  ever  near; 

The  sorrows  thou  hast  wooed  and  won 

But  make  thee  doubly  dear. 

Living  or  dead,  beneath  —  above  — 

By  every  right  divine 

That's  based  iii>on  the  laws  of  love 

I  hold  that  thou  iirt  mine. 

I  care  not  whose  the  prior  claim, 

Or  in  whose  trust  thou  art; 

No  legal  tic  —  no  change  of  name 

Can  counterfeit  a  heart. 


-© 


Kll 


®- 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


241 


^ 


THOMAS  ADDISON  PUGH. 

Born  :  Fairfield  Co.,  Ohio,  Oct.  8,  1853. 
This  g-eutlemau  has  been  a  regular  correspon- 
dent to  the  Lancaster  Gazette  since  1882,  and 
lias  written  various  articles  for  that  paper, 
and  mNi)  the  Normal  Teacher  and  other  jour- 
nal Mil  (■(lucatiniial  toiiics.  Mr.Pu^h  has  a  flue 


THOMAS  ADDISON  PUGH. 

library;  he  is  still  engaged  in  teaching,  and 
was  married  in  1879  to  Marguerite  Ann  Kagay, 
Mr.  Pugh  is  the  possessor  of  a  well  and  finely 
organized  mind.  The  style  of  his  poetry  lias  a 
peculiar  sweetness  which  lingers  upon  the 
memory  like  a  half-forgotten  dream. 


®- 


EARLY  RECOLLECTIONS. 
There  are  hours  in  the  lives  of  all. 

When  recollections  cluster  thick. 
Around  our  troubled  minds  they  fall. 

And  gather  till  the  heart  is  sick. 
But  after  all  'tis  joy  to  know 

That  such  hours  quickly  pass  away, 
And  bright  sunshine  fills  the  soul 

With  soothing  penetrating  ray. 
I  am  reminded  now  of  one. 

With  whom  I  used  to  play, 
Tn  pleasant  fields  and  meadows  green. 

On  almost  every  summer  day. 
Adown  the  foot-path  by  the  stream. 

We  walked  in  silence,  hand  in  hand. 


The  setting  sun  beyond  the  hills. 

Had  cast  a  halo  o'er  the  land. 
The  green  rich  pastures,  far  and  wide 

In  floods  of  mellow  sunlight  lay; 
Before  us  on  the  steep  hill-side 

The  shadows  told  the  dying  day. 
A  glorious  picture  —  light  and  shade 

And  hill  and  vale  and  stream  were  there; 
No  artist's  hand  hath  e'er  portrayed 

A  scene  so  marvelously  fair. 
Tlie  cattle  browsing  on  the  hill. 

Gazed  on  us  with  wide,  dreamy  eyes. 
While  from  the  tiny,  murmuring  rill 

We  watched  the  soft  gray  haze  arise. 
How  fleetly  passed  those  happy  hours ! 

How  far  away  their  memory  seems, 
When  she  and  I,  amid  the  flowers. 

Watched  the  last  fading  sunset  gleams ! 
In  silence  and  alone  I  pass 

Along  the  footpath  grown  so  dear; 
That  silent  form  beneath  the  grass 

Hath  lain  in  rest  for  many  a  year. 
And  still  the  shadows  climb  the  hill. 

And  yet  I  hear  the  lowing  kine, 
Where  now  the  fair  horizon  shows 

In  one  unbroken,  cloudless  line. 
Where  first  the  happiness  arose. 

Born  of  the  soft,  calm  summer  eves, 
Where  still  that  little  streamlet  flows 

Beneath  the  golden  autumn  leaves. 


MRS.  ROSA  BUNKER. 

The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  :"n  the 
local  press  generally.  She  is  now  a  resident  of 
the  town  of  Kirksville,  in  Missouri. 


MEMORY'S  MUSIC. 

Memory  plays  upon  my  heart-strings 
Melodies  so  sweet  and  low, 
From  her  gentle  finger  touches 
Chords  of  music  softly  flow. 
Now  she  sings  of  happy  childhood, 
And  in  strains  so  glad  and  free. 
Children's  voices  ever  mingle. 
Swelling  loud  the  harmony. 
Now  the  music  joyful,  joyful. 
Rises  high,  and  clear,  and  strong, 
Telling  all  of  love's  sweet  story, 
And  a  merry  bridal  throng. 
Now  a  cadence,  sad  and  mournful, 
Falls  upon  my  listening  ear, 
Like  a  wail  of  sufi'ering  mortal. 
When  grim  death  is  drawing  near. 
Memory  chants  in  solemn  measure. 
And  the  hymn  now  speaks  of  rest. 
Pointing  forward  to  the  future, 
And  a  home  among  the  blest. 


-® 


»- 


242 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


— >B 


JAMES  EDWIN  CAMPBELL. 

Born:  Pomeroy,  Ohio,  Sept.  28, 1867. 
Graduating  in  1884  James  soon  after  made 
his  first  political  speech,  and  has  since  been 
actively  engaged  as  a  speaker  during-  cam- 
paigns. He  follows  the  profession  of  teaching 
and  still  resides  in  his  native  town.    In  1887 


SI 


JAMES  EDWIN  CA.MPBELL. 

the  poems  of  Mr.  Campbell  were  published  in 
book-form  under  the  title  of  Drif tings  and 
Gleanings.  He  has  gained  quite  a  reputation 
both  as  a  speaker  and  as  a  writer,  and  his 
poems  have  appeared  in  some  of  the  leading 
periodicals. 


THE  WARNING. 

List!  Did  ye  hear  that  dreadful  sound, 

That  shook  the  earth  with  its  awful  roar. 
Causing  the  heart  to  leap  and  l)ound? 

'Twas  the  wind,  and  notliing  more; 
Only  the  wind,  as  it  sighs 

Tiirough  the  trees,  like  tiie  moan  of  some 
sad  heart, 
Only  the  wind,  tliat,  ceasing,  dies 

Away,  only  to  blow  in  some  other  part. 
Rut  it  has  cea.sed,  and  a  perfect  calm. 

Like  tliat  which  precedes  the  swift  hurri- 
cane; 
So  (juiot  and  still  that  not  even  the  palm 

Moves  a  leaf,  but  motionless  doth  remain. 
Like  the  hunter,  who.  eager  for  game, 

Into  dense  thicket  doth  anxiously  peer, 


Or  the  frightened  stag,  which,  when  hearing 
the  same. 
Stops  like  a  statue  ere  flying  with  fear. 
But  hark!  it  rumbles  again  so  earn. 
More  threatening  than  grind  of  the   huge 
avalanche. 
When  it  bursts  'pon  the  ear  of  the  Swiss  moun- 
taineer. 
And  causes  his  cheek  with  terror  to  blanche. 
Ha!  is  it  only  the  wind?  More  fearful  still. 
Is  it  an  earthquake  under  our  feet  which 
rolls?  [fiU 

No,  more  dangerous  far  are  the  sounds  which 

The  air  like  groans  from  damned  souls. 
Awful  it  is,  when  Enceladus  old. 
Doomed  forever  to  lie  'neath  ..Ena's  broad 
side,  [hold. 

With  a  turn  which  naught  on  earth  can  with- 

Pours  destruction  dire,  both  far  and  wide. 
Awful  it  is  when  the  fire  fiend  starts. 

And  consuming  all,  destroj'ing  and  fierce, 
Hurls  flre-brands  high,  which,  likeflery  darts. 
Seem  the  Heavens  again  and  again  to  pierce. 
Awful  it  is  when  the  torrent  breaks  o'er. 

The  dam  which,  yielding,  is  swept  awaj', 
And  the  flood  rushes  out  with  the  fearful 
roar. 
Of  an  angry  buil  when  brought  to  bay. 
And  horses,  and  cattle  and  even  man, 
'Neath    its   seething,    warring    waves    are 
whirled; 
And   oaks  which    could   the    storm's    might 
stand. 
Before  Its  sweep  are  downward  hurled. 
But  far  more  dreadful,  when  men  oppressed 
And   ground    'neath    tyranny's    steel-clad 
heel, 
And  wrongs  which  centuries  go  unredressed. 

Arise  and  gird  on  glittering  steel. 
Then  mad  revenge  spurns  all  control. 

And  Mercy,  strangled,  gasps  and  dies. 
And  Lust,  and  Hate,  and  Greed  for  gold. 

To  carnage  rush  with  gleaming  eyes. 
And  houses  burning,  in  ruins  fiill. 

And  plantations  rich  witli  waving  grain 
Are    stroycd  by  flames,  which,  like  billows 
tall. 
Roll  far  and  wide  o'er  southern  plain. 
O,  men  of  the  south!  ye  fools  and  blind! 

Who  of  seasons  can  so  wisely  tell. 
But  scanning  close  yet  will  not  find 

The  dangers  wliich  the  times  foretell. 
The  bull-whip  and  the  tightening  noose. 

Murders  most  foul,  outrages  vile. 
Night  raids  and  sway  of  passions  loose, 
Cori'uptcd  courts,  all  mi>;ins  of  guile. 
The  pistol-sliot,  tlie  reeking  knife, 

IIne(iu:il  laws  and  hitter  liate. 
Man  slain  before  iiis  iileading  wife, 
liv  all  tliese  you  your  malice  sate. 
© 


m- 


-1* 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIOXAL   i'OETS   OF  A.MKlilCA. 


13 


LEONA  ANNIK  KNIGHT. 

Bokn:  Ascension  Pauish,  La.,  April  30, 1851). 
Under  the  nom  de  plume  of  tlie  Bay  Leaf 
Miss  Kiiig'htlias  coat libii ted  quite  extensively 
to  the  iK;ri()dicai  press.     In    IKS:)  slie  published 


LEONA   ANNIE   KNIGHT. 

a  neat  volume  of  poems  entitled  Gems  of 
Thought.  Miss  Knight  has  written  two  no- 
vels and  has  anotlier  v^olunie  of  poems  ready 
for  the  press,  entitled  Ferns  of  Fancy,  which 
will  shortly  appear. 


©■ 


A  SKETCH  OF  BEAUTY. 

Whata  silent  hush  is  brooding- 
Over  the  busy  world  so  still, 
While  in  pensive  meditation 

Tlioughts  come  and  go  at  will; 
The  surroundings  1  will  try  to  paint. 
Though  my  sketch  be  dim  and  faint. 
Quietly  seated  on  a  lonely  bit 

Of  shaded  river  bank  all  green. 
Facing  me  a  languid  flow 

Of  clear,  brown  water  in  a  stream, 
Whei'e  minnows  play  and  mottled  frogs 
Proclaim  they  are  happ.v  as  young  lords. 
The  long  grass  flags  rustle  their  leaves 

In  echo  to  the  wind's  long  sigii, 
And  bend  protectingly  to  shield 

The  white-cupped  lilies  blooming  by. 
Whose  heart  is  wooed  by  the  lioney  l)ee. 

In     buzzing  notes  of  loud  flattery. 
Above  me  looms  a  giant  old  elm 

With  dark-green  plumes  and  mosses  gray. 


Fanned  by  a  gentle  summer  breeze. 

Quivering  through  the  uppermost  sprays. 
Sounding  like  the  whispered  notes  of  song 
Repeated  in  the  days  long  gone. 


MYRA. 

There  is  a  simple,  rustic  cross 

Heading  a  grave  in  the  churchyard  near, 
'Tis  decorated  with  old,  gray  moss, 

Inscribed  with  the  simple  name,  •»  Myra:" 
Some  kind  hand  carved  it  years  ago,— 
The  inscription  tells  a  tale  of  woe. 
Perhaps  she  was  a  frail  young  bride. 

That  some  one  loved  and  early  wed; 
A  mother's  joy  or     fond  father's  pride. 

That  death  stole  for  this  lonely  bed. 
Where  gentle  breezes  softly  steal. 
As  if  the  tale  they  would  reveal. 

A  few  bright  flowers  and  dafi'odils, 

With  purple  cups  and  golden  Iiearts 
Tlie  air  with  perfume  sweetly  fills, 

With  the  blossom  of  one  forget-me-not 
Recently  pruned  with  taste  and  care. 
As  if  the  mourner  still  lingered  there. 
One  sweet  bay  tree,  with  broad,  fresh  leaves. 

Where  the  wild  winds  are  mournfully  sigh- 
ing 
Tlirough  the  branches  emblematical. 

That  never  change    but  In  dying. 
In  bleak  winter  or  young  spring. 
Like  grief  to  memory  ever  greeu. 


FANCY'S  RAMBLE. 

Night  has  thrown  her  sable  mantle 

Over  the  earth,  wliile  nature  sleeps; 
Fancy  steals  those  hours  to  ramble 

O'er  memory's  hidden  retreats; 
First,  it  seeks  the  glen  of  childhood. 

Careless  in  its  happy  glee. 
Roving  over  fields  and  wildwoods. 

Resting  'neath  some  shady  tree. 
Then  we  reach  girlhood  so  joyous. 

Garlanded  with  hope's  rainl)ow  fair. 
Like  a  promise  spread  around  us. 

Hallowing  this  season  rare. 
Here  we  pause  to  think,  then  listen 

To  some  voice  of  former  years. 
While  the  pearly  teardrops  glisten. 

Reviving  memory  witli  tears. 
Then  we  look  in  Time's  large  mirror. 

At  a  patient,  pensive  face; 
Surely  I  make  no  error. 

Girlish  blushes  still  are  traced. 
Thougli  the  cheeks  still  bloom  with  roses. 

And  the  eyes  are  liquid  bright. 
Those  pale  lips  never  exposes 

A  heart  somber  as  the  night. 
Then  we  lift  the  vail  and  gaze  afar, 

Down  the  long  vista  of  future  years. 


-* 


©- 


244 


LOCAI.   A^TD   NATIONAL    TOETS    OK  AMERICA. 


-1^ 


On  tlie  liorizon  beams  Faith's  star, 
A  beacon  liglit,  its  softened  rays; 

Back  to  tlie  jireseut  we  retire. 
To  find  in  thought  the  night  far  spent, 

The  embers  dead  of  a  glowing  fire. 
The  aslies  left  in  warm  content. 


ON  THE  BANKS  OF  BAYOU  LONG. 
The  dusky  shadows  of  evening 

Are  gathering  soft  and  dim. 
The  rippling  waves  of  the  water 

Are  chanting  a  low  requiem. 
The  landscape,  clothed  in  grandeur 

By  Nature's  lavish  liaud. 
Has  built  an  Eden,  to  be  found 

On  the  banks  of  Bayou  Long. 
A  white  cottage  is  built  by  the  shore. 

Around  it  the  harvest  is  green. 
But  the  faces  and  voices,  light  before. 

Wear  a  look  that  is  laden  with  pain. 
There  is  a  face  missed  from  the  circle, 

A  footstep  youthful  and  light, 
Tliat  will  echo  with  musical  laughter 

No  more  'midst  the  cii'cle  at  night. 
There  is  a  hush  in  the  holy  quiet 

Of  the  oak  with  its  outstretched  arms. 
That  is  hung  with  heavy,  trailuig  moss. 

That's  braved  the  winds  and  storms. 
A  wail  of  the  watch-dogs'  howling 

Is  borne  on  the  stilly  breeze, 
As  the  boat  comes  not  with  their  master. 

Who  raised  them  here  'mid  tlie  trees. 
Each  wind  that  sweeps  through  the  wood- 
Murmurs  a  sigh  as  itwhistles  along,  [land 
The  night  birds  singing  tlieir  vespers 

Recalls  his  favorite  notes  of  song. 
Oh,  beautiful  isle  of  fair  Eden, 

From  the  busy  world  I  fled  to  thee; 
But  sorrow,  draped  in  sable  mantle, 

To  these  haunts  have  followed  me. 
Fairest  hopes,  like  summer  roses. 

Crushed  my  heart  that  withering  lies, 
Dreams  of  joy  liave  all  departed. 

Alike  the  day  in  silence  dies. 
Darkness  shades  the  earth  with  gloom, 

Like  death  that  left  my  youth  o'ershadow- 
ed. 
And  on  the  banks  of  Bayou  Long 

Would  that  I  could  dwell  forever. 
Here  no  eyes     can  note      my  sorrow. 

But  would  blend  their  grief  with  mine; 
And  the  world  that  worships  fashion 
Will       not  inti'udc  on  Bayou  Long. 

WOULD  THAT  I  WERE  WITH  THEE. 
Would  that  I  were  with  tliec, 

And  none  wei'e  near, 
Tliy  flute-like  voice 

Fall  on  no  ear 


But  mine,  that  drinks  in  every  word, 

Like  chords  of  rich  music  that  fall. 
Miserly  each  note  I  treasure  up. 

Through  love  I  hold  them  all. 
Would  that  I  were  with  thee, 

In  this  holy,  silent  hour. 
Yet  when  I  behold  thee. 

Mute-like  I  feel  the  power 
That  thou  has  cast  upon  my  heart, 

Unconscious  of  the  spell 
That  love  can  bind  with  magic  art. 

While  sweet   influence    aiound    me 

dwells. 
Yes,  would  that  I  were  with  thee. 

And  tender  thoughts  that  burn 
Within  this  love-lit  soul  of  mine 

Thou  would'st  not  coldly  spurn; 
Thy  presence  would  be  so  dear  to  me, 

I  would  hourly  worship  at  thy  shrine. 
From  all  else  earthly  would  I  flee. 

Oh,  would'st  that  thou  were  mine! 


THE  KISSES  OF  NATURE. 
The  sunset  is  kissing  the  mountain  adieu. 

Ere  it  sinks  for  slumber  to-night. 
The  zephyrs  ai-e  softly  fanning  tlie  fountain. 

To  kiss  the  opening  flowers  at  twilight; 
The  pearly  dewdrop  is  seeking  the  rose. 

On  her  downy  bosom  of  fragrance  to  rest, 
Tlie  birds  sing  as  homeward  they  fly 

To  their  mates  snugly  housed  in  the  nest. 
The  moon  meets  the  anxious  old  ocean. 

Impatiently  awaiting  her  dreamy  light. 
And  it  kisses  the  frowns  of  that  ruffle, 

The  billows  all  crested  with  white; 
The  stars  twinkle  out  in  their  beauty. 

Their  light  kisses  the  bosom  of  the  lake  — 
While  all  Nature  is  silently  wooing, 

Tlie  stealthy  steps  of  Time  take  flight. 


^■ 


MATILDA  A.ANDERS. 

Born:  Plymouth,  Iowa,  Sept. 9, 1871. 
The  poems  of  Miss  Anders  have  appeared  in 
the    Northwood    Anchor,    Indiana  Oliserver 
and  other  local  papers.     She  is  still  a  resident 
of  her  native  place. 

BARLEY  LOAVES. 
Five  liarley  loaves,  three  fishes  small,— 

And  shall  I  offer  these  poor  gifts 
To  Christ,  the  Lord  of  all? 

To  Christ  who  stills  the  angry  wave, 
And  who  controls  tlie  storm; 

Surely  he  hath  no  need  of  me. 
And  these,  my  gifts.  He'll  scorn! 

Yes!  He  hath  need  of  thee! 
Come,  bring  thy  loaves  of  bread: 

Behold!  With  them,  when  Jesus  speaks, 
Tlie  multitude  is  fed. 


-m 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMElilCA. 


24-5 


-* 


HENRY  A.  LAVELY. 

Born:  Pittsbukg,  Pa.,  Jan.  16,  183L 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Lavely  have  appeared  in 
Our  Continent  and  other  well  known  maga- 
zines. The  Heart's  Choiee,  a  volume  from 
his  pen,  has  been  highly  praised  by  press  and 
l)ublic.  Mr.  Lavely  is  now  the  manag'er  of 
the  ^tna  Life  insurance  company  at  Pitts- 
burg, where  he  is  well  known  and  highly  re- 
pectod. 

UNFULFILLED. 

The  sweetest  songs  are  never  sung; 
The  fairest  pictures  never  hung; 
The  fondest  hopes  are  never  told,— 
They  are  the  heart's  most  cherished  gold: 
For  in  the  empire  of  the  heart. 
There  is  a  realm  from  this  apart. 
Whose  pictures  are  too  pure  for  earth. 
Whose  language  is  of  heavenly  birth. 


ATTAINED. 
We  may  not  sing  a  song  so  soft 

As  angel  voices  sing-. 
Nor  catch  the  notes  of  love  which  they 

On  golden  harps  do  bring. 

We  may  not  write  the  burning  thoughts 

Which  through  our  being  roll. 
Nor  thrill  with  rapture  pure  and  sweet 

Another  longing  soul. 
We  may  not  take  a  brush  and  paint 

The  pictures  of  the  mind. 
Nor  touch  with  rainbow  hues  the  hopes 

Which  round  the  heart  are  twined. 
But  to  the  weary  ones  of  earth 

We  words  of  cheer  may  give. 
Which  in  their  hearts  shall  brightly  burn. 

And  there  forever  live. 


©- 


THE  HEART'S  CHOICE. 
A  Painter  quickly  seized  his  brush, 

And  on  the  canvas  wrought 
Tlie  sweetest  image  of  liis  soul,— 

His  heart's  most  secret  thought. 
A  Minstrel  g-ently  struck  his  lyre. 

And  wondrous  notes  I  heard, 
Which  burned  and  thrilled  and  soothed  by 
turns. 

And  all  my  being  stirred. 
A  Singer  sang  a  simple  song,— 

An  echo  of  his  soul; 
It  vibrates  still  through  all  my  life. 

And  lifts  me  to  its  goal. 
A  Poet  took  his  pen  and  wrote 

A  line  of  Hope  and  Love; 
It  was  a  heaven-born  thought.and  breathed 

Of  purest  joys  above. 


A  man  of  God,  what  time  my  heart 

Was  weighed  with  sorrow  down. 
Spoke  golden  words  of  Faith  and  Trust, 

And  they  became  my  crown. 
I  see  the  Painter's  picture  still; 

I  hear  the  Minstrel's  lyre. 
The  Singer's  song,  the  Poet's  thought 

Still  g-low  with  sacred  fire; 
But  in  my  heart's  most  hallowed  realm 

The  good  man's  words  do  live. 
And  through  my  life  a  perfume  breathe 

That  naught  of  earth  can  ^i^■e 


OCTOBER. 

Into  its  lap  the  treasures  of  the  year 
Are  gladly  thrown.    The  royal  golden-rod, 
Fresh  from  the  kind  and  gracious  hand  of 
God, 
Puts  on  a  brighter  garb.    And  far  and  near 
The  wonders  of  the  autumn  hues  appear. 
The  balmy  air  with  ecstacy  is  rife; 
All  nature  grows  in  plentitude  of  life. 
And  breathes  deep  with  the  bounties  of  good 

cheer. 
The  morning-  clouds  are  full  of  beauty,  too, 
And  dash   their  richest   crimson    o'er  the 
scene. 
While  in  the  range  of  sunset's  purple  view 
There  glows  the  glory  of  its  changing-  sheen— 
The  tints  of  earth  and  sky  foi-ever  new; 
The  grandeur  which  forever  rolls  between  ! 


THE  THREE  STAGES. 

The  .scent  of  apple  blossoms  filled 

The  balmy  evening  air. 
As  Sue  and  I  walked  hand  in  hand,- 

A  trusting-,  happy  pair. 
The  scent  of  golden  apples  filled 

The  dreamy  autumn  air. 
As  Sue  and  I  walked  hand  in  liand,- 

A  wedded,  happy  pair. 
The  scent  of  apple-butter  filled 

The  cosy  dining-room. 
As  Sue  and  I  danced  hand  to  hand. 

Around  the  kitchen  broom ! 


UNATTAINBD. 
I  saw  a  child  one  summer  day. 

Pursue,  with  eager  feet, 
A  butterfly.    The  gorgeous  thing-. 

On  golden  wing  so  fleet. 
Flew  from  his  grasp,  till  down  he  sat 

And  wept,  because  he  failed 
To  catch  the  treasure,  which  awaj- 

In  the  glad  sunshine  sailed. 
So  when  the  faithful  child  of  song 

Would  catch  some  truant  strain. 
Behold!  't  is  gone!  and  sad  he  sits 

And  weeps  in  bitter  pain. 


-© 


^- 


:i46 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


-© 


JOHN  DUNBAR  HYLTON,M.D. 

Born  :West  Indies,  March  25, 18:37. 
The  Farmer  Poet  is  aptly  applied  by  the  news- 
papers of  New  Jersey  to  Dr.  J.  Duubar  Hyl- 
ton.  He  has  written  quite  a  number  of  books 
—  Betrayed,  a  northern  tale;  The  Bride  of 
Gettysburg,  an  episode  of  1863;  The  Heir  of 
Lyolynn,  a  tale  of  sea  and  land,  and  other 
poems;  Arteloise;  and  The  Sea  King.  Dr. 
Hylton's  works  contain   descriptions  of  won- 


JOHN   DUNBAR  HYLTON,  M.  D. 

derful  beings,  scenes,  events  and  colloquies 
e-xtremely  fascinating.  The  Heir  of  Lyolynn 
Is  a  weird  story  told  with  an  amount  of  rhyth- 
mic force  and  expression  that  holds  the  read- 
er until  the  end.  Dr.  Dunbar  Hylton  is  now 
a  resident  of  Palmyra,  New  Jersey,  where  he 
is  partly  engaged  in  publishing. 


©- 


EXTRACT. 

THE  HEIR  OF  LYOLYNN. 
The  Lover's  Well. 
Osci,  a  lord  of  Lyolynn, 
In  ancient  time  did  glory  win. 
Far-famed  was  he  o'er  land  and  wave, 
And  styled  the  bravest  of  the  brave. 
Bold  was  his  heart,  and  strong  liis  hand. 
His  sword  in  war  the  lightning's  brand, 
Swill,  as  it  lays  the  foi'csts  low  — 
His  bl;i(le  destroyed  his  stately  foe. 
To  the  oppressed  a  friend  was  he. 
He  made  their  fierce  oppressors  llec. 


He  was  the  weak  one's  sword  and  shield  — 

By  day  or  night,  on  flood  and  field. 

With  joy  the  poor  his  presence  hail'd. 

Before  him  all  the  tyrants  quail'd. 

No  braver  man  in  battle  van 

Has  through  a  slaughter  press'd. 

Nor  braver  since  the  race  began 

Was  e'er  in  armor  drest ; 

None  nobler  e'er  in  listed  ring 

Has  placed  a  spear  in  rest. 

Did  any  prize  from  battle  bring. 

Or  after  glory  quest. 

II. 
The  day  was  bright,  the  sun  was  warm. 
The  breeze  was  blowing  free. 
Round  his  bark  that  oft  faced  the  storm 
RoU'd  high  a  sparkling  sea. 
And  o'er  his  vessel's  sable  prow 
The  mighty  Osci  lean'd. 
His  polished  helm,  his  manly  brow 
From  scorching  sunbeams  screen'd. 
His  large  blue  eye  clear  as  the  sky. 
Or  as  the  placid  sea, 
Watched  o'er  the  waters  rolling  high, 
A  corsair  sailing  free. 
Toward  Algiers  full  well  he  knew 
That  vessel  plowed  the  waves. 
That  she  was  mann'd  with  savage  crew. 
And  loaded  down  with  slaves. 

With  sails  all  spread  unto  the  wind. 

He  gave  the  corsair  chase, 
III. 

An  hundred  men  as  bold  and  stout. 

As  ever  fought  in  fray. 

As  ever  caused  their  foeman's  rout 

By  either  night  or  day. 

In  line  stood  on  the  corsair's  deck. 

All  arm'd  from  head  to  heel. 

Ready  for  triumph  or  for  wreck. 

An  awful  ridge  of  steel. 

With  tall  morions"  polished  sheen. 

And  breast-plates  trimm'd  the  same,  [keen. 

Bright  shields  and  spears  and  broad-swords 

They  seem'd  a  ridge  of  flame. 

IV. 

Not  swifter  leaps  the  lion  bold 

Forth  from  his  fearful  den. 

At  midnight  on  the  awe-struck  fold. 

Than  sprung  fierce  Osci  then. 

Not  grimnuM'  comes  the  avalanche 

Adown  the  mountain  tall  — 

Tearing  all  rocks  like  doated  branch 

That  chance  to  bar  its  fall  — 

Then  came  that  chief  with  all  his  band 

Upon  the  corsair's  crew. 

With  clashing  shield  and  Haniing  brand 

Tliey  on  the  pirates  tlcw. 

Fierce  fought  for  liberty  and  life 

The  corsair's  savage  horde. 

And  long  the  air  with  sound  was  rife 

Of  breaking  shield  and  sword. 


® 


•^- 


LOCAl,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


24* 


^ 


©- 


But  fiercer  Osci  waged  the  strife 

Ami  pirates'  life-blood  pour'd  — 

And  ere  the  sun  went  down  from  sight, 

And  night  closed  o'er  the  main, 

He  poured  a  glad  and  glowing  light 

On  heaps  of  pirates  slain. 

And  showed  upon  that  corsair's  deck 

No  pirate  breathing  left: 

All  stretched  around  in  gory  wreels 

With  heads  and  helmets  cleft. 

V. 

As  beams  the  iris  midst  the  clouds 

Wlien  dies  the  thunder-storm  — 

So  from  thethrongihecorsair  crowds, 

Comes  forth  a  female  form ; 

Her  sweet  young  face  beam'd  like  the  moon 

Seen  in  a  stormy  sky 

Her  smile  was  like  the  sun's  at  noon, 

Wlieii  no  clouds  o'er  him  fly. 

Her  coral  lips  and  pearly  teeth 

Were  perfect  as  could  nature  rear. 

And  white  as  snow  on  Nortliern  heath 

Her  breast  and  arms  appear. 

Her  brow  was  fair,  and  bright  beneath 

Her  eyes  flashed  dark  and  clear, 

O'er  neck  and  shoulders  a  sable  wreath 

Waved  folds  of  raven  hair. 

Her  lovely  form  from  heel  to  head 

Was  harmony  complete. 

And  beauty  a  grand  halo  shed 

O'er  all  her  being  sweet. 

Her  form  was  cast  within  that  mold  — 

The  best  dame  nature  yet  could  plan. 

When  she  did  all  her  strength  unfold. 

And  showed  her  noblest  work  to  man. 

When  she  from  out  her  treasures  vast 

Ere  on  her  fell  sin  and  sorrow's  blast, 

Her  best  elements  together  brought. 

And  on  the  shrine  of  Beauty  wrought  — 

A  being  with  all  glory  fraught  — 

With  angel's  form  and  seraph's  thought, 

The  choicest  thing  she  yet  could  plan. 

And  gave  that  grandest  work  to  man ! 

VI. 

Midst  all  my  frays,  bold  Osci  said. 

On  land  or  yet  on  flood. 

No  fairer  prize  to  me  has  sped 

In  form  of  flesh  and  blood. 

For  fairer  ne'er  was  wed  by  king. 

Nor  nestled  to  his  side; 

Unto  Castle  Flame  that  maid  I'll  bring. 

And  she  shall  tend  my  bride. 

Her  pure  white,  snowy  hands  shall  on 

My  blooming  Edith  wait: 

No  fitter  one  her  robes  to  don. 

And  tend  upon  my  mate. 

VII. 

To  Castle  Flame  thAmaid  was  brought, 
Hagar  was  the  fair  one  named. 
By  peer  and  knight  the  maid  was  sought. 
For  far  was  her  beauty  famed. 


And  many  came  to  woo  and  win 

The  maid  of  Osci's  bride. 

But  ere  the  wooing  did  begin. 

She  to  each  her  maid  denied. 

Oft  tlie  suitors  furious  grew 

At  Osci's  lady  fair. 

When  she  from  their  longing  eyes  withdrew 

Her  maid  with  raven  hair. 

Oft  in  listed  ring  with  spear  in  rest. 

Against  proud  knight  arrayed. 

Was  Osci  in  his  armor  drest 

To  battle  for  the  maid. 

Many  a  suitor's  shield  was  cleft. 

And  morion  rent  in  twain. 

By  Osci  of  their  life  bereft. 

Ere  they  deemed  their  wooing  vain. 

As  time  roU'd  on  of  Osci's  bride 

A  female  child  was  born,— 

A  babe  fair  as  was  e'er  espied 

By  glowing  beams  of  morn ; 

As  sv/eet  a  babe  as  ever  smiled. 

Or  yet  with  life  did  start,— 

She  who  in  after  years  was  styled, 

Edith  of  the  Cruel  Heart. 

VIII. 

To  tend  the  babe  both  night  and  day. 

Was  none  like  Hagar  found. 

Though  'mongst  the    maids  'neath    Osci  s 

sway. 
Did  gentle  ones  abound. 
And  to  her  mistress  day  by  day 
More  precious  Hagar  grew ; 
Than  her,  'mongst  all  beneath  her  sway. 
No  dearer  prize  she  knew ; 
And  the  suitors  proud  and  high 
Who  sought  the  maid  to  wed  — 
Were  from  the  castle  forced  to  fly. 
Or  be  by  Osci  bled. 

IX. 

One  half  my  lands,  bold  Osci  spake, 

I  freely  would  bestow 

To  him  who  through  these  rocks  can  break. 

To  where  pure  waters  flow ; 

Though  oft  the  task  I  undertake 

I  can  no  water  show. 

if  only  here  we  had  a  well 

Of  waters  cold  and  clear, 

There'd  be  no  place  on  hill  or  dell. 

One  tenth  so  grand  as  here; 

Nor  would  we  feel  these  droughts  so  fell 

That  last  one  half  the  year. 

X. 

While  thus  he  spake  he  saw  a  man 

Kide  toward  his  castle  gate. 

And  at  his  rear  a  caravan 

Came  on  in  lordly  state. 

A  dozen  camels  huge  and  strong, 

Groan'd  'neath  their  heavy  load. 

As  their  harsh  driver's  scourging  thong 

Fast  urged  them  up  the  road. 

Bold  Osci  and  his  Edith  fair 


-m 


m 


248 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-^ 


©- 


The  horseman  soon  espied ; 
And  up  the  slope  in  swift  career. 
Unto  the  twain  he  hied. 
Hail,  he  said,  Thou  lord  of  Castle  Flame, 
And  thou  his  lady  bright. 
May  every  joy  that  earth  can  name, 
Attend  ye  day  and  nig-ht; 
For  ye  are  the  comeliest  pair 
That  ever  yet  were  wed. 
That  ever  met  in  castle  fair, 
In  huml)lest  cot  or  shed. 
Thou  art  the  truest  kniglit  and  hest 
That  ever  armor  wore. 
That  ever  placed  a  lance  in  rest. 
Or  rode  'midst  battle's  roar. 
\;onspicuous  thy  lady  bright 
Moves  amongst  the  female  line. 
As  doth  the  full  sphered  moon  at  night 
The  glimmering  stars  outshine. 
To  ye  most  high  and  noble  pair, 
I've  come  what  e'er  befall. 
Ransom  bring  for  a  captive  fair, 
That  here  ye  hold  in  thrall. 
A  maid  you  off  a  corsair  brought, 
Some  two  long  years  ago, — 
Through  all  this  time  for  her  I've  sought. 
In  peril,  pain  and  woe; 
But  late  I  chanced  to  learn  that  here 
You  captive  hold  that  maid; 
So  name  her  price,  how  ever  dear. 
Her  ransom  shall  be  paid. 
A  smile  apace  o'er  Osci's  face 
Broke  as  thus  spake  the  man. 
And  when  he  ceased  a  little  space, 
Bold  Osci  thus  began : 

XI. 

The  maid  I  from  the  corsair  brought 

Is  no  more  own'd  by  me; 

And  if  she  were,  I  vow,  there's  naught 

Would  make  me  set  her  free. 

Unto  my  wife  the  maid  belongs 

And  you  must  treat  with  her; 

See  if  all  gold  your  coffer  throngs 

She'll  to  her  maid  prefer. 

While  thus  they  spake  a  loud  scream  rang 

Within  the  castle  near. 

And  from  a  spacious  door-way  sprang 

Hagar  the  young  and  fair; 

For  well  that  horseman's  form  she  knew 

Soon  as  he  near'd  the  place. 

Into  his  arms  she  panting  flew. 

They  met  in  one  embrace. 

Hagar  and  Hagan  from  their  lips 

The  self-same  monniut  burst: 

Love  which  no  .sorrow  could  eclipse, 

Wliich  each  through  jcars  had  nurssed, 

WfU'd  up  williiii  each  faithful  heart, 

And  glowing  filled  eacli  soul; 

liOve  wliich  from  neither  could  depart. 

But  throughout  all  their  beings  dart, 

Though  ruin  be  its  goal. 


In  vain,  in  vain  poor  Hagan  sought 
To  set  the  captive  free, 
In  vain  his  costly  gifts  he  brought 
For  Edith's  eyes  to  see. 
In  vain  he  proffered  glowing  wares 
Of  gold  and  silver  bright. 
Huge  urns  of  gold  piled  up  in  tiers. 
That  shone  with  ruddy  light. 
In  vain  he  offered  flashing  wares 
Of  every  shade  and  hue. 
Rich  silks  and  velvets  and  cashmeres. 
Of  crimson  and  of  blue. 
Fabrics  the  choicest  and  the  best 
That  ever  came  from  looms. 
Vast  robes  of  furs  all  richly  drest. 
And  countless  gems  and  plumes. 
And  urns  of  spices  that  possess'd 
The  sweetest  of  perfumes. 
In  vain,  in  vain  he  offered  these. 
And  chests  of  shining  gold. 
Gifts  that  could  fail  no  eye  to  please, 
All  gorgeous  to  behold. 
In  vain  on  earth  he  humbly  kneel'd. 
And  begg'd  at  Edith's  feet. 
Her  heart  to  all  his  prayer  was  steel'd. 
Though  long  he  did  entreat. 
And  told  her  how  long  years  ago 
He'd  Hagar  wooed  and  wed. 
And  just  as  from  the  altar  he 
His  happy  bride  had  led. 
In  rushed  amidst  the  wedding  feast 
Men  clad  in  steel  array. 
Who  felled  him  senseless  with  their  blows 
And  bore  his  bride  away. 
Told  how  in  search  of  her  he  had 
Traveled  o'er  sea  and  shore- 
Entreated  her  to  ransom  take. 
And  Hagar  to  restore — 
Reward  him  lor  his  faithful  search. 
And  riving  woes  he  bore. 
Hagan,  she  said,  while  still  he  kneel'd 
And  vainly  did  implore. 
Sooner  this  rock  shall  water  yield, 
Than  I'll  thy  bride  restore. 

XIII. 

Up  to  his  feet  the  lover  sprang. 

And  grasped  fair  Editli's  liand, 

And  said  with  clear,  deep  voice  that  rang 

As  weird  music  o'er  the  land: 

You  promise,  that  if  within  this  rock 

I  well  of  water  find. 

You  will  to  me  my  bride  restore. 

Nor  as  your  hand-maid  hold  her  more, 

Nor  deal  with  us  unkind; 

Now  promise  this  upon  your  oath. 

And  I  will  slioi'lly  see  — 

If  God  has  loi  iii'd  tliis  flinty  hill  — 

Of  crystal  waters  free. 

I  promise  it,  fair  Edith  said. 

While  smiles  bright  as  the  morn 


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All  o'er  her  rosy  face  were  spread  — 

Though  mix'd  with  pride  and  scoru. 

I  promise  it,  and  if  I  fail 

To  set  your  Hag-ar  free. 

Soon  as  I  here  within  this  rock 

A  well  of  water  see. 

May  e%-erlasting-  woe  and  bale 

Forever  light  on  me. 

XIV. 

Down  through  the  huge  and  flinty  rock 
That  seem'd  at  all  their  toil  to  mock. 
Poor  Hagan  and  his  little  band 
Toil  on  with  willing  heart  and  hand. 
For  three  long  years  they  tug  and  strain, 
.And  delve  with  all  their  might  and  main. 
Ply  shovel,  hoe  and  pick  and  bar. 
Yet,  from  water  they  seem  distant  far. 
They  delve  one  hundred  fathoms  deep. 

XV. 

Water,  water,  the  joyous  sound. 
Has  echo  in  the  castle  found; 
And  water  is  the  only  word 
That's  in  tlie  spacious  castle  heard; 
And  water  Hagar  joyous  cries. 
As  into  Hagan's  arms  she  flies. 
But  now  proud  Edith  fails  to  keep  her  prom- 
ise, and  refuses  to  give  up  her  maid  to  Hagan. 

XVII. 

Fierce  as  the  cloud  of  coming  storm. 

When  round  it  flash  the  lightnings  warm. 

Tall  Hagan  rears  his  stately  form. 

As  Edith's  warriors  round  him  swarm. 

O'er  all  his  face  a  hue  is  spread  — 

Less  like  the  living  than  the  dead. 

Dark  wave  his  brows,  while  bright  beneath 

As  sabres  flashing  from  their  sheath  — 

His  eyes  pour  forth  an  awful  light, 

Like  fierce  meteors  of  the  night, 

When  of  dread  famine  they  foretell 

Of  pestilence  or  earthquake  fell. 

While  thus  to  Edith  and  his  band 

He  speaks  so  all  can  understand: 

Deem  not  with  threat'ningspear  and  sword 

To  drive  me  from  my  bride  adored, 

Think  not  one  of  my  band  nor  I 

At  your  command  will  quail  or  fly. 

Who  break  a  solemn  oath  they  swear. 

In  me  can  breed  no  thought  of  fear. 

And  here  we  stand  as  true  as  steel 

To  meet  all  vengeance  you  can  deal ; 

Though  here  all  weaponless  I  stand. 

Ready  am  I  to  meet  your  band. 

Nor  one  there  is  amongst  them  all 

For  you  would  dare  to  risk  my  fall. 

If  sheathed  in  steel  like  they  I  stood 

With  spear  or  axe  or  Ijroad-sword  good. 

Bring  forth  your  best  and  bravest  man, 

That  you  can  find  amongst  your  clan. 

And  give  me  weapons  and  a  shield. 

You'll  see  wiio  best  the  sword  can  wield. 


And  if  he  best  the  sword  shall  ply— 

If  I  beneath  his  valor  die 

Or  like  a  coward  from  him  fly. 

Then  let  my  Hagar  be  his  slave 

And  hand-maid  till  slie  fills  her  grave. 

But  if  I  shall  the  victor  be. 

If  God  the  triumph  give  to  me. 

Then  she  and  I  from  here  go  free. 

And  all  my  friends  that  here  you  see. 

Be  it  so,  Edith  quick  replies; 

And  you  sliall  fall,  or  win  your  prize  — 

With  horse  and  spear  in  listed  ring. 

In  deadly  fray  with  prince  and  king; 

And  if  they  cause  j-our  overthrow. 

One  thing  at  least  the  world  shall  know. 

Great  was  the  hand  tliat  dealt  the  blow, 

And  laid  the  faithful  Hagan  low. 

But,  if  you  do  the  triumph  gain. 

By  you  be  prince  and  hero  slain. 

Your  fame  o'er  Christendom  shall  go. 

And  all  of  Hagan's  deeds  shall  know; 

And  just  as  surely  as  I  live. 

Your  Hagar  unto  you  I'll  give. 

Tlien  trembling,  as  o'erwhelmed  with  fear. 

She  moves  to  Hagan  still  more  near, 

Pressed  her  lips  close  upon  his  ear. 

And  speaks  what  none  but  he  can  hear : 

Hagan,  she  says.  Oh,  blame  not  me. 

For  now  not  setting  Hagar  free! 

Would  God,  that  I  could  yield  her  up. 

Nor  let  her  taste  of  sorrow's  cup ! 

But  all  yon  throng  of  warriors  grim. 

Some  giants  both  in  thews  and  limb. 

Have  journey'd  here  to  woo  your  bride; 

To  all  she  has  her  love  denied. 

Faithful  to  you  she  still  remains. 

And  all  their  profi'ered  love  disdains. 

This  morn  they  vow'd  as  with  one  voice 

That  I  of  them  should  make  'my  choice. 

Choose  one  ere  eve  and  let  them  know 

On  whom  I  would  the  maid  bestow. 

And  if  in  this  I  fail'd,  they  swore 

They'd  stain  my  castle  all  with  gore; 

My  towers  raze,  to  embers  burn. 

And  all  I  own'd  to  ruin  turn'. 

And  since  my  Osci  is  away  — 

In  distant  country  waging  fray. 

And  there  perhaps  long  time  may  stay, 

I,  now  must  needs  their  voice  obej'. 

But  I  will  sheathe  you  all  in  steel. 

In  armor  strong  from  head  to  heel ; 

Give  you  a  war-horse  fleet  and  bold. 

As  ever  yet  was  bought  or  sold. 

So  meet  them  all  in  listed  ring. 

And  slaughter  pile  with  prince  and  king; 

Their  cause  is  wrong,  and  yours  is  just. 

You  God  shall  shield  fi-om  blow  and  thrust. 

So  stretch  the  suitors  in  the  dust. 

It's  your  fate  to  slay  tiiem  and  you  must. 

So  haste  and  in  bright  steel  be  drest. 

And  'gainst  them  nobly  do  your  best. 


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LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  A3IERICA. 


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XVIII. 

Soon  sheathed  in  armor  strong-  and  sheen, 
By  Hagar's  hand  is  Hagan  seen. 
Upon  his  head  the  helm  she  placed, 
And  o'er  his  face  the  visor  laced; 
A  shield  he  dons  and  to  his  hand 
Is  given  gleaming-  spear  and  brand. 
As  some  grim  tower  tall  and  strong- 
He  stands  before  the  suitor  throng,— 
A  perfect  knight  from  spur  to  plume. 
As  e'er  did  garb  of  war  assume. 
Soon  on  a  charger  huge  and  strong. 
He's  seen  by  all  the  suitor  throng. 
And  thus  with  voice  of  haughty  tone  — 
By  him  to  them  is  challenge  thrown: 
Come  forth  ye  princes  proud  and  high, 
Let's  see  which  best  the  spear  can  ply. 
And  see  which  best  the  sword  can  wield; 
Which  first  can  cleave  both  helm  and  shield. 
He  who  shall  victor  o'er  me  ride, 
To  him  I  give  my  blooming  bride— 
And  she  is  fair  ye  all  will  vow 
As  e'er  was  seen  on  earth  'till  now. 
The  daughter  of  a  king  is  she. 
Greater  than  any  one  of  ye. 
Whose  fame  outstrips  j^e  all  so  high, 
Not  one  of  ye  with  him  can  vie; 
The  offspring  of  a  king  am  L 
Come  meet  me  heroes  spear  to  spear. 
And  win  the  fairest  of  the  fair; 
Or  as  base  cowards  proved  and  tried 
I'll  brand  ye  o'er  the  nations  wide. 

XIX. 

Then  at  his  haughty  cliallenge  rose 

A  sullen  murmur  'mongst  liis  foes. 

And  cries  of  rage  aud  hate  and  shame 

From  out  that  throng  of  suitors  came. 

Their  steeds  .stood  harnessed  in  the  stall, 

And  grooms  were  ready  at  their  call. 

Straight,  obedient  to  their  word 

Their  steeds  were  swift  beside  them  spurred. 

To  horse,  to  horse,  in  haste  they  sprang, 

And  loud  arose  the  deadly  clang. 

As  spears  and  swords  and  armor  rang. 

And  one  from  out  the  suitor  throng  — 

A  haughty  hero  tall  and  strong. 

Struck  deep  his  spui-s  in  charger's  gore. 

Like  tliunderbolt  on  Hagan  bore. 

As  on  he  came  in  fierce  career 

Brave  Hagan  met  him  spear  to  spear. 

But  vain  lie  strives  'gainst  Hagan's  force, 

Down  instant  fell  both  man  and  horse. 

Upon  the  earth  he  breathless  went. 

His  mighty  spear  to  splinters  rent, 

Lifeless  he  fell  before  the  shock. 

While  Hagan  stood  like  moveless  rock; 

First  of  that  fated  suitor  l)and 

How  swift  in  death  he  press'd  the  sand! 

Another  came  in  swift  career 

And  on  liis  breast  met  Hagan's  spear, 

Tlirough  plates  of  steel  the  weapon  tore. 


Its  passage  through  his  bosom  bore. 
And  dripping  red  and  grim  with  gore. 
Stood  out  a  j'ard  behind  and  more. 
Forth  from  the  wound  his  trusty  spear 
In  moment's  space  did  Hagan  tear. 
And  dead  upon  the  dust  and  sand 
Fell  one  more  of  the  suitor  band. 
On  others  came,  their  valor  tried, 
'Till  full  a  score  had  bled  and  died. 
While  all  unharm'd  from  heel  to  head 
Brave  Hagan  waged  the  combat  dread, 
A  fearful  carnage  round  him  spread. 
The  blood  of  haughty  princes  shed. 

xx. 
Meanwhile  his  trusty  band,  though  few, 
Had  sheathed  themselves  in  armor  too. 
With  spear  and  axe  and  gleaming  bi-and. 
On  rushed  his  small  but  trusty  band. 
On  foot  and  some  on  horse  they  came. 
To  share  their  master's  deadly  game : 
And  right  and  left  their  blows  they  deal. 
Pierce  deep  through  plates  of  gleaming  steel. 
Full  on  the  suitor  train  they  charge. 
And  cleft  is  brazen  helm  and  targe. 
Loud  rise  the  sounds  of  blow  and  thrust. 
And  warriors  fall  midst  gory  dust. 
On,  on  they  fight  'till  every  hand 
Is  worn  and  weak  in  Hagan's  band. 
Yet  still  they  war,  'till  all  their  foes 
Are  stark  and  grim  in  death's  repose. 
They  war  "till  not  a  foe  is  left 
Whose  head  and  morion  is  not  cleft. 
Or  whose  thick  plates  of  broken  steel  [veal. 
Through  breasts,  broad,  horrid  wounds  rc- 
They  war  'till  every  foe  is  found 
Amidst  the  reeking  carnage  round. 
His  task  once  more  had  Hagan  done. 
And  once  again  his  Hagar  won ; 
And  ere  that  day  went  down  the  sun 
To  him  his  Hagar  was  restored— 
Hagar  the  adoring  and  adored. 
Soon  back  unto  their  native  land 
They  journeyed  with  their  trusly  band. 
Lived  long  a  life  of  joy  and  love. 
Serene  as  shines  the  sun  above. 
And  if  from  out  the  dreary  past, 
A  shadow  e'er  their  bliss  o'er  cast, 
Itonlj'  served  to  make  their  love 
Ris(;  surer  all  their  cares  above; 
Kept  ever  on  a  vast  increase 
Their  weal,  their  happiness  and  peace. 
And  may  the  just  and  rigliteous  Lord 
For  ever  thus  true  love  reward. 
Though  more  t  han  thousand  years  have  past 
And  sliadows  o'er  the  story  cast, 
Yettlieir  memory  doth  not  fade; 
And  still  the  deep,  deei)  well  tlie.\-  made. 
In  use  b.v  Castle  Flame  is  found. 
Deep  delved  amidst  the  rocky  ground. 
Old  bards  of  it  this  stoi-y  tell : 
And  it  Is  call'd,  "The  Lovers'  Well.  " 


-« 


m 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


2.51 


-© 


JESSIE  ADELINE  COLE. 

Born:  Sandwich,  Ill.,Makch  17, 1862. 
In  1885  Miss  Cole  published  a  volume  of  poems, 
ail  edition  wliicli  was  q^uiekly  subscribed  for 
by  her  many  friends  and  admirers.    Miss  Cole 
haslT-iveled  extensively,  and  has  visited  most 


JESSIE    ADELINE  COLE. 

of  the  larger  cities  of  the  United  States.  She 
hopes  soon  to  publish  another  volume  of  sev- 
eral hundred  pieces  under  the  title  of  Poems 
of  Sentiment  and  Humor. 


©- 


NEVER  BE  ASHAMED  OF  HAVING 
LOVED. 

Never  be  ashamed  of  liaving-  loved; 

Far  better  to  have  loved  than  have  hated ; 
If  planted  where  it  fruitle.ss  proved, 

You  can  sigh  and  wish  you  had  waited. 
A  woman  may  not  ask  a  man 

To  give  to  her  his  heart  and  hand; 
Her  acts  and  eyes  do  all  they  can 

To  help  his  heart  to  understand. 
But  if  that  heart  be  not  inclined 

To  be  by  her  love-flame  ignited. 
She  needs  must  think  that  fate's  unkind 

For  that  her  heart  with  love  be  lighted. 
Still  never  be  ashamed  to  say : 

I  loved  him  and  it  caused  me  pain. 
You  couldn't  help  that  love  broke  'way; 

Love  can't  be  lield  by  stoutest  chain. 


HOW  IT  WAS. 
He  won  a  prize  for  his  good  penmanship; 

And  for  his  friendship  he  was  prized. 
His  worship  wore  a  good-sized  cap,— 

Once  in  a  sail-ship  he  was  a  good  capsized. 
He  was  once  tangled  in  a  courtship. 

But  the  loveship  proved  a  hardship; 
And  being  barred  out  he  seized  the  pen. 

And  is  now  the  Ctesar  of  hardship. 


NOT  FOR  WOMAN. 

"The  pen  is  not  for  woman."— Hawthorne. 

I  read  those  si.x  words  and  then  got  awful  mad. 

The  pen  is  not  for  woman?  Really,  that's  too 

bad! 
I  deemed  the  scoundrel  meant  the  pen  with 

which  to  write— 
And  truly,  I  was  vexed  enough  then  and  there 

to  fight.  [I  did. 

But,  with  a  second  thought  I  saw,  I,  of  course 
The   meaning   true  which  there  lies    partly 

masked  or  hid :  [screens  — 

The  word  "pen,"  you  see,  the  meaning  mostly 
It  is  the  penitentiary  the  author  really  means. 
Now,  should  I  meet  Nathaniel,  why,  I  would 

greet  him  thus:  [not  for  us. 

You're  surely  in  the  right,  sir,  the  "  pen  "  is 


IT  NEVER  HAS  BEEN. 
Oh,  it  never  has  been  since  Time  began, 
That  a  woman  whose   heart  Is  broken  in 
twain. 
By  the  downfallen  castle  built  on  a  man. 

Has  with  Time  forgotten  and  loved  again ! 
Her  hope  does  not  die  tho'  she's  forsaken; 

Her  heart  sinks  down  as  in  water  a  stone. 
Now  she  sees  that  love  to  the  ragman  taken ; 
'Tis  a  garment  outgrown —'tis  a  garment 
outgrown. 
Unbroken  soil  rich  grain  cannot  produce. 

But  ground  that's  broken  or  plowed  in  fall. 
Frozen,  then  thawed,  is  of  great  use,— 
And  thus  it  is  witli  human  hearts  all. 
Heart  goes  down  and  brings  up  the  soul 

To  help  where  it  alone  once  had  spoken; 
It  surely  seems  strange,  but  it  grows  more 
whole. 
For  having  been  broken  —  for  having  been 
broken. 
Yes,  supernal,  boundless,  undecayed, 

A  great  loving  heart  though  yet  unloved 
In  a  thoughtful  woman's  hand  is  laid; 

Though  one  flery  love  hath  vainly  proved. 
Oh,  it  never  has  been  since  Time  began 
That  a  woman  whose  heart   is  broken   in 
twain. 
By  the  down-fallen  castle  built  on  a  man. 
Has   truly   loved  again  — has   truly   loved 
again. 


—  © 


©- 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


SAMUEL  GARBORG. 

Born  in  Norway,  March  16, 1857. 
In  his  youth  Mr.  Garborg  became  a  sailor, 
finally  coming'  to  America;  and  later  attended 
the  academy  of  Iowa  college.    Since  that  time 
he  has  taufjlit  scIhjoI  in  several  states  and  with 


SAMUEL  GARBORG. 

marked  success.  Mr.  Garborg  has  written  both 
prose  and  verse  for  the  last  decade,  which 
have  received  publication  in  numerous  well 
known  periodicals. 


©- 


THE  MORAL  PROSPECT. 

EXTRACTS. 

O  time  of  purest  joy, 

Thou  comest  from  sound  employ! 

O,  feeling  of  content. 

From  strict  adherence  lent 

To  righteous  principles! 

Wlien  truth  and  righteousness 

We  seek,  and  holiness, 

Thou  gi vest  rich  recompense; 

The  holy,  happy  sense 

Of       manhood  glorified. 

So,  though  we  often  must 

In  sadness  strive,  our  trust 

Through  thee  in  God  grows  strong, 

ltej<ii('ing  in  its  song 

Of  moral  victories. 

The  past  to  us  rcilates. 

The  prosi^nt  Indicates, 

That  man,  through  toil  and  thought. 

And  many  a  battle  fought. 


Will  steadily  attain 
To  i-ighteous,  rightful  reign; 
To  virtue,  purity. 
And  just  .security. 
The  future,  then,  a  stream 
Will  be  —  oh,  happy  dream ! 
Of  sweet  tranquility. 
Whose  blessed  reality 
Will  make  old  earth  rejoice, 
And  all  with  lieart  and  voice 
Will  join  the  sacred  song 
Of  glory,  in  tlie  throng 
Whose  lot  was  e'er  replete 
With  heavenly  joj's  complete 
And  universal  fame 
Will  glorify  God's  name. 


KISSING  THE  ROD. 
All  hail  the  power  of  Mighty  God! 

Who  is  in  thunder  and  the  flood; 
Who  whirleth  past  us  in  a  cloud 

Of  smoke,  and  fire  and  rumbling  loud; 
Yet  is  about  and  underneath. 

In  lion's  tooth  as  flowery  wreath; 
Who  is  in  sunshine  and  the  calm,— 

In  tempest  as  in  springtime's  balm; 
Who  ridcth  on  the  mighty  storms. 

Yet  lingers  'round  the  weakest  forms; 
He  by  whose  mighty  outstretched  hand 

Is  held  the  fate  of  all  the  lands; 
Yet  careth  for  the  small  and  great. 

E'en  for  the  worms  that  on  him  wait; 
He  in  whose  ever  active  brain 

Resounds  the  most  majestic  strain 
Of  myriad  worlds  of  thought  and  song,- 

Timeand  eternity  along; 
Who  gave  to  all  things  living,  breath, 

And  taketh  what  he  gave  in  death ; 
To  him  give  adoration  all! 

Remembering  soon  'tis  ours  to  fall. 


MY  FAIRY  LAND. 
O,  that  I  could  but  wander. 

Released  from  earthly  clay. 
To  that  romantic  wonder,— 

My  fairy  land  away ! 

It  has  such  vast  extension,— 

It  is  the  universe; 
There  vivid  comprehension 

Grasps  every  fairy  verse. 

From  planet  and  to  planet. 
Through  space  that  intervenes, 

And  all  the  "  ties  "  that  span  it, 
I'd  soar  to  view  the  scenes. 

The  universe,  my  palace, 
Transversed  by  silver  streams. 

With  music  sweet  would  solace 
My  soul  and  swell  its  dreams. 


— * 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   XATIONAL  POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


253 


-© 


JEFF  MCLKMORE. 

Born:  Spring  Hill,  Tenn., March  13, 1857. 
At  the  age  of  thirteen  years  young-  Atkins 
had  read  most  of  tlie  English  poets,  and  gain- 
ed some  notoriety  among-  his  playmates  for  his 
ability  to  memorize  and  recite  verses.  At 
seventeen  years  of  age  his  poems  first  began 
to  appear  in  print.  In  1878  Mr.  McLemore  em- 
igrated to  Dallas,  Texas,  thence  to  Colorado, 


JEFF  MLEMOHE. 

in  which  latter  state  he  remained  four  years 
engaged  in  newspaper  work.  He  ne.\t  visited 
Mexico,  subsequently  returned  to  Texas  and 
there  began  the  publication  of  a  weekly  news- 
paper. At  present  he  is  editor  and  part  own- 
er of  the  Gulf  News,  a  weekly  journal  pub- 
lished at  Corpus  Christi,  Tex.  Mr.  MeLemore 
is  of  fine  stature,  with  black  hair  and  blue 
eyes  — and  is  still  an  unmarried  man. 


& 


STANZAS— TO  THE  BLANCO  RIVER. 
River  that  rollest  by  the  sunlit  home 

Where  lives  the  lady  of  my  love,  when  I 
Gaze  in  thy  depths  and  view  thy  surging  foam 

My  heart  responds  to  each  embittered  sigh. 
She,  too,  has  stood  beside  thy  pebbled  shore, 

And  oft  we've  gazed  into  thy  mystic  deep; 
But  we   shall  tread   thy    verdant   banks   no 
more  — 

Our  hopes  were  as  the  tiny  waves  that  sweep 
Across  thy  bosom  —  bounding  to  the  sea  — 

A  moment  seen  then  lost  to  sight  forever; 


But,  ah  I  from  youth  'twasever  thus  with  me; 
What  I  most  loved  was  soonest  to  dissever. 

But  let  thy  waters  now  retiect  my  heart 
That  she  each  vain      yet     changeless  tlirob 
may  see ; 

And  tell  her,  gentle  river,  ere  we  part, 
My  soul  is  true  through  all  eternity. 

Tell  her  that  as  thou  flowest  to  the  sea, 
So  Hows  my  love  in  one  unceasing  strain; 

And  know  whatever  either  now  may  be, 
'Tis  better  that  we  should  not  meet  again. 

Then  hurry  onward  to  the  dark,  blue  ocean, 
No.r  longer  wait  beneath  her  eyes  to  rest. 

Lest  thou  may'st  cause  some  pang  or  sad  emo- 
tion 
To  ruffle  her  unmoved  yet  faultless  breast. 

And  now  farewell,  perhaps  forever  more  — 
Like  other  loving  friends  we  too  must  sever; 

But  I  can  ne'er  forget  the  sacred  shore 
Where  once   we   stood  beside   the   Blanco 
river. 


THE  MAIDS  OF  MEXICO. 

The  languid  Maids  of  Mexico! 

Oh !  how  I  love  their  glorious  eyes  I 
That  like  the  brightest  sapphires  glow. 

So  soft,  so  free  from  all  disguise. 
They  are  more  dazzling  than  each  star 

That  sparkles  in  the  skies  above; 
Like  lightning  they  can  flash  in  war  — 

Like  summer  twilight,  melt  in  love. 

The  flowers  they  give  are  not  more  fair 

Than  her  whose  hands  may  bring  the 
posies, 
In  dark  waves  fall  her  glossy  hair  — 

Her  cheeks  sutTused  with  summer  roses; 
And  oft-times  in  the  evening  air 

I've  watch'd  their   forms   so   coy    and 
chary. 
Kneel  down  in  reverential  prayer. 

Before  the  shrine  of  Blessed  Mary. 

And  then  I've  thought,  oh,  glorious  Maid  I 

Could  I  but  sing  thy  charms  divine. 
My  feeble  pen  had  not  delayed 

To  trace  thine  image  on  this  line. 
But  praise  for  thee  is  far  above 

Each  fond,  though  vain  attempt  of  mine; 
I  only  ask  to  share  thj*  love. 

And  bask  beneath  such  eyes  as  thine. 

And  may  those  eyes  through  ages  still 

Retain  the  fire  that  in  them  glows; 
And  may  each  lovely,  vine-clad  hill 

Upon  whose  tops  tlie  wild-flow'r  grows. 
Be  always  green,  and  fresh  and  fair. 

And  kiss'd  by  summer- dews  and  lains; 
And  may  the  Jlaids  who  wander  tliere 

Be  free  from  Sorrow's  cares  and  pains. 


-)5l 


«- 


254 


LOCAL   AND   KATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-© 


MARY. 

Long  years  ago — 'tis  vain  to  tell  — 

We  parted  by  the  river; 
I  whispered  then  a  fond  farewell  — 

Perl)aps  it  was  forever. 
And  though  I've  wandered  far  away. 

O'er  mountain,  sea  and  prairie. 
Still  I  can  ne'er  forget  the  day 

I  bade  farewell  to  Mary. 
They  tell  me  she  is  still  the  same, 

Unchang'd  in  heart  and  feeling; 
Unchang'd  in  look,  unchang'd  in  name, 

With  beauty  'round  her  stealing. 
And  as  my  thoughts  now  swiftly  roam 

To  her  so  coy  and  chary, 
I  sigh  to  thinli  long  years  may  come 

E'er  I  can  be  witli  Mary. 
'Tis  said  the  hearts  that  deepest  love 

Must  feel  the  deepest  sorrow; 
Perhaps  'tis  thus  in  vain  I  strove 

Relief  from  Time  to  borrow. 
For  as  the  years  more  swiftly  creep. 

My  heart  seems  less  to  vary; 
It  knows  but  one  love  long  and  deep  — 

An  endless  love  for  Mary. 
And  now  whate'er  my  hapless  fate, 

Whate'er  my  joy  or  sadness ; 
May  pleasures  ever  'round  her  wait 

To  crown  her  life  with  gladness. 
And  may  sweet  echoes  from  the  past. 

Like  whisperings  of  some  fairy. 
Around  her  lovely  form  be  cast 

To  bring  sweet  peace  to  Mary. 


«- 


FLORA  LEE. 

Oh,  Flora  Lee!  Sweet  Flora  Lee! 

Though  parted  by  tlie  boundless  plain. 
Yet  I  must  still  remember  thee  — 

Although  remembrance  gives  me  pain. 
And  silent  as  I  wander  long 

Beside  the  blue  and  moonlit  sea. 
And  listen  to  the  niglit-bird's  song, 

I  think  of  nauglit  but  Flora  Lee. 
For  she's  the  fairest  of  her  race, 

Tlicre's  mu.sic's  sweetness  in  her  voice - 
An    angel's  meaning  in  her  face 

Which  bids  the  loneliest  heart  rejoice. 
All !  wlio  could  view  so  fair  a  breast 

And  feel  his  heart  from  love  was  free? 
Wliere  is  the  maid  who  is  more  blest 

Than  i)retty,  brown-eyed  Flora  Lee? 
Hut  we  liavo  parted  —  still  the  past 

Must  always  fresh  and  glad'ning  seem; 
And  may  we  meet  iigain  at  last 

To  ]\\v  onct»  I ■(■  onr  blissful  dream. 

]Jut  I  must-  bid  lii'r  now  farewell 

And  wander  o'er  tlie  dark  l)lue  sea. 
Yet  may  some  guardian  angel  dwell 

Forever  near  sweet  Flora  Lee. 


THE  WITHERED  LEAF. 
Though  withered  and  faded, 

And  now  all  alone. 
By  silent  grief  shaded. 

Its  beauty  all  gone; 
Yet  'round  it  is  clinging 

A  love  which  decay. 
Though  still  vainly  wringing. 

Can  ne'er  take  away. 
'Tis  first  of  the  treasures 

That  to  me  are  left. 
It  brmgs  back  the  pleasures 

Of  which  I'm  bereft; 
And  though  it  may  wither. 

Yet  while  it  is  near 
I'll  cherish  no  other 

With  Love's  sacred  tear. 


IF  I  HAD  KNOWN. 

If  I  had  known  those  sunny  smiles 

Could  ever  prove  untrue; 
If  I  had  known  those  fragile  wiles 

Were  false  and  borrowed,  too; 
1  would  not  weep  to  think  that  I 

Had  bowed  before  thy  throne. 
Nor  would  I  draw  one  parting  sigh 

If  I  —  had  only  known. 
If  I  had  known  those  soft  brown  eyes, 

That  once  could  smile  .so  sweet  — 
Like  Heaven's  lamplights  in  the  skies  — 

Could  sparkle  with  deceit; 
I  would  not  flee  from  those  I  love. 

Nor  sigh  to  be  alone; 
Nor  longer  would  I  vainly  rove 

If  I  —  had  only  known. 
If  I  had  known  that  siren  voice 

Was  false  as  that  sweet  smile; 
If  I  had  known  thou  couldst  rejoice 

Because  thou  didst  beguile; 
I'd  spurn  the  offer  of  thy  heart 

And  of  thj'  cheek's  false  glow; 
Without  one  sigh  from  thee  I'd  part, 

But  then  —  I  did  not  know. 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 
When  twilight's  dreamy  hour  has  come. 

And  vesper  bolls  are  I'inging; 
When  from  his  fragrant  woodbine  home 

Tiie  nightingale  is  singing: 
Wiien  languid  nature  softly  smiles 

Wit  h  sweetest  love  on  me. 
My  weary  heart  its  grief  exiles. 

For  then  I  think  of  thee. 
Wiien  flowers  are  blooming  by  the  way  — 

When  in  their  sweetest  measure, 
Tlie  song-birds  sing  the  livelong  day. 

And  all  seems  ]H':ice  and  pleasure; 
Wlien  childhood  kneels  in  silent  i)ray'r 

'Round  some  fond  mother's  knee, 
My  heart  forgets  each  secret  care. 

For  then  I  tliink  of  thee. 


-® 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


255 


-© 


JENIZA  MARSHALL. 

Born  ix  Pennsylvania,  March  24, 1864. 
Emigrating  to  Kansas  with  her  parents  in 
1877,  Miss  Marsluill  taugiit  school  at  the  ajreof 
sixteen,  which  occupation  she  steadily  follow- 


JENIZA  MARSHALL. 

ed  until  1888.  Her  poems  liave  appeared  ex- 
tensively in  the  local  press.  Miss  Marshall  is 
now  a  resident  of  Lyndon,  Kansas. 


®- 


THIS  IS  A  BEAUTIFUL  WORLD. 

O,  this  is  a  beautiful  world! 

I  was  thinking-  of  that  this  morning. 

As  I  plucked  tlie  violets  from  the  hill. 

Fair  Nature's  sweet  adorning. 

And  the  transient  sliadows  flitted 

Across  the  meadow  land. 

And  the  soft  wind  kissed  my  forehead 

And  the  flowers  I  held  in  my  hand. 

O,  this  is  a  beautiful  world, 

A  heavenly  place  to  live  in ; 

And  if  some  of  us  cling-  to  it  overmuch, 

I  hope  we  may  be  forgiven. 

For  when  'tis  the  pleasant  summer. 

And  the  voice  of  the  wind  is  gaj'. 

And  sorrow  seems  far,  far  from  us. 

We  would  have  it  so  alway. 

Tlie  voices  of  happy  children. 

In  the  sweet,  green  fields  at  play. 

Came  wandering  over  the  liill  to  me 

As  I  gathered  my  flowers  to-day. 


And  I  wondered  if  they  would  know. 

When  the  storms  of  the  years  swept  down. 

The  self-same  struggles  for  human  rights, 

And  the  battles  that  I  have  known. 

Ah,  well  for  them  this  morning 

Tliat  they  do  not  understand. 

It  were  well  they  could  play  forever 

In  this  sunny  meadow  land. 

O,  this  is  a  beautiful  world, 

I  thought  to  myself,  to  live  in; 

And  if  some  of  us  cling  to  it  overmuch, 

I  hope  we  may  l)e  forgiiten. 


THE  STEP  ON  THE  STAIR. 

There's  a  feeble  step  on  the  stair,  I  hear. 

As  it  sounds  through  the  silent  room, 
And  a  shadow  falls,  a  feeling  of  fear. 

When  I  realize  that  the  end  draws  near. 
And  he's  only  a  step  from  the  tomb. 
I  stood  in  the  chamber  of  death  to-day. 

Where  a  mother  lay  white  and  still; 
There  was  nothing  left  but  a  casket  of  clay. 

But  my  heart  was  full  when  they  bore  it 
away 
To  the  sepulcher  under  the  hill. 
For  I  thought,  were  it  father  or  mother  of 
mine. 

What  an  empty  home  there  would  be; 
One  break  in  the  flow  of  a  life's  sunshine, 

A  sadder  tone  to  the  midnight  chime. 
And  a  sorrowful  day  to  me. 
A  quiet  room  and  a  vacant  chair 

In  one  corner,  all  alone. 
The  ghost  of  a  step  on  the  silent  stair. 

One  less  in  the  circle  at  family  prayer. 
One  more  at  the  great  white  throne. 


THE  PICTURE  ON  THE  WALL. 

They  had  told  me  she  was  dead,— 
The  little  one  whose  portrait  hangs  on  the 
wall,- 
A  face  to    follow  one  till  the  shadows  of  life 
grow  tall 
With  the  lapse  of  years,  and  the  twilight  be- 
gins to  fall. 
A  baby,  face  and  a  baby's  shapely  head. 
With  a  sober,  searching  look  in  the  eyes  of 
brown ; 
And  glancing  at  him  and  her  I  fancied  in  their 
eyes  shone 
The  ghost  of  a  tear,  and  it  brought  the  mist 
to  my  own. 


EXTRACT. 
No  more  is  heard  the  sound  of  booming  can- 
non. 
That  dreadful  din,  the  bellowing  of  war. 
That  shook  the  union  to  its  deep  foundation. 
Echoing  far  and  near  on  sea  and  shore. 


■m 


©- 


256 


LOCAL  ANB   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


S 


RICHARD  F.  GOTTSCHALK. 

Born;  Newark,  N.  J.,  April  5, 1861. 
For  the  past  live  years  tbe  poems  of  this  writ- 
er have  appeared  in  the  Chicago  Times,  Jour- 
nal and  Current,  the  New  York  Clipper  and 
other  publications  of  iilie  iironiinence,  from 


RICHARD  F.   GOTTSCHALK. 

which  they  have  been  extensively  copied  ijy 
the  local  press.  Mr.  Gottschalk  is  a  steno- 
grapher by  profession,  and  has  also  had  some 
experience  in  the  management  of  theatrical 
companies. 


A  GAME  OF  CARDS. 
We  played  a  g'ame  of  cards,  and  euchre  was 
the  game. 
While  gazing  in  her  languid  eye  my  inmost 
soul  did  stir; 
1  took  a  trick,  and  she  took  two,  and  then  my 
last  trumj)  came. 
She  held  the  t  rumi>  that  called  my  hand  and 
I  did  give  it  her. 


THE  INVALID. 
When  in  the  evening  of  a  bleak  November 
day, 
I  sat  beside  the  divan  whei-e  at  rest 
Reclined  fair  Lizzie;    trying  to  conceal  her 
pain. 
She  sought  to  speak  of  what  I  loved  the  best. 
Little  slie  knew  that  there's  no  theme  tome 
more  dear. 


Than  her  dear  self,  her  day  dreams  to  di- 
vine. 
While  she  relates  tales  of  little  joys  and  fears. 
Not  heeding  her  own  pain,  she  nurses  mine. 
What  other  work  of  the  Creator  could  achieve, 

A  place  so  near  perfection's  lofty  sphere. 
Than  a  true  woman's  heart— with  just  a  touch 
of  art  —  [dear. 

Who  makes  the  world  and  all  within  more 


DEATH. 
Like  to  the  setting  sun,  ebbs  life  away, 

And  end  of  mortal  day  has  come  to  pass; 

As  drops  the  final  sand-grain  in  the  glass 
And  lies  in  perfect  rest,  so  ends  the  play 
Of  animation  in  the  human  clay. 

Which  once  could  love,  and  love  so  tenderly ; 

Could  thrill  a  kindred  heart  with  sympathy; 
All  in  an  hour  turned  to  moldering  clay. 
Of  what  avail  that  we  should  strive  to  flee. 

Or  fear  the  time  when  we  are  to  decay? 
Why  should  we  shun  the  calm  eternal  shore. 
Where  we  well  know  all  care  shall  ended  be 

In  a  calm  sleep?  —  as  sought  each  closing 
day. 
It  is  but  a  perpetual  sleep  —no  more. 

SUNSHINE. 
Fold  back  the  cloud-veil  from  thy  sorrowing 
soul ;  [curse  — 

Grieve  not.    To  grieve   so  were  a  fault  —  a 

Ingratitude  unto  the  universe! 
Ah !  what  a  shame  for  thee  in  tears  to  dole. 
While  j'et  a  ray  of  hope  shines  from  the  goal 

That  thou  may'st  reach  before  thine  end  of 
life,  [strife; 

If   thou'lt   but  bravely  gird    thee  for  the 

Conquering  grief   which  now  enthralls   thy 

soul.  [gloom? 

Why  wilt  thou  seek  to  find  naught  but   the 

And  fail  to  see  the  rays  of  hope  —  of  bliss  — 
That  yet  may  help  to  lift  thee  from  the  tomb 

Of  sorrow,  to  a  world  of  light;  and  miss 
The  sweet,  ennobling  consciousness  of  dodhi 

Dispelled  by  an  uplifting  manliness. 
Where  there  no  cloudy  days,  would  we  then 
love 

The  sun,  in  all  its  glory  of  a  day 

When  the  June  winds  have  brushed  each 
cloud  away? 
Whilst  yet  a  moisture  in  the  air  above 

Reminds  us  of  the  shower,  of  the  love 

Bestowed  on  us  by  Heav'n  but  yesterday ; 

Are  not  the  lesser  rays,  from  day  to  day. 
The  rays  of  hopt',  that  stimulate  our  love 
For  the  great  oib  in  all  its  majesty? 

In  darkest  days  we  catch  a  ray  of  light  — 
If  we  but  lift  our  gaze,  we  e'er  shall  .see 

Some  portion  of  the  horizon  wliere's  briglit 
The  promise  of  a  fairer  day,  to  be. 

Alter  the  passing  of  n  somber  night. 


©- 


^ 


)©- 


-m 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL,   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


JOAQUIN  MILLER. 

Born :  Wabash,  Ind.,  Nov.  10, 1841. 
The  true  name  of  this  poet  is  Cincinnatiis  Hi- 
iier  Miller.  At  thirteen  he  removed  with  his  pa- 
rents to  Oreg-on.     He  then  attempted  mining; 
lived  an  adventurous  life  in  California;  then 


JOAQtriN  MILLER. 

sei-ved  ■vvith  Walker  in  Nicaragua,  and  later  so- 
journed with  the  Indians.  He  began  the  study 
of  law  in  1860,  and  later  published  a  paper  in 
Eugene  City,  Oregon.  At  this  time  Miller  had 
achieved  a  reputation  as  a  writer,  and  became 
known  as  the  Poet  of  the  Sierras.  Married  In 
1863,  domestic  troubles  I'esulted  in  a  divorce. 
He  afterward  married  into  the  Leland  family. 
Maud  Muller  is  the  daughter  of  his  first  wife. 
Songs  of  the  Sierras  and  Songs  of  Italy  are  his 
best  works.  The  Danites  is  also  from  his  pen. 


®- 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

EXTRACTS. 

"  A  tale !  the  tale  of  your  life,  so  ho ! 

For  not  one  man  in  all  Mexico 

Can  trace  your  history  a  half  decade." 

Was  it  a  tear?    Was  it  a  sigh? 
Was  it  a  glance  of  the  priest's  black  eye? 
Or  was  it  the  drunken  revel-cry 
That  smote  the  rock  of  his  frozen  heart 
And  forced  his  pallid  lips  apart? 


"  Mistaken  and  Misunderstood, 
My  hot  magnetic  heart  sought  round 
And  craved  of  all  the  souls  1  knew 
But  one  responsive  throb  or  touch. 
Or  thrill  that  flashed  through  and  through  — 
Deem  you  that  I  demanded  much?— 
Not  one  congenial  soul  was  found. 
I  sought  a  deeper  wild  and  wood, 
A  girlish  form  and  a  childish  face, 
A  wild  waif  drifting  from  place  to  place. 

"  Her  eyes  were  like  the  rabbit's  ej-es. 
Her  mien,  her  manner,  just  as  mild. 
And,  though  a  savage  war-chief's  child. 
She  would  not  harm  the  lowliest  worm. 
And  though  her  beaded  loot  was  firm, 
And  though  her  airy  step  was  trve, 
She  would  not  crush  a  drop  of  dew. 

"  Her  love  was  deeper  than  the  sea, 
And  stronger  than  the  tidal  rise. 
And  clung  in  all  its  strength  to  me. 
A  face  like  hers  is  never  seen 
This  side  the  gates  of  paradise. 

"You  might  have  pluck'd  beams  from 
the  moon. 
Or  torn  the  shadow  from  the  pine 
When  on  its  dial  track  at  noon. 
But  not  have  parted  us  an  hour. 
She  was  so  wholly,  truly  mine, 
And  life  was  one  unbroken  dream 
Of  purest  bliss  and  calm  delight, 
A  flow'ry-shored  untroubled  stream 
Of  sun  and  song,  of  shade  and  bowei', 
A  f  ull-moon'd  serenading  night. 

"  Not  one  had  falter'd,  not  one  brave 
Survived  the  fearful  struggle,  save 
One  —  save  I  the  renegade. 
The  red  man's  friend,  and  —  they  held  me  so 
For  this  alone  —  the  white  man's  foe. 

Then  months  went  on,  till  deep  one  night. 
When  long  thin  bars  of  lunar  light 
Lay  shimmering  along  the  floor. 
My  senses  came  to  me  once  more. 

"  My  eyes  look'd  full  into  her  eyes  — 
Into  her  soul  so  true  and  tried. 
I  thought  myself  in  paradise. 
And  wonder'd  when  she  too  had  died. 
And  then  I  saw  the  striped  light 
That  struggled  past  the  prison  bar. 

"At  last,  one  midnight,  I  was  free; 
Again  I  felt  the  liquid  air 

"I  sought  to  catch  her  to  my  breast 
And  charm  her  from  her  silent  mood ; 
She  shrank  as  if  a  beam,  a  breath, 
Then  silently  before  me  stood. 
Still,  coldly,  as  the  kiss  of  death. 


-8& 


©- 


258 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


-^ 


Her  face  was  darker  than  a  pall. 

Her  presence  was  so  proudly  tall, 

I  would  have  started  from  the  stone 

Where  I  sat  gazing  up  at  her, 

As  from  a  form  to  earth  unknown. 

Had  I  possess' d  the  power  to  stir. 

.4  <■  O  touch  me  not,  no  more,  no  more; 

'Tis  past,  and  my  sweet  dream  is  o'er. 

Impure!    Impure!    Impure!'    she  cried. 

In  words  as  sweetly,  weirdly  wild 

As  mingling  of  a  rippled  tide. 

And  music  on  the  waters  spill'd. 

» Pollution  foul  is  on  my  limbs, 

And  poison  lingers  on  my  lips; 

My  red  heart  sickens,  hot  head  swims, 

I  burn  unto  my  flnger-t=ps. 

But  you  are  free.    Fly!    Fly  alone. 

Yes,  you  will  win  another  bride 

In  some  far  clime  where  naught  Is  known 

Of  all  that  you  have  won  or  lost. 

Or  what  your  life  this  night  has  cost; 

Will  win  you  name,  and  place,  and  power. 

And  ne'er  recall  this  face,  this  hour. 

Save  in  some  secret,  deep  regret. 

Which  I  forgive  and  you'll  forget. 

Your  destiny  ^ill  lead  you  on 

Where,  open'd  wide  to  welcome  you, 
Rich,  gushing  hearts  and  bosoms  are. 
And  snowy  arms,  more  purely  fair, 
And  breasts— who  dare  say  breasts  more  true 
When  all  this  dear  night's  deeds  are  done? 

" '  They  said  you  had  deserted  me. 
Had  rued  you  of  your  wood  and  wild. 
I  knew,  I  knew  it  could  not  be, 
I  trusted  as  a  trusting  child. 
I  cross'd  the  bristled  mountain  high 
That  curves  its  rough  back  to  the  sky, 
I  rode  the  white  maned  mountain  flood. 
And  track'd  for  weeks  the  trackless  wood. 
The  good  God  led  me,  as  before. 
And  brought  me  to  your  prison-door. 

"  <■  That  madden'd  call !  that  fever'd  moan ! 
I  heard  you  in  the  midnight  call 
My  own  name  throtigh  the  massive  wall, 
In  my  sweet  mountain-tongue  and  tone  — 
And  yet  you  call'd  so  feebly  wild, 
I  near  mistook  you  for  a  child. 
The  keeper  with  the  clinking  keys 
I  sought,  imploreil  upon  my  kilees 
That  I  might  see  you,  feel  your  breath, 
Your  brow,  or  breathe  your  low  replies 
Of  comfort  in  your  lonely  death. 
His  red  face  stione,  his  redder  eyes 
Were  like  the  lire  of  the  skies. 
And  all  his  face  was  as  a  flre, 
As  he  said,  "  Yield  to  my  desire." 
Again  I  heard  your  feelile  moan, 
T  cried,  "And  must  he  die  aloneV" 
T  ci'lcd  unto  a  heart  of  stone. 
Ah!  why  tlic  hateful  horrors  tell? 


m- 


Enough!  I  crept  into  your  cell 
Polluted,  loathed,  a  wretched  thing. 
An  ashen  fruit,  a  poison'd  spring. 

•'  1 1  nursed  you,  lured  you  back  to  life, 
And  when  you  woke  and  call'd  me  wife 
And  love,  with  pale  lips  rife 
With  love  and  feeble  loveUness, 
I  turn'd  away,  1  hid  my  face. 
In  mad  reproach  and  deep  distress. 
In  dust  down  in  that  loathsome  place, 
" '  And  then  I  vow'd  a  solemn  vow 
That  j-ou  should  live,  live  and  be  free. 
And  you  have  lived  — are  free;  and  now 
Too  slow  yon  red  sun  comes  to  see 
My  life,  or  death  or  me  again. 
Oh  the  peril  and  the  pain 
I  have  endured!  the  dark  stain 
That  I  did  take  on  my  fair  soul. 
All,  all  to  save  you,  make  you  free. 
Are  more  than  mortal  can  endure: 
But  fire  makes  the  foulest  pure. 

»i  I  Behold  this  finish'd  f  unei-al  pyi-e, 
AU  ready  for  the  form  and  fire. 
Which  these,  my  own  hands,  did  prepare 
For  this  last  night:  then  lay  me  there. 
I  would  not  hide  me  from  my  God 
Beneath  the  cold  and  sullen  sod. 
And  ever  from  the  circled  sun. 
As  if  in  shame  for  e\'il  done. 
But,  wrapped  in  fiery,  shining  shroud. 
Ascend  to  Him,  a  wreathing  cloud.' 

••  She  paused,  she  turn'd,  she  lean'd  apace 
Her  glance  and  half-regretting  face. 
As  if  to  jield  herself  to  me; 
And  then  she  cried,  •  It  cannot  be. 
For  I  have  vow'd  a  solemn  vow. 
And  God  help  me  to  keep  it  now!' 

"  I  sprang  with  arms  extended  wide 
To  catch  her  to  my  burning  breast; 
She  caught  a  dagger  from  her  side 
And  plunged  it  to  its  river  hilt 
Into  her  hot  and  bursting  heart, 
And  fell  into  my  arms  and  died  — 
Died  as  my  s(  ul  to  hers  was  press'd. 
Died  as  I  held  her  to  my  breast. 
Died  without  one  word  or  moan. 
And  l;?ft  me  with  my  dead  —  alone. 
■  . 

'•  I  laid  a  circlet  of  white  stone. 
And  loft  her  ashes  there  alone. 
IJut  after  many  a  white  moon-wane 
I  soviglit  that  sacred  ground  again. 
And  saw  the  circle  of  white  stone 
With  tiill  wild  grasses  overgrown. 
I  did  e.xpect,  I  know  not  why. 
From  out  her  sacred  dust  to  find 
Wild  pinks  and  daisies  blooming  fair; 
And  wlien  1  did  not  find  them  there 
I  almost  docin'd  her  God  unkind. 
Less  careful  of  her  dust  than  I. 


-« 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


2o9 


m 


JOHN  VINCENT  TAYLOR. 

Born:  Bristol,  Eng.,  in  183;^. 
In  1859  he  left  home  for  Canada,  where  lie  be- 
came assistant  upou  the  Huntington  Herald. 
In  1863  he  came  to  New  York,  making'  a  name 
forhimself  by  his  contributions  to  the  Chris- 
tian Intelligencer,  at  the  outbreak  of  the  civil 
w:ir.  upon  the  leading"  topics  of  that  time. 
E\enlu,ill\  h(  \oiuMtetUMl  .iiid  joined  the  2d 
N.  V.  S.  M.,  8»'d  N   'S  .   toi  ihiic  \(  (irs  fur  the 


9& 


JOHN  VINCENT  TAYLOR. 

war.having  the  good  fortune  in  his  first  battle 
(at  the  Wilderness),  to  rescue  and  bring-  the 
stars  and  stripes  from  the  field,  wiiere  they 
had  been  left  by  the  color-sergeant,  who  was 
shot.  Mr.  Taylor  was  himself  placed  liors  de 
combat  near  the  Matapony  river,  Va.,  and  for- 
ever disabled  for  military  service.  In  1865  he 
was  honorably  discharged  from  the  army  at 
Hatcher's  Run,  Va„  totally  deaf,  etc.,  etc.  In 
due  course  his  literary  attainments  were  again 
in  demand  with  such  publications  as  The 
Evening  Globe,  The  Toms'  River  Courier,  and 
The  Cosmopolitan.  In  1873  he  sailed  for  Aus- 
tralia, and  was  known  among  Australian 
journalists  as  that  Young  Man  from  America, 
for  wliile  there  he  contributed  much  valuable 
material  to  the  leading  publications  of  that 
country.  In  1874  he  set  out  for  China,  to  see 
the  Celestials  as  they  are  to  be  seen  at  home, 
spending  three  or  four  weeks  at  Amoy,  and 


two  or  three  at  Tokio.  Returning  again  to 
Sydney,  N.  S.  \V.,  he  departed  thence  via  Lon- 
don to  New  York,  where  his  fame  ha\ing 
quietly  preceded  him,  he  found  his  name  oc- 
cupying a  prominent  position  in  that  part  of 
the  literary  world  where  he  is  a  specialist. 
After  drifting-  about  for  a  period,  he  becamt; 
connected  with  the  United  States  Sewing-  Ma- 
chine Times;  at  the  same  time  contributed  to 
the  Age  of  Steel,  St.  Louis,  Mo.,  as  well  as  sup- 
plying New  York  Letters  to  various  Amer- 
ican and  European  publications.  This  gen- 
tleman was  also  the  person  referred  to  by  a 
New  York  contemporary,  -vvhich,  lately  re- 
viewing a  book  put  upon  the  market  entitled 
(Jathering  Jewels,  said:  "In  the  preparation 
( if  the  -work  for  the  press,  we  think  we  detect 
t  he  literary  earmarks  of  Mr.  J.  Vincent  Tay- 
lor," etc.,  which  was  perfectly  correct. 


BEING  MUSTERED  OUT  FOREVER. 

It's  true,  I'm  going  down  the  bill  at  last; 
Time's  in  a  hurry;  Death  is  coming  fast  — 
All  unmindful  of  the  ties  he'll  sever. 
When  down  I'll  lie  —  niuster'd  out  foreverl 
Do  not  sigh,  for  when  I'm  muster'd  out, 
I'll  follow  comrades  in  the  general  route 
To  where  the  soldier  lives  to  fight  no  more, 
1  n  realms  of  rest  upon  the  other  shore! 

When  I  go,  do  not  weep  or  pine  for  me  — 
Gone  beyond,  into  vast  eternity! 
Alas!  I'll  see  no  more  the  holy  ground.* 
Nor  lowly  bend  in  front  of  loved  mound, 
AVhere  so  many  of  nij'  brave  comrades  fell 
In  Gettysburg's  fierce  storm  of  shot  and  shell; 
For  note,  my  aged  sight  is  growing  dim. 
While  Time  with  trembling-  shakes  my  every 

limb! 
Yes,  I  had  hop'd  to  live  to  see  the  day. 
When  we  a  monument  of  stone  would  lay 
On  the  spot  where  our  gallant  comrades  died, 
And  thus  their  sacrifice  have  memorized! 
But  another  wills,  we  must  be  content. 
To  say  "here!  "  aloft,  when  for  it  we're  sent; 
E'en  so,  I  beg  the  State  to  do  its  best. 
To  hallow  the  spot  where  our  comrades  rest! 

Oh,  how  I  seem  to  see  it  all  again ; 
And  list,  I  hear  once  more  the  mad  refrain 
With  which  the  rebels  fell  upon  our  ranks, 
To  break  our  center  or  to  turn  our  flanks; 
•'  Steady  my  men,"  we  hear  the  Colonel  cry  — 
"  Once  more  stand  firm  —  the   traitors  soon 

will  fly!" 
As  shoulder  to  shoulder  we  stood  that  day. 
To  bear  the  onslaught  of  the  stubborn  fray. 

Three  times  they  charged  down  upon  our  line. 
As  if  they  thought  to  butcher  us  like  swine; 
Yes,  but  we  kept  the  snarling  wolves  at  baj'— 
For  God,  for  country,  liberty,  and  aye! 


m 


* 


-^ 


260 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


But,  oh,  ;it  what  ;i  fearful  cost  'twas  done  — 
As  dropped  down  our  comrades  one  by  one. 
Until  more  than  one  hundred,  then  and  there, 
Had  gone  the  mem '  ry  of  the  dead  to  share ! 

"Close  up  ranks!"  we  heard  a  lieutenant  cry— 
"For  boys  were  bound  to  hold  ourlineordie!" 
Then,  horror  of  horrors!  it  came  to  pass  — 
In  their  last  charge  ~  all  mowed  down  like 

grass  — 
The  reckless  foe  retreated  out  of  sight. 
To  once  more  leave  us  masters  of  the  fight! 
Again  I  seem  to  see  the  carnage  done, 
And  gladly  watch  the  foemen  as  they  run ! 

Loudly  their  leaders  call'd  on  them  in  vain : 
"For  God's  sake,  form  your  lines,  and  charge 
again !  "  [that  — 

Of  course,  they  could  see  naught  of  God  in 
No  more  than  you  can  in  your  batter'd  hat. ' 
And  why  did  we  not  after  them  pursue? 
Ah,  my  son,  we  had  holier  work  to  do  — 
Two  hundred  of  our  dead  around  us  lay, 
Awaiting  the  return  of  dust  to  clay! 

Then,  as  daj  light  decreased  in  the  West, 
Sorrowfully  we  tried  to  do  o\ir  best 
To  lay  them  side  by  side  in  that  holy  ground- 
Thenceforth  historic  all  the  globe  arouTid! 
And  when  the  earth  their  silent  forms  did 

hide  ; 
We  fail'd  the  tears  of  comradeship  to  hide  — 
In  haste  the  painful  duty  soon  was  done  — 
Quickly  to  answer  roll-call  one  by  one. 

Then  we  found  others  missing  from  the  field. 
To  silent  pray  the  God  of  battles  shield 
Them  from  all  harm  wherever  they  might  be-- 
From  treason's  steel,  deceit  and  treachery! 
But  now  my  years  are  full  unto  fourscore, 
I  shall  see  holy  Gettysburg  no  more  — 
That  grand  altar  of  freedom  and  of  right. 
Where  loyality  hurl'd  treason  back  lo  night! 

For  from  that  day  the  rebels  lost  all  hope  — 
Gradually  hemmed  in,  they  lacked  scope 
To  continue  the  long  and  bootless  strife 
They  vainly  waged  against  a  nation's  li fe !  " 
At  last,  the  aged  patriot  ceas'd  to  speak. 
And  wliile  a  sigh  did  Init  the  silence  break. 
Upon  the  pillow  once  more  lay  his  head  — 
As  "  muster'd  out,"  another  soul  had  fled ! 
— *  Gettysburg. 


SB- 


HOME  AND  COUNTRY. 

ACROSTIC. 

Hist!  and  let  us  recall  the  past  again  — 
O'er  full  of  ingrate  strife,  woe,  and  pain. 
Malignant  hate  and  patriotic  love  — 
E'en  as  when  Evil  warr'd  with  God  above! 

Alas!  we  hear  the  Nation's  call  for  aid. 
Nor  turn  away  with  craven  answer  made, 
Dainited  by  treason  which  first  drew  the  blade. 


Columbia  did  not  plead  or  call  in  vain  ;  [plain? 
Our  martial  hosts    came  up  from  vale  and 
United  the  Free  States  together  stood, 
•Nor  stinted  e'en  the  treasure  or  the  blood 
That  loyalty  demanded  from  them  all  — 
Regicidal  Rebellion  doom'd  to  fall  — 
Ye  help'd  to  conquer  and  to  disenthrall! 

Hush!  come  look  with  me  o'er  yon  battle- 
ground. 
On  which  the  soldier  sleeps  in   rest  profound ; 
Maybe  he  dreams  of  home  and  country. 
E'en  on  the  field  of  carnage  that  you  see. 

Ay!  sees  his  roof-tree  and  his  lov'd  ones  dear. 
Nor  hesitates  to  drop  a  manly  tear. 
During  his  happy  dream  of  home  and  cheer. 

Close  the  wife  holds  the  little  one  at  breast, 
Or  with  a  lullaby  coos  it  down  to  rest, 
Until  he  feels  really  at  home  again. 
No  more  to  hear  unholy  war's  retrain ! 
Turning  over,  he  wakes  up  with  a  start, 
Reminded  of  a  gallant  soldier's  part  — 
Yet  cannot  still  the  beating  of  his  heart! 
How  real  it  seem'd,  he  murmurs  to  himself; 
Oh !  yes;  how  dear  to  me  by  far  than  pelf  — 
My  loving  wife  —  our  babe  —  our  home  — 
E'en  when  the  fiercer  strife  of  battles  come! 

And  my  glorious  country,  what  of  thee? 
Now,now,at  last  thou  shalt  grow  fair  and  f  ree~ 
Doom'd  thy  plague-spot  of  human  slavery! 

Curs'd  be  the  horde  who'd  strike  at  thee  again. 

Or,  covertly,  would  cause  tliee  future  pain ! 

United  in  all  parts  forever  stand. 

Ne'er  divided  by  either  stream  or  land. 

Till  future  time  and  tide  shall  cease  to  be 

Recorded  only  as  eternity ! 

Yea,  that  and  more,  I  live  or  die  f(n-  ihee! 


MRS.  EMMA  C.  WOOD. 

Born:  South  Berwick,  Me.,  Jan.  5.  1859. 
This  lady  has  contributed  quite  a  few  gems 
to  the  ]ieriodical  yiress.    She  was  married  in 
1881  to  Rev.  S.  G.  Wood. 


"GOOD-BY,  PAPA." 
That  little  maid?  Well,  yes;  you  see 
Slie  is  the  liglit  of  life  to  me; 
Her  mother's  vei'j'  image,  sir. 
So  natural-like  I   cling  to  her. 
A  little  one,  I  know  —  not  strong; 
But  still  I  pray  God  si>:ire  her  long. 
When  1  leave  home  at  early  liay, 
I  hear  her  voice  far  on  the  way 
Calling,  "Good-by  !  My  love,  you  know, 
Isyour's,  Pupa,  where'er  you  go." 


-* 


®- 


LOCAT.   AND    NATIONAI-    I'OETS   OF  AMERICA. 


2()1 


CHARLES   F.  MARKKLL. 

Boun:  Fkedekick,  Md.,  Oct.  16, 1855. 
In  1876  Cliarles  graduated  in  tlie  law  depart- 
ment of  Columbia  university,  Washiugton, 
D.  C,  his  legal  essay  leeeiving  the  first  prize, 
and  was  admitted  to  tlie  bar  of  that  eity.  He 
shortly  afterward  visited  Europe.  On  his  re- 
turn Mr.  Markell  located  at  Fort  Wayne,  Ind., 
but  finding-  the  climate  detrimental  to  his 
health  he  returned  to  his  native  jilace  in  1880, 


CHAKLES  J"KEDEKICK  MARKELL. 

wliere  he  lias  since  Ijeen  engaged  in  the  ac- 
tive practice  of  his  profession.  In  18*3  he  was 
elected  as  a  republican  to  tlie  Maryland  house 
of  delegates.  For  tliree  years  Mr.  Markell 
was  junior  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Fred- 
erick Daily  and  Weekly  Times.  He  has  an  in- 
terest in  several  otlier  enterprises,  notably 
that  of  the  Asbestos  mines  and  also  the  UnioQ 
Foundries. 


m 


TO-NIGHT. 

Could  I  but  die  to-inght 

While  yet  my  lips  th"/  kisses  warm; 
Wliile  beats  my  heart  against  thine  own 

As  storm-bird  rides  the  storm: 
Could  I  but  die  to-night 

While  yet  breathes  soft  thy  gentle  breath 
"  I  love  thee;"  gladly  would  I  hail 

The  sweet  advent  of  death. 
Could  I  but  die  to-night 


Ere  yet  my  trusting  lieart  has  found 
The  pain  of  llie  soul-enterlug  iron. 

Or  felt  the  arrow's  wound. 
Could  I  but  die  to-night 

Ere  yet  my  throbbing  brea.st  has  known 
The  frailty  of  woman's  love. 

The  anguish  of  my  own. 
Could  I  but  die  to-night 

Ere  fades  this  rapturous  dream  too  soon, 
While  life  is  flushed  with  hallowed  light 

That  dims  the  rays  of  noon. 
Could  I  but  die  to-night 

While  yet  I  leel  thy  heart-blood  leap 
For  me,  how  gladly  would  I  go: 

How  sweetly  would  1  sleep. 


SLEEPING. 
The  white-winged  messenger  has  come 
To  whisper  with  a  voice  as  soft 
As  measures  of  the  symphonj- 
With  which  his  holy  home  abounds. 
That  she,  whose  whiteness  here  below 
Was  purer  than  the  hill-side  snow, 
Must  glisten  soon  'neath  that  sunbeam 
Celestial,  that  forever  gilds 
The  bright  hill-sides  of  paradise: 
And  that  the  lilj',  pure,  that  bloomed 
Upon  savaiuias  dark  and  dank. 
Soon  of  elysian  dews  will  drink. 
And  shed  its  perfume  'round  tlie  throne 
Of  Him  who  gave  the  flower  life. 
Deep  in  unstartled  chambers  now 
She  sleeps;  and  o'er  her  bosom,  void. 
Perpetual  vigil  angels  keep; 
While  echoes,  ringing  through  the  tomb, 
A     name  she  loved  in  life  repeat. 
Each  flower  on  her  grassj'  grave, 
That  bows  its  head  to  matin  dews 
And  sheds  its  richest  plenitude 
Of  thanks  in  silent  perfumed  jirayer. 
Breathes  also  in  that  prayer  a  name; 
And  breathes  it  o'er  and  o'er  again 
Until  the  breath  and  name   are   swept 
By  softest  winds  that  kissed  the  bud 
To  seas  of  heavenly  song  above. 
A  name  she  loved  in  life;  how  oft 
The  lips  now  stricken  by  the  hand 
Tiiat  also  bade  the  heart-throb    cease. 
And  still  itself  in  endless  rest. 
Told  witli  it  in  their  fondest  way 
The  love  and  gratitude  she  felt. 
Her  sister's  name.     One  wlio  now  stands 
Upon  the  margin  of  the  beck 
With  straining  eye  and  yearning  heart: 
Who  hears  the  song  the  flowers  breathe. 
And  from  the  glorious  symphony 
Of  angels'  voices  high  above 
Discerns  the  song  lier  dear  dead  sings. 
And  longs  to  answerback  again. 


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SCNSET  OF  THE  HEART. 

The  ghostly  shadows  softly  shift 

Across  the  russet  lawn, 
Fond  mem'ries  of  departed  friends 

And  friendships  lost  and  gone. 
The  ferns  of  hope,  with  folding  leaf. 

Close  to  the  gathering  dew  — 
The  dew  of  cold  adversity 

That  chills  them  through  and  through. 

The  trailing  vines  of  tender  love. 

With  trembling  tendrils  torn, 
Still  clasp  the  idol  of  their  lives. 

Though  winds  of  bligiiting  scorn 
Wrest  them  away  with  with'ring  blast 

And  rend  with  cruel  breath. 
While  hoar-frosts  of  ingratitude. 

Bite  them  to  bitter  death. 

Tlie  rivulets  of  childhood's  dreams 

Have  lulled  themselves  to  rest; 
The  violets  of  innocence 

Turn  down  eaeli  painted  breast. 
Briglit  fancy's  birds  with  wearied  wing. 

Rest  on  the  drooping  boughs 
And  listen  to  the  rustling  leaves 

Of  long  forgotten  vows. 

The  blackened  crags  and  time-seared  rocks 

Of  passions  bold  and  free, 
Are  shrouded  in  a  robe  of  moss, — 

The  moss  of  charity. 
The  mountains  dark  of  grief  and  toil 

Fade  with  the  paling  ray,  . 
And  mingling  with  the  falling  shades. 

Steal  one  by  one  away. 

Calm  resignation's  quiet  lake 

Glows  'neath  the  sinking  sun. 
And  breathes  its  purl  of  holy  prayer. 

Ere  yet  the  day  is  done; 
Soft  clouds  of  mercy,  pure  and  white. 

Rise  o'er  the  gilded  zone. 
To  mirrorback  tlie  dying  light,— 

Tlie  warmth  of  life  is  gone. 

Just  where  the  molten  fires  have  fled 

And  left  their  gold  behind. 
There  comes  a  voice  divinely  sweet, 

Like  music  of  the  wind, 
That  bids  each  passion,  grief  and  joy. 

Each  hope,  oacli  love  depart 
And  pass  into  forgetfulness,— 

'Tis  siuiset  of  the  heart. 


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MONOCACY. 

Monocacy,  loved,  fair  nyinj))!  of  the  wt)od, 
Catoctin's  own  fai-wandci-ing  cliilii; 

Oh  soft  istliy  name,  yet  softer  thy  flood, 
And  meUowcd  tliy  music  and  wild. 

Not  as  Potomac,  whose  historic  fame 
Forover  olilivion  bars. 


Nor  fair  Shenandoah,  whose  musical  name 
In  Indian  is  "  Child  of  the  stars," 

Art  thou  ever  sung  immortal  in  verse 
Where  painters  and  bards  love  to  dream. 

Yet  better  by  far,  unknown  in  thy  course, 
I  love  thee  my  own  mountain  stream. 

My  heart  is  a  river  sullen  and  deep. 

Whose  glad  song  was  stilled  long  ago: 
Upon  its  dark  crest  tlie  moons  never  sleep. 

Nor  fair  flowers  gladden  its  flow. 
No  ripple  of  hope  its  bosom  awakes. 

No  soft  purl  of  prayer  its  sad  tides; 
Lilies  of  dreams  liave  forsaken  its  lakes, 

And  bright  birds  of  fancy  its  sides. 
But  sometimes  the  shades  of  friends  that  are 
gone. 

As  twilight,  half  light  up  the  gloom; 
And  thus  it  will  flow  forever  and  on 

Till  its  waves  are  lost  in  the  tomb. 


MRS.  ELLEN   F.  LINCOLN. 

Born:  Portland,  Me.,  April  21, 1833. 
Since  her  marriage  in  1862  to  Dr.  John  D. 
Lincoln,  this  lady  has  resided  in  Brunswick, 
Me.  Her  poems  have  appeared  in  the  Boston 
Congregationalist,  Youth's  Companion,  Port- 
land Transcript  and  other  publications,  and 
she  is  represented  in  the  Poets  of  Maine. 


HER  STORY. 
Only  a  little  thread  of  gold. 

Running  her  whole  life  through. 
So  plainly  she  could  see  it  here. 
Then  lost  awhile  could  trace  it  there. 

As  it  came  again  in  view. 

Only  a  little  rill  of  love. 

That  watered  her  dusty  way. 
But  the  meagre  draught  though  sweet  to  sip, 
And  quaffed  with  an  eager  tliirsting  lip. 

Could  not  that  thirst  allay. 

Only  a  bright  and  buoyant  hope, 

That  could  not  be  repressed. 
But  it  lifted  at  once  her  weight  of  care. 
It  made  of  her  desert  a  gay  par  terre. 

And  her  secret  was  unguessed. 

For  none  might  know  that  hidden  fount. 

Of  joy  within  her  heart. 
There  are  dreams  to  which  we  fondly  cling. 
And  flowers  too  frail  for  blossoming. 

Of  our  very  lives  a  part. 

Her  busy  days  at  last  were  done. 

And  the  weary  feet  liad  rest, 
Tlie  thread  of  gold  had  all  been  spun; 
The  liKle  nil  had  ceased  to  run. 

And  the  hope  died  unconfessed. 


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ANNETTA  J.  HALLIDAY. 

Bokn:  Sr^ACUSE,  N.Y.,  Nov.  1, 1869. 
Attending  the  convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart, 
Miss  Anaetta  received  a  thorough  education. 
She  is  now  a  teacher  of  vocal  and  instrument- 
al music,  and  also  gives  instruction  in  French, 
German,  Italian  and  Spanish.  Miss  Halliday 
has   written   jKiems  from    a   very  early  age. 


ANNKTTA  J.   HALLIUAY. 

which  have  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the 
Chicago  Current,  Detroit  Evening  News,  Yan- 
kee Blade,  and  other  well  known  publications. 
She  resides  with  her  parents  in  Detroit,  Mich. 
Miss  Halliday  hopes  to  publish  a  volume  in  the 
near  future. 


® 


FEOM  i.LIFE  IN  A  DAY." 

A  FACE  AND  A  FATE. 

All  that  I  know  about  a  certain  face 
Is  that  it  looked  destruction  into  mine! 
Methought  that  God,  and  Heaven  and  Man, 
Were  atoms  quite,  and  all  the  span 
Of  years  that  bridge  the  great  between 
Had  halted,  that  I  might  but  glean 
The  sunshine  and  the  shadow  of  thy  grace. 
My  own,  and  kiss  away  my  soul  on  tliine! 
The  stars  ruled  from  their  courses  and  the 

earth 
Might   whirl,    and    burn,    and  perish  in  its 

doom ; 
For  m  a  moment  all  tlie  strife. 
The  throbbing  toil  which  men  call  Life, 


Had  vanished,  and  there  lived  for  me. 
One  heart  desire,— to  be  with  thee. 
Together!  this  the  need  for  Heaven's  worth, 
For  if  thou  be  not  by  me,  all  is  gloom. 


DREAM  TONES. 

I  send  my  heart  up  to  thee 

In  a  song; 
And  the  hour  bears  part,  for  the  stars  gleam 

bright. 
And  the  winds  whisper  low  on  the  breath  of 

the  night. 
Be  thy  sleep  as  calm  as  the  moonlight  above, 
SVhile  I  watch  thy  casement  with  eyes  of  love. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on ! 
The  fainting  night  throbs  out  as 

Ne'er  before; 
While  the  fire-flies  sink  on  the  river's  brim. 
And  the  light  of  my  life  seems  hushed  and 

dim. 
For  thou'rt  silent.    Hark,  our  token  —  how 

sweet 
To  feel  that  our  hearts  on  each  other  heat — 

Dream  on,  Dream  on ! 
Let  thy  arms  clasp  me  fast,  I 

Swoon,  I  fail. 
Kiss  me  dearly,  sweet  one,  and  heart  on  heart 
Let  my  lips  to  your  hps  cling  ere  we  part; 
Press  thy  cheek  to  my  cheek,— love  ne'er  will 

die,— 
Close,  till  our  speech  is  lost  in  passion's  sigh. 
Love  on,  love  on ! 


RETROSPECTION. 

Dearest,  do  you  remember 

Just  one  short  year  ago. 

How  we  promised,  you  and  I, 

As  the  long,  long  months  should  fly. 

To  make  our  life  a  little  heaven 

Here  below? 

Year  ago. 
Do  you  know  what  words  you  said. 
You  could  ne'er  love  again? 
And  you  emphasized  your  speech 
In  the  way  that  love  can  teach, 
For  your  kisses  showered  fast 

Like  summer  rain? 

Love  again. 
Do  you  think  of  how  we  left 
The  old  home  far  away? 
Where  tho'  apples  used  to  swing 
And  the  honeysuckle  cling. 
And  the  song-tird  used  to  carol 

All  the  day? 

Far  away. 


DEAD  LEAVES. 

Where  is  she  gone  to,  silent  night. 
And  why  is  her  window  open  wide? 


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LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL    POETS   OK  A3IERICA. 


I  wait,  I  watch,  but  no  wife  comes  near,— 

I  only  know  that  she  Is  not  here  — 

I  only  feel  that  from  my  side 

Is  flown  the  one  who  sanctified 

My  very  soul !  Ah,  never  more 

Her  kiss  will  greet  me  as  before. 

Was  it  something  said,  dearest  one? 

Or  some  action  I  had  left  undone? 

Was  it  wrong  to  chide  you  for  that  smile 

And  ask  you  to  abstain  for  my  sake? 

For  you  knew  not  how  I  felt  the  while 

And  my  heart  — you  could  not  guess  'twould 

break. 
Ah  come  back  and  teach  me,  only  teach  1 
I  will  be  a  slave,  love,  to  thy  speech. 
You  swore  to  honor  and  obej'— 
Hark !  does  ths  echo  trj-  to  say 
One  of  the  Legion  of  the  Lost? 


REV.  H.  F.  DARNELL,  D.D. 

Born  in  England,  June  24, 1831. 
The  compositions  of  this  gentleman  have  ap- 
peared in  the  leading  magazines  of  this  coun- 
try and  Canada.  In  1862  a  volume  of  his  poems, 
entitled  Songs  by  the  Way,  attracted  much  at- 
tention. For  several  years  past  Rev.  Darnell 
has  been  rector  of  Zion  church,  Avon,  N.  Y. 
His  Songs  of  the  Season  and  his  A  Nation's 
Thanksgiving,  pubhshed  in  Philadelphia  in 
1885  and  1887,  were  favorably  received  by  the 
American  press  and  people.  Since  that  time 
Dr.  Darnell  has  written  several  stories,  which 
have  been  widely  read. 


DEDICATION. 
To  thee,  dear  child  —  in  Heaven  — 
Who  on  thy  father's  toil  no  more  shalt  smile. 

These  flowers  —  in  memory  given  — 
May,  like  those  spread  above  thy  dust,  awhile 
Some  few  fast-fleeting  hours  of  care  beguile. 

And  die  at  even ; 
But  if,  to  that  serener  atmosphere 
In  which  thou  dwell'st,  their  leaves,  though 
sere. 
May  waft  one  parting  breath 
Ere   they   have   perished    from    this    lower 
sphere,— 
They  will  have  conquered  death. 


©- 


MAY-DAY  SONG. 
O  happy  day !  O  bright  May-day  I 

Sweet  herald  of  tiie  Spring: 
Conio,  girt  witli  golden  promises. 

And  Hope's  fair  blossoming: 
Tliou  Eiirtli,  be  green  —  ye  Skies,  serene. 

To  greet  our  Queen  ! 
Give  flowers  to  graee  lier  yo\i1hful  l)row, 

Soft  turf  b'eneatli  lier  feet; 


Let  heaven  be  musical  with  songs 

Of  wild-birds,  soft  and  sweet: 
Thou  Earth  be  green  —  ye  Skies,  serene. 

To  deck  our  Queen ! 

Bring  sunny  hours  of  joj'  and  love 

To  cheer  the  course  of  life; 
Make  free  her  path  from  thorny  cares. 

Give  peace  when  storms  are  rife: 
Thou  Earth  be  green  —  ye  Skies,  serene. 

To  bless  our  Queen! 

Alas !  that  crowns  like  these  should  fade. 

And  early  ties  be  broken  — 
The  bitterest  word  of  all  —  "  farewell"— 

By  loving  lips  be  spoken: 
When  youth  is  gone,  and  life  is  sere, 

And  changed  the  festive  scene. 
Thou  Earth  be  green  —  ye  Skies,  serene, 

To  bless  our  Queen  I 


UNDER  THE  SNOW. 

Under  the  snow  —  four  foot  low  — 

I  laid  a  child  to  rest; 
Her  form  was  chill,  her  lips  were  still  — 

No  pulse  within  her  breast: 
In  her  eye  no  light,  and  her  brow  as  white 

As  the  flowers  her  fingers  pressed. 

Under  the  snow  —  four  foot  low  — 

That  tiny  form  was  laid ; 
The  feeble  ray  of  a  winter  day 

Above  her  hghtly  played; 
And  a  little  mound  of  frozen  ground 

Was  all  the  tribute  paid. 

Under  the  snow  —  four  foot  low  — 

I  left  that  sleeping  child ; 
But  Spr-'ng  came  round,  with  merry  sound. 

And  the  air  was  fresh  and  mild; 
The  grass  waved  green  where  the  snow  had 
been. 

And  the  birds  sang  sweet  and  wild. 

Still,  under  the  snow  —  cold  and  low  — 

She  lies  in  my  memory; 
For  no  eartiily  Spring  can  ever  bring 

My  darling  back  to  me; 
I  ne'er  can  hear  that  voice  so  dear  — 

That  light  step  bounding  free'. 

Thus,  under  the  snow  —  four  foot  low  — 

That  form  still  silent  lies; 
But  a  Spring  shall  shine,  and  a  voice  divine 

Shall  one  day  bid  it  rise; 
So  I  will  not  weep,  for  the  angels  keep 

That  grave  in  their  loving  eyes. 

When  earth  and  its  snow,  beneath  the  glow 

Of  that  Siiring,  shall  melt  away. 
That  form  sliall  rise  beyond  the  skies. 

And  bask  in  Heaven's  ray  — 
Shall  reunite  with  the  spirit  bright 

Which  left  it  lifeless  clay. 


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JOHN  PRESTON  CAMPBELL. 

Born  in  Boston,  Mass. 
The  writings  of  Mr.  Campbell  have  received 
and  are  still  receiving  very  favorable  com- 
ment from  the  press.  The  beautiful  volume 
from  his  pen,  Queen  Sylvia  and  Other  Poems, 
has  had  quite  an  extensive  sale.  The  variety 
of  themes  touched  upon  seem  almost  unbound- 


©- 


JOHN  PRESTON  CAMPBP:LL. 

ed.  Although  still  a  comparatively  young-  man, 
this  brilliant  poet  has  already  gained  quite  an 
enviable  reputation  among  the  young  writers 
of  America.  For  the  past  fourteen  years  he 
has  been  in  the  active  practice  of  law  in  Abil- 
ene, Kansas.  Mr.  Campbell  is  also  the  author 
of  The  Land  of  Sun  and  Song,  a  Kansas  poem 
recently  issued  in  Ixioli  foim;  and  The  Sum- 
merless  Sea,  an  arctic  poem. 

I  OFTEN  WISH. 
I  often  wish,  in  m.ood  sublime. 

That  I  could  rise  on  sei-aph  wings 
And  flit  throughout  that  Aidenn  clime. 

Where    bliss    wells    from    a    thousand 
spi'ings; 
But  when  my  spirit  it  would  soar 

To  the  gate  of  God  where  glory  waits. 
Some  sorrow  at  my  bosom's  core 

The  heavenly  spell  that  instant  breaks. 

At  eventide,  when  mildness  falls 
Amidst  the  shaded  scenery  'round, 


Then  a  light  from  the  celestial  walls 
Tinges  the  lily  and  the  mound; 

And  the  Muses  urge  my  spirit  on. 
To  break  these  earthly  hamperings, 

And  go  flitting  through  the  dawn 
To  where  the  choir  of  heaven  sings. 

And  sometimes,  in  diviner  mood, 
The  celestials  they  will  come. 

With  blest  heralds  of  the  sisterhood. 
Pointing  me  to  the  land  of  sun: 

Which  makes  my  restless  soul  desire 
•    To  instant  rise  and  sweep  away 

Into  the  bliss  of  the  world  up  higher. 
Beyond  tlie  mystic  gates  of  day. 

A  gush,  like  an  angel's  psalm. 

Of  some  rapt  symphony  sublime. 
Which  falls  like  a  soothing  balm, 

Oft  comes  o'er  this  soul  of  mine 
When,  in  musing  mood,  I  meditate, 

At  the  world's  opening  door. 
Of  Heaven  and  things  eternal,  great; 

Of  joy  and  bliss  for  evermore. 


HOW  CUPID  FOUND  THE  WORLD. 

One  cloudless  day  of  yore. 
As  Mercurj'  and  Venus  slept. 
From  their  unguarded  door 
A  cunning  little  archer  crept. 

A  moment  pausing  on  the  height. 
He  viewed  the  new-born  world ; 

Then,  with  a  descending  ray  of  light. 
His  tiny  pinions  he  unfurled. 

Downsweeping  the  celestial  way. 
He  alighted  near  Eden's  garden  fair. 

And  bath  ever  since  that  fatal  day 
Made  mischief  with  each  loving  pair. 

His  name  is  little  Cupid  slj'. 

As  all  the  bards  avow. 
And  many  a  lieart  and  eye 

Feel  his  mischief  now. 

He  carries  'round  a  golden  bow. 

With  arrows  silverj-  keen. 
And  many  a  light  heart  turns  to  woe 

From  his  archery  supreme. 

Sometimes  the  stringwill  broken  fall. 

The  arrows  get  misplaced. 
But  on  luckless  mortals  he  will  call 

To  key  it  up  with  haste. 

At  the  door  he  raps  with  gentle  tap. 
With  heels,  and  hands  and  head: 

He's  as  cunning  a  little  chap 
As  ever  yet  was  bred. 

And  should  you  let  him  in 

From  the  cold  and  drenching  rains. 
In  a  fiendish  streak  of  sin 

He'll  wound  you  for  your  pains. 


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Around  the  sofa's  silken  folds, 

Guarded  by  angel  bands. 
In  pomp  this  archer  strolls, 

Rending  love-links  with  his  hands. 

Ah !  the  mischief  that  was  made 
In  letting  this  little  archer  out. 

There  'twill  all  be  said 
In  the  decalogue  of  eternity,  no  doubt. 


®- 


MY  ANGEL  BRIDE. 

Amid  the  evening  twilight  tide 
I  strayed  in  a  cloudless  clime 

Near  a  lakelet's  silvery  side. 
Deep  pondering  things  divine. 

The  starlight  in  the  water  fell, 
The  moon  gleamed  up  in  heaven ; 

Oh!  holy,  hallowed  was  the  spell 
That  'round  me  there  was  given. 

By  the  lakelet's  opposite  brink 
I  saw  a  snowy-robed  angel  .stand; 

First  from  her  I  thought  to  shrink. 
But  she  beckoned  with  her  hand. 

Then  would  I  have  crossed  the  tide, 
For  that  face  before  I'd  seen ; 

Ah !  once  she  was  my  plighted  bride. 
My  fair  and  worshiped  queen. 

She  instant  raised  her  seraph  eyes, 
As  if  imploring  the  heaven  clear; 

When  lo!  out  of  the  ambient  skies, 
Melodious  voices  sounded  near. 

"  A  little  longer  leave  him  there. 
Mayhap  to  pen  some  deathless  line; 

When  the  sheaf  be  ripe  and  fair. 
Garner  it  in  the  autumn's  prime." 

She  replied  "  I'm  aweary  waiting, 
Alone  amid  the  golden  spheres. 

Whilst  others  there  are  mating, — 
Mating  for  the  eternal  years." 

"  Oh,  grieve  not,  thou  heavenly  one. 
For  the  joys  of  earth  that's  past; 

Abide  till  an  eternity  of  dawn 
Breaks  'round  thy  love  at  the  last.' 

She  answered,  •>  Pray  then  let  it  be; 

Write  fair  on  the  record  above. 
Without  the  wall  of  the  Jasper  Sea, 

I'll  wait  and  watch  for  my  love." 

The  flow  of  her  silvery  voice 
Was  wafted  by  an  angel's  wing; 

The  hosts  of  heaven  did  rejoice 
At  her  love's  deep  unwavering. 

Shadows,  numborlesp,  seemed  to  Hit 
As  she  raised  and  floated  away. 

While  on  the  face  of  the  lakelet 
Fell  a  beam  brighter  than  day. 

Long,  long  in  the  hush  of  night 
I  gazed  into  the  heaven  there. 


To  see  whence  she'd  taken  her  flight. 
My  beautiful  angel  bride  so  fair. 

Since  that  eve  at  varied  times 
Will  fall  on  the  ear  of  my  soul 

Some  of  those  blest  Aidenn  chimes 
That  from  the  harps  of  angels  roll. 

Oft  I  hear  the  voice  of  my  bride 
Chiding  me  that  I  do  not  come. 

From  the  evening  twilight  tide. 
That  her  weary  waiting  may  be  done. 


THE  BERRY  PATH. 
Indeed,  is  this  the  berry  path. 

The  path  of  long  ago. 
Where  sportive  I  did  laugh. 

With  schoolmates  rang'd  arow? 

Are  these  the  ancient  pines 

That  stood  so  gloomy,  tall, 
And  the  fond  memory  lines 

I  trac'd  with  my  pen-knife  small? 

Is  this  the  lily  pond  to  the  right. 
The  wall  so  moss'd  with  eld, 

Where  went  each  young  day's  flight. 
The  school  house  where  I  spell'd? 

Ah,  yes,  they  are  the  same, 

Pasture,  play-ground,  hill; 
But  only  this  in  name. 

For  Time  hath  wrought  his  will. 

In  meditative  mood  I  pause. 
As  for  this  and  that  one's  coming; 

But  my  soul  the  silence  awes 
At  the  vari'd  changes  running. 

Some  have  wend'd  hence,  away 
In  pursuit  of  life's  charms; 

Others  rest  in  the  church  yard  clay, 
Where  the  worm  defacing  harms. 

I  fanci'da  fortnight's  cheer 
In  lingering  along  this  walk ; 

But  with  lov'd  ones  missing  here. 
Each  pleasure  seems  to  mock. 

The  berry  path  so  joyful  then, 
Lin'd  with  laughing  boys  and  girls. 

Seems  like  a  desert'd  glen 
Where  Time's  succession  whirls. 

And  somehow  as  T  view 

My  youtlifwl  i)lay-gi'ound  o'er. 

Like  ghosts  come  Hitting  into  view 
The  vanish'd  joys  of  yore. 

The  echoing  of  my  footfalls 
Rise  as  dead  from  out  the  ground. 

As  those  of  Death's  in  his  icy  halls 
'Mid  the  hush  of  nature  all  profound. 

Sure,  there's  little  joy  for  me 

In  wending  here  iilone. 
And  painful  grows  my  reverie 

Where  all  my  mates  have  flown. 


^ 


£ 


LOCAL,  AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


2fi7 


-* 


EDGAR  WELLTON  COOLEY. 

Born:  Manchester,  O.,  Dec.  13, 1865. 
After  leaving  school  Edgar  learned  to  set 
type  in  the  office  of  the  Keokuk  Daily  Consti- 
tution. In  1881  he  removed  with  his  parents 
to  Marshalltown,  Iowa,  where  he  now  resides. 
Mr.  ('(lolcv  was   married  iti   IssT   to  Miss    Ma>- 


« 


EDGAR  WELLTON  COOLEY. 

Surles.  Mr.  Cooley  now  devotes  his  time  al- 
most entirely  to  literary  pursuits.  Many 
poems  of  this  young  writer  have  appeared  in 
the  Waverly  Magazine,  Chicago  Current,  Tex- 
as Figaro,  National  Tribune  and  other  promi- 
inent  periodicals. 

THE  FLOWER  OF  FAME. 

At  morn  a  hud 
Whose  leaves,  still  dampened  hy  the  morning 
dew. 
Give  promise  of  a  heauty  unsurpassed. 
And  lay  upon  the  altar  of  our  view 
Tlie  possibilities  the  future  may  possess. 
At  noon  a  full-blown  rose 
Whose  fragrance,  which  it  scatters  on  the  air. 

Is  equaled  only  by  its  loveliness; 
The  model  which  tlie  artist  paints  with  care 
And  the  never-dying  substance  of  the  poet's 
song. 

At  night  a  faded  flower 
Whose  withered  leaves  are  trampled  into  dust 
Unheeded  by  the  busy  passer-by; 


Whose  perfume  which  was  borne  by  every 
guest 
Is  lost  amid  the  tempest  of  the  night. 
And  so  with  fame; 
At  morn  'tis   brightened    by    hope's  fairest 
dreams. 
To  bloom  into  reality  at  noon ; 
At  eve  the  sun's  refulgent  beams 
Find  but  the  ashes  of  ambition's  flame. 


THE  UNKNOWN  RIDER  OF  CONEMAUGH. 

Out  of  the  hills  in  the  fading  light. 

Like  a  shadow  that  heralds  the  approaching 

night. 
Rattling  o'er  ridges,  and  bridges  and  dike, 
And  stretching  along  o'er  the  stony  pike. 
Straining  each  nerve  to  increase  their  speed. 
Came  a  rider  strange  and  a  stranger  steed  — 
Startling  the  birds  from  their  nests  of  straw, 
Along  the  banks  of  the  Conemaugh. 
With  streaming  main  and  gray  with  dust. 
The  steed  sweeps  on  like  the  evening  gust. 
Bringing  down  to  the  town  with  fiery  breath 
The  terrible  story  of  ruin  and  death; 
And  over  the  valley  the  crj^  rings  wild 
To  every  man,  and  woman  and  child  — 
"  The  dike  has  broken  —  flj'  to  the  hills !" 
At  the  words  the  heart  of  the  listener  chills. 
And  the  birds  are  scared  from  their  nests  of 

straw, 
Along  the  banks  of  the  Conemaugh. 

On  the  evening  air  there  is  borne  the  sound 
Of  a  distant  rumble  that  shakes  the  ground; 
And  the  river  that  slept  by  its  quiet  shore 
Is  tearing  along  with  an  angry  roar; 
Reaching  out  with  a  hungry  grasp. 
And  laughing  to  mockery  lock  and  clasp; 
Snatching  the  babe  from  the  mother's  breast 
And  bearing  it  ofl:  on  its  stormy  crest; 
Rushing  on  in  a  mighty  wave. 
While  the  horse  and  rider  are  trying  to  save  — 
And  the  birds  fly  out  of  their  nests  of  straw. 
Along  the  banks  of  the  Conemaugh. 

God  stay  the  wave  and  strengthen  the  master ! 
And  spur  the  steed  to  speed  the  faster! 
On,  on  they  fly  in  the  terrible  race  — 
But  stern  and  set  is  the  master's  face, 
And  steady  and  clear  is  the  warning  cry 
As  horse  and  rider  go  sweeping  by. 
But  flesh  is  flesh,  and  blood  is  blood  — 
And  what  is  either  against  a  flood? 
So  the  rider  and  steed  that  tried  to  save 
Are  lying  together  beneath  the  wave; 
And  forever  lost  are  the  nests  of  straw. 
Along  the  banks  of  the  Conemaugh. 
The  years  may  come  and  the  years  may  go. 
And  the  rider's  name  we  may  never  know; 
But  our  hearts  will  forever  in  memory  hold 
The  heroic  deed  of  the  horseman  bold. 


-« 


>5- 


268 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


And  when  the  wind  shall  fiercely  roar 

And  shake  the  window  and  rattle  the  door- 

Ind  moan  and  complain  in  the  chimney  deep, 

The  mother  will  rock  her  children  to  sleep, 

And  sing  the  song  of  the  thrilling  deed 

Of  the  unknown  rider,  and  unknown  steed, 

Who  ran  the  terrible  race  with  death, 

Spreading  the  warning  with  faihng  breath. 

And  startling  the  birds  from  their  nests  of 

straw. 
Along  the  banks  of  the  Conemaugh. 

AT  MARBLEHEAD. 
Oh,  the  flowers  grow  fair  at  Marblehead,- 

The  flowers  grow  fair  and  bright. 
And  the  ships  sail  out  in  the  bay  at  morn 

And  the  ships  sail  back  at  night. 
Oh,  eleven  ships  sailed  out  at  morn 

Eleven  ships,  what  then? 
The  winds  blew  hard  and  the  winds  blew 
strong 
And  the  night  breeze  counted  ten. 
For  winds  blow  hard  at  Marblehoad  - 

The  winds  blow  hard,  alack; 
And  the  ship  that  sails  away  at  morn 

May  never  more  come  back ! 
Oh,  there  are  mothers  at  Marblehead,- 

Oh,  there  are  mothers  and  wives. 
And  winds  may  blow  and  shatter  ships, 

And  winds  may  shatter  lives. 
Oh  the  flowers  grow  sweet  at  Marblehead,- 

The  flowers  grow  sweet  and  high. 
But  winds  may  blow,  and  ships  may  sail 
And  hearts  may  break  and  die. 

AMBITION. 

Ambition,  on  life's  desert  plain. 

Looks  through  the  telescope  of  years. 
And  bv  imagination's  lens, 
Sees"Fame  and  Fortune's  distant  streams. 
Fair  Hope's  illusive  summer  dreams 
But  urge  the  tired  traveler  on ; 

The  mirage  of  Fancy  mocks  liis  tears, 
And  rises  on  the  burning  air. 
Then  Disappointment,  hnngry-eyed. 
That  wilful  child  by  Failure  bred. 
Outspreads  the  canvas  Despair, 
And  paints  the  view  with  heated  breath 
Of  empty  hfe  and  coming  death; 
And  leaves  him  wheti  his  Will  is  gone. 

And  Energy  and  Pride  is  dead, 
To  die  alone  on  Folly's  plain. 

EXTRACT. 

And  there  in  a  window,  with  face  to  the  glass, 
Was  the  daintiest,  prettiest  bit  of  a  lass; 
Audi  s;iw  ill  her  roguishly,  beautiful  eyes, 
Tlie  blue  that  the  storm-king  had  blown  fi'om 
the  skies. 
As  she  merrily  tapped  on  the  wiiuh)W. 


J.  SHERIDAN  JAMES. 

born;  Ebensbchg,  pa.,  Jan.  2.5, 1865. 
THE  poems  Of  Mr.  James  have  appeared  in  the 


J.   S11EK11>AN   JAMES. 


local  press  generally.    He  is  a  photographer 
by  profession,  andstmresides  in  Ebensburg. 

EBENSBURG. 
The  county  seat  of  Cambria 

So  beautifully  stands 
Among  the  mountain  scenery. 

Surrounded  on  all  hands 
Byfertile  farms  and  woodland 

That  deck  the  hills  of  fame. 
And  oft  is  heard  the  remark 

..  We  get  there  just  the  same." 
In  spring  the  sweet  birds  warble. 

In  summer  flowers  bloom. 
In  autumn  can  lie  ever  heard 

The  wailing  of  the  coon. 
In  winter  sleighing  parties 

Are  trumps,  all  through  the  land 
Composed  of  yi)uug  folks  mainly. 
A  joyous  happy  band. 

REFLECTION. 
In  the  full  bloom  of  melody  and  mirth. 
When  youth's  bright  spirit  gleamed   t  ro.n  out 

He  left  us,  his  soul  though  fled  from  <>'"-l»; 
Continues  yet  to  sing  in  strains  that  cannot  die 

Yes.  mem.n-y-s  visions  mingling  with  a  power. 
Wake  the  heart's  thrill  at  each  fann.ar  tone. 

Bring  to  us  all  full  many   a  lonely  hour 
Comfort,  for  which  we  never  can  atone 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-® 


269 


HOMER  P.  BRANCH. 

Born  :  Millville,  Wis.,  Jan.  11, 1865. 
After  receiving"  his  education,  Homer  learn- 
ed the  printers'  trade,  subsequently  entering 
the  editorial  sanctum.  In  18.S7  Mr.  Branch  was 
married  to  Miss  A.  Sopha  Miller,  which  union 
has  been  blessed  with  a  son  and  heir.  Mr. 
Branch  has  been  personally  associated  with 


HOMER  P.   BRANCH. 

the  management  of  numerous  Iowa  publica- 
tions, and  is  now  sole  editor  and  proprietor  of 
the  North  Iowa  Democrat,  published  at  Mitch- 
ell, of  which  city  he  was  elected  mayor  in  1889. 
He  has  written  numerous  poems,  and  is  now 
at  work  on  several  pieces  of  blank  verse,  which 
will  appear  in  book  foi-m  at  an  early  date. 


m- 


MY  SERAPHINE  VISITORS. 

Silently  on  wings  of  ether 

In  my  dreams  tliere  come  to  me 
Visions  of  unearthly  beauty 

That  caress  me  lovingly; 
And  they  float,  these  lovely  shadows, 

O'er  my  curtained  couch  all  night, 
Each  dispensing  sweet  enchantment, 

Joy  benign  and  calm  delight. 
Vestures  of  transparent  whiteness 

Wave  about  their  lustral  forms, 
Glist'ning softly  in  the  moonbeams, 

Kissed  by  airs  in  tender  storms; 
And  their  silver-gleaming  tresses 

As  they  move  in  silent  flight 


Mildly  light  the  darkness  'round  them, 

Lending  beauty  to  the  night. 
Ah,  they  come  and  lie  beside  me, 

Hold  my  head  with  tender  care, 
Soothe  my  sleep  with  happy  thoughts. 

All  night  staying  fondly  there; 
Thus  I  rest  m  arms  of  zephyr. 

Closely  pressed  in  warm  embrace- 
Warmly  pressed  to  spectral  bosoms!  — 

W^ith  their  warmth  upon  my  face. 
They're  the  spirits  of  the  loved  ones 

Who  have  passed  to  homes  divine 
In  the  second  life's  Great  Kingdom 

Within  Heaven's  border  line; 
But  at  night  in  troupes  all  joyous 

Flock  they  to  the  mortal  one. 
Whom  of  all  earth  they  loved  the  most. 

Whom  of  earth  now  love  alone. 
Bright  they  come  on  Beulah's  odors, 

Floating  on  the  breath  of  low 
Sweet  music,  mild,  melodious. 

And  their  fairy  faces  glow  — 
Glow  with  liappiest  expression! — 

As  tliey  hover  o'er  my  bed. 
And  their  lips  in  kisses  touch  me 

As  they  nestle  'round  my  head. 


TO  LAKE  PONCHARTRANE. 

Watery  gem !  I  gaze 

On  thy  luster-flecked  breast, 
And  its  pale  sheen  conveys 

To  my  soul's  gloomy  rest 
Vague  impressions;  the  night. 

And  the  specter-like  calm 
Of  the  moon's  pallid  light, 

Like  spiritual  Ijalm 
Casts  a  spell  o'er  thy  wave  — 
O'er  thy  legended  wave ! 
Through  the  vapors  I  see 

White  flitting  forms  dancing 
A  mystic  revelry 

Over  the  swells,  glancing 
In  strange  salient  lines 

Between  earth's  somber  plain. 
And  high  Heaven's  confines 

In  liglits  that  swell  and  wane 
With  the  gleam  of  their  eyes  — 

Changing  gleam  of  their  eyes! 


WALTZ  SONG. 
Trip  lightly,  Li  la,  lightly  now. 

See  the  merry  wa'.tzors  gliding. 
Whirling,  airily  as  fairies. 

Sweetly  to  the  airs  confiding 
All  their  thoughts  in  pleasant  mazes,— 

Thrilled  with  pleasure,  undeciding 
On  they  go  nor  dream  of  sorrow. 

Never  brooding  o'er,  nor  chiding. 
Past  displeasures; —  so,  dearest,  let  us 

Waltz  now  to  the  music's  guiding. 


-© 


©- 


270 


S 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL    POETS   OF  A3IERICA. 


REV.   HIRAM   B.   WHITE. 

Born  :  Pierpont,  Ohio,  Oct.  28, 1857. 
Mr.  White  is  pastorof  the  Disciple  Cliurch  at 
Orwell,  Ohio,  where  he  is  well  known  as  an  up- 
right and  sincere  gentleman.  Mr.  White  has 
been  blind  from  his  youth.  His  poems  have 
been  published  in  the  local  press,  and  have 
been  accorded  much  praise. 


THE  VIOLONCELLO. 

I  am  thrilled  with  a  passion  of  sound, 

A  feeling,  a  longing  profound; 
A  spray  from  the  fount  of  our  deepest -emo- 
tions 
Is  borne  to  my  soul  in  that  sound. 
Whence  comes  it,  the  power  of  these  strings? 

That  voice  which  so  wondrously  sings 
Of  the  heart's  truest  longings.its  best  aspira- 
tions? 
Who  hath  given  such  a  power  to  these 
strings? 
No  fairy-like,  f rollicksome  glee 
Is  borne  in  their  music  to  me. 
They  tell  of  the  strife,  thought  and  conflict 
of  life; 
Man's  purpose;  not  youth's  careless  glee. 
Do  they  know,  as  they  sing  their  sad  song. 

How  we  labor  and  struggle  and  long 
For  a  touch  of  that  life  which  in  every  strmg 
trembles  — 
Tliat  an  angel-soul  breathes  in  the  song? 
Fain,  fain  would  I  be  as  those  strings. 

The  radiant  song-angel's  wings. 
Which  waft  o'er  the  spirit  the  perfumes  of 
Eden  — 
My  life-type  is  hid  in  those  strings. 


»- 


A  RUINED  CASTLE. 
Staj'  with  me,  gentle  spirit  of  the  past. 

While  here  I  wander  'mid  deserted  halls, 
And  gi-ass-grown  paths,  half  hid  by  tangled 

\'1nes. 
Where  the  rank  nettle  and  unsightly  weed. 

And  long,  lu.xuriant  grass  usurp  the  place 
Of  violet,  lily,  rose  and  well  kept  lawn. 

Stay  witli  me,  as  I  climb  these  ruined  walls. 
Shuttered  by  ruthless  war  and  time's  rude 
hand. 
Restore  these  broaches.  Call  again  from  dust 
The  forms  whoso  glittering  mail  reflected  back 

The  sunset's  glow,  each  shield  a  flery  sun. 
Uprear  this  gate,  around  whose  half  burned 
beams 
The  grasses  meet  to  bend  their  dewy  heads. 
And  weep  o'er  such  destruction  and  decay. 
But  let  us  leave  these  things  which  speak  of 
strife. 
To  seek  the  rooms  whose  tattered  tapestry 


And  walls  discolored  by  the  damps  of  time, 
Undwelt  in  save  by  darkness-haunting  bat 
Or   dreamy  owl,  who    seeks  their   gloomy 
shade. 
Whose  shattered  windows.cruwned  with  point- 
ed arch. 
And    curtained    with    the  spider's  delicate 
wheel. 
Were  once  the  fair  abodes  of  woman's  power. 
Which  makes  our  war-cursed  earth  not  all  a 
hell. 
Thy  fount  of  inspiration,  those  two  lives. 
So  closely  blent  they  seemed  one  heart,  one 
soul; 
But   severed  with  a  shock  Avhich  left  their 
world  this  void:— 
But  see!  a  fallen  picture  here. 
Like  some  pure  angel  in  a  world  of  sin ; 

The  last  memorial  of  God's  frustrate  plan. 
Raise  it;  brush   back    the   dust  and  cobweb 
screen. 
And  through  its  mildew  trace,  in  shadowy 
lines, 
A  mother  holding  in  her  arms  her  babe. 
Recall  the  fading  memories  of  her  life. 
Old  tales  which  'moug  the  simple  country  folk 
Still  linger  like  the  scent  of  flowers  removed. 
Or  the  last  low  murmur  of  some  mournful 
song. 
Breathing  a  holj'  silence  through  the  soul. 
But  pause  not  here.    Still  on  from  room  to 
room, 
Vast  halls  decayed,  yet  holding  still  some 
trace 
Of  former  pomp,  in  walls  of  paneled  oak 

Or  carveu  stone,  or  floors  of  quaint  design, 
Or  leaden  sash  with  glass  of  rare  device. 

All  time-worn  and  defaced  by  wanton  lian(l>- 
O'er  moldering    floors,  through  gloomy  cor- 
ridors. 
Dark,  slimy,  winding  passages,  down  flights 
Of  broken  steps,  we  pick  our  dangerous  way 
Out  of  this  chill  dead  air,  and  stand  once 
moi'c 
Where  Heaven's  warm  kiss  calls  forth  earth's 
myriad  life. 


SUNSET. 
Marked  you  the  sun,  when  last  he  smiled  on 
earth, 
Tlien  seemed  to  turn  again  to  kiss  his  child 
Good-night,  and  hush  the  weary  world  to  rest? 
Saw  you  his  splendor  when  he  touched  tin- 
clouds 
With  tints  of  gold,  or  changed  to  crimson  Are? 

He  saw  himself  reflected  in  the  stream. 
Whose  low,  sweet' music  speaks  to  Nature's 
heart; 
And  like  a  maid  in  bridal  robes  arrayed. 
He,  trembling,  smiled  to  see  himself  so  fail'. 


« 


III 


©- 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMElllCA. 


271 


JOHN  JORDAN. 

Born  in  Ireland,  March  6, 1805. 
Among  the  citizens  of  Red  Wing-,  Minnesota, 
and  the  surrounding  country,  tliere  are  few 
men  who  are  more  widely  known  than  John 
Jordan:  li'e  lives  on  a  farm  in  Wacoiitn,  and  is 


"^^ 

) 

■■^'0 

P^r 

! 

i 

4^: 

L 

XI 

•  luIlN    JlJKUAN. 

not  only  a  farmer  but  is  also  a  poet  and  inven- 
tor. Althougl#Mr.  Jordan  is  now  in  his  eighty- 
fifth  year,  he  is  still  vigorous  and  healthy,  and 
is  a  familiar  tlgureou  the  streets  of  Red  Wing. 


®- 


JORDAN'S  CREEK. 
Near  j'on  willow  sand  I  heave  up. 

And  the  soil  I  wash  away. 
Over  rock  and  coral  bottom. 

Running  steady  night  and  day. 
Through  the  meadow  and  the  pasture. 

Crooked  cuts  make  on  my  way; 
There  is  no  human  hand  can  stop  me 

For  my  mission's  to  the  sea. 
Man  may  spoil  my  crooked  corners. 

But  he  can't  my  onward  way. 
For  the  Great  Creator  made  me, 

And  his  will  I  do  obey. 
Yes,  man  may  turn  me  and  may  dam  me. 

Then  my  strength  is  stronger  still; 
And  to  him  I  would  prove  useful 

For  my  power  would  turn  his  mill. 
The  trout  play  in  my  waters  here 

And  nibble  at  the  seeds  of  grass; 


The  flowers  in  the  meadows,  too. 
Are  glad  to  hear  me  sing  and  pass. 

At  the  bottom  I  move  on  slowly. 
With  difficulty  make  my  way; 

Thence  into  the  mighty  ciiannel 
Where  large  fish  do  sport  and  play. 

I  meet  my  friends  from  three  quarters. 
Yes,  from  the  north,  south  and  west, 

And  our  union  makes  us  stronger 
To  carry  the  rafts  upon  our  breast. 


MINNESOTA. 

O  Minnesota?  Young  Minnesota! 

'Tis  not  so  very  long  ago 
Since  your  roads  were  but  Indian  trails, 

And  the  War  Dance  all  the  go; 
But  the  scalpers  are  all  gone. 

They  have  followed  the  buffalo. 
And  the  splendid  fields  of  wheat 

On  the  hunting  grounds  now  grow. 

O  Minnesota!  Healthy  Minnesota! 

You  soon  jumped  into  wealth; 
The  reason  is  very  plain,  'tis  your 

Good  soil  and  your  good  health. 
May  yoil  forever  pi-osper. 

The  "  staff  of  life  "  to  grow. 
And  farewell  to  the  scalpers 

Who  followed  the  buffalo. 


MY  SON  NATHANIEL'S  PICTURE. 
His  picture  is  here, 

But  his  bones  they  are  not; 
They  lie  far  away 

In  some  rebel's  green  lot. 
For  his  country  he  fought. 

For  the  union  did  fall 
On  the  red  battle-field 

By  a  traitor's  sad  ball. 

On  the  fourth  of  October, 

In  tlie  year  sixty  two, 
The  fighting  was  hard 

At  Corinth,  it  is  true. 
Nat.,  the  brave  fellow. 

These  words  then  did  say 
To  his  comrade,  Edwards, 

"  Let  us  not  run  away." 

But  before  the  brave  fellow 

Could  get  a  reply, 
A  shell  knocked  him  over. 

And  in  blood  he  did  lie. 
He  was  carried  to  a  tent; 

Edwards  did  say 
That  he  spoke  of  his  mother 

The  most  of  the  way. 

He  said,  "  Tell  my  mother 
To  not  fret  for  me,  . 

For  I  die  for  my  country 
And  sweet  liberty." 


-© 


©- 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


-« 


ANDREW  J.  EIDSON,  M.  D. 

Born  in  Ohio  in  1837. 
Mr.  Eidson  studied  tlieology,  but  was  not  or- 
dained. He  next  studied  medicine,  graduat- 
ing- at  Rush  medical  college  in  1865.  While 
quite  young  Dr.  Eidsou  commenced  to  court 
the  muse.  More  than  a  hundred  of  his  poems 
have  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the  peri- 
odical   press.    The    poem    of   No   Children's 


ANDREW  J.   EIDSON. 

Graves  in  China  has  been  pronounced  one  of 
the  finest  productions  in  the  English  language. 
In  1871  Dr.  Eidson  removed  to  Coatesville, 
Missouri,  where  he  has  been  engaged  up  to 
the  present  time  in  the  active  practice  of  his 
profession.  In  the  near  future  this  soldier, 
doctor  and  writer  contemplates  the  publica- 
tion of  a  volume  of  poems. 


©- 


NO  CHILDREN'S  GRAVES  IN  CHINA. 
No  children's  graves  in  China, 

Tlie  missionaries  .say; 
In  cruel  haste  and  silence. 

They  put  those  buds  away; 
No  tombstones  marli  their  resting. 

To  keep  their  memory  sweet; 
Their  graves,  unknown,  are  trodden 

Ry  many  careless  feet. 
No  children's  graves  in  China, 

Tiiat  land  of  heathen  gloom; 
Tliey  deem  not  that  their  spirits 


Will  live  beyond  the  tomb. 
No  little  coffin  holds  them. 

Like  to  a  downy  nest, 
No  spotless  shroud  enfolds  them. 

Low  in  their  quiet  rest. 

No  children's  graves  in  China- 
No  parents  ever  weep ; 

No  toy  or  little  relic, 
The  thoughtless  mothers  keep. 

No  mourners  e'er  assemble 
Around  the  early  dead. 

And  flowers  of  careful  planting. 
Ne'er  mark  their  lowly  bed. 

No  children's  graves  in  China, 

With  sad  and  lovely  ties. 
To  make  the  living  humble. 

And  point  them  to  the  skies; 
No  musings  pure  and  holy, 

Of  them  when  day  is  done; 
Be  faithful,  missionary. 

Your  work  is  just  begun ! 


FASHION. 

Time  moves  along  —  nor  is  it  wrong 

Tliat  Fashion  should  progress. 
Since  half  who  live  attention  give 

To  beautify  and  dress ; 
'Tis  the  exterior  we  admire. 

Though  backward  to  confess; 
To  be  as  others  we  desire. 

Nor  are  our  efforts  less. 

Yet  as  to  clothes  I  would  propose: 

Avoid  the  true  extremes ; 
Too  much  to  wear,  too  little  care. 

To  me  are  wrong  it  seems ; 
A  medium  in  everything,    * 

A  fit  with  natural  ease. 
Then  gracefulness  imparts  the  spring 

That  makes  our  manners  please! 


LOVE'S  IDEAL. 

Fairest  that  the  hour 
Reveals  at  dawn  of  day: 

Sweeter  than  the  flower 
That  blushes  by  the  way. 

Lovely  as  the  streaming 
Of  sunbeams  in  the  west; 

Placid  twilight's  gleaming 
Around  the  rosebud's  rest. 

De.arer  than  the  treasui-es 
That  Nature's  cliarnis  l)estow 

Purest  source  of  pleasiu'es 
That  mortals  seek  below. 

Vision,  wildly  thrilling. 
That  never  can  dei)art : 

Fullness  more  than  filling 
The  longings  of  the  heart! 


-® 


©- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-)5 


273 


MAUDE  MEREDITH. 

MRS.  D.  T.  SMITH. 

BoKN :  Vermont,  Nov.  17, 1848. 
It  is  a  great  feather  in  Maude  Meredith's  cap 
that  she  is  a  good  mother,  and  that  other  wo- 
men eulogize  her  greatly,  including  the  best 
and  brightest  lady  writers  in  America.  She  is 
wholly  uuafl'eeted  in  lier  style,  and  there  is  a 
moral  tendency  in  all  her  writings  which  show 
a  vivid  imagination,  an  originality  of  treat- 
ment,  anil   a  vast  fertility  of  brain —in  the 


AIAUDE  MEREDITH. 

treatment  of  her  themes.  In  1869  Maude  Mer- 
edith was  married  to  Mr.  D.  T.  Smith,  of  Du- 
buque, Iowa,  in  which  city  she  is  well  known 
for  her  charitableness,  being  at  all  times  ready 
to  lielp  along  every  good  cause.  She  has  grown 
famous  without  coveting  it,  and  only  a  genius 
could  wear  such  honors  with  tlie  modesty  that 
Maud  Meredith  does.  Her  writings  have  ap- 
peared in  the  leading  pci'iodicals  of  America, 
from  which  they  have  been  coi)ied  by  the  press 
from  Maine  to  California. 


® 


MY  LITTLE  MAN. 
When  early  sunbeams  kiss  the  hills 

Across  the  shimmering  blue. 
And  all  the  wood  with  music  rings 

To  greet  the  morning  new,— 
'Tis  then,  with  smile  and  happy  song. 

We  wander  forth  in  glee. 
And  life  is  like  a  matin,  to 

My  little  man  and  me. 


Wlien  Noonday  sifts  her  sands  of  gold 

Through  Summer's  fllmy  haze. 
And  droning  bees  swift  come  and  go 

In  all  the  busy  days; 
We  swing  in  shady  nook  and  dream 

The  drowsy  moments  by. 
Content  that  we  together  are,— 

My  little  man  and  I. 
When  shadows  creep  between  the  hills. 

And  breezes  damp  and  cool. 
Come  out  to  whisper  'mong  the  reeds 

Along  the  sedgy  pool ; 
With  lids  adroop,  the  nodding  bead 

I  pillow  tenderly. 
And  dream-seas  drift  afar  from  shore 

My  little  man  and  me. 


BIFROST. 
Dark  clouds  roll  up  the  far  horizon's  rim. 
And  distant  thunders  mutter  sullenly  and 
low ; 
A  freshening  sea-wind  landward  veering  in. 
Makes  murmurous  song  where  reedy  grasses 
grow. 
The  robin  calls  with  steady,  plaintive  crj-; 

The  larks  are  still;  and  all  the  linnets  wait; 
The  leaves  turn  pallid  faces  toward  the  dark- 
ening sky. 
Presaging  ghostly  messages  of  fate. 
Lo!  all  the  forests  toss  their  quivering  arms; 
While  flower-stems  snap,  and  willows  sway 
and  bend; 
The  strong  alone  withstand  the  dread  alarms 
ThatThor  andVulcan  from  their  forges  send. 
The  clouds  sweep  on  and  all  the  sky  is  gray; 

And  heavy  thunders  shake  the  sobljing  air; 
While  near  the  red-tongued,  forked  lightnings 
play. 
And  gloom  and   blackness   resteth   every- 
where. 
In  sheeted  columns  are  the  torrents  led;— 
For  now  while  war  o'ercasts  the  trembling 
land 
The  mountain  hides,  in  veiling  mists,  its  head. 
And  high  waves  lash  with  yeasty  foam  the 
sand. 
Anon  the  hurrying  winds  their  tumults  cease. 
And  the  spent  clouds   in  fragments  drift 
apart ; 
Then  all  the  earth  breaks  forth  in  smiles  of 
peace. 
And  untold   jewels  gleam  and  little  bird- 
songs  start. 
Across  the  Heavens  iu  amathyst  and  gold. 
And  gorgeous  red  lies  spanned  the  "Tremb- 
ling Way," 
Where  hero  souls  go  hasting,  as  of  old, 
Thev  sought  the  halls  where  joys  of  Valhal 
lay. 


-m 


m- 


274 


-® 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMERICA. 


CHRISTMAS  BELLS. 

Ah  bells!  Glad  bells! 

The  story  old  repeating-, 
This  is  the  day,  I  hear  you  saj'. 
On  which  the  Christ  was  born; 
The  day  on  which  good  will,  and  joy  and  peace 
are  meeting; 
All  this  your  music  tells. 

Yet  ages  since  have  flown, 
And  He  was  Mary's  son. 
Oh  bells!  Sad  bells! 

My  heart  breaks  'mid  your  pealing-, 
I   can   not  bear  the  clamor   of  j'our 
tongues, 
I  can  not  even  pray. 
Must  all  our  questions  wait  the  future's  slow 
repealing? 
Are  life  and  death  as  one? 

I  only  know  this  is  the  day 
That  took  from  me  my  son. 


©- 


DAWN. 

And  now  the  vigil  hours  are  worn  and  done; 

Blow  out  the  lamp  and  softly  turn  the  spread ; 
Set  back  the  glasses,  slowly,  one  by  one. 

No  more  is  needed.  Lo!  the  man  is  dead. 
Pass  down  the  stairs.    How  dim  the  hall  lamp 
burns. 
And  soft,  on  padded  carpet  falls  the  tread; 
We  shudder  as  the  grating  night-latch  turns. 
How  strange  the  house  wherein  a  man  lies 
dead ! 
One  moment  more  and  all  the  damp,  cool  air 
Flings  in  our  face  the  river's  hooded  graj' 
Of  aeriel  mistiness.    A  morning  prayer 
Slow  creeping  heavenward  at  approach  of 
day. 
How  solemn  stretch  the  silent  city  streets 

And  on  the  pave  our  footsteps  jar  and  ring; 
'Tis  no  fit  time  to  mar  with  hurrying  feet 
This  hour  when  sad  Night  folds  her  sable 
wing. 
Husli  I  Now  the  pine  trees,  black  against  the 
sky, 
Wliisper  weird  messages,  and  softly  bend 
To  loucli  the  tasseled  larch,  wliere  wet  leaves 
lie 
Like  tear-stained  cheek  against  tlie  clieck  of 
friend. 
A  sin-ill  bird  voice,  upstarting,  cries  of  morn 

As,  drunk  wiMi  revel,  had  o'erslept  his  time. 
And  suddenly,  like  flageolet  and  iiorn. 

Burst  all  the  greenness  into  song  and  chime. 
And  soft,  faint  odors  are  borne  on  the  wind. 
Of  springing  grass,  and  jiale  pink    disc  of 
rose; 
Of  damp,  brown  earth,  and  all  tlic  timid  kind 
Of  flowers,  that  open  at  the  twilight  close. 


Across  the  purple-tinted  fields  that  lie 
Far-stretciiing  in  voluptuous  clovered  bloom, 
To  where  their  fringes  touch  the  bendingsky, 
A  hnv  of  light  cuts  through  the  dewj*  gloom. 
And  rosy  fingers  lint  the  dreamy  clouds 
Tliat  toss  above  the  wearied  moon's  pale 
horn ; 
The  wliite  stars  flee  away  In  fading  crowds, 
And  on  the  mountain   smiles  the  face  of 
morn. 
Adown  the  dew-gemmed  vallej-s,  silent  all 

Like  sheeted  ghosts  the  shadows  steal  away ; 
To  us,  who  watched  last  eve,  the  darkness  fall. 
In  separate  ways,  has  come  a  new-born  day. 
Not  only  this,  but  all  the  Heavenly  hours 

To  him,  who  in  the  dark,  with  bated  breath. 
Went  out  to  pluck  the  fadeless  lily  flowers. 
And  Lotus  leaves,  tliat  heal  the  wounds  of 
death. 


TWO  SIDES. 
This  world  is  full  of  sorrow  and  woe. 

All  me ! 
Tliere's  so  little  that's  )-eal,  so  much  that  is 
sliow. 

All  me! 
And  there's  so  many  things  that  none  of  us 

know. 
But  work's  a  task-master,  and  wealth  comes 

so  slow ; 
And  when  it  all  ends,  O,  where  shall  we  go? 
Ah  me! 

Wliat  a  jolly  old  world  we  are  in,  to  bo  sure. 

Ha,  lia! 
For  each  of  our  illstiiere  is  somewhere  a  cure. 

Ha,  ha! 
And  life,  like  atop,  spins  so  merrily  'round, 
Wherever  we  look  there's  some  joy  to  be  found 
And  when  we  are  dead,  wb.y  there's  rest  in  tlie 
ground. 

Ho!  Ho! 


AT  SET  OF  SUN. 
On  the  busy  liigliways  lies  a  husli  and  a  liaze, 

And  the  wliispering  winds  are  still; 
There's  a  faint  crimson  glow  at  the  liori/on 
low. 
And  a  lonely  bird  cries  on  f  lie  hill. 
There  are  odors  of  corn  that  tlie  wings  of  the 
morn. 
Had  low  dropped  in  their  hurrying  lliglit ; 
O'er  the  meadows  asleep  the    dull   shadows 
creep, 
Newly  born  of  the  oncoming  night. 
While  the  reapers  so  late,  imss  the  laiinyard 
gate. 
Slowly  lionieward  with  weary  tread. 
For  low  lying  at  rest,  folded  soft  on  lier  breast. 
Are  the  hands  of  the  day,  just  dead. 


a< 


«&- 


Local  and  national  toets  of  America. 


275 


-«& 


MRS.  S.  ISADORE  MIXER. 

BoKx:  Battle  Creek,  Mich.,  Sept.  25, 1863. 
Graduating  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  this 
ladj'  then  took  up  tlie  avocation  of  school 
teaching-  until  her  marriage  in  1884  to  J. 
Weston  Miner.  Her  husband  being- connected 
■n-ith  the  Battle  Creek  Review  and  Herald 
pubUsliinK  iiou.'^e,  Mrs.  Miner  was  engaged  as 


ISADCIHE  minp:r. 
a  proof-reader,  and  finally  as  a  writer,  editing- 
a  large  share  of  the  work  on  a  series  of  child- 
ren's books  issued  from  thatoflBce.  Her  poems 
have  been  widely  published  in  St.  Nicholas, 
Wide  Awake,  and  the  periodical  press  gener- 
ally. She  still  follows  the  profession  of  editor 
and  writer  at  Battle  Creek,  Mich., *and  is  con- 
nected with  the  Good  Health  Publishing  Com- 
pany of  that  city. 

OLD  SCORES  REPAID.  OR  TRAGEDY 
REVERvSED. 

I  met  a  tearful  little  lass; 

She  sobbed  so  liard  I  could  not  pass; 

I  wondered  so  thereat; 
"Oh,  dry  your  tears,  my  pretty  child. 
Pray  tell  me  why  you  grieve  so  wild?  " 

"  A—  mouse  —  ate  —  up  —  my—  cat !  " 
"  A  mouse  ate  up  your  cat!  "  I  cried. 
To  think  she'd  fib  quite  horrified: 

"Why,  how  can  you  say  that'?" 
Her  tears  afresh  began  to  run. 
She  sobbed  the  words  out,  one  by  one: 

"  It  —  was  —  a  —  cand V  —  cat !  " 


THE  LITTLE  YOUNG  MEN  IN  GOLD. 

Outside  the  nursery  window. 

Before  the  spring  was  old, 
I  found  one  morn,  as  I  chanced  to  pass, 
Standnig  straight  and  tall  in  the  tender  grass, 

A  little  young  man  in  gold. 
He  was  a  saucy  urchin. 

His  look  was  bright  and  bold; 
Yet  he  nodded  so  blithe  when  he  caught  my 

eye. 
That  I  kissed  my  hand  as  I  bade  good  bye 

To  the  little  young  man  in  gold. 
Next  time  I  crossed  the  terrace, 

I  turned  me  from  my  -way 
To  visit  the  sprite,  but  a  marvelous  change 
Some  fairy  had  wrought,  and  there  stood,  oh 
strange! 

A  little  old  man  in  gray! 
Inside  the  nursery  window 

Is  the  dearest  thing  I  hold,— 
With  brightest  of  eyes,  and  a  saucy  air. 
And  a  wonderful  wealth  of  golden  hair,— 

My  little  young  man  in  gold. 
Next  time  he  begged  a  storj-, 

A  wonderful  tale  I  told. 
How  out  in  the  sunshine  and  fragrant  dew, 
A  dear  flower-brother  there  one  time  grew 

To  my  little  young  man  in  gold. 
And  then  I  wondered  sadlj' 

If  ever  I'd  see  the  day 
Wlien  my  little  young  man  with  golden  hair 
Would  be  like  the  dandelion  standing  there,— ■ 

A  little  old  man  with  gray! 

I  DON'T  WANT  TO  GO  TO  BED! 
I  don't  want  to  go  to  bed; 

I  aint  sleepy,  not  one  bit; 
I  don't  want  to  go  till  dark, 

And  the  lamps  are  lit! 
Chickens  go  to  bed  'fere  dark? 

I  don't  care  if  cliickens  do; 
I  aint  one,  and  taint  tlie  same, 

'Cause  the  hens  go,  too. 

I  aint  sleepj%  not  one  bit; 

If  I  was,  I  wouldn't  care; 
But  I  see  queer  things  awake. 

Sometimes  looks  most  like  a  bear. 
I  aint  noddin',  Johnnie  Gray; 

You  stop  saying  that  I  do; 
Guess  if  you  worked  hard  all  day, 

Your  head  would  get  wigglej-,  too. 
Oh :  there's  prickers  in  my  feet. 

Why,  the  chair  keeps  going  'round 
Mamma,  take  your  little  girl,— 

And  the  pet  was  sleeping  sound. 
So  we  tucked  lier  in  her  crib. 

There  to  dream  'till  broad  daylight; 
Then  up  to  play  around  all  day. 

And  sing  the  same  old  song  at  night. 


® 


©^ 


276 


LOCAL    AXD   NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMERICA. 


m 


MRS.  MARY  RACHEL  KLINE. 

Born  :  Mukwonago,  Wis.,  Nov.  24, 1843. 
Fob  eleven  years  this  lady  was  blind,  when 
the  lig-ht  was  again  restored  after  many  pain- 
ful operations.  She  was  a  school  teacher  in 
her  youth.  Mrs.  Kline  has  a  son  and  a  daugh- 
ter now  living.    In  person  she  is  very  small 


MRS.   MARY  RACHEL   KLINE. 

and  slender,  and  lives  with  her  husband,  a 
resident  of  Hager  City,  Wisconsin.  The  poems 
of  Mrs.  Kline  have  appeared  in  many  leading 
publications,  from  which  they  have  been  ex- 
tensively copied  by  the  local  press. 


©- 


MAIDEN  ROCK. 
A  legend,  and  this  is  a  share 
Wiiich  the  du.sky  sons  of  the  forest  bear. 
Of  a  noble  rock  .susi)ended  o'er 
Fair  Pepin  lake.    With  ceaseless  roar. 
The  silvery  wave,  with  ebb  and  flow. 
Plays  ever  the  same  as  years  ago. 
When  a  maiden  urged  by  deep  despair. 
Gained  the  rocky  ledge,  and  there. 
To  escape  lier  fate  and  wed  a  brave 
She  could  not  love,  she  .sought  a  grave 
In  tlie  waters,  wiiich,  since  childhood  days. 
Had  been  her  joy  and  deliglit  to  praise. 
An  instant  in  air,  then  o'er  the  place 
Swept  a  coming  wave  and  left  no  trace 
Of  the  weary  heart,  gone  far  away 
To  tlie  land  of  the  ..  Sjiirit  Great "  to  stay. 
Tlio  guests  liad  assembled,   tlie  brave,  the 
fair. 


To  witness  the  union  of  the  plighted  pair. 
The  flying  form  with  awe  they  view- 
Mark  the  plunge  "mid  waters  blue; 
Then  rose  from  the  throng  a  mingled  wail 
Of  frenzy  wild.    Ah '.  sad  the  tale 
Of  the  grief  some  bore  till  life  was  done. 
And  they  passed  to  the  bourn  bejond  the 

sun; 
While  the  rock  still  bears  the  name  they  gave 
Of  "  Maiden  Rock  "—the  maiden's  grave. 


THOUGHTS  OF  HEAVEN. 

There's  a  beautiful  land  where  angels  sing. 
Where  cherubs  float  on  snowy  wing; 
A  realm  of  bliss  is  that  region  above,— 
Oh,  say,  can  I  go  to  that  Eden  of  love? 

There  is  a  beautiful  city  where  all  is  light,— 
Beautiful  gates  of  pearly  white. 
While  from  the  throne  flows  a  crystal  stream. 
And  the  tree  of   life  on  its  margin  is  seen. 

Mansions  are  there  for  the  good  and  blest. 
Where  the  weary  one  finds  perfect  rest; 
Saints  of  all  ages  are  gathered  there, — 
O,  may  I  join  them'?  is  my  fervent  prayer. 

Christ  the  arisen,  who  died,  man  to  save. 

Hears  the  petitions  we  humbly  crave. 

Bids  us   walk   in   his   footsteps,— look  ever 

above. 
When  redeemed  we  may  dwell  in  that  Eden 

of  love. 


MY  MOTHER. 
May  queen  of  the  j^ear  in  robes  so  fair 
Again  has  come,  and  the  balmy  air 
Is  filled  with  merry  songbird.^'  lay. 
Welcoming  the  happy,  joyous  May. 

Still  I  am  sad  —  one  year  has  flown. 
And  the  mossy  turf  o'er  the  spot  has  grown, 
Since  mother  was  placed  from  our  sight  away 
Under  the  heavy,  cold,  damp  clay. 

Last  nighfwhen  the  whip-poor-will's  song  was 

heai'd 
On  the  stilly  air,  how  the  cadence  stirred 
Soft  memories;  I  was  thinking  when 
Would  my  heart  be  hajipy  and  liglit  again. 

I  heard  a  .step;  then  my  father's  voice 
Said  kindly,  "  Fannie,  I  have  made  a  choice, 
Our  home  is  lonely;  you  may  prepare— 
Another  mother,  to  welcome  there. 

Another  so  soon,  ere  the  lovely  rose 
Its  perfumed  petals  shall  disclose; 
Will  she  come  in  beauty  and  pride 
To  her  new  home— the  old  man's  bride. 

To  welcome  with  smiles  I  must  wreath  my  face 
For  one  who  has  taken  mother's  place. 
My  father  has  given  his  love  to  anotiiei'. 
But  I'll  not  forget  my  own,  angel  mollicr. 


SB- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEHICA. 


-* 


MRS.ADELAIDE  D.KINGSLEY. 

Bokn:  Canada,  1843. 
Maruied  in  New  York  City  to  Hon.  George 
B.  Kiiigslej'  of  Minnesota  in  1843,  the  subject 
of  this  sketch  came  the  following-  year  with 
her  husband  to  Blue  Earth  City  in  that  state, 
where  she  has  since  resided.  Some  ten  years 
ago  she  lost  her  only  child,  a  son  who  had  at- 
tained his  fifteenth  year,  which  has  been  their 
gxeat  sorrow.  Mrs.  King'sley  is  the  author  of 
a  story  entitled   Heart  or  Purse,   which   has 


fr 


MRS.   ADELAIDE  D.    KINGSLEY. 

been  extensively  read.  The  poems  of  this 
lady  have  been  published  in  the  Woman's 
Tribune,  St.  Paul  Globe,  Minneapolis  Tribune, 
and  other  Minnesota  periodicals,  which  have 
been  widely  copied  throughout  the  country. 
Mrs.  Kingsley  is  a  member  of  the  Presbyterian 
church;  state  superintendent  of  the  W.  C.  T. 
U.;  and  is  also  an  active  worker  in  philan- 
thropic reforms,  using  her  voice,  hand  and 
pen  whenever  opportunity  offers. 

TO  A  LETTER. 
O,  white-winged  messenger! 

What  bring  you  now? 
What  lies  enfolded  on  your  passive  page? 
My  lips  forbear  to  stir. 

But  only  thou 
Could'st  so  arou.se  the  heart  within  its  cage. 
Bring'st  thou  friendship's  greeting? 

Notes  of  bright  hours 


Of  which  you  oft  in  silence  gaily  tell. 
The  absent  through  thee  meeting. 

No  shadow  low(!rs 
But  thoughts    you   claim    to  bind  in  your 

sweet  spell. 
Tell'st  thou  love's  story  true. 

Thou  flitting  bird? 
Poem  in  world  of  icy  prose  thou  art! 
That  story  old  yet  new. 

Thrice  welcome  word, 
I  press  thee  fondly  to  my  beating  heart. 
Or  bring'st  thou  plaintive  wail 

That  sad  ones  sing, 
Tliat  will  not  cease  till  sorrow  hath  her  sway? 
Yet  come  so  still  and  pale. 

What  e'er  you  bring 
Thou  still  art  mine,  whate'er  thy  white  lips 
say. 


THE  IDEAL  WOMAN. 

She  towers  above  the    petty  forceful  molds. 
That  long  have  held  her  in  their  strong  em- 
brace. 
Till  only  the  imagination  holds 
A  vision  of  the  grand  yet  loving  face, 
We  long  to  claim  as  mother  of  our  race. 
Our  maid  in  bronze  proclaims  forever  more 
I>ight  to  the  world  and  fair,  sweet  liberty. 
And  every  land  beyond  our  surf-beat  shore 
Looks  out  to  us  to  learn  what  that  may  be. 
And  looking  learns  that  only  men  are  free. 
She'll  not  be  slave  of  custom  or  of  sex. 
But  free  as  man,  and  with  a  freeman's  tread. 
No  perfect  mind  matures  where  terrors  vex; 
None  ever  grandly  grow    who  walk    in  dread. 
By  narrow  customs  of  long  bondage  led. 
And  beauty  will  be  hers  of  better  type 
Than  even  we,  in  this  bright  land  have  seen 
For  childish  whims,  when  the  good  time  is 

ripe, 
Will  vanish  in  the  mists  of  what  has  been; 
Distorted  shape  she  will  not  beauty  deem. 
She'll  be  a  factor  in  the  golden  age;         [cide; 
Her  sphere  — let  that  her  will  and  gifts  de- 
She  may  be  teacher,  preacher,  author,  sage. 
Or  gently  at  the  homely  hearth  preside. 
Where  equal  honor,  sire  and  dame  divide. 
Her  children,  born  of  love,  not  cringing  fear. 
Will  rise  to  bless  the  world  as  crimes  decrease. 
Why  bar  her  coming?  Pray  that  she  appear. 
To  usher  in  a  glorious  age  of  peace. 
The  darkened  nations    wait!    May  light  in- 
crease! 
Gifts  will  be  her's  to  draw  men  to  the  skies. 
Saved  through  her  powers,  they'll  sing  her 

wondrous  worth. 
In  vain  to  do  her  part  our  brother  tries: 
Yet  rule  of  selfish  might  delays  her  birth, 
On  sin-stained,  war-swept,  man-ruled  earth. 


-* 


m 


-® 


278 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   I'OKTS   OK  AMEUICA. 


JOHN  WESLEY  COUCHMAN. 

Born:  Margaketville,  N.Y.,  Aug.  25, 1853. 
This  writer  teaclies  in  the  public  schools  of 
his  native  stute.  He  was  ehiss  poet  at  the 
Weslevan  university    at    Middletowu  in  1878. 


JOHN  WESLEY  COUCHMAN. 


Mr.  Couchman  was  married  in  1882  to  Miss 
Mj'ra  M.  Dibble,  and  is  now  a  resident  of 
Richmondville,N.Y.,wliere  he  is  well  known 
and  highly  respected. 


»- 


CONFESSION. 
You  came  with  wondrous  lig'ht, 
Darl£  eyes,  dark  eyes  unto  me. 
Till  the  largo  world  g-rew  bright  — 
Dark  eyes,  ye  did  undo  me  — 
Strange  such  untutored  things 
As  soft  eye-dallyings 
Should  Hntter  wings,  and  wing  the  fever 

tlirongli  nie! 
Still,  all  the  tiutter  never  once  alarnu'd  me — 
With  Jill  your  light  you  came,  dark  eyes,  and 

charmed  me. 
Dark  eyes,  dark  eyes  you  charmed  me. 

You  came  with  wondrous  strength. 

Gray  eyes,  gray  eyes  to  wound  me; 
Gray  eyes,  you  came  at  length. 
Fay  eyes,  and  found  me: 
Ah,  true!  the  (luiet  power 
Of  many  a  trystful  liour 


Put  love  in  flower  and  with  still  lashes  bound 

me! 
At  fault  the  plea  your  strong  light  merely 

thrilled  me, 
In  fond  excess  it  came  and  nearly  killed  me  I 

Gray  eyes,  you  nearlj-  killed  me! 

You  came  with  heaven  hue. 

Blue  eyes,  blue  eyes  to  meet  me; 
With  wealth  of  violet  dew 
Blue  eyes,  true  eyes,  to  greet  me ; 
A  wondrous,  wild  desire 
Puts  all  loy  soul  on  flre 
To  draw  you  nigher  and  know  bow  you  will 

treat  me ; 
A  hope  I  have  your  beams  will  kindly  be. 
Yet,  oh!    sweet   eyes,    my  hope  is  scarcely 

free  — 
Blue  eyes,  true  eyes,  what  will  you  do  with 
me. 


SONG. 
Sorrow,  I  know  thee! 

Thy  form  appears 
Dim-litten,  slowly, 
Clothed  with  tears. 
What  is  thy  quest,  O  thou 
Crowned  with  the  pensive  brow? 
What  dost  thou  bring  me  now. 
Daughter  of  fears? 
Sorrow,  shall  thy  form  betray  me? 
Sorrow,  shall  thy  sweet  self  slay  me? 
Sorrow,  in  thy  bosom  sway  me  — 
To,  sleep  —  sleep ! 

Sorrow,  I  hear  thee ! 

Thy  falling  tears 
Flatter  me  nearly. 
Burn,  my  heart  sears. 
Oh!  thou  from  depths  of  sea. 
Speak  thy  full  quest  to  me! 
I  am  inclined  to  thee. 
Sister  of  tears. 
Sorrow,  shall  thy  form  betray  me. 
Sorrow,  shall  tliy  sweet  self  slay  me! 
Sorrow,  in  thy  cradle  sway  me  — 
To,  sleep  —  sleep ! 

Sorrow,  I  wait  thee! 

Where  the  sweet  years 
Kissed  me  so  lately. 
Sow  tliou  thy  tears. 
He  thy  tleep-liiding  mist. 
Feeling  my  foreh.ead  kissed, 
All  thy  sad  song  I  list. 
Mother  ot  biers. 
Sorrow,  shall  tliy  form  betray  me? 
Sorrow,  shall  tby  sweet  self  slay  me? 
Sorrow,  in  thy  Dosom  sw:iy  me  — 
To  sleep,  sleep! 


-5 


ee- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


279 


-® 


CHARLES  A.  PRATT. 

BoKN  IN  Pennsylvania,  Jan.  ~0,  laVi. 
The  poems  of  this  writer  h;ive  appeared  in  the 
Chieago  Times,  Globe  and  Inter-Ocean,  Scrib- 
ncr's  Magazine  and  other  well  known  publica- 
tions, from  which  they  have  been  extensively 
copied  by  the  local  press.  Mr.  Pratt  was  the 
publisher  of  the  Princeville  Times  at  the  age 
of  nineteen;  the  following  year  was  city  edi- 
tor of  the  Peoria  Daily  Democrat;  aud  for  a 


.u^ 

^fe 

■i 

{■ 

1 

r        - 

^'^ 

I,.. 

...    .:.M 

'    MAin.KS    W.    PRATT. 

time  was  also  ou  the  editorial  staff  of  the  Peo- 
ria Transcript.  He  next  bought  the  Times  at 
Buda,  Illinois,  in  1883,  which  he  published  for 
six  years.  Mr.  Pratt  was  appointed  post- 
master at  the  same  place  in  1885,  which  posi- 
tion he  filled  until  1889,  when  he  bought  the 
Times  at  Sheffield,  Illinois,  which  he  now  pub- 
lishes. 


MASTER  AND  MAN. 
Within  a  stately  mansion  on  the   Hudson's 

bonny  banks, 
Stood  two  men  in  earnest  converse  —  men  of 

two  distinctive  ranks: 
Wealthy,  proud,  and  scornful,  with  ar  haughty 

air  the  one. 
The  other  poor  and  humble  —a  menial's  luck- 
less son. 
'Tis  the  same,  sad,  and  simple  story,  tliat's 
heen  told  in  every  land; 
© 


How  a  youth  of  poor  possessions  sought  a  rich 

man's  daughter's  hand; 
How  the  sire  in  scorn  and  anger  the  youth's 

advances  spurned. 
While  the  maid  in  silent  sorrow  for  her  lover's 

presence  yearned. 
"You  wed  my  only  daughter!  "  cried  he,  in 

tones  of  scorn ; 
"  You,  a  hireling's  graceless  offspring,  a  crea- 
ture lowly  born? 
My  daughter's  proud  and  hand.some,  I,  her 

father,  rich  and  great; 
When  she  weds  'twill  be  amomg  her  peers, 

with  those  of  high  estate." 
•  >  Tis  true  I  am  poor  and  humble,"  the  youth 

in  sorrow  said, 
"But  a  man  free-born  and    honest,"  and  he 

proudly  raised  his  head. 
"Tis  true  you  are  great  and  wealthy,  with  a 

higher  name  than  mine. 
But  with  this  hand  and  brain  I'll  win  a  greater 

fame  than  thine." 
Then  slowly,  as  with  head  erect   he  reached 

the  open  air. 
At  a  window  up  he  waved  adieu  to  a  maiden 

pure  and  fair. 
Why  this  cold  distinction?  Why  one  high,  the 

other  low? 
Simply,  in   the   world's   esteem,    'tis  money 

makes  them  so. 
"  'Twas  early  in  the  '60's,  when  our  land  was 

plunged  in  war. 
When  Lincoln's  proclamation  called  "  three 

hundred  thousand  more." 
In  the  streets  of  town  and  citj'  rushed  the  peo- 
ple to  and  fro. 
And    the   boys   were  nobly  rallying  to  face 

their  country's  foe. 
Then  proudly  marched  the  heroes,  in  bold  and 

grand  review. 
While  maidens  sang  in  cheering  song,  "God 

speed  the  boys  in  blue." 
When  gallant  Company  K  marched  out  to  mu- 
sic's loud  refrain. 
It  bore  upon  its  muster  roll  the  name  of  Hol- 
land Baine. 
He  left  a  manly  letter  for  her  whose  heart  he'd 

won. 
Beseeching    trust  and    constancy  until   his 

work  was  done. 
She  caught  the  welcome  message,  through  the 

loving  lines  she  read. 
Then  in  silence  knelt  and  prayed  for  precious 

blessings  on  his  head. 
Far  on  Southern  fields  of  battle  rose  our  hero 

into  fame; 
Each  soldier  knew  his  bravej-y  and  the  coun- 
try praised  his  name. 
Through  every  hard-fought  battle,  from  morn 

till  setting  sun. 


■© 


*- 


280 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


He  was  foremost  in  the  conflict  until  the  day 

was  won. 

Ou  the  bloody  field  of  Shiloh,  in  Antietam's 

fearful  fight,  [of  the  right 

He  bravely  bore  the  banner  of  the  truth  and 

Greater  still  his  grand  achievements,  brighter 

still  the  straps  lie  wore. 
Until  with  proud  distinction  he  a  high  com- 
mission bore. 
When  peace,  at  Appomatox,  was  proclaimed 

throughout  the  laud. 
He  returned  with  glowing  colors  at  the  head 

of  his  command. 

People  rushed  to  do  him  honor  -  his  name  on 

every  tongue,  [sung. 

And  poets  in  their  muses  his  highest  praises 

There  was  one  whose  heart  was  throbbing  with 

a  wilder  joy  than  all. 
Who  had  watched  her  lover's  gallant  course, 

and  waited  his  recall; 
The  barriers  now  had  vanished,  pride's  false 

distinction  flown. 
And  Cupid  with  his  magic  bow  could  blithely 

claim  his  own. 
So  in  autumn  when  the  leaves  were  turned  to 

purple  pure,  and  gold. 
She  stood  at  Hymen's  altar  pledged  to  him  she 

loved  of  old. 
And  the  man  who  first  was  scornful,  whose 

consent  was  sought  in  vain, 
Now  was  proud  to  claim  as  son  the  distin- 
guished Colonel  Baine! 
This  is  the  moral  of  my  story,  this   the  truth 

that  I  would  teach: 
Though  a  man  be  poor  and  humble,  there's  a 

prize  within  his  reach. 
'Tis  not  wealth  that  makes  our  heroes,  'tis  not 

pride  that  leads  the  van; 
It  is  brains  that  win  distinction ;  'tis  the  mind 
that  malses  the  man. 


JOHN  BANVARD. 

Mr.  Banvahd  engaged  early  in  hfe  at  paint- 
ing in  New  Orleans,  Natchez,  and  subsequent- 
ly at  Cincinnati  and  Louisville,  and  was  lib- 
erally rc^wardcd  for  his  artistic  paintings.  Mr. 
Banvard  was  a  self-taught  artist,  yet  his  pic- 
tures received  distinguished  marks  of  appro- 
bation from  English  critics.  He  painted  the 
Mississippi  river  upon  more  than  three  miles 
of  canvas.  He  is  spoken  of  as  a  remarkable 
man,  not  only  as  a  great  traveler  and  lectur- 
er, but  also  as  a  poet,  a  painter  and  a  wit. 

THE  PKAIRIE'S  FIRST  FLOWEK. 
Thou  pretty  little  crocus  flower, 
Sweet  herald  of  the  spring; 
1             A  pleasure  givest  thou  the  hour— 
I                Thou  modest  little  thing. 
® ' ■ 


Thou  singest  now  that  winter's  gone, 

Frost's  reign  has  passed  away ; 
The  farmers  tell  to  plant  their  corn ; 

That  soon  will  bloom  their  hay. 
Thy  pretty  purple  robe  so  fair 

Around  thy  golden  heart. 
Surpass  in  glowing  colors  rare 

The  painter's  skillful  art. 
Now  soon  will  all  the  prairie  blow      « 

With  lovely  flowers  to  see. 
The  graceful  blades  in  verdure  grow 

In  wild  luxuriancy. 
Thou  modest  floral  magii  star. 
Announcing  summer's  birth. 
Good  will  thou  bringest  from  afar 

That  gives  a  joy  to  earth. 
Fair  crocus,  beautiful  thou  art. 

And  dost  glad  tidings  bring; 
A  pleasure  givest  thou  the  heart, 
Sweet  herald-flower  of  spring. 

THE  PRAIRIE  LARKS. 
The  prairie  larks  again  have  come 

Their  hymns  of  gladness  sing. 
The  honey  bee  with  dulcet  hum 

Joins  in  their  song  to  spring. 
Again  the  prairie  skies  are  bright. 

The  winter  frowns  have  gone. 
The  plains'  extent  is  filled  with  light - 

The  vernal  air  with  song. 
The  prairie  larks  again  are  here 

To  cheer  us  with  their  voice. 
They  fill  the  heart  with  pleasant  cheer 

And  make  us  all  rejoice. 
This  hail  to  spring  is  winter's  dirge  — 

Fell  storms  have  passed  away; 
We'll  hear  no  more  the  tempest  surge  - 

The  prairies  all  are  gay. 

THE  BLUEBIRDS  HAVE  COME. 

Look  out  upon  the  prairie,  see, 

The  bluebirds  now  have  come. 
And  hear  them  carol  merrily 
While  pluming  in  the  sun. 
And  in  their  coming  plainly  say 

That  winter  now  is  gone. 
That  icy  sway  has  passed  away. 

And  "springtime  bright  has  come. 
I  love  the  little  bluebird  bright. 

Sweet  harbinger  of  spring; 
Their  song  to  me  gives  more  delight 

Than  anv  bird  that  sings. 
When  they  appear  they  always  tell 

Violetssoon  will  blow. 
The  frozen  brook  within  the  dell 

Again  with  music  flow. 
Welcome  then  celestial  sprite 

With  coat  of  azure  hue. 
You  always  bring  my  he;. rt  delight 

In  spring  when  seeing  you. 


^- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


281 


* 


FRANK   M.  GILBERT. 

Born:  Mobile,  Ala.,  July  1,  1846. 
This  gentleman  has  written  more  than  a  thou- 
sand poems,  which  Iiave  been  published  broad- 
cast.   He  is  a  humorist,  and   has  written  ex- 
tensivelj-  for  llie  leading' publications  of  Am- 


m  \NK    \l    (,I1  ISKRT. 

erica.  Mr.  Gilbert  is  now  proprietor  of  the 
Evening-  Tribune,  published  at  Evansville, 
Ind.,  in  which  eitj-  lie  resides  with  his  wife 
and  family. 


©- 


LOVES  APPEAL. 

I  would  look  in  the  eyes  that  are  dear  unto 

me. 

That  shine  with  a  passion-lit  fire;  [  free 

I  would  finger  the  tresses  that  float  soft  and 

And  murmur  to  her  my  desire. 
Her  lips  like  twin  strawberries  deep  in  the 
wood. 
Give  promise  of  sweet,  nameless  bliss; 
1  would  draw  her  up  gently  to  me  if  I  could. 
And  their  nectar  I'd  sip  with  a  kiss. 

SHE  CONSENTS. 

Touch  my  face  gently. 

Half  reverently, 
Murmur  your  half-whispered  plea. 

Look  in  my  eyes 

Free  from  disguise. 
Say  to  me  then  what  you  see. 

Ah,  I  mu.st  list'  you. 

Can  I  resist  you. 
Modesty  cannot  prevent. 

Oh,  hold  me  fast. 

Would  this  could  last  ~ 
Take  from  my  lips  my  consent. 


BLISS. 

Her  breath  fans  my  cheek  and  it  glows'  in  re- 
turn. 

And  her  fingers  close  soft  over  mine. 
With  a  thrill  .so  mag-netic  it  seems  half  to  burn, 

And  I  gaze  in  those  eyessodixine; 
And  madlyl  press  her  and  drink  in  her  charms. 

With  a  joy  that  is  almost  a  pain. 
And  lovingly  folding  her  into  my  arms, 

I  kiss  her  again  and  again. 


MY  LITTLE  WIFE. 
There's  a  dear  little  face  that  beams  love  to 
mine 
When  homeward  I  come,  at  the  night. 
Lit  up  by  the  soft  eyes  that  loving'ly  shine 

With  honest  affection's  pure  light. 
And  a  form  flies  to  meet  me  with   fondest  em- 
brace. 
I  forget  care  and  sorrow  and  strife. 
For  they  all  take  their  flight  when  I  look  in 
the  face 
Of  my  darling  adored  little  wife. 
My  own  little  wife.    My  dear  little  wife. 
Without  her,  how  dreary  would  be  all  my  life. 
She's  tlie  one  I  adore 
Each  day  more  and  more; 
My  darling,  my  own  little  wife. 
She  ever  is  near  me  i!i  trouble  and  care. 
She  consoles  me  when  I'm  in  distre.ss. 
And  tenderly  touches  my  fast  changing  hair 

With  her  soft,  gentle  loving-  caress. 
The  world  is  far  brighter  with  her  by  my  side. 

She  daily  grows  into  my  life. 
There  is  no  one  so  dear,  in  the  world  far  and 
wide. 
Like  my  darling',  my  own  little  wife. 
My  own  little  wife.    My  dear  little  wife. 
Without  her,  how  dreary  would  be  all  my  life 
She's  the  one  I  adore. 
Each  day  more  and  more. 
My  darling-,  my  own  little  wife. 


THE  DOGWOOD  BLOSSOMS. 

When  the  warm  spring  sun  is  shining 

And  the  flowers  begin  to  bloom, 
And  the  little  leaves  are  peeping 

From  the  forest's  -wintry  gloom. 
Then  the  angler  roams  the  meadow 

With  his  heart  and  fcKitsteps  light. 
For  the  dogwood  is  in  blossom 

And  the  fish  begin  to  bite. 
Oh,  the  warm  and  mellow  sunlight, 

How  it  seems  to  kiss  the  ground. 
Till  it  quivers  in  its  gladness; 

How  it  wakes  the  song  birds  sound. 
And  not  a  white  cloud  flecking 

Dims  the  sky  so  blue  and  bright. 
Ah,  the  dogTvood  is  in  blossom 

And  the  fish  l)egin  to  bite. 


-© 


Beneath  some  forest  monarch 

Upon  the  sward  I've  laid, 
Where  the  sunheams  through  the  branches 

Break  into  light  and  shade, 
And  I  feast  my  eyes  in  gladness 
On  the  simple  woodland  sight. 
When  the  dogwood  is  iu  blossom 

And  the  fish  begin  to  bite. 
Half  dozing,  dreaming,  waking, 

I  pass  the  hours  away. 
Till  the  sunbeams,  slanting  lower, 

Mark  the  closing  of  the  day; 
And  the  soft  moon  slowly  rising 

Bathes  the  earth  with  sUvery  light. 
When  the  dogwood  is  in  blossom 

And  the  fish  begin  to  bite. 
Ye  bustling  men  of  business. 

Take  from  your  Uves  one  day 
And  wander  through  the  meadows 

In  the  balmy  month  of  May. 
You'll  be  better,  happier,  purer. 

When  you  wander  home  at  night. 
When  the  dogwood  is  in  blossom 
And  theflsh  begin  to  bite. 

CAROLINE  D.SWAN. 

BORN :   GAKDINEB,  ME. 

THIS  lady  has  received  a  good  education,  and 
for  many  years  her  attention  was  largely  giv- 
en t^  the  study  of  art,  for  which  she  has  de- 
cided talent.  Commencing  literary  work  with 
translations  from  the  French  and  German,  she 
soon  ventured  upon  original  efforts  in  prose 
and  verse.  The  poems  of  Miss  Sw^n  °uch 
upon  numerous  subjects -grave  light  and 
serious;  they  have  appeared  in  the  Atlan  c 
Monthly,  Arthur's  Home  Magazme,  Portland 
Transcript  and  other  leading  periodicals  from 
which  they  have  been  extensively  copied. 

THE  FIRE-FLY'S  SONG. 
In  the  dark! 
Shooting,  darting  free  and  far- 
Each  a  saucy,  mimic  star 

In  the  dark; 
Brilliantly  we  shine  and  swirl 
Ever  in  electric  whirl! 

Ha!  lia!  ha! 
Yonder,  by  his  taper's  gleam, 
Lo,  the  poet  in  his  dream 

Tries  to  sing. 
Poet  cousin,  pale  and  thin. 
Come  and  join  our  reveling. 
Dancing,  glancing  out  and  in. 
We  will  teach  you  everything. 
Words  should  quiver,  words  sliould  burn. 
Scintillating  as  they  turn ; 
Fancy  dances  you  must  learn ! 
Ha!  ha!  ha! 
Souls  of  flame. 


Kin,  though  of  another  name. 
Are  the  comrades  we  would  claim ! 

Tra,  la!  la! 
Never  scorn  our  merry  party! 
We're  the  true  illuminati! 
Twinkling  stars,  alive  with  glee. 
Join  our  merry  company ; 
And  Mother  Earth  goes  whirling  round. 
Spinning  through  her  orbit's  bound 

Gay  as  we ! 
Shining  with  her  fire-fly  light 
On  a  field  of  endless  night  !^ 
And  the  universe  is  bright! 
Ha!  ha!  ha! 
So  are  we ! 

II. 
Half  asleep! 
Pallid  student  in  thy  cell. 
Cloistered  monk  with  book  and  bell,- 

Half  asleep,— 
Philosophy  is  open-eyed: 
Pietywill  ne'er  abide 

In  dungeon  keep. 
Prophecy,  on  eagle  wings, 
Gazing  into  holy  things. 
Toward  the  sunlight  soars  and  sings 

In  golden  flight. 
This  life  to-day,  that  life  to  come 

Are  dazzling  bright. 
Dullards-  almost  deaf  and  dumb. 
Cease  that  everlasting  hum! 
Come  and  see  our  twilight  glee; 
Hear  our  frolic  minstrelsy; 
Fairy  torches  waving  free.— 

Ha!  ha!  ha! 
While  the  robins  on  the  hills 
Whistle  evanescent  trills. 
Darting  beetles,  silver-blue. 
Whiz  about  and  laugh  at  you! 
Ha!  ha!  ha! 
Laugh  at  you ! 
Just  imagine,  if  you  can, 
Doleful,  melancholy  man, 
A  whizzing  beetle,  silver-blue. 
Laughing  in  his  sleeve  at  you . 


SEA  FOGS. 
Softly  the  silent  fogs  come  floating  i.., 

The  river  valley  fills  with  pearly  gia>  . 

I  fear  a  storm  upon  its  giant  way. 
The  wiser  rustic  trusts  in  what  has  been. 

..  Nay,  leddio.  nay !"  saith  he, 
.  NaeJtorm  will  come  to-day.  It  is  the  sea. 

So  ghostly  portents  steal  "!>«"  J),-;;.  ^°^^;;,, 
Dim,  pallid  doubtings   in  then    migm 

arise,  .        ,  • 

Until  we  lose  our  aziire-gleammf.  sKu  . . 

O  timid  soul,  be  glad!  No  clouds  up-roll. 

But  yonder  lies  the  sea.  ^ 

Claim,"  recognize  thy  near  Eternity . 


« 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETH   OF   AMERICA. 


283 


-flB 


JOHN  JAMKS  PIATT. 

Born:  Milton,  Ind.,  March  1,1835. 
At  fourteen  he  was  placed  at  the  printing 
business,  and  subsequently  took  a  course  of 
study  in  two  colleges.  In  18.59  he  was  a  contri- 
butor to  the  Louisville  Journal.  He  served  as 
clerk  in  the  U.  S.  treasury  department  for  six 
years,  when  he  became  connected  successively 
with  the  Chronicle  and  Commercial  of  Cincin- 
nati. In  1871  he  became  librarian  of  the  house  of 
representatives  at  Washington,  and  in  1883  was 
appointed  consul  at  Cork,  Ireland.  His  poems 
are  numerous.  Poems  in  Sunshine  and  Fu-e- 
light,  Idyls  and  Lyrics,  and  Poems  of  House 
and  Home  being  most  widely  read. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  ROSE. 
I  came  to  find  her  bhthe  and  bright, 

Breathing  the  household  full  of  bloom. 
Wreathing  the  fireside  with  delight;  — 

I  found  her  in  her  tomb ! 
I  came  to  find  her  gathering  flowers, — 

Their  fragrant  souls,  so  pure  and  dear, 
Haunting  her  face  in  lonely  hours;  — 

Her  single  flower  is  here ! 
For,  look:  the  gentle  name  that  shows 

Her  love,  her  loveliness,  and  bloom. 
Her  only  epitsiph  a  rose. 

Is  growing  on  her  tomb! 


TWO  WATCHERS. 
Two  ships  sail  on  the  ocean; 

Two  watchers  walk  the  shore : 
One  wrings  wild  hands  and  cries 

"  Farewell  for  evermore." 
One  sees,  with  face  upUfted, 

Soft  homes  of  dream  her  eyes, 
Her  sail,  beyond  the  horizon. 

Reflected  in  the  skies ! 


SARAH  MORGAN  B.  PIATT. 

Born:  Lexington,  Ky.,  Aug.  11, 1836. 
This  noted  lady  graduated  at  Henry  female 
college  in  Newcastle,  Ky.,  in  ia54,  and  married 
John  James  Piatt,  the  great  American  poet,  in 
1861.  Her  early  poems  appeared  in  the  Louis- 
ville Journal  and  the  New  York  Ledger.  Her 
most  known  volumes  of  verse  are  A  Woman's 
Poems,  An  Irish  Garland,  Selected  Poems,  and 
Child's-World  Ballads. 


i 


AFTER  WINGS. 
This  was  your  butterfly,  you  see. 

His  fine  wings  made  him  vain?  — 
The  caterpillars  crawl,  but  he 

Passd  them  in  rich  disdain?  — 
My  pretty  boy  says,  "  Let  him  be 

Only  a  worm  again?  " 


Oh,  child,  when  things  have  learned  to  wear 

Wings  onoe,  they  must  be  fain 
To  keep  them  always  high  and  fair. 

Think  of  the  creeping  pain 
Which  even  a  butterfly  must  bear 

To  be  a  worm  again ! 


THE  WITCH  IN  THE  GLASS. 
"  My  Mamma  says  I  must  not  pass 

Too  near  that  glass; 
She  is  afraid  that  I  will  see 
A  little  witch  that  looks  like  me. 
With  a  red,  red  mouth,  to  whisper  low 
The  very  thing  I  should  not  know !  " 
Alack  for  all  your  mother's  care! 

A  bird  of  the  air, 
A  wistful  wind,  or  (I  suppose 
Sent  by  some  hapless  boy  a  rose. 
With  breath  too  sweet,  will  whisper  low 
The  very  thing  you  should  not  know! 


A   PRETTIER  BOOK. 
"  He  has  a  prettier  book  than  this," 

With  many  a  sob  between,  he  said; 
Then  left  untouched  the  night's  last  kiss. 

And,  sweet  with  sorrow,  went  to  bed. 
A  prettier  book  his  brother  had  ?  — 

Yet  wonder-pictures  were  in  each. 
The  difl'erent  colors  made  him  sad; 
The  equal  value  —could  I  teach? 
Ah,  who  is  wiser?  .  .  .  Here  we  sit. 

Around  the  world's  great  hearth,and  look, 
While  Life's  flre-shadows  flash  and  flint, 

Each  wistful  in  another's  book. 
I  see,  through  fierce  and  feverish  tears, 

Only  a  darkened  hut  in  mine: 
Yet  in  my  brothers  book  appears 

A  palace  where  the  torches  shine. 
A  peasant,  seeking  bitter  bread 

Fi-om  the  unwilling  earth  to  wring. 
Is  in  my  book ;  the  wine  is  red. 

There  in  my  brother's,  for  the  king. 
A  wedding,  where  each  wedding-guest 

Has  wedding  garments  on,  in  his,— 
In  mine  one  face  in  awful  rest, 

One  coffin  never  shut,  there  is! 
In  his,  on  many  a  bridge  of  beams 

Between  the  faint  moon  and  the  grass, 
Dressed  daintily  in  dews  and  dreams. 

The  fleet  midsummer  fairies  pass; 
In  mine  unearthly  mountains  rise. 

Unearthly  waters  foam  and  roll, 
.And  — stared  at  by  its  deathless  eyes  — 

The  master  sells  the  fiend  a  soul ! 
Put  out  the  lights.    We  will  not  look 

At  pictures  any  more.    We  weep, 
"My  brother  has  a  prettier  book," 

And,  after  tears,  we  goto  sleep. 


m 


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284 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


-® 


LEE  H.  DOWLIXG,  M.  D. 

Born:  Bellville,  O.,  May  18, 1844. 
CoMMEXCiNG  to  prcacli  the  g-ospel  at  sixteen 
years  of  age,  Mr.  Bowling- two  years  later  was 
pastor  of  a  church  at  Milford,  Indiana.  At 
twenty  year.s  of  age  he  went  into  the  union 
army,  and  was  the  joungest  chaplain  in  the 
service.  As  a  preacher  he  has  been  eminently 
successful.  Also  as  a  teacher  he  has  achieved 
considerable  reputation;  having-  been  pro- 
fessor of  physiolog-y  and  histology  and  of 
chemistry  and  toxicology  in  medical  colleg-es. 


LEE  H.  l>()\Vl,I.N(i,  M.  1). 

and  later  lias  been  identified  with  liter;ii-y  and 
business  colleges.  As  a  iiliysician  he  has  been 
somewhat  noted  and  holds  two  dii)lomas.  As 
a  musician  he  is  the  author  of  Tlie  Crown  of 
Sunday  School  Songs,  the  Psalm  of  Victory, 
and  other  music  books  tliat  liave  attained  a 
wide  circulation.  Mr.  Bowling  is  widely  known 
as  an  editor  of  much  ability,  and  also  as  a  pol- 
itician—a prohibitionist.  In  1883  this  gen- 
tleman was  united  in  marriage  to  Miss  Eva 
Sellers,  of  Oskaloosa,  low.-i. 


©- 


SOMEBOBYS  DARLING. 

One  cold  night  in  winter 

We  all  were  in  bed; 
The  white  snow  was  falling-, 
'J'he  cold  winds  were  calling. 


The  wee  ones  all  sleejiing 
Heard  not  what  they  said. 

A  moan  at  the  doorway ; 

An  indistinct  tread; 
A  little  one  crying-. 
Faint  as  if  dying; 
The  children  all  heard  it 

And  climbed  out  of  bed. 

All  ran  to  the  window 
And  then  to  the  door; 

The  white  snow  was  falling. 
The  cold  winds  were  calling; 

But  she  we  heard  crying, 
Was  crying  no  more. 

"'Tis  somebody's  darling-," 

A  little  one  said; 
On  the  step  she  was  lying; 
"Oh,  can  she  be  dying?" 
We  looked,  she  was  frozen. 

The  dear  one  was  dead. 

Remember,  then,  children. 

When  j-ou  are  in  bed; 
When  white  snow  is  falling. 
When  cold  winds  are  calling. 
That  somebody's  darling- 
May  be  freezing  or  dead. 


MARY'S  LAMB. 

A  SPEECH  FOR  A  LITTLE  GIRL. 

Mary  had  a  little  lamb. 

Its  fleece  was  white  as  snow; 

But  then  it  wasn't  Mary's  lamb 
Y'ou  think  about,  I  know. 

The  lamb  loved  Mary  very  well. 

And  she  loved  it  a  —  heap ; 
It  grew,  and  grew,  and  grew,  and  grew 

To  be  a  great  big-  sheep. 

One  morning  Mary  took  a  walk. 

The  sheep  was  by  her  side; 
And  Mary,  precious  little  dear. 

Just  thought  she'd  take  a  ride. 

She  got  aboard,  but  did'nt  know 

Just  how  to  guide  her  pet; 
You  see  lie  was  a  g-reat  fat  thing, 

And  not  her  >•  lambie  "  yet. 

The  sheep  k)okcd  'round  and  gave  his  tail 

A  mo.st  an  awful  switch; 
The  next  we  saw  of  Mary  Jane 

Slie  was  crawling  from  the  ditch. 

And  now,  see  here,  you  jrentle  folks, 

I  rise  to  make  it  plain: 
Y'ou  better  hear  just  what  I  saj', 

I  may  not  speak  again. 

If  you  have  hobbies,  great  or  small, 

A  i>r;nicing  liy  your  side. 
If  \-ou  don't  know  just  what  you  an> 

You'd  l)etter  walk  tlian  ride. 


-^ 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


285 


« 


THOMAS  SLOSS  TURNER. 

Born:  Woodburn,  Ky.,  July .30, 1860. 
This  a-spiring  young  Texas  poet  has  iilready 
gained  many  laurels  tlirongli    tlie  i)iiblieation  , 
of  liis  poems.    Dining  IMH  Mr.  Turner  hopes 


THOiMAS  SLOSS  TURNER. 

to  pubhsh  another  volume  of  poems,  upon 
which  he  is  now  at  work.  His  efforts  are  cer- 
tainly commendable  and  his  friends  predict 
for  liim  a  successful  literary  career. 


© 


LIFE'S  BREVITY. 
There  are  many  people  wlio  sit 

Ever  wearily  complaining 
Tliat  the  hours  of  this  life  do  flit 

With  such  a  short  remaining. 
They  sigh  its  lack  of  sweetness. 
They  mourn  its  incompleteness. 
They  wail  its  rapid  fleetness, 

And  sit  with  folded  hands. 
And  such  dark  gloom  upon  tlieir  faces. 
And  frowning  brows  and  horrid  traces, 
That  men  shun  them  in  all  places 

As  pestilential  lands. 
And  there  are  those  who  go  to  work 

With  patient  hands  and  willing, 
Who  never  swerve  aside  or  shirk, 

But  are  life's  mission  filling. 
To  them  the  birds  are  sweetly  singing, 
For  them  the  beauteous  flowers  are  springing. 
And  life  to  them  reward  is  bringing. 

And  gives  them  happiness. 


They  take  no  time  to  think  of  sorrow, 
And  still  of  grief  refuse  to  borrow. 
But  look  with  joy  unto  the  morrow. 

And  thus  their  lives  they  bless. 
And  while  one  walks  in  gloom  and  pain 

The  other  walks  in  pleasure. 
And  singeth  e'er  a  glad  refrain  — 

Contentment  is  a  treasure! 
To  one  this  life  is  cheerless,  dreary; 
Its  joy  to  him's  obscured  and  bleary; 
Through  life  he  goes  unblest  and  weary. 

To  one  this  life  is  real: 
He  makes  it  so  by  ever  doing. 
By  striving  still,  and  still  pursuing; 
Each  day  his  strength  he  is  renewing 

By  seeking  an  Ideal. 


THE  MOONLIGHT. 

The  soft  moonlight  is  on  the  hills. 

And  'mong  the  clouds  't  is  creeping, 
'T  is  floating  down  the  sparkling  rills, 

And  on  the  flowers  sleeping. 
The  zephyrs  dance  upon  its  beams 

As  through  the  air  they're  streaming: 
So  light  they  float  along  it  seems 

As  if  the  world  was  dreaming. 


WISDOM. 
One  morn  when  I  was  fresh  and  strong 
And  health  and  vigor  caused  my  soul  to  glyw, 
I  felt  the  earnest  of  renown  and  said. 
As  I  beheld  the  great  and  wise  of  earth, 
•  •Lo,  these  by  their  own  might  and  purpose 

strong  [men: 

Have  wrought  tlieir  fame  and  lasting  praise  of 
Likewise  shall  I  my  destiny  hew  out. 
And  rank  among  the  greatand  wise  of  earth!" 
But  Wisdom  mocking  from  her  palace  said: 
"Thou  fool!  Thou  puny  dwarfling  of  thedust! 
How  canst  thou,  save  as  I  make  my  home  with 

thee!" 


UNUTTERED  THOUGHTS. 
Oft  in  my  rambles  by  the  fruitful  flelds 
And  by  the  crystal  silver-gliding  stream 
Where  the  blue  sky  arched  above,  and  the  air 
Was  musical  with  sound  of  bird  and  bee 
And  redolent  with  flowers  and  lipening  fruit, 
I  have  heard  the  song  of  thoughts  unuttered, 
And  my  soul  burned  as  from  a  touch  divine. 
But  when  I  strove  to  utter  them  in  song 
And  voice  their  music  in  the  heart  and  brain 
That  men  might  hear  and  feel  :ind  emulate 
Their  teaching,  e'en  as  the  poor  scissor-tail 
That  chirps  and  flirts  and  circles  in  the  air 
So  full  of  happiness  it  cannot  sing. 
So  I,  though  my  heart  glows  with  the  song, 
Can  only  chirp  and  then  my  lips  are  dumb! 
And  if  sometimes  by  chance  I  sing  a  song 
The  song  I  utter  never  does  portray 
The  image  painted  on  the  heart  and  brain. 


m 


©- 


286 


S 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  A3IEKICA. 


SONG. 
How  shall  I  woo  my  handsome  Bess? 

What  messag-e  shall  1  send  her, 
That  it  may  be  like  her  own  self. 

So  gentle-like  and  tender? 
Say,  shall  it  be  in  courtier  phrase, 

Set  off  with  words  of  learning. 
Or  shall  it  be  the  rustic's  own. 

So  true,  so  deep,  so  burning? 
It  can  not  be  the  courtier  phrase, 

With  gallant  words  all  laden, 
For  I  am  but  a  country  swain 

And  she  a  country  maiden. 
She'd  be,  with  a  distrustful  eye. 

Such  high-flung  words  discerning, 
And  God  forbid  a  rustic  lad 

Should  ape  the  ways  of  learning! 
When  wild  birds  go  to  woo  their  mates 

They  go  right  sweetly  singing 
The  simple  songs  that  nature  taught 

Till  wood  and  lield  are  ringing. 
So  I  shall  woo  my  gentle  Bess 

In  simple  words  sincerely, 
For  only  they  can  tell  how  true 

I  love  her,  and  how  dearly. 


DREAMING. 

Ail  day  long  have  I  been  dreaming. 

Building  castles  in  tlie  air. 
Till  my  soul  is  lost  in  gleamings 

Of  the  future  bright  and  fair. 
Oh !  what  noble  heights  are  towering 

In  the  land  by  fancy  drawn. 
And  the  golden  sunbeams  showering 

Fall  upon  those  heights  at  dawn. 
But  those  heights,  though  sweetly  shining. 

Shall  all  hasten  to  decay ; 
And  my  soul,  in  sorrow  pining. 

Will  lament  their  vanished  ray. 
Still  the  brightest  lights  are  given 

But  to  shine  awhile  and  fade: 
Nauglit  endures  this  side  of  heaven. 

All  tilings  enter  death's  dark  shade. 


s- 


YOUTHFUL  MEMORIES. 
Oh.  let  me  think,  when  evening  shades 

Hang  mantling  o'er  the  plain. 
And  walking  o'er  the  western  wave 

Tlie  night  asserts  its  reign. 
Of  tliose  who  twine  around  my  lioart 

Like  cypress  to  its  home, 
And  life  iiud  freshness  there  impart. 

Cheering  me  as  1  roam. 
'Tis  sweet  indeed  to  think  of  those 

My  b(jyhood  cherished  so; 
We  knew  no  cares,  we  liad  no  woes. 

And  pleasure's  radiant  glow 


Beamed  in  our  hearts  and  made  them  beat 

In  wildest  ecstacy; 
We  dreamed  fair  dreams  till  life  complete 

Was  painted  on  our  skj'. 
How  oft  we  roved  among  the  hills 

With  spirits  wild  with  glee. 
And  wandered  down  meandering  rills 

Or  o'er  the  verdant  lea; 
Or  roamed  among  the  forest  trees 

In  autumn's  beauteous  day. 
And  sought  the  cool,  refresliing  breeze 

Among  the  leaves  at  play. 
Ah,  me!  those  days  of  youth  so  fair 

Were  like  a  dream  complete; 
A  time  more  sweet,  a  day  so  dear, 

I  ne'er  again  expect  to  meet. 
Go,roam  o'er  earth, through  pleasure's  halls, 

But  naught  so  sweet  I  ween 
Across  your  path  so  brightly  falls 

As  that  which  once  hath  been. 


INVOCATION. 

Little  sweetheart,  live  with  me 
On  tlie  prairie  wide  and  free. 
Birds  and  flowers  and  humming-bees 
Whisper  to  the  heart  at  ease; 
Wild  herds  feed  upon  the  plains. 
And  contentment  fondly  reigns. 
Rove  with  me  down  sloping  hills 
By  the  babbling,  sparkling  rills. 
When  fair  Luna  from  on  high 
With  lier  glory  floods  the  sky 
And  the  eartli  and  air  below. 
I  am  lonely,  full  of  woe. 
And  the  world  to  me  is  dark. 
Oh,  my  love,  thou  art  the  spark 
Can  illumine  my  path  so  drear  — 
Sweetest  sunshine  of  the  j-ear! 
Live  with  me.  and  in  yon  bower. 
When  the  silvery  moonbeams  lower. 
We  will  listen  deep  and  well 
To  the  words  sweet  Love  doth  tell. 
How  his  soft  eyes  sparkle  bright 
In  the  clear  and  deep  moonlight, 
Whi'n  he  gently  'gins  to  tell 
Words  that  make  the  bosom  swell. 
Tlieii,  sweetlieart,  why  need  delay 
Keep  you  from  this  spot  away? 
Here  I  sit  and  pine  for  thee. 
And  the  liours  pass  wearily. 

Haste,  oh!  haste,  and  quickly  come. 
Bringing  sunshine  to  my  home, 
Biinging  smiles  and  winsome  ways 
To  while  away  life's  weary  days. 
Oh,  1  love  you  as  my  life! 
Will  you  be  my  darling  wife. 
And  come  and  live  with  me 
On  the  prairie  wide  and  free? 


« 


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LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


287 


-® 


LEWIS  W.  SMITH. 

Bohn:  Malta,  III.,  Nov.  23, 1866. 
Aftek  spending  a  term  in  Beloit  college,  he 
later    attended    the  college  at  Fairfield,  Ne- 
braska, where  he  graduated  in  1889.  Mr.  Smith 


«- 


LEWIS  W.   SMITH. 

e.\|jects  to  follow  the  profession  of  teaching 
for  the  present.  He  is  very  fond  of  literature, 
and  his  poems  have  already  appeared  in  the 
Chicago  Current  and  the  local  press. 

PARTING. 
I  do  not  feel  like  singing 

Of  love  and  hope  to-uight. 
Of  aspirations  winging 

To  Heaven  in  grandest  flight. 
Sweet  music  can  not  move  me 

To  hopes  for  life  before; 
For  you  must  go  who  love  me; 

We  part  to  meet  no  more. 
My  heart  would  fain  not  listen 

To  what  you  sweetly  say. 
Only  that  teardrop's  glisten 

Shall  be  with  me  alway. 
You  whisper  words  of  cheering 

That  less  may  be  our  pain. 
They  mock  me  sadly  hearing,— 

We  ne'er  shall  meet  again. 
I  ne'er  again  shall  gladly 

Be  with  you  in  your  walks; 
I  must  remember  sadly 

Our  soul-entwining  talks; 


I  must  behold  forever 

Love's  symbols  everywhere. 
But  never  more,  ah,  never 

Shall  we  our  heart-throbs  share. 
Say  not  again  •'  Kemember 

The  noble  life  you  planned." 
Hope  now  a  burnt-out  ember 

To  life  may  ne'er  be  fanned. 
All  of  myself  has  left  me; 

Is  thine  forever  more. 
Deeply  hast  thou  bereft  me: 

We  part  to  meet  no  more. 


REQUIESCAT. 
Raise  no  costly  marble; 

He  rests  in  peace. 
Words  are  only  idle; 

He  hath  release. 
Life  held  much  of  sorrow, 

But  death  Is  joy. 
He  waketh  to  a  morrow 

Of  glad  employ. 
Say  not  thus  in  sadness 

That  he  is  dead. 
Lay  your  flowers  with  gladness 

Above  his  head. 
Voices  raised  in  weeping 

He  can  not  hear  — 
So  calmly  lies  he  sleeping  — 

Nor  see   the  tear. 
The  call  to  life's  stern  battle 

Must  sound  in  vain. 
For  he  has  loosed  the  shackle 

Of  woe  and  pain. 
The  days  roll  on  forever, 

But  not  for  him 
Comes  morn  or  noontide  ever. 

Or  twilight  dim ; 
For  day  is  day  unceasing; 

The  solemn  night 
Sad  hearts  from  care  releasing 

Dulls  not  the  bright. 
The  glad,  eternal  splendor 

That  hovers  near; 
Its  glory  sweet  and  tender. 

Yet  full  and  clear. 
So  mourn  not  that  he  sleepeth; 

God  knoweth  best. 
In  his  own  hand  he  keepeth 

The  boon  of  rest ; 
And  when  we  grasp  its  meaning 

And  feel  its  joy. 
Our  hearts  no  longer  dreaming 

Shall  songs  employ. 


EXTRACT. 

Every  heart  has  hoped  in  vain. 
Buried  deep  some  lingering  pain; 
But  its  memory  is  stirred 
By  some  lightly  spoken  word. 


-© 


©- 


288 


^ 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK  AilKKlCA. 


REV.  HENRY  PETTY. 

Born  :   Virginia. 
This  geutlenian  is  a  baptist  clergyman,  and 
has  gained  quite  a  reputation  as  a  poet  and 


REV.   HENRY    PETTY. 

writer.  He  resides  in  his  native  state  at 
Chatliam,  where  he  is  very  popular  as  a  min- 
ister of  the  g'ospel. 


m- 


KOBERT    ELSMERE. 
Pity  a  woman's  heart, 

Sliould  g-o  so  far  astray. 
From  all  that's  truly  wise  and  g-ood, 

Tliat  hlessed  good,  old  waj-. 
Pity  a  woman's  head, 

With  fantasies  .so  full, 
Should  over  such  a  multitude 

So  egregiously  gull. 
Pity  a  woman's  hands, 

Sliould  pen  such  caustic  lore, 
And  strive  to  undermine  the  faith 

Of  loved  ones  gone  before. 
Piiy  a  woman's  tongue, 

Uiigraciotisly  should  saj', 
Tliat  Christ  as  God  is  but  a  myth. 

And  "  miracles  away." 
Pity  a  woman's  eyes. 

Should  so  distorted  be, 
As  not  in  Christ  the  Holy  One, 

The  V)lessed  Savior  see. 


Pity  a  woman's  life. 

Should  have  so  dark  a  trend, 
As  with  rash  hand  in  evil  hour, 

A  poison  cup  commend. 

Pity  a  woman's  foot. 

Should  tread  some  by-path  o'er, 
A  by-path  strewn  with  ruined  souls. 

Now  as  In  days  of  yore 

Pity  a  woman  thus. 

Should  God  given  powers  abuse. 
And  all  the  good  that  Heaven  owns, 

Insanelj'  to  refuse. 


MY  MOTHER. 

She  was  my  dearest  earthly  joy, 

So  gentle,  kind  and  good, 
To  serve  her  was  mj'  sweet  employ. 

In  whatever  waj'  I  could. 

But  since  her  voice  in  death  is  hushed, 

My  heart  in  sadness  pines. 
My  spirit  bruised,  and  almost  crushed, 

Toward  heaven  now  inclines. 

For  well  I  know  my  mother  dwells 

Within  a  mansion  fair. 
At  thought  of  which  my  bosom  swells. 

With  longings  to  be  there. 

'Tjs  sweet  to  know  that  toil  and  pain, 

WMU  one  day  have  an  end. 
And  then  if  I  should  Heaven  gain, 

Eternity  I'll  spend. 

In  company  with  loved  ones  dear. 
And  with  the  angels  bright, 

Free  from  all  want,  and  slavish  fear. 
Free  too  from  sin's  dark  blight. 

With  sainted  ones  I'll  gladly  tread. 
The  streets  all  paved  with  gold. 

No  foe  can  make  us  then  afraid. 
Within  God's  heavenly  fold. 

We'll  strike  our  harps  in  sweet  accord, 
Togetlier  round  the  throne. 

And  glorify  our  blessed  Lord, 
For  what  His  grace  has  done. 

Oh !  mother  dear,  though  far  away, 

Methiiiks  I  see  thee  now. 
Treading  along  the  sliining  way, 

A  crown  upon  thy  brow. 

While  I  beset  by  sin  must  tread. 
Life's  rugged  pathway  o'er. 

Trembling  with  doubt,  and  oft  afraid. 
I'll  miss  the  shining  shore. 

Oh !  Father,  as  Thou  seest  best, 
Do  Tiion  my  footsteps  guide, 

That  1  at  last  may  sweetly  rest. 
Beyond  Time's  swelling  tide. 


« 


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LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


289 


* 


EUGENE  FITCH  WARE. 

Bokn:  Hahtford,  Conn.,  May  29, 1841. 
This  gentleman  is  a  partner  in  the  firm  of 
Ware,  Biddle  and  Cory,  attorneys-at-law  of 
Fort  Scott,  Kansas.  He  was  married  in  1874 
to  Miss  J.  P.  Huntington.  Mr.  Ware  served 
five  years  in   tlie  volunteer  army,  and   five 


m 


BtTGENE  FITCH  WAKK. 


years  in  the  Kansas  senate.  Since  1872  his 
poems  have  appeared  quite  extensively  in  the 
periodical  press.  In  1889  appeared  Rhymes  of 
Ironquill,  a  neat  volume  of  over  two  hundred 
pages  of  his  choicest  poems  —  a  worli  that  has 
been  well  and  favorably  received  by  tlie  press 
and  public.  Personally  Mr.  Ware  is  of  very 
fine  stature,  with  dark-brown  liair  and  dark- 
hazel  eyes,  and  is  withal  a  scliolar  and  a  gen- 
tleman. 


ALGOMAR. 

loline,  my  loline, 

Will  you  be  no  more  my  queen; 

Must  you  always  stay? 
Is  my  waiting  unavailing; 
Must  all  wishes  end  in  failing, 

Must  all  hope  decay? 
Must  all  happiness  at  last 
Fade  into  the  past? 

It  is  longer  than  a  year 

Since  you  came  to  see  me  here, 


Earnest  loline; 
Since  you  came  in  moonlight  beamy. 
Came  to  cheer  me  and  to  see  me. 

To  be  loved  and  seen; 
Since  you  left  that  pearly  star, 
Far-ofif  Algomar. 

Come  and  sing  to  me  once  more, 
As  you  often  have  before. 

Songs  of  other  zones. 
Come  and  hum  those  airy,  sketchy 
Arias,  so  bright  and  catchy. 

Taken  from  the  tones 
Tliat,  unheard  by  human  ears, 
Thrill  the  radiant  spheres. 


WHIST. 
Hour  after  hour  the  cards  were  fairly  shuf- 
fled, 
And  fairly  dealt,  but  still  I  got  no  hand; 
Tlie  morniiigcame;  but  I,  with  mind  unruf- 
fled, 
Did  simply  say:  "  I  do  not  understand." 

Life  is  a  game  of  whist.  From  unseen  sources 
The  cards  are  shuffled,  and  the  hands  are 
dealt. 
Blind  are  our  efforts  to  control  the  forces 
That,  though  unseen,  are  no  less  strongly 
felt. 

I  do  not  like  the  way  the  cards  are  shuffled. 
But  still  I  like  the  game  and  want  to  play; 

And  through  the  long,  long  night  will  I,   un- 
ruffled. 
Play  what  I  get,  until  the  break  of  day. 


THE  MINNESONG. 
Once  a  falcon  I  possessed ; 

And  full  many  a  knight  and  vassal 

Watched  him  from  my  father's  castle. 
As,  in  gaudy  ribbon  dressed. 

He  would  seek  with  flery  eye 

Battle  in  the  roomy  sky. 
And  return  to  be  caressed. 

Once  a  lover  I  possessed, 
On  the  field  of  battle  knighted. 
And  at  tournaments  delighted 

Did  I  watch  his  flery  crest; 
Woven  from  the  silken  strands 
By  mj'  own  unaided  hands, 

Was  the  baldric  on  his  breast. 

But  one  day  my  bird  did  soar. 

When  the  sky  was  black  and  stormy; 

And  my  knight,  whose  fondness  for  me 
Seemed  as  changeless  as  before. 

Rode  away  in  the  crusade; 

And  as  years  successive  fade, 
They  return  to  me  uo  more. 


-m 


©- 


290 


© 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOKTS   OF  AMEKICA. 


Ah !  in  every  laud  and  tongue  — 
Loved  bj'  emperor  and  vassal, 
Serf  iu  hovel,  knight  in  castle  — 

Ever  old  jet  ever  young-. 
Sung-  until  the  hours  grew  late. 
Was  the  song-  of  love  and  fate 

Which  the  Minnesing:er  sung. 


THE  SERENADE. 

In  the  pale  light 

The  angel  of  tlie  night. 
With  silver  sickle,  reaped  the  western  stars; 

Across  my  sleep. 

Dreamless  as  well  as  deep, 
There    came  a   ballad,  whose    remembered 
bars. 

Brought  back  to  me  a  day  — 

A  year  long-  passed  away. 

An  old,  old  song. 

Although  forgotten  long. 
Brings  cliildliood    back  as  songs   alone   can 
bring; 

We  see  bright  eyes. 

Behold  unclouded  skies. 
We  re-inhale  the  fragrance  of  life's  spring ; 

While,  as  of  unseen  bird, 

Bustle  of  wing  is  heard. 

Sliall  our  last  sleep 

Eternal  stillness  keep? 
Shall  pulseless  dust  enclose  a  dreamless  soul? 

Or  shall  we  hear 

Those  songs  so  old  and  dear. 
As  'mid  tempestuous  melodies  there  roll 

Upon  our  waking  ears 

The  choruses  of  spheres? 


THE  OLD  PIONEER. 
Where  are  they  gone?  Where  are  they  — 

The  faces  of  my  cliildhood? 
I've  sought  them  by  the  mountains. 

By  the  rivers,  by  the  canyons ; 
I  have  called  upon  the  prairie, 

I  have  called  upon  tlie  wildwood: 
O,  give  rae  back!  O,  give  me  back 

Tlie  faces  of  my  childhood! 
The  boys  and  girls, 

My  playmates,  my  companions. 

The  days  of  early  cliildliood 

Have  a  strange,  attractive  glimmer 
A  lustrous,  misty  fadelessness 

Half  seen  and  yet  half  hidden. 
As  of  isles  in  distant  oceans. 

Where  tlie  shattered  moonbeams  shimmer. 
Concealing  half,  disclosnig  lialf, 

Witli  rapturing,  fracturing  glimmer. 
The  realms  to  vv-hicli 

Oiir  visits  are  forbidden. 
It's  vainly  that  I  call  upon 

Tiie  mountains  or  the  canyons; 


»- 


And  vainly  from  the  forest. 

From  the  river  or  the  wildwood. 
Do  I  ask  the  restoration 

Of  my  playmates,  my  companions; 
No  voice  returns  from  mountain  side. 

From  forest  or  from  canyons; 
They've  gone  from  me  forever. 

The  faces  of  my  childhood. 


THE  VIOLET  STAR 

"  I  have  always  lived,  and  I  always  must," 
The  sergeant  said  when  tlie  fever  came; 

From  his  burning  brow  we  washed  the  dust. 
And  we  held  his  liand,  and  we  spoke   liis 
name. 

"Millions  of  ages  have  come  and  gone," 

The  sergeant  said  as  we  held  his  liand;— 
'•  They  have  passed  like  the  mist  of  tlie  morn- 
ing dawn 

Since  I  left  my  home  in  that  far-off  land." 
W^e  bade  him  liush,  but  he  gave  no  heed  — 

"  Millions  of  orbits  I  crossed  from  far  — 
Drifted  as  drifts  the  Cottonwood  seed: 

I  came,"  said  he,  "  from  the  Violet  Star. 
I.  Drifting-  iu  cycles  from  place  to  place  — 

I'm  tired,"  said  he,  ••  and  I'm  going-  home 
To  the  Violet  Star,  iu  the  realms  of  space. 

Where  I  loved  to  live,  and  I  will  not  roam. 

"  For  I've  alwaj-s  lived,  and  I  always  must. 

And  the  soul  in  roaming  may  roam  too  far, 
I  have  reached  the  verge  that  I  dare  not  trust 

And  I'm  going-  back  to  the  Violet  Star." 
The   sergeant   hushed    and   we    fanned    his 
cheek; 

There  came  no  word  from  that  soul  sotired; 
And  the  bugle  rang  from  the  distant  peak. 

As  the  morning  dawned  and    Ihe    pickets 
flred. 
The  sergeant  was  buried  as  soldiers  are; 

And  we  thoiiglit   all    day    as   we   marched 
througn  the  dust: 
His  spirit  has  gone  to  the  Violet  Star  — 

He  always  has  lived,  and  he  always  must. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  DJKLYPRWBZ. 

Before  a  Turkish  town, 

Tiie  Russians  came. 
And  with  liuge  cannon 

Did  bombard  the  same. 

They  got  up  close 

And  rained  fat  bombshells  down. 
And  blew  out  every 

Vowel  in  the  town. 
Andtlien  the  Turks, 

Becoming  somewiiat  sad. 
Surrendered  every 

Consonant  they  had. 


-* 


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LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


291 


© 


MRS.  IRENE  G.  ADAMS. 

Born:  Erie  Co.,  N.  Y.,  April,  19, 1841. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  Adams  have  appeared  in 
the  leading-  pubhcationo  of  the  country,  and 
have  been  extensively  copied  in  the  local 
press.  Her  present  husband,  Capt.  J.  C.Adams, 
to  whom  she  was  wedded  in  1887,  is  a  popular 


MRS.  IRENE  G.  ADAAIS. 

journalist  of  South  Dakota.  Mrs.  Adams  edits 
a  column  in  her  husband's  paper,  which  she 
devotes  to  the  interests  of  Woman  and  Home, 
This  lady  is  a  prominent  worker  for  the  cause 
of  the  W.  C.  T.  U.,  and  is  well  known  and  hon- 
ored in  her  adopted  state. 


THE  TYRANNY  OF  LOVE. 

Lo\e  makes  you  mine  most  blessed  thought; 

It  gleams  with  joy  in  darkest  night, 

And  radiates  a  halo  bright 
'Round  common  toil  with  duty  fraught. 
My  own  -  Thank  God !  Such  generous  gift 

Has  warmed  my  deepest  depths  of  soul; 

It  is  my  long  sought  starlit  goal 
Come  unto  me  from  life's  broad  drift. 
I  feel  my  deep  unworthiness 

To  wear  the  pearl  love  brings  to  me; 

The  blemish  of  my  past  I  see 
Rise  like  a  cloud  of  selflsliness. 
The  flres  of  sin  swept  me  away 

From  virtue's  path  of  purity, 

F,rom  royal  deeds  of  charity. 
And  manhood's  loftier  moral  way. 
©- 


O,  I  have  feared  in  moody  hour. 

Lest  stains  like  these  upon  my  past 
Might  all  my  future  overcast. 

Despite  God's  loving,  cleansing  power. 

As  heart  of  oak  must  bear  the  mar 
Inflicted  on  the  youthful  tree, 
Though  ages  of  futurity 

Conceal,  they  cancel  not  the  sear. 

But  now  I  know  that  your  sweet  soul. 
So  pure  and  strong,  so  brave  ard  true. 
Hath  power  to  build  my  life  anew, 

Tlie  ill  subdue,  the  good  extol. 

Ah,  dear,  my  future,  in  your  hands, 
Must  shape  itself  as  you  decree: 
Your  potent  will  hath  set  me  free 

From  selfish  aims  and  sin's  commands. 

There  are  no  heights  I  may  not  reach 
Of  fame  or  fortune,  by  your  side, 
My  inspiration  and  my  guide. 

Accept  the  task,  love,  I  beseech. 

HER  ANSWER. 

I  love  you,  but  I  dare  not  take 

The  burdens  you  would  have  me  bear: 
Responsible  for  every  share 
Of  gain  or  loss  j^our  years  may  make. 
You  tell  me  that  my  love's  a  shield 

From  sin  that  snared  you  in  the  past,— 
That  my  stanch  soul  shall  speed  you  fast 
Where  all  choice  blessings  are  revealed. 
But  what  of  mine?  Pray  tell  me,  dear. 
While  I  give  all  to  help  you  rise 
Neglecting  my  ambition's  prize 
That  you  may  win  that  grander  sphere. 
What  is  it  you  will  do  forme? 

What  my  advancement  while  I  spend 
My  energies,  that  you  may  mend 
A  frittered  life  and  destiny? 
My  life  is  mine,  I  cannot  give 

Its  precious  hours  to  your  employ. 
Unless  receiving  sure  convoj' 
That  I  a  larger  life  may  live. 
My  soul  is  mine,  and  I  must  die. 

You  could  not,  if  you  would,  decree 
Against  my  immortality. 
Nor  thwart  the  grave  where  I  must  lie. 
God  given  life  and  soul  are  mine. 
Two  monuments  of  trust  to  build. 
And  I  must  strive  that  they  be  filled 
With  choicest  grain  and  richest  wine; 
I  soar  to  heights  in  fancy's  flight; 
I  search  for  wisdom's  diadem, 
I  sigh  for  glimpse  of  truth's  pure  gem; 
You  stifle  me  with  self-love's  blight, 
I  love  you,  and  I  hoped,  alas ! 

That  you  could  give  me  prize  for  prize- 
That,  hand  in  hand,  we  both  might  rise; 
You  offer  nothing;  Let  it  pass. 


-© 


©- 


-m 


292 


LOCAL,    AND    NATIONAL    I'OETS   OF  AMERICA. 


GEORGE  E.MARKHAM 

Born  :  Bkoome  Co.,  N.Y.,  1849. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Markhum  liave  appeared 
quite  extensively  in  the  periodiL-al  press 

was  iiKiri'ii'd  in  is;4  lu  .Miss   Mariiin 


He 

Davis 


GEORGE    E.  MARKHAM. 


with  whom  he  now  resides  in  Weeping  Water, 
Neb.  He  deals  in  musical  nicrchandi.se,  and 
is  a  teacher  of  music,  having-  now  ahout  forty 
scholars. 


THAT  DEAR  LITTLE  HOME. 

Tlie  night  is  cool,  the  sky  is  clear,  tlie    stars 

are  bright  and  all  is  cheer. 
A  little  group  of  faces  fair,  are  beamy  round 

tlieir  mother's  cliair. 

The  work  is  done  and  all  can  rest,  or  stories 

tell,  which  tliey  love  best. 
Their  Papa's  step  is  heard  to  .sound,  and  faces 

bright  are  turned  around. 

Then  comes  a  rush  for  the  lirst  kiss  — 
Such  greetings  are  a  world  ol'  bliss. 
They  all  receive  a  word  of  love 
'Tis  hwiven  reflected  from  above. 

'I'he  stories  told,  tlie  papers  read, 
The  good-night  passed  and  all  to  bed. 
Now  coini^  those  pleasant  liappy  dri'anis 
Ofaiigcl  forms  and  pearly  streams. 


My  friends,  how  does  this  picture  take, 
"Tis  heaven  asleep,  and  heaven  awake. 
We  all  can  liave  those  homes  so  dear. 
For  home  is  what  we  make  it  here. 


FROM  THE  CRADLE  TO  THE  GRAVE. 

Was  it  distant  music  or  the  rustle  of  a  wing? 
Only  the  voice  of  a  little  babe  an  angel  came 
to  bring. 

We  now  can  see  a  gentle  mother's  tender  love 

and  care; 
We'll  watch  her  as  she  guides  his  feet  away 

from  everj'  snare. 

As  years  pass  by,  we  look  again  and  see  that 

little  boy. 
With  curly  head  and  rosy  lips  and  eyes  so  full 

of  joy. 

And  now  a  heavy  hand  is  raised  to  deal   the 

child  a  blow, 
Because  some  mischief  it   has   done,— stop! 

brute,  don't  stoop  so  low. 

We'll  rush  to  stay  the  angry  blow,  and    treat 

it  with  disdain. 
You  shall  not  harm  a  single  hair;  don't  nuse 

that  hand  again. 

The  curtain  falls  and  time  flies  by.    Behold  in 

manhood  how 
The  little  boy  that  was  so  weak,  is  strong  and 

noble  now. 

The  mother  now,  so  weak   herself,   looks   on 

her  son  with  pride. 
The  noble  man  now  guides  her  feet,  as  down 

life's  walk  they  glide. 

We  now  pass  on  to  other  scenes,  forgetting 

as  we  go. 
That  time  goes    rushing,    wliirling    by,    and 

brings  the  winter's  snow. 

Alas,  once  more  our  eyes  behold  the  harvest 

time  of  years. 
Our  balie,  our  boy,  our  noble  man,  once  more 

to  us  appears. 

His  curly  hair  is  wliite  as  snow,  his  once 
straight  form  is  now  bowed  down. 

An  angel  in  the  clouds  apiiears  and  holds  for 
him  a,  robe  and  crown. 

Breathe  gently  now  and  hear  again  the  rustle 

of  a  wing; 
The  golden  harps  are  touched  onci;  more   and 

hcaxenly  \()ices  sing. 

'Tis  over  now  and  all  is  still;  the  earth  moves 
on  the  same. 

And  all  that's  left  for  friends  to  love  is  mem- 
ory of  his  name. 


m- 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


2m 


© 


REV.  EZRA  P.CHITTENDEN. 

Born:  Westbrook,  Conn.,  Feb. 22, 18.51. 
This  gentleman  is  a  parish  reetor  at  Salina, 
Kansas,  where  he  is  also  professor  of  mental 
and  pliysical  sciences  in  the  St.  Jolin's  school 
in  the  same  city.    The  work  of  his  life  un- 


m 


REV.   EZRA    I'.    CHITTENDEN. 

doubtedly  is  The  Pieroma,  a  Poem  of  tlie 
Christ,  whichwas  pi]blishedinl890.  Below  is 
given  a  few  extracts  from  this  work,  the  bril- 
liancy of  which  certainly  proves  him  to  be  a 
musical  and  scholarly  poet. 


THE  PLEROMA.  A  POEM  OE  THE  CHRIST 

THE  GREETING  OF  GAI.\  (THE  EARTH) 
TO  THE  SUN. 

The  greeting-  of  Gaia  to  luminous  guest. 
With  turbulent  heart  and  quivering  note:— 

Passing  o'er 

Evermore ! 
Stay!  Stay:  while  nearing  our  islet  ye  float; 

Pass  not  by. 

Or  I  die: 
Be  still,  O  my  heart :  list  the  urgent  behest 

Of  the  king 

On  the  wing; 
Regarding  our  smile,  approving  our  song: 

If  he  stay 

But  a  day. 
If  he  show  but  a  blush  as  he  looks  at  my  breast, 
I  shall  dream,  I  sliall  dream  in  the  night,  of 
the  dawn. 


0  heat  of  thine  heart:  O  blush  of  thy  brow! 
Dost  thou  burn?  wilt  thou  turn  for  an  hour? 

Passing  o'er 

Evermore! 
On  my  breast  thou  slialt  rest  and  embower; 

Will  my  heart 

Ere  we  part; 
All  my  viigiiial  riches  with  luster  endow: 

Pass  not  by  or  Idle! 

Dost  flame?  ah  the  shame!  and  still  ridest  on? 
'•The  day  hath  its  end  and  parteih  us  now: 

But  the  night  v/ith  its  queen 

Shall  shortly  be  seen." 
Thus  beaming  on  Gaia,  entreateth  the  sun. 

Passing  o'er  evermore. 

The  Mead  of  the  Moon  —the  regent  of  night! 

1  w^ake  from  my  swoon  and  drink  of  thy  light ; 

I  revive  and  shall  live. 
Thou  art  fair,  O  thou  queen :  and  dost  rival 

my  love ! 
Dost  thou  drink  of  his  sheen,  and  his  bland- 
isliments  prove? 
Ah  my  heart,  canst  forgive? 
"A  vestal,"  O  joy!  and  the  king  is  unwed! 
So  love  doth  not  cloy,  and  I  deck  now  my  bed  — 

Thou  wilt  come  with  the  dawn: 
Thou  are  fair,  O  thou  queen,  and   dost  honor 

his  flame : 
Thou  art  haughty  I  ween,  and  dost  Hyen  dis- 
dain: 
Hast  on,  thou  life-giving  sun! 

Lo,  whisperings  breathe  in  the  air  and  the 

wave ; 
While  cloudlets  me  wreathe,  and  I  dip  me  and 

lave 
In  the  surf  of  the  shore. 

0  thou  messenger  Morn,  dost  thou  beckon  me 

blest? 
Or  dost  beckon  forlorn?  If  his  light  warm  my 
breast 
I  shall  murmur  no  more. 

The  song  of  the  stars,  the  far  away  stars! 

Twinkling,  tinkling. 
Faintly  audible,  ever  laudible; 

Meeting,  greeting 
In  me,  poor  Gaia,  no  wish  that  debars. 

1  cannot  reck  you,  O  numberless  notes! 

Timing,  chiming. 
Concords  beautiful. 
Motions  dutiful; 
Sparkling,  darkling, 
A  myriad  maze  of  musical  mote. 

Still  the  words  1  divine  both  soothe  and  relieve. 

Listing,  trysting; 

Telling  so  faintlj'. 

Never  so  quaintly. 

Drifting,  sifting 
By  signs  clearly  known.  "  He  comes  do  not 
grieve:" 


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LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


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>'  From  this  time  forth,  I  spurn  the  bowl. 

No  more  I'll  meet  you  in  this  hall, 
A  mother  waits  in  yonder  sliies 

And  I  can  hear  her  weird  call." 
He  ceased  to  speak,  dead  silence  reigned 

Where  late  was  heard  the  revel  wild. 
For  every  list'ner  seemed  to  view 

That  dying  mother  and  her  child. 
And  from  that  hour  that  brave  man  ceased 

In  paths  of  sinfulness  to  roam. 
In  hy-ways  and  the  city's  streets 

He  toils  to  bring  the  wanderer  home. 
Oh !  boys,  who  mourn  a  mother  dead. 

May  you,  like  him,  see  her  face  pass 
Before  you,  ere  you  reach  a  hand 

To  grasp  the  ruby,  poisoned  glass. 


MRS.E.S.B.CORBETT. 

This  lady  has  written  many  fine  poems  for 
recitation  before  anniversaries  and  public 
gatherings.  Mrs.  Corbett  is  a  lady  of  a  modest 
and  retiring  disposition,  and  is  rather  averse 
to  any  public  display  of  her  many  accomplish- 
ments. Her  poems  have  been  widely  read 
and  favorably  commented  upon  by  the  press 
and  public  generally. 


AUTUMN  LOVERS. 
Red  and  green  with  brown  and  golden; 

Full  of  glory,  grand,  sublime! 
Fifty  years  at  full  completion 
In  this  golden  autumn  time. 
Nature  tells  the  simple  story. 
Tells  it  in  the  natural  way; 
Life  sends  out  its  greatest  glory 
Near  the  tab'nacle's  decay. 
Autumn  lovers,  autumn  lovers. 
Loving  still  in  autumn  covers. 
Bright  October,  we  admire 

Thy  mottled  foliage  in  its  .sway; 
Grand  and  queenly  are  the  jewels 

From  the  hand  of  perfect  day. 
Nature'U  change  thy  garb  of  grandeur 

For  a  dress  of  snowy  white. 
Melting  in  the  spring-day  sunshine 
As  the  day  succeeds  the  night; 
Autumn  lovers,  autumn  lovers, 
God  in  spirit  o'er  thee  hovers. 
Here  we  make  a  golden  period. 

Hemmed  around  in  Iriendship  true; 
And  this  is  a  free-will  offering: 

"  May  God's  blessing  fall  on  you !" 
May  your  children  prove  tnost  faithful  — 
How  you've  loved  theni  W(>11  anil  Iniig  — 
Joyed  tlicirjoys  and  siglied  tlieir  sorrows; 
Key-nnte  in  tliis  wedding  song. 
Autunui  lovers,  autumn  lovers. 
Human  failings,  true  love  covers. 


Heavenly  Father,  if  in  wisdom 

May  this  day  of  all  be  best; 
Knitting  friendship,  ties  of  kindred. 

In  some  way  maj'  all  be  blest. 
Like  the  artist's  touch  of  finish. 

Or  the  sweets  drawn  from  the  flower. 
Queen  of  joy,  reign  queen  among  us. 

Moonlight  in  the  stari-y  hour. 
Autumn  lovers,  autumn  lovers, 
God's  own  smile  around  thee  hovers. 
If  we  e'er  renew  this  meeting. 

Bridegroom  and  your  faithful  bride. 
In  a  second  golden  wedding. 

It  will  be  beyond  the  tide. 
May  some  joy  to-day  transmitted, 

Brighten  life  as  life  wears  on; 
Trust  in  God  and  when  he  calls  you 

'Twill  be  said:  "A  Daniel's  gone!" 
Autumn  lovers,  autumn  lovers. 
Trust  in  God  and  be  His  lovers. 


n 


SI- 


LIGHT. 

The  emblematic  little  flower 

That  droops  in  shade  of  night 
Looks  sweetly  up  in  tears  of  dew. 
All  sparkling  in  the  light. 
Thou  sorrowing  soul  on  troubled  sea. 

Beneath  a  mourning  sail. 
Like  snow-flakes  on  the  wing-ed  wind 

Within  a  murmuring  gale. 
Lift  up  thy  faith,  when  shadows  fall 

You  try  in  vain  to  clear. 
For,  when  you've  done  your  very  all, 

A  guiding  hand  is  near. 
When  crushed  in  tears  of  bitter  wi-on< 

And  memory  cites  the  face 
Of  some  loved  one  beyond  the  vale, 

In  tranquil  look  of  grace. 
And  calm  repose  no  words  can  tell. 

Comes  from  this  angel,  light; 
O!  spirit,  born  from  spirit  land. 

Beyond  the  shores  of  night! 
Didst  thou  from  God's  own  hand  come 
down 

The  weary  one  to  calm? 
To  hold  communion  with  His  own. 

And  bear  me  on  thine  arm? 
See  yonder  clifl',  in  darksome  hours 

With  creviced  rock  in  sight. 
As  though  the  sun  in  passing  tlirough 

Had  left  a  trailing  liglit. 
Thou  art,  O  earth,  a  lieaulcons  tluMiu'! 

Green  mantled,  or  in  white. 
With  hills  and  vales  and  song  of  birds. 

In  s\inliglit,  or  in  night. 
We  laugh  and  sing,  aye,  sing  of  home! 

A  vantage  yet  to  be. 
For  surges  take  their  backward  roll 

As  we  are  nearing  thee.  | 

15< 


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297 


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JACOB  B.  DOCKENDORFF. 

Born:  Prince  Edward  Island,  April  33,'64. 
Since  his  childhood  Jacob  has  e%aiice(l  a  great 
passion  for  literature.  He  worked  in  a  print- 
ing otiice  in  Boston  lor  nearly  two  years,  but 
is  now  engaged  in  the  profession  of  teaching. 


,^^^fcfc.«»'*^**- 


JACOB  BENJAMIN  DOCKENDORFF. 

Since  1886  the  poems  of  Mr.  DockendorfE  have 
appeared  quite  extensively  in  the  periodical 
press,  and  he  has  also  published  a  volume  of 
poems.  Mr.  Dockeiidorff  is  now  engaged  in 
the  study  of  law. 


EFFORT. 
We  love  to  linger  where  tlie  rays 

Of  Peace's  sun  most  brightly  shine; 
We  fain  would  loiter  in  the  ways 

Of  happiness,  and  ne'er  repine. 
Who  does  not  hope  for  brighter  days, 

Or  for  a  truer  friendship  pine? 
And  yet  how  oft  we  help  to  make 

The  clouds  tliat  shut  the  sunligiit  out; 
Upon  the  thorny  road  we  take 

How  oft  we  cast  tlie  seeds  about; 
How  oft  we  wantonly  forsake 

The  friends  we  least  can  do  without. 
How  strange  we  strive  not  earnestly  . 

For  what  we  earnestly  desire; 
Strange  that  we  turn  about  and  flee 

The  countenance  we  most  admire; 
3- 


And  hasten  downward  when  we  see 

The  heights  to  which  we  would  aspire. 
Vain  are  the  brightest  hopes  that  rise 

Unarmed  of  energy  to  do; 
Unless  the  friendships  thatdiguise 

The  tender  heart  and  purpose  true; 
Lost  the  most  worthy  enterprise 

Without  the  will  to  bear  it  through. 
Nothing  but  weeds  can  live  and  thrive 

Uucared  for  by  the  willing  hand; 
Empty  must  bo  tlie  fairest  hive 

If  naught  but  idle  drones  command; 
Paltry  the  gain  unless  we  strive; 

Failures  and  Fears  go  hand  in  hand. 


FAINT  HEART. 
Dear  lady,  could  I  dare  to  woo, 

I'd  quickly  take  my  stand 
Along  the  line  of  lovers  true 

And  venture  for  your  hand; 
But  then  I  fear  that  such  a  course 

Would  bring  me  oidy  pain: 
Love  unconfessed  is  hard,  but  worse 

When  answered  with  disdain. 
I  fain  would  >>  m:ike  a  breast  of  it," 

As  vulgar  people  say. 
And  risk  the  chance  that  counterfeit 

Be  tendered  me  as  pay. 
That  glance  and  smile  I  must  confess 

Seemed  rather  genuitie. 
But  love  is  risky  business  — 

Whose  ways  I  can't  define. 
The  more  I  think  the  deeper  grows 

My  sad  perplexity. 
The  love  that  drives  away  repose 

Is  not  the  thing  for  me; 
The  birds  that  hover  'round  my  cot. 

The  bees  and  flowers,  too. 
Seem  to  enjoy  a  brighter  lot 

Than  I  whene'er  I  woo. 
Then  I  must  ever  wait  and  sigh. 

Like  Cupid  in  a  snare. 
Until  a  kinder  fate  comes  by 

To  free  me  from  my  care; 
And  give,  perchance,  some  heart  to  cheer 

My  poor  declining  days; 
Then  farewell  sighs,  begone  dull  fear, 

I'll  sing  in  gladder  lays. 


MEMORIES. 

Fond  memories  of  childhood  years,— 
How  beautiful  and  bright 

Amid  the  frowns  of  life  appears 
Their  warm,  consoling  light; 

Chasing  away  the  lines  of  care 

And  shedding  gladness  everywhere. 

The  playground  just  behind  the  liill. 
The  beech  grove  in  the  rear 

Are  pictured  on  my  mind,  and  still 


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LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AilEKICA. 


Not  anything  so  dear. 
Or  half  so  fair,  it  seems  to  me. 
Exists  in  any  scenery. 
Each  ant-hill  with  its  busy  throng. 

Each  nest  so  snug  and  fair, 
And  all  the  varied,  joyful  song 

The  mothers  warbled  there ; 
Each  hill  and  nest  I  well  can  place; 
And  song;  what  songs  have  half  the  grace? 
The  play-house,  fashioned  by  my  hand 

Assisted  by  my  brother. 
With  mats  and  curtains  sister  planned 

Unaided  by  our  mother. 
Mansions  with  stores  of  wealth  abound 
But  where  can  one  so  rich  be  found? 
•  The  brook,  a  little  runaway. 
Went  babbling  near  by. 
And  oft  I  sighed  as,  day  by  day, 

I  thought  it  would  run  dry ; 
Yet  after  all  my  wand '  rings  here 
No  other  stream  seems  half  as  clear. 
The  sun  by  day,  the  stars  by  night; 

How  oft  my  wond  'ring  gaze 
Was  fixed  upon  those  orbs  of  light 

Till  lost  amid  the  maze. 
The  same  bright  wand'rers  shine  to-day 
But,  to  my  mind,  not  half  so  gay. 
And  every  other  scene  so  dear 

Stands  out  in  bright  array. 
Mirrored  in  mem'ries  glass  as  clear 

As  if  it  were  to-day. 
Only  more  lovely  for  the  tear 
Was  sooner  made  to  disappear. 
Fond  mem'ries,  ever  be  our  stay 

In  sohtude'slone  hours; 
In  sorrow  cheer  the  mourner's  way 

With  glad  refreshing  showers; 
Leading  us  far  from  present  fears 
Back  to  the  joys  of  childhood  years. 

FRIENDS. 
In  careless  childhood's  joyous  day, 

'Twas  sweet  to  have  a  friend 
To  join  us  in  the  harmless  play. 

And  ever  gladly  lend 
A  hand  to  aid  in  every  fray: 

His  joy  with  ours  to  blend. 
In  youth,  that  .se.'ison  when  the  mind 

Is  molded  to  the  form ; 
It  ne'er  can  change,  how  good  to  find 

A  constant  heart  and  w:irm 
By  which  our  thoughts  may  be  refined  — 

A  port  in  every  storm. 
In  manhood  — when  the  storms  of  life 

Beat  down  most  hi'avily. 
And  when  amid  une(iual  strife, 

We  far  away  would  Hee; 
When  clouds  with  aspect  dark  are  rife,— 

Oh!  what  a  friend  can  Ije. 


In  age,  when  strength  and  energy 
Are  swift  on  the  decline, 

'Tis  sweet  to  share  the  company 
Of  friends,  ere  we  resign,— 

To  feel  then  at  our  side,  as  we 
Descend  the  steep  incline. 


R  EV.  GEORGE  W.  MCSHERRY. 

Born:  East  Beri>in,  Pa.,  Dec.  10, 1854. 
Since  1883  this  gentleman  has  been  preaching 
in  his  native  county,  being  a  graduate  from  the 
Pennsylvania  college  and  the  Lutheran  theolo- 
gical seminary.  He  has  written  quite  exten- 
sively for  the  local  press. 


LIFE'S  DISMAL  CASTLES. 
Yon  slope  near  limpid  'Possum's  shore. 

At  Bender's  boro'  line, 
A  storied  landmark  holds  of  yore. 

That  brings  one  to  repine. 
The  shelving  heights,  the  rolling  view 

Of  life's  meandering  stream. 

Are  dotted  o'er  with  castles  few 

That  brightness  on  us  beam. 

Oft,  'mid  a  lovely,  swardy  scene, 

A  paradise  of  bloom, 
A  half-clad  frame,  in  ugly  mien. 

Looks  dismal  out  in  gloom. 
From  many  a  youthful,  bowery  height, 

A  castle  grim  looks  down; 
t^nflnished  halls—  repulsive  sight. 

Leer  with  dejecting  frown. 
How  oft  'mid  scenes  of  hallowed  bliss 

The  youthful  vows  were  made; 
Foundation  firm  received  the  kiss 

Of  giant  oak  well  laid. 
Up  rose  the  resolution  strong, 
A  knitted  frame-work  grand; 
The  soaring  structure  peered  among 

The  clouds  of  heaven's  land. 
But  harkl  the  structure  yields  no  sound 

Of  human  life  within; 
Weird,  gaping  holes,  dark,  deep,  abound. 

That  gaze  with  awful  grin. 
Unfinished,  grim,  the  ca.stle  stands, 

A  habitation  drear. 
The  bat  and  owl  in  screeching  bands 

Inspire  nocturnal  fear. 
So  oft  began  expectant  maid, 

A  castle  fine  to  build; 
The  skillful  plans  were  wisely  laid. 

The  heart  with  joy  was  filled. 
Along  life's  winding  shelvy  stream 

Are  castle-ruins  strewn ; 
Resolve,  did  hearts,  and  plan  and  dream, 
Alas,  in  vain,  how  soon. 


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LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


299 


-IS 


WILL  FARRAND  FELCH. 

Bokn:  Columbus,  O. 
Although  comparatively  a  young  mau,  Mr. 
Feleh  has  written  several  works  of  fiction, 
wiiich  have  received  quite  a  little  prominence 
iu  the  world  of  literature.  He  has  also  written 
several  dramas.  As  a  poet  he  is  a  decided  suc- 
cess.and  has  published  a  little  volumeentitled 


WILL   FAKKAND  FELCH. 

Legends  and  Lyrics,  and  also  a  narrative  poem 
in  blank  verse.  Mr.  Felch  has  contributed  to 
the  Chicago  Tribune,  Current,  Potter's  Month- 
ly and  other  publications  of  prominence.  His 
Triad  of  Love  Lyrics  siiows  him  to  be  one  of 
the  best  love-verse  writers  of  the  day.  Mr. 
Felch  now  resides  in  Hartford,  Conn. 


*■ 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  DAWN. 

She  looks  upon  the  lake's  expanse— 
Her  hair  wind-blown  o'er  eyes  as  blue 
As  mist  that  seems  the  waves  to  trance. 
She  watches  the  glad  waves  advance. 
Retreat,  dance  at  her  feet, 
And  then  again  retreat.— 
In  rhythmic,  endless  amplitude: 
A  priestess  of  tlie  solitude. 
Along  the  .shore  she  steps  in  state,— 
Her  cheek  glows  with  the  rosy  dawn 
That  now  begins  to  dissipate 
The  morning's  pearly  dews  that  wait 
To  greet,  elate,  her  feet. 
And  touch  her  gown,  so  sweet. 


Then  melt  in  balmy  morning  air, — 
Like  fragrance  poured  from  chalice  rare. 

Her  voice,— soft  as  the  note  that  falls 
From  nesting  bird,  awake  at  niglit. 
When  to  her  di'owsy  mate  she  calls,— 
Like  music  of  the  past,  enthralls; 

Upsoars  and  falls,  then  soars; 

Like  siren  songs,  from  shores 
Of  fatal  Tyrrheneansea,— 
A  flood  of  buoyant  minstrelsy. 

Her  suave  and  gracious  presence  fills. 
Completes  the  scene;  her  graceful  mien 
Enchants:  like  brightest  dream  fulfills 
Its  mission,— all  the  sense  instills 
With  light,  then  thrills  delight 
Through  all  the  inner  sight. 
Alas!  she  is  like  fleeting  breath: 
Twilight  of  Life !  The  Dawn  of  Death ! 


A  TRIAD  OF  LOVE  LYRICS. 

UONDEAU. 

A  rose  fell  from  her  hair,  in  dance: 
I  picked  it  up,  my  heart  in  trance. 
And  as  the  dancing  ceased,  I  sought 
Her  out,  from  all  the  rout,  and  brought 
The  flower.    I  caught  a  thankful  glance, 
And  then  the  whirling  waltz  went  on. 
Was  lovely  Aphrodite,  wan. 
As  fair,  when  she,  bright  myth  of  dawn, 
Arose"? 

Incarnate  blush,  sweet  rose,  your  right 
To  touch  the  alabaster  white 

Of  her  fair  throat,  and  flush  with  tint 
Of  rose  —  a  subtle,  precious  hint  — 
None  dare  dispute,  but  envy  quite,— 
My  rose! 

SERENADE. 

This  is  my  lady's  bow-er,— 
Her  favored  flowers  here.— 

She  sits  here  by  the  hour, 
While  I,  in  covert  near. 
Watch  every  gentle  sigh. 

Grow,  little  rose,  and  clamber 

Up  to  her  jalousie: 
And  with  your  arms  of  amber. 

So  guard  her,  jealou.sly, 
That  rough  winds  pass  her  by. 

Bear  upward,  leaflet,  fondly. 

The  kiss  I  give  you  now, 
And  as  she  gazes  on  thee 

Declare  to  her  my  vow. 
That  I  may  know  my  fate. 

And  if  she  asks  the  reason 
Why  you  do  bear  my  love, 

Say  that  my  heart's  in  treason. 

And  dare  not  throb  or  move: 

It  must  in  patience  wait. 


-® 


© 


-© 


300 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    I'OETS    OF  AMEKICA. 


EDWARD  L.  RIDEOUT. 

Born  :  Benton,  Me.,  184L 
After  leaving-    school    Edward  engaged  in 
mercantile  pursuits  in  Bangor  and  Dexter. 
In  1878  lie  became  editor  of  the  Household 


EDWARD  L.  RIDEOUT. 

Journal.  In  1880  lie  wrote  for  the  House- 
hold Guest  Magazine.  Hideout's  Monthly 
Magazine,  and  New  York  Waverly,  with  all 
of  which  he  has  since  been  connected. 


«- 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

Three  hundred  years  ago,  'tis  said. 

From  Cassiopeia's  tram 
A  liright  star  fell,  and  since  that  time 

Has  ne'er  been  seen  again. 
And  long  the  "Northern  Queen"  has  mourned 

ller  radiant  favorite's  loss, 
And  sought  her  through  the  starry  depths. 

The  universe  acioss. 
Her  sister  stars  with  eager  eyes 

Still  watch  for  her  return; 
Or  seek  in  tlie  vast  realms  of  space 

Her  dwelling  place  to  leaivi. 
But  all  ill  vain,—  still  round  the  place 

Where  once  her  iiresence  shoiu'. 
Dark  shadows  hover  and  the  night 

Ueigiis  desolate  and  lone. 
But  1  oft  see  that  long  lost  star 

Clad  with  divinest  grace, 
Wliei-e  others  only  see  perchance 

A  lovely,  human  face. 
But  though  the  skies  have  daiki'r  grown 

Since  she  has  left  their  sphere. 


The  earth  is  brighter,  far,  to  day. 

The  while  she  lingers  here. 
Her  voice  seems  but  the  sweet  refrain 

Of  some  celestial  song. 
Breathed  by  the  angels  of  God's  peace 

Above  earth's  sin  and  wrong. 
Obedient  to  the  Father's  will 

Our  humble  life  she  shares! 
And  deepens  every  joy  it  holds,— 

And  lightens  all  its  cares. 
What  name  was  hers  while  in  the  heavens 

Has  never  been  revealed. 
What  name  she  wears  upon  the  Earth 

Must  ever  be  concealed; 
But  hope  has  whispered  to  my  heart 

Thai  this  blest  star  divine 
Will  find  her  place  in  Heaven  again 

And  I  shall  call  her  mine. 


DREAMING. 
In  the  deep  silence  of  the  night,  I  dreamed 
I  stood   where    once    the    waning   sun  light 

gleamed 
Upon  a  garden,  brightened  by  your  smile. 
Dreamed,  idly  dreamed,  and  lost  my  cares  the 

while. 
I  heard  the  sighing  of  the  evening  breeze. 
That  stirred  the  leaves  of  apple-laden  trees; 
I  saw  the  purple  pansy's  quaint  old  face 
Look  out  from 'neath  the  hairbell's  swinging 

grace 
I  saw  again  the  fair  verbena's  bloom     [fume. 
And  breathed  once  more  the  heliotrope's  per- 
I  watch,  as  once  we  wiitclied  in  days  of  old. 
Ere  sorrow  came  and  life  grew  dark  and  cold. 
The  swift-winged  humming  bird  that  loved  to 
The  sweet  distilling  from  the  lily's  lip.        [sip 
I  seemed  to  hear  your  voice  as  in  the  days 
When  evei'y  tree  was  vocal  with  the  praise 
Of  happy  birds,  who  dwelt  around  your  home, 
And  like  the  tiowers  knew  no  desire  to  roam. 
That  gentle  voice  which  breathed  in  tones  of 
And  seemed  the  echo  of  the  One  above,  [love. 
Which  speaks  as  once  it  spake  on  Gallilee, 
The  "  peace  be  still  "  that  calmed  that  troubl- 
ed sea. 
O  songs  of  joyous  binis.  T  hear  yi'  still, 
Heiir,  too,  the  music  of  the  murmiii'ing  rill. 
Hear  every  voice  in  which  glad  nature  loves 
To  call  her  ehildren  to  tlie  silent  groves. 
And  tell  them  there  the  story  of  His  power. 
Who  re;ir(Hl  each   tre(>   and    fashioned  e\'ery 

tiower. 
OTliou  whose  voice  the  winds  and  wavesobey 
As  fade  the  visions  of  the  night  away. 
Speak  to  the  ti'ou  bled  heai't  thy  words  of  peace. 
And  bill  all  sorrow  and  repinhig  cease; 
Make  us  to  feel  tliough  earthly  love  may  fail. 
O'er  all  life's  woes  the  heavenly  will  prevail. 


« 


©- 


-^ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


301 


DANIEL   MCCARTHY. 

Born  in  Ireland,  Nov.  15, 1850. 
In  1863  Mr.  McCarthy  came  to  Sandusky,  Ohio, 
where  he  is  now  engaged  in  the  grocery  busi- 
ness. During  his  leisure  time  he  has  written 
l)otli  prose  and  verse  for  the  press,  which  have 
appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the  leading 
ii(>wiliaiit'rs  of    Anicrica.    and   liave  received 


M  CARTHV. 


comment.  Tlie  Journal  of  Sandusky,  Oliio, 
speaks  of  Daniel  McCarthy  as  a  scholarly  gen- 
tleman, who  is  gaining  fame  as  a  writer  and 
poet.  In  person  Mr.  McCarthy  is  of  fine  sta- 
ture, and  his  genial  smile  and  gentlemanlj^ 
hearing  have  won  for  liim  many  ardent  friends 
and  admirers. 


«- 


THE  LITTLE  SHAMROCK. 

Oh,  emblem  of  that  dear  old  land 

Of  chivalry  and  lore. 
Imported  from  thy  native  sod. 

To  Columbia's  distant  sliore; 
I  now  behold  your  triple  leaf. 

Just  fresli  as  I  have  seen 
In  the  verdant  vales  of  Kerry, 

In  my  native  isle  of  green. 
On  board  the  ill-fated  Ojegon, 

Sunk  beneath  a  tidal  wave, 
Tlie  Sliamrock's  little  slender  roots 

Had  toucird  .a  water.v  grave; 


But,  the  plant  St.  Patrick  used 

To  teach  his  holy  creed. 
Was  destined  not  to  perish  there  — 

From  danger  hence  was  freed. 
In  clusters  now,  the  shipwreck'd  sprig 

Is  growing  in  mellow  clay. 
Transplanted  there  by  willing  hands 

Lest  the  emblem  would  decay ; 
Ah  I  may  the  one  who  cared  it  well 

Received  full  meed  of  praise; 
She  work'd  with  faith  and  diligence 

Her  shamrock  dear  to  raise. 
On  next  St.  Patrick's  Day  we'll  have 

An  Irish  shamrock  green. 
Raised  in  this  laud  of  Washington, 

We'll  always  love,  I  ween; 
And  with  the  American  Stars  and  Stripes 

And  the  flag  of  Erin's  Isle, 
To  mai'tial  music  we'll  keep  step 

And  march  in  double  file. 


FOND  MEMORIES  OF  IRELAND. 
O,  I  long  to  see  Erin,  and  once  more  to  roam 
The  hills  and  green  valleys  of  my  old,  native 

home. 
Where  in  boyhood  I've  studied  old  Irish  lore. 
The  deeds  of  "  Isheen,"  and  those  brave  men 

of  yore. 
And  that  dear  spot,  Dungagen,  the  place  of 

my  birth. 
The   healthiest   and   fairest,  I    think  on  the 

earth. 
Where  red-blossom'd  heather,  furze  and  green 

broom. 
Delighted  my  heart,  with  tlieir  fragrance  and 

bloom. 
Ah !    it's  oft  by  the  seaside,  I  walk'd  to  the 

Reen, 
Where  lads  and  the  lasses  there  danc'd  on  the 

green ; 
Whose  smiles  like  the  sunbeam  at  evening's 

bright  close. 
Shed  a  gleam  o'er  that  vale,  where  the  white 

lily  grows. 
It  reminds  me  of  childhood,  and  it's  often  I 

ween, 
On  the  days  that  I've  spent  in  old  Caherciveen, 
WHiere-'the  boys  "  all  were  ready,  awaiting 

the  "Call," 
To   battle    their   freedom    from   base  Saxon 

thrall. 
Fond  memories  of  Ireland  are  sealed  on  my 

brain, 
And  wherever  I  wander,  they  still   will  re- 
main; 
Like  the  dewdrops  that  freshen  the  leaves  of 

a  rose. 
In  the  core  of  its  cluster,  would  wish  to  re- 
pose. 
But,  alas!  my  dear  Erin,  how  sad  Is  thy  fate^ 


« 


®- 


-® 


302 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMKKICA. 


Those  Orange  fanatics,  still  gall  thee  of  late ; 

And  your  faithful,  good  people,  forced  to  ab- 
scond [tive  land. 

The  homes  of  their  birthright,  and  lov'd  na- 

Now,  ye  true  sons  of  Erin,  yield  not  in  this 
fray,  [day ; 

The  hour  that  is  darkest,  is  the  hour  before 

Your  cause  is  most  righteous,  and  the  goal 
you  will  gain,  [the  Dane. 

And  landlords  you'll  vanquish,  as  Brian  did 


ROBERT  EMMET. 

0  land  of  my  birthright  across  the  blue  wave. 
The   home    of   the  true  poets  and  warriors 

brave: 

1  grieve  for  thy  bondage  tho'  now  far  away 
From  the  scenes  of  my  boyhood,  where  ty- 
rants hold  sway. 

Ah  fain  would  I  roam  o'er  thy  heath-covered 

hills. 
And  stay  by  the  brookside  and  murmuring 

rills. 
That  course  through  the  valleys  so  fertile  and 

green. 
Where  the  daisy  and  wild  rose,  and  shamrock 

are  seen. 
Though  the  yoke  of  the  foeman  is  yet  'round 

thy  neck. 
And  his  minions  are  ready  to  slay,  at  his  beck. 
Your  children  are  faithful,  and  still  full  of 

hope,  [they'll  cope. 

The   day  is  not   distant  when  with  tyrants 
Around  me  to-night,  are  true  sons  of  the  gale, 
Who  honor  the  martyrs  of  sweet  Innisfail; 
Enslirined  in  their  hearts,  and  beloved  to  the 

core. 
Is  the  brave  Robert  Emmet,  alas !  he's  no  more. 
The  epitaph  of  Emmet,  we're  longing  to  write, 
But  the  work  to  accomplish, we  all  must  unite; 
And  hasten  the  day,  tliat  nations  shall  see. 
Our  good  cause  triumphant,  and  dear  Erin 

free. 


ISRAEL   JOHN  ZIMMERMAN. 

Born:  Point  Pleasant,  O.,  Aug.  20, 1846. 
Thk  poems  of  Mr.  Zimmerman  have  appear- 
ed in  the  county  iiapcrs  quite  frequently.    He 
nowresidcs  in  Herald's I'rnirie,  Illinois,  whei'e 
he  has  lllled  several  i)i-oiiiineiit  local  positions. 


«- 


LILLIE  MAY. 

Our  lovely  little  girl  is  gone. 

Her  name  was  Lillie  May; 

Her  face  gi-ew  deatidy  pale  and  wan. 

And  then  she  passed  away. 

Her  hair  was  llaxen,  and  her  age 

Was  not  niiicli  over  two; 

And  if  her  fyes  you  did  engage, 

You  found  tliat  they  were  blue. 


Of  all  the  house  she  was  the  pet. 

And  she  could  scarcely  talk ; 

It  had  been  but  a  few  months,  yet. 

Since  she  began  to  walk. 

The  doctors  did  not  know  her  ail  — 

She  was  too  young  to  tell,— 

Though  with  each  breath  she  gave  a  wail 

That  told  her  suff'ring  well. 

It  seemed  too  hard  to  give  her  up. 

Consign  her  to  the  tomb; 

But  then  we  all  must  drink  the  cup 

And  drop  our  earthly  bloom. 

Then  let's  not  mourn  at  our  loss. 

We  cannot  bring  her  back. 

But  take  on  us  the  Savior's  cross 

And  follow  in  his  track. 


MRS.  ALLIE  E.  ANDERSON. 

Born  :  Delaware  Co.,  Ia.,  June  23, 1857. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  Anderson  have  appeared 
in  the  Manchester  Press,  Athenian  Enterprise, 
and  other  local  publications.  She  resides  with 
her  husband,  a  general  merchant,  at  Almira, 
Iowa. 

ALUMNI  SONG. 
Our  hearts  are  filled  with  rapture  at  this  meet- 
ing here  to-day. 
With  happiness  to  greet  you   all,  we  came 

from  far  away ; 
Our  hearts,  our  hands,  and  voices  join,  as  joy- 
fully we  say. 
This  is  our  Lenox  home. 
Cho.— Joyous,  joyous,  joyous  greeting, 
Happy,  happy,  happy  meeting. 
Ever,  evermore  repeating 
This  is  our  Lenox  home. 
All  Lenox  friends  with  us  unite,  and  join  the 

welcome  here. 
Your  presence  and  your  loving  words  from 

heart  to  heart  give  cheer; 
This  glorious  day's  rejoicing  will  go  with  us 
through  the  year. 
From  t  his  our  Lenox  home. 
Dear  absent  ones,  we  know  that  you,  whom  we 

liad  hoped  to  meet. 
In  thought  and  heart  are  with  us  here,  and 

join  with  us  to  greet; 
Each  coming  year  we'll  all  unite,  and  guide 
our  willing  feet 
To  tins  our  Lenox  liome. 
For  all  the  blessings  rich  and  rare,  whicligivc 

us  heallli  and  cheer. 
Our     hearts     are    filled     with    thankfulness 

through  all  thehappy  year; 
The   beauties  of  our  glorious  land  all  cluster 
'I'ound  us  here. 
In  this  our  Lenox  home. 


-» 


^ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


303 


-I© 


WILLIAM   W.WHITE. 

Born:  Adrian,  Mo.,  Feb.  17, 1866. 
The  subject  of  tliis  sketch  gruduated  in  1888 
at  Kansas  City;  and  in  the  winterof  the  same 
year   lie  started    the  Advocate  at  Ashford, 
Nell.,  of  which  paper  lie  is  still  tiie  propiietur 


''^' 


Tf»riiwfiii'iriga>... 

WILLI  A  \ 


\VAI.I,A(   K   W  HITK. 

and  publisher.  AUhou^li  comparatively  a 
young-  man,  he  has  already  become  very  pop- 
ular in  the  state  of  his  adoption.  The  poems 
of  Mr.  White  have  appeared  quite  extensive- 
ly in  the  periodical  press. 


MY  BIRTHDAY. 

I'm  sorry  the  days  go  swiftly  by, 
The  days  of  my  youthful  dreaming-; 

And  O:  lor  a  thousand  things  I  sigh 
In  the  -n-orld  of  manhood's  being-. 

Brightest  days  glide  on,  unheld  by  time. 
Into  the  future,  dark  and  dreary. 

Brilliant  eyes  are  dim,  though  bright  lights 
shine 
When  the  body's  worn  and  weary. 

A  slave  to  thoughts,  a  slave  to  the  pen 
I'm  laboring  day  after  day. 

Along  the  line  with  God-like  men 
I'm  earnestly  searching  my  way. 

Our  birtlidays  come  and  our  birthdays  go 
Only  once  in  every  year; 

'Part  many  long-  days,  they  are  we  know. 
Yet,  seemingly  always  so  near. 


My  glad  new  year  I  hope  it  will  be 
Full  of  joy  that's  without  sorrow. 

For  to-night  I  am  twenty  and  three. 
And  eag-erly  wait  each  morrow. 


MUSIC. 

Of  all  the  rapturous  things  of  hfe 
That  fill  my  soul  with  glee. 

It  is  the  sweet  and  gentle  strains 

Of  music's  melody. 
Oft  in  the  dark  and  quiet  night. 

While  all  things  tired  repose, 

I  listen  to  sweet  nature's  voice, 
It  rids  me  of  my  woes. 
To  dwell  — to  think  — and  listen  too. 

To  all  its  joyous  notes; 
It  is  a  glad,  a  happy  mood 

For  all  whom  God  promotes. 
In  nature  it  shall  add  to  them 
His  beauties  to  foreshow. 
All  vanity  of  world  is  lost 

When  we  this  sweetness  know. 
Without  our  music,  all  is  cold. 
The  world  seems  vain  and  still; 

The  beauty  of  the  home  is  gone, 

No  loving  notes  to  thrill. 
The  Church  step's  dark. 

With  weeds  o'ergrown. 
The  school-house  soon  decays; 
When  music  is  in  silent  death 
There  is  no  joyful  praise. 


BROKEN. 

The  circle  is  broken  —  one  seat  is  forsaken. 
One  bud  from  the  tree  of  our  friendship   is 

shaken; 
One    heart  from    among-  us  no  longer  shall 

thrill 
With  the  spirit  of  gladness,  or  darken  with  ill. 
There's  a  beautiful  picture  that 's  before  my 

eyes, 
A  painting-  that  surely  would  Dore  surprise; 
A  beautiful  maiden  with  dark,  -wavy  hair. 
Is  looking-  so  lovely  —  so  handsome  and  fair; 
The  pride  of  her  father,  her  mother's  own 

queen. 
That  she  is  a  beauty  is  plain  to  be  seen. 
There  has  no  one  seen  such  a  beautiful  face  — 
Such  a  nymph-like  form  — such  a  charming- 

g-race; 
And  you  will  believe  me,  when  this  I  tell. 
That  in  love  with  this  beautiful  maiden  I  fell. 
Her  dear  charming  manner,  her  bright  sunny 

smile 
Would  lighten  the   darkest  — the  cannibals' 

isle 
Ah! 'twas  only  a  picture  — the  mind's  wild 

dream  — 
That  beautiful  orig-inal  ne'er  was  seen. 


— ® 


© 


304 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AINLERICA. 


-® 


HENRY  ABBEY. 

Born;  Roxdout,  N.  Y.,  July  11, 1843. 
His  first  book  of  verse  was  published  in  1863; 
Ballads  of  Good  Deeds  appeared  iu  1873.  Most 
of  his  poems  iu  this  collection  had  previously 
appeared  in  the  leading  periodicals  of  America. 
He  is  a  member  of  the  New  i'ork  Authors  club. 


POETRY. 
And  once  I  knew  a  meditative  rose 
That  never  raised  its  head  from  bowing  down. 
Yet  drew  its  inspiration  from  the  stars. 
It  bloomed  and  faded  here  beside  the  road. 
And,  being  a  poet,  wrote  on  empty  air 
With  fragrance  all  the  beauty  of  its  soul. 


ART. 
The  artist  labors  while  he  may 
But  finds  at  best  too  brief  the  day; 
And,  tho'  his  works  outlast  the  time 
And  nation  that  they  make  sublime. 
He  feels  and  sees  that  Nature  knows 
Nothing  of  time  in  what  she  does, 
But  has  a  leisure  Infinite 
Wherein  to  do  her  work  aright 


THE  DRAWBRIDGE  KEEPER. 

Drecker,  a  drawbridge  keeper,  opened  wide 
The  dangerous  gate  to  let  the  vessel  through; 
His  little  son  was  standing  by  his  side. 
Above  Passaic  River  deep  and  blue. 
While  in  the  distance,  like  a  moan  of  pain. 
Was  heard  the  whistle  of  the  coming  train. 

At  once  brave  Drecker  worked  to  swing  it  back. 
The  gate-like  bridge  that  seems  a  gate  of  death ; 
Nearer  and  nearer,  on  the  slender  track. 
Came  the  swiftengine,  puffingits  white  breath. 
Then,  with  a  shriek,  the  loving  father  saw 
His  darling  boy  fail  headlong  from  the  draw ! 

Either  at  once  down  in  the  stream  to  spring 
And  save  his  son,  and  let  the  living  freight 
Rush  on  to  death,  or  to  his  work  to  cling. 
And  leave  his  boy  unhelped  to  meet  his  fate  — 
Whicii  should  he  do?  Were  you  as  he  was  tried. 
Would  not  your  love  outweigh  all  else  beside? 

And  yet  the  child  to  him  was  full  as  dear 
As  yours  may  be  to  you  —  the  light  of  eyes, 
A  presence  like  a  brighter  atmosphere, 
The  liousehold  star  that  shone  iu  love's  mild 

skies  — 
Yet,  side  by  side  with  duty  stern  and  grim. 
Even  his  child  became  as  nauglit  to  him. 

For  Drecker,  being  great  of  soul  and  true, 
Hold  to  his  work  and  did  not  aid  his  boy. 
Who,  in  the  deep,  dark  water,  sank  from  view. 


Then  from  the  father's  life  went  forth  all  joy; 
But,  as  he  fell  back  pallid  from  his  pain. 
Across  the  bridge  iu  safety  shot  the  train. 
And  yet  the  man  was  poor,  and  in  his  breast 
Flowed  no  ancestral  blood  of  king  or  lord ; 
True  greatness  needs  no  title  and  no  crest 
To  win  from  men  just  honor  and  reward! 
Nobihty  is  not  of  rauk,  but  mind. 
And  is  inborn  and  common  in  our  kind. 
He  is  most  noble  whose  humanity 
Is  least  corrupted:  to  be  just  and  good 
The  birthright  of  the  lowest  born  may  be. 
Say  what  we  can,  we  are  one  brotherhood. 
And,  rich  or  poor,  or  famous  or  unknown. 
True  hearts  are  noble,  and  true  hearts  alone. 


ALICE  W.  BROTHERTON. 

Born:  Cambridge,  Indl\n-a. 
Mrs.  Brotherton  hves  quietly  on  East  Wal- 
nut Hills,  Cincinnati,  with  her  husband  and 
three  children.  In  1886  Beyond  the  Veil  ap- 
peared, and  the  following  year  her  collected 
poems  entitled  The  Sailing  of  King  Olaf  and 
Other  Poems  appeared.  Her  style  is  clear  and 
concise.  She  has  contributed  for  many  years 
to  the  Century  and  other  periodicals. 


PRELUDE. 
V^hat  15  your  art,  O  poet? 
C;?ly  t*^  catch  and  to  hold 
In  a  poor,  frail  word-mould 

A  little  of  life; 
That  the  soul  to  whom  you  show  It 
May  say:  •>  With  truth  it  is  rife, 
This  poem  —  I  lived  it  of  old." 
Ah,  the  light  whei-ein  we  read 
Must  be  the  light  of  the  past. 
Or  your  poem  is  nothmg  at  best 

But  an  empty  rhyme. 
And  to  summon  back  grief  what  need 
Of  word  of  yours?  — through  all  time 
It  abides  with  us  to  the  last. 
Sing  to  us  of  joy,  then.    Borrow 
Of  life  its  happiest  hours. 
Sing  of  love  and  hope,  of  flowers, 

Of  laughter  and  smiles; 
But  not  too  oft  of  sorrow !  — 
The  song  that  our  grief  beguiles 
Is  the  best,  in  this  world  of  ours. 


UNAWARES. 

A  song  welled  up  in  the  singer's  heart 
(Like  song  in  the  throat  of  a  bird,) 

And  limd  he  sang,  and  far  it  rang,— 
For  his  heart  was  strangely  stirred; 

And  he  sang  for  the  very  joy  of  song. 
With  no  thought  of  one  who  lieard. 


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LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


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806 


FERRIS  S.  HAFFORD. 

Bokn;  Fremont,  O.,  1857. 
By  teaching-  and  attending-  school  alternately, 
Ferris  managed  to  complete  the  hig-h  school 
course,  and  entered  Oberlin  college  in  1876, 
whicli  institution  he  attended  for  two  years. 
In  1884  he  was  called  to  fill  the  cliair  of  math- 
ematics in  Battle  Creek  college,  Michigan.  He 
next  made  a  tour  tlinnigli  western  Michgian 


FERRIS   S.  HAFFORD. 

and  northern  Ohio  lecturing  on  Science. 
About  this  time  he  received  the  honorary  de- 
gree of  Bachelor  of  Arts,  a  deserved  compli- 
ment to  a  worthy  recipient.  Prof.  Hafiford  is 
connected  witii  the  Milton  academy,  in  the 
state  of  Oregon,  where  he  is  very  popular. 


©- 


APOSTROPHE  TO  WALLOWA. 

Beautiful  lalie,  Wallowa, 

Gently  thy  waters  flow ; 
Ever  thy  crystal  fountains 
Gush  from  the  towering  mountains 

Crowned  with  eternal  snow. 
Under  thy  placid  bosom. 

Deep  in  thy  liquid  liold. 
Up  from  the  winding  river- 
Happy  with  thee  forever,— 

Fishes  with  scales  of  gold. 
Around  tliee  those  mighty  ramparts 

Stood  since  creation's  morn; 
Back  from  thy  surface,  clearer 


Tlian  any  polislied  mirror, 

Image  of  each  is  borne. 
Over  the  glassy  surface 

Swiftly  the  wild  fowls  fly; 
Brightly  thy  pebbles  gleaming 
As  we  float  o'er  them,  seeming 

To  mock  us  from  the  sky. 
Oh !  that  He  who  has  made  thee 

Beautiful  as  thou  art, 
Would  in  the  day  of  displeasure. 
When  he  gives  measure  for  measure. 

Grant  thee  a  safer  part. 
Mountains  shall  melt  before  Him, 

Islands  shall  flee  from  sight, 
Rivers  and  founts  of  water 
Shall  in  the  day  of  slaughter 

All  become  blood  and  blight. 
Yet  in  His  greatest  mercy 

Out  on  our  sight  shall  burst 
Scenes  on  our  startled  vision. 
Fields  of  the  bright  Elysian, 

Plains  that  were  never  curst. 
Would  that  among  the  beauties 

Of  the  most  happy  place, 
Where  sin  is  banished  ever, 
We  might  enjoy  forever 

Sight  of  thy  smiling  face. 


CLIMBING  THE  COEUR  D'ALENES. 
To  climb  a  lofty  mountain 

And  see  the  sights  below. 
And  look  with  eagle  vision 

On  plains  of  Idalio. 
We  left  the  plodding  people 

Upon  Viola's  plain, 
And  with  light  hearts  and  footsteps 

We  sought  the  Cceur  d'Alene. 
Three  children  my  companions  — 

Their  hearts  were  light  and  gay. 
And  with  no  feeble  courage 

They  trod  the  rugged  way. 
We  waded  through  a  flax-fleld. 

We  climbed  the  rustic  bars. 
And  o'er  us  frowned  the  mountain 

All  seamed  with  ragged  scars. 
When  wearied  out  with  climbing, 

A  refuge  was  at  hand. 
The  shadow  of  a  great  rock 

Within  that  weary  land. 
We  felt  the  cooling  breezes 

That  o'er  the  mountain  swell. 
And  lieard  the  funny  legend 

The  violet's  petals  tell. 
And  next  we  saw  the  cottage 

Of  a  hardy  pioneer. 
Who  gave  us  cool  spring  water 

And  guiding  words  of  cheer. 
But  tender  limbs  grew  weary 


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306 


LOCAL    AND   NATIOKAL    TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


And  oft  were  fain  to  rest 
Before  the  journey  ended 

Upon  the  mountain's  crest. 
Once  there  the  mighty  play-ground 

The  Titans  made  of  old, 
For  many  leagues  and  furlongs 

In  splendor  'round  us  rolled. 
To  westward  graceful  Steptoe, 

The  monarch  of  the  plains. 
To  east  the  Bitter  Root  range. 

To  north  the  Coeur  d'Alenes. 
And  far  away  to  southward. 

O'er  plains  and  cities  new. 
Arose  the  towering  summits 

Of  lofty  mountains  blue. 
And  then  with  glowing  rapture 

One  little  maiden  dear 
Said,  "  I  shall  never  weary 

To  tell  what  I  see  here." 
Tliere  is  one  more  mountain,  children, 

With  you  I  want  to  climb. 
It  rears  its  lofty  summit 

Beyond  the  shores  of  time. 
The  way  is  sometimes  weary 

For  manhood  or  for  youth; 
But  on  it  stands  the  temple 

Of  Purity  and  Truth. 
I  can't  describe  the  vision 

That  we  from  there  can  see; 
To  tell  of  all  its  glories 

Will  take  eternity. 


MRS.   EMILY   H.   HAFFORD. 

Born  :  Fennville,  Mich.,  Sept.  3, 186L 
At  the  age  of  twenty-flve  this  lady  was  mar- 
ried to  Prof.  F.  S.  Hafiford,  whose  name  ap- 
pears on  the  preceding  page  of  this  work.  The 


SI- 


ONLY  A  CHILD. 
Only  a  child;  what  can  I  do 

That  will  be  noble,  grand  and  true? 
My  hands  are  small,  my  voice  is  weak, 

I  have  scarcely  learned  to  think    and 
speak. 
Only  a  child,  whose  nimble  feet 

Have  over  trod  'mong  grasses  sweet; 
They  say  that  thorns  and  thistles  wild 

Will  some  day  vex  their  little  child. 
Only  a  child  — and  yet  I  know 

How  to  lighten  another's  woe; 
How  to  soften  a  hardened  heart. 

And  bid  the  tear  of  repentance  start. 
Only  a  child,—  yet  I  can  tell 

Of  Jesus'  love  for  those  who  fell; 
And  how  to  ransom  us  he  came 

And  bore  tlie  cro.ss  — despised  theshame. 
Only  a  cliild,—  yet  Jesus  said  — 

His  hand  upon  an  infant's  head  — 
That  in  the  bright  and  happy  land. 

Around  liis  tlirone  the  cliildren  stand. 
Only  a  child.    Oli  in  that  day 

Wlien  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away, 
Wlien  sinners  (luakc,  'mid  ruin  wi'd. 

May  I  be  Jesus'  little  child  1 


MKS.   EMILY  H.   HAFFORD. 

poems  of  Mrs.  Hafford  are  usually  of  a  serious, 
imaginative  turn,  and  some  of  them  show 
much  depth  of  feeling. 


EARTH. 

Earth  is  a  battle  ground 
Where  good  and  ill  are  ligliting  still 
For  many  a  noble  youth  and  oldvr  one. 
Whose  shall  the  conquest   be  wlien   life's 

wild  strife  is  done';? 

Earth  is  a  forest  wide. 
Wliere  pain  and  joy.  with  inucli  alloy, 
Likelightand  shade  among  the  lianginjr 

trees. 
Come  over  each,  to  fit  for  brighter  scenes 

than  these. 

Eai'th  is  a  seeding  time; 
And  all  who  will  the  lieart  may  till 
With  nt)ble  thougbtsthat,  springing  foilli. 

shall  show 
A  yield  of  joy  deeper  than  earth  can  know. 

Earth  is  a  harvest  field. 
Where  golden  sheaves  and  only  leaves 
Are  ripening  in  theworld'sautumnalsiin. 


* 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


307 


--« 


EARL  MARBLE. 

Born:  Ohio. 
In  liis  youth  Earl  Marble  worked  at  setting- 
type  ou  some  of  the  leading  newspapers,  and 
later  this  journalist  edited  a  humorous 
publication,  American  Punch.  In  1880  he  be- 
came editor  of  tlie  Folio,  a  musical  journal, 
which  position  he  held   for  seven  years.     He 


EAHL  JIAHBLE. 

has  contributed  much  in  stories,  verse  and 
sketch  to  the  Independent,  Youtli's  Compan- 
ion, Appleton's  Journal,  Lippincott's  Maga- 
zine.Detroit  Free  Press  and  other  publications. 
In  addition  to  liis  publislied  operettas,  songs 
etc.,  he  has  written  a  musical  comedy.  Mr. 
Marble  is  now  the  editor  of  the  Tomahawk, 
published  in  Denver,  ("ol. 


"  A  HOUSE   NOT    MADE    WITH   HANDS.' 
"  Abijali  Dunn;    Abijah  Dunn! 

Where  art  thou  this  bright  Summer  morn? 
Awake  and  greet  the  rising  sun. 

Whose  rays  both  earth  and  sky  adorn." 
Beneath  his  porch,  since  toddling  child, 

I  oft  had  lingered  for  awliile. 
Charmed  by  his  glance,  as  woman's  mild. 

And  more  than  woman's  sweet  smile. 


"  Abijah  Dunn !    Abijah  Dunn !' 

So  shot  a  summons  through  tlie  air 
Long  hours  before  my  later  one 

To  see  the  sun's  bright  rising  glare. 
»'  Abijah  Dunn  !"    This  summoned  him 

To  greater  glory  tlian  the  sun's. 
Spilled  over  tlie  liorison's  rim. 

As  up  the  sky  he  glowing  runs. 

"  Abijah  Dunn !"    The  midnight  bleak 

Stood  still  a  moment  as  the  Voice 
Came  down  the  old  man's  soul  to  seek, 

And  bear  to  realms  where  all  rejoice. 
"Abijah  Dunn:"    The  liovel  dark 

Brief  moments  surged  witli  spirit  light, 
And  then,  forever,  cares  that  cark 

Were  drowned  in  blisses  that  requite. 

»•  Abijah  Dunn !  came  higher  up ! 

Thine  earthly  house  meets  not  thy  needs; 
Dire  want  has  filled  thine  earthly  cup. 

But  heaven's  o'erflows  with  souls  of  deeds. 
Thine  earthly  hut  possessions  built. 

Of  which,  alas!  but  poor  thy  part; 
Thy  heavenly  house,  with  richest  gift 

Adorned,  is  built  of  what  thou  art. 

"  Abijah,  great  Jehovah's  son ! — 

For  such  thy  name's  significance  — 
Thy  fatlier,  here,  Abijah  Dunn, 

Hath  kept  thee  an  inheritance. 
And  taken  from  thy  life  below 

A  thought  or  act,  as  love  did  warm. 
Its  walls  to  deck ;  as  thou  didst  grow. 

Its  shape  enlarged  to  grander  form. 

"Abijah  Dunn!    Abijah  Dunn! 

That  window  toward  morn's  brightest  skies, 
The  glass  like  diamonds  in  the  sun. 

Came  wlien  thou  bidst  one  hopeless  rise. 
And  turn  his  gaze  to  glory's  realm ; 

And  yon  bright  room,  so  sweet  within. 
Grew  like  Aladdin's  when  life's  helm. 

Thou  seized,  and  steered  from  shoals  of  sin. 

"  Abijah  Dunn !  dost  thou  recall 

A  smile  that  dried  a  poor  cliild's  tears? 
That  smile,  a  picture  on  the  wall. 

Will  sing  of  sunsliine  through  long  years. 
Rememberest  thou  a  fallen  one. 

Long  since  returned  to  kindly  dust. 
With  whom  thou  shared,  Abijah  Dunn, 

When  others  sneered,  thine  only  crust; 

"  From  tears  of  thankfulcess  she  shed 

Grew  trees  whose  fruits  like  pearls  catch 
light. 
And  o'er  the  walks  that  thou  wilt  tread 

Dispel  forever  aught  like  night. 
And  throw  their  gleam  to  towers  that  grew 

When  aspiration  with  thee  dwelt. 
And  windows  catching  heaven's  blue 

When  eyes   looked   whence   the  suppliant 
knelt. 


m 


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308 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  ATMKKICA. 


"  Abijali  Dunn !  thy  home  is  here, 

'  Not  made  with  hands,"  but  builded,  lo! 
Ahove  earth's  labors,  year  by  year, 

As  thou  didst  toward  fulfillment  grow." 
Ah!  blest  at  last  whose  lives  be  true! 

And  sad  those  lost  In  earthly  rust! 
Those  "  builded  better  than  tliey  knew," 

And  these  find  but  decay  and  dust. 


CALLIE  BONNEY-MARBLE. 

Born:  Peoria,  111. 

This  lady  has  written  a  great  many  poems, 
stories  and  sljetches  for  the  Voice  of  Masonry 
and  Family  Magazine,  Youth's  Companion, 
Wide  Awake,  Boston  Transcript,  Living- 
Cliurch,  Chicago  Times,  Inter-Ocean,  and  tlie 
leading  iierifidicals  of   AnieT'ii'.-i.     Two   i)rosc 


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IMBg^  -' j^^l 

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C'A  LL I E  BON  N  EY-M  A  li  BI-E. 

works  from  her  pen.  Wit  and  Wisdom  of  Bul- 
wer  and  Wisdom  and  Eloquence  of  Webster, 
have  been  highly  praised  by  tlie  press.  In  1889 
s)ie  was  married  at  Sati  Friincisco  to  Earl 
Marbl(>,  a  well-known  poet  and  journaUst,  Asa 
writer  of  pi'os(!  and  verse  Mrs.  Marble  is  g-Jiin- 
ing-  a  national  reputation. 


ee- 


AN  EASTER  CUSTOM. 
I  met  her  Easter  morning' 
In  the  old  cathedral  isle, 


And,  early  at  the  service. 
She  gave  me  bow  and  smile. 

The  sexton  old  had  vanished. 

The  organist  asleep; 
I  asked  if  ancient  customs 

It  were  not  well  to  keep. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  gravely  answered; 

"To  which  do  you  refer?" 
"To  one  the  Greeks  now  practice; 

'Tis  pleasing  I  aver." 

"  Oh !  something  quaint  and  olden ! 

And  could  we  do  it  here?  " 
Slyly  I  glanced  about  us. 

And  saw  no  one  was  near. 

"  I  think  we  might,"  1  answered; 

For  how  could  I  resist? 
I  wonder  if  the  preacher 

Knew  some  one  had  been  hissed ! 


GOOD-NIGHT. 
Tlie  golden  gleam  of  the  western  sun 

In  a  flood  of  amber  light. 
Streamed  softly  in  at  the  window,  wher 

It  lingered  to  say  good-night. 

And  slowly,  sweetly  the  vesper  bell 

Bang  out  in  the  evening  air, 
While  floating  upward  the  music  came 

Like  the  sound  of  an  angel's  prayer. 

Then  over  the  misty  clouds  of  pearl. 

In  a  glorious  wave  of  light, 
Tlie  daylight  faded  from  earlli  away. 

And  was  lost  in  the  starry  night. 

And  clearly,  softly  the  day  went  home. 
With  its  record  of  joy  and  pain,— 

Written  in  shadow  or  gleaming  light, 
The  eternal  loss  and  gain. 


UNDER  THE  MISTLETOE. 
I  stood  beneath  the  mistletoe, 

Nay,  do  not  chide  me! 
How  should  I  know  that  one  would  conit 

And  stand  beside  me? 

How  should  I  know  that  he  would  ilaini 

The  forfeit  froni  me? 
To  surmise  even  such  a  thing 

Would  ill  become  me. 

And  then  you  know  the  Cliristnias  song. 
Of  "Peace,  good  will  towai-d  men," 

Kept  ruiniing  through  my  mind,  mayhap 
Obscuring  mental  ken. 

The  circumstance,  not  I,  to  blame 

That  there  should  be  I  trow, 
A  kiss,  a  vow,  a  j^iTO'ii'sed  bride 

Heneath  the  mistletoe. 


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LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


309 


MRS.  MARY  BAIRD  FINCH. 

Born:  Portage  Co.,  O.,  June  8, 1837. 
Commencing  to  write  at  an  early  ag'e,  the 
poems  of  Mrs.  Firicli  have  constantly  appear- 
ed in  the  i)eriodieal  press  of  the  country.    For 
the  past  fifteen  years  she  has  written  steadily. 


MRS.   MARY  BAIRD   FINCH. 

and  hopes  at  an  early  date  to  publish  a  volume 
of  lier  poems.  Mrs.  Finch  has  five  chlldi'en, 
two  daughters  and  three  sons,  all  of  whom  are 
grown  up;  and  she  has  one  Httle grand-daugh- 
ter, who  is  the  light  and  pride  of  her  life. 


TO  A  MOUNTAIN   BLUEBELL. 

Little  flower  of  bonny  blue  — 
Welcome  is  thy  tender  hue. 
Tinted  like  an  ocean  shell. 
Dainty  little  mountain  bell; 
Blooming  o'er  the  murky  mines, 
'Neath  the  moaning  of  the  pines, 
And  the  aromatic  flr. 
Neighbor  of  the  juniper; 
In  the  music  of  tiiy  bells 
Tell  me  of  the  mountain  dells, 
And  the  mountain  breezes  blown 
In  thy  plaintive  undertone. 
With  the  song  of  mountain  rills 
Hurrying  to  the  hungry  mills. 
Whisper  low  and  true  to  me 
Of  a  prehistoric  sea; 
Of  the  Vulcan  h;ind  that  brought 


Order  from  the  ruin  wrought. 
Wliere  the  mountain  chain  was  born. 
In  that  dim  chaotic  morn, 
Slowly  rose  each  hill  and  lea  — 
Islands  in  a  golden  sea, 
Blue  as  are  thy  bonny  bells 
Singing  of  the  ocean  shells. 
Canst  thou  tell  the  low,  sweet  words 
Murmured  by  the  strangest  birds. 
Where  the  brown  nun  sits  and  sings. 
Crooning  by  the  mountain  springs. 
Flower  of  the  tender  hue 
Like  the  eyes  that  once  I  knew. 
Eyes  that  haunt  me  yet  afar 
Where  thy  blue-robed  sisters  are; 
Eyes  like  some  sweet  placid  water 
Had'st  my  little  mountain  daughter, 
And  I  dream  of  her  at  night 
In  her  lonely  bed  of  white. 
Sleeping  near  the  Western  mountains. 
By  the  bluebells  and  the  fountains. 


THE  ARCANA  OF  NATURE. 

Spirit  of  the  great  unknown, 

I  dwell  in  the  Infinite  seas, 
I  sing  in  the  wind's  glad  tone. 

And  sigh  in  the  soft  summer  breeze; 
I  brood  in  silence  and  storm, 

I  come  with  the  earthquake's  wrath, 
I  pillow  the  worlds  on  my  arm. 

And  stay  the  sweet  moons  in  their  path. 
I  scatter  the  sunshine  of  June 

That  heralds  the  grass  and  the  grain, 
I  dream  by  the  fountains  at  noon. 

Or  waken  the  winter  again; 
My  girdle  of  rainbows  I  bind 

As  I  sit  by  the  gray  ocean  side. 
My  footsteps  are  lleeter  than  wind. 

My  pulse  is  the  flow  of  the  tide. 
I  am  soul  of  legions  of  suns, 

I  touch  their  swift  wheels  with  my  hand. 
Yet  the  smallest  streamlet  that  runs 

Is  mine  with  its  silvery  band. 
And  mine  is  its  silvery  song; 

Though  the  chorus  of  stars  is  my  own, 
I  hasten  their  cycling  throng 

And  breathe  in  their  undertone. 
I  marshal  my  forces  and  go 

To  systems  unseen  of  the  earth, 
I  laugh  in  their  rivers  that  flow, 

I  attend  the  least  star  at  its  birth; 
Of  the  universe  I  am  the  Lord, 

Though  I  whisper  my  secrets  as  mild 
As  dew  shimmering  down  on  the  sward. 

And  I  wait  on  the  steps  of  your  child. 
I  am  heart  of  the  lily  and  rose, 

I  have  painted  them  out  of  the  deeps, 
I  move  in  each  blossom  that  blows. 

And  the  zephyr  that  over  them  sweeps ; 
Yet  I  tread  on  the  outermost  bar. 


■© 


SB 


310 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  A31E1UC'A. 


761 


-® 


MARY  ELLEN  BLANCHARD. 

Born  :  Pembroke,  Me.,  March  27, 1851. 
Miss  Blanchard  learned  the  trade  of  a  type- 
setter in  the  office  of  Portland  Advertiser,  and 
has  since  worked  in  a  number  of  Portland  and 


MAliV    i:i,I,K.N     UI,A.\(   IIMtll. 

Boston  offices.  Failiny  licalth  (il)ligv(l  her  to 
return  to  her  father's  home  in  Milltown,wliere 
slienow  resides.  This  writer  is  well  known  by 
lier  contributions  to  literary  papers  and  mag-- 
azines,  and  by  A  Story  of  Psyche  and  Other 
Poems,  which  appeared  from  her  pen  in  1885. 


®- 


SEA  CHARMED. 

Siii^thy  songr,  O  happy  sea, 

Lift  to  lij>ht  thy  mighty  waves. 
And  keep  ward  incessantly 

O'er  thy  dusky  caves. 
One  there  is,  both  deep  and  wide. 

One  there  is,  both  wide  and  deep, 
Where,  alone  yet  satisfied 

My  beloved  doth  sleep ;  — 
Sleep  and  smile  in  pallid  calm 

With  the  seaweed  o'er  her  dress. 
And  one  soft  and  veined  arm 

Swept  by  richest  tress. 
On  her  lily  lids  the  light 

Never  falls  willi  pressure  rude. 
Nor  do  restless  winds  at  nifi'ht 

Vex  her  .solitude; 
Though  with  wizard  cliarm  they  whirl 

Swiftly  round  her  coral  bed, 


Winding  there  thy  waves  of  pearl 

Like  a  skein  of  thread. 
O'er  the  root,  and  o'er  the  door. 

Hangs  tlie  mystic  net  they  form, 
Sway'd  and  torn  forever  more 

By  tlie  trampling  storm. 

O  my  Goddess,  safe  in  death, 
O  my  Saint,  my  all  in  all. 

Colder  lie,  nor  let  a  breath 
Answer  to  their  call. 

Dream  not,  wake  not,  only  rest. 
With  seaweed  o'er  tliee  cast. 

And  one  white  hand  on  thy  breast- 
Faithful  to  the  last. 


MY  HEART  GOES  ROUND  THE  WORLD 

SAILING. 
My  heart  goes  round  the  world  sailing. 

However  the  winds  may  blow. 
And  searches  with  tears  from  clime  to  clime 

For  the  love  of  long  ago; 
Goes  round  the  world,  round  the  world  sail- 
ing. 

With  passion  its  pulse  to  thrill. 
All  round  the  world,  round  the  world  sailing, 

In  quest  of  the  old  love  still. 
My  heart  goes  round  the  world  sailing. 

As  ever  in  days  gone  by 
Did  Fancy  sail  in  her  airy  ship 

To  the  realms  where  treasures  lie ; 
Goes  searching  the  cold  world  o'er  and  o'er, 

Wherever  fond  wish  may  go. 
And  calls  through  the  lengtli  of  desert  years  — 

For  what  years  cannot  bestow. 
Calls  to  the  sea  that's  swept  by  storm. 

Till  its  billows  roar  with  pain; 
And  call  to  the  wind-vexed  mountain  height 

Tha  frowns  on  the  tranquil  plain; 
But  never  tlie  sea  gives  back  response 

To  the  words  that  burn  as  fire. 
And  the  mount  upreai-s  in  silent  scorn 

Of  the  dole  of  vain  desire. 
Yet  a-sailing  and  a-sailing. 

Through  .storm  and  through  summer  shine. 
Shall  go  my  lieart  witli  a  fi>ark'ss  ti  ust 

Till  that  joy  again  is  mine; 
All  I'ound  the  world,  round  the  world  sailing. 

Till  it  faint  at  List  willi  years. 
And  learn  liow  idle  are  human  hopes. 

And  how  unavailing,  tears. 
My  lieart,  around  the  woi'ld  sailing. 

Hoping  and  worsliiping still. 
Will  seek  that  love  of  tlie  olden  time 

Till  death  shall  tiie  dream  fulfill; 
All  round  tlie  world,  round  the  world  sailing, 

Willi  paiicnce  that  mocks  at  woe. 
All  round  the  world,  round  the  world  sailing. 

However  the  winds  may  blow ! 


® 


®- 


LOCAI.   AND   NATIONAL,   POETS   OF  AiliSUICA. 


m 


.'ni 


ROBERT  WHITTET. 

Born:  Perth,  Scotland,  1829. 
At  an  early  ag:e  Robert  learned  the  printing- 
trade,  and  engag-ed  in  business  for  himself 
in  ills  native  town.  In  18(39  he  purchased  a 
plantation  of  some  four  iiundred  acres  in 
Virg-inia,  close  by  tlie  old  city  of  Williams- 
burg-, but  the  venture  proved  a  disaster  and 
lie  retreated  to  bis  olii   iie<-uputioti    in  the  eitv 


HOHEHT    WHITTET. 

of  Richmond,  where  he  is  now  a  member  of 
the  printing  and  publishing:  iiouse  of  Wliittet 
&  Shepperson.  Mr.  Whittet  is  posse.ssed  of 
poetical  gifts  of  the  highest  order,  and  he 
owns  an  unquestionable  right  to  the  title  of  a 
true  poet.  In  1854  he  married  Miss  Jane  Ait- 
chison,  to  whose  self-denying  virtues  he  dedi- 
cated The  Brighter  Side  of  Suffering,  publisli- 
ed  in  1882,  a  superb  volume  of  poems  covering 
a  wide  range  of  subjects. 


® 


A  PRELUDE. 

One  linnet's  note  tlie  more  or  loss 

Within  the  wildwood's  minstrelsy. 
Can  neither  raise  nor  aught  depress 

The  sense  of  joyous  revelry. 
And  yet  each  linnet  from  the  spray 

His  swelling  notes  melodious  flings. 
And  pipes  his  own  sweet  roundelay 

Heedless  how  another  sings. 
He  has  a  song  'tis  his  to  sing. 

And  that  he  sings  right  earnestly. 


And  waiteth  not  for  anything 
r     To  urge  his  heart  to  minstrelsy. 
The  skylark  sings  where  bliss  belongs, 
Tiiat  .song  an  ampler  field  be  given; 
Takes  to  the  clouds  his  seraph  songs  — 

Throws  half  to  earth  and  half  to  heaven. 
And  some  sweet  songster,  near  alight 

On  thorny  perch,  amid  tlie  throng, 
Gives  to  the  passing  heart  delight, 

And  cheers  it  witli  a  joyous  song. 
So  are  the  songs  that  poets  sing 

Within  secluded  quiet  retreat, 
But  single  echoed  notes,  that  bring 

Their  quota  for  a  choir  complete. 
Each  pipes  his  own  peculiar  strain. 

On  artful  lute  or  simple  reed, 
And  sings,  and  sings,  and  sings  again. 

To  satisfy  his  own  heart's  need. 
Yet  may  some  raptured  thought  out-reach 

Far,  far  the  poefs  dream  above. 
And  some  faint  wavering  heart  beseech 

To  deeds  of  grace,  and  hope,  and  love. 
To  sing  has  given  one  heart  employ. 

And  thus  did  end  enough  fulfill; 
But  if,  resung,  another's  joy 

Is  more  enlarged,  'twere  better  still. 
And  so,  self-pleased,  I  give  the  song 

That's  kept  my  own  past  clear  and  bright. 
If  that,  perchance,  some  other  tongue 

May  lift  the  lilt,  and  find  delight. 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  DAISY. 

Long  had  sunk  the  light  of  day. 

When,  prostrate  on  the  cold,  green  sod, 
Within  Gethsemane,  there  lay. 

Disconsolate,  the  Son  of  God. 
With  bitter  sighs  His  bosom  heaved. 

In  sorrow's  voice  He  cried  aloud. 
Till,  torn  with  grief.  His  heart  relieved 

Itself  with  sweat  of  crimson  blood. 
Down  from  His  quivering  brow  it  fell, 

A  dropping  stream  upon  the  ground; 
And  long  that  spot  could  passers  tell. 

So  bare  amid  the  green  around. 

And  autumn  came,  and  spring-time's  show- 
ers. 

And  summer's  zephyrs  softly  blew. 
Yet  on  that  spot  no  other  flowers 

Save  some  sweet  mountain  daisies  grew. 
And  <as  each  raised  its  drooping  head. 

Its  serrate  fringe  was  crimson  dyed: 
Memorial  of  the  tears  He  shed. 

And  of  the  hour  to  blood  He  siglied. 
As  in  salvation's  world-wide  flow. 

The  heaven-inspired  apostle  band. 
First  to  God's  chosen  people  go. 

And  then  abroad  to  every  land; 


-© 


^- 


312 


-m 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


So  from  that  spot  the  daisy  bears 
To  all  the  world  a  messag-e  hrief : 

The  crimson  of  its  fringe  declares 
The  story  of  the  Savior's  grief. 


*- 


THE  BRIGHTER  SIDE  OF  SUFFERING. 

EXTRACTS. 

Forgiveness !  —  grace  benignant !  —  what  were 

life 
On  earth  without  thine  antidote  to  hate! 
And  heaven  could  offer  but  a  barren  bliss 
That   stayed   thy  cleansing  of  the  darkened 

past. 
Or  kept  recorded  unforgotten  sins; 
And  in  the  vast  Beyond,  where  no  permit 
To  enter  can  be  given  thee,  who  may  guage 
The  depths  of  life's  eternal  agotiy. 
Because,  through  cycles  of  immensity. 
No  mind  dare  raise  one  thought  of  hope  or 

thee? 
Thou  art  a  flower  planted  by  Love's  gracious 

hand 
Within  heaven's  garden,  and  ere  bursts  its 

buds. 
The  same  Hand   plucks  them,   that  Himself 

may  bear 
To  earth,  and  let  them  blossom  fuller  there. 
And    give   their   fragrance    unto    doubting- 
hearts ; 
And  men  receive  it  as  a  proffered  gift. 
Smile  in  its  hallowed  joyousness  of  peace. 
But  yet  forget  to  plant  its  scions  anew. 
That  they  tliemselves  maj'  have  the  flowers  to 

gift. 

The  chrysalis,  in  inert  silence  wrapped, 
Shows  not  the  golden-tinted  wings  within. 
Until  the  summer's  resurrecting  power 
Gives  the  freed  prisoner  unbounded  flight: 
And   so,    methinks,    that   when,  in    anxious 

moods. 
We  speculate  on  life's  uncertain  range,— 
The  hazard  of  our  daily  walk  —  the  loss. 
The  gain  — so  great  to-day,  so  small  to-mor- 
row— 
Tlic  hopes  so  bright  that  end  so  oft  in  blight. 
The  weariness  and  care,  the  grief  and  paiu, 
The  poverty,  the  mourning,  and  the  tears. 
And  at  the  last  the  coffin  and  the  shroud, 
Tlie    grassy   hillock,    and   the    churchyard's 

rest,- 
Our  minds  sliould  reason  that  there  must  be 

found 
Some  compensation  for  the  sufferings  borne 
Througliout     life's     journey,— some    lasting 

solace 
Other  than  those  fleeting  hours  can  give- 
Some  balm  to  Ileal  the  wou ridings,  quell  the 

pain,— 
Some  recompense  to  fill  the  voids  of  loss; 


And  therefore  are  we  but  as  sowers  here. 
Scattering  seed  from  which  we'll  garner  grain. 
Or  laborers  busy  in  the  Master's  work. 
Scon  to  be  called  to  get  the  wages  due; 
And  we  may  deem  death's  long  and  dreamless 

sleep 
But  as  the  folding  into  chrysalis  rest,  [ed 

From  whence,  m  season,  we  will  Ijurst,  array- 
In  garments  fitted  for  immortal  life. 

Life  flits  like  measured  music  day  by  day 
Fi-om  instruments  which  half-trained  players 

play. 
With  many  notes  that  mar  the  symphony. 
Yet  on  the  whole  right  pleasant  harmony. 
In  merry  mood  one  would  too  fain  employ 
The    trilling  alto  of  hilarious  joy ; 
And  in  our  toiling  liours  the  world's  refrain 
Lilts  in  the  tenor's  euphony  of  strain; 
And  charity  —life's  sweetest  lullaby- 
Breathes  forth  its  blessings  as  a  melody; 
But  'tis   life's   sorrow  — 'tis   its   suffering  — 

brings 
The  heart,  that  "  wondrous  harp  of  thousand 

strings," 
Its  mellow  bass  —the  deep  sonorous  tone 
Tliat  softens  all  the  parts  to  unison. 
And  yields  the  sweetly  plaintive  minor  note. 
That  soothes  the  troubled  soul,  and  helps  to 

float, 
Like  JEolian  murmurs  on  the  summer  air. 
One's  tlioughts  to  heavenly  regions   calm  and 

fair. 

Life  unto  each  is  measured  off  and  given. 
The  bounds  all  circumscribed  and  fitly  set. 
Not  as  the  strength  that  animates  the  arm. 
Nor   as  the    nerve  that   steels  the  aspiri;ig 

heart: 
But  as  the  Master's  first  intent  demands. 
And  his  injected  purpose  has  been  gained: 
So  is  the  beauty  of  our  lives  enhanced 
A  thousand  fold,  because  witli  God  we  work, 
For  God  we  labor;  —  His  eternal  will 
Deputes  the  agent  for  his  special  part 
In  building  up  heaven's  glory,  and  lis  King's: 
And  that  accomplish'd,  be  it  but  to  add 
(^ne  atom  to  the  .architect's  design. 
Life  is  exhausted  of  its  (iod-given  aim; 
And  as  the  lal)orers  when  their  task  is  done. 
Receive  the  promised  peiuiy  of  reward, 
Eacli  one  nuist  pass,  as  night's  dark  sliadows 

close. 
Into  the  Master's  iii-esenee,  and  receive  — 
Wages  enough!  —  His  welcoming  "welldonel" 


EXTRACT. 

For  true  it  is,  we  may  refine 
The  chiiractei-  by  naturi"  rude,— 

Its  evil  make  the  heart  to  tine, 
Or  cause  it  minister  to  good. 


-« 


«- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


313 


-* 


MRS.  EFFIE  H.  B.  SWANSON. 

Born:  Hud80N,  Wis.,  Feb.  19,  1864. 
After  atteuding-  River  Falls  academy  and  the 
state  normal  school  at  the  same  place,  Miss 
Effie  entered  upon  the  profession  of  primary 
teaching-,  which  she  followed  for  eight  years 
witli  great  success.  In  1887  this  lady  was 
united  in   marriage  to  A.  W.  Swansoii,  editor 


MRS.  EFFIE   H.  B.  SWANSON. 

and  publisher  of  the  Banner,  Royalton,,Miun., 
in  which  city  she  now  resides.  The  poems  of 
Mrs.  Swanson  have  appeared  extensively  in 
the  periodical  press.  Besides  attending-  her 
household  duties,  she  assists  her  husband 
greatly  in  his  editorial  work. 


®- 


MY  BOY. 

I  will  tell  you  a  sad,  sad  story. 

Of  my  boy,  so  lo%nng  and  true; 

He  was  laughing  and  bright 

With  a  step  so  lig-ht,  and  eye  of  azure  hue. 

My  beautiful  boy  grew  day  by  day 

Less  laughing-,  and  briglit,  and  gay, 

His  step  grew  slow  and  aimless; 

They  were  stealing  mj-  boy  away. 

I  tried  with  my  love  and  kindness. 

To  bring  him  back  to  me. 

God  knows  my  heart  was  breaking 

For  my  boy  as  of  old  to  see. 

But  he  gave  up  all  that  was  holy 

To  men;  for  the  cursed  cup 


Made  him  slave  to  tlie  mighty  demon. 

That  was  fast  eating  godliness  up. 

I  will  tell  you  now  how  it  happened; 

How  my  boy  came  to  go  astray. 

He  thouglit  he  could  not  be  tempted; 

So  he  went  in  the  tempter's  way. 

He  went  though  I  prayed  with  him  often 

To  go  with  the  good  and  tlie  true; 

He  was  fearless  and  brave  with  the  tempter; 

Ah,  the  tempter  was  cunning  then  too. 

He  had  not  the  strength  that  God  giveth, 

For  he  closed  his  heart  to  God's  voice, 

He  -went  like  a  wayward  lamb  ever 

Taking  the  path  of  his  ciioice. 

One  eve  the  tempter  came  to  liim, 

How  little  he  dreamed  it  was  he. 

For  the  face  was  lovely  to  look  at 

And  the  eyes  were  truthful  to  see. 

My  beautiful  boy  wandered  thoughtless 

Where  she  with  a  face  fresh  and  iDright 

Beckoned  all  to  drink  with  King  Bacchus, 

Who  held  feast  and  revel  that  night. 

His  comrade  stood  near  him  and  urged  him 

To  take  one  glass  and  no  more. 

A  moment  he  thought  of  his  mother; 

Then  yielded,  and  all  was  o'er. 

Now  his  manhood  is  blighted  forever. 

His  lot  —  a  slave  to  the  cup. 

He  has  broken  the  heart  of  his  mother. 

And  buried  his  future  hopes  up. 

So  hear  me,  O  temperance  workers. 

For  I'm  aged  and  wrinkled  and  gray, 

I  have  had  much  trouble  and  sorrow 

Yet  never  such  sorrow  have  felt  till  to-day. 

Did  you  ever  think  of  the  thousands 

Of  beautiful  boys  like  mine? 

Who  have  been  warned  without  ceasing. 

Of  the  tempter,  the  power  of  wine? 

Yet  go,  like  wayward  lambs  ever 

Not  fearing  or  heeding  or  hearing  our  voice, 

Down  to  ways  dark  and  dangerous. 

In  evil  paths  of  their  choice. 

As  long  as  fathers  will  lead  them. 

As  long  as  grog-sliops  are  near. 

Our  boys  will  ever  be  tempted. 

And  much  we  will  have  to  fear. 

So  let  old  and  young  work  for  temperance, 

And  combat  the  enemy  strong. 

Let  us  fight  hand  to  hand  and  not  falter. 

For  right  will  be  stronger  than  wrong. 


THE  HARVEST  FIELDS. 
I  walked  alone  one  summer  day. 

Among  the  fields  so  lately  shorn; 
I  thought  how  a  short  time  ago, 

Tlie  wind  had  emerald  banners  borne. 
But  now  alas:  What  once  was  green. 

And  spread  o'er  valley,  hill,  and  plain. 


-© 


m 


314 


-* 


LOCAT^    AND    NATIONAL   TOBTS   OF  AMEHICA. 


A.L.GEPFORD. 

Born:  Niantic,  111.,  Feb.  12,  1865. 
Several  iKicnis  of  iiu'i-i(  liavo  apiioarod  from 


A.    L.    GEl'FORD. 

the  pen  of  Mr.  Gepford.    He  is  still  ;i  resideut 
of  his  native  place. 


©- 


LIVING  FOR  A  PURPOSE. 

The  life  we  are  living-  here  below 

Is  oidy  a  little  span, 

When  compared  with  the  never-ending-  flow 

Of  tlie  years  that  are  to  come. 

We  live  for  a  certain  purpose  here; 

To  fulfill  a  certain  plan. 

The  path  we  are  treading-  thro*  this  world 

Leads  only  to  the  gate 

Of  a  city  in  the  Heavenly  world; 

We'll  reach  it  soon  or  late; 

And  the  purpose  we  liave  lived  out  Jiere 

Will  then  decide  our  fate. 

If  we've  lived  for  self,  and  selfish  ends. 

And  ever  strove  to  gain 

The  world's  applause,  men's  words  of  praise, 

Great  wealth,  or  liiiigly  fame, 

We  will  never  enter  the  pearly  g-ate 

If  this  lias  been  our  aim. 

If  we've  lived  out  only  the  one  word. 

If  it  is  the  only  name. 

That  we  liave  regai-ded  in  this  life. 

It  would  surely  be  in  \  ain 

To  ask  an  entranci!  into  Heaven 

On  th(;  strength  of  such  a  name. 


.self,' 


If  we  would  pass  the  gate  of  pearl. 

As  revealed  in  God's  own  word. 

We  must  take  a  standard  high  and  pure. 

Self  must  ever  be  ignored; 

We  must  live  for  God's  own  holy  Son, 

For  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord. 


CHRISTMAS. 

Christmas,  thou  day  of    blessed  days    most 

dear. 
Return  and  bring  thy  joyous  time  of  cheer; 
Return,  remind  us,  lovingly,  of  one 
Who  many  years  ago  to  earth  did  come, 
Bringing  good  will  from  God  to  men,  [of  men. 
The  prophet  called  him  Wonderful,  the  Prince 

Look !  what  means  the  rising  of  j'on  bright 
Outshining  the  sun  at  noon-tide  hour;  [star? 
Traveling  the  sky  toward  ancient  Bethlehem, 
Where  God  had  said  should  rise  the  Prince  of 
The  babe  that  in  that  lowly  manger  lay, [men. 
The  Savior  of  the  world  was  born  that  day. 
Christmas,  thou  author  of  our  blessed  hope,— 
Hope  of  each  mortal  in  this   wide    world's 

scope. 
Come  back  to  us  and  teach  us  o'er  again 
The  Savior's  lesson  of  Good  will  to  Men; 
O,  may  we  learn  it  thoroughly  and  well. 
And  may  each  life  the  beauteous  story  tell. 


REV.  SILVANUS  HAYWARD. 

Born  :  Gilsum,  N.  H.,  Dec.  3,  1828. 
After  g-raduating  at  Dartmouth  in  1853,  Mr. 
Hayward  engaged  in  teaching;  was  precej> 
tor  of  several  academies  in  New  Hampshire 
and  Vermont,  and  h:is  been  professor  of 
mathematics.  He  has  tilled  the  pulpit  the 
greater  part  of  his  life.and  is  now  pastor  of  the 
Congregatioinil  church  at  Globe  Village, 
Mass  ,  where  he  is  also  engaged  in  completing 
the  history  of  Rochester,  N.  H. 


FOR  THE  DEDICATION  OF  AN  ALBUM. 
Ye  who  ope  this  book,  beware! 
Let  indifference  never  dare 
Stain  the  page  that  mnv  is  fair. 
This  is  Friendship's  lioly  shrine. 
Here  Atfection's  tendrils  twine. 
And  from  clusters  of  her  vine 
Love  shall  press  his  golden  wine. 
Freely  (juaff  that  sparkling  flood; 
"I'is  the  heart's  most  precious  lilood; 
'Tis  the  only  earthly  good. 

May  you,  with  those  recorded  here. 
Find  its  currents  bright  and  clear, 
Unalloyed  witli  bitter  tear. 
And  beyond  thes(!  clouded  skies. 
When  the  ettM'iiiil  morn  shall  rise. 
Drink  it  pure  in  Paradise. 


51 


®- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAl-    POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


315 


-® 


DR.  THOMAS  W.  GORDON. 

The  poems  of  Dr.  Gordon  liave  appeared  ex- 
tensively from  time  to  tinie  iu  tlie  periodical 


DK.   THOMAS  W.   GORDON. 

press.    He  practices  his  profession  at  Georg-e- 
town,  Ohio,  where  he  is  very  popular. 


BATTLE  SONG. 
From  the  ancient  igneous  mountain,  from  the 
everlasting-  liills. 
Where  the  God  of  host  was  present  to  his 
people  on  the  morn. 
Where  the  heavy  thunders  crashed  to  earth 
and  the  vivid  lightning-  kills, — 
The  truth  arrayed  iu  battle's  din,  anew  on 
earth  was  born. 
From  the  highest  crags  o'er  mount  and  plain, 
it  flashed  a  glittering-  flame, 
A  sweeping:  power  within  itself,  the  essen- 
tial power  of  God, 
Which  to  the  poor  black  manacled  gives  a 
glory  and  a  name, 
Whicli  truth  has 'graved  on  human  hearts 
with  more  than  iroji  rod. 
'Till  the  battling  din  of  thousands  swept  o'er 
the  fields  and  coasts. 
All  along  the  deep  ravines,  and  on  the  flinty 
mountain's  path 
Came  the  heavy  tramp  of  armies,  almost  un- 
numbered hosts. 
As  the  messengers  of  heaven  sweeping  by 
in  lurid  wrath. 


Oh,  'twas  glorious  to  behold  the  work,  though 
fearful  was  the  strife. 
Yet  no  fear  was  ever  borne  to  our  soldiers 
in  that  shock; 
'Twas  the  work  of  the  ecstatic,  who  most  free- 
ly gave  his  life 
To  place  the   everlasting   truth  upon  the 
eternal  rock. 
Oh !  how  deep  we  felt  our  mission  when  the 
sulphurous  flame  arose 
Into  sheets,  and  streams,  and  flashes,  amid 
the  horrid  din. 
When  we  stood  as  God's  own  children  to  flght 
His  ancient  foes. 
Who  were  hurled  from  heaven's  battlements 
because  of  primal  sin. 


*- 


THE  GREAT  MASTER  POET. 
Far  back  of  the  ages,  when  time   was  un- 
known. 
And  the  substance  of  earth  was  in  primeval 
gloom. 
When  the  planets  were  formless  e'er  God  from 
His  throne 
Had  ordered  these  worlds  from  their  chaotic 
tomb. 
And  the  essence   of  matter  was  floating-  in 
space. 
And  the  kingdom  of  God  had  no  kingdom  of 
grace ; 
Then  the  form  of  the  Master  left  heaven  and 
state. 
And  by  His  volition  all  things  did  create. 
Then   world    after   world    in    its   orbit   was 
placed. 
And  the  song  of  the  spheres  was  proclaimed 
near  and  far. 
And  the  paths  of  the  planets  were  all  inter- 
laced. 
And  His  flatgave  light  to  the  sun,  moon  and 
star. 
And  the  symphony  grand  its  wild  chorus  be- 
gan. 
Which  hence  should  be  learned  and  be  sung 
o'er  by  man ; 
Have  you  thought.  Oh  my  friends,  that  the 
poet  sublime. 
Was   the    Being   creating   all   planets  and 
time? 
Have  you  dreamed  that  His  epics  are  written 
in  stone? 
That  His  lyrics  are  bathing  the  mountains 
in  mist? 
That  grandly  sublime  on  His  heavenly  throne. 

He  sang  the  first  note  that  did  ever  exist? 
A  harmony  swelling  with  rhythm  so  grand. 
That    it  echoes   e'en  now  over  oceans  and 
land? 
And  surges  through  space  as  it  has  all  these 
years. 


m 


* 


316 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    rOKTS   OK  AMBUICA. 


-® 


And  is  known  among-  men  as  the  song-  of  the 
spheres. 
Yet  a  lyric  as  grand  you  may  see  in  tlie  night, 
\Yhen  auroras  are  spanning-  tlie  archway  of 
heaven. 
And    dancing-ly  quivering-  in  the  raylets  of 
light 
As  if  the  north  fields  to  the  flame  God  were 
given. 
And  too  when  the  storm-clouds  have  darkened 
the  scene. 
And  the  wind  drives  themhurtling-  in  black- 
est of  green, 
And  the  brow  of  the  night  on  its  Allot  of  gray 

Is  dazzled  by  flashes  of  lightning-  in  play. 
Did  you  think  Him  a  poet,  the  teacher  sub- 
lime. 
Of  all  of  earth's  poets,  and  those  who  shall 
be? 
The  Creator  of  worlds   and  the  founder  of 
time? 
That  His  lyrics  comprise  both  the  land  and 
the  sea? 
That  His  songs  of  the  universe  swell  and  pro- 
long-. 
Attracting-   all    spheres    into   harmonious 
song? 
And  that  only  can  man  as  a  poet  be  known 
When  he  gathers  his  songs  from  that  har- 
monic zone? 


«■ 


HARRIETTE  G.PENNELL. 

Born  :  Brunswick,  Me. 
The  productions  of  Miss  Pennell  have  been 
published  in  the  Boston  Transcript,  Budget, 
Cottage  Hearth  and  other  prominent  literary 
publications.  She  resides  in  the  old  historic 
town  of  Salem,  Mass.,  where  she  is  well  known 
and  admired.  Miss  Pennell  is  represented  in 
the  Poets  of  Maine. 

THE  ORIOLE. 

Hark,  'tis  the  oriole's  song, 

Sweet,  worshipful,  deep  in  delight; 
There's  a  spell  divine  in  the  radiant  voice. 

Outbreaking  from  morn  till  night! 
O  sweet  in  the  flush  of  dawn 

Comes  the  golden  melody; 
And  for  lonely  shadows  no  place  is  found 

In  the  message  he  sings  to  me! 
Then  the  voice  like  a  spirit  floats 

And  breathes  on  the  charmed  air; 
Till  the  long-  .spring  days  more  bli.ssfulseem. 

And  the  suiiuy  world  more  fair. 
O  creatures  of  life  and  beauty! 

O  voice  divine  and  dear! 
We  know  when  we    hear  thy   sweet    notes 
ring. 

That  the  perfect  summer's  near! 


MRS.  FRANCES  KNAPP. 

Born:  FABirs,  N.Y.,  1854. 
This  lady  was  married  in    1871    to  Edward 
Knapp,   and  now   lesides  with  her  husband 


MUS.  FRANCES   KNAPP. 

and  children  in  Spartansburg-h,Pa.  Her  poems 
have  appeared  in  the  local  press  generally. 

OrR  MOTHERS. 
Do  the  children  of  to-day 

Love  and  reverence  their  mother? 
Do  they  think  the  love  she  gives  them 

Could  be  given  by  another? 
If  they  loved  their  mother  truly 

Could  they  have  that  look  of  scorn? 
Gould  their  lips  frame  cruel  speeches 

At  noondaj"  night  and  morn? 
Ah,  dear  children,  little  think  you 

Of  the  hearts  you  now  are  breaking; 
Of  the  inisei-y  and  sori-ow 

Tiiat  tor  mothers  you  are  making. 
Kind  words  and  loving  glances 

For  our  motliers  every  day. 
Will  dispel  tlie  gloom  and  sadness. 

And  brighten  all  their  way. 
Then  while  mothers  still  are  with  us, 

Let  us  love  them  more  and  more; 
Help  them  bear  their  burdens  daily. 

Till  with  us  they  are  no  more. 
Then  for  us  they  will  be  waiting. 

Over  on  tlie  other  slior*'; 
And  with  joy  they  will  greet  us, 

When  our  trials  here  are  o'er. 


-« 


^ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


.SIT 


« 


MRS.  MINNIE  W.  PATTERSON 

Born:  Niles,  Michigan,  1844. 
At  iin  early  ag'o  this  ludy  tuuglit  sc-liool  and 
took  pupils  iu  iiiiisie  ami  painting-.  Siiegradu- 
atod  witli  lionof  from  Hillsdale  college  at  the 
age  of  twenty  year.s,  afterward  receiving  from 
Alma  Mater  the  degree  of  A.M.  Soon  alter 
leaving  school,  she  opened  astudio  in  Chicago, 
at  tiie  same  time  contributing  to  tlie  Sunday 
Times  and  other  periodicals.  In  1867  she  was 
married  to  Joiiii  C.  Patterson,  a  former  class- 


ilUS.   MINNIE    WARD    PATTERSON. 

mate  at  Hillsdale,  who  is  now  a  prominent 
member  of  tlie  Michigan  bar,  and  has  also 
been  twice  elected  to  the  senate  of  that  state. 
The  poems  of  Minnie  Ward  Patterson  have 
appeared  in  the  Boston  Transeiipt,  Youth's 
Companion,  Wide  Awake,  Peterson's  Maga- 
zine, Detroit  Free  Press,  and  various  other 
publications.  In  1875  she  publislied  Pebbles 
from  Old  Pathways,  a  neat  volume  of  over 
two  hundred  pages  of  choice  poems,  whicli 
bear  the  true  poetical  imprint.  Mrs.  Patter- 
son has  translated  several  volumes  into  Eng- 
lisli  from  the  Norse  language  and  lileratnre, 
which  have  received  higli  commendation. 


®- 


PROEM. 
Weary,  the  traveler  turns  his  feet  toward  the 
home  of  his  childhood  — 
Golden  its  portals  gleam,  like  a  fane  of  en- 
chanted glow; 


Memory'.,  sacred  altar  flushes  tlie  waste  of  its 
wildwood. 
Burning  his  present  joys  to  brighten  the 
long  ago. 
What  though  the  Indies  jiour  their  wealth  in 
iiis  willing  bosom';:' ^ 
Little  and  light  the  boon,  as  the  slow  years 
onward  flow; 
Little  and  light,  to  one  who  treasures  a  wither- 
ed blossom. 
Plucked  by  some  loving  hand,  in  the  beauti- 
ful long  ago. 

Amulets,   quaint   and    fair,  he    bears  on  his 
desert  roaming- 
Rings  and  ringlets  of  gold,  and  letters  that 
dearer  grow ; 
Sweet,  to  him,  the  mystic  strains  they  sum- 
mon at  gloaming  — 
Echoes   of  voices    loved  in  the  wonderful 
long  ago. 
Each    has    his    treasures  old  — reminders  of 
early  rambles. 
Gathered  with  merrj'  hands  from  the  paths 
we  used  to  know ; 
Yours  maybe  gems  and  flowers  — mine  are 
but  pebbles  and  brambles. 
Yet  may  j'ou  hold  them  dear,  for  the  sake 
of  the  long  ago. 


MY  OWN  WIFE  MARY. 

Oh,  l)right  is  the  glow  of  the  deep  starry  skies, 
And  the  sunshine  that  smiles  everywhere; 
But  dim  is  their  light  by  the  love  in  thine 
eyes. 
And  the  flash  of  thy  soft,  sunny  hair. 
Though  costly  the  treasures  of  palaces  prince- 
ly. 
Though  pleasure     and  wit  meet  in  many  a 
hall. 
Yet  give  me  the  cottage  where  Mary,  sweet 
Mary 
And  I  dwell  in  happiness  deeper  than  all 
Come  to  me  Mary,  my  OAvn  wife  Mary. 

Come  sit  as  of  old  on  my  knee. 
While  I  clasp  to   my  heart  rarer  treasures 
than  gold  — 
An  Eden  of  gladn'Iss  and  thee! 
Around  us  all  glowing  with  purple  and  gold. 

The  blossoming  meadows  are  spread; 
And  roses  and  lilacs  our  bower  enfold. 

All  drooping  with  fragrance  o'erliead. 
The  bright,  cooing  birds  build  their  nests  at 
^    Gur  window. 
And  fearlessly  warble  the  wealth  of  their 
glee. 
But  sweeter,  ah,  sweeter  the  voice   of   my 
Mary, 
That  whispers  in   low,  cooing  love-notes  to 
nie. 


-® 


SB- 


SIS 


-® 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMEUICA. 


DECORATION  DAY. 

All  honor  to  the  fallen  brave  — 

With  lofty  pagans  greet  the  dead ! 
Let  garlands  wreathe  each  lowly  grave! 

Let  laurel  crown  each  honored  head ! 
'Mid  shot  and  shell  and  sabre  stroke. 

They  bore  our  colors  through  the  strife. 
Till  stricken  'mid  the  battle  smoke 

Thej'  died  to  save  our  country's  life! 

Though  augry  skies  in  blackness  bent, 

Aud  shook  the  shrinking  world  in  wrath; 
Though  lurid  lightnings  madly  spent 

Their  unchained  fury  in  their  path; 
Through  wilderness  of  woven  pine. 

Through  slimy  pool  and  tangled  brier, 
They  marched  in  brave,  unbroken  line, 

Or  sunk  beneath  the  clogging  mire! 
O'er  scorching  rocks  tliat  cut  their  feet  — 

In  hospital  and  prison  pen  — 
Some  sank  with  liunger,  thirst  and  heat, 

But  died  no  less  like  patriot  men ! 
Though  spices  may  not  wrap  our  dead. 

Nor  lofty  pyramid  arise  — 
Where  justice  triumphed  while  they  bled  — 

Their  names  breathe  incense  to  the  skies ! 
Dust  may  return  to  dust,  but  deep 

Witliin  the  liearts  of  Freedom's  sons, 
Embalmed  forever,  love  shall  keep 

The  mem'ry  of  these  faithful  ones! 
And  coming  years  shall  swell  our  lays. 

And  weave  new  laurels  for  each  head, 
While  grateful  freemen  sliout  the  praise 

Forever  due  our  noble  dead! 


NOW  WE  PART. 
Now  we  part,  if  ever  parting 

Shadows  love  of  birth  divine; 
Still  unspanned  the  gulf  between  us. 

You  soar  your  way,  I  plod  mine; 
But  each  laurel  you  may  gather 

Shall  my  altar  fires  renew. 
And  my  hymns  be  all  of  gladness 

That  the  world  liolds  such  as  you. 


« 


DOT  AND  DOLLY. 
Sweet   little   Dot  on  the  doorstep  sits,  with 

Dolly  wrapped  in  a'shawl,— 
Her  own  thin  dress  is  faded  and  patched,  but 

Dolly  has  none  at  all, 
She  kisses  and  cuddles  her  little  pet  in  a  way 

'tis  joy  to  see. 
And  whispers,  "  I  know  we's  jioor,  hut  I's  got 

you,  and  you's  got  me!  " 
Rocking  her  treasure  to  and  fro,  in  the  silent 

sunuiuT  ail', 
Her  chubby  chin  to  her  bosom  went,  and  her 

liands  forgot  tiicir  eare; 
Her  dimpled  feet  into  dreamland  slipped,  just 

as  upon  tlie  scene 


A  lady  rode,  with  jewels  and  silk  begirt  like  a 
very  queen. 

Her  happy  darling,  just  Dot's  own  size,  the 

child  and  the  dolly  spied, 
Then  pointed,  grasping  her  mamma's  arm,  to 

tlie  half-wrapped  pet,  and  cried, 
" O,  mamma!   look  at  her  dolly  —  see!  are  n't 

you  'fraid  its  catching  cold? 
Please  let  me  give  it  Rosa's  dress  — you  know 

its  getting  old." 

She  slipped  from  the  carriage,  and  quick  the 
work  of  tlie  little  maid  was  done. 

And  Dot's  poor  dolly  was  in  a  dress,  the  pret- 
tiest under  tlie  sun! 

Gold  and  silver,  satin  and  gauze,  stockings 
and  brigiit  blue  shoes. 

And  money,  as  much  in  her  pocket  put,  as  a 
doll  in  a  year  could  use. 

Then  away,  with  a  smile  that  almost  laughed, 

so  great  was  the  giver's  glee. 
She  went,  with  many  a  backward  look,  and 

said  "  I's  afraid  she'll  see ! 
Hurry  up  Tom,  mamma!  "  and  quick  away  to 

their  palace  home  they  flew, 
Wliile  Dot  was  dreaming  a  Avonderful  dream, 

of  fairies  and  Dolly,  too. 

They  had  satin'. dresses  and  gauzy  wings,  all 

speckled  with  drops  of  gold; 
They  danced  in  troops  on  the  lilac  leaves,  and 

a  leaf  would  a  (Jozen  hold ; 
And  Dolly  was  dancing  with  all  her  might,  in 

the  prettiest  dress  of  all. 
And  spangled  wings,  when  up  sprang  Dot, 

afraid  lest  her  pet  should  fall. 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  mei'rily  laughed,  in 

happiness  and  surpri.se. 
As  Dolly  dressed  in  her  fairj  liest,  looked  into 

her  wondering  eyes. 
"O  mamma,  what  shall  I  do?  "  cried  Dot,  in  a 

comic  tone  of  dismay, 
"  My  Dolly  has  borrowed  a  fairy's  clothes,  and 

the  fairies  have  runiicd  away! 

••I's  afraid  she's  been  naughty  and  stealed  — 

but  then  I  don't  most  think  she  would; 
I  guess  they  did  it  o'  purpose,  cos  my  Dolly's 

so  awful  good! 
Vou  pitty,  sweet  girl!  I'll  let  you  wear 'em 

awhile,  I  guess,  and  then. 
If  they  wants 'em  ever,  we'll  give 'om   back, 

when  the  fairies  come  again !  " 

Well,  that  was  a  long,  long  time  ago  —  sweet 

Dot  is  a  woman  grown. 
And  little  ones  gather  to  heai-  her  tell  a  tale 

of  her  chiUihood  flown; 
And  many  a  story  she  tells  at  eve,  but  nicest 

of  all  she  knows 
Is  the  one  that  tells  of  Dot  and  her  doll  that 

borrowed  the  fairj''s  clothes. 


-^ 


m- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


319 


-* 


THOMAS  BROWER  PEACOCK. 

Born:  Cambkidge,  O.,  April  16, 185:i. 
After  reociviiig  his  education  iu  Zanesville, 
Mr.  Peacock  was  for  about  ten  years  associate 
editor  of  tlie  Topeka  Kansas  Democrat.  He 
has  published  several  volumes  of  poems :  The 
Vendetta  and  Oilier  Poems  appeared  in  1876; 
The  Rliyme  of  the  Border  War  in  1880,  and 
PoeniN  ( if  the  Plains  and  Songs  of  the  Solitudes 
in  1---      Tin    I  1st  A  iilllliii'    ir  H-licil  ,-1  lliild   rdi- 


THOMAS  BROWER  PEACOCK. 

tion  io  the  first  year,  and  has  been  translated 
into  the  German.  Mr.  Peacock  has  been  a  res- 
ident of  Topeka,  Kansas,  for  fifteen  j'ears, 
and  was  married  in  1880  to  Miss  Ida  E.  Eckert, 
a  lady  of  fine  congenial  literary  tastes.  His 
poetry  is  exclusively  American.  Although 
comparatively  a  young  man,  Mr.  Peacock  has 
already  gained  a  national  reputation  as  an 
eminent  writer  and  poet. 


m- 


KIT  CARSON. 
He  comes!  his  steed  with  mighty  bound 
Flies  swiftly  o'er  the  echoing  ground  — 
He  seems  a  wanderer  astray. 
Whose  past  had  been  a  better  day ; 
A  being  which  to  earth  was  hurled. 
Whose  home  is  in  another  world  — 
Who  rides  mysterious  o'er  the  earth. 
Surprised  and  dazed  with  his  new  birth? 
A  river  runs  before  his  course. 
Which  he  must  cross,  and  soon,  perforce. 
The  channel's  bank  is  reached,  the  wave 
His  courser's  sides  doth  hem  and  lave. 


The  shore  is  won,  and  once  again 
He  thunders  o'er  tlie  endless  pain  I 
The  rider's  stern  and  flashing  eye 
Speaks  courage  wrath, and  vengeance  nigh. 
And  well,  I  ween,  his  foes  may  fear 
His  anger  in  his  mad  career  — 
Ah!  who  is  he  that  finds  no  rest? 
'T  is  brave  Kit  Carson  of  the  west  I 
And  some  dear  friend  he  now  doth  aid, 
Who  stands  on  peril's  brink,  afraid. 

THE  KANSAS  INDIAN'S  LAMENT. 
Our  tribe  is  less'ning  year  by  year. 

The  pale-face  drives  us  back  — 
With  us,  the  bison,  bear,  and  deer 

Before  his  onward  track  — 
In  battle  with  his  armed  power. 
The  Red  Man  fears  but  dares  not  cower. 
The  footprints  of  our  moc'sins  fade. 

They  once  left  paths  for  miles. 
And  the  Great  Spirit  hides  in  shade, 

No  more  we  see  his  smiles: 
Few  wampum  belts  our  tribe  needs  yet, 
Foi'  soon  the  warrior's  star  will  set. 
These  broad  prairies  once  were  ours; 

We  fished  the  many  rivers; 
On  yonder  Kaw,  embanked  with  flowers, 
.    With  arrows  in  our  quivers. 
With  dusky  maids,  wigwams  behind. 
We  sailed  before  the  singing  wind. 
The  sunflower  waved  its  yellow  head , 

Across  the  grassy  plains  — 
And,  like  our  chieftain,  now  are  dead 

The  spirit-herbs  for  pains: 
Pale-face,  our  mild  clime's  not  for  thee. 
It  moves,  witli  us,  toward  sundown  sea. 
Our  moons  arc  few,  our  race  is  run. 

Some  dark  fate  drags  us  down; 
Less  bright  the  once  all-glorious  sun, 

Tlie  golden  stars  are  brown  — 
The  tall  mounds  black  and  dismal  loom. 
Each  day  speaks  of  our  coming  doom. 
Our  wasted  race  —  my  father  brave. 

My  squaw  and  pappoose  too. 
All  here  lie  buried  in  the  grave, 

Here  rots  my  swift  canoe  — 
The  things  I  loved  have  passed  away. 
Ah !  soon  will  I  be  gone  as  they ! 
Methinks  the  pale  race  might  have  spared 

Some  spot  where  we'd  abide,— 
Spared  us,  who  once  owned  all, and  shared 

With  them  from  tide  to  tide: 
'T  is  strange,  't  is  passing  strange  to  me. 
Why  they  would  drive  us  in  the  sea. 
Our  small  tribe  's  scattered  like  the  leaves 

And  wasted  to  a  few  — 
Each  warrior  for  the  bright  past  grieves, 

Which  vanished  from  our  view! 
They  wait  till  Manitou's  voice  sounds. 
Calling  to  Happy  Hunting  Grounds. 


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320 


LOCAL    AND   NATIOXAL    POETS    OF  AMERICA. 


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We  go!  the  white  race  takes  oui-  place; 

Great  Spirit,  what  am  I! 
Once  thousands  strong:,  where  's  now  my 
race  — 

On  plains  beyond  the  sky? 
O  take  me  too,  1  would  not  stay, 
When  all  1  loved  have  passed  away ! 
Perchance,  when  many  moons  have  fled 

And  the  Great  Spirit's  wrath. 
Our  many  loved  ones,  from  the  dead. 

Will  come  back  to  earth's  path, 
To  hunt  again  the  bufi'alo. 
And  no  pale  race  to  bring  us  woe. 
But  soft!  methinks  I  hear  a  voice? 

Great  Manitou's!  speaks  He! 
It  makes  my  craven  heart  rejoice  — 

Owhat  would'st  Thou  with  me? 
"Be  brave!  God's  Happy  Hunting  Grounds 
Are  great  and  good,  and  have  no  bounds ! " 

THE  BANDIT  CHIEF. 
Hark!  is  a  courser's  clattering  feet! 

That  courser  madly  speeds  away— 
The  midnight  moon  from  her  high  seat 

Sheds  on  the  earth  her  brightest  ray. 
Who  comes?  A  rushing  steed  draws  nigh, 

Whose  hoofs  are  sounding  far  and  near? 
As  swift  as  though  from  ghouls  he'd  fly. 

He  passes  forest,  plain,  and  mere. 
Perchance  some  wild  fiend  crazed  with  fright, 

FUes  on  its  way  from  Heaven  down-hurled ! 
Perchance  some  demon  of  the  night. 

Escaped  from  Hell,  rides  o'er  the  world! 
Whoe'er  he  be  so  fearful  near. 

As  dread  as  fiend  or  demon  he, 
To  followers  he  rules  through  fear. 

And  leads  through  crimes  to  victory. 
He  nears!  I  see  his  eye  of  hate? 

'T  is  gleaming  like  an  evil  star; 
He  seems  th'  embodied  form  of  fate 

Swift  rushing  to  the  field  of  war. 
On,  on,  the  terror  of  the  sod, 

A  tempest  in  his  heart  of  ire; 
He  fears  no  man,  no  fiend,  no  God, 

In  his  wild,  stormy  soul  of  fire. 
Ah!  well  each  follower  know  his  power; 

They'd  felt  the  thunder  of  his  might— 
They  knew  his  wrath  at  any  hour 

Was  like  the  awful  storm  of  niglit. 
To  him  all  foes  in  combat  quailed. 

Before  his  arm  and  eagle  eye  — 
His  life  seemed  charmed -to  him  death  paled- 
He  swept  in  power  puissant  by. 
As  when  in  darkness  men  do  mourn, 

And  lo!  a  star  breaks  through  the  night! 
That  star  a  mighty  genius  Ijorn, 

Grasps  from  the  gloom  immortal  light! 
So  when  great  hosts  had  tiiem  at  bay. 

And  his  wild  elan  deemed  all  were  lost. 


He  led  tliem  from  the  night  to  day  — 

On  like  the  storm-swept  holocaust! 
Woe!  woe  to  them  he  seeks  this  night. 

For  they  shall  feel  his  vengeful  hand  - 
They  who  have  robbed,  without  the  right 

From  him,  the  leader  of  the  band ! 
I  see  him  yet!  and  lo!  he's  gone  — 

And  yet  I  hear  his  steed  of  fire. 
Whose  steel-clad  hoofs  still  clatter  on. 

Swift  bearing  him  and  all  his  ire. 
Full  twenty  years  James  reigned  supreme. 

The  monarch  of  his  own  desire; 
His  will  was  all  the  law,  't  would  seem. 

That  marked  his  mad  career  of  fire. 
And  like  the  great  Napoleon, 

He  passed  in  view  before  man's  ken, 
A  great  and  strange  phenomenon  — 

A  Titan  asking  naught  of  men. 
He  did  what  others  would  not  dare  — 

His  deeds  were  rampant,  fierce,  and  fell; 
Throughout  his  life,  and  everj'where. 

He  braved  eacli,  all— man.  Heaven,  and  Hell. 


THE  MANIAC. 

The  maniac  sprang  from  off  his  bed. 

And  placed  his  hand  upon  his  brow. 
"  I  feel  within,  my  soul  is  dead!  " 

His  mind  is  wandering  now. — 
" Fiend !  open  the  door  —  unbar!  unbai- 1 

Wliy  am  I  chained  by  arm  to  floor?— 
But  see,  there's  one  bright,  shining  stai-, 

Which  kindlj'  guards  my  prison  door! 
"It  stands  a  silent  sentinel,  there; 

With  pity  looks  from  its  bright  eye, 
Adown  on  me  in  my  despair  — 

Ah !  there's  a  serpent  on  the  sky ! 
"It's  crawling,  like  the  crawl  of  Death; 

It  coils;  now  buries  in  a  cloud; 
I  feel  its  poisoned,  fetid  breath ! 

It  warns  me  of  the  burial  shroud! 
"Hark!  hark!  I  hear,  I  see  in  the  air. 

Fiends,  demons,  dragons,  and  devils ! 
Why  tarrj' with  me  in  my  despair? 

Why  not  ofl"  to  their  wild  i-evels? 
"  But  still  tliey  stay  —  behold !  I  see !  — 

But  this  is  madness,  my  keepers  tell  — 
O!  from  out  this  prison,  free  me! 

Wliy  make  my  living  death  a  liell?" 


BEAUTIFUL  WOMAN. 
Beautiful  woman,  thou  art. 

True  th'  womanhood,  sweet! 
God  i)laces  in  thy  heart 

A  wealth  of  love  tiiat's  meet. 
And  why,  I  cannot  tell! 

But  oh,  thy  voice  to  mo 
Sounds  like  some  far-off  bell 

'I'liat  w;ikes  sweet  memory! 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


321 


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MRS.  JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 

Born  :  New  York  City,  May  27, 1819. 
This  iutellcctual  woman  has  written  numer- 
ous poems,  dramas,  and  lectures.  She  is  a 
very  strong  advocate  of  woman's  suffrage,  and 
has  lectured  extensively  in  aid  of  reforms. 
Her  poetical  worlss  are  Passion  Flowers,  and 
Words  of  the  Hour;  two  of  her  best  works  of 


JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 

prose  are  Life  of  Mag-aret  Fuller,  and  Sex  in 
Education,  which  have  especially  received 
much  praise  from  both  press  and  public.  Mrs. 
Julia  Ward  Howe  is  a  devoted  and  loving- 
mother,  and  is  adored  by  her  children.  The 
death  of  her  husband  in  18T6  was  a  severe  blow 
to  so  devoted  and  lo\'ing  a  wife.  Mrs.  Howe 
is  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Woman's  Journal, 
and  has  been  president  of  -s-arious  woman's 
associations. 


®- 


THE  NURSERY. 
"  Come,  sing  for  us,  dear  Mother, 
A  soug  of  the  olden  times ; 
Of  the  merry  Christmas  carol. 
Of  the  happy  New  Year  chimes ; 
Nor  sit  here,  idle-handed, 
To  hang  your  head  and  grieve. 
Beside  the  blazing  hearthstone 
This  pleasant  Winter's  eve." 

Then  she  sang,  to  please  the  children. 
With  half -forgetful  tongue. 


Some  merry -measured  roundel 
Of  the  happy  days  and  young; 
But,  pierced  wth  sudden  sorrow. 
The  words  came  faint  and  slow. 
Till  one,  in  childish  panic. 
Cried ;  "  Mother,  sing  not  so  1 " 

Then  all  the  little  creatures 
Looked  wondering  in  her  eyes; 
And  the  Baby  nestled  nearer. 
Startled  at  their  surprise; 
The  voice  grew  thin  and  quavered, 
Low  drooped  the  weary  head. 
Till  the  breath  of  song  was  stifled, 
And  tears  burst  forth  instead. 

For  misty  memories  covered 
The  children  from  her  ken. 
And  down  the  bitter  river 
She  dropped  —  no  mother  then ; 
No  sister,  helpmeet,  daughter. 
Linked  to  historic  years ; 
An  agonizing  creature 
That  looked  to  God  in  tears. 

But  when  some  sudden  turning 
Had  checked  her  hopeless  way. 
She  saw  the  little  faces 
No  longer  glad  or  gay: 
And  as  they  gazed,  bewildered 
By  grief  they  could  not  guess. 
Their  sjTnpathetic  silence 
Was  worse  than  her  distress. 

Tlien  she  tore  the  fatal  vesture 
Of  agony  aside ; 

And  showed,  with  mimic  gesture. 
How  naughty  children  cried.— 
And  told  of  hoary  castles 
By  giant  warders  kept. 
Of  deep  and  breathless  forests 
Where  tranced  beauties  slept; 
Weaving  in  rainbow  madness 
The  cloud  upon  her  brain. 
Till  they  forgot  her  weeping. 
And  she  forgot  her  pain. 

'Twcre  well  to  pour  the  soul  out 
In  one  convulsive  fit. 
And  rend  the  heart  with  weeping. 
If  Love  were  loosened  Irom  it. 
But  all  the  secret  sorrow 
That  underlies  our  lives, 
Must  wait  the  true  solution 
The  great  progression  gives. 

Those  griefs  so  widely  gathered. 
Those  deep,  ab.vssmal  chords. 
Broken  by  wailing  music 
Too  passionate  for  words. 
Find  gentle  reconcilement 
In  some  serener  breast. 
And  touch  with  deeper  pathos 
Its  sj-mphonies  of  rest. 


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322 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMElilCA. 


HAMILTON  H.  WILCOX,  M.D. 

Born:  Jefferson,  N.  C,  Dec.  38, 1849. 
In  1873  the  subject  of  this  sketch  attended  a 
course  of  lectures  at  the  Medical  College  of 
Ohio  at  Cinciiumti.  Two  years  later  he  was 
married  to  Miss  Mollie  E.  Abbott,  and  left 
shortly  afterward  for  several  months  of  study 
at  the  medical  ollejie  above  mentioned.  In 
18T7  Mr.  Wilcox  and  liis  family  moved  to  Glen- 


©■ 


HAMILTON    HAKDIN   WILCOX,  M.  D. 

ville,  Minn.,  where  he  practiced  his  profession 
and  carried  on  a  drug  store  until  1881,  when 
he  again  attended  the  medical  college  at  Ohio 
for  a  special  course,  subsequently  graduating 
with  the  highest  honors.  In  1883  he  became  a 
resident  of  the  city  of  Albert  Lea,  Minn., 
where  he  h.as  a  lucrative  practice.  Dr.  Wilcox 
is  a  ready  and  voluminous  writer  of  both 
prose  and  verse,  which  have  appeared  in 
medical  publications  as  well  as  local  and  liter- 
ary journals.  He  has  been  twice  elected 
coroner  of  Freeborn  county,  and  has  held  var- 
ious other  positions  of  trust.  Personally,  Dr. 
Wilco.x  isof  very  fine  stature,  with  brown  hair 
and  eyes. 

NEGRO  BEV. 
He's  shaded  dark. 
With  Cain-lilie  mark. 

Yet  freedom  marks  his  brow; 
The  chain  is  broke 
Tyranny's  yoke,— 

All,  where  is  slavery  now? 


Not  here,  thank  God, 
On  Freedom's  sod. 

Where  meu  alike  are  free; 
And  may  arise 
To  vict'ry's  skies. 

Though  colored,  dark  as  he. 
'Tis  not  the  shade 
That  God  has  made. 

That  marks  our  worth  as  men; 
But  honest  worth, 
Witli  freedom's  birth. 

Gives  glorj'  to  the  pen. 


A   FRAGMENT. 
I  strolled  along  the  ocean  shore. 

O'er  pebble,  foam  and  shell; 
I  heard  the  rune  and  billows  roar, 

I  heard  my  heart  as  well. 
I  grasp  the  shell  and  to  it  said : 

Pray,  canst  thou  lead  me  where 
The  sparkling  bowl  and  liquid  red. 

Shall  drown  each  dismal  care? 
In  whirring  tones  the  shell  replied: 

Though  my  realm  is  the  sea. 
We  have  no  bowl  or  sparkling  tide. 

With  which  to  make  you  free? 
Beneath  the  restless,  rolling  waves, 

'Mid  crimson  coral  bones. 
That  gave  form  to  a  thousand  braves, 

I  hear  your  wailing  moans  — 
Not  moans  of  the  drowning  —  dying- 
Wrecked  of  the  furious  gale. 
But  moans  of  the  widow  crying 

For  those  wrecked  in  firy  ale. 


O,  FOR  A  HEART. 

Attuned   to  love   and    friendship's  burning 
glow. 
My  weary  heart  awaits  the  magic  touch  — 
Awaits  but  a  zephyr,  the  faintest  blow. 

From  one  in  whom  Td  dare  confide  so  much. 
Know  you  the  wealth  and  worth  of  such  a 
heart? 
Nay,  thou  canst  not  know,  no  price  can  mea- 
sure 
True  friendship's  worth,  or  even  in  part 

Understand  the  wealth  of  such  a  treasure. 
O,  for  a  heart  so  attuned  —  set  on  Are  — 

O,  for  a  friend  with  lieart  alike  imbued. 
As  that  one  chord  touched  would  music  in- 
spire, 
In  both  these  liearts,  in  ardent  friendship 
glued. 
Tliere  is  one  such   friend,  having  one    such 
lieart. 
Attuned  always  to  the  wailings  of  woe  — 
Make  ready  your  lyre,  play  well  your  part. 
Such  a  friend  is  Christ,  the  Savior,  I  know. 


© 


m- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


* 


323 


MRS.HANNAH  CORNABY. 

Born:  England,  March  17, 1822. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  Coniaby  have  appeared  in 
the  Deseret  News,  Woman's  Kxpinieiit  and  the 

periodical  press  jienerallx'.     Slir  was  married 


©■ 


MRS.  H.4NNAH  CORNABV 

in  1851  to  Samuel  Cornaby,  wlio  is  now  a  no- 
tary public  at  Spanish  Fork,  Utah.  She  pub- 
lished in  1881  a  volume  entitled  Autobiogra- 
phy and  Poems,  which  has  had  a  fair  sale. 

WOMAN'S    MISSION. 
I  never  wished  to  be  a  queen, 

To  wear  the  robes  of  state, 
Or  have  my  name  enrolled  among 

The  famous  or  tlie  great. 
I  never  cared  for  "woman's  rights," 

Nor  ever  had  a  fear. 
But  that  if  woman  sought,  she'd  find 

Her  own,  her  proper  sphere. 
I  know  that  woman's  mission's  great. 

Yet  comprehends  the  small. 
The  tiny,  trifling-  things  of  life, 

Important  to  us  all. 
In  this,  true  woman  finds  her  sphere. 

Her  happiness  complete, 
In  loving,  helping,  blessing  all 

With  whom  she  chance  to  meet. 
Wliat  need  for  her  of  Congress'  halls. 

Or  legislative  cares. 


The  prompting's  of  her  woman's  soul. 

Is  all  the  law  she  heai-s. 
The  law  of  love  implanted  tiiere. 

By  our  great  Parent's  hand. 
If  not  perverted,  safely  guides. 

Woman  in  every  land. 
I  wish  1  had  llie  power  to  write, 

Woman  to  vindicate. 
To  tell  her  true  nobility. 

E'en  in  this  fallen  state. 
I  never  wished  for  wealth  or  fame. 

For  I  have  understood. 
How  poor  and  valueless  are  these, 

Compared  witli  being  good. 

OUR  NATIVE  FLOWEKS. 
The  favored  flowers  of  other  lands 

Have  claimed  the  poet's  powers; 
But  let  our  harp  be  tuned  in  praise 

Of  Utah's  native  flowers. 
We've  culled  them  from  the  hilly  slopes. 

From  canyon's  rugged  side, 
From  low  and  mossy  river  banks. 

And  from  tlie  benclies  wide. 
We've  placed  them  in  our  garden  plot. 

And,  growing  side  by  side. 
Their  fragrance  and  tlieir  beauty  are 

Our  pleasure  and  our  pride. 

We've  brought  choice  flowers  from  other 
climes 

And  placed  them  near  these  gems, 
Their  mingled  lustre  far  exceeds 

The  costliest  diadems. 
The  flowers  thus  brought  from  dis  tant  lands 

Suggest  the  thought  so  sweet, 
God's  chosen  ones,  though  scattered  now, 

Together  here  may  meet. 
And  like  the  flowers,  their  varied  gifts. 

Improve  this  sacred  soil. 
Making  the  wilderness  to  bloom. 

Repaying-  care  and  toil. 

Father,  we  thank  thee  for  the  flowers 

Thou  hast  so  freely  given. 
And  may  our  constant  effort  be 

To  make  this  earth  a  heaven. 


WHEN  I'M  HAPPY. 
Shall  I  tell  you  when  I'm  liappy':' 

Wlien  life  to  nie  seems  very  sweet? 
It  is  when  evening  shadows  fall. 

And  we  around  the  fireside  meet. 
'Tis  when  the  children  gather  home. 

From  school,  from  labor  and  from  play; 
When  little  tongues  all  are  telling 

What  they  have  done  or  learned  to-day. 
When  each  want  ajid  wish  is  cared  for. 

Or  little  sorrows  put  to  flight. 
Their  childisli  troubles  all  forgot, 

And  every  little  heart  is  light. 


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324 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL,   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


Now  tell  us.  Ma,  some  pretty  tale. 

Some  Bible  story  that  you  know. 
Tell  us  about  the  mighty  men, 

Who  lived  a  long,  long  time  ago." 
From  memory's  store  is  hunted  up, 

Some  story  to  amuse  or  teach. 
Some  useful  lesson,  thus  is  taught. 

Some  truth,  which  thus  the  heart  may  reach. 

The  anxious  look,  the  listening  ear. 

The  tear  which  from  the  eye  will  steal. 
The  eager  questions  which  they  ask. 

Will  tell  how  soon  a  child  can  feel. 
But  little  eyes  will  sleepy  grow. 

And,  like  the  flowers,  begin  to  close, 
Like  little  birds,  tiiey  seek  their  nests. 

For  little  forms  will  need  repose. 
The  sweet  good-night,  and  loving  kiss. 

The  arms  that  fondly  twine  around, 
Bring  to  my  heart  such  happiness 

And  joy,  as  nowhere  else  is  found. 


LEAD  ME  TO  THE   ROCK. 

When  my  spirit  with  sorrow  is  overwhelmed. 
Then,  from  out  of  the  depths  comes  the  cry. 

As  my  earthly  friends  leave  me,  lead  me   I 
pray, 
"To  the  rock  that  is  higher  than  I." 

As  my  children,  by  death,  are  called  from  my 
arms. 

To  their  Father  and  Mother  on  High ; 
Then,  all  lonely  and  weak,  I  pray  to  be  led, 

"To  the  rock  that  is  higher  than  I." 

In  affliction's  dark  hour,  when  heart  and  flesh 
fail. 
And  temptations  my  faith  sorely  try. 
Then,  more  earnest  I  cling,  for  strength  and 
defense, 
"  To  the  rock  that  is  higher  than  I." 

If  prosperity  sheds  its  light  on  my  path. 
And  kind  friends,  t<i  encourage,  are  nigh. 

In  thanksgiving  and  praise,  I  ever  am  led, 
"To  the  rock  that  is  higher  than  T." 

When  I  seek  at  earth's  cisterns,  my  thirst  to 
assuage. 
And  find  them  all  broken  and  dry. 
Then    lead    me   I    pray,    for   the   life-giving 
draught, 
"  To  the  rock  that  is  higher  than  I." 

Or,  when  persecution  and  trouble  assail. 
And  their  arrows  arc  swift  hurling  by, 

I  fear  not  the  shafts;  while  for  shcller  I'm  led 
i.  To  the  rock  that  Is  higher  than  I." 

E'en  death,  the  last  enemy  cannot  destroy. 
While  upon  a  strong  arm  I  rely; 

The  Priesthood  eternal  is  leading  me  on, 
i.To  the  rock  that  is  higher  than  I." 


MUSINGS. 
I  often  think,  in  mj  musings. 

How  happy  our  trail  lives  would  be. 
If  instead  of  the  dark  side  of  things, 

Their  bright  side,  we  always  could  see. 
We've  need  of  all  the  sweet  sunshine 

We  can  get  on  life's  gloomy  way. 
Oh!  then  let  us  catch  ev'ry  glimpse 

Of  its  bright  and  fast  fleeting  ray. 
In  every  condition  of  life. 

Whatever  our  trials  below. 
Thrice  happy  to  us  is  the  thought. 

Of  "  Father,"  to  whom  we  may  go. 
If  childhood's  days  were  pure  and  free. 

If  youth  had  been  happy  and  clear, 
Why  should  its  lustre  be  tarnished 

By  the  bitter  regretful  tear. 
Should  sickness  spread  o'er  us  its  shade. 

Where  health  was  accustomed  to  bloom. 
Let's  think  of  the  land  that's  before, 

Where  dread  sickness  never  can  come. 
Should  our  lot  be  sorrow  and  grief. 

Repining  will  surely  be  vain. 
We  )iever  have  more  than  our  share. 

Of  grief's  bitter  measure  to  drain. 
And  often,  in  draining  the  dregs, 

Joy's  sweet,  purest  drop  we  may  find. 
When  the  clouds  of  sorrow  roll  ofif. 

The  silver-lined  cloud  lies  behind. 


MRS.   MAGGIE  WOLF. 

BORK :  Eaton,  O.,  Feb.  8,  1861. 
This  lady  was  a  graduate  of  the  Eaton  high 
school,  and  was  married  tn  1889  to  John  Wolf, 
with  whom  she  now  resides  at  Dayton,  Ohio. 
Since  1882  her  poems  have  appeared  more  or 
less  in  the  Cincinn.iti  Post,  Dayton  Daily 
Herald,  Journal,  Monitor,  Record,  and  the 
periodical  press  general Ij'. 

THINK  OF  ME. 

When  my  brow  is  crowned  with  sorrow. 

And  I  walk  not  in  the  light. 
When  T  fear  lest  coming  morrow 

Bring  me  darkness  of  the  night. 
Then  I'll  think  of  joys  of  olden. 

Though  thy  patli  far  from  me  be. 
Of  the  memories  rare  and  golden, 

I  will  think,  yes,  think  of  thee. 

Wilt  thou  sometime  think  of  me? 
When  the  bliss  and  when  the  gladness 

Of  life's  joy  thy  lieart  shall  know. 
Though  my  head  be  bowed  in  sadness 

'Neath  a  burden-weight  of  woe,— 
In  the  silence  all  unl^roken 

Of  the  years  that  :ire  to  be. 
Though  be  given  ne'er  a  token, 

I  will  think,  yes,  think  of  thee. 

Wilt  tliou  sometime  think  of  me? 


«■ 


-« 


© — 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


325 


-© 


LAWRENCE  S.  MCDONALD. 

Born:  Glendale,  Pa.,  May  14, 1866. 
At  fourteen  lie  attended  a  high  school  at 
Clearfield,  Pa.,  where  he  now  resides;  begin- 
ning' in  the  primary  department  and  making 
such  rapid  progress  that  he  graduated  with 
the  first  honors  four  years  afterward.  His 
talents  are  comprehended  in  ])aiiiting-,  music, 
i>i'!itiii.\  ,inil  i)(K'ti\ ,  .111(1  .1  r,iciilt\  (  f  jiciici'ali- 


lawkence  s.  m'donald. 
zation  that  amounts  to  g'enius.  He  is  essen- 
tially an  orator,  and  as  such  has  made  a  wide 
reputation  in  his  native  state.  Mr.  DcDonald 
is  now  practicing  law  at  the  county  seat  of 
Clearfield,  and  has  made  a  success  of  journal- 
ism, but  finds  the  practice  of  law  more  lucra- 
tive.   He  stands  reasonably  high  as  a  poet. 


©- 


EXTRACTS. 
My  soul  is  sad  to-day.    I  know  not  why 
Shadowy  presentiments  come  and  go. 
Though  yet  I  roam  the  precincts  of  her  hazel 
eye 
It  is  not  well  that  mortal  man  should  know 
The  hidden  destinies  that,  swinging  to  and 
fro, 
Cast  their  short  shadowings  across  the  page  I 

sing. 
As  if  cast  there  by  some  strange  bird  on  lofty 
wing-. 

But  the  press  of  my  lips  to  her  marble  cheek 
Is  a  sacrilegious  touch ; 


There  is  yet  one  thing  that  binds  us. 

Though  our  throbbing  Iiearts  unheard. 
And  tliat  is  the  g-olden  binding  cord 

That  is  made  of  her  truthful  word. 
But  still  she  loves,  I  know  it, 

As  true  as  death's  our  goal. 
And  the  sky  of  truth  hangs  smiling 

O'er  the  shades  of  her  lovely  soul. 


From  heath  and  highland  purple  all  nightlong 

Two  drowsy  sentinels  from  starlit  towers, 
Call  to  each  other  in  the  trembling  silence, 

The  passage  of  the  hours. 
Faint  streaks  of  violet  from  jasper  capes 

In  trembling-  splendor,  as  on  wings  of  love. 
And  some  bright  soul— deep-robed  in  spotless 
white. 
Delights  me  from  above. 
Some  rustling  spirits  move  across  the  floor  — 

As  if  sweet  angels  thereupon  do  rove. 
To  me  they're  whisperings  of  a  voice  no  more 

To  soothe  my  soul  with  love. 
Across  my  bed  the  curtain  fringes  flow. 

Kissed  by  the  amorous  zephjrs  from  above. 
To  me  they're  like  the  presence  of  a  loved  one 
now 
In  lands  of  light  and  love. 


I  do  believe  our  fathers'  faith  of  old  — 

Each  letter  of  its  every  hallowed  word,— 
Its  accents  from  the  lips  of  nature  rolled 

The  golden  dictates  of  creation's  Lord. 
The  spirit  of  that  book  in  trembling  beauty — 

As  fragrant  incense  from  old  fanes  will  rise, 
That  God  the  same  that  paved  the  path  of 
duty. 

As  writ  in  light  the  pages  of  the  skies. 


And  the  day  that's  far  awa.v— 
Day  that  knows  no  noon,  no  night, 

Fast  it  breaks  in  purple  streaks- 
How  my  eyes  do  drink  the  light — 

Fast  it  breaks  o'er  hills  and  peaks, 
Jasper  amber  golden  streaks  — 

Thus  that  day  streams  on  my  sight. 


Since  that  hour  I  courted  Nature's 

Scenes  eclipsing  skies  of  gold. 
And  I  sipped  the  honeyed  beauties 

That  the  fields  and  forests'  fold. 
But  to-night  here  in  the  silence. 

As  the  twilight  in  the  west 
Sends  its  golden  bars  asky  ward 

Kissing  silver  luna's  crest. 
I  am  sitting,  thinking,  thinking 

Of  my  mother  in  the  grave. 
Near  where  graceful  Susquehanna 

Tosses  shoreward  on  iier  wave. 


-« 


©- 


326 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMEKICA. 


-ffl 


DR.  JOSEPH  P.  RUSSELL. 

Born  :  Bourbon  Co.,  Ky.,  July  23, 1815. 

For  thirty  j-ears  Dr.  Russell  has  practiced 
medicine  in  Waveland,  Indiana.  From  his 
youth    this    {ientleuian    lias   written    poems 


DR.  JOSEPH  P.  RUSSELL. 

from  time  to  time,  which  have  received  puhli- 
cation.  He  contemplates  the  public;ition  of  his 
vei-se  in  boolf-form  in  the  near  future. 


©- 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY. 
Butterfly,  butterfly 

Where  are  you  wending? 
'•  Tliis  a  way,  that  a  wiiy," 

Whither  now  tending? 
With  your  gaudy  rich  tints, 

That  rivals  all  art. 
Bliss  surelj'  is  center'd 

In  your  little  Iieart; 
From  a  clirysolite  state. 

From  darkness  so  drear. 
You  have  fledged  into  light. 

You  wing  tlirough  the  ;iir. 
You  sip  at  the  nectar 

Of  each  op'ningflow'r. 
Your  liomc  in  the  giirden. 

And  l)l()oming  gay  l)ow'r 
So  graceful  and  litlielj- 

You  wander  at  will. 
You  wabble  in  valley, 

And  zig-Z!igo'er  hill, 
Sf)  crooked  your  cour.se  seemed 


Never  intended. 
Yet  freedom  and  free  will 

Most  clearly  blended; 
Seen  adrift  in  the  air. 
On  roadside  or  dell. 
There's  naught  in  all  nature 

Your  grace  can  excel. 
With  your  summer  so  short. 

Your  life  but  a  span. 
Are  you  a  fair  model. 
Or  type  of  the  man? 
Oh !  butterfly  tell  me. 

Have  you  a  dread  fear 
Of  j'our  dissolution, 
Of  death  that's  so  near? 
Will  you  be  immortal 

With  life  cloth'd  anew. 
And  in  a  new  world 

Your  pleasures  pursue? 
A  world  of  sweet  flowers 

That  bloom  all  the  year, 
A  butterfly  heaven. 

Wit  h  no  death  to  fear  — 
Or,  doomed  by  the  frost-king 

To  death  and  decay, 

Will  death  be  eternal. 

Oh!  butterfly,  say? 


THE  PERSECUTED  RABBIT. 

Poor  timid  hare,  and  innocent  as  well, 
I  would  I  could  thy  wrongs  redress,  and  tell. 
Of  persecutions  meted  out  to  you ; 
Fain  would  I  be  thy  friend  and  advocate. 
Hold  up  the  horrors  of  thy  bloody  fate. 
Till  man  relenting,  would  not  thee  pursue. 
Thy  graceful  form  aud  manners  mild  should 
A  warrant  for  thy  peace  and  liberty,  [be 

That  rest,  sweet  rest  miglit  be  to  thee  secure; 
Those  brownish  mild  benignant  eyes  of  thine. 
Ought  to  repress  the  lawless  hordes  of  crime, 
And  hold  inviolate  a  life  so  pure.  [strife. 

No  armor   thine  to  shield  from    murd'rous 
A  modest  meekness  marks  tliy  gentle  life; 
With  hungry  eagles  hover'riug  o'er  thy  head; 
And  num'rous  foes  do  intercept  thy  joys. 
Yet  man  more  cruel,  most  of  all  annoys, 
By  wholesale  slaughter  gives  thee  most  to 

dread. 
The  heartless  huntsman  with  his  dog  and  gun. 
Thinks  it  rare  sport  to  see  you  start  and  run. 
Regardless  of  your  common  right  to  life; 
And  if  by  speedy  flight  you  reach  your  den, 
He  sends  his  cruel  red  mouth'd  ferrets  in. 
And  tragic  horrorendslhe  bhxxly  strife. 
Oil  guilty  man  who  will  no  mercy  know, 
.Siii-cas'd  and  liai'deii'd  will  no  i)ily  show. 
Can  you  a  jiray'r  for  heav'iily  nu'rcy  fiaiiie 
With  heart  so    obdurate,    with  hands   blood- 

stain'd? 
To  lift  them  up  o'er  all  the  dead  and  niaini'd, 
And  plead  for  self,  what  you  denied  the  game? 


© 


s- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-® 


HEXRY  FAUNTLEROY. 

Bokn:  Salem,  Va.,  Jan.  2, 1820. 
Commencing  to  wi-ite  at  the  age  of  twentj^- 
three,  the  productions  of  this  gentleman  liave 
since  that  time  appeared  in  tlie  leading  maga- 
zines of  America,  from  which  they  have  been 
extensively  copied  by  the  local  press.  In  1S8S 
Mr.  Fauntlcroy  published  a  novel  entitled 
Who's  to  Bhiiiic?  whicli  I'tM'civt'd  ;i,  fair  circii- 


HENRV   FADNTLEROY. 

lation.  Mr.  Fauntleroy  has  also  had  quite  a 
little  experience  on  the  lecture  platform.  He 
has  held  several  important  public  positions. 
Though  defrauded  of  some  fifty  thousand  dol- 
lars in  tlie  lumber  business  in  Chicago,  he  still 
has  a  handsome  independent  fortune,  and 
lives  a  quiet  and  secluded  life  in  the  city  of 
Chicago. 


©- 


FORTUNE. 
A  boy  pursued  a  golden  butterfly 
With  gaze  intense,  and  upward  kept  liis  eye; 
With  eiiger  hope  lie  ran,  as  in  a  spell. 
Unmindful  of  his  steps,  he  tripped  and  fell. 
Another  boy  took  up  the  luring  chase. 
More  cautious  he,  and  downward  turned  his 

face 
To  pick  his  way,  lest  he  might  also  trip ; 
The  fly,  by  sudden  turn,  gave  liim  tlie  slip. 
And  still  another  boy  pursued  the  prize; 
Now   up,  now  down,  with   sldll  he  cast  his 

eyes. 


And  even  race  maintained,  so  when  to  rest 
The  fly  alit,  he  clasped  it  to  his  breast. 
So  Fortune  turns  on  all  her  golden  smiles; 
Those  over-sanguine  tangle  in  her  wiles. 
And  those  too  cautious  miss  their  chance  for 

care. 
But  wise  of  "means  to  ends  "  her  prizes  bear. 


MY  DEAR  WIFE. 
May  morning,  noon,  and  evening  bless  thee  — 

Thy  moments  cluster  into  happy  hours  -.^ 
And  weeks,  and  months,  and  years  impress 
thee. 

As  gathering  dews  upon  the  downy  flowers. 
May  passing  Time,  with  gentlest  finger. 

But   chasten    with  a  hallowed    touch  thy 
brow. 
And  Beauty's  grace  about  thee  linger     [now. 

Through  lapse  of  many  years,  to  charm  as 
As  flowers  sunward  bend  in  blooming. 

And   bow    caressing    o'er    the    fresh'ning 
brooks, 
I  turn  to  thee  for  life's  illuming. 

And  drink  my  being  from  thy  tender  looks. 
Through  years  of  trial,  and  cold  desertion, 

And  wrong  that  makes  the  ardent  soul  its 
prey. 
Thy  pure  love  foiled  the  world's  aspersion. 

And  closest  clung  when  darkest  grew  the 
day. 
Ah !  sorrows  rouse  the  heart's  best  feelings, 

W' bile  fortune  tends  to  foster  selfish  pride; 
Our  mutual  griefs,  to  each  appealing. 

In  tend'rest  sympathy  our  souls  have  tied. 
All  praise  for  thy  meek  self-denial,  [care. 

Thy  ministering  skill,  with  constant,  saving 
That  poverty's  soul-crushing  trial 

Bow  not  the  objects  of  thy  Christian  prayer. 
Thy  fashion  is  thy  standard  virtue; 

Thy  jewels  blazen  in  thy  children's  minds; 
Thy  reign  is  where  no  hearts  desert  you. 

Enthroned  where  home-love  every  subject 
binds. 
Vain  slaves  of  fashion  may  not  know  thee; 

But  theirs  the  loss  —  for  virtuous  minds  like 
thine 
Illume  the  world  with  moral  glorj' ; 

As  vestal  beacons  they  forever  shine. 
Oh!  what  despair,  what  woe  forever. 

Would  close  around  my  happy  manhood's 
years. 
Should  Fate  our  lives  and  spirits  sever. 

And  leave  me  lone  to  darkness  and  to  tears. 
Kind  Heaven !  so  crown  thy  constant  blessing 

That,  when  the  calls  of  Duty  and  of  Earth 
are  done, 
Ovy  souls  in  spirit  love  caressing. 

In  death  may  surely,  as  in  life,  be  one. 


-© 


*- 


© 


328 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


YES,  AND  NO. 
Dear  lady,  let  thy  lips  say  Yes, 
Consent's  sweet  word  my  soul  to  bless, 
Wreathing-  with  smiles  thy  sunny  face. 
And  charming-  aU  hearts  with  thy  grace. 
Distort  not  face  and  mouth  with  No, 
That  blights  my  life  with  hopeless  woe  — 
That  chills  thy  own  heart's  happy  springs. 
And  shadows  all  bright  earthly  things. 
'Twas  Yes  God  spoke,  when  angels  saw 
The  universe  leap  into  law  — 
Saw  light  and  life,  and  love,  and  bloom, 
Consorting,  press  the  world  for  room. 
No  was  but  chaos,  when  no  form 
Could  gather,  and  no  heat  could  warm 
The  empty  void  and  boundless  cold. 
The  nothingness,  that  naught  could  mold. 
Then,  lady,  speak  that  magic  word, 
That  brings  creation  in  accord. 
Let  No  not  jar,  divide,  distress. 
But  hearts  with  love  melt  into  Yes. 


ffi- 


ISABELLA. 

O  tell  me  not  she's  dead ;  she  lives, 

1  am  more  dead  than  she : 
'Tis  death  that  here  her  life  survives  — 

Her  life  's  by  death  set  free. 

0  free  from  tears,  from  pain,  from  wrong, 
To  walk  the  golden  street, 

'Mid  joys  where  witli  the  ransomed  throng 

Their  blessed  Savior  greet; 
Where  mother  clasps  her  long-mourned  son 

In  never-ending  bliss; 
Where  Faith's  triumphant  crown  is  won: 

That,  that  is  life  —  not  this. 
Yes,  cold  her  lips  I  madly  kiss; 

Her  bosom  knows  no  thrill; 
Affection's  warm  response  I  miss 

From  lieart  and  hands  now  still. 

1  wildly  call  her  dear,  sweet  name. 
And  list  to  hear  her  speak; 

But  Silence  locks  her  moveless  frame. 
And  peace  seals  brow  and  cheek. 

0  she's  not  here ;    she's  gone  —  she's  gone, 
Her  soul,  her  life,  her  love. 

That  once  this  casket's  jewels  shone. 

Now  drink  God's  light  above. 
But  O  in  darkness  here  I  grope. 

In  lonely  walks  obscure; 
No  more  shines  out  Life's  star  of  Hope 

To  make  my  footsteps  sure. 

1  stretch  my  empty  arms  in  vain, 
And  call  my  other  self; 

No  form,  no  voice  comes  back  again 

But  Echo's,  mocking  elf. 
Yet  know  I,  in  my  anguish  keen. 

That  still  my  life  thou  art; 
I  feel  thy  presence,  like  unseen. 

Soft  beatings  of  my  heart. 


I  clasp  thy  picture  to  my  breast  — 

My  eyes  its  beauties  trace ; 
But  in  my  soul  thy  Image  pressed 

Has  all  thy  living  grace. 
Dear  spirit-wife,  sweet  love,  mj^  friend, 

As  Nature's  yearnings  mourn; 
Come,  lead  me  to  Life's  joyous  end. 

For  where  thou  art 's  my  bourn. 

CHARLES  A   NELSON  A.  M. 

Born  :  Calais,  Me.,  April  U,  1839. 
This  gentleman  graduated  at  Harvard  in 
1860.  For  a  while  he  taught  in  Boston,  and 
later  was  civil  engineer  of  Newbern,  N.  C, 
wliere  he  was  elected  to  various  civil  offices. 
For  seven  years  Mr.  Nelson  was  in  the  book- 
trade  in  Boston,  doing  literary,  library  and 
editorial  work.  Was  librarian  at  Gorham 
academy;  New  York  Astor  library;  and  now 
holds  that  position  at  the  New  Orleans  Me- 
morial library.  Mr.  Nelson  has  written  num- 
erous fine  poems  wliicli  have  appeared  in  St. 
Nicholas  and  other  publications. 

FAITH  AND  FANCY. 
In  shade  of  spreading  beech  I  lie. 
And  watch  tlirough  blue  depths  of  the  sky 
Proud  argosies  go  sailing  by. 
While  Fancy  pictures  in  their  train 
The  castles  we  all  build  — in  Spain, 
That  come,  and  go,  and  come  again. 
Without  these  figments  of  the  air. 
Our  lives,  so  filled  with  toil  and  care, 
Would  darken  with  a  deep  despair. 
But  Faith  and  Fancy,  sisters  bright. 
Illume  our  darkest  days  with  light 
That    streams    from    Heaven's    sublimest 
height. 


BROTHERS. 

Brothers  once  are  brothers  ever. 

Though  the  storm  of  discord  rage 
For  awhile,  and  blinded  passion 

Mar  the  erst  unspotted  page. 
Once  the  dark  clouds  have  passed  over, 

EveiT  year,  as  swift  it  rolls. 
Fans  into  a  brighter  glowing 

Fires  of  truth  within  men's  souls. 
Common  blood  of  common  mother 

Binds  with  an  eternal  chain, 
Whose  broke  links  are  welded  closer 

At  the  forge  of  connnon  i)ain. 
One  in  heart  and  one  in  purjwse; 

One  of  many  —  all  in  one; 
Ours  bo  .'  Liberty  and  union  " 

While  the  stars  their  couises  run. 
O'er  the  graves  of  hero  brothers. 

Wore  they  blue  or  wore  t  hoy  gray. 
Spread  sweet  Howers  for  remembrance 

Sacred,  each  Memorial  Day. 


-m 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


329 


m 


MARIA  AUGUSTA   AGUR. 

BoHx:  Arlington,  Mass.,  Feb.  15,  1836. 
EMiGR.iTixG  to  Wisconsin  from  the  east  in  18.53 
with  her  parents.  Miss  Ag'ur  lived  on  the  prai- 
ries until  1866,  when  she  removed  to  Darling- 
ton in  the  same  state.  In  1876  she  gave  her 
first  poem  to  the  public.  From  the  death  of 
her  father  she  took  care  of  her  aged  mother 
until  1883,  at  which  time  Miss  Agur  became 
insane,  and  a  year  thereafter  her  mother  died. 

Alth(ill'_;li    liiT  r;isi'  of    iiicl:inrh(  ilia    (ifliiriit  i;i 


Si 


MARIA  AUGUSTA  AGUR. 

was  considered  a  hopeless  one,  she  was  dis- 
charged as  cured  in  1888,  but  the  following 
year  she  again  returned  to  the  Mendota  State 
Asylum,  and  it  is  hoped  she  will  now  receive 
a  complete  cure  in  a  short  time.  The  poems 
of  Miss  Agur  have  been  well  received,  and  it 
is  hoped  that  a  collected  volume  of  her  pro- 
ductions will  receive  publication  at  no  distant 
date. 


WHERE  ARE  THE  ORIOLES? 
'Tisthe  first  snow;  it  tells  that  winter's  near; 
Above,  below,  and  all  around  seems  drear; 
The  patient  kine,  e'en,  low  tlieir  discontent. 
The  dripping  landscape,  frowns  a  grim  con- 
sent. 

Mournfully  coo  the  pigeons  from  their  shed, 
Dreading.yethardlyknowing  what  they  dread ! 
Casting  my  eye  above,  behold  I  see 
A  high-swung  nest,  on  yonder  maple  tree! 


With  cunning  woven  threads,  'tis  caught  and 

twined 
Upon  the  bough,  and  on  the  autumn  wind 
It  tosses  to  and  fro,  mayhap  in  glee,— 
Mayhap  'tis  angry  — struggling  to  be  free! 
Forsaken  dwelling!  wilt  thou  tell  me  where 
Are  thy  sweet  builders,  who  witii  busy  care 
Thatched  thee  within,  without  and  all  around, 
Then  hung  thee    high  above  the  dangerous 

ground? 

O  wanton  wind  I  swift  moving  overhead. 
Wilt  thon  not  tell  me,  where  the  birds  have 

fled? 
The  birds  that  came  to  us  in  budding  May, 
And  cheered  us  thro'  the   summer's  fervid 

day? 

All-powerful  sun !  coquetting  with  the  mist. 
In  some  fair  sunny  chme  hast  thou  not  kist 
A  wealth  of  foliage,  where  is  hid  away 
Another  nest,  like  that  one  o'er  the  way ! 
O  friendly  moon !  come  with  the  fall  of  night. 
And  light  the  path  the  songsters  winged  their 

flight. 
Tell  where  thine  ears  have  heard  them  on  their 

nest. 
Lulling  with  twittering  song  their  babes  to 
rest ! 

0  army  of  bright  stars!  in  deeps  of  night. 
Have  ye  awakened  them  with  twinkling  light? 
Then  w.atched    in  hiding   thro'  the   roof   of 

leaves. 
So  gently  lifted  by  the  southern  breeze? 
Can  no  one  tell  me  if  they  flit  and  sing. 
In  balmy  climes  where  cypress  fringes  swing? 
Where  'mid  dark  orange  groves  gleam  globes 

of  fire. 
And  summer's  verdant  footsteps  never  tire? 

Ah!  none  will  tell  me;  still  I  see  the  nest. 
And  love  to  think  of  downy  bosoms  pressed 
Against  its  russet  sides,  and  hair-lined  floor,— 

1  dream  the  joj'ous  birds  will  come  once  more. 


ARBOR  VIT^. 
Canst  thou  not  tell  me  how  my  mother  sleeps? 
Does  she  not  come  when  the  bright  stars  of 
even 
Light  all  their  lamps  to  gild  each  cloud  that 
weeps 
Pure  crystal  teardrops  from  the  fount  of 
HeaA-en? 
When  busy  sounds  die   out,    and  hushed  is 
mirth. 
Does  she  not  come  again  to  bless  the  Earth? 
Did  she  not  send  a  chalice  filled  with  hope. 

That  I  no  more  should  shed  regretful  tears? 
No  more  in  dark  uncertainty  should  grope 

Along  the  way  of  overclouded  j-ears? 
Did  she  not  waft  upon  thy  spicy  breath 
A  loving  kiss,  from  her  pale  realm  of  death? 


SB 


© 


330 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


JAMES  B.  KENYON. 

Born:  Frankfort,  N.  Y.,  April 36, 1858. 
After  receiving  a  collegiate  education  he 
taught  for  three  seasons  iu  the  common  schools 
and  at  the  age  of  twenty  entered  the  ministry. 
He  is  highly  esteemed  at  Watertown,  N.  Y., 
where  he  is  now  preaching.  Mr.  Kenyon  has 
published  four  volumes  of  poetry.  The  Fallen 
and  Other  Poems.Out  of  the  Shadows,  Songs  in 
All  Seasons,  and  In  Realms  of  Gold.  He  is  a 
constant  contributor  to  the  leading  periodicals. 


ELUSION. 
Ah,  happy  poet  who  may  guess 
The  ever-changing  loveliness. 
The  lightsome  grace,  the  airy  wiles 
Wherewith  coy  nature  masks  her  smiles. 
And,  stealing  on  her  unaware, 
Behold  her  when  she  is  most  fair! 


IF  IT  WERE. 


Love,  that  thou  lov'st  me  not,  too  well  I  know. 
Yet  shouldst  thou  look  to-night  on  my  dead 

face 
For  the  last  time  on  earth,  and  thei'e  shouldst 
trace 
The  silent  meaning  of  a  heavy  woe, 
Wouldst  thou  not  feel  a  pang  that  it  were  so? 
Would  not  regret  within  thy  heart  find  place. 
That  thou  didst  stay  the  guerdon  and  the 
grace 
Thy  lover  so  besought  thee  to  bestow? 
Wouldst  thou  not  feel  a  want  unknown  before ; 

A  something  gone  familiar  grown  so  long? 
A  vanished  light— a  ship  gone  from  the  shore— 
A  presence  past  from  out  the  world's  great 
throng? 
O  Love,  wouldst  thou  not  miss  the  voice  of 
yore? 
The  song-bird  flown,  wouldst  thou  not  miss 
the  song? 


VANISHED. 

It  was  but  yesterday  I  saw  his  sheep. 

The  while  ho  led  them  up  the  height  to  feed. 
And  heard  him  merrily  pipe  upon  his  reed. 

And  mock  the  echoes  from  yon  rocky  steep; 
'Twas  yesterday  I  found  him  fast  asleep, 

His  flock  forgot  and  wantoning  in  the  mciul, 

His  pipe  Hung  liglilly  by  with  idle  heed. 
And  shadows  lying  round  him,  cool  and  deep. 
But  though  r  seek  I  shall  not  And  hini  more. 

In  dewy  valley  or  on  grassy  height; 
I  listen  for  his  i)iping  — it  is  o'er. 

From  out  mine  ears  gone  is  the  music  (luito. 
There  on  the  hill  the  sheep  feed  as  before. 

But  Pan,  alas,  has  vanished  from  my  sight! 


A  ROMAN  QUEEN. 
Imperious  on  her  ebon  throne 

She  sits,  a  queen,  in  languid  ease; 
Her  lustrous  locks  are  loosely  blown 

Back  from  her  brow  by  some  stray  breeze 
Lost  in  that  vast,  bright  hall  of  state. 
Where  thronging  suppliants  fear  and  wait. 

A  dreamy  fragrance,  fine  and  rare, 
Of  sandal,  nard  and  precious  gum, 

With  balmy  sweetness  fills  the  air. 
And  mingles  with  the  incense  from 

A  quaint  and  costly  azure  urn, 

Where  Indian  spices  ever  burn. 

A  jeweled  serpent,  wrought  in  gold. 
Coils  round  her  white  and  naked  arm; 

Her  purple  tunic,  backward  rolled, 
Reveals  the  full  and  regal  charm 

Of  her  fair  neck,  and  ivory  breast. 

Half  veiled  beneath  her  broidered  vest. 

Her  eyelids  droop  upon  her  ej'es. 
And  curtained  Viy  the  silken  lash. 

The  smoldering  Are  that  in  them  lies 
Is  scarcely  seen,  save  when  a  flash, 

Like  that  whichliglitsthe  polar  snow. 

Gleams  from  the  dusky  depths  below. 

Her  proud,  cold  lips  are  lightly  wreathed 
In  smiles,  as  if  wuh  high  disdain 

She  scorns  to  show  her  hate  is  sheathed. 
And  that  he  sues  not  all  in  vain 

For  favors  of  her  haughty  will. 

Or  e'en  lo%'e's  rarer  guerdon  still. 

He  stands  before  her  white  and  fierce: 
His  bosom  with  swift  passion  shakes: 

His  burning  vision  seeks  to  pierce 
Her  very  soul;  he  pleads;  he  wakes 

Within  her  heart  a  wild  desire. 

That  flames  and  mounts  like  sudden  fir«\ 

A  subtle  glance,  a  whispered  word, 
A  waving  of  her  perfumed  hand. 

He  feels  his  secret  prayer  is  heard  — 
That  she  will  know  and  understand : 

The  queen  is  hid,  and  for  a  space 

A  love-swayed  woman  holds  her  place. 

He  bows,  he  leans  toward  the  throne; 

Her  breath  is  warm  upon  his  cheek; 
She  murmurs,  and  in  every  tone 

He  hears  the  love  she  dai'es  not  speak; 
What  though  the  surging  hundreds  pi-ess? 
No  eye  shall  see  her  swift  caress. 

Let  him  beware;  he  toys  with  fate; 

False  as  the  glittering  serpent  is 
On  her  white  arm,  her  love  to  hate 

Shall  change  eftsoons;  then  every  kiss 
She  gives  him  with  her  fickle  breath 
Shall  be  surcharged  witli  secret  death. 


©- 


®- 


-* 


LOCAI.   AND    NATIONAL,   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


331 


ALEXANDER   R.  FULTON. 

Horn:  Ross  Co.,  Ohio,  Oct.  11,  1833. 
Mu.  Fulton  has  been  representative  in  the 
Iowa  legislature,  and  has  held  numerous  oth- 
er important  oflieial  positions  at  various 
times.  In  1882  he  published  a  volume  of  five 
hundred  pag-es,  entitled  Red  Men  of  Iowa,  and 
lia>;  also  written  a  number  of  smaller  books 
am]  pampliletsof  a  liistoriral  cliarndiT.     For 


ALEXANDER  li.  fULTON. 

about  twelve  years  Mr.  Fulton  was  connected 
with  the  Western  Newspaper  Union  at  Des 
Moines  as  editor  of  ready-print  sheets,  and  is 
still  so  engaged.  This  writer  has  contributed 
from  time  to  time  numerous  poems  of  merit 
to  the  periodical  press.  Mr.  Fulton  is  presi- 
dent of  the  Des  Moines  Academy  of  Science. 


B- 


IF  WE  COULD  KNOW. 
O  fortune-favored  heirs  of  pride. 

Who  feel  no  daily  round  of  care. 
Ye  little  know  what  ills  betide 

The  poor,  or  how  the  lowly  fare. 
O  wonder  not,  that  soon  or  late. 

Some,  fainting  in  the  struggle  fall; 
Our  hearts  might  pity,  more  than  hate, 

If  we  could  only  know  it  all. 
As  pestilence  may  come  unseen, 

Nor  human  skill  the  scourge  control. 
So  fjite's  decree  may  intervene. 

And  mar  the  beauty  of  some  soul. 


Could  we  behold,  and  feel  no  pain 

For  those  who  drink  life's  cup  of  gall. 
Or  pass  such  by,  in  cold  disdain. 

If  we  could  only  know  it  all? 
'Mid  semblances  of  joy,  and  mirth. 

There  often  lurks  a  secret  grief; 
The  things  men  deem  of  priceless  worth, 

May  fail  to  bring  the  soul  relief. 
We  might  not  envy  some  who  flaunt 

Rich  purple  robes  in  gilded  hall. 
And  yet  for  something,  pine  in  want. 

If  we  could  only  know  it  ail. 
'Tis  well  that  we  this  truth  should  learn  — 

That  under  rags  true  hearts  may  beat, 
While  clothed  in  silks,  we  oft  discern 

Base  envy,  falsehood,  and  deceit. 
Not  all  who  pose  in  dazzling  hue 

'Neath  gilded  domes,  and  steeples  tall, 
Might  prove  at  heart,  gilt-edged,  and  true. 

If  we  could  only  know  it  all. 
While  modest  worth,  unknown  may  plod  — 

Its  pathway  strewn  with  noble  deeds  — 
Rank  arrogance  may  only  nod. 

And  all  the  world  applauding  heeds. 
Mere  rank  of  birth  no  merit  brings. 

But  lords  there  are  with  trappings  small, 
Who  may  not  tread  in  courts  of  kings. 

If  we  could  only  know  it  all. 


ANTHRACITE. 

Back  in  the  misty  ages  past, 

Thei-e  grew  a  forest  by  the  sea, 
Whicli  o'er  the  land  daik  shadows  cast. 

And  shelter'd  snail-like  mollusks  free. 
Late,  passing  from  chaotic  time. 

This  orb  unfitted  was  for  man ; 
Strange  creatures  burrow'd  in  the  slime 

Tliat  marred  its  yet  unfinished  plan. 
But  not  in  vain  that  forest  grew 

By  steamy  sea,  or  warm  lagoon ; 
From  beams  of  ancient  suns  it  drew 

For  coming  time  a  needed  boon. 
Then  rose  the  floods  and  cover'd  deep 

That  old-time  forest  from  the  light; 
Now,  after  seons  vast  of  sleep. 

Behold  it  in  the  anthracite! 
What  angry  seas  have  surg'd  and  roU'd, 

Exchanging  places  witli  the  land. 
Since  floods  swept  down  that  forest  old. 

Entombing  it  'neath  beds  of  sand: 
There,  in  each  tissue,  stem,  and  frond. 

Were  seal'd  the  latent  light  and  heat. 
Till,  in  the  ages  long  beyond. 

The  world  for  man  should  be  complete! 
Releas'd  now  from  its  darksome  bed 

Bj-  force  of  sturdy  miner's  blow. 
It  gives  to  man  the  sunbeams,  shed 

Perchance  a  million  years  ago! 
There,  in  that  grate  of  anihi-ieite. 


■© 


*- 


332 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


« 


Weird  forms  in  wreaths  of  blue  flame 
curl'd. 
May  thy  observing  eye  delig-ht 

With  visions  of  an  ancient  world! 
What  sluggish  monsters  slumber  there, 

In  sigillarian  jungles  deep  — 
Amphibians  gigantic,  where 

The  carbonif  reus  fauna  creep ! 
Amid  the  conifers  and  ferns 

Naught  anthropoid  may  we  behold; 
But  prophecy  the  eye  discerns 

Of  what  the  future  sliall  unfold! 
In  marshes  warm  tall  tree-ferns  grow; 

The  calamite  its  stem  uprears. 
Where  steaming  vapors  noxious,  flow 

From  carbon-laden  atmospheres. 
And  there  the  sunlight,  and  the  rain. 

With  all  the  elements  combine. 
To  store  beneath  some  ancient  main 

These  hoarded  treasures  of  the  mine! 
No  graceful  wing  of  tuneful  bird. 

With  song  to  greet  the  rosy  morn. 
Is  in  that  primal  forest  heard, 

And  flowers  sweet  are  yet  unborn. 
But,  seething  in  the  sun's  hot  glare. 

O'er    beaches    strewn  with    chamber'd 
shells, 
Behold  what  seas  sweep  wildly  there. 

Engulfing  all  beneath  their  swells! 
Unknown  what  epochs  rolled  away. 

With  their  ascending  types  of  life, 
Ere  dawned  the  world's  more  perfect  day. 

When  Man  evolved  from  Nature's  strife ! 
Tho'  now  erect,  lie  treads  the  earth. 

And  things  of  hutnljler  form  disdains. 
To  him  a  boon  of  wondrous  worth 

Are  that  primeval  world's  remains! 


©- 


THE  UNWRITTEN  SONG. 
Some  song  unwritten,  all  have  heard. 

But  not  with  mortal  ear ; 
It  breathes  without  one  spolien  word, 

In  music,  sweet  and  clear. 
Down,  floating  from  the  dream-like  past, 

It  murmurs,  to  recall 
The  scenes  that  dimly  still  are  cast 

On  mem'ry's  fading  wall. 
The  organ's  peal  may  thrill  indeed, 

And  joys  of  tone  impart. 
But  tones  tliat  we,  as  mortals,  heed, 

Are  only  notes  of  art. 
In  silence,  and  in  solitude. 

Where  moves  no  busy  throng. 
Nor  cares  of  gro.sserlife  intrude. 

We  liear  the  sweeter  song. 
Sometimes,  far  off  it  seems,  and  then 

In  nearer  cadence  swells. 
As  floats  adown  some  sylvan  glen 

Tlie  cliime  of  ev'ning  bells. 


How  few  there  are  who  have  not  known 

Some  song  they  could  not  sing, 
But  eacli  one  for  liimself  alone, 

May  hear  its  whispering. 
As  witli  tlio  spirit's  eye.  In  dreams. 

Things  beautiful  we  see. 
Or  catcli  in  slumber's  hour  the  gleams 

Of  In'ighter  scenes  to  be; 
So,  far  away,  through  lieaven's  bounds. 

The  music  of  the  spheres. 
In  harmony  of  silent  sounds. 

The  soul  HI  rapture  hears. 
There  is  a  song  tliat  comes  to  each  — 

It's  music  undefined  — 
Whose  mystic  strains  the  heart  may  reach, 

And  all  its  chords  unbind. 
These  strains,  that  oft  our  spirits  haunt. 

Do  not  to  earth  belong. 
For  only  angel  voices  chant 

Tlie  soul's  unwritten  song. 


MRS.  MAMIE  G.  TYLER. 

Born:  Byron,  N.Y.,  1847. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  Tjier  have  appeared  from 
time  to  time  for  the  last  quarter  of  a  century 
in  tlie  Sterling  Gazette  and  other  local  papers 
of  Kansas.  She  now  resides  in  that  state  on 
a  farm  in  Reno  county. 

THE  ANGEL-NAME. 

What  do  the  angels  call  my  child, 
What  is  his  angel-name'^ 
O,  is  there  in  all  that  world  of  light 
A  name  that  is  fit  for  a  soul  so  white. 
My  darling  boy  who  was  swept  from  me  [sea, 
When  a  storm  came  down  on  our  still  home 
And  I  drifted  alone  in  a  starless  night 
On  a  wild  mad  sea  with  no  ray  of  light? 
What  do  the  angels  call  my  child? 
What  is  his  angel  name? 
We  tried  to  give  him  a  name  when  here. 
He  was  only  loaned  to  us  but  one  year! 
And  when  his  little  form  sickened  and  died. 
Then  the  angels  took  him,  our  darling,  our 
pride. 
What  do  the  angels  call  my  child? 
What  is  his  angel-name? 
Do  they  call  him  Lota,  is  his  name  the  same? 
It  seemed  the  sweetest  our  lips  could  frame. 
Ah!  his  name  they  know  for  he  heard  them 
call  [fall, 

Where  the  brook's  light  waves  in  the  river 
And  O,  if  beautiful  deeds  of  love 
Are  garnered  by  angels  and  wrought  above 
In  names  and  homes  that  await  us  there. 
If  all  kind  words  and  tho  bread  we  share. 
And  the  loving  tones,  and  the  hope  and  cheer 
We  give  1o  eartli's  sufl'ering  children  here, 
Are  merged  in  the  names  they  give  to  us  there. 
Lovely  and  sweet  is  the  name  he  must  bear. 


-k 


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LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


333 


-* 


MRS.  M.PICKERING. 

BOBN :  Steubenville,  Ohio,  in  1830. 
Commencing  to  teach  at  an  early  age,  this  hidy 
followed  that  profession  for  thirteen  years, 
when  she  was  married.    Mrs.  Pickering-  was 
left  a  widow  with  three  small  children  seven 


MKs.  ,M.  I'K  ki:kim:, 
years  hitcr.  Tlie  i]ueiiis  of  this  lady  have 
been  extensively  published,  as  well  as  several 
stories  from  her  pen.  She  hopes  to  publish  a 
volume  of  her  collected  poems  in  the  near  fu- 
ture. 


THE  WANDERER. 
Dear  mother.O  come  to  my  bed  side  to-night  — 
Cold  winds  are  wailing,  and  there's  no  one  in 

sight; 
Unloved  and  uncared  for,  I'm  dying  alone  — 
O  come.dearest  mother,  and  call  me  your  own ; 
Come  in  your  beautiful  garments  of  light, 
And   smile   on   your    daughter  — O  just    for 

to-night! 
Enfold  me  again  in  your  dear  arms  of  love. 
And  sing  mean  anthem  from  Heaven  above. 
Yes,  and  sing   to  me,   mother,  of  days  that 

are  fled. 
Those   days  of  sweet  pleasure  before  I  was 

wed, 
When,  fair  as  a  dew-spangled  lily's  pure  ray. 
Just  opening  its  petals  to  the  warm  light  of 

day. 
Each  beautiful  scene  sank  deep  in  my  breast, 

6- 


As  deep  as  my  thoughts  of  heaven's  pure  rest. 
Nor  dreamed  I,  the  world  could  be  fal.se  or 

untrue.  Let"  was  you. 

For  my  loved  books  were  nature  —my  teach- 
My  wanton  destroyer  came  clothed  in  disguise. 
With   smiles  on  his  lips  — and    love-lighted 

eyes  —  [light. 

He  spoke  of  the  world  with  enraptured  de- 
But  said  all  its  brightness  to  him  would  be 

night, 
If  abandoned  by  her,  who  was  part  of  his  life  — 
I  listened  —  believed  him   and  soon  was  his 

wife.  [true? 

0  merciful  heaven,  his  wife!  then  can  it  be 
Ah  yes,  I  remember,  'twas  night  —  and  on- 
ward we  flew ! 

O'er  woodland  and  valley,   far  away  from  my 

home;  [mourn; 

Leaving  you,  darling  mother,  in  anguish  to 

1  loved,  and  I  wed  him  — soon  another  wife 

came—  [my  name. 

Then  cold  grew  the  world  —  and  it  blackened 
A  poor  homeless  wanderer  with  no  place  to  go, 
Condemned  by  the  high,  and  jeered  by  the 

low ;  [alone. 

Then  an  outcast  for  years,  I  have  wandered 
For  a  great  sin  that  was  his  —  but  little  my 

own. 
But  God  in  his  mercy  took  you  to  his  rest  — 
Ah,  you're  here,  darling  mother,  once  more  I 

am  blest. 


THE  POET,  THE  MUSICIAN  AND  THE 
PAINTER. 

Within  bright  Eden's  shades,  and  near  Eu- 
phrates' shore. 

Where  copse  and  wildwood  shrubs,  by  creep- 
ing vines  hung  o'er 

The  earth  — in  vernal  vesture  clad  — and 
woods,  and  sky  and  air. 

Was  clothed  in  peace  and  balm-fraught  beauty 
everywhere. 

There,  on  a  mossy  bank,  all  bathed  in  amber 
glowing  light. 

Reclined  a  fair  and  pensive  maid,  in  raiment 
pure  and  white. 

Celestial  beaut^y  o'er  her  shone,  as  when  old 
Sol's  last  gleam 

Caressing  kissed  the  lily's  brow,  upon  the  near 
pellucid  stream, 

While  nymph  and  naiad  wandered  forth  in 
gay  disportive  mood; 

Sipping  from  out  the  nectar-laden  flowers,  of 
that  primeval  wood. 

Her  soul  drank  in  each  varied  form  of  beauty, 
matchless  wrought. 

In  all  the  voiceless  imagery  of  glorious  thrill- 
ing poet  thought. 

Until  its  potent  power  touched  lip  and  tongue, 
and  broke  the  spell, 


© 


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334 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


And  Poesy  sprang  forth  to  breathing  life 
where  e'er  a  creature  dwell. 

A  goodly  youth  who  lived  near  by,  within  a 
lonely  cot,  had  heard  — 

And  forth  he  sprang  in  ecstacy,  to  catch  each 
soul-enthralling  word; 

Companionless  he'd  roamed  o'er  many  a  va- 
ried scene  of  light  and  shade. 

But  ne'er  in  all  his  wandering  life,  beheld  so 
fair  a  maid. 

A  feeling  indefinable,  a  sympathy  of  heart, 
most  sweet  and  dear. 

Unconscious  o'er  him  stole,  as  this  inspiring 
maid  drew  near  — 

And  every  word  she  spoke,  breathed  forth  a 
strangely  echoing  thought. 

Until  his  deep-toned  lyre,  (henceforth  his 
pride)  he  quickly  caught 

And  music's  glorious  melodies  in  anthems 
sweet,  burst  forth.-before  un- 
known. 

Till  love  and  light  sprang  up,  in  many  a  bos- 
om dark  and  lone. 

Ere  long  another  youth  appeared  of  modest 
mien,  and  sparkling  eye. 

In  radiant  dew-gemmed  garments  clad,bright 
as  the  orient  sky  — 

Upon  his  calm  and  youthful  brow,  proud  ge- 
nius sat  enthroned. 

Whom  muse  and  minstrel  hailed -whose 
kindred  power  they  owned  — 

He  roamed  with  them  o'er  hill  and  vale,  begirt 
with  rock  and  wood, 

Where  costly  mansions  graced  the  scene,  or 
lonely  hamlets  stood. 

And  forms  portrayed  beneath  his  hand,  have 

mocked  at  Time's 
Relentless  grasp,  and  age  on  age  within  all 

nation's  'lightened  climes 
Great  marbled  heroes  frowned  — and  modest 

grace  on  canvas  smiled 
Till  brow  and  lip  in  beauteous  life-like  joy- 

ance  oft  beguiled 
Each  loving  one  to  think  them  near,  and  pray 

a  blessing  on  the  art 
Which   gave  the    cherished  image   back,   to 

soothe  and  bless  the  lonely  heart. 

Yet,  as  I've  heard  it  said,  when  sinks  proud 
Sol  at  eve's  glad  hour. 

A  bright  electric  flame  hangs  trembling  o'er 
each  golden  flower  — 

Even  so  each  love-charged  soul  emits  an  an- 
swering flame  of  light. 

As  true  as  images,  or  lays,  or  painter,  muse  or 
minstrel  bright. 

Ah  then  fair  maiden,  each  shines  fortli  in 
grandeur  most  sublime. 

When  soul  is  answering  back  to  soul— and 
mind  to  mind  by  modesty  refined. 

®— — 


MRS.  KATE  E.  NORCROSS. 

Born:  Winchester,  Tenn.,  1843. 
Commencing  to  write  at  an  early  age.  the 
poems  of  this  lady  have  received  pubhcation 
from  time  to  time  in  the  periodical  press. 
Married  in  1865  to  Sidney  F.  Norcross,  she  was 
left  a  widow  six  years  later.  Mrs.  Norcross  is 
a  resident  of  Bolivar  in  the  state  of  Missouri. 


RECIPROCITY. 
My  money,  and  labor,  and  love. 

Which  I've  freely  given  my  son, 
On  his  heart  did  make  such  a  move- 
Last  Christmas  a  present  I  won. 
Some  smoking  tobacco  he  gave. 

Quite  freely  1  thought  at  the  time. 
And  I  was  glad  to  see  him  behave 

With  feeling,  for  him,  quite  sublime. 
Reciprocity  is  a  glorious  thing. 

The  jewel  above  all  I  admire  — 
A  warmth  to  the  heart  it  will  bring 

Like  that  to  the  body  by  fire. 
But  alas',  there's  a  spurious  thing 

I've  followed  so  long;  now.  I  tire. 
An  ignus  fatus  on  the  wing 

Vulgarly  called  fox-fire. 
The  foothold,  I  thought  I  had  gained 

On  the  reciprocity  plan  — 
Ere  the  first  moon,  of  the  new  year,  had 
waned, 

I  found  it  was  made  in  the  sand. 

The  sad  discovery  thus  was  made. 

I  relate  it  with  regret:  . 

I  awoke  one  morning  much  afraid 

My  boy  was  in  a  pet. 
It  was  late,-  the  fires  were  out. 

I  had  a  kind  of  chill; 
And  a  "  catch  "  about  my  back.    No  doubt 

Just  like  Old  Women  will. 
1  tried;  but  couldn't  rise,  you  see. 

And  He,  had  to  make  the  fire: 
Then,  in  the  place  of  reciprocity: 

The  fat,  was  in  the  fire. 
But  ..  the  feather  that  broke  the  camel's 
back  " 
Had  yet,  my  friends  to  come 
His  "  sass,"  while  1  was  in  a  rack. 

1  bore  without  a  moan. 
For  then  one  thought  I  had  to  soothe 

Mv  Christmas  gift  remained; 
And  I  felt,  as  a  mother,  it  did  behoove  - 
*  Me  best,  not  to  ct)mplHi"- 
But  don't  you  think  the  -  injun  "  sneak. 

Stole  back  my  Christmas  gift; 
And  left  me  here  so  lame  and  weak, 
mi  fcnred  to  beg  a  whiff. 


-* 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


335 


« 


EDMUND  FLAGG. 

Born':  Wiscasset, Me.,  Nov.  ^4, 1815. 
The  present  residence  of  Edmund  Flagg-  is 
Highland  View,  Virginia;  lie  is  a  retired  law- 
yer, and  liis  only  occupation  of  late  has  been  to 
look  after  his  real  estate  interests.  Mr.  Flagg 
was  married  in  1862  and  has  three  sons.  While 
yet  a  student,  articles  from  his  pen  appeared 
in  several  prominent  periodicals.  After  gradu- 
ating at  Bowdoin  college  in  1835,  he  taught 
school  and  wrote  for  the  press  a  series  of 
sketches  of  western  life  and  scenery,  wliicli 
was  subsequently  published  by  the  Harper's 
in  two  volumes,  entitled  Tlie  Far  West.    Since 


EDMUND  FLAGG. 

that  time  he  has  written  extensively  for  the 
leading  periodicals  of  America,  and  has  edited 
several  volumes  of  law  reports.  He  has  also 
held  numerous  positions  of  public  trust  — 
United  States  consul  at  Venice  in  1851;  super- 
intendent of  statistics  at  Washington ;  and  in 
1861  had  charge  of  the  library  in  the  interior 
department.  His  prose  works  have  been  well 
received,  and  published  in  elegant  style  by 
Scribner  an<l  Peterson.  Mr.  Flagg  is  now  en- 
gaged on  a  volume  of  Reminiscences  based  on 
a  daily  journal  of  more  than  forty  years. 


*- 


EARTH'S  CHANGES. 

On  all  earth's  dearest  things  decay  is  writ: 
Only  to  wither,  blooms  the  fairest  flower: 


The  bough  is  bent  in  beauty  but  to  fade; 
And    the    summer-cloud    like  a    glimpse   of 

Heaven 
O'ershadows  us,  only  to  flee  away 
Into  its  azure  home,  and  leave  the  heart 
To  muse  upon  its  loveliness  and  morn. 
The  sunny  isles  which  slumber  on  tlie  breast 
Of  the  calm  tropic  sea,  beneath  its  waves 
Are  whelmed;  and  the  red  coral  spreads  her 

fan. 
And  ocean  monsters  roam,  where  cities  stood. 
Like  meteor-exhalations,  empires,  tlirones, 
And  dynasties  rise  on  the  night  of  time; 
And,  then,  into  oblivion's  rayless  depths 
Are  swallowed. 

And,  with  the  bow  of  spring, 
The  summer  flower,  the  cloud,  the  ocean  isle,- 
With  crowns,  and  thrones  and  scepters,— with 

the  great. 
The  wise,  the  reverend,— how  many  forms 
Of  human  loveliness,— the  bright,  the  brave. 
The  beautiful,  are  passing  evermore 
Away    from   earth !    Dust,—  dust  is    on   the 

brow 
Of  pride  and  power,  and  it  is  sleeping 
In  the  soft  tresses  of  the  fair-haired  girl. 
The  burning  lip  of  eloquence  is  hushed. 
And  wan  and  shrivell'd  is  the  lip  of  age. 
Upon  the  minstrel's  temples  fades  the  bay, 
And,  on  the  conqueror's  plumed  and  blood- 
stained helm 
Withers  the  glorious  laurel. 
And,  like  the  summer  rose,— th'  autumnal 

leaf,— 
The  fleecy  flake  of  winter,— like  the  bow 
Which  with  bright  fillet  binds  the  brow  of 

heaven 
In  dewy  springtime, — like  as  the  foam  bell 
Iris'd  on  the  brook  and  mists  of  morning 
By  the  dawn  rolled  up  the  mountain's  side,— 

thus. 
Visions  of  happiness  are  hast'ning  hence 
To  visit  us  no  more.    In  ev'ry  breeze 
That  whispers  on  the  ear,  passes  the  sigh 
Of  joy,—  the  sigh  of  sorrow.    Not  a  flower 
Bedecks  the  vale,— the  wood,— the  hill,  which 

springs 
Not  from  the  dust  of  one  of  earth's  bright 

sons 
Or  gentle  daughters.    Not  a  leaf  is  there 
In  all  the  blooming  coronal  of  spring. 
Which  numbers  not  a  withered  heart.  There's 

not 
An  evening  cloud,  that  like  a  spirit  floats 
In  the  blue  sky  above  us,  which  is  not 
The  vanished  vision  of  a  happy  dream. 
And  all  the  fair  and  fleeting  things  of  life 
Are  but  as  emblems  of  hope,  love  and  joy. 
And  faith,  and  fame,  and  fancy,  which,  with 

them. 
And  us,  and  all,  are  passing  from  the  earth. 


-m 


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336 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


THE  WIND  HAKP. 
Lyre  of  the  wild  wind !  sweetly  art  thou  blend- 
ing 
Passion  and  pathos  in  thy  mystic  tones; 
And,  over  thee  a  weary  hrow  is  bending-, 
As  though  thy  quivering  chords  the  night- 
breeze  moans. 
And,  as  I  listen  to  thy  sad,  sweet  numbers. 
And  bid  thee  charm  the  storm  within  that 
dwells,  Lslumbers, 

Methinks,  in  mine  own  heart  the  harp-string 

And,  roused  by  feeling,  into  music  swells. 
Fitful  and  sad  the  low-voiced  zephyr  sighing, 

Waljens  the  spirit  in  thy  silent  strings; 
Dream-lilie  it  rises,  swelling,  lingering,  dying, 

'Till  almost  soars  the  soul  upon  its  wings. 
Thou  hast  a  varied  song,  sweet  harp  of  Heav- 
en! Lrf^ve; 
A    proud,    majestic  chant   when  tempests 
And,  oh,  the  touchingtenderness  that's  given, 
When  scare  a  ripple  curls  the  moonlit  wave ! 
Thou  hast  a  glad  and  gleeful  song  at  morning. 
When    through    the     forest    boughs    the   | 
breezes  play ; 
When  bird,  and  wiud,  and  blossom  hail  the 
dawning. 
Thy  antliem  rises  on  its  heavenward  way. 
And,  seraph-harp!  thou  hast  a  strain  of  sor- 
row; 
A  strain  full  welcome  in  the  hour  of  woe; 
The  brolien  heart  no  sadder  voice  can  borrow. 
Than  that  which  from  shy  silken  strings 
doth  flow. 
Harp  of  the  heart!  unrivaled  are  the  treas- 
ures 
That  softly  slumber  on  thy  haunted  chords; 
Oh,  there's  a  pathos  in  thy  magic  measures 

More  choicely  eloquent  than  choicest  words. 
Thou  spirit  of  the  wind!  Thou  weird  enchant- 
ress ! 
Whether  the  monarch  of  the  storm  I  hail, 
Or,  of  the  evening  zephyr  gentle  empress, 

Harmonious  evermore  is  thy  wild  wail. 
Farewell,  Farewell!  It  were  a  vain  endeavor 

Of  all  thy  matchless  minstrelsy  to  tell:— 
Peal  on,  unechoed  and  unequaled  ever,— 
Thou  wizard  of  the  wind,  farewell,  farewell. 


MOTHERHOOD. 

A  mother's  love ! 
Oh,  there  is  not,  in  all  this  cold,  and  false. 
And  hollow-hearted  world,  one  fount  of  love 
So   pure,  so   deep,    so   deatliless,    strong   as 

death,— 
A  love,  whose   joy  might   swell   an    angel's 

breast  — 
Whose  tear  wou  Id  sully  not  an  angel's  cheek,- 
Upon  whose  pride  a  Deity  might  smile,— 
As  that,  which  in  a  youthful  mother's  breast 


Wells  up,  while  bending  o'er  her  first-born 

child! 
Ocean's  dark  caves  can  boast  no  pearl  so  pure, 
And  earth  upon  her  bosom  holds  no  flower. 
And,  in  her  jewel'd  depths,  no  gem  so  rare!— 
A  mother's  love!  Oh,  it  can  bear  all  suffering, 
It  will  dare  despair,  death,  peril,  ev'n  crime- 
All  that  the  spirit  shrinks  f  rom,-drain  the  cup 
Of  sorrow  to  the  dregs,  nor  drop  one  tear. 
Nor  know  an  instant's  pause,  though  met  by 

pride 
And  petulance  from  that  so  wildly  loved  — 
Be  it  deformed,  and  swart,  and  hideous. 
Or,  bright  and  beauteous  as  a  poet's  dream. 
Unchill'd  -  unfevcr'd  _  evermore  it  glows. 
Unchanged,  unchanging;-  in  this  fickle  world 
The  one  thing  stable,- evermore  the  same! 
If  as  a  garment,  suffering  wraps  the  frame. 
Who,  like  an  angel,  hovers  round  the  couch? 
If  on  the  brow  the  laurel-leaf  doth  bloom. 
Who,  in  her  noiseless  joyance  is  more  glad? 
If  ignominious  crime  -  the  world's  contempt  - 
The  ban  of  infamy  is  resting  there,— 
If  all  the  nearest,-  dearest -do  forsake? 
And,  like  a  livid  leper,  all  alone 
He  stands  amid  the  crowd,  doth  she  forsake? 
Ah,  no!  For  the  world's  hate  he  is  to  her 
Only  the  dearer  -  for  its  desertion 
She  the  closer  clings -their  charge  of  crime 
Is  calumny  -  contempt -contumely:       [God 
And  though  all  earth  may  cast  him  off,  and 
Himself  may  seem  upon  his  Cain-like  brow 
His  signet  to  have  set,  yet  will  her  love- 
A  mother's  love,  survive  it;  and  will  be 
That  world  which  hath  forsaken,  and  will  give 
That  blessing  which  e'en  Deity  denies. 


THE  VISIONS  OF  LIFE. 

When  the  visions  of  life,  evanescent  and  vain. 

With  the  hopes  of  our  youth,  like  a  vapor 

depart,  lagain,- 

Oh     what   shall    relume    those   glad  visions 

Oh  how  shall  those  hopes  be  reborn  to  the 

heart?  tmo'""' 

When  fading -still  fading,  like  stars  of  the 

The  Pleiads  of  gladness  go  out  in  our  sky, 
And,  like  lamps  from  the  damps  of  the  sepul- 
cher  borne. 
May  only  illumine  our  pathway  to  die:— 
When  the  flowers  of  enjoyment  are  scentless 
and  dead,  Lcrushcd 

And  the  chords  of  life's  harmony  silent  and 
Oh  what  shall  restore  tlK)se  ephemeral*  fle.l.- 
Those  stars  so  illusive,-those  harp-strn.gs 
so  hushed? 
They  are  gone  -  they  are  gone,-they  can  nev- 
er return,-  l-^  •''"'; 
Those   rainbow-phantasma,  deceptive   ancl 
And  hope's  vivid  visions  may  brilliantly  burn. 
Yet  never  more  visit  that  bosom  again. 


* 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  A3IKKI0A. 


837 


-® 


S.  H.  M.  BYERS. 

As  tlieautlior  of  Slierman's  March  to  tlie  Sea, 
Mr.  Byers  lias  beL-ome  well  known  as  a  poet  of 
no  mean  ability.  He  is  the  author  of  a  volume 
entitlfil  The  HaiM'y  Isles  and  Otlier  Poems,  a 


^ 


S.  H.  M.  BVERS. 

work  containing  many  touching-,  graceful  and 
spirited  poems.  Mr.  Byei's  is  a  resident  of  Os- 
kaloosa,  Iowa,  where  he  is  well  known  and 
highly  respected. 

SHERMAN'S  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 
Ourcamp-flres  shone  bright  on  the  mountains, 

That  frowned  on  the  river  below. 
While  we  stood  by  our  guns  in  the  morning. 

And  eagerly  watched  for  the  foe; 
When  a  rider  came  out  from  the  darkness 

That  hung  over  mountain  and  tree. 
And  shouted  "  Boys,  up  and  be  ready! 

For  Sherman  will  march  to  the  sea!  " 
Then  cheer  upon  cheer  for  bold  Sherman 

Went  up  from  each  valley  and  glen. 
And  the  bugles  re-echoed  the  music 

That  came  from  the  lips  of  the  men; 
For  we  knew  that  the  stars  in  our  banner 

More  bright  in  their  splendor  would  be. 
And  that  blessings    from  Northland    would 
greet  us. 

When  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 
Then  forward,  boys !  forward  to  battle ! 

We  marched  on  our  perilous  way. 
And  we  stormed  the  wild  hills  of  Resaca  — 

God  bless  those  who  fell  on  that  day ! 


Then  Kenesaw,  dark  in  its  gUjry, 

Frowned  down  on  the  flag  of  the  free; 
But  the  East  and  the  West  bore  our  standard^ 

And  Sherman  marched  on  t<i  the  sea. 
Still  onward  we  pressed,  till  our  banners 

Swept  out  from  Atlanta's  grim  walls. 
And  the  blood  of  the  patriot  dampened 

The  soil  where  the  rebel  flag  falls. 
Yet  we  paused  not  to  weep  for  the  fallen. 

Who  slept  by  each  river  and  tree. 
But  we  twined  tiiem  a  wreatii  of  the  laurel, 

And  Sherman  marched  on  to  the  sea. 
We  heard  not  the  threat'ning  of  foemen. 

Embattled  they  stood  by  each  gun  — 
One  shout  and  the  sea  lay  before  us. 

One  charge  and  Savannah  was  won. 
Then  sang  we  a  song  for  our  chieftain, 

That  echoed  o'er  river  and  lea, 
And  the  stars  in  our  banner  shone  brighter. 

When  Siierman  marched  down  to  the  .sea. 


MY  WHITE  ROSE  AND  RED. 
So  you've  come  from  the  South,  have  you, 
darlings? 

And  slept  snug  as  mice  all  the  way? 
And  wasn't  it  cold  on  the  mountains. 

For  rosebud,  and  myrtle,  and  baj'? 
And  she  packed  you  up  so  together. 

And  blessed  you,  and  kissed  you,  and  said, 
"  Keep  sweet  as  my  memory  for  him  is. 

My  darlings,  my  white  rose  and  red." 
And  what'did  she  tell  you  at  parting! 

Some  message  for  me,  I  know  well; 
Some  praise  of  our  boj%  then,  God  bless  him ! 

Some  words  of  our  sweet  little  Nell. 
And  the  dear  tiny  hands  of  tiie  children. 

Have  they  touched  your  petals  so  fair? 
O,  rosebuds,  you're  happy  if  Helen 

But  kissed  you  one  moment,  when  there! 
This  white  rose  siiall  bloom  in  tiie  study. 

This  red  one  I'll  wear  on  my  breast, 
O,  I  wonder  if  she  will  be  thinking 

How  often  your  petals  are  pressed ! 
Did  she  tell  you  how  long  we've  been  married? 

Ten  years  — 't  is  another  year,  soon,— 
And  though  we've  had  snow  in  December, 

We've  always  had  roses  in  June. 
How  far  it  is  here  from  San  Remo, 

The  gem  of  the  beautiful  sea! 
But  you've  come  with  your  petals  all  fragrant 

With  incense,  from  her  unto  me. 
How  strange  it  all  is ;  and  her  letter  — 

This  much  and  this  only  it  said: 
"  The  children  are  well  here,  and  happy. 

And  my  love's  like  the  white  rose  and  red." 
I'll  write  her  no  letter  to-morrow. 

But  something  I'll  send  her  instead  — 
Two  rose  leaves,—  she'll  guess  at  their  mean- 
ing. 

One  each  from  the  white  rose  and  red. 


-© 


«- 


338 


© 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


EDWARD  C.  DOWNING. 

BOBN :  WoosTEK,  Ohio,  Feb.  34,  1863. 
Gkaduating  at  the  uuiversity  of  Wooster  in 
1885,  Edward  devoted  his  attention  to  teaching-, 
accepting  the  priucipalshipof  schools  at  Wol- 
cott.  The  following  year  he  was  tendered  the 
professorship  of  the  Greeli  and  Latin  lan- 
guages in  the  Missouri  collegiate  institute  at 
Carthage,  which  position  he  flUed  with  credit 


EDWAFU)  C.    DOWNING. 

for  two  years,  when  lie  was  called  to  take 
charge  of  the  Illinois  academy  at  Toulon.  In 
the  midst  of  his  labors  Prof.  Downing  has 
taken  time  to  cultivate  the  muses,  and  is 
known  for  the  simplicity  and  elegance  of  his 
verses.  In  1888  he  published  a  small  volume 
of  poems  entitled  Minutes  With  the  Muses. 


©- 


APPLE  BLOSSOMS. 
There  are  many  days  that  are  full  of  clieer. 

In  the  summer  sun  and  the  winter  snow; 
But  the  sweetest  time  of  all  the  year 

Is  wlien  the  apple  blossoms  blow. 
Oh!  then  I  think  that  nature  seems 

All  decked  like  a  bride  with  orange  flowers. 
And  the  high  ideal  of  lovers'  dreams 

Has  come  down  to  this  workl  of  ours. 
Tliere  is  a  time  in  the  year  of  life. 

In  the  pleasure  that  precedes  woe. 
In  the  hoping  time  before  the  strife. 

When  the  heart's  apple  blossoms  blow. 


But  the  blossoms  fall  and  the  splendor  fades 

From  out  of  my  life  in  its  noontide  rays; 
Tlie  phantom  I  follow  my  grasp  evades. 

And  lo,  I  am  far  in  the  autumn  days. 
So  of  all  the  things  that  I  hold  dear 

In  springtime  or  in  life,  I  know 
The  sweetest  time  of  all  the  year 

Is  when  the  apple  blossoms  blow. 


MOTHER. 

There  is  a  dear  one  whom  I  love  with  all 
The  wealth  of  love  of  which  I  am  possessed. 
Her  liand  that  smoothed  my  brow  is  laid  to 
rest; 

Her  ears  can  never  bear  me  when  I  call. 

Sometimes  I  think  life's  sweetness  and  its  gall 
Are  so  well  mingled  here  they  make  us  blest. 
And  that  I  might  grow  W'eary  in  the  quest 

For  happiness,  that  I  might  tire  and  fall. 

Despairing  by  the  way,  if  it  were  not 
For  separations.    On  the  unseen  wings 

Of  my  affection,  now,  my  dearest  thought 
Goes  out  to  visit  her,  and  backward  brings 

Imagined  whispers  from  the  fairer  land. 

That  lead  me  as  she  led  me  by  the  hand. 


I  AM  TOO  FOND. 
I  am  too  fond:  I  know  I  am. 

Sometimes  I  wish  it  were  not  so; 
And  like  one  who  has  less  of  heart, 

I  should  be  happier,  I  know. 
I  am  too  fond.  When  I  look  down 

Into  the  depths  of  her  brown  ejes. 
And  they  do  not  look  back  my  love. 

There  is  a  pain  in  the  surprise. 
I  am  too  fond.    If  day  goes  by 

Without  some  tender  word  or  kiss, 
Without  some  token  of  her  love. 

You  cannot  tell  how  mucli  I  miss. 
I  am  too  fond.    Give  me  no  love. 

Or  give  it  to  me  full  and  free. 
There  is  no  medium  between 

No  love  and  perfect  love,  for  me. 


QUESTIONS. 

Why  do  we  evermore  regret 
The  way  that  we  have  lived  with  those 

Who  will  not  come  again,  and  yet 

Day  after  day  again  forget 
To  treat  the  living  better"?  Knows 
There  not  each  one  of  us  some  woes 

That  press  our  souls  and  fill  our  hearts 
Too  full  for  utterance  or  tears 

Sometimes,  when  memory  starts 
To  wander  back  along  the  years? 

Why  do  we  not  redeem  the  time 
Tiiat  we  havt>  lost  and  try  to  make 

Our  lives  and  others'  more  a  rhyme. 
Both  for  our  own  and  Jesus'  sake? 


-5 


fl&- 


-® 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


339 


A.A.BARTOW. 

Born:  Hukon,  Ohio,  Sept.  3, 1851. 
This  grentleman  was  married  at  the  age  of 
nineteen,and  lias  a  bright  family  of  three  boys. 
Mr.  Bartow  followed  the  profession  of  a  teach- 
er until  1889,  when  he  beeame  editor  of  theCin- 
cinatti  Publiu  School  Journal.    He  has  also 


A.    A.    BAKTOW. 

held  and  still  holds  iiublic  positions  of  trust. 
The  contributions  of  this  writer  have  appear- 
ed hi  the  leading  papers  of  the  east,  from 
which  they  have  been  extensively  copied  by 
the  local  press.  At  the  age  of  twelve  he  was  a 
drummer  boy  in  the  union  armj'. 

A  TRUE  STORY. 
We  were  si.\  as  jolly  explorers 

As  one  will  often  see, 
All  smoking  around  our  camp-flre, 

In  the  fall  of  seventy-three. 
The  gaunt  gray  wolves  in  the  distance. 

Were  howling  in  chorus  the  while. 
But  we  didn't  seem  to  mind  them. 

For  that  is  the  woodman's  style. 

Outside  of  the  glow  of  our  camp-flre. 

Where  the  shadows  were   thick   and 
black. 
We  saw  in  our  minds  the  frightened  deer 

Fleeing  the  ravenous  pack. 
And  fancied  a  last  death  struggle; 

Like  others,  we'd  noted,  by  signs, 
On  the  banks  of  the  Flatrock  river. 

In  the  shade  of  its  towering  pines. 


®— 


When  suddenly,  into  our  circle. 

Without  any  notice  or  noise. 
Came  the  chief  of  our  little  party. 

Saying:  Well,  I  am  tardy,  boys. 
But  I  have  something  to  tell  you, 

Consider  it  my  excuse; 
Though  I  would  gladly  forego  it. 

If  that  were  of  any  use. 

Although  I  have  been  an  explorer 

For  twenty  years  or  more, 
I  never  was  so  over-matched 

By  anything  before. 
When  I'd  passea  on  my  way  to  the  city 

'Till  I  reached  the  Flatrock  road. 
Just  where  the  marble  tombstones 

Stand  guard  over  death's  abode, 

I  heard  the  loud  hallooing 

Of  hundreds  far  and  near. 
And  met  a  troop  of  horsemen 

With  footmen  in  the  rear; 
Who  had  gathered  out  of  the  city 

To  hunt  for  a  little  child. 
The  son  of  humble  parents, 

Lost  in  the  forest  wild. 

I  joined  them,  who  could  help  it? 

And  hunted  far  into  the  night. 
For  I  pitied  his  heart-broken  mother. 

And  the  child  in  this  awful  plight; 
But  the  trail  was  lost  in  the  water. 

Where    the    pine    plain    meets    the 
swamp. 
And  somehow  I  couldn't  find  it. 

Though  I  took  an  awful  tramp. 

Next  morning  I  joined  the  huntei's. 

But  not  till  the  sun  went  down 
Did  we  find  him,  on  the  river  road. 

Full  seven  miles  from  town ; 
He  sat  on  a  little  mound  of  moss. 

His  hand  held  up  his  head; 
But  his  eyes  were  fixed  and  sightless, 

We  had  only  found  him  dead. 

I  didn't  go  back  to  the  city. 

But  slunk  oft' like  a  thief. 
For  I  couldn't  meet  his  mother. 

And  witness  her  terrible  grief. 
Twould   have   given    a   twinge  of  con- 
science. 

That  maybe  I  should  not  feel. 
For  if  I  hadn't  skill  enough, 

I  had  surely  plenty  of  zeal." 

We  were  six  as  hardy  explorers 

As  one  will  often  find. 
But  we  all  sat  'round  for  an  hour 

And  no  one  spoke  his  mind, 
'Till  saying,  •>  let's  go  to  bed,  lads," 

Big  Charlie  kicked  down  the  pile 
Of  dying  maple  embers, 

In  regular  woodman's  style. 


-* 


*- 


340 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMEKICA. 


->s 


EDWIN   M.  P.  BRISTER. 

Born:  Cadiz,  Ohio,  June  26, 1850. 
At  an  early  age  Edwin  learned  the  trade  of 
printing-,  wliich  be  followed  for  fourteen 
years.  At  the  age  of  seventeen  he  went  into 
the  printing  business  for  himself,  and  three 
years  later  moved  his  office  to  Granville,  where 
he  worked  his  way  through  a  two-years'  pre- 
paratory and  a  four-years'  classical  course  at 
Deuison  nniversify,  at  tlie  samo  time  PiippoTt- 


liDWIN    M.  P.  BHI-STKK. 

ing  himself  and  his  motlier.  Graduating  in 
1877,  he  then  studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to 
the  bar  three  years  later.  Mr.  Blister  is  un- 
married, and  lives  in  Newark, Ohio.  He  is  now 
Probate  Judge  of  his  county. 


*- 


A  MEMORY. 
Do  you  remembei-,  darling. 

That  balmy  night  in  June 
Wlien  stars  were  softly  shining 

And  silvery  beamed  the  moon? 
You  told  me  that  you  loved  me. 

And  sealed  it  with  a  kiss; 
The  angels  bright  above  me 

Envied  me  my  bliss! 
Peace  filled  the  quiet  gloaming, 

The  moon  slept  on  the  lake, 
Alas  I  from  that  sweet  dreaming. 

That  we  should  ever  wake! 
But  a  mist  crept  up  the  valley 

And  blotted  out  the  moon; 


It  chilled  our  hearts,  my  darling. 

That  balmy  night  in  June. 
'Twas  cruel  fate,  my  darling. 

That  tore  you  then  from  me, 
And  told  us  that  our  happiness 

Could  never,  never  be.       ... 
Long,  long  years  have  passed  away. 

To-night  the  wild  winds  rave. 
And  cold  and  drear  the  snow  is  piled 

Above  my  darling's  grave! 


MY  MOTHER'S  FACE. 
I  know  that  such  a  sinner 

As  I  feel  mj-sclf  to  be. 
Should  scarcely  hope  to  enter 

A  blest  eternity. 
But,  I've  dared  to  dream  of  Heaven  — 

That  far-off  world  of  bliss. 
Whose  lightest  joy  transcends 

The  greatest  good  of  this. 
And  I've  thought,  were  I  so  happy 

As  at  the  last  to  stand 
With  the  hosts  of  blest  immortals 

That  dwell  at  God's  right  hand; 
And  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Heaven 

In  all  the  glorious  grace 
That  serves  to  fitlj-  make  it 

Our  God's  own  dwelling  place; 
With  its  walls  of  crystal  jasper. 

Whose  foundations  ne'er  grow  old; 
With  its  gates  of  purest  pearl. 

And  its  streets  of  glittering  gold; 
With  its  throngs  of  happy  spirits 

Whose  bliss  no  mortal  knows. 
Redeemed  from  all  earth's  sorrows. 

Redeemed  from  all  life's  woes. 
Not  these,  nor  all  the  beauteous  tints 

That  bloom  on  Heaven's  skies. 
Could  win  the  first,  long,  eager 

Worship  of  mine  eyes. 
But,  I'd  turn  from  all  these  glories  — 

Lord,  forgive!  if  1  lack  in  grace  — 
To  take  one  long  and  rapturous  look 

At  my  darling  mother's  face! 

THE  LARGER  HOPE. 

Ambition's  fires  will  pale  and  fade, 

Hope's  brightest  visions  perish. 
And  in  the  toml)  at  last  are  laid 
The  loves  and  joys  and  all  that  made 

This  life  a  thing  to  cherish. 
Above  life's  dark  and  troubled  way. 

All  tempest  tossed  and  driven, 
Down  through  the  leaden  clouds  of  gray 
Comes  to  the  soul  a  single  ray 

Of  light  and  elieer  from  Heaven. 
Reign  on,  oh!  sorrow,  death  and  woe. 

Still  burns  this  star  above! 
Though  joys  may  come,  and  joys  may  go. 
This  truth  alone  I  care  to  know  — 

That  God,  that  God  is  love! 


*- 


-© 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


341 


CLARENCE  A.  BUSKIRK. 

Born:  Fkiendship,  N.Y.,  Nov.  8, 1842. 
For  two  terms  Mr.  Buskirk  lias  been  attorney- 
peiicral  of  Indiana,  and  lias  a  lucrative  prac- 
tice at  Priiieeton.     He  is  tlie  author  of  a  neat 
little  jioeni  entitled  A  CaveiMi  for  a  Herniitajfi'. 


CLARENCE  A.   BUSKIRK. 

Although  a  poem  of  some  lenjirtli,  the  fre- 
quent chang-e  of  meter  prevents  sameness.  The 
story  is  ingenius,  the  meditations  are  deeply 
pliilosophical,  which  together  with  the  rich- 
ness of  its  rhythm,  proves  very  interesting. 


®- 


'TIS  NOT  FOLLY. 
'Tis  not  folly  to  be  jolly 

Here  below; 
Better  mirth  than  melancholy, 

Wit  than  woe. 
Would  the  Rainbow's  arch  be  duller. 

Or  more  fair. 
Were  there  but  a  single  color 

Shining  there? 
Let  to-morrow  bear  its  sorrow 

As  it  may; 
Neither  tears  nor  sighs  we'll  borrow 

For  to-day. 
Only  man  is  born  with  features 

Fit  for  mirth ; 
Only  men,  of  all  the  creatures, 

Laugh  on  earth. 
From  our  lives  let  breezy  laughter 

Blow  the  dust; 
We  can  mope  and  sigh  hereafter  — 

If  we  must. 


In  a  world  where  melancliDly 

Shadows  man, 
'Tis  not  folly  to  be  jolly  — 

If  we  can. 


A  CAVERN  FOR  A  HERMITAGE. 

EXTRACTS. 

At  last  I've  found  a  Hermitage, 

From  all  tiie  hives  of  men  apart. 

Deep  in  this  trackless  solitude. 

How  oft  a  poor,  down-trodden  heart. 

Writhing- and  bleeding,  and  despairing 

Beneath  tlie  cruel  feet  of  fate. 

For  some  such  refuge  dreams  and  longs, 

Away  from  guile  and  greed  and  hate? 

A  man  among  his  fellow-men 

Oft  finds  himself  by  wolves  beset. 

Whose  hungry  eyes  torment  his  soul. 

Whose  teeth  are  with  his  life-blood  wet; 

At  last  he  wearies  of  the  strife. 

And  hates  the  vile,  voracious  herd; 

He  flees  to  Nature's  outstretched  arms. 

And  hears  her  voice  in  brook  and  bird. 

True,  men  are  born  with  social  needs, 

Gregarious  both  in  blood  and  brain; 

True,  solitude  with  all  its  joy 

Brings  likewise  bitterness  and  pain; 

Yet  to  adjust  the  jostled  .scales 

When  rudely  struck  aside  by  wrong. 

If  oft  beyond  a  generous  soul,        [throng. 

Sucli    frauds    and    falsehoods   'round    It 

A  cavern  for  a  hermitage. 

From  all  the  hives  of  men  apart  — 

What  fitter  place  wliere  peace  may  reign. 

And  patience  fortify  the  heart? 

Ambition,  envy,  greed  and  hate. 

They  perish  in  the  solitude; 

Their  roots  that  midst  the  gutters  thrive, 

Can  never  there  intrude. 

A  cavern  for  a  hermitage, 

From  all  the  hives  of  men  apart. 

There  trees  and  birds  calm  counsels  give, 

And  grass  and  flowers  protect  the  heart; 

There  wolves  may  howl  or  bears  my  growl. 

But  men,  at  least,  are  far  away ; 

There  peace,  a  mighty  Inca  rules. 

And  Spaniards  hold  no  sway ! 


Youth  quickly  tires  of  calm  retreats. 
And  loves  the  tumult  of  the  streets; 
Age  loves  the  noise  of  peaceful  rills. 
But  not  the  noise  of  babl)ling  men; 
Age  loves  the  stretch  of  quiet  hills. 
While  mortared  bricks  fatigue  its  ken. 
Youth  fondlj'  seeks  tlie  glittering  strife 
And  gayeties  of  busy  life; 
Age  seeks  the  balm  of  solitude 
To  heal  the  hurts  the  world  be.stows  — 
The  balm  that's  found  in  lonely  wood. 
Or  converse  witli  a  blushing  rose. 


-m 


©- 


-* 


342 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL,  POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


JOHN  SHOCK. 

Born:  Stark  Co.,  Ohio,  Dec.  11,  1831. 
Engaging  first  in  farming,  Joiin  Sliock  then 
engaged  in  merchandizing.  After  much  expe- 
rience he  became  a  placer  and  quartz  miner. 
He  has  been  postmaster  under  three  commis- 
sions, and  now  is  located  at  Preston,  Col.  Al- 
tliough  the  pmduclinns   of  John   Sliock  are 


And  there  close  by  a  cabin  rude. 
With  walls  of  log  and  stone, 

Stands  'neath  a  grove  of  waving  firs, 
This  is  my  mountain  home. 

Fair  spot!  Tl>o'  1  may  wander  far, 
In  other  lands  may  dwell, 

Yet,  my  own  rude  mountain  home, 
I  shall  remember  well. 


JOHN   SHOCK. 

mainly  in  prose,  a  few  sparkling  gems  of  poe- 
try occasionally  flash  from  his  pen.  His  writ- 
ings generally  appear  under  the  nom  de  plume 
of  Dash  Warn.  Mr.  Shock  is  the  owner  of  some 
very  valuable  mining  property  containing 
gold  and  silver  ore,  which  will  yield  him  an 
enormous  revenue  at  no  distant  date. 


»- 


THE  LIFE-SAVING  MARINER. 

Through   roaring  surf,  on  billows  mountains 

higli 

And  fleecy,  puffy,  floating  wljitecaps  nigh; 

Between  the  yawning  breakers,  and  their  roar, 

He  lands  the  shipwrecked  safely  on  the  shore. 

GOLD  HILL,  1861. 
Wild  is  the  glen  on  mountain's  wild 

Bedeck'd  with  tow'ring  pines. 
Where  first  I  courted  fortune's  smiles, 

In  Colorado's  mines. 
Here  all  the  long  warm  summer  day.s. 

Fair  boughs  of  evergreen. 
To  hide  the  sun's  fierce  burning  light, 

Are  nature's  woven  screen. 
From  out  the  mountain's  side,  a,  rill 

Of  water  spai'kling  bright,  [rocks 

Comes  rippling    o'er  the    tlie  moss-grown 

A  sti-eam  of  liquid  light. 


MRS.  CORA  G.  LYLE. 

The  poems  of  Mrs.  Lyle  have  been  extensively 
published  throughout  the  United  States,  and 
have  received  favorable  mention.  She  resides 
in  Bennett,  Nebraska,  where  she  is  well  known 
and  greatly  admired. 

A  BIRD  SONG. 
When  the  "  Bluebirds  "  come  again. 
With  the  April  sun  and  rain. 
And  they  chant  a  sweet  refrain, 
Just  outside  the  window  pane. 
Then  we  know  that 

Spring  is  here  — 
Happiest  time 
Of  all  the  year. 
When  "Thrushes"  on  the  willows  swing. 
And  their  mellow  notes  they  fling, 
Hear  how  their  voices  sweetly  ring. 
How  blithe,  and  merrily  they  sing. 
Darting,  flying  without  rest. 
Gathering  straws  to  build  a  nest. 
Now  they  tell  it 

Don't  you  hear? 
That  summer's  best 
Of  all  the  year. 
When  the  others  all  have  flown, 
..Robin  "  reigns  a  king  alone; 
The  leafless  maple  is  his  throne; 
And,  see  how  saucy  he  has  grown. 
He  says,  he  sings, 
In  winter  drear, 
The  sweetest  song 
Of  all  the  year. 
When  the  ..  Bluebirds"  come  again, 
With  the  springtime  sun  and  rain, 
..  Bonny  "  inside  the  window  pane 
Sends  back  their  carol,  strain  for  strain. 
When  ..Thrushes  "  in  the  willow's  nest, 
And  sing  their  baby-birds  to  rest; 
..Bonny  "  opens  liis  little  throat. 
And  pays  the  debt,  with  note  for  note. 
Does  ..  Robin  "  reign  a  king  alone. 
Through  the  cheerless  months  of  gtooniV 
Ah!  no,  for  from  his  gilded  throne. 
Sweet  ..  Bonnie's''  voice  tills  all  the  room. 
And  witli  eheerful  twitter 

He  says,  don't  feai»; 
I'll  sing  for  you 
Through  all  the  year. 


* 


I 


ffl- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


343 


® 


AMELIA  JANE  SMELTZER. 

Born  in  Canada,  Oct.  28,  1864. 
Removing  to  Michigau  when  a  child,  she  has 
resided  in  that  state  ever  since,  and  lives  now 
atJoyfleld.    She  has  taught  school  with  very 


A'# 


AMEMA  JANK   >.MKI.T/.EK. 

good  siiCL'es-s,  and  has  been  sciioul  inspector 
for  several  years.  The  poems  of  Miss  Smelt- 
zer  have  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the 
local  press. 


®- 


DEAR  VALENTINE. 
I  feel  that  thou  art  far  above 
The  silly  flirt  with  pretty  face. 
Whose  heart  knows  naught  of  earnest  love. 
Who  studies  not  the  soul's  true  grace, 
I  know  some  say  that  beauty  wins: 
But  then,  dear  girl,  be  true  to  worth. 
We  know  not  all  the  out's  and  in's 
That  lie  between  our  deatli  and  birth. 
Still  do  your  duty  and  still  strive 
To  live  in  beauty,  not  to  seem: 
And  some  day  you  may  realize 
A  sweet  and  beautiful  love-dream. 
Dear  Valentine,  we  may  not  know. 
As  on  we  struggle  to  life's  goal. 
How  richest  treasures  sometimes  flow 
From  the  most  lonely,  saddest  soul. 
Dear  Friend,  I  hope  that  in  tlie  years 
That  are  to  come  to  you  and  me. 
To  smiles  may  be  changed  all  your  tears 
To  sweetest  peace,  your  misery. 


I  wish  thee  now,  dear  Valentine, 
Within  this  present  year,  that  Fate 
May  favor  unto  thee  incline 
And  give  to  thee  thy  •>  Heart's  True  Mate." 


LOST  AT  SEA. 
'Twas  a  bright,  starlight  night  in  the  spring- 
time. 
And  the  earth  was  in  beauty  clad, 
When  a  vessel  sailed  out  from  the  harbor 
Bearing  a  blue-eyed  lad. 
He  had  whispered  farewell  to  his  sweetheart 
And  the  mother  he  left  on  shore. 
Ah  1  little  he  thought  that  he  never 
Should  gaze  on  their  faces        more. 
The  moonbeams  shone  softly  around  him. 
The  stars  twinkled  bright  overhead. 
And  he  watched  the  foam  made  by  the  vessel 
As  over  the  waters  she  sped. 
With  her  cargo  of  human  souls  laden 
The  old  ship  bounded  gladly  on. 
Till  the  bright  rosy  flush  all  around  them 
Betoken  the  coming  dawn. 
A  brighter  red  light  shone  around  him 
As  Fancy  a  sweet  picture  frames. 
Look  aloft!  look  aloft!  careless  dreamer. 
See !  the  vessel  is  wrapped  in  flames,    [nobly. 
Then  brave  hearts  and  strong  hands  labored 
But  small  was  the  work  they  could  do. 
And  the  vessel  blazed  bright  as  a  meteor 
As  over  the  waves  she  flew. 
The  forked  flames  leaped  up  like  demons. 
The  strongest  and  bravest  grew  weak. 
And  the  dreamer  awoke  from  his  dreaming 
As  the  flames'  hot  breath  swept  his  cheek. 
The  wind  and  the  sea  wailed  around  them, 
Strong  men  knelt  in  prayer  on  the  deck, 
(The  sun  had  withdrawn  in  the  shadows,) 
The  waves  alone  witnessed  the  wreck. 
Next  morning  a  fisherman  lonely. 
While  hanging  his  nets  to  dry. 
Saw,  borne  on  the  crest  of  the  billows, 
A  corpse  that  the  waves  brought  nigh ; 
And  there  floated  and  rolled  to  the  sand  at 

his  feet 
A  j'outh  with  curly  hair: 
The  seaweed  served  as  a  winding  sheet. 
His  hands  clasped  as  in  prayer. 
Dimmed  is  the  light  of  those  blue  eyes  now, 
Silent  that  throbbing  heart. 
The  fair  hair  kisses  the  marble  brow. 
The  pale  lips  lie  apart; 

And  he  looks  like  an  image  carved  from  stone 
Awaiting  the  Master's  will; 
But  a  trace  of  the  beautiful  spirit  flown 
Is  seen  in  his  sweet  face  still. 
Oh,  many  a  heart  was  heavy  and  sad 
As  he  lay  on  his  bier  ne.\t  day. 
His  mother  sighed  •>  He  was  all  I  had;  " 


-© 


©- 


-m 


344 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMEIUCA. 


MRS.  M.  P.  A.  CROZIER. 

born:  RICHMOND  CENTHE,  N.  Y,  FEB.  23.1834. 

THIS  lady  was  educated  at  Bloomfleld  acade- 
mv  and  at  New  York  Central  college.  At  the 
ao"eoft9she  became  ti.e  wife  of  Kev.  Owen 
R    L    Crozier,  and  they  removed  to  Grand 


THE  POET  IN  JUNE. 

'Tis  bliss  to  have  the  poet's  heart 
That  loves  the  quietude  of  things, 

Where  nature  smites  her  hidden  rocks, 
And  brings  out  sweet  and  cooling-  springs. 

The  June-green  grass  beneath  my  feet. 

The  dandelion's  disk  of  gold. 
The  corn's  slim  spires  justpushing  out 

From  clean  brown  beds  of  kindly  mold. 

Bid  welcome  as  I  pass  along 
The  nearest  way  across  the  lea; 

While  songs  of  birds  are  in  my  soul, 
And  eyes  of  flowers  make  love  to  me. 

Down  in  the  meadow's  gliding  stream 
Tlie  children  splash  their  snowy  feet, 

And  all  their  laughter  comes  to  me 
Across  the  fields  of  growing  wheat. 


MRS.  M.  r.  A.  CROZIER. 

Rapids,  Mich.  They  afterward  removed  to 
Ann  Arbor.  She  is  the  mother  of  eleven 
children,  eight  of  whom  are  now  living.  A 
small  volume  of  her  poems  was  published  by 
her  son,  in  1887,  witliout  her  previous  know- 
ledge.   

LITTLE  ILLS. 
I  question,  if  to  bear  the  greater  i|ls 
God  sends,  to  us  we  need  the  greater  grace. 
Tlie  ceaseless  coming  of  those  little  cares. 
The  ceaseless  toiling  through  the  weary  days. 
Tire  out  the  soul  and  make  us  half  forget 
That  it  is  sin  to  worry  so  and  fret. 
We    brace    ourselves    against    a    gatliering 

storm. 
Lie  prone  wlien   desert  blasts  sweep  o'er  the 

land; 
We  meet  great  flames  with  flres  we  light  our- 
selves. 
And  on  tlie    brown,    burnt    sward    securely 

stand ; 
But  thorns  that  pierce  us  as  we  gather  flowers 
Teach  us  we  lack  the  grace  we  thougiit  was 
ours. 


THE  HOMESTEAD. 
The  years,  like  humming  birds, 

Just  poised  a  moment  on  tlie  wing, 
To  sip  the  nectar  from  the  cup 

Of  life's  sweet  offering; 

The  homestead's  old  familiar  halls. 

The  grassy  meadow  where  1  played. 
The  orchard  with  its  melting  fruit. 

And  soft  refreshing  shade; 
The  blacksmith-shop  where,  all  day  long. 

My  noble  father  toiled  and  sang. 
Where  in  the  morning  and  at  eve, 

Tlie  music  of  the  anvil  rang; 
The  garden  with  its  spreading  vines. 

Its  roses  and  its  daffodils; 
The  dark  old  forest  in  the  east; 

Beyond  the  heaven-aspiring  bills. 


® 


GIFTS. 
I  stand  in  tbe  orchard's  deepest  shade. 

The  blackberry  fields  before  me. 
And  smell  the  sweet  of  the  apple  fruit 

That  hangs  in  the  branches  o'er  me. 
But  it  hangs  so  high  -I  can  not  reach 

The  golden  fruit  above  me; 
I  can  only  go  to  the  berry-fields 

To  pick  for  those  who  love  nic. 
Blackberries  ripe,  blackberries  sweet - 

But  oh,  for  the  golden  apples! 
I  covet  for  you  the  high-hung  fruit 

Whieli  the  yellow  sunshine  dapples. 
But  fake  the  berries,  my  friend,  with  love. 

For  love  is  the  sweet  of  living.  ,  ,  .     . 

And  it   may  be  the  fruit  from  the  loftast 
boughs 

Would  not  be  worth  the  giving. 

^ ffi 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


845 


-© 


DR.  C.  S.  PERCIVAL. 

DriUNG  his  residence  in  Tennessee,  Dr.  Perci- 
val  was  a  constant  contributor  of  verse  to  the 
Louisville  Journal,  at  the  same  time  writing 
for  the  New  York  Tribune  and  the  daily  pa- 
pers of  Nashville  and  New  Orleans.  Since 
then  he  has  written  extensively  for  the  lead- 
ing  dailies  of  America.    The  poems  of  Dr. 


DR.  C.  S.  PERCIVAL. 

Percival  have  also  been  accepted  by  the  Cen- 
tury Magazine,  the  New  York  Critic,  and  Lit- 
tell's  Living  Age.  His  poem  of  the  Shipwreck 
is  considered  a  gem.  Dr.  Percival  is  known 
among  the  poets  of  the  country  for  his  fine 
fancy  and  poetic  diction;  yet  he  has  made 
poetry  subordinate  to  the  business  of  his  life 
as  a  faithful  pastor. 


®- 


^SCULAPIUS  AND  THE  BLOOD  OF 

MEDUSA. 
Minerva,  so  the  legend  .says, 

(And  facts  proclaim  it  true,  sir,) 
Gave  Dr.  ^sculapius 

The  blood  of  slain  Medusa. 
Of  all  the  blood  that  ever  flowed. 

This  surely  was  the  oddest. 
To  vouch  for  all  that's  claimed  for  it 

I  really  am  too  modest. 
With  that  which  from  the  right  side  came. 

Unless  the  legendsmock  us. 
He  healed  the  sick  and  raised  the  dead : 

Among  the  last,  young  Glaucus. 


But  that  which  issued  from  the  left. 

He  used  to  put  an  end  to 
The  lives  of  those  unfortunates 

Whom  he  was  not  a  friend  to. 

A  dangerous  power  is  this,  I  ween. 

To  wield  o'er  mortal  bodies; 
Unless,  like  .^Esculapius, 

The  one  who  wields,  a  god  is. 

But  him  the  nymph  Coronis  bore 

To  the  divine  Apollo; 
So  he  was  quite  immaculate, 

Whate'er  he  made  men  swallow. 

But  Jove  was  angry  that  this  god 
Should  raise  to  life  the  dead,  sir, 

And  with  his  hardest  thunderbolt 
He  bit  him  on  the  head,  sir. 

And  so  he  died,  as  many  a  one 

Has  died  for  doing  good,  sir; 
But  to  an  endless  line  of  heirs 

He  left  this  wondrous  blood,  sir. 

Each  self-styled  ^scuiapius 
Will  make  his  loudest  brags,  sir. 

That  he  has  got  his  share  of  it 
Safe  in  his  saddle-bags,  sir. 

Some  bin  ndering  quacks  have  got  it  mixed. 

And  deal  it  out  in  doses 
That  sometimes  kill  and  sometimes  cure. 

As  stupid  Chance  disposes. 
But  ye,  true  Asclepiades, 

Still  keep  the  two  parts  separate : 
Cork  up  the  riglit  for  future  use. 

And  let  the  left  evaporate  — 

Or  keep  a  little  hid  away 

Within  j'our  safest  coffers. 
To  dose  the  hated  race  of  quacks, 

Whene'er  occasion  offers. 

The  men  who  sport  with  human  life 

Are  not  a  whit  too  good,  sir. 
To  take,  as  sedative,  a  dose 

Of  left  Medusan  blood,  sir ! 


THE  SHIPWRECK. 
»  And  were  none  saved?" 

Ah,  masters!  here  behold 
The  greatest  wonder  of  this  wof  ul  tale  !— 
All,all  were  saved, who  courage  had  and  faith! 
For  wliile  the  dreadful  storm  was  at  its  worst 
And  the  mad  waves  were  rolling  mountain 

high. 
And  that  wrecked  ship,  "The  World,"  with  all 

its  freight 
Of  precious  souls,  was  wildly  tossed  about 
In  the  engulfing  Maelstrom  of  despair, 
Lo!  o'er  the  foaming  billows  hove  in  sight 
A  bark  whose  sails,  instinct  with  life,  were 

filled 


-aE« 


©■ 


346 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   I'OETS   OF  AMERICA. 


iSii 


MAY  ADELIA  GLEASON. 

Born:  Rochester,  N.Y.,  March  34, 1862. 
Miss  Mat  Gleason  is  by  profession  an  elo- 
cutioiiist,  and  as  a  teacher  has  been  very  suc- 
cessful. She  resides  in  Lawrence,  Kansas, 
where  she  is  very  popuhir.  Miss  Gleasoii  is 
spoken  of  by  the  press  as  the  leading  lady  el- 


MAY  ADELIA  GLEASON. 

ocutionist  in  America;  she  is  simply  "rand — 
her  manner  is  charming,  her  voice  is  sweet 
and  of  much  power,  and  her  character  delin- 
eations are  of  tlie  best.  Both  prose  and  verse 
of  Miss  Gleason  have  appeared  occasionally 
in  the  periodical  press.  In  person  this  lady  is 
a  little  below  the  medium  height,  with  light- 
brown  hair  and  dark-blue  eyes. 


TO  MY  ROSES. 
Roses!  Smiling  Roses! 

Hearts  of  pink  and  white, 
Sweetest  flowers  tliat  blossom  — 

Ye  are  my  deligiit. 

Shedding  fragrance  'round  you; 

Joy  you  give  to  me; 
You  fill  my  tliouglits  with  wonder 

Of  the  life  that  ..is  to  be!" 

Wondering  whence  can  come. 
The  power  tliat  gave  thee  birth  — 

Painted  thy  lovely  petals 
And  made  thee  things  of  earth. 


Each  sepal  and  each  petal 

Placed  so  fair  and  fine. 
Seems  to  speak  in  voice  so  meek, 

Of  the  Love  that  is  Divine  — 

Of  a  love  that  never  faileth. 
For  earth's  children  sore  oppress't 

Thou  givest  the  life  of  thy  sweet  flowers. 
To  bring  them  peace  and  rest. 

For  tlie  perfume  of  my  Roses 
Seems  to  quiet  my  weary  brain; 

Their  brightness  and  fragrance 
Makes  glad  the  eye 

And  gives  me  new  life  again. 


SB- 


SING  MERRY  BIRD. 

Sing,  merry  bird  — 

Sing  all  the  day,— 
Drive  from  my  lonely  heart 

Sorrow  away; 
Chase  from  my  pathway 
The  clouds  all  so  dark; 
Sing,  for  thou'rt  happy. 

Sing  like  the  lark ! 

Can'st  sing  on  forever 

My  beautiful  bird? 
The  sorrow  of  some  poor  heart 
Hast  thou  not  heard? 
Thou  seom'st  to  drive  care 

Away  from  me  here. 
Sing  as  forever,  and 

Stav  always  near. 


THE  STARS. 
Beautiful  stars  that  shine  ever  bright  — 
Beautiful  stars  that  glow  every  night; 
E'er  tho'  clouded  the  sky  sometimes  be. 
If  the  clouds  be  removed 
Then  we  shall  see  thee. 

Who  knows  but  the  angels  look  down  from 

above  — 
With  eyes  like  the  stars  that  seem  full  of 

love  — 
So  briglit  is  their  twilight. 
So  merry  witli  liglit  — 
And  yet  the  world  heeds  them  not. 
For  this  is  the  night. 

Sleep  on,  peaceful  dreamer,  sleep  on   if  thou 

will  — 
For  to-morrow  we  journey  again  up  life's  hill. 
In  the  midst  of  the  cares  and  the  sorrows  of 

hfe- 
In  the  midst  of  the  turmoil     'mid  tlie  scenes 

of  strife. 
Night,  like  a  beautiful  angel  comes  in 
And  leaves  us  in  peace  from  the  world  and  its 

sin. 


-5 


©- 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    I'OETS   OF  AMERICA. 


347 


-® 


EDWIN  ETHELBERT  KIDD. 

IJOKN  IN  AlabAiMA,  Dec.  18,  IKHi. 
APTKK  receiving'  liis  educatiuii  ;it  Talladega, 
young  Edwin  studied  law,  in  wliich  profession 
he  lias  been  actively  engaged  for  the  past 
thirty  years.  He  is  regarded  as  a  fine  crimi- 
nal lawyer,  and  one  of  the  most  eloquent  pop- 
ular orators  in  Louisana,  to  which  state  he 
came  in  18(i7.  Mr.  Kidd  has  been  a  member  of 
the  Louisiana  legislature    for  se\eral  terms. 


EDWIN    KIIIKI.ISKHT   KIDD. 

and  was  a  delegate  from  the  state  at  large  to 
the  St.  Louis  convention  which  nominated 
Tilden  for  the  presidency.  Mr.  Kidd  was  cap- 
tain in  the  confederate  army,  and  was  woun- 
ded in  the  battle  of  Mausiield.  Capt.  Kidd 
now  resides  at  Ruston,  La.,  where  he  is  well 
known  and  highly  respected.  His  poems  have 
received  quite  a  circulation,  and  two  of  his 
songs  have  been  put  to  music. 


®- 


CHILDHOOD. 
How  weird  the  night-winds  steal 
Along  the  heath.    1  feel 
A  spirit  of  the  olden  time 
Commingliug  with  their  silver  chime. 
The  olden  time  when  I  was  young 
And  earth's  bitterness  had  not  wrung 
My  soul  with  anguish.    Sad  the  day 
Wlien  its  bright  memory  fades  away. 
And  yonder  stars!  they  tell  me,  too. 


Of  other  days  when  life  was  new. 
And  childiiood,  with  unselfish  love. 
Gazed  in  their  diamond  depths  above; 
The  soul  of  nature  seems  to-night 
Attuned  to  strains  of  pure  delight, 
And  mine  doth  beat  in  unison. 
And  the  deep  feelings  coming  on 
Impel  me  back  to  days  long  gone. 
Again  in  infant  paths  I  stray: 
I  mark  the  dancing  streamlet's  way, 
I  wanton  with  its  plashing  spray, 

A  wayward  child. 
Or  with  the  butterfly  1  play 

Out  on  the  wild; 
Or  now  upon  my  nurse's  knee, 
Close  where  the  ingle  blazes  free, 

I  list  her  tale  — 
Her  wondrous  tale  of  airy  sprites. 
And  ogres  seen  on  stormy  nights. 

And  tlieir  loud  wail. 
And  things  that  stayed  just  o'er  the  hill 
Or  haunted  by  the  old  stotie  mill. 
Or  by  the  churchyard  lingering  near. 
Things  bloody,  dark  and  full  of  feai-. 
1  list  'till  in  my  fancy's  train 
Sleep  brings  their  awful  shapes  again. 
Or  now  my  mother's  song  I  hear, 
For  music  ever  charmed  my  ear; 
Her  song  of  times  long,  long  gone  by. 
Of  rebel  fends  and  warriors  high. 
Of  sorrowing  maidens,  love  oppressed. 
And  how  his  wrongs  were  oft  redressed; 
And  as  the  strains  so  sweetly  rise. 
Just  higher  than  the  night  wind's  cries. 
Commingled  with  the  moaning  sound 
Of  that  old    wheel    whirred    round 

round. 
How  soft  within  my  downy  nest, 
1  sink  to  childhood's  balmy  rest. 
The  nurse's  tales,  my  mother's  song. 

The  nightrwind's  strain. 
All  make  me  wish  I  were  a  child  again 


and 


SONG  OF  AN  INDIAN  MAIDEN. 
How  wildly  wakes  the  night-winds'  song. 

How  weird  their  music  seems. 
As  if  the  stars  they  dwelt  among 

And  led  their  dancing  beams. 
Or  to  some  Wcewa  did  belong 

And  soothed  its  pearly  streams. 
But  not  of  stars  their  music  sings 

And  not  of  waves  to  mc. 
There  is  a  wilder  transport  springs 

From  out  their  melod.v: 
They  waft  sweet  strains  upon  their  wings. 

My  woodland  chief  of  thee. 
Oft  in  the  lone  and  stilly  hours 

I  hear  their  murmuring  breath. 
And  as  their  witching  music  pours 

Along  the  silent  heath. 


* 


©- 


-* 


348 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


I  hear  them  whisper,  he  is  j'ours, 

Yes,  yours  poor  girl  'till  death. 
And  then  I've  loved  that  gentle  strain 

And  wondered  if  it  Isnew, 
And  oft  have  called  it  from  the  plain 

To  say  again  of  you; 
To-night  I  hear  its  voice  again, 

To-night  I  feel  'tis  true. 


A  WINTER  NIGHT. 

The  nurse  is  nodding  by  the  waning  fire 

And  the  kitten's  asleep  in  the  children's  bed. 
The  shadows  are  flickering  along  the  wall, 

And  the  clock  is  tolling  for  time  that  is  dead. 
Over  the  snow  comes  the  dog's  lone  howl. 

And  the  shelterless  cow  shakes  her  restless 
bell; 
The  shivering  swine  draw  close  in  the  leaves. 

And  with  whimpei-ing  cries  their  sufferings 
tell. 
Hark!  liow  the  gusts  of  the  wintry  winds 

Shriek  and  moan  through    the   snow-bent 
trees ! 
God  pity  the  poor  who  are  out  to-night; 

God  shelter  the  shorn  from  the  icy  breeze! 
What  sound  is  that?  How  the  timbers  fall! 

And  blacker  and  blacker  the  dark  clouds 
grow, 
A  storm  is  crashing  along  the  hills, 

A  winter  storm,  of  sleet  and  snow. 
Oh !  who  may  be  out  on  a  night  so  dread. 

Out  upon  sea  or  land?  — 
But  the  God  who  rears  the  awful  storm. 

Lifts,  too,  the  shielding  hand. 
Even  now  I  hear  the  far-off  roar 

Of  winds  already  past; 
And  where  were  darkening  clouds  before 

The  light  is  beaming  fast. 
Behold!  the  moon's  calm,  steady  ray. 

And  stars  with  glittering  eyes. 
Where  storm  and  darkness  reigned  supreme, 

Are  blightening  all  the  skies. 
Thus  is  it  on  "  life's  devious  way  "— 

When  clouds  of  sorrow  loom. 
An  unexpected  light  may  come 

And  banish  all  our  gloom. 


LILLIEN  B.  FEARING. 

This  lady  has  written  for  publication  from 
lier  j'outh,  and  her  poems  have  been  well  re- 
ceived. She  is  now  —  1890  —  a  student  in  the 
Chicago  Union  college  of  law. 


©- 


LOST. 
A  moment's  Hash  —  a  sudden  ray  of  light. 
And  lo,  the  wonder  of  two  souls  that  stood 
In  naked  beauty  of  tlieir  angelhood. 
Love's  gentle  crown  on  either  brow  of  might. 


Their  brave  white  wings  stretched  to  the  dark 

for  flight. 
Vibrating  to  the  music  of  the  good. 
Majestic  with  the  thought  of  all  they  would,— 
One  flash,  then  darkness  'twlxt  those  two,  and 

niglit! 
Gone  is  that  bright  apocalypse  of  soul. 
Left  but  a  low  vibration  through  life's  arc, 
As  lightning  leaves  no  footprint  on  the  dark, 
Only  the  thunder-wheels'  low  after  roll! 
Lost,  like  the  dear  words  that  are  sought  in 

vain 
By  some  sweet  tune  that  sings  about  the  brain! 

NOTHING  NEW. 

Now  rock  nie  gently.  Mother  Earth, 
That  I  may  sleep  with  this  dead  year 
On  whom  drops  many  a  frozen  tear 
From  night's  cold  cheek.    Of  little  worth 
I  count  the  year  that  is  to  be; 
I'm  weary  of  the  constant  moon 
Whose  path  with  flakes  of  fire  is  strewn, 
Her  deathless  passion  for  the  sea. 
No  new  tides  thunder  at  their  bars; 
There  is  no  quickening  in  the  sun; 
Men  scan  the  track  which  he  must  run, 
And  count  the  footsteps  of  the  stars. 
With  iron  laws  they  cliain  all  things 
From  sea  to  sun,  from  earth  to  star; 
They  hear  the  whirlwind  pant  afar. 
And  point  the  circuit  of  its  wings. 
Oh,  rock  me  forward  toward  the  dawn! 
She  Cometh,  blushing  faint  and  far,— 
Within  her  forehead  a  wliite  star. 
The  glad  young  year  her  breast  upon. 
But  wake  me  not.    What  profits  it 
To  grind  one's  soul  against  Life's  wheel. 
Ho  pant  and  straui,  and  still  to  feel 
There's  wrought  no  lasting  benefit? 
All  that  my  fervent  soul  to-day 
Unto  the  shrine  of  beauty  brings 

Is  but  an  echo  of  past  things. 
And  ecl.o-like  shall  die  away. 
What  has  been,  is;  what  is  shall  be. 

0  cyclic  track  on  which  we  run! 
I'm  dizzy,  circling  'round  the  sun 
'Twi.\t  eve  and  dawning  ceaselessly. 
Tlien  rock  me  gently ;  let  me  rest? 

1  would  not  sec  this  babe  ot  Time 
With  prophet  brows  and  eyes  sublime; 
The  Old  Year's  heart  beats  in  its  breast. 
A  hand  has  ijushed  us  toward  the  sun; 
Tlie  infant  year  doth  stretch  liis  arms. 
And  woo  n\e  with  his  rosy  charms: 
What  spell  is  on  me?    I  am  won ! 
Mysterious  passion  that  doth  thrill 
'Twixl  time  and  mortals!  though  we  try 
To  shun  the  wizzard  in  his  eye. 
We  cleave  to  him  against  our  will. 


-* 


® 


Li^CAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


349 


-© 


VIRGINIA    MAY   HAYWARD 

BOKN :  Muddy  Ckeek,  Va.,  March  2S,  1870. 
The  poems  of  Miss   Huywiud  have  appeared 
in  the   Sunday  Graphic,  Erie  Observer,  and 


VIRGINIA  MAY  HAYWARD. 

the  local  press  generally.  She  is  the  daughter 
of  a  clergyman,  with  whom  she  resides  at 
Erie,  Pa. 


©■ 


A  WOMAN'S  DEFENSE. 
No,  do  not  tliiuk  you  broke  my  lieart; 

Though  I  admit  it  gave  me  pain 
That  night  you  said  tliat  Mf  must  part. 

And  never,  never  meet  again. 
You  were  so  wise,  it  seemed  to  me. 

And  from  your  wisdom  used  to  tell 
Of  all  that  life  and  love  might  be. 

Ah,  this  you  told  to  me  so  well. 
So  well  that  ere  I  was  aware 

I  knew  like  you  thtj  hidden  things, 
And  breatlied  with  frightened  heart,  the  air 

Of  longing  which  earth's  passion  brings. 
Not  much  of  this;  enough  at  best 

That  I  had  learned  it  comes  in  life; 
Enough  to  leave  for  calm,  unrest; 

And  for  life's  peace,  to  leave  its  strife. 
Yet,  do  not  think  you  broke  my  heart 

That  night  you  left  me  tliere  alone; 
Nor  that  although  we're  miles  apart 

My  life  and  love  are  still  your  own. 
You  know  that  since  then  years  have  passed 

And  they  have  taught  me  to  forget; 


A  better  love  has  come  at  last, 

And  I  am  happier, —  and  yet  — 
Well,  yet  sometimes  I  think  of  you; 

And  wisli,  while  knowing  it  is  vain, 
That  our  two  lives  might  backward  go. 

And  bring  us  to  that  night  again. 
And  then  that  you  who  first  unsealed 

The  book  of  knowledge  to  my  sight 
Had  but  been  worthy  of  my  love. 

And  I  have  loved  you  as  I  might. 


IF  WE  KNEW. 

If  we  knew  what  friends  who  greet  us 

With  a  cordial  look  and  tone. 
And  who  give  us  warmest  welcome 

Say  about  us  when  we're  gone; 
If  we  only  knew  their  honor 

When  perchance  they  see  us  come. 
Or  their  joj'  at  our  departure. 

Don't  you  think  we'd  stay  at  home? 
If  you  only  knew  the  lover. 

Who  in  you  has  "met  his  fate," 
Tells  another  that  same  story 

Down  beside  the  pasture  gate; 
If  you  met  him  walking  slowly 

Through  the  fields  where  daisies  grow. 
And  you  knew  where  he  was  going, 

Don't  you  think  you'd  "  let  him  go?" 
If  you  knew  the  faithful  sweetheart,  " 

Who  has  sworn  she  will  be  true. 
Swears  the  same  thing  to  another 

Don't  you  fear    that  you'd  swear  too? 
If  you  chanced  to  see  her  strolling. 

Bright  and  gay  and  all  heart  whole. 
With  the  "Other  "  in  the  twilight. 

Don't  you  think  you'd  let  her  stroll? 
If  we  only  knew  the  preacher 

Who  each  Sunday  eve  and  morn 
Breaks  to  us  the  bread  of  heaven. 
Wishes  we  had  ne'er  been  born; 
And  if  we  who  fill  his  benclies. 

Every  holy  Sabbath  day. 
Knew  just  where  he'd  like  to  send  us. 

Don't  you  think  we'd  stay  away? 
If  the  preacher  in  the  pulpit 

Who  with  holy  zeal  is  stirred, 
Knew  we  criticised  his  necktie. 

And  attended  not  a  word; 
If  he  knew  when,  service  over, 

And  at  home  we  sit  and  sup. 
How  we  laugh  about  his  sermons. 

Don't  you  think  he'd  give  it  up? 
If  the  preacher  in  the  pulpit. 

And  his  hearers  all  sedate. 
If      the  sweetheart  in  the  twilight. 

And  the  lover  by  the  gate; 
If  the  friends  who  talk  about  us. 

And  if  we  who  all  talk  too. 
Knew  a  great  deal  that  we  don't  know. 

What  do  you  suppose  we'd  do? 


-© 


©■ 


350 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-* 


MRS.  MARIA  W.  CONNERS. 

Born:  Cincinnati,  O,  July  10,  1843. 
This  lady  was  married  in  1880  to  John  Conuers, 
and  resides  in  Stanwood,  Wash.,  where  she  was 
known  as  tlie  Pug-et  Sound  Poetess.    In  1888 


.MRS.  M.  W.  CONNERS. 

appeared  a  neat  volume  of  tlie  collected 
poems  of  this  lady,  entitled  A  Wreath  of  Maple 
Leaves,  a  work  that  has  been  highly  praised 
by  the  press.  She  now  resides  in  Indiana. 


© 


TO  LEROY. 
We  are  on  life's  ocean,  sailing. 

From  the  harbor  land  of  youth, 
W' here  our  liearts  were  once  united 

And  we  pledged  our  vows  of  trutli ; 
But  our  boats  were  drifted  outward 

On  tlie  tossing  waves  of  life, 
.\nd  tlie  fondest  hopes  were  blighted 

By  the  storms  of  care  and  strife. 
Tiiough  the  glooms  of  night  may  gather 

And  tlie  stars  be  lost  to  view. 
Still  T  almost  feel  the  throbbing 

Of  your  loyal  heart  and  true; 
And  I  how  my  waiting  spirit 

On  liope's  anclior  as  1  drift. 
Silently  on  Time's  broad  current. 

Be  her  tide  waves  slow  or  swift. 
Yes,  we  both  are  sailing  liomcward 

To  eternity's  fair  sliore. 
And  no  passion  storms  can  liinder 

As  we  enter  heaven's  door. 


All  our  fleeting  years  are  passing, 
And  our  boats  are  side  by  side; 

Yes,  we  both  are  sailing  liomeward 
On  a  swiftly  ebbing  tide. 


IN  THE  PAST. 
In  the  paths  of  pleasantness, 

Bj^  the  rivulet  of  love, 
I  have  wandered  hand  in  hand, 

'Neath  the  sunlight  from  above  — 
With  the  aged  and  the  young, 
Witii  tlie  timid  and  the  strong; 
I  have  loved  them,  sad  or  gay. 
In  home's  sweet  familiar  way. 
I  have  watched  the  seasons  go. 

When  each  hour  seemed  to  be. 
From  the  spring  to  winter's  snow, 

A  fragment  of  eternity. 
Riches  of  immortal  growth. 
Gathered  from  the  fields  of  earth; 
I  have  watched  them,  day  by  day. 
Store  their  wealth  for  heaven  away. 
In  the  future  home  of  bliss, 

When  the  river's  brink  they've  crossed, 
May  I  meet  them,  day  by  day. 

When  the  soul  is  free  from  dross  — 
With  the  aged  and  the  young. 
With  the  timid  and  the  strong: 
I  have  loved  them,  sad  or  gay, 
As  I  met  them  day  by  day. 


SONG  OF  THE  SUMMER  RAIN. 
Sweet  is  the  song  of  summer  rain. 
Falling  gently  on  golden  grain. 
Dropping  freshness  on  blade  and  spear. 
Washing  dust  from  the  silken  ear. 
Dripping,  dripping  from  bough  and  leaves, 
Dripping  softly  from  roof  and  eaves: 
Sweet  is  the  patter  of  the  summer  rain. 
Cooling  the  breast  of  tlie  sunburnt  plain. 
Out  of  the  heart  of  nature  springs 
The  voice  of  welcome  for  all  fair  things; 
Flowers  of  beauty  drink  the  rain, 
Offering  fragrance  to  God  again. 
Only  lor  man  doth  raindrops  fall  — 
Just  where  he  wants  the  sunbeams  all  — 
Over  his  little  world  to  rest. 
Over  the  fields  that  he  loves  best. 
Finding  no  joy  in  the  saving  rain. 
Falling,  like  i)eace,  on  the  heights  to  plain; 
Filling  the  sjiriiigs  on  the  mountain  side. 
Rippling  down  to  the  river's  tide. 
Cooling  the  parched  and  dusty  street. 
Traveled  o'er  1)3'  the  weary  feet; 
Cooling  tlie  dry  and  sweltering  air. 
Feeding  the  li\es  of  the  foul  and  fair. 
Ah  I  the  sweetness  of  summer  showers  — 
What  is  the  loss  of  a  U'W  brief  houisi' 
Waiting  for  nature  with  boundless  health. 
Over  all  her  children  to  scatter  her  wealth. 


-« 


® 


-« 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS  OF  AMKKICA. 


351 


MRS.  ESTELLE  M.  AMORY. 

Born:  Ellisburgh.N.Y., June3,  1846. 
This  lady  has  taught  school  at  different  times 
in  Iowa  and  Illinois,  and  has  been  governess 
in  private  families  both  in  Cliiuago  and  New 
Yorli;  and  also  taught  musie  more  or  less 
since  her  youth.    The  p.K-m^  nf  Mrs.  Amory 


MRS.   ESTELL?;  M.   AMORY. 

have  appeared  in  more  than  a  hundred  of  the 
leading  publications  of  America,  from  which 
they  have  been  extensively  copied  by  the  local 
press.  She  is  now  a  resident  of  Dows,  in  the 
state  of  Iowa,  The  poems  of  Mrs.  Amory  have 
been  highly  spoken  of  by  press  and  public. 


®- 


THE  AUTHOR'S  CASTLE. 
Beyond,  unseen,  in  the  land  of  dreams. 

Is  this  mystical  castle  of  ours,— 
Wliere  the  fickle  muse  of  the  pen  and  quill, 

Sits  enthroned  with  regal  powers. 

Witli  tapestry  rare  are  in  its  high  walls  hung, 
Tliat  fairies  have  woven  with  skill. 

Of  my  ladies  fine  and  glittering  knights. 
Who  court  and  marry  at  will. 

Here  are  treasures  gathered  from  ev'ry where 

To  be  woven  in  story  or  tale; 
Here  are  pearly  teeth  'neath  lips  of  red, 

With  cheeks  of  rose  and  lily  pale. 

Here  are  feet  and  hands  a  fairy  might  wear. 
And  a  few  to  match  giants  bold ; 


While  of  faces  and  forms,  of  eyes  and  hair. 
The  number  could  not  be  told. 

Its  ev'rj^  nook  holds  a  picture  rare. 
The  artist's  canvas  can  never  know; 

Of  grassy  slopes,  pure  purling  streams, 
Of  Pisgali  heights  and  vales  of  woe. 

And  here  are  the  children  of  our  thought  — 
Oh,  how  dear  to  our  heart  do  they  seem ! 

We  jom   In  their   glee   and  weep  o'er  their 
griefs. 
Though  living  but  in  our  dreams. 

Beautiful  castle,  hidden  from  view, 
Thou  ai-t  trellised  with  fancies  most  fair; 

While  fragments  of  lyric  and  song  unsung. 
Ever  float  on  thy  dreamj-  air. 

Many  a  strange  tale  thy  stones  could  tell, 
Of  battles  crowned  with  victor's  cry, 

And  of  hopes  that  were  vanished  'mid  the 
strife 
So  brave  and  fair,  but  bOrn  to  die. 


TO  A  LITTLE  BIRD. 

Rirdie,  birdie  on  the  tree, 

You're  going  south  with  your  twee-dle-dee- 

dee; 
How  I  miss  you  all  day  long. 
And  your  happy  warbling  song. 
But  you  are  singing  to  little  folks  now. 
From  lemon  tree  or  orange  bough. 
And  In  the  spring  you'll  come  to  me. 
To  sing  again  your  twee-dle-dee-dee. 


VAIN  REGRETS. 
The  sun  was  setting  on  a  life  misspent  — 
And  as  the  mind  o'er  the  past  j'ears  went, 
From  the  dying  lips  came  the  sad  refrain, 
•'  Could  I  but  live  my  life  again ! 

Oh  then  my  aim  should  be  so  high ! 
That  at  life's  close  I  need  not  cry 
In  deep  distress,  yet  all  in  vain. 

To  live  the  wasted  j'ears  again!" 


A  LITERARY  WIFE. 
Ah,  the  woes  of  the  man 

With  a  literary  wife! 
He  has  to  do  the  cooking. 

That  he  may  save  his  life. 

He  sews  on  the  buttons  — 

Or  slaps  on  a  patch, 
Wliile  his  better  half,  with  pen, 

Doth  scratch,  scnitch,  scratch! 

The  house  and  the  bairns 
Are  the  gossip  of  the  town. 

And  the  writer's  name  is  famous 
For  many  blocks  around! 


-* 


8B- 


352 


-« 


LOCAl,    AND    NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  OLIVES.  ENGLAND. 

Born  :  Salem,  Ore.,  Jan.  29, 1851. 
In  1869  this  lady  was  married  to  William  L. 
England,  a  gentleman  of  integrity  and  finan- 
cial standing.  Mrs.  England  is  a  graduate  of 
the  musical  conservatory  of  the  Willamette 
university  of  her  native  city.  She  has  been 
called  line  of  the  fincsf  jiianisls  in  the  state  of 


MRS.   OLIVE  S.   ENGLAND. 

Oregon.  Mrs.  England  has  also  delivered  sev- 
eral popular  lectures  and  addresses,  whicli 
have  been  published  in  pamphlet  form.  Her 
poems  have  been  extensively  published  in 
many  of  the  leading  periodicals. 


FRIENDSHIP  TRUE. 
I  gazed  upon  her  winsome  face 

Which  glowed  with  intense  feeling; 
How  I  admired  the  kindly  grace 

Her  tender  eyes  revealing! 
I  knew  that  I  had  met  a  soul 

Who  read  aright  my  mission; 
T  knew  that  to  us  both  had  come 

All  friendship's  full  fruition. 
Her  face  is  tender,  sweet  and  fair. 

And  yet  so  strong  and  noble,— 
Reveals  a  friendship  that  will  wear, 

Lend  strength  in  times  of  trouble. 
Few  friends  will  love  us  with  our  faults, 

Alas,  we  all  are  human, 
But  this  friend  loves  nie  as  I  am. 

Ah,  noble  love  of  woman. 


«- 


How  seldom  in  this  life  of  ours. 

Where  jealousy  and  envy 
Oft  lurks  amid  the  fairest  flowers, 

And  poisons  feelings  friendly. 
Do  we  thus  meet  with  earnest  love. 

Which  is  all  free  from  passion. 
The  gross  and  sensual  far  above, 

O,  would  It  were  in  fasliion. 
Friendship,  although  a  golden  chain 

That  binds  fond  hearts  together. 
How  easy  'tis  to  part  its  links. 

Aye!  sunder  them  forever. 
But  she  is  always  true  to  me; 

She  makes  me  nobler,  better. 
Her  friendship  is  a  chain  of  flowers, 

I  love  each  shining  fetter. 
She  is  not  rich !  nor  beautiful ! 

And  her's  a  mission  lowly. 
But  yet  she  is  my  patron  saint,— 

Her  influence  pure  and  holy; 
And  though  she  claims  no  special  creed. 

She  holds  a  deep  communion 
With   Him  who  knowS   the   soul's  great 

need. 
Divine,  or  sadly  human. 
And,  as  some  sinful  penitent 

Before  his  saint  in  kneeling. 
Pours  out  his  soul  in  passion's  prayer. 

And  seeks  for  God's  revealing; 
'Tis  thus  I  often  go  to  her. 

Sweet,  tangible  and  human. 
And  she  and  I  speak  heart  to  heart. 

As  woman  unto  woman. 
As  Christ  had  one,  his  "  best  beloved," 

Who  leaned  in  trust  upon  him. 
So  may  we  hold  some  precious  friend, 

With  special  love  may  crown  liim. 
True  friendship  is  a  holy  thing. 

Above,  beyond  all  passion ; 
It  is  of  that  which  angels  are, 

Alas!  'twere  more  in  fashion. 


THE  VIOLET'S  LOVE. 
Close  to  earth  a  violet  blossom'd. 

Yet  it  raised  its  modest  eyes  — 
Upwar<i  gazed  in  imrple  ethei-. 

Drawing  ct)lor  fi-om  tlie  skies; 
While  its  golden  heart,  so  tiny. 

Was  like  a  star  that  shone  above. 
Where  the  violet  gazed  with  longing 

'Till  'twas  like  its  shining  love. 
But  it  sighed,  "My  humble  mission 

Is  to  bloom  one  little  hour. 
While,  fair  star,  thou  art  inunortal. 

Grand  tiiy  work  is,  great  tliy  jiower 
Brief  my  day  of  scent  and  blossom. 

Filled  with  dewy  tears  my  eyes. 
Yet  1  lotig  to  b(>  immortal, 

Like  the  stars  in  purple  skies."    • 


—9 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL,   POETS  OF   A3IERICA. 


353 


-© 


ROBERT  J.  BURDETTE. 

Born  :  Greensborough,  Pa.,  July  30,  1844. 
One  of  the  most  original  and  prolitic  humorous 
writers  now  living-  is  Robert  J.  Burdette.  Two 
years  after  the  birth  of  Robert,  his  parents  re- 
moved to  Cleveland,  Ohio,  and  six  years  later 
to  Peoria,  Illinois,  where  he  was  educated. 
After  ser\'ing  as  a  private  through  the  war  he 
returned  to  Peoria,  where  he  was  employed  as 
clerk  in  the  postofflce.  Subsequently  he  be- 
came a  proof-reader  on  the  Peoria  Transcript, 


m- 


ROBERT    J.   BXTRDETTE. 

and  later  filled  the  position  of  night-editor  on 
the  same  newspaper.  Mr-  Burdette  married 
in  1870.  In  1874  he  was  engaged  on  the  Burling- 
ton Hawkeye,  where  he  soon  gained  for  himself 
and  the  journal  a  world-wide  reputation.  Ten 
years  later  he  left  the  editorial  staff  of  the 
Hawkeye  and  engaged  himself  with  the  Brook- 
lyn Eagle,  the  only  journal  with  which  he  is 
now  connected.  In  1879  he  removed  to  Phila- 
delphia'; since  1882  Mr.  Burdette  has  resided  at 
Ardmore,  where  his  wife  died  two  years  later. 

The  greatest  success  of  Mr.  Burdette  has 
been  as  a  lecturer;  several  of  his  humorous 
books,  however,  have  attained  fair  circulations. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  frequently  drops  in- 
to poesy,  generally  of  a  humorous  strain,  and 
his  productions  are  widely  read  by  his  numer- 
ous admirers. 

He  commenced  lecturing  in  1876,  and  has 
since  been  one  of  the  drawing  cards  of  the 
platform. 


The  death  of  Mr.  Burdette's  wife  was  and  is 
the  great  sorrow  of  his  life.  So  much  of  her 
hand  and  influence  ran  not  only  between  but 
in  the  lines  of  his  work,  and  he  says  that  what- 
ever he  wrote  should  have  been  signed  Robert 
and  Carrie  Burdette. 


RUNNING  THE  WEEKLY. 

In  the  twilight,  in  the  sanctum  sat  the  editor 
alone. 

And  his  mighty  brain  was  throbbing  in  a  very 
lofty  tone ; 

But  he  checked  a  deathless  poem,  that  was 
fraught  with  fancies  dim. 

And  he  thought  of  Quill,  his  ..  e.  c,"  and  con- 
trived a  pit  for  him. 

Then  he  stopped  right  in  a  leader  on  the  Euro- 
pean war. 

While  he  wrote  a  puflf  tor  Barleycorn's  new 
family  grocery  store ; 

And  just  as  he  got  started  on  the  ••  Outlook  of 
To-day," 

The  foreman  came  to  say  the  ••  comps."  had 
struck  for  higher  pay. 

Then  he  started  on  a  funny  sketch,  a  fancy 

bright  and  glad. 
When  Slabs,  the  undertaker,  came  to  order  out 

his  ••  ad.;" 
He  smiled  and  wrote  the  title,  "  The  Reflections 

of  a  Sage," 
When  the  panting  devil  broke  in  with — 'they 

have  pied  the  second  page  1 " 

He  sighed,  and  took  his  scissors  when  the  ever 
funny  bore 

Said,  "Ah,  writing  editoria—  "  then  he  welter- 
ed in  his  gore. 

And  as  the  scribe  was  feeling  happj',  writing 
up  the  fray, 

His  landlord  came  to  know  if  he  "  could  pay 
his  rent  to-day." 

In  deep  abstraction  then  he  plunged  the  paste 

brush  In  the  ink, 
And  stammered,  "Thank  you,  since  you  will 

insist  on  it,  I  think " 

When  from  the  business  oflBce  came  the  cashier, 

"Here's  a  mess! 
Composish  &  Roller's  put  a  big  attachment  on 

the  press." 

Then  broke  the  editorial  heart ;   he  sobbed  and 

said,  "Good-bye! " 
And  forth  he  went,  to  some  far  land,  from  all 

his  woes  to  fly. 
But  ere  the  second  mile  was  flown,  he  sank  in 

wild  despair  — 
The  Wabash  line  took  up  his  pass  and  ma<le 

him  pay  his  fare. 


« 


m- 


-® 


354 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


CHRISTOPHER  P.  CRANCH. 

Born:  Alexandria, Va.,  March  8, 1813. 
Chrisopher  is  the  son  of  the  great  jurist, 
William  Cranch,  who  was  chief  justice  of  the 
circuit  court  of  the  District  of  Columbia,  to 
which  he  was  appointed  by  President  Jefferson 
in  1805,  a  position  Mr.  Cranch  held  until  his 
death  in  1855.  During  this  period  of  fifty  years 
but  two  of  his  decisions  were  overruled  by  the 
United  States  supreme  court. 

Christopher  Pease  Cranch  has  attained  a  re- 
putation as  a  painter,  which  profession  he  fol- 
lowed from  1846  to  1870.  He  is  a  graceful  writ- 
er of  both  prose  and  verse.  In  1875  appeared 
Bird  and  the  Bell,  with  Other  Pcems. 


EXTRACT. 


So,  fair  Moon,  again  I'm  dreaming 
On  thy  face  above  me  beaming ! 
Orb  of  beauty,  mid  star-clusters 
Hanging  heavy  with  thy  lustres; 
Saturated  with  the  sun-fire. 
Which  thou  turnest  into  moon-fire. 
Raying  from  thy  fields  and  mountains, 
Silvering  earth's  rejoicing  fountains. 
Crystal  vase  with  light  o'er  brimming; 
Eye  of  night  with  love  tears  swimming; 
Heaven's  left  heart,  in  music  beating 
Through  the  cloud-robes  round  thee  fleeting 


8B- 


THE   BOBOLINKS. 
When  Nature  had  made  all  her  birds. 

And  had  no  cares  to  thinli  on. 
She  gave  a  rippling  laugh  —and  out 

There  flew  a  Bobolinkon. 

She  laughed  again,— out  flew  a  mate. 

A  breeze  of  Eden  bore  them 
Across  the  fields  of  Paradise, 

The  sunshine  reddening  o'er  them. 

Incarnate  sport  and  holiday. 

They  flew  and  sang  forever : 
Their  souls  through  June  were  all  in  tunt 

Their  wings  were  weary  never. 

The  blithest  song  of  breezy  farms. 
Quaintest  of  fleld-note  flavors, 

E.xhaustless  fount  of  trembling  trills 
And  dcmisemiquavers. 

Their  tribe,  still  drunk  with  air  and  light 
And  perfume  of  the  meadow. 

Go  reeling  up  and  down  the  sky, 
In  sunshine  and  in  shadow. 

One  springs  fi'oni  out  the  dew-wi't  grass, 

Another  follows  after; 
The  morn  is  ilu-illing  with  their  songs 

And  peals  of  fairy  laughter. 


From  out  the  marshes  and  the  brook 
They  set  the  tall  reeds  swinging. 

And  meet  and  frolic  in  the  air. 
Half  prattling  and  half  singing. 

When  morning  winds  sweep  meadow  lands 

In  green  and  russet  billows. 
And  toss  the  lonely  elm-tree's  boughs. 

And  silver  all  the  willows, 

I  see  you  buffeting  the  breeze, 

Or  with  its  motion  swaying. 
Your  notes  half-drowned  against  the  wind 

Or  down  the  current  playing. 

When  far  away  o'er  the  grassy  flats. 
Where  the  thick  wood  commences. 

The  white-sleeved  mowers  look  like  specks 
Beyond  the  zigzag  fences. 

And  noon  is  hot,  and  barn-roofs  gleam 
White  in  the  pale-blue  distance, 

I  hear  the  saucy  minstrels  still 
In  chattering  persistence. 

When  Eve  her  domes  of  opal  flre 

Piles  I'ound  the  blue  horizon. 
Or  thunder  rolls  from  hill  to  hill 

A  Kyrie  Eleison,— 

Still,  merriest  of  the  merry  birds, 

Your  sparkle  is  unfading,— 
Pied  harlequins  of  June,  no  end 

Of  songs  and  masquerading. 

What  cadences  of  bubbling  mirth 

Too  quick  for  bar  or  rhythm  I 
What  ecstacies,  too  full  to  keep 

Coherent  measure  with  them! 
O  could  I  share,  without  campagne 

Or  muscadel,  your  frolic. 
The  glad  delirium  of  your  joy. 

Your  fan  un-apostolic. 
Your  drunken  jargon  through  the  fields. 

Your  Bobolinkish  gabble. 
Your  fine  anacreontic  glee. 

Your  tipsy  reveler's  babble! 
Nay,—  let  me  not  profane  such  joy 

With  similes  of  folly,— 
No  wine  of  earth  could  waken  songs 

So  delicately  jolly ! 
O  boundless  self-contentment,  voiced 

In  flying  air-born  bubbles'? 
O  joy  that  mocks  our  sad  unrest. 

And  drowns  our  earth-born  troubles! 
Hope  springs  with  you;  I  dread  no  more 

Despondency  and  dullness; 
For  Good  Supreme  can  never  fail 

That  gives  such  i)erlect  fullness. 
The  liife  that  floods  the  hapi)y  fields 

With  song  and  light  and  color. 
Will  shape  our  lives  to  richer  states, 

And  heap  our  measures  fuller. 


-* 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


355 


-« 


HENRY  ALLEN  BRAINERD. 

Born:  Boston,  Mass.,Nov. 4, lb5T. 
After  receiving'  a  g-ooti  education,  Mr.  Braln- 
crd  settled  in  Lancaster  county,  Nebraska,  in 

issl.     Three  \ears  later  lie  tddk  eli;ii\i;e  dl'the 


m 


HENRY  ALLEN  BRAINERD. 

Bennet  Union,  and  in  1890  purcliased  the  Mil- 
ford  Nebraskan,  which  paper  he  is  at  pres- 
ent sole  owner  and  publisher.  The  poems  of 
this  writer  have  appeared  extensively  in  the 
local  press. 

NEBRASKA,  THE  PRIDE  OF  THIS 
COUNTRY. 

air:—  COLUMBIA,  THE  GEM  OF  THE  OCEAN. 

Nebraska,  the  pride  of  this  countrj'. 
With  its  wide  rolling-  prairies  so  green. 
Its  vast  fields  of  corn  and  its  meadows. 
Is  tlie  fairest  of  sights  ever  seen. 
Its  woodlands,  its  vales  and  its  rivers; 
Its  farms  stretching  wide  o'er  the  lea. 
Oh'.  Nebraska,  the  gem  of  this  country. 
Is  the  home  in  this  free  land  for  me. 
Chc—  Oh,  Nebraska,  Nebraska,  Nebraska, 
The  fairest  of  lands  we  have  seen. 
The  land  of  the  free  and  the  faithful, 
'Tis  the  home  in  this  free  land  I  ween. 
A  few  years  ago  'twas  a  prairie, 
'Twas  a  vast,  rolling  wild  sanded  plain. 
But  now  by  the  hand  of  pi-ogression. 
It  is  bounding  with  ripe  golden  grain. 
Tis  the  storehouse  of  peace  and  of  plenty. 


Its  products  extend  to  the  sea. 

Oh,  Nebraska  the  gem  of  this  country. 

Is  the  home  in  this  free  land  for  me. 

'Tis  a  land  filled  with  milk  and  with  houey. 

Its  storeliouse  is  filled  to  the  beam. 

This  land  is  for  all  who  may  eater. 

To  till  its  broad  acres  so  green. 

Look  around  you  and  see  peace  and  plenty. 

You  can  travel  fi-om  sea  unto  sea. 

But  you'll  find  tliat  the  plains  of  Nebraska, 

Is  the  home  in  this  free  laud  for  thee. 

There  is  room  in  this  country  for  many. 

And  all  who  may  come,  you  can  hear. 

The  watchword  ring  out,  and  the  echo. 

Peace,  plenty.    Be  thou  of  good  cheer. 

Look  out  on  our  fields,  see  there's  plenty. 

See  our  storehouses  loaded  with  grain. 

Hear  the  echo  ring  back  for  Nebraska, 

Three     cheers,  once  again,  and  again. 

IN  MEMORY  OF  A  LADY  FRIEND. 
One  flower  has  left  a  household  fair. 
Plucked  by  our  Father's  hand; 
With  us  she  never  more  will  be. 
She  walks  the  golden  strand. 

We'll  miss  her  long. 

Our  hearts  are  sore; 

We'll  meet  again 

On  a  brighter  shore. 
One  budding  rose,  of  promise  rare. 
So  soon  was  called  away : 
But  He,  who  rules  the  earth  and  sky. 
Has  taken  her  to-day. 

Our  hearts  bowed  down. 

But  in  his  power 

We  place  our  hope 

And  trust,  each  hour. 
Her  feet  now  walk  the  heavenly  shores, 
Calletl  in  the  early  morn ; 
She's  watching  at  the  golden  gate. 
Clad  in  an  angel's  form. 

'Twill  not  be  long, 

But  soon  we'll  be 

Gathered  as  one 

In  eternity. 


DAISY  C.  WILLIAMS. 

The  poems  of  this  young  lady  have  occasion- 
ally appeared  in  the  local  press.  Miss  Daisy 
is  now  living  in  Cincinnati. 


EXTRACT. 
Let  cannon  peal  their  deafening  sound, 
Re-eclioing  o'er  the  land. 
And  waving  flags  on  every  breeze. 
From  lake  to  ocean  strand, 
Proclaim  with  one  united  voice 
The  glories  of  the  West, 
A  country  of  a  noble  race; 
With  peace  and  plenty  blessed. 


-^ 


®- 


356 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-© 


MRS.  KATE  E.  JONES. 

Born  :  Cedarville,  N. Y.,  Jan.  10, 1843. 
Mrs.  Jones  has  been  identified  for  years 
with  the  Women's  Relief  Corps,  of  which  she 
is  national  chaplain,  nialiing-  her  headquarters 
at  Ilion,  N.  Y.  She  has  delivered  addresses 
before  numerous  G.  A.  R.  encampments,  and 


.MHS,     KATK,    K.   .KINES. 

has  become  very  popular  thimighuut  the 
United  States.  In  her  spare  time  Mrs.  Jones 
is  engaged  in  teaching  music,  French  and  Ger- 
man. The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared 
in  all  the  leading  Grand  Army  publications, 
and  the  periodical  press  generally. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

'Twas  in  the  time  of  the  civil  war,  and  dark 
seemed  the  Nation's  fate. 

Our  martyred  Abraham  Lincoln  then  sat  in 
the  halls  of  State; 

One  day  a  poor  old  mother,  from  the  hills  just 
south  of  here 

Went  up  the  streets  of  Washington,  with 
trembling  hope  and  fear; 

A  weary  one,  with  tear-dimmed  eye,  with  tot- 
tering step,  and  bent. 

She  came  thro'  the  gate  to  the  White  House 
door  and  asked  for  the  President ; 

His  car,  ever  open  to  sorrow,  caught  the  wail- 
ing grief  in  her  tone. 

She  looked  so  pale  and  pitiful ;  so  weary,  and 
old,  and  lone. 

He  turned  from  the  ollicer  waiting,  with  grace 


so  tender  and  true. 
Said,    "I    am    he    you  seek,  good  woman!" 

..  Pray,  what  can  I  do  for  you?  " 
'Twas  the  story  of  a  widow's  only  son,  wound- 
ed, dying,  could  fight  no  more. 
They  had  promised  his  discharge;  Oh,  so  ma- 
ny weeks  before ! 
And  he  was  weary  of  waiting,  had  made  as  a 

last  request 
To  look  once  more  on  his  dear  old  home,  ere 

they  laid  him  down  so  rest; 
>*  Would  the  President  write  an  order,  that  she 

might  take  with  her  away, 
"To  tell  them  her  son  could  go;  Oh,  would  he 

do  it  that  day? " 
He  turned  to  the  official  standing  and  bade 

him  wait  his  return, 
Then  led  the  way  out  with  a  courtly  grace  no 

school  of  manners  could  learn, 
Down  the  avenue  thro'  the  street,  together 

these  two  did  go  — 
The  Chief  Magistrate  of  our  Nation  —  she  in 

her  faded  calico  — 

Then  to  the  War  Department  thro'  the  sultry 

heat  they  speed,  [f  ul  need. 

He  in  his  liigh  calm  dignity  —  she  in  her  piti- 

Thro'  the  various  departments,  the  wearisome 

round  he  went,  [signed  and  sent. 

And  saw  for  .-Instant  Dismissal"  an  order  was 

'Twas  a  little  deed  of  kindness,  but  the  spirit 

of  Christ  you  see,  [unto  me." 

"  As  ye  do  to  the  least  of  these  ye  do  even  so 

This  pity  for  the    suflering  that  in  this  Great 

Heart  of  the  Nation  beat 
Is  what  our  Lord  and  Master  meant  when  he 

washed  the  disciples'  feet. 
It  shone  forth  in  the  Proclamation  that  bade 

the  oppressed  go  free. 
When  God  smiled  on  Abraham  Lincoln,  and 

gave  us  the  victory. 
When  they,  who  rule  this  Nation,  forget  this 

sacred  trust. 
Then  shall   "Our  Great  Republic"   fall,  her 
baiuier  trail  in  dust. 


MRS.  MATILDA  C.  DILTZ. 

Born:  H.\rrison,  Ohio,  1829. 
The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  in  tht 
local  press  generally.    She  resides  with  lici 
husband  at  Covington  in  the  state  of  Ohio. 


EXTRACT. 
The  room  is  bright  with  a  ruddy  light 
From  the  anthracite  coal  in  the  grate. 
Flowers,  paintings  and  mirrors  bright 
Reflect  four-fold  the  scene  as  I  wait. 
As  she  clasps  her  Iwaiitiful  Ijiibe  to  her  breast 
'Mid  the  gems  of  nature  and  :irt, 
'Tis  a  glimpse  of  heaven  with  soul  at  rest 
In  the  temple  of  the  heart. 
■* 


© 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMKKICA. 


357 


-® 


KATE  GOODE. 

Born  :  Boydton,  Va.,  Nov.  22, 1863. 
Under  the  nom   de    plume  of    Bert  Ingiiss 
this  lady   has   written    for   the  Chicago  Ad- 
vance,  Christian   Weekly   and  various  otlier 


KATK   Gndlii; 


publications.  Miss  Goode  still  resides  in  the 
place  of  her  birth,  where  slie  is  surrounded 
by  a  host  of  friends. 


THE  SONGS  MY  MOTHER  USED  TO  SING. 
There's  many  a  tone  hath  power  to  wake 

Old  memories  in  the  heart: 
There's  many  a  well-remembered  air 

Can  make  the  teardrops  start; 

The  song-  of  mirth  brings  back  the  hour 
Wlien  the  festal  board  was  spread. 

And  the  song  of  love  can  bring-  a  sigh 
To  the  lip  when  love  has  fled; 

And  dear  the  gay  and  the  tender  strains 

Of  other  days  may  be. 
But  the  songs  my  mother  used  to  sing 

Are  the  sweetest  songs  to  me. 

I've  heard  the  plowman's  careless  lay 

Borne  blithely  on  the  gale: 
I've  heard  the  merry  hunter's  tune 

Resound  from  hill  and  dale; 

I've  heard  the  song  the  soldier  sings 

Beside  the  bright  camp-flre. 
Till  his  eye  burns  with  a  fiercer  light. 


88 


And  lus  martial  pride  leaps  higher; 

And    the   sailor's   .song  when    the   sails  are 
spread 

And  the  winds  are  blowing  free; 
But  the  .songs  my  mother  used  to  sing 

Are  tlie  sweetest  songs  to  me; 

I've  heard  the  Alpine  shepherd's  voice 
King  from  the  mountain's  lieiglit; 

I've  heard  the  cottage  songs  that  cheer 
The  peasant's  liearth  at  night. 

I've  heard  the  wandering  minstrel  'neath 

Tlie  olive  and  the  vine ; 
And  the  blithe  grape  gatlierer  whose  song 

Flows  smoothly  with  the  Rhine; 

And  the  gondolier,  as  his  light  oar  dips 

To  the  music  of  the  sea,— 
But  the  songs  my  mother  used  to  sing 

Are  tlie  sweetest  songs  to  uie. 

I've  heard  the  stately  anthem  peal 

Along-  the  minster  aisle. 
I've  heard  the  grand  Te  Deum  roll 

'Round  the  cathedral  pile; 

I've  heard  the  slow  and  solemn  chant 

Rise  from  the  cloister  dim. 
And  through  the  twilight,  soft  and  low. 

The  nuns'  sweet  vesper  hymn ; 

And  the  songs  of  the  worshipers  beneath 
No  roof  but  the  forest  tree,^ 

But  the  songs  my  mother  used  to  sing- 
Are  the  sweetest  songs  to  me. 

I've  heard  those  airs  the  trouljadour 

Gave  to  the  breeze  afar. 
And  those  the  dark-eyed  Spanish  maid 

Sang  to  her  light  guitar; 

And  the  strains  that  once  through  the  high- 
land halls 

To  the  ancient  harp  hath  rung. 
And  the  strange,  wild  melodies  of  old 

That  Erin's  bards  have  sung; 

And  my  heart  hath  felt  the  lingering  spell 

Of  the  by-gone  minstrelsj-,— 
But  the  songs  my  mother  used  to  sing 

Are  the  sweetest  songs  to  me. 

The  cradle  songs  she  used  to  sing 
When  the  noise  of  the  day  was  done. 

And  she  folded  me  close  in  iier  arms  to  rest. 
Like  the  flowers  at  set  of  sun ; 

These  have  the  strangest  power  to  wake 

Old  memories  in  my  heart; 
And  often  when  I  hear  them  flow. 

The  tears  unbidden  start. 

And  dearer  far  In  other  ears 

Some  grander  strain  maybe. 
But  the  songs  my  mother  used  to  sing 

Are  the  sweetest  songs  to  me. 


-ee 


©- 


358 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-^ 


A.  A.WOODBRIDGE,  PH.D. 

Born:  Newcastle,  Me.,  July 20, 1840. 
At  the  age  of  seventeen  Mr.  Woodbridge 
taughtschool,  and  upon  graduating  entered 
the  teacher's  profession.  He  was  principal 
of  Riclnnond  academy  five  years ;  professor  of 
classics  in  Gorham's  seminary  one  year;  prin- 
cipal of  Rockland  high  school  Ave  years;  pres- 
ident of  Maine  Educational   Association,  and 


AHIKL.  A.   WOODUIUDGE,  PH.D. 

conductor  of  teacher's  institutes  and  educa- 
tional lecturer  several  years.  He  has  been 
associate  editor  and  contributor  to  .some  of 
the  leading  periodicals  of  America.  In  1877 
he  took  a  voyage  to  tlie  coast  of  Africa  and 
spent  a  year  in  trade  and  travel.  Returning 
to  America  he  again  entered  the  education;il 
field,  in  whicli  work  he  continued  until  18S7, 
when  he  became  connected  with  a  large  pub- 
lisliing  iiouse  in  Boston.  As  a  lecturer  Mr. 
Woodbridge  has  gained  a  national  reputation. 
His  lectures  and  .sketches  of  travel  are  gen- 
erally enlivened  by  a  vein  of  humor,  and  are 
always  enjoyable. 


« 


SANDY'S  WILL. 
Wal,  the  boys  liave  gone  to  'Frisco,  .-ind  left 

me  on  the  dun) p. 
'Taint  their  fault,  fur  they  wanted  me  to  g'o; 
But  I  seemed  to  feel  as  ef  I  wanted  jest  about 

a  week 
To  listen  and  to  talk  to  I'Iikmm'  .loe. 


But  ef  anything-  should   happen    to    any  of 

them  pals, 
I  never  should  forgive  myself,  I  know; 
For  cribs  is  mighty  plenty  iu  that  city  full  uv 

sin, 
And  them  boys   kin    make   a   cyclone  think 

she's  slow. 

'Taint  es  1  am  any  better  jest  because  I  kep' 

the  ranch. 
An'  did'ut  go  to  Frisco  on  a  tear. 
I've  ben  thar  too,  an'  you  kin  bet  I'm  dealin' 

from  the  top. 
When  I  tell  ye  I  an'  Sandy  made  a  pair. 

Pizen  an' Indjans!  did'nt  we  have  — no,  that 

ain't  jest  the  thing, 
Poor  Sandy's  off  his  roost,  an'  you  kin  swar. 
That  when  a  feller's   planted,   I  ain't  givin' 

him  away. 
Especially  when  he  alius  dealt  'em  squar. 

'Twas  a  Sunday  mornin',  jest  like  this  when 
Siindy  quit  the  game, 

An'  everytliing  was  quiet  as  the  dead. 

An' a  shower  er  g-old-dust  could'nt  er  beat 
the  sunshine  as  it  dropped. 

Through  the  scrub-oak  leaves  awigglin'  over- 
head. 

All  on  sudden,  Sandy  sez,— sez  he,  "Old  pard, 
come  here." 

He'd  ben  rastlin'  witli  a  fever  more'n  a  week. 

An'  this  mornin'  artersunnin  he'd  been  actiu' 
kind  er  queer; 

It  had  ben  two  days  he  had'nt  tried  to  speak. 

Sez  he,  "Old  pard,  I'm  goin'— I  sliall  break 

camp  'fore  an  hour. 
There,  jest  shet  down  that   wood    mill,    and 

don't  fuss. 
I'm  dyin'— that's  tlie  English  on't,   an'  one 

thing  I  must  tell 
Afore  the  boys  git  'round  to  raise  a  muss." 


THE  IMMOitTAL. 

Ever-living  snow-capped  Sierra! 

Ever-living?  or  everlasting? 

Is  it  living?  or  is  it  lasting? 

Pan  me  the  truth  and  throw  over  the  error. 

Wintry-locked  seer!    Are  you  eternal? 

No?   "What    am    I    tlien'?"    Once    you   were 

youlliful. 
Come,  now,  let's  reason.    Let  us  be  truthful. 
Read  me   the   rock-records   locked   in    yoni- 

joui'iial. 
Leaf  after  leaf,  to  the  l)irlhday—  the  vernal, 
Back  through  the  roll  of  the  infinite  ages, 
Down  to  the  i>lastic,  the  single-word  pages 
Warm  from  the  womb  of   the    molten    mater- 


-« 


®- 


-® 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


369 


ELLA  ELVIRA  GIBSON. 

Born:  Winchendon,  Mass.,  May  8, 1821. 
During  the  early  part  of  the  late  war  Miss 
Gibson  was  engaged  in  organizing  soldiers' 
ladies  aid  societies  in  Wisconsin.  She  was 
connected  with  the  8th  Wis.  reg.  vols.,  known 
as  the  Live  Eagle  regiment  —  the  history  of 
the  eagle,  Old  Abe,  which  during  three  yeai-s 
shaii'd  the  foitiini'--  of  tlir  war,  is    familiar  to 


KLLA    KLNIKA    (ilBSl  ).\. 

the  public.  In  1864  she  was  elected  chaplain 
of  the  first  Wisconsin  heavy  artillery,  which 
was  stationed  in  Virginia  at  Fort  Lyon,  which 
duties  she  performed  until  the  close  of  the 
war.     She  has  delivered  numerous  lectures. 


fr 


THE  JUBILEE. 
From  Scotia's  frozen  region 

To  Texas'  burning  zone. 
Where  Afric's  swarthy  legion 

The  driver's  lash  have  known; 
From  many  a  flowing  river. 

From  many  a  cotton  plain, 
Tliey  call  us  to  deliver 

Their  land  from  slavery's  chain. 
What  though  the  balmy  breezes 

Blow  soft  o'er  southern  soil. 
Though  every  prospect  pleases. 

The  slave  must  sweat  and  toil. 
In  vain  with  lavish  kindness. 

The  gifts  of  God  are  strewn, 
The  master,  in  his  blindness. 

Sells  muscle,  brain  and  bone. 


Shall  we  by  Freedom  lighted. 

With  banners  floating  liigh. 
Shall  we  to  slaves  benighted 

A  freeman's  rights  deny? 
O  shout  Emancipation, 

The  jubilee  proclaim 
Till  earth's  remotest  nation. 

Has  heard  Abe  Lincoln's  name! 
Waft,  waft,  ye  winds,  the  story. 

And  you,  ye  waters,  roll. 
Tin,  like  a  .sea  of  glory. 

It  spreads  from  pole  to  pole ; 
Till  o'er  our  ransomed  nation 

The  Flag  of  Freedom  wave. 
And  slavery,  wrong,  oppression, 

Find  one  eternal  grave. 

THE  STAR  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 
O,  what  to  me  is  golden  treasure! 

O,  what  to  me  is  famed  renown  I 
O,  what  to  me  is  worldly  pleasure ! 

O,  what  to  me  is  beauty's  crown! 
For  thieves  may  steal  my  golden  treasure; 

And  tongues  may  blast  mj-  famed  renown— 
Or  death  may  end  my  worldly  pleasure. 

And  stars  may  faU  from  beauty's  crown. 
O,  this  shall  be  my  golden  treasure! 

O,  this  shall  be  my  famed  renown ! 
O,  this  shall  be  my  sweetest  pleasure! 

One  star  to  own  in  friendship's  crown ! 


REBECCA  INGERSOLL  DAVIS. 

Born:  East  Haverhill.  Mass.,  Dec.  15, 1828. 
Gleanings  from  Merrimac  Valley  is  a  neat 
little  volume  of  prose  and  verse  from  the  pen 
of  this  lady.  She  is  still  a  resident  of  the  place 
of  her  birth,  where  she  is  well  known  and  ad- 
mired, not  only  for  lier  literary  standing,  but 
also  for  her  pleasant  and  graceful  ways. 

BRIDAL  HYMN  FOR  A  PUPIL. 

Crown,  O  crown  the  bride  with  flowers,— 

Pluck  the  rose  and  lily  fair; 
Seek  ye  'mid  the  fairest  bowers. 

Orange  blossoms  for  her  hair? 
Youth  upon  licr  brow  is  smiling. 

And  her  heart  is  light  and  free. 
Beating  high  with  expectation. 

Of  bright  days  she  hopes  to  see. 
Now  before  the  altar  kneeling. 

Sealed  on  earth  the  marriage  vow; 
Quickly  borne  to  Heaven's  record, 

Lol  the  angel  writes  it  now. 
May  those  vows  so  pure  and  sacred. 

Bind  forever  heart  to  heart; 
In  sucli  lasting,  blest  communion. 

As  stern  death  alone  shall  part. 
And  when  earthly  scenes  have  faded. 

May  they  re-unite  above. 
Where  fond  ties  are  never  severed. 

In  that  Home  of  peace  and  love! 


© 


® 


-* 


360 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


MRS.  ELLEN  JAKEMAN. 

Born  :  Beavek,  Utah,  March  7, 1859. 
The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  in  the 
Womau's  Journal,  Western  Galaxy  and  the 
periodical  press  generally,  and  in  1887  Mrs. 
Jalieman  published  The   Border  Scout,  a  long- 


SB 


DELUSIONS. 
A  little  mniden  witli  wind-hlown  hair. 

Was  strayins'  'lone  on  a  summer  beach. 
She  saw  a  sliell  like  a  jewel  rare. 

Slow  swept  by  wavelets  out  of  her  reach. 
Tiie  waves  swept  in,  and  tlie  waves  swept  out. 

Among-  the  rocks  where  it  found  a  home. 
And  softly  floated  the  sliell  about; 

The  mai-gin  bordered  with  pearls  of  foam. 
She  viewed  the  treasure  with  longing-  eyes; 

A  shell  .so  love)y  is  seldom  seen ; 
It  had  the  tinting-s  of  rainbowod  skies. 

In  crimson,  violet,  g-old  and  green. 
For  hours  she  strayed  with  joy  unfeig-ned. 

To  gather  shells  from  the  sliining- sand; 


None  lovely  seemed  but  the  one  ungained. 

She  threw  them  down  with  a  careless  hand. 
She  bared  her  feet  to  the  cutting-  sand. 

The  water  cold  that  she  dreaded  more. 
And  seized  the  shell  with  an  eager  hand. 

And  brine-bespattered  she  sought  the  shore. 
Delusive  water!  delusive  light! 

For  ashen  dim  in  her  palm  it  lay. 
The  beauty  vanished,  but  now  so  bright, 

She  flung  it  with  deep  disgust  away. 
Soft  came  the  chime  of  the  vesper  bells. 

In  minor  strains  sang  the  restless  sea; 
She  blithely  sought  her  discarded  shells. 

And  homeward  went  o'er  the  grassy  lea. 
I  bitterly  said:  "Is  my  life  like  this?" 

I  cast  all  treasures  of  youth  away, 
I  bartered  mj'  soul  for  a  dream  of  bliss, 

Whose  roseate  hues  turned  dim  and  gray. 
'Tis  thus,  yet  not  like  the  child  at  play. 

If  false,  love  dooms  us  to  endless  pain; 
The  treasures  of  youth  once  thrown  away. 

We  may  not  gather  them  up  again. 


MRS.  Elil.EN  .7AKEMAN.   . 

story  in  verse.  Slie  is  the  wife  of  J.  T.  Jake- 
man,  editor  of  the  Home  Sentinel,  of  which 
publication  Mrs.  Jakeman  is  assistant-editor. 
She  is  president  of  the  Woman's  Sufl'rage  As- 
sociation for  San  Pete  county,  and  has  filled 
other  positions  with  great  credit.  She  still  re- 
sides in  her  native  state  at  Nanti. 


A  SONNET. 
Could  I  but  read  the  heart  of  him  I  love. 
And  claim  the  half  of  every  secret  thought, 
Or  as  a  white  dove  folds  its  wings  above 
The  little  nest  its  tenderness  hath  wrought; 
Might  my  love  compass  him  by  night  and 

day. 
And   that  dark   hour  when    God   seems  far 

away. 
Could  I  but  drink  from  lips  I  love  too  well 
The  wine  of  life,  for  which  I  faint  and  thirst. 
No  song  of  earth  my  holy  bliss  could  tell. 
Sorrow    and   death,   defied,    might   do   their 

worst; 
Like  Bethel's  radiant  star  that  love  should  be 
To  light  the  dark  road  to  eternity. 
Thought,  heart  and  soul  bows  to  this  love  of 

mine, 
I  wonder  what  must  be  a  love  divine! 


EXTRACT. 
I  saw  you  smile  once,  when  I  .sought  to  prove, 
Through  logic's  chosen  channels,  that. .True 

Love  " 
And  ..Happiness"  identical  might  be, 
1  saw  you  smile  indulgently  on  me. 
As  at  some  favored  child's  (juaint  vagaries. 
Perhaps  you  marvel  —  one  who  ne'er  express- 
ed, 
Sliould  ever  keep  Love's  image  in  her  l)reast. 
Years  gone,  I  dreamed,  upon  a  cloud  afloat, 
A  pearl  encrusted,  fragrant,  fairy  boat, 
I  met  Love's  self  in  sweet  immortal  guise. 
__ ® 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


361 


-% 


N.  J.  CLODFELTER. 

Born:  Alamo,  Ind.,  Dec.  14, 1852. 

N.  J.  Clodfeltek,  the  Wabash  Poet,  and  au- 
thor of  Early  Vanities,  Snatched  from  the 
Poorliouse.  etc.,  was  from  his  youtli  a  boy 
of  strong  hope,  vivid  inuigiuation,  and  a  great 
lover  and  close  observer  of  nature,  but  pecu- 
liarly averse  to  farm  life.  He  became  au  ear- 
ly and  careful  student  of  ancient  history, 
biography    and  poetry,  and  read  with  deep 


©- 


N.  J.  CLODFELTER. 

interest  and  much  care  all  the  most  promi- 
nent poetical  works  of  ancient  and  modern 
times.  Mr.  Clodfelter  commenced  his  efforts 
at  poetic  writing  when  a  mere  boy,  many  of 
his  shorter  poems  having  been  written  when 
between  the  age  of  thirteen  and  seventeen. 
His  first  volume  of  poems  was  published  in 
1886,  and  has  met  with  a  very  large  sale. 
Snatched  from  the  Poorhouse,  a  prose  work, 
has  also  been  received  with  great  favor,  the 
sales  of  this  book  alone  having  reached  ncarlj' 
one  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  copies.  J'rom 
the  sale  of  his  works  he  has  erected  a  beauti- 
ful home,  known  as  Knoll  Cottage,  on  a  high 
knoll  in  the  city  of  Crawfordsville,  Ind.,  at  a 
cost  of  nearly  .$30,000,  where  he  now  resides, 
and  which  in  1889  was  visited  by  death,  and 
cruelly  took  from  him  his  pretty  and  accom- 
plished little  wife  Cinderilla.the  star  and  light 
of  his  beautiful  home. 


SPIRITS  OF  THE  STOKM. 

Roll,  thunders,  roll! 
On  the  cold  mist  of  the  night. 
As  I  watch  the  streaming  light, 
Lurid,  blinking  in  the  south. 
Like  a  mighty  serpent's  mouth 

Spitting  fire. 
Peal  on  peal,  the  thunder's  crashing. 
And  the  streaming  liglitning's  flashuig. 
Like  great  giants  coming  o'er  us. 
Dancing  to  the  distant  chorus. 
In  their  ire. 

Sowing  Are, 
From  the  wild  sky  higher,  higher, 
While  the  heaving  angry  motion. 
Of  a  great  aerial  Ocean, 
Dashes  cloud-built  ships  asunder. 
As  the  distant  coming  thunder 

Bolls,  rolls,  rolls. 
And  shakes  the  great  earth  to  the  poles. 

Roll,  thunders,  roll! 
You  awake  my  sleeping  soul. 
To  see  the  war  in  rage  before  me, 
And  its  dreadful  menace  o'er  me, 
Lightning, 

Brightening. 
Flashing, 
Dasliing; 
Thunders  booming  in  the  distance, 
Till  the  earth  seems  in  resistance 
To  the  navies  sailing  higher. 
O'er  the  wild  clouds  dropping  fire; 
And  there  he  comes!  the  wing'd  horse  comes. 

Beneath  great  Jove  whose  mighty  arms 
Hurl  thunder-bolts,  and  heaven  drums 

Her  awful  roll  of  sad  alarms: 
He  stamps  the  clouds,  and  onward  prances. 
As  from  him  the  wild  lightning  glances; 

By  his  neigh  the  world  is  shaken. 
And  his  hoof  so  fleetly  dances 
That  the  lightning's  overtaken, 
And  he  feeds  upon  its  blazing 
Shafts,  as  if  he  were  but  grazing; 
Stops,  paws  the  clouds  beneath  his  form, 
Then  gallops  o'er  the  raging  storm; 
Flies  on !  his  long  disheveled  mane. 
Streams  wildly  through  the  leaden  plane 

Of  the  dull  skies. 
The  while  the  drapery  of  the  clouds, 
Wraps  this  spirit  as  in  shrouds, 
Our  darting  eyes 
In  vague  surprise 
Arise, 
And  trace  the  wandering  course 
Of  heaven's  fleet-foot  winged  horse! 

Roll,  thunders,  roll! 
As  lightnings  in  the  arching  scroll, 
Streak  the  heavens  in  their  flight 
By  their  dazzling  flow  of  light; 
While  old  Neptune,  all  alone. 
Is  sitting  on  his  mountain  throne. 


* 


« 


-* 


360 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  ELLEN  JAKEMAN. 

Born:  Beaver,  Utah,  March  7, 1859. 
The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  iu  the 
Woman's  Journal,  Western  Galaxy  and  the 
periodical  press  generally,  and  iu  1887  Mrs. 
Jakeman  published  The   Border  Scout,  a  long- 


MRS.  EI.I,I;N  .lAKEMAN. 

story  in  verse.  Siie  is  the  wife  of  J.  T.  Jake- 
man,  editor  of  the  Home  Sentinel,  of  winch 
publication  Mrs.  Jakeman  is  assistant-editor. 
She  is  president  of  the  Woman's  Sutfrage  As- 
sociation for  San  Pete  county,  and  has  filled 
other  positions  witli  great  credit.  She  still  re- 
sides in  lier  native  state  at  Nanti. 


DELUSIONS. 
A  little  maiden  with  wind-blown  hair. 

Was  straying  'lone  0!i  a  summer  beach. 
She  saw  a  sliell  like  a  jewel  rare. 

Slow  swept  by  wavelets  out  of  her  reach. 
The  waves  swept  in,  and  the  waves  swept  out. 

Among  the  rocks  wiiere  it  found  a  home. 
And  softly  floated  the  shell  about-; 

The  margin  bordered  wiUi  pearlsof  foam. 
She  viewed  the  treasure  witli  longing  eyes; 

A  shell  so  lovely  is  seldom  seen ; 
It  had  the  tintings  of  rainbowed  skies, 

In  crimson,  violet,  gold  and  green. 
For  hours  she  strayed  with  joy  unfeigned. 

To  gatiier  shells  from  the  sinning  sand; 


None  lovely  seemed  but  the  one  ungained. 

She  threw  them  down  with  a  careless  hand. 
She  bared  her  feet  to  the  cutting  sand. 

The  water  cold  that  she  dreaded  more. 
And  seized  the  sliell  with  an  eager  hand. 

And  brine-bespattered  she  sought  the  shore. 
Delusive  water!  delusive  light! 

For  ashen  dim  iu  her  palm  it  lay. 
The  beauty  vanished,  but  now  so  bright. 

She  flung  it  with  deep  disgust  away. 

Soft  came  the  chime  of  the  vesper  bells, 
In  minor  strains  sang  the  restless  sea; 

She  blithely  sought  her  discarded  shells. 
And  homeward  went  o'er  the  grassy  lea. 

1  bitterly  said:  "Is  mj'  life  like  this?" 

I  cast  all  treasures  of  youth  away, 
I  bartered  my  soul  for  a  dream  of  bliss. 

Whose  roseate  hues  turned  dim  and  gray. 
'Tis  tlius,  yet  not  like  the  child  at  play, 

If  false,  love  dooms  us  to  endless  pain; 
The  treasures  of  youth  once  thrown  away. 

We  maj-  not  gather  them  up  again. 


4P 
I 


A  SONNET. 
Could  I  but  read  the  heart  of  him  I  love. 
And  claim  the  half  of  every  secret  thought, 
Or  as  a  white  dove  folds  its  wings  above 
The  little  nest  its  tenderness  hath  wrought; 
Might  my  love  compass  him  by  night  and 

day. 
And   that  dark   hour  when    God   seems  far 

away. 
Could  I  but  drink  from  lips  I  love  too  well 
The  wine  of  life,  for  which  I  faint  and  thirst. 
No  song  of  earth  my  holy  bliss  could  tell. 
Sorrow    and   death,   defied,    might   do   their 

worst ; 
Like  Bethel's  radiant  star  that  love  should  be 
To  light  the  dark  road  to  eternity. 
Thought,  heart  and  soul  bows  to  this  love  of 

mine, 
I  wonder  what  must  be  a  love  divine! 


© 


EXTRACT. 
I  saw  you  smile  once,  when  I  sought  to  prove. 
Through  logic's  chosen  channels,  that  .'True 

Love  '* 
And  "Happiness"  identical  might  be, 
I  saw  you  smile  indulgently  <in  me, 
As  at  some  favored  child's  quaint  vagaries. 
Perhaps  yini marvel  —one  wlio  ne'er  express- 

e<l. 
Should  ever  keep  Love's  image  in  her  breast. 
Yeats  gone,  1  dreamed,  upon  a  cloud  afloat, 
A  pearl  encrusted,  fragrant,  fairy  boat, 
I  met  Love's  self  in  sweet  immortal  guise. 
-® 


a&- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


361 


-® 


N,  J.CLODFELTER. 

Born:  Alamo,  Ind.,  Dec.  14,  1852. 

N.  J.  Clodfelter,  the  Wabash  Poet,  and  au- 
thor of  Earlj-  Vanities.  Snatched  from  the 
Poorhovise,  etc.,  was  from  his  youth  a  boy 
of  strong  hope,  vivid  imagination,  and  a  great 
lover  and  close  observer  of  nature,  but  pecu- 
liarly averse  to  farm  life.  He  became  an  ear- 
ly and  careful  student  of  ancient  history, 
biography    and  poetry,  and  read  with  deep 


©- 


N.  J.  CLODFELTER. 

interest  and  much  care  all  the  most  promi- 
nent poetical  works  of  ancient  and  modern 
times.  Mr.  Clodfelter  commenced  his  efforts 
at  poetic  writing  when  a  mere  boy,  many  of 
his  shorter  poems  ha\nng  been  written  when 
between  the  age  of  thirteen  and  seventeen. 
His  first  volume  of  poems  was  published  in 
1886,  and  has  met  with  a  very  large  sale. 
Snatched  from  the  Poorhouse,  a  prose  work, 
has  also  been  received  with  great  favor,  the 
sales  of  this  book  alone  having  reached  nearlj- 
one  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  copies.  From 
the  sale  of  his  works  he  has  erected  a  beauti- 
ful home,  known  as  Knoll  Cottage,  on  a  high 
knoll  in  the  city  of  Crawfordsville,  Ind.,  at  a 
cost  of  nearly  $20,000,  where  he  now  resides, 
and  which  in  1889  was  visited  by  death,  and 
cruelly  took  from  him  his  pretty  and  accom- 
plished little  wife  Cinderilla,the  star  and  light 
of  his  beautiful  home. 


SPIRITS  OF  THE  STORM. 
Roll,  thunders,  roll! 
On  the  cold  mist  of  the  night. 
As  I  watch  the  streaming  light. 
Lurid,  blinking  in  the  south. 
Like  a  mighty  serpent's  mouth 

Spitting  flre. 
Peal  on  peal,  the  thunder's  crashing. 
And  the  streaming  lightning's  flashing. 
Like  great  giants  coming  o'er  us. 
Dancing  to  the  distant  chorus, 
In  their  ire. 

Sowing  fire. 
From  the  wild  sky  higher,  higher, 
While  the  heaving  angry  motion. 
Of  a  great  aerial  Ocean, 
Dashes  cloud-built  ships  asunder. 
As  the  distant  coming  thunder 

Rolls,  rolls,  rolls. 
And  shakes  the  great  earth  to  the  poles. 

Roll,  thunders,  roll! 
Xou  awake  my  sleeping  soul. 
To  see  the  war  in  rage  before  me. 
And  its  dreadful  menace  o'er  me. 
Lightning, 

Brightening. 
Flashing, 
Dashing; 
Thunders  booming  in  the  distance. 
Till  the  earth  seems  in  resistance 
To  the  navies  sailing  higher. 
O'er  the  wild  clouds  dropping  flre; 
And  there  he  comes!  the  wing'd  horse  comes. 

Beneath  great  Jove  whose  mighty  arms 
Hurl  thunder-bolts,  and  heaven  drums 

Her  awful  roll  of  sad  alarms: 
He  stamps  the  clouds,  and  onward  prances. 
As  from  him  the  wild  lightning  glances; 

By  his  neigh  the  world  is  shaken. 
And  his  hoof  so  fleetly  dances 
That  the  lightning's  overtaken. 
And  he  feeds  upon  its  blazing 
Shafts,  as  if  he  were  but  grazing; 
Stops,  paws  the  clouds  beneath  his  form. 
Then  gallops  o'er  the  raging  storm; 
Flies  on  !  his  long  disheveled  mane. 
Streams  wildly  through  the  leaden  plane 

Of  the  dull  skies. 
The  while  the  drapery  of  the  clouds, 
Wraps  this  spirit  as  in  shrouds. 
Our  darting  eyes 
In  vague  surprise 
Arise, 
And  trace  the  wandering  course 
Of  heaven's  fleet-foot  winged  horse! 

Roll,  thunders,  roll! 
As  lightnings  in  the  arching  scroll. 
Streak  the  heavens  in  their  flight 
By  their  dazzling  flow  of  light: 
While  old  Neptune,  all  alone. 
Is  sitting  on  his  mountain  throne. 


—  © 


©- 


362 


LOCAL   AXD   NATIONAL    POETS   OK  AMERICA. 


-S 


«- 


O'er  the  sea. 
In  a  mood  so  lonelj-,  he 
Thrusts  his  trident  by  his  side. 

With  such  force  that  the  great  mountain 
Opens  a  deep  cavern  wide. 

And  bursts  forth  a  living-  fountain 
Sparkling- with  its  silvery  tide; 
And  the  Nereids,  fifty  strong, 
To  the  water's  babbling  song. 
Like  fairy  wands 
From  Neptune's  hands 
Sally  from  this  cavern  wide. 
Sailing  o'er  the  gray  cold  rocks. 
With  their  fairy  rainbow  locks, 
Down  upon  the  water's  brim, 
Either  way  the  surface  skim. 
Till  their  taper'd  fingers'  tips 
Gently  in  the  water  dips; 
Then  beneath  the  raging  skies 
Neptune  in  his  chariot  flies 

O'er  the  sea. 
With  his  trident  in  liis  hand, 
In  a  bearing  of  command. 
Fitting  to  liis  majesty. 

He  calls  to  his  daughters 
To  quit  the  wild  waters,— 
He  calls  but  they  heed  not  his  word: 
Then  his  trident  he  hurls 
At  his  sea-nymph  girls. 
But  the  truants  —  they  flee  from  their  lord. 
Unto  the  clouds  they  go 
In  the  whirlwinds  of  the  storm, 
Arethusa  leads  the  way 
Wheresoe'er  the  winds  may  blow. 
She  lithely  moves  her  graceful  form 
As  if  she  would  herself  survey. 
And  then  she  rides  the  southern  wind 

And  bids  her  sisters  follow. 
And  leave  old  Neptune  far  behind. 
Lord  of  his  mountain  hollow,— 
To  nurse  his  wrath 
And  tread  his  path. 
And  curse  his  fairy  daughters, — 
These  mountain  elves 
That  freed  tiiemselves 
From  the  lord  of  ocean's  waters. 
He  grasped  a  trident  in  his  hand 
That  mystic  rose  at  his  command. 
And  wildly  blew  till  the  great  ocean 

Trembled  like  an  aspen-tree, 
And  winds  that  were  in  wild  commotion. 

Whirling  tlirough  immensity, 
He'd  by  his  magic  art  control 
And  gather  in  a  secret  scroll 
And  hurl  them  at  his  Dorian  daughters 
O'er  the  heaving  angry  waters. 
Till  the  growling  thunders  roll. 
Giving  spleen  to  Neptune's  .soul 
As  he  .sees  them  dart  through  air. 
Daughters  fifty,  all  so  fair. 

Free  from  the  Ionian  Sea, 


Designed  to  be 
Their  destiny. 
EoU,  thunders,  roll! 
Till  the  many  church-bells  toll 

Once  in  unity. 
Touched  by  the  enchanting  wand 

Of  his  majesty. 
Who's  arbiter  of  sea  and  land. 
And  marks  each  destiny. 
But  there! 

The  fair-faced  nymphs  of  air. 
Metamorphosed  from  the  Dorian  sea, 
O'er  the  waters. 
Lovely  daughters. 
Through  the  misty  clouds  they  flee. 
Their  fairy  forms 
Float  o'er  the  storms 
So  swift  and  magic'ly 

That   on   the   wings  of  the  long  streaming 
flashes 
They  ride,  and  they  dance  their  delight, 
Wear  crowns  of  electrical  dashes, 
And  bask  in  their  dazzling  light. 
Where  the  deep-voiced  thunder  peals  louder, 
And  the  long  sheeted  lightnings  play  fast, 
We  see  them  peep  through  the  dark  cloud,  or 

Ride  off  on  a  sulphurous  blast. 
When  the  storm  to  its  fullness  is  raging. 

And  all  Nature  at  war  seems  to  be, 
Tlie  cloud-sphere  is  then  more  engaging 

To  them  than  a  wild  breaking  sea. 
But  now  the  growling,  rolling,  grumbling, 
Thunders  in  the  distance  mumbling, 
Fainter,  fainter,  dying,  dying. 
And  the  lightning  dimmer  flying, 
O'er  the  dark  cloud  westward  lying. 
As  the  morning  in  her  glory 
Bursts  forth  like  an  ancient  story,— 
The  while  the  resting  suiibpams  light 
On  this  dark  cloud  of  the  night. 
And  the  arching  rainbow's  given 
To  the  spirit- forms  of  heaven. 
In  a  moment  unrolled 
In  its  pinions  of  gold. 
And  quick  as  its  birth 
It  o'ercircles  the  earth: 
And  there  the  spirits  of  the  storms 
Sit  and  rest  their  weary  forms. 


EXTRACTS  FKOM  ..  SIOUSKA." 
Their  trysting  place,  their  trysting  place. 

Adown  V)eneath  ths  slanting  hill. 
Where  weaving  ivies  interlace 

With  creeping  vines  above  the  rill. 
And  reeds  and  flowers  grow  down  beneath 
And  deck  the  wild  and  glowing  heath. 

And  vipers  rustle  in  the  weeds. 
As  antler'd  deer  leap  by  with  grace. 

And  panthers  prowling  thi'o'  the  reeds. 
Are  welcomed  to  their  trysting  place. 
© 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


363 


-® 


She  feeis  a  kiss  upon  her  lips, 
A  pressure  of  her  flug-er  tips, 
In  sweet  compassion ;  is  lier  mind, 
Though  peopled  with  such  thoughts  re- 
fined, 
In  a  deep  rhapsody,  while  keeps 
Tlie  hawthorn's  vigil  as  she  sleeps 
So  placidly?  — 

The  pretty  water-lilies  bloom 
Amid  the  flag  and  knotted  weeds 

So  purely  white,  like  rays  of  light 
Thej'  sliine  among  the  tangled  reeds. 


DANCE  ON  THE  LETHE. 

EXTRACTS. 

Roared  the  River,  clashed  the  bones. 
Chimed  the  harps  in  softer  tones. 
Every  sound  was  in  its  place. 
Every  fairy  moved  with  grace, 
Not  a  discord  broke  the  spell. 
All  was  music  in  the  dell: 

Some  would  wake,  and  some  would  sleep. 
Some  would  dance,  and  some  would  weep. 
Some  would  laugh,  and  some  would  cry. 
Some  would  sob,  and  some  would  sigh; 

Roared  the  Styx  in  thunder  tones; 
Beat  the  water  with  their  bones. 
Every  crash,  and  gentle  chime. 
Kept  within  its  proper  time. 


»- 


PLEASURES  OF  HOME. 

EXTR.\CTS. 

Oh !  sweet  days  of  romping  childhood. 
Oh!  the  Httle  ills  of  childhood. 
Each  day  turns  its  written  pages. 
Turns  them  gently  out  of  sight,  then 
Folds  them  down  in  logic  order. 
To  remain  in  dusty  covers. 
For  the  age  of  meditation. 
Down  this  deep  dark  vale  of  silence, 
Hands  will  gently  rise  before  us. 
There  to  point  the  weary  traveler. 
Backward  o'er  the  path  he's  traveled:— 
Oh!  the  golden  thought,  if  golden; 
Oh!  the  gloomy  thoughts,  if  gloomy; 
Will  still  follow,  onward,  onward, 
Down  the  valley  dark  or  golden. 
As  the  light  or  shade  behind  us. 
That  we  made  to  follow  onward, 
In  the  footsteps  left  behind  us. 
Let  me  live  within  the  sunshine 
Of  the  loved  ones  in  my  cottage. 
Where  hearts  flutter  with  winged  joy. 
When  my  step  is  heard  approaching;— 
Home,  oh !  home !  the  sweetest  harbor. 
For  the  weary  soul  to  rest  in ; 
Where  is  treasured  love  and  joy. 
Peace  and  honor,  born  of  heaven, 
All  uniting  into  pleasure. 


THRENODY. 
And  I  have  sung  in  vain  so  long, 

I  scarce  can  feel  new  courage  ri.se. 
The  wealth  of  soul  I've  giv'n  to  song. 

Still  to  my  sorrow  multiplies: 
I  know  not  why  I've  sung  in  vain. 

For  in  my  breast  I've  felt  the  power, 
Of  poesy  swell  up  again. 

And  blossom  in  a  lonely  hour;— 
The  hope  I've  nursed  within  my  breast, 

Is  now  of  doubtful  mien  and  cast;— 
The  Are  is  smothered,  and  oppressed. 

That  glows  spontaneous  to  the  last. 


PURITY. 
Where  is  the  maid  so  chaste  and  pure. 

That  virtue  firmly  blends  with  grace, 
And  honor  binds  herself  secure, 

Above  a  ruined,  fallen  race? 
'Tis  not  —  oh,  no,—  the  vain  coquette, 

Whose  roguish  eye  is  steeped  with  woe, 
And  sober  mien  a  woven  net. 

To  catch  some  ti-iste  or  silly  beau. 
'Tis  not  the  flirt  who  steals  your  heart. 

And  in  return  gives  hers  forever. 
Then  steals  it  back  by  cunning  art. 

And  leaves  you  love's  strong  cords  to  sever, 
'lis  not  the  one  whose  painted  cheeks 

Are  powdered  up  and  crimsoned  red. 
Who  primps  her  mouth  up  when  she  speaks. 

Till  words  seem  fast  within  her  liead. 
'Tis  not  the  handsome  giddy  jilt. 

That  by  superior  charm  allures 
Whose  very  conscience  aches  with  guilt. 

And  g-uilt  itself  her  soul  insures. 
'Tis  not  the  quaint  loquacious  maid. 

Whose  flattering  tongue  inclines  to  move 
In  language  that  true  hearts  evade. 

And  virtue  never  can  approve. 
It  is  the  maid  whose  potent  mind. 

Stands  zealously  at  virtue's  test, 
Whose  inmost  being  is  refined. 

And  purity  her  soul's  bequest. 


INTRODUCTORY  ACROSTIC  SONNET. 
Naught  this  volume  have  I  penn'd  for  praise 
Or  condemnation,  and  I  shall  disclaim 
All  early  expectations  of  a  name; 
However,  plea.sant  hours  in  early  days 
Came  to  me  as  I  wrote  these  simple  lays. 
Lost  in  the  labyrinthine  bowers,  or  shame 
Of  poesy,  it  matters  not  —  there  came 
Despondency  to  greet  me,  and  the  plays. 
For  sporting  childhood,  had  no  charm  for  me. 
Enough  to  know,  then,  why  I  wrote  to  kill 
Long  time  that  drags  me  on  against  my  will, 
To  the  dark  brink  of  vast  eternity, 
Encompass'd  by  oblivion's  silence,  still 
Retiring  in  the  vale  of  Lethe's  hill. 


© 


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364: 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  FOMTS  OF^iUSKiCA. 


-* 


CLINTON    LYSANDER   LUCE. 

Born:  Stowe,  Vt.,  Sept.  28, 1854. 
At  the  age  of  eigliteen  Cliut  left  home,  his 
mother  having  died  tlie  same  year,  and  went 
to  Minnesota,  near  Albert  Lea,  making  his 
home  with  an  uncle.  He  never  admired  farm- 
ing as  an  occupation,  and  consequently  em 
braced  an  early  opportunity  to  attend  the 
high  school  of  Albert  Lea  and  fit  hmiself  for 
teaching,  which  calling,  coupled  with  farming, 
he  pursued  until  the  autumn  of  1878  when  he 


SB 


CLINTON   LVSANDER   LUCE. 

entered  the  office  of  the  Freeborn  County 
Standard.  In  1882  he  became  attached  to  the 
Albert  Lea  Enterprise  in  tlie  capacity  of  asso- 
ciate editor,  and  in  July  of  the  ne.\t  year  he 
succeeded  to  a  half  interest  in  that  paper,  and 
still  holds  the  position  of  editor  and  proprietor 
jointly  Willi  Hon.  M.  Halvorsen.  Mr.  Luce 
enjoys  studying  literature, ancient  mythology 
and  medicine,  and  writes  more  for  other  pub- 
lications than  liis  own,  both  in  prose  and  verse. 

DREAMS. 
I  dream  of  days  now  long  forever  fled  — 

A  time  when  life  was  <>arnest,  real  and  true. 
Before  the  liope  of  happiness  was  dead; 

Before  life's  sorrows  tilled  my  heart  anew 
Witli  fleeting  fancies —  wishes  never  gained— 
Thougli  oft  they  seemed  close  to  my  eager 
grasp; 
Ambition  lured  to  heights  I  ne'er  attained. 


To  friends  whose  hands  I  always   failed  to 
clasp. 

I  often  dream  of  days  that  now  are  here. 

Of  hopes  that  urge  me  on  my  toilsome  way ; 
Of  stars  that  shine,my  wayward  path  to  cheer, 

Up  to  the  realms  of  longed-for  famed  day. 
The  more  I  strive  the  farther  off  it  seems  — 

This  goal  for  which  I  vainly  dream  and  hope, 
The  sun  obscured  —  to  me  it  hides  its  beams  — 

While  I  in  doubt  my  rayless  pathway  grope. 
Then  I  have  dreams  of  life  not  yet  begun. 

Hidden  away  in  years  —  long  years  —  to  be. 
On  wheels  of  life  —  where  golden  threads  are 
spun 

When  toil  is  done  —  the  weary  spirit  free. 
This  dream  is  one  I  fain  would  realize; 

To  prove  that  life  is  not  quite  all  in  vain. 
But  if  it  reaches  far  l:)eyond  the  skies  — 

Before    death    comes  —  oh,  let  me   dream 
again. 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 
How  deep  our  vigils  or  how  flow  our  tears. 
Is  not  determined  by  the  length  of  years 
We  live  —  and  living  find  how  false  a  friend 
Can    be.    'T  is  thus  we  find  the  world  does 
trend. 

Who  lives  for  friendship  lives  not  wise  or  well, 
He  j'et  will  live  to  hear  its  funeral  knell. 


A  ONCE  FAMILIAR  FOOTFALL. 
I  hear  a  footfall  on  the  stair  without. 

Ascending,  now,  how  loud  it  greets  mine 
ear, 
1  seek  to  know  the  owner  —  oh  the  doubt. 

That  fills  my  soul  with  anguish  and  with 
fear. 
How  long  that  stairway— step  by  step  I  hear 

Tliat  sound  once  so  famlliar.now  how  rare  — 
Upon  my  hearing  comes  the  sound  so  clear. 

It  seems  to  vibrate  heaven  and  earth  and 
air. 
But  list  the  top,  the  fatal  step  is  passed! 

It  comes!  My  doorway  close.  It  draweth  by! 
Be  still,  sad  heart !  The  world  that  is  so  vast 

Has  little  need  for  sorrow  or  its  sigh. 
My  door  is  reached— and  will  he  come  to  me  — 

And  take  the  diair  now  vacant  —  woe  be- 
tide— 
He  enters  not  —  that  I  should  live  to  see  — 

Him  pass  me  bj'  upon  the  otlierside. 
If  this  be  life  as  others  find,  I  swear, 

1  get  no  pleasure  frimi  the  useless  strife- 
There  is  no  hajjpiness  without  despair. 

In  every  lieart  I  find  tliat  woe  is  rife. 
And  so  for  footfalls  now  no  more  I  list. 

How  wt)rse  than  foolish  e'en  to  have  a  friend, 
I  close  my  heart  alike  to  one  and  all. 

And  to  the  world  no  coi"dial  greeting  send. 


•® 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


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365 


REV.  W.  AVERY  RICHx\RDS. 

Born:  Clyde,  Ohio,  Dec.  28,  1838. 
At  the  age  of  twenty-one  Mr.  Richards  en- 
tered the  ministry  of  the  Methodist  church, 
and  has  been  stationed  at  Dixon,  Prairie  City, 
Sioux  City,  Fort  Dodg-e,  Spirit  Lake  and  sev- 


AMiHY    HlLHAKli; 


eral  otlier  places  in  Iowa.  He  has  written 
poetry  more  as  a  pastime.  The  poems  of  the 
Rev.  Richards  have  appeared  in  the  leading 
christian  periodicals,  from  which  they  have 
been  extensively  copied  by  the  local  press. 


AUTUMNAL. 

Purple,  and  Green  and  Gold ! 
Lo!  the  year  is  growing- old. 
And  the  night-winds  cliill  the  dews 
Until  they  are  pale  with  cold ; 
New  tastes  old  trappings  refuse, 
And  the  groves  and  prairie  wide, 
And  landscapes  on  every  side. 
Are  donning  Autumnal  hues 
Of  Purple,  and  Green  and  Gold. 
Purple,  and  Green  and  Gold? 
'Tis  a  painter  skilled  and  bold 
That  is  touching  the  picture  fair; 
And  the  tints  he  is  seen  to  hold 
In  his  hand,  are  rich  and  rare. 
And  they  assume  a  Magic  place 
In  the  scene  he  deigns  to  grace. 
While  he  shades  it  here  and  there 
With  Purple,  and  Green  and  Gold. 
Purple,  and  Green  and  Gold ! 
There's  a  loveliness  untold 


SB- 


In  the  fading  grass  and  leaves. 

And  he  wlio  cannot  behold 

A  glad  beauty  here,  but  grieves 

At  Autumn's  change,  stands  aloof 

From  charms,  and  a  somber  woof 

In  life's  web  he  throws,  and  weaves 

No  Purple,  and  Green  and  Gold. 

Purple,  and  Green  and  Gold! 

The  buds  which  we  saw  unfold 

In  bursting  Spring,  spreading  wide 

Such  a  charm-spell  uncontrolled. 

But  ope'd  to  the  Autumn  tide— 

This  brighter,  maturer  stage 

Of  verdure,  and  foliage. 

And  of  fruits  now  glorified 

In  Purple,  and  Green  and  Gold. 

Purple,  and  Green  and  Gold! 

Oh !  when  we  are  growing  old. 

When  youth  and  the  ripening  prime 

Of  life  are  past,  and  the  cold. 

Cold  winds  shall  blow,  may  the  time 

Of  our  Autumnal  show 

A  moral  glory  bright,  and  glow 

In  colors  more  sublime 

Than  Purple,  and  Green  and  Gold. 


ANEMONE. 
Wind-flower,  blooming 
In  the  spring. 
Cosily, 
Gracefully  my  path  along, 
Thou  art  coming. 
And  I'll  sing  — 
List  to  me 
While  I  chant  a  welcome  song. 
Wrapped  in  slumber  — 
Fast  asleep  — 

Dreaming  they. 
All  besides  on  Nature's  breast  — 
All  the  number  — 
Vigils  keep 

Wind-flower  gay. 
Harbinger  of  all  the  rest. 
Tho'  a  tender. 
Fragile  thing. 
Ere  the  snow 
All  has  gone,  and  winter  cold — 
Strong  tho'  slender 
Up  you  spring. 
Quickly  grow. 
Then  thy  pretty  blooms  unfold. 

Thee  defending  — 
All  around 

(Queer  defence) 
Now  thy  downy  guard-leaves  stand; 
They  are  lending. 
With  profound 
Vigilance, 
All  the  aid  at  their  command. 


-® 


i^ 


366 


^ 


LOCAL   AND    NATIOXAL   POETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


MOODY  CURRIER. 

Bokn:  Boscawen,  N.  H.,  April  22,  1806. 
Graduating  in  1834  with  high  honors  from 
the  Dartmouth  college,  this  gentleman  has 
since  received  from  his  alma  mater  the  degree 
of  LL.D.  For  a  number  of  years  he  practiced 
law  at  Manchester,   X.  H..   and  since  1848  has 


® 


MOODY  CURRIER. 

been  a  prominent  banker.  Mr.  Cnrrier  was 
the  governor  of  his  state  in  1884  and  188.5 
and  has  filled  many  other  prominent  political 
positions.  In  1881  a  neat  volume  of  poems 
appeared  from  the  pen  of  this  gentlemen, 
entitled  Early  Poems,  which  has  had  a  wide 
sale  and  has  received  the  enconiums  of  the 
press  throughout  the  United  States. 

THE  ADIEU. 
Lady  mine,  I  need  not  tell  j'ou 

What  the  tears  of  anguish  spoke. 
When  my  fainting  eyes  beheld  you. 

As  they  gave  the  parting  look. 
In  my  bosom  then  were  swelling 

Feelings  such  as  none  can  tell. 
As,  with  tongue  and  heart  unwilling, 

Falt'riug  sighed  1,  .-Fare  thee  well." 
Not  my  native  land  forsaking. 

Where  my  infant  lot  was  cast. 
Where  a  thousand  scenes  awaken 

Thoughts  of  frii'nds  and  pleasures  past; 
Not  to  green  and  sunny  bowers. 

Where  my  childish  moments  flew; 
Not  to  pleasure,  scenes,  or  flowers, 

Weeping,  sighed  I  that  adieu. 


No,  'twas  not  companions  leaving; 

No,  'twas  not  the  sweets  of  home: 
Which  was  in  my  bosom  heaving, — 

'Twas  the  thoughts  of  thee  alone. 
Could  I  leave  thee,  vainly  striving 

To  conceal  what  sighs  might  tell? 
Not  without  the  keenest  anguish. 

Could  I  utter,  '•  Fare  thee  well." 


HOPE. 
Mary,  the  night  may  look  black 

With  clouds,  with  tempest  and  storm; 
But  hope  cheers  the  traveler's  track. 

With  the  speedy  approaches  of  morn. 
Mary,  the  shadows  of  woe 

May  threaten  to  burst  on  our  head; 
But  sweeter  the  transports  shall  flow, 

When  the  anguish  of  sorrow  is  fled. 
Mary,  misfortune  may  spread. 

O'er  the  prospects ot  youth,  itsdark  shroud; 
But  hope  in  its  brightness  will  shed 

Its  sweet  beams  of  joy  o'er  the  cloud. 
Marj-,  th'  affections  of  youth. 

And  the  soft  smile  of  friendship  maj-  die; 
But  hope,  like  the  fountains  of  truth. 

Flow  down  from  regions  on  high. 
Marj',  though  life,  like  a  flower. 

May  wither  and  fade  in  its  bloom; 
Hope  points  to  a  bright  sunnj'  bower. 

Through  shadows  that  hang  o'er  the  tomb. 


IF  I  WERE  A  CHILD. 
If  I  were  a  child  I'd  sport  and  play; 

I'd  rove  through  woods  and  fields; 
I'd  pluck  the  earliest  flowers  of  May, 

And  drink  the  sweets  they  yield. 
I'd  sit  by  the  side  of  the  babbling  brook. 

As  the  zephj-rs  passed  along; 
I'd  hide  in  the  alders'  shady  nook. 

And  mock  the  red-breast's  song. 
I'd  find  where  the  painted  rainbows  rise. 

And  chase  them  from  morn  till  noon: 
By  night  I'd  watch  at  the  fool  of  the  skies. 

And  catch  the  rising  moon. 
I'd  seek  where  the  sweetest  wild  flowers  blow; 

I'd  find  wliere  the  streamlets  run :        [grow. 
In  the  meadows  I'd  find  where  the  fox-gloves 

The  tall  wild  grass  among. 
I'd  make  me  wings  to  fly  in  the  air; 

I'd  rise  at  the  break  of  day. 
And  catch  the  larks  that  were  singing  there; 

And  drive  the  liawks  away. 
I'd  build  me  a  boat,  a  jolly  boat, 

.Vs  light  as  the  lightest  feather; 
And  on  the  dancing  waves  I'd  float 

In  the  briglit  and  sunny  weatlier. 
If-I  were  a  child  how  sweet  'twould  be 

To  prattle  atid  Inngli  and  play;  [knee. 

Then   at  eve  to  be  rocked  on  my  mother's 

And  sleep  my  cares  away. 


-m 


gB- 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


367 


REV.  JAMES   H.  EDWARDS. 

Born:  Columbus,  Ind.,  March  16, 1SJ9. 
Reared  on  a  farm,  James  coutiuued  on  it  un- 
til 1863,wht'n  he  entered  the  Union  army,  serv- 
ing- in  the  Army  of  the  Tennessee  about  three 
years.  He  then  went  to  school  and  taught  in 
the  schools  for  about  ten  years.  Afterward 
Mr.  Edwards  entered  the  ministry,  and  ever 
since  has  boon  ncti'V'oly  nicvijiT'd  in  it,  servitifr 


REV.  JAMES   H.  EDWARDS. 

some  of  tlie  prominent  churches  of  the  Dis- 
ciples in  Indiana  and  elsewhere.  In  1885  he 
received  a  call  to  a  cong-regation  in  the  city  of 
Melbourne,  Australia,  which  he  accepted  and 
served  for  thirteen  months.  Returning  home 
via  Adelaide  S.  A.,  Aden  in  Arabia,  Egypt, 
Italy,  England,  Ireland  and  New  York,  Mr. 
Edwards  thus  circumnavigated  the  globe. 


®- 


SYMPATHY. 

Who  can  hear  the  heaving  sigh, 

Wrung  from  hearts  forsaken; 
Watch  the  dimmy,  tear-set  eye. 

When  the  soul's  o'ertaken 
First  with  sorrow's  bitter  tide; 

See  the  .sets  of  jewel, 
That  upon  the  tear-paths  ride 

From  a  cause  so  cruel ; 
Hear  the  moans  that  cursed  shame 

Wrings  when  hearts  are  broken ; 
Witness  rising  up  the  flame 

Which  conscious  guilt  betoken ; 


And  feel  not  to  him  'tis  wrong. 

Shameful  wiong,  who,  turning 
Quick  away  with  soulless  song 

From  the  anguisli  burning. 
Careless  heeds  the  ruin  made, 

Feeling  naught  of  pity? 
Cold  the  heart  that  never  paid 

Debts  of  sun-lit  Sympathy ! 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 
Do  you  hear  tho.se  silver  chimes, 
Ringing  out  so  loud  and  clear! 
Yes;  'tis  merry  Christmas  times. 
Gayest  times  of  all  the  year: 
Cho.— For,  Happy  hearts  and  happy  voices 
Sing  the  songs  that  Christmas  brings ; 
And  every  little  one  rejoices 
Over  Santa  Claus'  things. 
Let  the  children  now  alone. 

Cheery  words  to  them  be  said. 
Blessed  joys  their  spirits  own. 

As  they  dance  in  happy  tread: 
Once  a  year  these  gladsome  scenes 

Bring  to  them  their  welcome  cheer. 
Drive  away  what  intervenes. 

If  it  mar  their  pleasures  dear: 
Be  one  day  in  every  year 

Consecrated  to  their  glee. 
Christmas  be  the  children's  cheer. 
Cheery  as  glad  cheer  can  be: 


BETTER  THAN  A  ROSE. 
A  little  rose  came  forth  one  day. 
And  blush'd  in  hues  of  early  morn; 
Its  odors  sweet  were  borne  away. 
Where  lay  one  feeble  and  forlorn. 

Its  beauty  made  the  spirit  glad. 
And  help'd  to  cheer  a  lonely  hour; 
Its  fragrance  sooth'd  away  the  sad 
And  dreary  gloom  with  silent  pow'r. 

A  fretful  wind  broke  off  its  stem, 
(Its  hues  impal'd,  its  odors  ceas'd,) 
And,  dropping  down,  it  soon  became. 
Of  things  that  were,  the  very  least. 

So,  too,  a  little  child  was  born. 
And  smil'd  its  innocent  delight 
Through  all  the  day,  from  rosy  morn 
Till  deepen'd  shadows  made  the  night. 

The  mother-heart  soon  learn'd  to  pride 
Each  token  ot  its  wak'ning  pow'r; 
But,  like  the  rose,  it  drooped  and  died. 
And  cast  its  fragrance  in  an  hour. 

And  yet,  not  like  the  rose  which  fell 
And  perish'd  on  the  humid  land, 
This  little  one  can  rise  and  tell 
The  sweeter  joys  of  a  heav'nly  band. 


-© 


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368 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


^ 


ELWOOD  ELDENNE  SMALL. 

Born:  Marshall,  Mich.,  July 23, 1869. 
Attending  the  high  schools  of  Marshall  and 
Valparaiso.Elwood  later  took  a  literary  course 
in  the  University  of  Chicago,  which  institu- 
tion conferred  upon  him  the  degree  of  Bach- 
elor of  Literature.  A  printer  by  trade,  Mr. 
Small  drifted  into  ioiiniali^m  and  has  pub- 


ELWOOD  ELDENNE  SMALL. 

lished  various  periodicals.  His  poems  have 
appeared  in  the  Chicago  Times  and  Inter- 
Ocean,  Cosmopolite  of  Cincinnati,  and  other 
prominent  papers.  In  1880  a  small  collection  of 
the  poems  of  Mr.  Small  were  published  under 
the  title  of  Rhymes  with  Reason  and  Without, 
a  work  which  received  favorable  mention. 


)^ 


THE  "MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN." 
Oil,  the  "  Might  Have  Been  "  is  a  lovely  path. 

Decked  out  with  the  sweetest  flowers; 
It  leads  from  the  dust  of  the  world's  highway. 

Thro'  eternal  blooms 

And  sweet  perfumes. 
To  lovelier,  holier  realms  than  ours. 
Weary  and  dark  is  the  world's  highway; 

But  the  "Might  Have  Been  "  patli  is  fair. 
Soft  breezes  blow  o'er  its  pleasant  lengtii, 

And  on  either  side 

The  lilies  in  pride 
liaise  their  lovely  heads  in  the  fragrant  air. 
As  I  plod  in  tlic  heat  of  the  common  way, 

A  wondrous  vision  I  see 
In  the  ..  Might  Have  Been  "  of  a  dainty  home. 


And  a  woman  fair, 
Witli  golden  hair. 
My  wife,  who  is  watching,  half-beck'iiing  me. 
And  I  do  not  mourn  that  I  leave  her  there. 

Away  from  the  dust  and  heat 
Of  the  path  I  trod,  with  my  burdensome  load 
Of  trouble  and  pain. 
While  my  throbbing  brain 
Aches,  as  I  plod  on  with  faltering  feet. 
No.    It  is  far  better  as  it  is. 

My  life  may  be  lonely  and  drear; 
But  "  my  wife,"  the  sweetest,  most  precious 
of  sounds. 
With  an  echo  of  love 
From  far  above, — 
From  the  heights  of  the  "  Might  Have  Been  " 
I  hear. 


A  MEMORY. 
I  sit  to-night  at  my  opened  desk. 

And  turn  its  treasures  o'er, 
While  my  thoughts  glide  l)ack  on  airy  wing 

To  daj's  of  the  happy  yore. 
And  among  the  reminders  of  fleeing  j-ears, 

I  find,— Oh,  pity  me, 
A  token  pale  of  a  love  long  dead, 

I  ne'er  thought  more  to  see. 
'Tis  a  lover's  fond  gift,  a  faded  rose. 

Pinned  to  a  parchment  white, 
On  which  He  wrote,  "I'm  coming,  Maude, 

Expect  me  bj'  to-night. 
To  greet  your  waiting  lips  again. — 

Your  Harry."    That  is  all. 
But  how  my  heart  enraptured  leapt 

At  Love's  impassioned  call! 
And  so  he  came !    And  my  memory  paints 

Again  that  summer  day, 
Witli  its  wealth  of  joy  and  happiness, — 

Which  I  thought  would  last  alway. 
The  words  of  love  he  spoke,  I'd  hoped 

Forgotten  long  ago. 
When  first  I  learned  their  treachery. 

Oh,  God!    The  pain  and  woe. 
For  he  counted  glittering  wealth  and  pow'r 

Worth  more  than  love,  true  and  pure. 
And  in  the  pride  of  vanity,  bowed 

To  the  tempter's  golden  lure. 

But  I  would  not  that  his  pretty  wife 

Sho\ild  know  the  heart  and  vow 
He  broke,  or  guess  at  the  crui'l  wrong, 

For  she  may  be  happy  now. 
So,  I'll  keep  thee  now,  thou  faded  ro.se. 

Lest,  some  day,  in  my  ear. 
Another  may  whisper  his  tale  of  l()\e. 

And  I  bo  tempted  to  hear. 
But  I'll  look  on  thee,  and  my  heart  will  turn 

From  his  passionate  words  away. 
For  t lie  lesson  learned  in  tliat  hour  of  pain 

Cannot  be  forgot  in  a  day. 


-« 


©■ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


369 


-m 


GEORGE   F.  NUTTING. 

Born:  Mason,  N.  H.,  Dec.  18,  1821. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Nuttiug  have  appeared  for 
the  past  quarter  of  a  century  in  the  Fitch- 
burg  Sentinel,  Watchman,  and  various  other 


GEORGE  FRANKLIN    NUTIING. 

publications.  He  has  followed  the  occupation 
of  train  inspector  and  car  painter  for  over 
thirty-five  years.  The  poems  of  Mr.  Nutting 
have  been  well  received. 


»■ 


LONGFELLOW. 

ACROSTIC. 

Here  now  I  wait,  witli  staft'  in  hand. 
Encamped  quite  near  the  beulah  land. 
Near  life's  evening  twilight,  which  seems 
Eeflected  from  some  land  of  dreams. 
Yellow  and  sere  —  I  now  appear 

Worn  and  weary.    Seventy-fifth  year 

At  length  comes  round.    These  rolling  years 

Re-echo  back  their  joys  and  tears. 

Deep  in  my  heart,  a  deeper  joy 

Sits  there  enthroned,  than  when  a  boy. 

Witliiu  my  heart,  e'en  then,  I  found. 

Oft  cropping  out  a  rhyme,  most  drowned. 

Revive  afresh,  wlien  manhood  came. 

Till  rhymes  and  poems  led  to  tame. 

Her  honors  yet  I  never  sought, 

Led  thus  along,  dame  n.nture  taught, 
Or  muses  fair,  to  wield  my  pen. 
Not  sword  or  sabre,  killing  men  — 


Gift  most  supernal,  maj' your  rays 
From  muses  shine,  to  guide  my  lays. 
E'en  through  the  remnant  of  my  days. 
Like  autumn  leaves,  o'er  hill  and  phiin. 
Linked  with  tlie  spring,  the  sun,  the  rain. 
Oh!  let  me  die;  (and  yet  I  may) 
When  autumn  leaves  are  painted  gay. 

Silent  emblems,  yet  how  they  fade — 
Emblems  of  life,  in  light  and  shade, 
Vainly  1  strive,  and  all  iu  vain. 
Endeavoring  to  be  young  again. 
Nature's  voices,  and  reason,  too, 
Teach  me  that  all  things  die,  below, 
Yet  mortal  man,  in  sin  and  strife, 

From  earth,  puts  on  immortal  life  — 
In  our  Redeemer's  work  sublime, 
Vain  man  may  share,  in  every  clime; 
E'en  here  I  rest  —  here  ends  my  rhyme. 


A  SERENADE. 
Not   a   sound  was  heard,   nor  a  bugle-horn 
note. 
As  on  a  fair  cot  a  fair  couple  were  sleeping. 
Save,  now  and  then,  a  snore  from  the  throat 
Of  the  bridegroom,  and  bride  in  his  keep- 
ing. 
'Twas  a  hot  summer  night,  and  their  screen- 
ing was  thin. 
And  the  gauze  window  curtains  much  thin- 
er. 
The  window  was  up,  and  here  they  came  in. 
This  serenade  band,  now  led  by  a  sinner. 

He  now  bids  them  halt,  and  then  sails  around, 
Takes  notes,  sings  a  song,  and  then  up  and 
kisses 
The  bride  —  singing  anon  — she  hears  not  the 
sound. 
Nor  the  band  in  its  chorus  of  blisses. 

By  a  toot  of  his  horn,  the  singers  advance  — 
The  ramparts  unguarded,  the  sleepers  are 
snoring  ; 
They  strike  up  a  march,  as  tliis   couple   in 
trance 
All  the  while  this  sweet  music  ignoring. 

Like  the  zephyrs,  they  sing  the  best  on  the 
wing,  I 

(I  venture,  their  wings  do  the  singing)  — 
On  their  arms,  on  their  face,  in  their  ears  they 
will  sing. 
And  kiss  with  their  bills,  wliile  chorus  is 
I'inging. 
Oh !  sweeter  than  nectar  that  Juijiter  sips. 
These  honey-moon  sleepers  —  oli!  goodness. 
Saint  Peters! 
John  !  look  at  my  arms,  my  face  and  my  lips— 
We're  covered  completely  with  bites  of  "jnei-- 
skeeters." 


-® 


«- 


-© 


370 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


DANSKE  DANDRIDGE. 

She  commenced  writing-  verses  at  the  age  of 
eight.  Her  first  poem  appeared  in  Godey's 
Lady's  Booli  in  1885.  Since  that  time  she  has 
published  several  volumes  of  poems,  among 
which  might  be  mentioned  Joy  and  Other 
Poems.  Many  of  her  poems  have  also  appear- 
ed in  miscellaneous  periodicals. 


PLEASURE. 


Alas!  I  have  an  ancient  enemy, 
Whose  robes  are  tinsel,  and  her  face  a  lie, 
Men  call  her  Pleasure,  but  I  know  her  twin 
Is  Pain;  their  age.  Remorse;  their  Shadow,  Sin. 


MOON. 
We  dart  through  the  void: 

We  have  cries,  we  have  laughter: 
The  phantom  that  haunts  us 

Comes  silently  after. 
This  Ghost-lady  follows. 

Though  none  hear  her  tread; 
On,  on,  we  are  flying. 

Still  tracked  by  our  Dead; 
By  this  white,  awful  Mystery, 

Haggard  and  dead. 


DESIRE. 
Come,  dear  Desire,  and  walk  with  me; 
We'll  gather  sweets,  and  rob  the  bee; 
Come,  leave  the  dimness  of  your  room. 

We'll  watch,  how  since  the  morning  rain 
The  spider  sitteth  at  her  loom. 

To  weave  her  silken  nets  again. 
I  know  a  field  where  bluets  blow 

Like  frost  from  fingers  of  the  night. 
And  in  a  sheltered  coppice  grow 

Arbutus  trailers,  blush  and  white. 


©- 


THE  RAINBOW. 
We  are  akin,  dear  soul: 

Akin  as  are  the  rainbow  in  the  sky, 
The  runnel  on  the  knoll; 

We  are  akin  in  spirit,  you  and  I. 
Ah!  how  serene  and  bright! 

You  Stand  with  shining  feet, 

And  lustrous  arch  complete 
Of  rounded  life  upon  the  cloudy  height: 

You  catch  the  light  of  heaven  and  repeat 
All  its  transcendent  splendor  in  your  face. 
And  beautify  a  place 
With  radiance  of  a  glory  and  a  grace. 

Thus  is  your  lite,  O  soul! 
But  I  am  like  the  stream 

That  hurries  down  the  knoll. 
As  changeful  as  a  drepti; 

As  restless  and  as  wild 

As  an  impatient  child: 
Yet  thankful,  dear,  if  in  some  tranquil  space, 
I  may  reflect  the  radiance  of  your  face. 


MAURICE  THOMPSON. 

Although  Mr.  Thompson  Is  chiefly  known 
through  his  prose,  perhaps  his  best  work  is 
poetry.  Songs  of  Fair  Weather  are  fresh  and 
breezy  as  a  May  morning;  Between  the  Poppy 
and  the  Rose  is  a  gem ;  and  Ceres  is  also  a  very 
fine  piece  of  versification.  He  has  been  a 
member  of  the  Indiana  legislature,  and  has 
lately  resigned  the  ofiice  of  State  Geologist  of 
Indiana. 


POETRY. 


He  is  a  Poet  strong  and  true 
Who  loves  wild  thyme  and  honey-dew; 
And  like  a  brown  bee  works  and  sings. 
With  morning  freshness  on  his  wings. 
And  a  gold  burden  on  his  thighs,— 
The  pollen-dust  of  centuries! 


A  FLIGHT  SHOT. 

We  were  twin  Brothers,  tall  and  hale. 

Glad  wanderers  over  hill  and  dale. 

We  stood  within  the  twilight  shade 

Of  pines  that  rimmed  a  Southern  glade, 

He  said:   "  Let's  settle,  if  we  can. 

Which  of  us  is  the  stronger  man. 

We'll  try  a  flight  shot,  high  and  good. 

Across  the  green  glade  toward  the  wood." 

And  so  we  bent  in  sheer  delight 

Our  old  yew  bows  with  all  our  might. 

Our  long  keen  shafts,  drawn  to  the  head. 

Were  poised  a  moment  ere  they  sped. 

As  we  leaned  back  a  breath  of  air 

Mingled  the  brown  locks  of  our  hair. 

We  loosed.    As  one  our  bow-cords  rang. 

As  one  away  our  arrows  sprang. 

Away  they  sprang;  the  wind  of  June 

Thrilled  to  their  softly  whistled  tune. 

We  watched  their  flight,  and  saw  them  strike 

Deep  in  the  ground  slantwise  alike, 

So  far  away  that  they  might  pass 

For  two  thin  straws  of  broom-sedge  grass! 

Then  arm  in  arm  we  doubting  went 

To  find  whose  shaft  was  farthest  sent. 

Each  fearing  in  his  loving  heart 

That  brother's  shaft  liad  falliii  short. 

But  who  could  tell  by  sucli  a  plan 

Which  of  us  was  the  stronger  uianV 

There  at  tlie  margin  of  the  wood, 

Side  by  side  our  arrows  stood. 

Their  red  cock-feathers  wing  and  wing. 

Their  ainV)er  nocks  still  (luivering. 

Then-  points  deep-planted  where  they  fell 

An  inch  apart  and  i)arallel! 

We  clasi)ed  each  other's  hands;  said  he, 

"Twin  champions  of  the  world  are  we 


-ft 


m 


LOCAL   AND    XATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


371 


« 


SAMUEL  SLAYTON  LUCE. 

Born  :  Stowe,  Vt.,  Feb.  1, 1819. 
Since  1839  Mr.  Luce  has  contributed  both 
prose  and  verse  to  the  periodical  press  fren- 
erally,  and  publislied  in  1876  a  volume  of 
poems  in  conjunction  with  his  wife,  wlio  is 
also  represented  on  this  page.  In  1881  Mr. 
Luce  published  a  volume  of  poems  entitled 
Echoes  of  the  Past,  and  six  years  later  appear- 
ed The  Woodman.  Since  1857  he  has  resided 
in  Wisconsin  at  Galesvllle,  where  he  estab- 
lished a  newspaper  in  1860.  Five  years  later 
he  sold  out  the  publication  and  was  elected 
county  superintendent  of  schools,  serving  two 
terms  of  two  years  each.  Mr.  Luce  next  edited 
the  Galesville  Independent, which  publication 
he  boujiht  two  years  later,  editing-  the  same 
until  1889,  when  it  was  sold. 

THE  VILLAGE  DOCTOR. 
I  see  him  still,  as  erst  of  yoi-e, 

With  furrowed  cheek  and  whitened  brow; 
Though  he's  been  dead  of  years  a  score, 

I  see  him  stand  before  me  now. 
I  seem  to  see  his  withered  form 

Beside  his  faithful  white-laced  mare, 
With  old  brown  saddle-bags  behind. 

Whose  odor  'twas  a  grief  to  bear. 
With  chronic  cough  I  hear  him  pass  — 

He  digs  his  steed  with  vigorous  heel. 
Whose  callous  sides,  from  daily  thumps. 

Had  long  since  lost  the  power  to  feel. 
The  constant  grin  upon  his  face  — 

His  light  "te-he!"  at  human  pain. 
As  oft  he  wrenched  the  offending  tooth. 

Our  memory  ever  will  retain. 
But  deeply  down  within  his  breast. 

Beneath  a  mail-like  Milan  steel, 
'Twas  said  by  those  who  knew  him  best, 

"  The  doctor  has  a  heart  to  feel." 
'Twas  in  the  old  Green  Mountain  State, 

'Mid  deep,  dread  winter's  drifting  snow. 
The  evening  hour  was  waxing  late. 

Some  forty  years  or  more  ago. 
We  sat  around  the  ample  hearth. 

Where  maple  logs  were  blazing  bright; 
Glad  songs  arose,  and  social  mirth 

Upon  that  dismal  winter  night. 
The  storm-cloud  hung  on  Mansfield's  brow  — 

The  wind  blew  piercingly  and  chill; 
Fierce  through  the  leafless  branches  shrieked. 

And  roared  along  the  flr-clad  hill. 
The  deepening  snow  that  all  day  long 

Had  fallen  silently  and  fast. 
Now  densely  filled  the  frosty  air. 

And  piled  In  drifts  before  the  blast. 
And  still  we  sat  —  the  hours  sped  — 

The  storm  increased  with  fearful  might;— 

8B 


'•  I  hope,"  our  tender  mother  said, 

"  No  one's  abroad  this  dreadful  iiiglit." 
Our  mother's  voice  had  hardly  ceased. 

When  sudden  through  the  opening  door. 
O'er  drifts,  the  quaint  old  doctor  sprung. 

And  forward  fell  upon  the  floor. 
His  brow  was  crusted  o'er  with  ice. 

And  crisp  and  frozen  was  his  cheek; 
His  limbs  were  paralyzed  with  cold; 

For  once,  the  doctor  could  not  speak. 
With  genial  warmth,  and  tender  care. 

He  soon  revived,  and  said:  "  Come  Bill, 
Be  kind  enougli  to  get  my  mare,— 

I  must  reach  Martin's,  on  the  hill." 
Then  on  again,  o'er  trackless  snow. 

Against  the  biting  winter  blast. 
Without  the  hope  of  worldly  gain. 

Through  mountain  drifts,  the  doctor  passed. 
Far  up  the  winding  mountain  road. 

Through  forest  dark  and  blinding  snow. 
He  reached  the  desolate  abode 

Of  sickness,  poverty  and  woe. 
Long  years  have  passed;  yet  oft  I  ask. 

As  howls  the  tempest  in  its  might. 
While  sitting  by  the  evening  fire, 

"  What  faithful  doctor  rides  to-night?" 
Yes,  faithful;  though  full  well  I  know 

The  world  is  sparing  of  its  praise; 
And  these  self-sacrificing  men 

But  seldom  tempt  the  poet's  lays. 
And  yet,  I  trust,  when  at  the  last. 

They  leave  the  world  of  human  strife. 
Like  him  "  who  loved  his  fellow  men," 

Their  names  shall  grace  the  Book  of  Life. 


MRS.  HANNAH  GALE  LUCE. 

Born:  Waterbury,Vt.,  Dec.  28, 1824. 
Prior  to  her  marriage  this  lady  taught  school. 
Her  poems  have  appeared  quite  extensively 
in  the  periodical  press,  and  in  1876  she  pub- 
lished, in  conjunction  with  lier  husband,  a 
beautiful  volume  of  Poems,  which  has  receiv- 
ed favorable  comment  from  press  and  public. 
She  was  married  to  Samuel  Slayton  Luce  in 
1847,  and  now  resides  in  Galesville,  Wis. 


COMING  W^EST. 
Frohi  the  grand  majestic  mountains. 

Where  the  storm-cloud  loves  to  rest- 
From  the  deep,  dellglitf  ul  valleys. 

They  are  coming,  coming  W'est. 
From  those  eastern  towns  and  cities. 

Come  forth  earnest,  noble  men  — 
Men  of  labor —  men  of  learning. 

That  can  guide  the  plow  or  pen. 
Not  alone  from  dear  New  England, 

But  from  other  lands  they  come. 


-fiB 


m 


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LOCAL,    AND   NATIONAL    TOKTS   OF  A5IEU1CA. 


© 


O'er  the  broad  Atlantic's  billows. 

Here  to  find  a  peaceful  home. 
From  green  Erin,  and  brave  Scotland  — 

From  old  England's  pleasant  shore. 
And  from  Germany  and  Norway. 

There  are  thousands  coming  o'er. 
They  are  leaving  home  and  country. 

And  the  friends  they  love  the  best  — 
They  are  seeking  wealth  and  freedom. 

And  shall  find  them  in  the  West. 
We  extend  a  hearty  welcome 

To  each  brave,  industrious  hand; 
He,  -whose  heart  is  true  and  honest, 

Is  right  worthy  of  our  land. 
With  united,  true  devotion. 

Let  us  work  with  earnest  wills; 
All  along  our  own  broad  prairies 
'  And  among  our  vales  and  hills; 
We  will  build  fair  towns  and  cities. 

Halls  of  wisdom  — works  of  art- 
Colleges,  and  schools  and  churches. 

That  shall  honor  mind  and  heart. 
Here  shall  dwell  a  mighty  people. 

Poets,  scholars,  world-renowned: 
Building  up  a  vast  Kepublic, 

With  a  God-like  glory  crowned. 

♦-<-♦ 

MRS.  LYDIA  M.  S.  MUDGETT. 

Born:  Canada,  1831. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  Mudgett  have  appeared  in 
the  religious  press  and  the  local  papers.    She 
is  now  a  resident  of  Elmore,  Vt. 

MUSINGS. 

We're  passing  through  a  vale  of  tears; 
We  leave  our  sorrows,  hopes  and  fears. 

And  go  to  wear  a  crown; 
In  that  bright  world  our  sinless  feet 
Shall  walk  the  everlasting  street 

And  by  his  side  sit  down. 
The  cadence  sweet  we  list  to  liear, 
A  note  or  two  strike  on  the  ear 

From  that  celestial  plain. 
Then  Satan  comes  to  make  us  doubt. 
All  pandemonium  gives  a  shout; 

We  lose  the  magic  strain. 
The  dark  and  chilling  stream  I  fear. 
And  Jesus  prayed  when  he  was  here 

The  cup  iiiiglit  be  removed; 
But  came  to  do  his  Father's  will, 
A  heavenly  mission  to  fulfill 

Of  never-dying  love. 
O  Jesus,  take  my  every  care. 
And  all  my  sorrows  help  me  bear. 

And  let  me  lean  on  thee; 
The  heavenly  liosts  thy  praises  sing. 
Give  glory  to  their  God  and  king 

Through  all  eternity. 

88 


MRS.  HARRIET  N.  FOSS. 

Born:  Limington,  Me.,  1819. 
Quite  a  number  of  the  productions  of  this 
lady,  both  prose  and  poetry,  have  been  pub- 


MRS.  HARRIET    N.  FOSS. 

lished  in  the  Maine  newspapers.  She  has  a 
pleasant  home  in  South  Limington,  wiiere  she 
is  surrounded  bj'  numerous  friends. 


THE  CRADLE. 

In  an  attic  stands  a  cradle  brown ; 

No  longer  swaying  to  and  fro  — 
She  wlio  rocked  it  has  long  been  gone  — 

Sleeping  quietly  under  tlie  snow! 
As  I  pause,  and  sadly  on  it  gaze. 

In  fancy  I  see  my  dear  mother's-  form 
As  when  slie  smiletl  on  each  baby  face. 

Quietly  nestled  in  pillows  warm. 
Each  child,  in  turn,  found  here  a  rest,- 

Each  shared  alike  her  loving  care; 
Now,  all  have  left  the  parent  nest. 

While  all  liave  silver  in  their  hair. 
Darling  Father!  Precious  Mother! 

We  never  shall  forget  your  love. 
God  grant  we  m;iy  again  together 

Dwell  in  his  glorious  home  above. 
Farewell  little  cradle!— ancient  thing. 

Gladly  1  gaze  again  on  tliee; 
Sacred  tliou  art.  for  thou  dost  bring 

Holy,  sweet  memories  unto  me! 


—  » 


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373 


-© 


MRS.  HELEN  M.  COMSTOCK. 

Born:  Chesterfield,  N.  H.,  Sept.  3, 1840. 
The  subject  of  this  sketeli  is  a  liidy  of  medium 
lieig-lit  aud  form,  possessing-  a  very  pretty 
flg-ure.  Her  sliapely  liead  is  adorned  witli 
luxuriant  dark  and  curij' liair,  relieved  by  a 
silvering  of  gray.  She  lius  large,  dark,  ex- 
pressive eyes,  in  whose  liquid  depths  at  times 
uan  be  read  lier  innermost  thoughts;  a  com- 
plexion clear  and  bright;  hands  and  feet  small 


MRS.   HKLh.N    .M.   (  I  ).\1S  re  )(   K. 

and  of  perfect  mold,  and  is  a  handsome  wo- 
man, with  a  heart  overflowing  with  love  and 
charity  for  the  human  race  and  a  disposition 
remarkable  for  affection  and  gentleness.  It  is 
not  to  be  wondered  at  that  she  gained  the 
gratitude  and  esteem  of  the  poor  and  needy, 
to  whom  she  has  ever  been  a  faithful  friend. 
Mrs.  Comstock  is  possessed  of  a  good  educa- 
tion. Her  intellect  is  clear,  forcible,  piquant 
and  is  kept  bright  and  active  by  constant  stu- 
dy. She  has  been  a  writer  for  the  Chicago 
Tribune,  has  contributed  to  The  Religio-Phi- 
losophical  Journal,  also  to  a  Health  Journal 
published  in  this  city,  and  other  periodicals. 
In  her  honored  sphere  of  wife  and  mother  she 
presents  a  shining  example  to  her  sex.  With 
tender  solicitude  she  ever  seeks  to  secure  the 
comfort  and  happiness  of  her  husband  and 
children,  and  her  home  at  all  times  presents 
an  appearance  of  neatness  and  cheerfulness 
that  is  gratifying  and  attractive  to  the  family. 


THOU'LT  NEVER  KNOW. 
The  years  will  come,  the  years  will  go. 
While  blessings  from  my  heart  will  flow 
To  thee,  my  ever-cherished  one. 
Who  art  my  life's  immortal  sun, 
Drinking  the  dewy  incense  up 
That  rises  from  my  soul's  deep  cup 
In  nectar  sweet  —  I  love  thee  so, 
The  half,  alas!  thou'lt  never  know. 
Outflowing  from  the  placid  deeps 
Of  eyes  where  fairest  soul-hght  sleeps, 
Gleamed  such  a  wealth  of  tenderness. 
In  language  words  can  ne'er  express, 
Unconsciously  my  yearning  heart 
Grew  of  thy  very  self  a  part; 
And  now  I  love  thee—  love  thee  so. 
The  half,  alas!  thou'lt  never  know. 
E'en  now  the  light,  caressing  touch 
Of  soft,  white  hand,  loved  over-much. 
To  music-waves  my  soul-chords  thrill. 
While  dainty,  dewy  lips  distill 
The  acme  of  unmeasured  bliss 
Love's  crowning  joy,  thy  perfect  kiss; 
And  O  I  love  thee  —  love  thee  so, 
The  half,  alas!  thou'lt  never  know. 
Rare  jewels  at  thy  feet  I  fling. 
My  worshiped, crowned, and  sceptred  King. 
Withholding  naught,  I  gave  my  all. 
Nor  would  I  now  the  gift  recall. 
Altho'  apart  the  long  years  through 
We'll  one  day  meet  like  sun  and  dew. 
My  hearts  best  love  to  thee  will  go  ~ 
The  half,  alas!  thou'lt  never  know. 

I  watch  no  more  across  the  street 
The  hurried  tread  of  eager  feet. 
Hoping  to  catch  one  swift  glance  more. 
From  eyes  that  speak  Love's  mystic  lore. 
Gone  is  my  sunny  Summer-time; 
My  days  are  dark  with  frosty  rime 
And  bitter  cold,  I  miss  you  so  — 
But  this  my  loved  one  cannot  know. 

I  miss  thy  soft  hand  'neath  my  curls. 
And  voice  whose  tones  are  liquid  pearls, 
And  tender  eyes  —  brow  clear  and  white, 
Where,grandly  throned, sits  Reason's  light, 
That  speaks  a  soul  intense  to  feel 
Unmeasured  depths  of  woe  or  weal, — 
O  soul  most  rare,  I  love  thee  so. 
The  half,  alas !  thou'lt  never  know. 

O  treasured  joys,  so  rare  and  sweet, 
With  untold  happiness  replete. 
Such  perfectness  of  Love's  sweet  art 
Can  come  but  once  to  any  heart.. 
Outflowing  from  the  Love  Divine, 
To  fill  a  life's  most  sacred  shrine. 
And  O  my  own !  I  love  thee  so. 
The  half,  alas!  thou'U  never  know. 
But  years  will  come,  and  years  will  go. 
While  blessings  evermore  will  flow 


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374 


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LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


From  out  my  life's  deep  chalice-cup, 
As  rich  soul-nectar  bubbles  up 
For  thee  to  quatf,  my  love!  my  own! 
Whose  presence  far  too  dear  hath  grown 
For  peace  of  mind,    1  love  thee  so, 
The  half,  alas!  thou'lt  never  know. 

PAPA'S  LITTLE  GIRL. 
Sweeter  than  spring  violets. 

Asleep  'mong  mosses  rare. 
Is  one  wee,  budding  blossom. 

The  darling  of  mj'  care. 
None  fairer  hath  the  summer. 

When  softest  zephyrs  curl; 
My  fragrant  opening  rose-bud; 

My  own  dear  little  girl. 
Love's  sweet  dream  of  beauty  wrought 

Her  life's  bright  natal  hour. 
And  Love  hath  tinted  richly. 

The  petals  of  my  flower. 
Guarded  by  affection's  hand. 

She  grows  in  childish  grace; 
Heaven  narrows  down  to  me 

In  her  dear  little  face. 
Jewels  hide  in  lips  and  ej'es, 

Too  costly  for  an  Earl ; 
Fairest  gem  in  all  Love's  crown, 

My  pure  and  priceless  pearl. 
Deeper  grows  Life's  mystery 

In  her  rose-heart  of  bliss ; 
Fondly  all  my  being  fold 

My  own  to  clasp  and  kiss. 
Who  would    miss   the  strange,  sweet 
thrill. 

Where  baby-fingers  rest? 
Pure,  exquisite  happiness ! 

Unknown,  'tis  all  unguessed. 
Sweet  life,  clinging  'round  my  heart 

Doth  softly  curl  and  curl. 
Drinking  dainty  dews  of  love. 

My  own  dear  little  girl. 
Yearning  light  in  tender  eyes, 

And  hair  with  sunshine  glossed. 
Dream-like  bringeth  back  to  me 

A  something  I  have  lost. 
Star-gem,  O,  so  proudly  worn  I 

My  treasured  gift  of  Love. 
Dear  God !  slielter  from  life's  storms 

My  bosom  nestling  dove. 


®- 


IN  THE  DEPTHS. 
O  eyelids  so  heavy  with  weeping. 

And  tears  that  are  yet  unshed; 
O  heart,  that  so  sorely  is  keeping 

The  half  of  its  woe  unsaid  ; 
O  soul-life,  so  grievously  wounded. 

Thy  moans  doth  thy  hurt  betray, 
And  de(!ps  that  no  mortal  lias  sounded, 

'Tis  dark  in  thy  depths  to-day. 


O  bosom,  with  agony  heaving, 
O'erswept  by  the  tide  of  wrong, 

Beneath  the  dark  billows,  yet  breathing 
The  low,  sweet  cadence  of  song; 

In  misery's  dark  thou  art  sailing 
O'er  wild,  tempestuous  waves, 

No  beacon  the  darkness  unveiling. 
No  beckoning  light  that  saves. 

O  sister!  thro'  sorrow  made  kindred. 
Have  courage!  be  patient  and  strong; 

I,  also,  have  stemmed  the  dark  current 
Of  falsehood,  injustice  and  wrong; 

And  know  there  is  sure  compensation 
For  all  of  life's  troubles  and  ills, 

Thro'  time  and  earth's  discords  unchang- 
ing. 
Which  destinj'  ever  fulfills. 

O  think  not,  in  Love's  dark  Valhalla, 
Thy  spirit  should  still  weep  its  dead. 

Where  all  the  past's  bitter  memories 
Steal  ever  with  phantom-like  tread; 

There  are  hearts  whose  love  will  not  falter. 
True  souls  that  no  dross  can  alloy. 

According  thee  justly  thy  merits 
The  same  thro'  all  trials  and  joy. 

The  flowers  of  thought  breathe  a  fragrance 
And  healing  naught  else  can  impart. 

With  tenderest  sympathies  glowing. 
If  born  in  the  true  poet-heart. 

O  sensitive  soul !  gather  comfort. 
And  singing,  grow  hopeful  and  strong; 

For  only  the  beautiful  spirit 
Can  triumph  o'er  sorrow  in  song. 

And  others,  less  gifted,  shall  bless  thee. 
And  feel  as  they  read  less  alone, 

For  lifting  another  life's  burden, 
A  blessing  will  fall  on  thine  own. 


LOVE'S  DELIGHT. 

Wafting  us  on,  o'er  sea  of  gold. 
In  gem-lined  barque  of  fairy  mold: 
Lingering  long  by  happy  isles. 
Lighted  with  nature's  choicest  smiles; 
Iiicense  wafied  from  spice-groves  rare, 
Amber-tinted  the  sky  and  air. 
Merging  all  sense  in  dreamy  bliss, 
Thrillingly  sweet  as  rapture's  kiss. 
Airily  skims  our  boat  along. 
Yet,  jmusing  to  the  Naiad's  song. 
Li(iui(i  and  iow,  'till  lulU'd  to  rest. 
Old  Neptune's  gently  swelling  breast; 
Reflected  in  the  waters  briglil ; 
Each  hue  of  day's  declining  liglit. 
Advancing  o'er  the  sylvan  scene. 
Twilight  traileth  her  mystic  screen; 
Only  our  barque  disdains  the  night, 
Nearing  the  shore  of  "  Love's  Deliglit." 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


375 


-« 


MRS.  MADELINE  D.  MORTON. 

Born:  New  Orleans,  La.,  Sept.  2, 1849.- 
As  a  girl  this  writer  was  very  studious,  and 
at  au  early  ag-e  contributed  to  such  publica- 
tions as  the  Home  Journal  of  New  York,  Cel- 
tic Magazine,  Sunday  Chronicle,  New  York 
Sunday  Mercury,  Kedpath's  Weekly  and  the 
St.  Louis  Magazine.  In  all  the  poems  of  Mrs. 
Morton  every  idea  is  expressed  clear  and 
sparkling-  as  a  diamond,  and  tlie  pictures  she 


MKS.   MADELINE  D.    MOKTON. 

draws  from  nature  stand  out  very  distinct. 
Before  the  close  of  the  war  this  estimable 
lady  entered  into  a  n^mantic  marriage  with 
Dr.  J.  C.  Morton,  a  young  surgeon  in  the  un- 
ion army,  and  they  have  lived  together  ever 
since  in  happiness  and  prosperity  in  the  city 
of  New  York.  Mrs.  Morton  is  a  handsome 
lady  of  high  literary  attainments,  a  fascinat- 
ing conversationalist,  and  has  ahost  of  ardent 
friends  and  admirei'S.  Her  prose  writings 
are  welcomed  by  tlie  best  literary  publica- 
tions, generally,  however,  api>earing  over  a 
nom  de  plume  or  anonymously.  Mrs.  Morton 
intends  soon  to  prepare  for  permanent  publi- 
cation a  collection  of  her  beautiful  poems. 


®- 


NATURES  SONG. 
The  streamlet  whispers  on  its  winding  way: 

"  I  scatter  life  and  health  as  on  1  glide. 
And  fringe  my  banks  with  flow'rets  gay, 

While  verdure  blooms  on  every  side. 


I  murmur  to  the  earth  all  bleak  and  bare 

My  happy,  rippling,  gladsome  tunc,— 
Refresh  and  cool  the  dusky,  burning  air 

Of  summer's  scorching  heat  in  misty  June." 
The    little   bird    with   outspread    fluttering 
wings 
And  merry  heart  he  gaily  skims  along; 
Listen,  for  this  is  the  song  he  sings: 

"  I  cheer  the  mourner  with  my  song, 
I  teach  the  drooping  ones  their  ills  to  bear; 

I  lell  the  sinful  from  their  ways  to  turn,— 
To  leave  their  eartlily  dross  and  care  — 

They  will  need  them  not  in  funeral  urn." 
The  painted  flower  all  joyous  cries: 

'•  How  sweet  the  breath  of  my  perfume  — 
My  blended  hues  will  g-ladden  weary  eyes. 

And  from  the  sorrowing  lift  their  gloom. 
Then  come  the  humming  bird  and  bee 

To  sip  their  All  from  out  my  cup; 
The  butterfly  from  harm  will  flee  — 

Within  my  bloom  safe  covered  up." 
The  shining  star  set  twinkling  high 

In  the  evening-'s  crown  a  gem  of  light. 
This  lesson  writes  upon  the  sky : 

•'  He  created  us  and  all  things  right,— 
He  formed  the  worlds  —  a  countless  host  — 

And  hurled  them  swinging  into  space; 
At  Heaven's  gate  we  have  our  post 

As  beacons  bright  for  human  race." 
And  man  in  pride  must  not  forget 

To  join  this  chorus  raised  on  earth. 
By  bird,  and  stream,  and  flow'ret 

And  star  of  bright  celestial  birth. 
Honored  was  He  in  this  creation's  past. 

Being  the  soul,  and  tongue  and  heart, 
'Til  woman  came !  the  last  but  not  the  least 

Of  the  Creator's  will  —  the  perfect  part ! 


WOMAN'S  WORTH. 
Beautiful  things  of  every  kind 

God  scatters  with  generous  hand. 
Charming  the  soul,  delighting  the  eye, — 

They  are  found  in  everj-  land. 
But  woman's  love  —  most  precious  of  alll— 

With  the  highest  and  holiest  light — 
Unwavering  shines  to  illumine  our  lives. 

Inspiring  to  good  and  the  right. 
We  must  delve  very  deep  for  the  glittering 
gems 

That  are  buried  so  low  in  the  mine;        [bed 
We  must  stir  up  the  depths  of  old  Neptune's 

Where  the  pale  pearls  glimmering  shine. 
But  woman's  love  —  the  queen  of  all  gems  I— 

Is  hidden  from  sight  far  down  [truth,— 

In    her    heart's    deep    well,   with    faith    and 

A  jewel  for  life's  bright  crown. 
In  that  richest  of  mines—  a  woman's  heart  — 

The  gleam  of  pure  love  is  found. 
Shedding  its  light  o'er  the  suffering  soul. 

Spreading  peace  and  all  joys  around; 


-© 


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370 


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LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL    I'OETS   OF  AMEKCIA. 


Giving-  forth  to  the  world  its  treasures  rare. 

As  a  sister,  a  mother,  or  wife. 
And  leading-  man  upward  to  mystic  heiglits 

Through  the  weary  pathways  of  life. 
The  gem  of  all  worlds  by  the  Deity  wrought, 

Woman's  worth  no  man  may  know  [harp  — 
'Til  lie  stirs  the  chords  of  her  soul's  sweet 

When  a  song-  of  true  love  will  flow, 
And  swell  in  music's  low,  rich  tones 

With  harmonies  g-randly  divine. 
Awakening-  liis  soul,bring-iDg  better  thoughts: 

O,  woman  such  power  is  thine! 


IN  MY  KOOM. 
'Tis  midnight  hour,  and  in  my  room 

The  lights  are  burning-  soft  and  low, 
The  tree  that  stands  my  window  near 

Its  leafy  boughs  waves  to  and  fro. 
A  babe  is  sleeping-  sweetly  nigh. 

Its  tiny  arms  thrown  out  in  rest  — 
An  imag-e  of  pure  innocence. 

The  truest  and  the  very  best.     , 
Alone  I  sit  and  think  of  one 

With  soft  clear  eyes  and  loving-  smile, 
Whose  accents  linger  still  with  me. 

And  many  weary  hours  beguile. 
I  can  but  think  liow  bleak  and  drear 

My  life  would  be  without  his  love, 
Which  fills  my  soul  with  echoes  sweet, 

A  faint  resound  from  choirs  above. 
I  feel  a  love  as  strong:  and  deep. 

As  full  and  vast  as  ocean's  tides. 
Where  every  pulse  but  for  liim  beats. 

And  all  my  bosom's  faith  abides. 
I've  listened  to  his  'witching  words, 

I've  listened  and  1  have  believed; 
Into  my  dreams  a  voice  has  come 

And  told  me  I  am  not  deceived. 
But,  oh  I  I  feel  that  if,  perchance. 

Should  come  the  hour,  with  his  love  fled. 
The  world  for  me  had  nothing  left, 

For  all  my  cherished  hopes  were  dead. 
But  no!  I've  felt  his  dear  heart's  beat. 

His  strong-  arms  firmly  'round  me  press'd, 
And  when  his  eye's  fond  glance  I  meet 

My  doubting  soul  finds  quiet  rest. 
In  this  sweet  faith  I'll  firmly  trust. 

Should  glad  joys  shine  or  st)rrows  looin. 
And  pray  we  be  unpartod  when 

Another  life  dawns  through  the  toml). 


®- 


BIRDS. 

EXTRACT. 

Mirds,  sweet  birds,  of  lightsome  wing. 

How  ye  sport  and  spring! 
Skimming  over  bank  and  brook, 
Mossy  marge  and  grassy  nook, 

Wliere  you  sit  and  sing. 


THE  REVEL  OF  THE  WINTER  WINDS. 
Hark!  liow  tlie  storm  is  raging  without! 

In  tlie  distance  it  clamoring  swells! 
All  check  and  resistance  it  sternly  defies. 

Its  voice  the  fierce  contest  foretells! 
The  trees  shake  bare  branches  in  quivering 
dread 

As  they  bow  their  tall  forms  to  the  blast, 
Or  measure  the  earth  with  their  fallen  length 

And  with  swift-drifting-  snows  are  o'ercast. 
Up  from  the  depths  of  tlie  darkness  it  comes 

With  a  wail  and  a  sobbing-  shout. 
Whispering,  shrieking  and  sighing  by  turns  — 

The  wild  spirits  of  air  have  come  out! 
With  a  gusty  bound,  a  rush  and  a  whirl. 

It  tears  tlirough  the  firs  o'er  the  way. 
With  the  moanings  that  only  sore  anguish 
might  know  — 

Hoarse  mutterings  like  giants  in  the  fray. 
It  piles  up  the  snow  in  great,  ghostly  drifts; 

The  moon  liides  her  face  in  despair; 
Not  one  starry  beam  through  the  wild-rifted 
clouds 

Falls  athwart  the  night's  keen,  cutting  air! 
Now  away  in  tlie  distance  it  shuddering  dies 

Like  the  sound  of  a  lost  soul's  woe; 
Then    it   gathers    new  impulse  and    violent 

strength 
•  On  its  errand  to  blast  and  o'ertlirow. 
What  way  will  it  take  on    its  long   journey 
hence 

To  wander  o'er  lands  distant  far. 
With  its  lion-like  roar,  or  its  soft  sleepy  snore. 

Or  clangor  of  storm-gods  at  war?  [wild. 

O'er    mountain,  and  vale  and  dense   forest 

It  hisses  and  sputters  along. 
Sweeping  the  lieights  with  impetuous  force, 

Or  again  sings  a  lullaby  song. 
Although  with  the  hoarsest  of  voices  it  speaks 

Where  the  long  roll  beats  on  the  drear  shore. 
The  wind  blasts  and  waves  croon  a  solemn  re- 
frain 

Of  eternity's  vast  Evermore.  [war, 

But  still  while  the  winds  and  the  waves  wage 

And  the  snow  king  sweeps  over  the  plain. 
We  hear  His  clear  voice  'nii.l  the  fiercest  of 
storms. 

Saying:  "  Hope  till  the  dawn  comes  again  !" 
For  to-morrow  the  snows  from  to-night's  weird 
storm 

Will  sparkle  and  flash  in  siinliglit, 
A  soft,  Heecy  robe  o'er  the  earth's  cold  breast, 

All  gone  the  niaddi-eain  of  the  nigiil. 
And    all    will    be    peaceful      lied     fear    and 
alarm  -- 

We'll  hear  but  lli(sleigli-bt>lls'  swecl  jingle. 
And   inside  — the    household    all   inei-i-y  and 
glad, 

Gathered   'round  the   bright,  cheery   home 
ingle. 


■* 


©■ 


-© 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


377 


JONAH  L.  ROBINSON. 

Born:  Sparta,  Wis.,  Oct.  19,  1856. 
After  receiving  his  education  Mr.  Kobinson 
taught  school  for  several  terms.  He  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar  in  1882.  Since  1883  he  has 
maintained  a  law  otlice  at  Watertown,  Dakota, 
but  has  devoted  much  of  his  time  to  newspa- 
per work  and  politics.  He  was  editor  of  the 
Dailv  rmirier  in  1SS4,  and  lias  siiict-  lui-ii  ('en- 


JONAH  L.  ROBINSON. 

tral  Dakota  editorial  correspondent  of  the 
Minneapolis  Tribune.  Mr.  Robinson  was  ap- 
pointed secretary  of  the  Territorial  Railroad 
and  Warehouse  Commission  in  1889  by  the 
governor  of  Dakota.  Both  his  prose  and  verse 
have  appeared  in  the  press  since  his  youth, 
generally  under  the  nameof  Doane  Robinson. 


8&- 


A  DAKOTA  YARN. 
Which  this  talk  of  a  teown  that  you  mean  to 

survey 
All  over  the  kentry  for  miles  around  here, 
Makes  me  rekerlect  what  I  seed  one  day. 
When  we  struck  the  big  Muddy  at  the  town 

of  Fort  Pierre. 
For  Johnny  and  me  with  a  big  lot  of  rockets,— 
That 's  what  we  boys  called  the  bright  nuggets 

and  knots,— 
Distributed  'bout  incur  pantaloon's  pockets 
Had  come  deown  from  the  Hills  to  invest  in 

teown  lots. 
Bigteown  out  there?  Well  nowyer  jes' talkin'. 


Ye'll  doubt  what  I  say,  but  I  hope  to  die 

Ef  we  dident  spend  all  day  a  walkin'. 

To  some  lots  deown  teown  a  fake  hoped  we'd 

buy. 
An'  we  camped  over  night  on  a  gumbo  hill, 
Whar  that  boomer  who  took  us  for  tender- 
feet 
Said  "  Fellars  fore  long  this  very  spot  will 
Be  the  busiest  part  of  the  principal  street." 
But  Johnnj'  nor  me  want  nary  spring  chicken. 
To  be  ketched  and  picked  by  a  fakir  like  him; 
So  we  took  the  next  train  and  next  day  was 

kickin' 
Round  Huron  the  capital  teown  on  the  Jim, 
Whar  a  smooth-muzzled  covey  soon  got  us  in 

tow. 
An'  he  puffed  up  the  town  with  amazin'  good 

skill  [go 

As  a  place  to  invest,  then  proposed  we  should 
To  his  west  site  addition  on  Capital  Hill. 
Well  we  tramped  out  with  him,  while  he  kept 

a  showin' 
t"s  objects  of  int'rest  that  we  couldent  see. 
College    and  factory    (in  his  mind)  a  growiu' 
An'  broad  acres  of  parks  with        nary  a  tree. 
At  last  we  climbed  up  on  a  big  cradle  knoll, 
An'  it  was  jolly  good  fun  to  hear  that  rustler 

tell, 
O'  the  picteresk  beauty  and  magnificent  roll, 
O'  them  lots  he  so  badly  wanted  to  sell 
How  the  Capital-house  of  the  future  grand 

state 
Would  be  built  on  that  very  identical  spot; 
That  the  chance  for  investment  wan't  never 

so  great. 
An'  he  showed  us  all  over  the  neighboring  lot 
Where  we  found  whar  but  lately  had  burned 

a  camp-tire. 
An'  the    hull  place  to  me  looked  familiarly 

queer: 
You  can  blast  my  tongue  for  a  cussed  liar 
If  it  wan't  the  same  we  had  camped  on  in 

Pierre. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

Behold:  the  great,  light-giving  sun 
Arose  above  the  western  hills. 
While  eastern  skies,  with  stars  bestud, 
No  promise  gave  of  breaking  day. 
Its  glowing  face  dispelled  the  gloom 
And  filled  the  land  with  light  and  life; 
And  while  its  warm  breath  bathed  the  earth. 
Rich  harvests,  planted  in  the  morn. 
Were  ripened  at  the  midday  bell. 
But  trait'rous  weeds,  grown  rank  and  foul 
In  the  dank,  dark,  late-ended  night. 
Withered  and  dried  beneath  its  heat. 
And  when  the  well-spent  day  was  done. 
The  rankest  weeds  of  treason  slain. 
The  rich  sheaves  safely  garnered  in. 
The  great  sun  found  immortal  rest. 


-^ 


"5- 


LOOAL   AND   NATIONAL    FOETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


MRS.  JOSEPHINE  B.  CRUMP. 

BORs:  Bloott  Co^  Texx..  Sept.  la,  1S41. 
The   poems  of  Mrs.  Crump  have  appeared 
quite  extensively  in  the  local  press.    She  was 

-^v  -     r  '   i";    ''  c^ -n'-^  ■' ^TV- 


MRS.  JO>EPHI>"E  B.  CF. 

loiiows  the  professioti  of  an  att._  :•;-->  ■.:  Har- 
rison. Ark.  In  person  Mrs,  Crump  is  a  linle 
above  the  average  height,  rather  robust,  with 
li^t- brown  hair  and  blue  eyes. 

THE  SECRET. 

When  timid  lips  shrink  back  from  words 

That  frame  in  prayer,  the  soul's  desire. 
When  utter  weakness  wards  off  speech 

That  interchange  of  thoughts  require; 
When  all  we  cannot  understand. 

The  sudden  grief,  the  staggering  blow 
May  just  be  left  in  the  kind  hand 

Thiit  finds  a  blessing  in  our  woe. 
The  soothing  sense  of  this  dear  way 

Markted  out  by  him  who  loves  us  best. 
Must  needs  be  full  of  love  and  faith 

In  attitude  of  gracious  rest. 
And  the  full  value  of  this  hush, 

Tl»e  confidence  that  baffles  speech 
Is  more  of  eloquence  to  him 

Than  human  ken  can  ever  reach. 
The  ut  -  rs  and  heart  throbs. 

Are  1  fn>ni  divine  eyes. 

But  wuii ..i  1-n.iunic  touch 

Expand  in  more  than  speech  implies. 


And  as  the  hxuuan  soul  communes 
In  silence  with  this  courily  Guest, 

The  baser  self  is  ushered  out— 
The  message  brings  its  promised  rest. 


THE  GREAT  REPFBIJC. 
With  its  mission  banner  flying 

In  love"s  service  to  and  fro. 
This  grand  boat  with  prow  uplifted. 

Breaks  the  rippling  waters  flow- 
As  it  laves  the  Mississippi. 

While  the  waves  on  either  baud 
Kjss  the  banks  that  dimly  mirror. 

Charm  of  shore  or  shining  strand. 

On  its  track  of  mercy  driving, 

Sound  of  oar  and  splash  of  wave 
Blend  in  harmony  with  voices 

Long  immured  in  living  grave. 
As  the  spirits  seeking  Balsam. 

That  kind  nature  hides  so  well 
In  her  shady  haunts  and  woodlands. 

Are  relaxed  by  pleasure's  spelL 

On  it  bounds  with  freight  and  tonnage. 

Gathered  from  lifes  lowliest  ways. 
Steering  to  the  goal  where  Freedom 

Like  a  psalm  is  sung  in  praise. 
In  the  odor  of  the  flowers. 

In  the  witchery  of  the  wood. 
Where  the  trees  in  mock  defiance 

Have  for  ages  grandly  stood. 

We  who  woo  the  morning  zephyrs. 

And  with  dewdrops  glad  our  eyes. 
Never  dream  how  bare  existence. 

In  brick  wall  and  pavement  lies. 
Where  the  chirp  and  song  of  warbler. 

Where  the  leaping  of  the  stream 
And  the  breath  of  nature's  wildings 

nil  alone  the  feverish  dream. 
While  we  laud  great  deeds  of  power. 

That  have  quelled  the  Giant  Wrong. 
Let  this  mission  of  the  hour 

Swell  with  fullness  every  song. 
Tor  the  hands  that  dare  to  rescue 

Victims  from  misfortune's  blast. 
Stamp  tby  time  not  even  canceled) 

Records  sealed  by  heaven  at  last. 


A  MOTHERS  SOLTLOQUT. 

EXTRACT. 

Then  I  watched  the  bud  of  your  spirit 

Unfold,  as  hour  by  hour 
It  developed  in  beauty  and  sweetness. 

And  rich  in  the  promise  of  flowers. 
Then  I  caught  your  soft,  soothing  prattle. 

And  laugiied  at  your  claiming  as  right. 
With  hands  all  dimpled  and  outstretched 

Everything  that  came  in  your  sight. 


5- 


fB 


©- 


© 


LOCAL   AJfV  NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  IDA  V.  JARVIS. 

Born:  Washingtox,  D.  C,  May  20, 1844. 
The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  in  the 
Gospel  Advocate,  Nashville  Republican  and 
the  periodical  press  i^enerally.    Siie  was  mar- 


MKS.  IDA  V.  JARVIS. 

ried  in  1866  to  J.  J.  Jan-is,  a  lawyer  and  bank- 
er of  Fort  Worth,  Texas,  where  she  now  re- 
sides. The  poems  of  Mrs.  Jarvis  have  always 
been  well  and  favorablj-  received. 


51- 


SUNSHIXE. 
There's  sunshine  o'er  the  mountain 

That  drives  the  mist  away. 
That  pours  a  flood  of  glory 

Adown  the  rocks  so  gray. 
And  lights  each  darksome  crevice 

With  many  a  cheering  ray. 
There's  sunshine  o'er  the  forest 

That  makes  the  tree-tops  glow. 
With  light  from  thousand  restless  leaves. 

Where  summer  breezes  blow. 
And  glancing  through  the  leafy  maze 

Lights  up  the  sward  below. 
There's  sunshine  on  the  river 

O'er  many  a  gloomy  cave. 
Where  pure  pelucid  waters 

Tlie  pearly  pebbles  lave. 
And  glowing,  glittering  glory 

Crowns  every  crested  wave. 
O'er  land  and  sea  there's  sunshine. 

A  beaming,  brightening  thing. 


A  free  and  heaven-born  blessing. 

For  peasant  aad  for  king; 
As  flowers  for  all  in  every  clime. 

Their  blooming  beauty  bring. 
There's  sunshine  glad  and  glowing. 

In  this  happy  heart  of  mine. 
Where  voices  loving,  cheering. 

Make  all  with  pleasure  shine. 
And  sunny  smiles  from  those  I  love 

Their  brightest  garlands  twine. 
Tliere's  sunshine  o'er  my  spirit 

That  Cometh  from  above. 
And  oft  methinks  there  comes  with  it 

The  holy  heaven-sent  dove. 
That  whispers  in  its  spirit  voice 

That  God  and  Heaven  are  love. 
Thank  Heaven  for  the  sunshine. 

O'er  earth,  and  heart,  and  soul. 
And  may  that  spirit  radiance 

In  glorious  billows  roll. 
Till  every  heart  with  blessed  light 

Grows  warm  from  jKile  to  pole. 


AX  INVITATION. 
Come  nearer,  sweet  warbler,  dont  stay  in  the 

tree. 
Come  build  in  the  woodbine  and  sing  here  for 

me. 
Its  bright,  blooming  tendrils  will  twlne'round 

th>  nest. 
And  night-winds  so  sweetly  will  soothe  thee 

to  rest ; 
They'll  rock  thee  and  lull  thee  through  all  the 

night  long. 
If  thou  wilt  repay  them,  wild  minstrel,  with 

song. 
Then  come  to  the  woodbine  that  climbs  by  my 

door. 
Thy  voice  will  bring  gladness  till  summer  is 

o'er. 
The  dove,  ever  plaintive,  may  stay  in  the 

grove. 
Too  sad  in  her  lay,  and  too  murmuring  her 

love; 
Though  sweet  the  low  cadence,  there's  grief  in 

her  song 
As  if  'twere  bewailing  unkindness  and  wrong. 
Each  heart,  when  she  sings,  can  but  echo  her 

sadness. 
But  songs  such  as  thine  ever  fill  us  with  glad- 
ness. 
Then  come  to  the  woodbine,  red  berries  and 

flowers. 
Will  shade  thy  loved  nest  through  the  long 

summer  hours. 
Though  others  may  boast  of  a  plumage  more 

bright. 
Though  colors  more  gorgeous  may  dazzle  the 

sight. 


© 


©- 


380 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS  OK  AMEKICA. 


-© 


Thy  swift  wing-'s  too  somber  to  glow  in  the 
sun. 

Yet  thou  art  still  peerless,  thou  musical  one. 

With  voice  rich  as  thine  not  a  hue  can  com- 
pare, 

As  it  g'ushes  in  song  so  hewild'ring'  and  rare. 

Then  come  to  the  woodbine,  'twill  make  thee 
a  home 

So  blooming:  and  lovely  thou'lt  ne'er  wish  to 
roam. 

Come  on,  sweet  enchantress,  no  longer  delay. 

The  woodbine  is  beckoning:  this  bright  sum- 
mer day  — 

Just  see  how  it  spreads  out  its  long,  trailing- 
arms 

And  offers  a  shelter  abounding  in  charms. 

Then^when  the  bright  May  flowers  in  loveli- 
ness come. 

The  clematis,  too,  will  creep  up  to  thy  home. 

'Twill  twine  with  the  woodbine  full  many  a 
bloom, 

And  yield  thee  for  incense  the  rarest  per- 
fume. 

Then  come  to  the  woodbine  that  climbs  by  my 

door. 
Come  with  thy  gay  carols,  again  I  implore. 
Come  sing  'mid   the   vine-leaves,— too   long 

you've  been  roaming. 
Come  haste  to  my  lattice  and   sing   till   the 

gloaming-. 
Then  when  the  pale  night  queen  in    beauty 

shall  shine 
Thou'lt  warble  lier  praise  from  thy    home  in 

the  vine. 
Forever,  sweet  minstrel,  I'd  have  thee  here 

sing. 
Forever  I'd  have  thy  wild  melodies  i-ing. 


8B- 


THE  WATER  LILY -QUEEN  OF  THE 

LAKE. 
On  the  limpid  glassy  waters. 

Sheltered  in  by  many  a  brakelet. 
Reigns  the  queen  of  Flora's  daughters. 

On  a  crystal  inland  lakelet. 
Where  the  bending,  weeping  willow 

Forms  a  canopy  of  green. 
There  on  many  a  mimic  billow- 
Floats  the  fairy  water  queen. 
Rules  she  in  her  waxen  beauty 

By  the  magic  i)ower  of  love; 
All  lier  subjects  pay  their  duty, 

'Round  about,  beneath,  above; 
Rend  to  lior,  who  in  the  sunliglit 

Cheering  them  with  beaming  smile, 
Rreathing  fragrance  tiirougli  the  dark  night, 

Does  their  slumber  soft  beguile. 
Where  the  babbling  water  gushes 

Ry  t  lie  (i;unii  and  miry  lianks, 
Tliiekly  'lonnd  lier  stand  lier  rushes 

With  their  speais  in  serried  ranks  — 


Watching  there  to  ward  off  danger. 

From  her  in  the  willow-s  shade. 
Quick  to  pierce  the  daring  ranger 

Who  her  kingdom  would  invade. 
Rushes,  such  as  guarded  Moses 

From  the  current  of  the  Nile, 
As  the  thorns  protect  the  roses 

From  the  spoiler's  crafty  wile. 

See  behind  her  in  the  distance. 

Basking  on  a  floating-  log. 
Quick  to  bring  his  queen  assistance 

'Gainst  marauders  from  the  bog, 
Basks  a  scaly  alligator 

Borne  along-  above  the  flood. 
Fierce  as  Roman  Gladiator 

Thirsting  for  the  sight  of  blood. 

In  this  monster  we  discern  a 

Likeness  to  the  Hydra  dire 
Which,  within  the  Marsh  of  Lerna, 

Hercules  destroyed  with  fire. 
Or  the  Dragon  who  would  grapple 

With  the  hero  in  his  might. 
When  he  stole  the  golden  apple 

From  the  daughters  of  the  Night. 

'Round  her  feet  are  fishes  gliding 

Through  the  liquid  glassy  waves. 
Who  through  all  the  night  were  hiding 

In  their  silent,  darksome  caves. 
How  thej'  make  the  wavelets  quiver. 

Bearing-  messages  afar. 
Flashing  outward  toward  the  river. 

Flashing  like  a  shooting  star. 

Butterfly  with  wings  all  glowing 

With  their  spots  of  beauty  bright. 
Comes  while  summer  winds  are  blow-ing. 

Glancing  in  the  mellow  light. 
Bearing  words  of  love  and  greeting 

From  the  blushing-  hill-side  rose. 
Then  some  gay-hued  comrade  meeting 

O'er  the  meadow  green  he  goes. 

Hark!  there  came  a  southern  minstrel. 

Who,  when  winter's  reign  is  o'er. 
Comes  to  praise  in  song  his  mistress. 

Like  some  gallant  t  roubatlour; 
Clad  in  dazzling,  glittering  plumage 

Borrowed  from  t lie  .southern  sky. 
Rivaling  in  brilliant  colors 

E'en  the  rainbow's  richest  dye. 

Cloaked  in  green  and  crimson  vested. 

Came  the  love-struck  humming  bird. 
And  upon  her  bosom  rested 

Breathing  many  a  loving  word. 
Telling  her  of  all  his  travels. 

Why  lie  thus  had  tarried  long. 
And  liis  tales  of  love  uiu-avels 

With  his  tireless  wing  of  song. 

See  the  cow  so  sleek  and  glossy 
Lowing  homeward  o'er  the  lea. 


-® 


a& 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMKllIOA. 


381 


* 


m- 


With  her  bell  so  sweetly  sounding-, 

Stops  beside  the  mimic  sea; 
Stops  awhile  the  waters  qu;ifBng 

With  her  soft  and  velvet  lips. 
Waves  around  her  feet  are  laughing-, 

While  she  in  their  coolness  dips. 
Then  she  lows  her  oblig-ation 

To  the  waters  and  their  queen, 
Till  the  tintinnabulation 

Faintly  dies  far  o'er  the  g-reen. 

As  the  evening:  shades  g-row  longer. 

From  the  ferns  within  the  glade. 
Frogs,  with  voices  sounding  stronger 

Croak  their  ipighty  serenade. 
Serenade  the  lily  sleeping 

On  the  bosom  of  the  lake. 
While  the  stars  their  watch  are  keeping 

With  bright  eyes  all  wide  awake. 

Thus  upon  the  pearly  lakelet 

Passing-  days  in  love  and  sport. 
Sheltered  in  by  many  a  brakelet. 

Dwell  the  Lily  and  her  court. 
They  in  every  thought  are  loyal 

To  their  dainty,  snowy  queen  — 
She  well  fitted  for  the  royal 

Rule  o'er  such  a  fairy  scene. 

Egypt's  lovely  star-eyed  daughter. 

When  her  scented  silken  sails 
Flashed  on  Cydnus'  glowing  water. 

Breathing  perfdmeon  the  gales. 
Might  have  envied  thee,  sweet  flower. 

In  thy  purity  and  grace; 
Thou  mighfst  smile  at  all  the  power 

Which  wo  in  her  liistory  trace. 

Solomon  in  all  his  glory. 

With  his  palaces  and  gold. 
Famous  in  Judea's  story. 

With  his  riches  still  untold. 
With  his  robes  of  glowing  carmine. 

Brought  in  ships  across  the  sea. 
With  his  purple  and  his  ermine 

Never  was  arrayed  like  thee. 

All  his  pomp  and  all  his  splendor 

Only  nourished  human  pride, 
Thou  in  lowliness  art  grander 

Hocked  upon  the  gleaming  tide, 
For  thy  robe  of  snowy  whiteness 

Was  the  work  of  God's  own  loom, 
Dewdrops  form  thy  crown  of  brightness. 

And  thy  breath  is  rare  perfume. 
Tlien  if  God  so  clothe  the  Lily 

Blooming  in  the  forest  wild. 
Never  in  His  goodness  will  He 

E'en  forget  his  humble  child; 
But  through  all  life's  devious  mazes, 

He,  with  His  all  seeing  eye. 
Guards  us  'round  as  down  He  gazes, 

From  his  throne  beyond  the  sky. 


CHARLES  CHASE  LORD. 

Born:  South  Bekwick,  Me.,  July  T,  184L 
After  receiving  his  education  Charles  devot- 
ed himself  to  the  christian  ministry,  but  not 
finding  that  vocati<jn  congenial,he  has  mainly 
given  his  time  to  journalistic  and  literary 
pursuits.  .  The  poems  from  the  pen  of  this 
writer  cover  a  wide  range  of  subjects,  and 
have  received  recognition  in  the  leading  per- 
iodicals of  America.  Mr.  Lord  has  for  many 
years  resided  at  Hopkinton,  N.  H.,  where  he 
is  now  engaged  in  compiling  a  local  history. 

UNDER  THE  STARS. 

Look  up,  sweet  fi-iend,  the  silent  orbs  behold. 
The  restless  eyes    that    watched  in  other 
years 
Each  mortal  step,  and  to  sagos  told 

The  secret  end,  of  anxious  hopes  and  fears. 
Day    droops    in    shadows,    but   the    faithful 
night  [eyes 

Smiles  on  the  sleeping  world  and  lures  our 
With  cheerful  gleams  of  ever  present  light. 

Like  life  that  tastes  of  death  but  never  dies. 
Thought  glooms  for  fate,  but  love's  bright 
star  imparts 
A  message  like  the  mystic  word  of  old; 
Above   earth's    dark,    it    beams   to    tell  our 
hearts. 
Ye  boat  through  time  and  change  and  ne'er 
grow  cold. 


ALTER  EGO. 
Though  earth  is  dark,  and  cold,  and  bare, 

Mj'  soul  ignores  the  gloomy  vast. 
For  far  beyond  the  haunts  of  care. 

My  other  self  long  since  has  passed. 
Though  bright,  warm  fields  of  leaf  and  bloom. 

And  fruitage  under  hiippy  skies. 
My  other  self,  in  amplest  room. 

E'er  on  some  thankful  mission  flies. 
So  grief  with  hope  will  now  abide. 

And  pain  its  wounded  heart  restore. 
Till  ruthless  time  and  sense  divide 

My  other  self  and  me  no  more. 

REVERIES. 

I  sit  beside  the  restless  sea,— 

A  bird  within  the  wood  sings  ••  willow!" 
And  mj'  heart  for  a  song  is  sad  in  me, 

And  my  soul  tossed  like  a  billow. 
I  sit  beside  the  restless  sea, — 

The  bird  withiTi  the  wood  sings  •' willow!" 
But  my  heart  for  the  song  is  glad  in  me, 

And  my  soul  swims  like  the  billow. 
I  sit  beside  the  restless  sea, — 

A  bird  within  the  wood  sings  ••  willow!" 
O  my  heart  for  a  song  is  changed  in  me. 

And  my  soul  shifts  like  a  billow ! 


« 


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382 


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LOCAIi    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


GEORGE  B.  GRIFFITH. 

Born:  Newburypokt,  Mass.,  Feb.  28,  1841. 
As  the  editor  and  compiler  of  The  Poets  of 
Maiue,  George  Bancroft  Griffith  has  become 
well  known.  He  has  written  some  beautiful 
poems   that   have    received    publication    in 


GEORGE   B.  GRIFFITH. 

Youth's  Companion,  St.  Nicholas,  and  other 
equally  prominent  journals.  He  is  now  en- 
gaged on  a  new  work.  The  Poets  of  Massachu- 
setts, which  will  be  published  in  1890. 


LILACS. 
Begemmed  with  April  rain 
They  nodded  in  the  lane. 
The  fragrant,  purple  clusters,  the  lilacs  loved 

of  yore; 
With  gentle  touch  again 
They  tap  the  window  pane. 
Those  sprays  that  waved  so  gracefully  beside 

our  cottage  door! 


THE  SPHINX  OF  THE  WHITE  HILLS. 
Nature's  grand  sphinx  art  thou,  O  man  of 

stone. 
With  face  colossal  gazing  from  thy  throne; 
Not  as  the  fabled  monster  stern  and  cold. 
Though  in  wild  majesty  thou  reign'st  alone. 
But  set  in  splendid  spheres 
Of  flame  when  morn  appears. 
Sublime  for  aye,  unrivaled  and  world-old! 
No  iron  circlet  shall  thy  brow  offend, — 


Dawn's   royal  robe   shall  trailing  splendors 

lend. 
And  flaming  leaves  their  golden  glory  show. 
And    light    ineffable    around    thy    forehead 

blend; 
Thy  startling  beauty  free 
Forever  more  shall  be, 
Wliile  silver  fountains  sing  far,  far  below. 
Nor  tell  me,  worldling,  that  yon  granite  face. 
Patterned   by  God,  shall  crumble    from  its 

place  — 
That  figure  spanned  by  Eden's  dazzling  light! 
Worshiped    with    awe    by  earliest  unknown 

race, 
When  spring's  first  breath  was  blown 
Where  holy  flowers  shone, 
And   starry   lamps   were   hung   o'er   Chaos' 

night! 
Molded  mute  offspring  from  the  solid  rock, 
Man's  art  with  rugged  grandeur  e'er  to  mock; 
With  pulseless  heart,  yet  speaking  evermore 
Of  peace,  of  perfect  rest; 
Soothing  each  troubled  breast 
VV^hile  light  in  satin  sandals  hovers  o'er. 


m- 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Though  gathered  are  the  sheaves, 

Still  glow  the  crimson  leaves 

By  many  a  stream,  my  darling;  and  the  sun. 

Where  the  waves  are  all  a-quiver, 

Shows  a  pathway  o'er  the  river. 

When  the  dapple  shades  remind   us  day  is 

done. 
Hark !  robin's  flute  is  heard. 
Though  no  other  summer  bird 
Dares  to  linger,  Bessie,  darling,  by  the  pool; 
What  care  we  though  the  rose 
Nor  the  lily  longer  blows. 
And  the  dreamy  noontide  hour  is   growing 

cool ; 
The  shimmering  meadow,  still. 
The  woodland  and  the  hill. 
Have  charms  that  woo  us,  darling,  none  the 

less ; 
And  till  sudden  change  and  spell 
Blight  tlie  shrines  we  love  so  well, 
Will  the  after  summer  soothe  us,  cheer  and 

bless! 


OUR  PUREST  .TOYS. 
Our  joys  may  oft  be  tender  shadows 

That  grief  alone  had  power  to  cast. 
Yet  shine,  as  shine  in  summer  meadows. 

The  bright  drops  when  the  cloud  has  past 


SELF  SACRIFICE. 
The  coral  worker  but  an  atom  gave 

To  help  iiprear  tlie  pile  lie  ne'er  could  see. 
But  now  it  stands  above  the  top-most  wave. 

He  has  a  part  in  temples  yet  to  be! 


■« 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


383 


-® 


JOHN  A.  WILSTACH. 

Born  :  Washington,  D.  C,  July  14, 1824. 
As  lawyer,  ling-uist,  poet,  Mr.  Wilstach  ha."? 
earned  quite  a  reputation.  After  receiving 
his  education,  he  studied  law  and  began  prac- 
ticing that  profession  in  Indiana  in  1850.  For 
ten  years  he  was  a  master  in  chancery,  and  in 
1867  was  sent  to  Paris  as  one  of  the  United 
States  commissioners  to  tlie  Paris  universal 
exiiDsitiiiii.     Dinini;    isr,';-';:.'  Mi-.  Wilstach  was 


JOHN  A.   WILSTACH. 

commissioner  of  immigration  for  the  state  of 
Indiana.  His  orations  and  speeches  have  fre- 
quently appeared  in  pamphlet  form,  and  his 
numerous  published  works  have  been  well  re- 
ceived. A  volume  of  Mr.  Wilstach's  original 
poems  is  in  process  of  collection,  and  will  be 
issued  in  book-form  in  1890.  Mr.  Wilstach  has 
gradually  withdrawn  from  the  practice  of  law, 
and  devotes  his  time  to  literary  study  and  tlie 
management  of  liis  private  estate  at  La 
Fayette,  Indiana,  where  he  now  resides. 


® 


FROM  THE  SIXTH  BOOK  OF  THE 
^NEID. 

THE  SHADE  OF  ANCHISES  DECLARES  TO  yENEAS 
THE  FUTURE  HISTORY  OF  ROME. 

"Wlio   thee   shall  leave    unmentioned   Cato 

great? 
Or  Cossus?  Who  the  Gracchi's  race?  Or  who 
Tlie  Scipios  grim,  twin  thunderbolts  of  war 
And    Libya's    scourge?     Fabricius     strong, 

though  poor? 


Or  thee,  Serranus,  from  thy  furrows  called? 
Or  where  drive  ye,  great  Fabii,  wearied  me,— 
Ye,  of  whom  thou  the  greatest,  art  the  one 
Who  by  delay  to  us  the  state  restored? 
More  softly  others  may  bright  bronzes  mold. 
Until  tliey  seem  to  breathe,  and  better  bring, 
As  freely  I  concede,  from  marble  carved. 
The  living  features  forth,  and  better  plead 
The  cause,  and  with  apt  lines  the  measures 

trace 
Of  heaven,  and  tell  where  rise  and  set  the 

stars ; 
But  thou,  O  Roman,  mind  thee  the  great  arts 
Of  government  to  learn.  These  shall  be  thine. 
Thou  Shalt  thine  empire  on  the  peoples  lay. 
Thou  shalt  the  ways  of  peace  unto  them  teach. 
Thou  shalt  the  conquered  spare,  but  shalt 

light  down 
The  proud  contemners  of  thy  state  and  laws." 
Father  Anchises  thus  had  said;  and  then, 
To   those    who    heard   and   marveled  at  his 

speech. 
These  further  words  he  added  thereunto: 


FROM  THE  THIRD  BOOK  OF  THE 
INFERNO. 

VIRGIL  AND  DANTE  REACH  THE  GATEWAY  OF 
HELL  AND  BEGIN  THEIR  PROGRESS 
THROUGH  THE  LOWER  WORLD. 

"Through  me  are  found  the  grieving  city's 
walls, 
Tlirough  me  the  way  is  to  eternal  pain. 
Through  me   those  lost  are  never  found 
again. 
Justice  the  founder  urged  of  my  grim  halls 
And  Power  Divine  which  reared  the  courts 

above 
And  Wisdom  Infinite  and  Primal  Love, 
Save  things  eternal,  was  created  naught 
Before  myself,  eternal  I  and  drear. 
All  hope  surrender,  ye  who  enter  here." 
Mine  eye  the  legend's  sombre  colors  sought 
Above  a  gateway's  lofty  arch  of  gloom; 
"The  meaning's  hard,  it  speaks  an  awful 
doom," 
I  to  my  Master  said ;  but  he,  as  one 
Prepared,made  answer:  "  All  distrust  lay  by, 
Within  thine  heart  let  slavish  terror  die. 
For  we  the  place  whereof  I  spoke  have  won. 
Where  we  the  souls  shall  see  in  misery  tost 
Who  God,  the  mind's  best  dower  and  prop, 
have  lost." 
His  looks  were  looks  of  joy,  his  welcome  hand 
Reached  forth  for  mine,  its  clasp  brought 

sweet  relief. 
And  into  secret  things  led  me  my  chief. 
Her  wailings  deep  and  screams  and  sighs 
Stirred  all  the  starless  air  of  that  black  deep, 
Whereat  at  first  I  could  not  choose  but  weep. 
Tongues  diverse,  deafening  yells,  and  horror's 
cries. 


■© 


* 


384 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   I'OETS   OF  AMERICA. 


* 


JOHN  PARKER. 

Born  :  England,  Jan.  1",  1822. 
Settling  in  Pennsylvania  in  1849,  Mr.  Parlier 
in  18('4  went  to  Mahanoy  City,  edititifi-  Anthra- 
cite Monitor,  the  organ  of  the  miner's  and  la- 
borer's association  of  Pennsylvania.  In  1873  he 
boug-ht  tlie  Malianoy  Valley  Record,  which  he 


JOHN  PAltKER. 

published  as  a  wt^ekly  paper  until  1877. 
when  it  was  changed  into  a  tri-weekly,  of 
which  he  is  still  the  sole  publisher  iind  pro- 
prietor. Mr.  Parker  has  taken  an  active  part 
in  all  labor  movements,  and  served  four  years 
in  the  Pennsylvania  senate,  from  1878  to  1882. 

HOLD  UP  YOUR  HEAD. 

Hold  up  your  head!  what  need  to  cower? 

Hold  up  your  face  to  view  the  sun; 
For  tli(j'  your  worldly  wt-allh  b(<  jioor. 

You've  got  the  glorious  form  of  man. 
Let  that  not  bend,  l)ut  proud  and  high, 
Erect  your  head  toward  the  sky. 
Hold  up  your  head!  that  gaudy  thing 

With  all  its  gorgeous  pomp  and  show; 
That  boiirs  the  tarnished  name  of  king; 

To  which  base  slaves  bow  down  so  low. 
Without  the  toys  that  gild  it  now. 
Is  only  flesh  and  blood  like  you. 
Hold  up  your  head!  'tis  no  disgrace 

To  show  a  visage  marked  with  toil; 
Far  better  sweat-drops  wet  thy  lace 


Than  live  by  rapine  fraud  or  guile. 
Thou'rt  useful  to  the  world,  and  thou 
Can'st  well  afford  to  lift  thy  brow. 
Hold  up  your  head!—  move  boldly  on. 

To  right  or  left  — turn  not  aside; 
Keep  honor's  beauteous  path  and  sfiuu 

The  devious  ways  of  worldly  pride; 
Then  those  who  may  thy  actions  scan 
Will  say:  "  Behold  an  honest  man!" 

FRIENDSHIP. 
When  worldly  sorrows  o'er  us  throw 

Their  lowering  clouds  so  dark  and  drear; 
How  sweet  it  is  to  feel  —  to  know. 

That  friendly  hearts  are  beating  near. 
That  friendly  smiles,  amid  the  gloom. 
Shines  forth  the  darkness  to  illume. 
How  sweet  to  know  that  other  tears 

Are  mixed  with  ours  —  that  other  eyes 
Are  moist  with  .sympathetic  cares; 

Tlmt  friendly  breast  will  heave  with  sighs 
When  ours  pulsate  with  pain  or  grief. 
And  share  the  load  or  give  relief. 
Friendship!  thy  genial  smile  doth  throw 

A  beauteous  radiance  o'er  life's  path; 
Makes  pleasures  greater,  lightens  woe. 

And  gilds  the  dreary  hour  of  death 
With  heavenly  beams  that  softly  shed 
Their  light  around  our  dying  bed. 

THE  FAIRIES. 

In  the  silvery  moonlight 

Sporting  meri'ily. 
Dancing  on  the  green  sward 

'Neath  the  old  oak  tree; 
Little,  laughing  fairies. 

Ever  blithe  and  gay. 
Reveling  through  the  midnight 

Fritter  life  awiiy. 
Drinking  from  the  dewdrops 

That  hang  upon  the  flowers; 
Swinging  on  the  green  leaves. 

In  the  shady  bowei's; 
And  wlieii  smilingmorning 

Sends  the  night  away. 
Deep  among  the  rose  leaves. 
Sleeping  through  the  day. 
Happy,  sportive  creatures. 

Free  from  every  care; 
Life  to  them  is  joyousness, 

Ever  bright  :ind  fair. 
Oh,  to  be  a  fairy! 

Krolicksome  and  g;iy. 
Underneath  tlie  moonbeams 
Dancing  life  away. 

JESSIE  LOVE. 
Oh,  sweet  art  tliou  my  Jessie  Love, 

As  flowers  tliat  grow  in  May; 
As  birds  that  sing  at  early  (lawn 

Upon  the  pearly  spray: 


»■ 


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LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


385 


-* 


EDMUND  C.  STEDMAN. 

Born:  Hartford.  Conn.,  Oct. 8, 1833 

In  1849  he  entered  Yale  college.  Two  years 
later  he  received  first  prize  for  his  poem  of 
Westminister  Abbey.  He  edited  various  news- 
papers and  contributed  to  Vanity  Fair,  Put- 
nam's Monthly,  Harper's  Magazine,  and  other 
periodicals. 

The  writings  from  his  pen  during  the  last 
quarter  of  a  centurj-  have  been  numerous.  In 
1884  a  Household  Edition  of  his  poems  was  pub- 
lished. Mr.  Stedman  is  now  engaged  in  editing 
a  Library  of  American  Literature,  to  be  com- 
pleted iu  ten  volumes,  half  of  which  have 
already  appeared. 


Thou  art  mine,  1  have  made  thee  mine  own,- 
Heneeforth  we  are  mingled  forever: 
But  in  vain,  all  in  vain  I  endeavor. 

Though  round  thee  my  garlands  are  thrown 

And  thou  yieldest  thy  lips  and  thy  zone. 

To  master  the  spell  that  alone 
My  hold  on  thy  bemg  sever. 


KEARNY  AT  SEVEN  PINES. 

So  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey,— 
The  story  of  Kearny  who  knew  not  to  yield ! 
'Twas  the  day  when  with  Jameson,  fierce  Berry, 
and  Birney, 
Against  twenty  thousand  he  rallied  the  field. 
Where  the  red  volleys  poured,  where  the  clam- 
or rose  highest. 
Where  the  dead  lay  in  clumps  through  the 
dwarf  oak  and  pine. 
Where  the  aim  from  the  thicket  was  surest  and 
Highest,— 
No  charge  like  Phil  Kearny's  along  the  whole 
line. 

When  the  battle  went  ill,  and  the  bravest  were 
solemn. 
Near  the  dark  Seven  Pines,  where  we  still 
held  our  ground. 
He  rode  down  the  length   of    the  withering 
column. 
And  his  heart  at  our  war-cry  leapt  up  with  a 
bound: 
He  snuffed,  like  his  charger,  the  wind  of  the 
powder,— 
His  sword  waved  us  on,  and  we  answered  the 
sign: 
Loud  our  cheer  as  we  rushed,  but  his  laugh 
rang  the  louder, 
"There's  the  devil's  own  fun,  boys,  along  the 
whole  line!" 

How  be  strode  his  brown  steed !    How  we  saw 
his  blade  brighten 


In  the  one  hand  still  left,— and  the  reins  in 
his  teeth! 
He    laughed    like  a  boy   when    the    holidays 
heighten. 
But  a  soldier's  glance  shot  from  his  visor  be- 
neath. 
Up  came  the  reserves  to  the  mellay  infernal, 
Asking  where  to  go  in,—  through  the  clear- 
ing or  pine'? 
'•O,  anywhere!     Forward!    'Tis  all  the  same. 
Colonel: 
You'll  find  Lovely  fighting  along  the  whole 
line!  " 

O,  evil  the  black  shroud  of  night  at  Chantilly, 
That  hid  him  from  sight  of  his  brave  men 
and  tried! 
Foul,   foul  sped  the  bullet  that  clipped  the 
white  lily. 
The    flower  of  our  knighthood,  the   whole 
army's  pride! 
Yet  we  dream  that  he  still,— in  that  shadowy 
region 
Where  the  dead  form  their  ranks  at  the  wan 
drummer's  sign, — 
Rides  on,  as  of  old,  down  the  length  of  his  le- 
gion. 
And  the  .word  still  is  Forward!  along  the 
whole  line. 


THE  WORLD  WELL  LOST. 

That  year?    Yes,  doubtless  I  remember  stilJ,— 
Though  why  take  count  of  every  wind  that 
blows! 
'Twas  plain,  men  said,  that  Fortune  used  me 
ill 
That  year  — the  self-same  year  I  met  with 
Rose. 

Crops  failed ;  wealth  took  a  flight ;  house,  trea- 
sure, land. 
Slipped  from  my  hold— thus  Plenty  comes 
and  goes. 
One  friend  I  had,  but  he  too  'oosened  his  hand 
Or  was  it  I?  the  year  I  met  with  Rose. 

There  was  a  war,  raethinks;  some  rumor,  too. 
Of  famine,  pestilence,  fire,  deluge,  snows; 

Things  went  awry.  My  rivals,  straight  in  view. 
Throve,  spite  of  all;  but  I,—  I  met  with  Rose! 

That  year  my  white-faced  Alma  pined  and  died: 
Some  trouble  vexed  her  quiet  heart,— who 
knows? 

Not  I,  who  scarcely  missed  her  from  my  side. 
Or  aught  else  gone,  the  year  I  met  with  Rose. 

Was  there  no  more?    Yes,  that  year  life  began : 
All  Ufe    before  a  dream,  false    joys,  light 
woes,— 

All  after-life  compressed  within  the  span 
Of  that  one  year,— the  year  I  met  with  Rose! 


w 


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386 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


WILLIAM    B.  DOWNER. 

Born  :  Fenner,  N.  Y.,  Dec.  13, 1815. 
Since  liis  youtli  Mr.  Downer  has  contributed 
versf  iiHirc  nr  less  t<i  tlit'  lui'.il   press.     Ht-  was 


WII.M  \M    i;    1"  >\\  ^  I  i; 
married  in  1839  and  is   still   a  resident  of  his 
native  state  at  Cazenovia. 


OUR  PICNIC. 

Once  on  a  time,  as  poets  say. 

The  tenth  month  and  second  daj-, 

The  weather  being'  nice  and  fine. 

In  eigliteen  hundred  sixty-nine  — 

Some  friends  whom  I  had  linown  before 

In  district  numl^er  twenty-four. 

All  looliing-  well,  for  none  were  sick. 

Came  to  my  house  for  a  picnic. 

Their  names  I  need  not  now  rehearse. 

And  thereby  much  prolong-  my  verse, 

But  of  the  doings  of  that  day 

Proceed  to  write  witliout  delay; 

Not  doubting-  but  my  friends  will  find 

My  narrative  quite  to  their  mind. 

And  nothing:  put  in  malice  down. 

To  merit  or  receive  a  frown. 

As  fast  as  e'er  my  guests  did  come 

Unto  the  place  I  call  my  home, 

Tliey  were  invited  to  alight. 

An  act  in  which  they  look  delight. 

For  all  had  come  a  day  to  spend 

Witli  one  they  seemed  to  tliink  a  friend, 

And  wliat  was  kind,  to  say  the  least. 

All  brought  an  offering  for  the  feast. 


Then  soon  long  tables  three  were  spread. 
With  cakes  and  honey,  pies  and  bread. 
While  other  things,  both  good  and  nice, 
Were  added  to  them  in  a  trice; 
And  then  around  those  tables  three 
Were  gathered  quite  a  company. 
And  of  those  good  things  with  a  will. 
Both  one  and  all  did  eat  their  All. 

Once  and  again  those  tables  'round, 
A  new  supply  of  guests  was  found. 
And  from  the  abundance  there  displayed. 
Each  one  of  them  a  dinner  made; 
Nor  yet  exhausted  the  supply 
Of  food  and  drink,  though  all  kept  dry. 
For  of  the  fragments  there  were  still 
Enough  to  manj'  baskets  fill. 

The  dinner  through,  the  sports  began, 
Down  to  the  lake  some  walked,  some  ran. 
Nor  waited  they  for  wind  or  tide. 
But  in  the  boats  all  took  a  ride: 
And  on  the  waters  of  the  bay 
Some  pleasant  hours  thus  passed  away. 
For  all  did  seek  with  happy  mind 
Their  mutual  pleasure  thus  to  find. 

Of  other  pleasures,  too,  I  sing. 
For  many  did  enjoy  the  swing. 
And  what,  perhaps,  was  not  the  least. 
All  had  of  grapes  abundant  feast: 
And  thus  throughout  the  livelong  day 
The  happy  hours  did  glide  away. 
For  all  seemed  joyous  thus  to  spend 
A  social  picnic  with  their  friend. 

But  earthly  joys  are  not  for  aye. 
They  come  and  go  without  delay. 
And  as  the  shades  of  night  came  on. 
The  joyous  throng  had  come  and  gone; 
Leaving  to  memory's  thoughtful  care 
The  face  of  those  so  young-  and  fair. 
Who  kindly  once  endured  my  rule 
As  teacher  of  their  district  school. 

And  now,  kind  friends,  permit  me  here 
To  tender  thanks  to  you  sincere, 
And  when  again  you  care  to  spend 
A  plea.sant  picnic  with  a  friend. 
Remember  that  I'll  be  at  home. 
Whene'er  to  see  me  you  may  come. 
And  do  my  best  in  every  way 
To  lielp  you  pass  a  pleasant  day. 


©■ 


A  FRIEND  LOVETH  AT  ALL  TIMES. 
Tlie  patriot  loves  his  native  l.-md. 

With  its  rocks,  and  mounts  and  rills. 
And  e'en  its  very  poorest  strand, 

His  heart  with  rapture  thrills; 
Hut  still  that  love  may  change  and  die. 

Or  pass  to  other  climes, 
Yet  this  great  truth  will  still  apply: 

A  friend  loveth  at  all  times. 


SI- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


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THOiMAS  C.  HARBAUGH, 

Born:  near  Middletown,  Md.,  Jan.  3, 1849. 
Thomas  Chalmers  Harbaugh  has  written 
numerous  poems  of  the  events  of  the  civil 
war.  He  has  delivered  many  of  his  poems  at 
regimental  re-unions  and  grand  army  gather- 
ings, and  liis  presence  always  insures  a  larg:e 
audience.      In  1883  Mr.  Harbaugli  publislied  a 


f 


TIKIMAS   C.   llAliliArOH. 

volume  of  poems  entitled  Mai)le  Leaves,  which 
was  favorably  received  by  press  and  public. 
He  hopes  soon  to  publish  another  volume  of 
his  poems.  Mr.  Harbaugh  devotes  the  whole 
of  his  time  to  literature,  working  in  his  study 
for  two  hours  in  the  morning  and  two  in  the 
afternoon;  and  in  his  leisure  hours  he  strolls 
around  the  fields  and  glens  surrounding  Cass- 
town,  Ohio— very  often  with  rod  and  gun. 


THE  ROSE  OF  WATERLOO. 

How  fragile  art  thou,  little  flow'r! 

And  yet  how  very  fair; 
The  fragrance  of  thy  one  brief  hour 

Still  lingers  on  the  air. 
Thy  home  is  where  the  god  of  war 

Trod  down  the  brave  and  true. 
And  where  went  out  an  empire's  star, 

O  rose  from  Waterloo! 
The  soil  that  nourished  thee  was  red 

With  blood  one  summer  day ; 


It  groaned  beneath  its  weight  of  dead 

Where  nations  fought  tor  sway. 
The  royal  Timor  of  his  age 

Was  cooquered  where  ye  grew, 
To  die  within  his  ocean  cage, 

Fair  rose  from  Waterloo! 
The  Belgian  lion  guards  the  plain. 

And  Mars'  l)aptismal  font; 
The  spectres  of  the  gallant  slain 

Stand  guard  at  Hugomont. 
Thy  sisters  in  the  soft  starlight 

Receive  the  spotless  dew. 
And  wonder  wliere  thou  art  to-night, 

O  rose  from  Waterloo ! 
The  cannon  ruts,  those  scars  of  hate, 

Have  vanished  with  the  years; 
The  cricket  calls  his  timid  mate 

Where  died  the  grenadiers. 
The  soaring  lark  her  matins  sings 

Amid  the  balmy  blue; 
With  happy  notes  thy  birth-place  rings. 

Sweet  flower  of  Waterloo. 
The  lambkins  sport  where  battle's  wave 

Beat  high  that  fateful  day. 
And  where  the  bravest  of  the  brave 

Went  down,  the  children  play. 
The  language  that  thy  petals  speak 

They  whisper  'neath  the  yew, 
Till  blushes  crown  the  lassie's  cheek, 

O  rose  from  Waterloo ! 
Now,  as  I  look  thee  o'er  and  o'er. 

And  touch  my  lips  to  thine, 
I  hear  the  tide  of  war  once  more 

Roll  down  the  allied  line! 
But  ah !  the  flags  that  floated  then 

Wave  o'er  a  pensioned  few. 
And  silent  is  thy  native  glen. 

Lone  rose  from  Waterloo ! 


GRANT- DYING. 
It  seemed  to  me  "  that  yester-night 

I  heard  the  branches  sighing 
Beneath  my  window,  soft  and  low: 

"  The  great  war  chief  is  dying !  " 
His  marches  o'er,  his  battles  won. 

His  bright  sword  sheathed  forever, 
The  grand  old  hero  stands  beside 

The  dark  and  silent  river; 
Whilst  fame  for  him  a  chaplet  weaves 

Within  her  fairest  bowers. 
Of  Shiloh's  never-fading  leaves. 

And  Donelson's  bright  flowers; 
Grim  Vicksburg  gives  a  crimson  rose, 

Embalmed  in  deathless  story. 
And  Appomattox  adds  a  star 

To  crown  the  wreath  of  glory. 
He's  dying  now!— the  angel  Death, 

Insatiate  and  impartial, 
With  icy  fingers,  stoops  to  touch 

The  Union's  old  fleld-marshal. 


■m 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


Who,  like  a  soldier  brave,  awaits 

Where  the  stars  of  southland  shine  — 

The  summons  so  appalling-. 

On  the  crest  of  the  palmetto. 

While  o'er  the  land,  from  sea  to  sea, 

And  the  plumage  of  the  pine. 

The  silent  tear  is  falling-. 

Where  the  waters  in  their  beauty 

Still  in  liis  veterans'  hearts  to-day 

Oft  through  groves  of  orange  run. 

His  battle  drums  are  beating-; 

Whei-e  the  rivers  seek  the  ocean 

His  bugles  always  blew  advance  — 

Thro'  the  shadow  and  the  sun. 

With  him  was  no  retreating-; 

Sleep  the  boys  who  did  their  duty 

And  tenderly,  with  moistened  eye. 

On  the  lurid  battle  line. 

Columbia  bends  above  him. 

Some  around  the  tall  palmetto. 

And  everywhere  the  son-owed  heart 

Others  underneatli  the  pine. 

Tells  how  the  people  love  him. 

Once  their  camp-fires  lit  the  darkness. 

From  golden-fruited  orange  g-roves 

Once  their  snowy  tents  were  spread 

To  where  the  pines  are  sighing-. 

Where  the  bluebird  woos  his  sweetheart. 

The  winds  waft  messages  of  love 

And  the  lily  lifts  her  head. 

To  Grant,  the  hero,  dying. 

Long  ago  o'er  hill  and  valley. 

The  Old  World  sends  across  the  waves. 

Stretched  their  gleaming  picket  lines. 

A  token  of  its  sorrow; 

From  the  fair  sun-kiss'd  palmettoes 

The  greatest  chief  alive  to-day 

To  the  shadow  of  the  pines. 

May  fall  asleep  to-morrow. 

O'er  a  country  undivided 

0  touch  the  hero  gently.  Death!  — 

Peace  hath  spread  her  gentle  wings. 

The  land  is  filled  with  weeping; 

Where  the  cannon  hoarselj'  thundered. 

And  be  his  passing  like  a  child's  — 

'Neath  a  leaf  the  cricket  sings; 

The  counterfeit  of  sleeping. 

And  in  hamlet,  home  and  city. 

A  million  boys  in  blue  now  stand 

Lovely  hands  sweet  chaplets  twine 

Around  their  djing  brother; 

For  the  graves  beneath  palmetto. 

The  mighty  world  know  but  one  Grant, 

And  tlie  mounds  around  the  pine. 

'Twill  never  know  another. 

There  are  many  gallant  comrades 

So  let  him  die  with  honors  crowned 

Who  from  war  will  never  come; 

To  live  fore'er  in  story; 

They  are  those  whose  hearts  beat  gladly 

The  fields  he  won,  the  land  he  saved. 

At  tlie  rattle  of  the  drum. 

Will  be  his  lasting  glory. 

Over  them  from  night  till  morning 

0  mighty  Ajax  of  the  North ! 

There's  a  guardianship  divine. 

Old  field-martial  immortal! 

And  above  them  bend  in  beauty 

My  saddened  heart's  with  thee  to-diiy 

The  palmetto  and  the  pine. 

Before  the  darkened  portal. 

Many  a  patient  one  is  waiting- 

I  listened  to  the  winds  last  night. 

In  an  aureole  of  pray'r. 

How  mournful  was  their  sigliing! 

And  upon  the  shrouded  hearthstone 

It  seemed  to  me  a  nation's  sobs 

Stands  to-day  a  vacant  chair; 

O'er  Grant,  tlie  soldier,  dying. 

Waiting-  for  the  hero  sleeping 

0  touch  him,  touch  him  softly.  Death  — 

Wliere  the  dark  and  dreamy  vine 

Insatiate  and  impartial; 

Seeks  the  heart  of  the  palmetto, 

He  is  the  Union's  mightest  cliief  — 

And  the  coronets  of  pine. 

My  cherished  old  fleld-marshal ! 

Lips  to  be  will  chant  their  praises, 

Ages  yet  will  come  to  tell 

PALMEIRO  AND  PINE. 

How  they  marched  to  loyal  music. 

Once  again  the  flow'rs  are  falling 

How  they  fought  and  how  they  fell; 

On  the  gallant  and  the  true. 

And  each  year  will  grateful  Freedom 

Who  to-day  are  sweetly  dreaming 

Deck  anew  her  saered  shrines 

'Neatli  the  canopy  of  blue. 

For  the  sleepers  'neath  palmetto. 

'Tis  for  tlicm  we  weave  the  chaplet, 

For  licr  sons  among  the  pines. 

'Tis  for  them  tliat  we  entwine 

In  their  silent  camps  of  glory. 

The  leaves  of  the  palmetto 

Stretching  far  from  sea  to  sea  — 

Willi  the  brntiches  of  tlic  pine. 

Reaching  from  tlie  land  of  siunvHakes 

Ah  !  methinks  their  drums  are  b(>ating 

To  the  sliade  of  cypi-ess  tree. 

In  tlieir  long  deserted  camps, 

Lie  to-day  our  bliie-clad  warriors 

And  I  seem  to  liear  tlie  music 

On  nil  iMidU'ss  batt  le  line- 

or  their  grand  and  martial  tram|)s. 

Guarding  still  their  loved  palmetto. 

But  I  know  they  march  no  longer 

Keeping  free  the  waving  pine. 

1; 

© 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


iH9 


Buds  iind  blossoms  sweet  are  fulling-, 

On  the  tender  and  the  true. 
And  the  land  we  love  does  homage 

To  her  chevaliers  in  blue; 
While  the  flag-  for  which  the  bravest 

Pour'd  their  blood  like  crimson  wine. 
Waves  aloft  in  spangled  g-randeur 

Over  palmetto  and  pine  I 
Let  it  float !    They  fell  around  it. 

On  the  land  and  on  the  foam, 
From  the  fire  and  smoke  of  carnage 

Gallantly  they  bore  it  home; 
And  till  time  is  time  no  longer. 

May  its  stars  with  splendor  shirue 
On  the  home  of  the  palmetto, 

And  the  birthland  of  the  pine! 


© 


THE  JINGLE  OF  THE  BELLS. 

Ah!  the  fleecj^  flakes  are  falling 

Through  the  frosty  winter  night. 
And  December's  winds  ax-e  calling 

Us  to  scenes  of  rare  delight! 
There  are  roguish  eyes  that  glisten. 

As  the  snow  of  pleasure  tells; 
And  the  rustic  sweethearts  listen 

For  the  jingle  of  the  bells  — 
For  the  jngle  and  the  tingle 

Of  the  merry  winter  hells. 
In  the  Cupid-haunted  valley, 

'Twixt  the  old  hills  lying-  low. 
Where  the  summer  breezes  dally. 

Falls  the  lover-cherished  snow; 
Oh!  the  silence  of  to-morrow 

Will  be  broken  in  tlie  dells! 
And  the  heart  will  gladness  borrow 

From  the  jingle  of  the  bells  — 
From  the  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle 

Of  the  never-ceasing  bells. 
Jingle!  jingle!  in  the  starlight. 

Tinkle!  tinkle!  in  the  dark. 
Gliding  swiftly  toward  the  far  light 

In  the  window  but  a  spark ! 
There  can  be  no  joys  completer 

Than  the  ones  the  snow  foretells; 
Ah!  my  darling,  what  is  sweeter 

Than  a  kiss  behind  the  bells  — 
As  they  jingle,  jingle,  jingle 

O'er  the  snow,  the  sleighing  bells! 
Life  is  but  a  dream  of  pleasure 

That  returns  with  everj'  snow. 
Winter  fills  to-day  the  measure 

Emptied  often  long  ago. 
'Neath  the  cutter's  furry  covers 

Many  a  heart  with  rapture  swells. 
And  the  merry  laugh  of  lovers 

Greets  the  jingle  of  the  bells  — 
Greets  the  laughter  and  the  jingle 

Of  the  ever-merry  bells. 
On  the  road  and  in  the  wildwood 

Nature  dons  a  robe  of  white. 


And  the  happy  laugh  of  childhood 

Will  be  heard  to-morrow  night! 
Everywhere  the  bells  will  jingle 

'Neath  the  starry  sentinels, 
And  the  lassie's  cheek  will  tingle 

With  the  kiss  the  sound  impels  — 
AVith  a  kiss  that  gently  mingles 

With  the  laughter  of  the  bells. 

Oh,  the  bells  my  heart  remembers. 

With  their  music  soft  and  low! 
Oh,  the  sleigh  bells  of  Decembers 

Buried  in  the  long  ago! 
I  remember  eyes  that  glistened 

When  the  snow  was  in  the  dells; 
I  remember  ears  that  listened 

For  the  jingle  of  the  bells  — 
For  the  jingle,  jingle,  jingle 

Of  the  rich  December  bells. 


MRS.  SARAH  J.  BLOUNT. 

Born:  Stowe,  Vt.,  June  17, 1843. 
Under  the  nom  de  plume  of  Beth  Thome, 
many  bright  verses  have  appeared  from  the 
pen  of  this  lady  in  the  Chicago  Inter-Ocean 
and  other  papers  of  equal  prominence.  Mrs. 
Blount  has  held  prominent  positions  in  the 
Grange  as  lecturer,  master,  etc. 


MY  MORNING  GLORIES. 
Out  on  the  porch  each  morning  I  stand. 

At  sunrise's  dewy  hour. 
Training  the  vines  with  a  tender  hand. 

Loving  each  dainty  flower. 
Sweet  flowers  that  to  the  morning  light 

Their  loveliness  enfold. 
And  fairest  hues  of  heaven  smite 

With  sunrise's  brightest  gold. 
Over  the  vines  of  tenderest  green. 

Blossoms  of  every  hue. 
Purple  and  daintiest  white  I  ween. 

And  fairest  shades  of  blue. 
Some  have  the  tint  of  the  sea-shell  caught. 

And  others  the  rose  's  i-ed. 
While  some  have  brightest  crimson  brought 

The  emerald  vine  to  wed. 
At  sunset  hour  of  purple  and  gold. 

Only  vines  and  leaves  of  green; 
At  dawn  from  silken  buds  unrolled. 

Bright  flowers  in  silken  sheen. 
I  do  not  envy  the  rich  their  gold. 

Their  gems  and  jewels  rare. 
The  while  my  morning  glories  unfold 

Their  blossoms  to  my  care. 
Their  dainty  beauty  and  purity. 

With  every  sense  I  drink. 
And  their  influence  lingers  round  one 
To  keep  me  pure  I  think. 


m 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


MARGARET  FAULK. 

Born:  Clarkstown, Ohio. 
Miss  Faulk  follows  the   profession  of  teach- 
ing.   Her  pnoms  have   h(>en   piiblistied  quite 


M^UJGARET    FAULK. 

frequently  in  the  eastern  journals, 
resides  in  Beaver,  Pennsylvania. 


She  now 


SB- 


MA  Y. 

The  last  of  May !  its  close  —  so  near. 
The  crowning  days  of  another  year; 
The  fresh  sweet  fl(3wers  opening  to  bloom. 
Are  strewn  at  the  toilet,  and  over  the  tomb, 

The  fairest  and  sweetest  of  roses. 

Are  strewn  where  the  hero  repo.ses. 
The  thirtieth  day,  has  come  — 'tis  here, 
The  old  spangled  banner  h;is  many  a  year 
In  triumph  waved  on  latid  and  sea, 
Embl(!m  of  peace  and  liberty. 

This  day  in  peace  she  waves, 

Over  her  country's  braves. 
Oh,  the  charming  month  of  May, 
Queen  of  the  year,  must  pass  away; 
A  smile  for  tlie  living  -  -  I'oi'  the  dead  a  tear  — 
As  we  marcii  along  the  rest  of  the  year; 

Smiles  like  the  sunsliine,  tears  as  the  dew. 

In  the  gr(!at  grand  army  of  the  brave  and 
true. 
Tlie  crowning  d;iy  of  all  sometime. 
Will  dawn  uj)  in  another  clime; 
The  valiant  soldier  then  will  shine. 
In  glittering  crowns  pure  and  divine, 

Witli  never-fading  t1()W(>rs, 

l''oun<l  in  celestial  l)owers. 


A  SOLDIER'S  PICTURE. 

Noble  boy  I  ail  buttoned  to  the  chin. 
That  patriot  heart  must  surely  victory  win, 
A  smile  upon  those  lips  so  sweetly  plays! 
The  full  blue  eyes  that  seem  at  me  to  gaze 
Are  full  of  hope  and  beauty.  Oh !  for  grace, 
That  I  may  look  again  upon  his  smiling  face. 
Noble  soldier!  off  in  the  horseman's  rank 
The  fairest  brow  in  all  that  loyal  flank! 
The  brightest  locks,  e'er  fell  on  mortal  brow. 
Speak  more  than  gold;  sweet  liberty  e'en  now 
They  seem  to  say:  the  glad,  glad  day  is  here. 
When  liberty  brings  every  heart  a  cheer! 
Gallant  soldier!  among  the  rebel  crew. 
Where  shot  and  shell  in  thickest  volleys  flew; 
That  steed  and  armor  through  the  battle  came  I 
All  honor  to  the  gallant  soldier's  name, 
"  But  where  is  he?  'tis  only  this  1  see ! 
The  picture  and  the  rose  he  sent  to  me. 
"  A  rebel  rose,"  he  said,  "  I  send  to  thee," 
"  Please  bring  back  again  to  loyalt.v.    [weight 
That  rose  long  pressed  by  old  time's  heavy 
Now  tells  the  story  of  its  Northern  fate; 
And  my  wonder  is  if  it  can  be 
That  he  forgot  his  own  loyalty. 
Years  have  gone  by;  ah  j-es!  full  more. 
If  I  should  backward  count  than  half  a  score. 
Since  boy  and  girl  upon  the  school  ground 

played 
The  blue-eyed  soldier  and  the  dark-eyed  maid- 
All  passed  those  days  of  yore,—  war  is  turned 

into  peace. 
Yet  naught  of  his  return,— since  war's  release. 
Dead,— ah  no,— that  picture  telleth  me 
Of  life,—  of  hope,—  of  purest  liberty. 
Of  battle's  way,  of  dreadful  w(iunds  and  scars 
So  nobly  borne  through  all  the  cruel  wars; 
Of  vanquished  foes  with  heart  of  living  grace, 
I  yet  may  see  my  soldier's  smiling  face. 

THE  CHARITY  MAN. 

EXTRACT. 

Beautiful  oceans,  gulfs,  seas  and  lakes; 
Beautiful  raindrops  and  pretty  snowHakes; 
Beautiful  sky  in  the  blue  "  far  away;" 
Beautiful  earth  in  its  mantle  of  gray ;      [plan 
But  the  dearest  and  loveliest  of  God's  holy 
Was  when  he  created  the  charity  man. 
Beautiful  mountains,  valleys  and  hills; 
Beautiful  rivers  and  rip]>ling  rills; 
Reautiful  sun  in  his  glorious  light; 
Beautiful  moon  and  stars  so  bright; 
All  the  works  of  God's  great  plan. 
But  none  to  equal  the  crcjition  of  man. 
Wanted,  wanted  — this  charity  niiin. 
Wliere  has  he  wandered  since  the  world  began? 
Down  in  the  little  ••  dug-out  "  is  he  .still'? 
No;  he  is  everywhere,  just  at  his  will. 
Tp  where  the  stars  are  I1.\ed  for  his  sight, 
Di)wn,'neat  lit  lie  earth,  in  the  regions  of  night, 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


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-© 


LEMUEL  G.  WILSON. 

Bokn:  Mount  Gilead,  Ohio,  April 30, 1830. 
Mr.  Wilson  iittended  Cornell  college  for  three 
years,  and  then  taught  school  for  a  year.  He 
next  became  a  photographer,  then  started  a 
store,  and  still  later  filled  the  ])osition  of  com- 
mercial  traveler   for   seven   \e;]rs.     His  wife 


LEMUEL  G.  WILSON. 

died  in  1881.  The  poems  of  Mr.  Wilson  have 
appeared  in  the  Chicago  Current,  Ledger, 
Inter-Ocean  and  other  leading  periodicals.  He 
is  at  present  engaged  in  horticulture  at  Wes- 
sington  Springs,  Dakota. 


|9 


BE  EARNEST. 

They  tell  me  that  'mid  Alpine  snow. 

And  rock,  and  avalanche  and  storm. 
Some  flowers  in  regal  splendor  grow, 

Beauteous  alike  in  hue  and  form. 
That,  in  old  ocean's  deptlis  profound, 

Where  undisturbed  the  waters  lie. 
Are  finer  forms  and  flowers  found, 

TJian  ever  greet  the  common  eye. 
That  in  the  deepest,  darkest  mine 

Is  found  tlie  richest,  purest  gem 
That  e'er  on  regal  breast  did  shine, 

Or  sparkle  in  a  diadem. 
From  these  I  learn  this  single  truth : 

'Tis  not  the  tliouglitless,  heedless  throng 
Who  find  earth's  richest  joys  forsooth 

Or  live  her  grandest  scenes  among. 


But  rather  they  wlio  seek  witli  care, 
In  earnest  action,  word  and  thought. 

And  find  them  only  when  and  where 
The  fickle  crowd  had  never  sought. 


IS  THERE  ANY  BY-AND-BY? 

They  tell  me  that  'tis  all  of  life 

To  live,  and  toil  and  die; 
Ending  at  once  all  care  and  strife, 

There  is  no  bj'-and-by. 
Our  cherished  hopes  that  we  shall  find 

A  Heaven  above  the  sky 
Are  but  the  merest  mists  of  mind- 
There  is  no  by-and-by. 
On  .>  earth  to  earth  and  dust  to  dust  " 

Alone  can  we  rely ; 
There's  nothing  further  we  can  trust- 
There  is  no  by-and-by. 
Oh :  can  it  be  that  all  our  hopes 

Of  final  home  and  heaven,— 
Of  life  and  i-est,  of  joy  and  peace. 

In  one  short  hour  are  riven? 
Will  those  dear  friends  we'v-e  loved  so 
true 

In  endless  slumber  lie? 
N(J  fond  embrace  — all  ages  through 

No  meeting  — by-and-by? 
This  curious  web  we  here  call  life  — 

Unfinished,  soon  must  lie; 
The  rarest  patterns  incomplete 

If  there's  no  by-and-by. 
Oh,  tell  me  ye  who  look  beyond 

The  range  of  mortal  eye. 
Is  this  alone  the  sum  of  life? 

Is  there  no  by-and-by. 
Ab,  yes,  I  hear  a  whispered  tone  — 

A  glad,  exultant  cry : 
"There  is  a  rest,  a  heaven,  a  home, 

I've  found  the  by-and-by." 


WE  MET  AND  PARTED. 
We  met  and  parted,  you  and  I, 

One  year  ago  to-morrow ; 
You  did  not  note,  perhaps,  a  sigh 

That  'scaped  my  lips  in  sorrow. 
We  parted  by  the  garden  gate  — 

No  formal  words  were  spoken. 
You  knew  not  wliat  a  heavy  weight 

Lay  on  my  heart  — now  broken. 
We  parted,  and  you  went  away 

With  no  sad  thought  at  parting. 
While  I  in  sorrow  knelt  to  pray. 

The  tears,  unbidden,  starting. 
We  parted  —  but  you'll  never  know 

How  mucli  of  pain  and  sorrow 
Was  mingled  in  my  cup  of  woe 

One  year  ago  —  to-morrow. 


-© 


m 


392 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


* 


JOHN  ALBERT  MURPHY. 

Born:  Davidson  Co.,  N.  C. 
This  g-eutleman  received  his  education  at 
Catawba  college  at  Newton.  He  was  married 
early  in  life  to  Miss  Louisa  Jane  Yokley.  In 
1857  Mr.  Murphy  joined  the  St.  Louis  confer- 
ence of  the  M.  E.  Church  South,  and  for  twen. 


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.JOHN  ALBERT  MURPHY. 

ty-two  successive  years  he  served  as  pastor  in 
honored  positions.  In  1879  he  was  transferred 
to  the  northwest  Texas  eonference.and  is  now 
located  at  Brouaugh.Mo.  Jolin  Albert  Murphy, 
A.  M.,  D.  D.,  has  written  numerous  very  fine 
poems,  and  has  contributed  extensively  to*the 
periodical  press  and  many  standard  works. 


THE  FIRST  FALLEN  SOLDIER  OF  1861. 
The  bow  is  in  the  clouds 
Whose  arch  lies  in  tlie  sky  and  spans  the  race, 
With  peace,  slain  hero,  it  enshrouds 
Tliy  resting  place. 

The  star  is  in  the  sky 
That  once  illumed  tlie  sepuicher  divine; 
Now,  in  the  march  of  centuries  bj'. 

It  shines  on  thine. 

There's  sweetness  in  the  air. 
Lent  for  perfumes  to  constant  nature's  c4aim, 
That  she  may,  with  her  latest  care. 

Embalm  thy  name. 


There's  beauty  on  the  lea ; 
Its     myriad    charms    their    ample    wealth 

combine. 
And  closing  round,  thy  memory 

And  dust  enshrine. 

There's  music  everywhere, 
In  earth  and  sky,  and  in  the  ocean  surge; 
'Tis  nature's  mournful  way  to  share 

Thy  funeral  dirge. 

There's  light  in  heaven  above ; 
Its  burning  lamps  their  shining  station  keep; 
And  day  and  night  while  cycles  move, 
They  guard  thy  sleep. 

There's  love  in  human  hearts 
That  over  death  achieves  the  victory. 
And  will,  as  hoary  time  departs, 

Kemember  thee. 

The  gold-winged  butterflies 
In  pensive  groups  display,  like  living  bloom, 
Their  blended  beauties  e'er  they  rise 

From  off  thy  tomb. 

Beneath  the  sod  to  lie; 
If  thus,  perchance,   thy  comrades  dared  to 

pause 
To  put  thee  there,  who  dared  to  die 

For  freedom's  cause. 

Death  brought  thee  late  renown; 
But  gave  tliee  not  the  soul  the  patriot  bears; 
Nor  put  upon  thy  head  the  crown 

The  hero  wears. 

Thy  bed  of  clay  unknown. 
The  bitter  tears  of  solitude  receives. 
And  of  the  flowers  by  nature  strown 

A  garland  weaves. 

Her  deepest  mourning  wears; 
Her  brow  and  breast  with  flashing  diamond 

spread. 
The  sable  virgin  Night  her  tears 

Weeps  o'er  thy  head. 

And  Day,  with  vesture  bright. 
And  lavish  smiles  jipon  the  good  and  brave, 
Awards  to  thee  the  .soldier's  right. 

An  honored  grave. 

No  midnight  bugla  blast. 
From  peaceful  sleep  shall  rou.se  thy  valiant 

.soul. 
Till  heaven's  Commander  calls  at  last 

The  Judgment-roll. 

Then,  in  the  great  review. 
When  uniforms  and  crowns  shall  never  fade, 
Hero,  receive  thy  hotiors  due 

On  grand  parade. 


®- 


•)3 


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LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


393 


MRS.  HKXRY  B.  JONES. 

Born:  England,  Mahch  15, 1843. 
By  tlie  title  of  Mother  Jones  this  lady  is  known 
thi'ougliout  the    United  States  and  Canada, 
and  wears  the  badge  and  emblem  of  the  B.  of 
K.  R.  B.    She  is  now  editress  of  the  Brake- 


MRS.  HENRY  B.  JONES. 

men's  Journal,  published  at  Galesburg-,  Illi- 
nois. She  has  contributed  to  various  local 
papers,  and  has  edited  several  journals  of 
prominence.  She  resides  in  Washington,  In- 
diana, with  her  husband  and  children,  of 
whom  she  has  five. 


S 


IS  MARRIAGE  A  FAILURE? 

Charley  Singleton  wrote  a  letter  one  day 
To  his  friend,  Frank  Hunter,  far  away  ; 
"There's  a  question  that   troubles  me  more 

and  more. 
And  oftentimes  makes  me  feel  quite  sore ; 
So  your  advice  I  now  will  seek, 
(For  I  know  you  can  a  secret  keep,) 
And  I'll  be  your  friend  as  long  as  I  live. 
If  you  your  council  to  me  will  give. 
Is  marriage  a  failure?—  I've  puzzled  so 
An  answer  square  to  this  to  know  — 
But  I  think  the  dearest  sweets  of  life. 
Is  to  own  a  charming  handsome  wife." 

Frank  soon  sat  down  and  took  up  his  pen. 
And  answered  Charley  there  and  ihen: 


•  I  Well,  as  to  marriage,  'tis  little  I  know. 
But  I'll  tell  you  a  fact  I  think  is  so,— 
Courtship's  a  failure  — at  least  in  your  case. 
For  in  my  muid  it  is  dire  disgrace 
To  so  universally  show  your  fears. 
As  to  keep  up  courtship  for  years  and  years; 
And  as  courtship  seems  such  a  failure  to  you, 
I  suggest  that  you  try  what  marriage  will  do; 
At  least  it  will  be  a  relief  from  tlie  mode 
Of  the  everlasting  courtship  code." 

Frank  now  thought  he  had  Charley  fast. 
And  to  his  friend  of  years  long  past, 
Mother  Jones  of  Washington  did  go, 
His  send-off  to  Singleton  to  show. 

She  met  him  thus :—  ••  You  sly  old  fox. 
Don't  say  a  word  —  you're  in  the  same  box. 
And  a  pair  of  gloves  to  me  you  will  give. 
Or  I'll  expose  you  in  print  as  sure  as  I  live." 
The  gloves  were  sent,  and  so  —  oh  well, 
The  above  will  to  your  readers  tell. 
That  those  who  live  in  glass-made  zones. 
Should  at  each  other  never  throw  stones. 

For  taking  the  part  of  both  to-night 
I  expect  to  get  a  wedding  invite; 
If  not,  more  tales  I  might  tell  that's  true 
Of  Hunter  and  of  Charley  too; 
And  a  closing  request  I  here  will  make, 
"Frank  — Please      remember     that     fishing 
scrape." 


NOW  AND  THEN. 
When  those  restless  hands  are  folded 

Across  my  silent  breast. 
When  my  pen,  so  seldom  idle  now. 

Shall  lie,  for  aye,  at  rest. 
When  the  snowflakes  flutter  downward. 

Or  the  wind  with  rushing  wave 
Shall  blow  in  all  its  fury 

Upon  my  grassy  grave. 

The  cars  shall  still  be  speeding 

Across  the  western  plain. 
And  my  boys,  as  now,  be  keeping 

Their  watch  upon  the  train. 
I  ask  no  greater  favor  than  peacefully  to  lie 

Within  some  graveyard's  mossy  slope 
Where  the  trains  go  daily  by. 

If  ever  soul  be  granted 

The  freedom  from  above 
To  view  with  care  and  tenderness 

The  friends  they  used  to  love. 
Then  I  shall  ask  that  boon  of  heaven 

No  matter  what  its  joys. 
That  I  am  granted  still  to  watch 

O'er  my  loving  brakej'  boys. 

I  care  not  where  they  lay  me  down. 
Where  the  summer  sun  shines  forth. 


© 


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394 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMERICA. 


Or  the  western  breezes  gently  blow, 

Or  in  the  icy  north. 
I  care  not  for  a  marble  shaft. 

Or  a  granite  headstone  crave. 
But  let  me  rest  where  my  boys  can  come 

And  look  upon  my  grave. 

And  when  the  trumpet's  blast  shall  shake 

That  little  grassy  mound, 
And  when  the  day  of  reckoning  comes 

May  our  record  clear  be  found. 
And  as  with  radiant  smiles  we  meet 

And  grasp  each  other's  hand. 
May  I  then,  as  now,  the  mother  be 

Of  our  honored  Brotherhood  band. 


©- 


TO  THE  B.  OF  L.  E.  IN  CHICAGO. 

Cheer  up !  take  courage,  noble  brothers, 

Stand  firm  together  for  your  right ; 
And  remember,  now,  unwavering, 

In  this  battle  to  unite. 
Fierce  and  long  has  been  the  struggle. 

But  your  hearts  are  true  and  good ; 
Long  on  record  be  the  bravery 

Of  the  noble  Brotherhood. 

Never  heed  the  grim  oppressor. 

Trust  in  God,  and  still  keep  firm, 
Let  not  capital  in  future 

Lead  and  crush  you  as  a  worm. 
Stand  together  now  as  brothers. 

Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand; 
Sympathizei-s  by  the  thousands 

You  have  gained  throughout  the  land. 

Tliink  of  those  who  dearly  love  you. 

Think  of  those  you  hold  most  dear; 
Many  prayers  ascend  to  Heaven 

For  the  sturdy  engineer. 
In  the  pages  of  your  history 

You  have  earned  a  golden  fame; 
Now,  tho'  sorely  tried,  dear  brothers, 

Still  be  worthy  of  your  name. 

Show  the  world  what  noble  courage 

Beats  witliiti  each  maiily  l)icast; 
That  as  one  your  hearts  are  throbbing. 

North  and  south  and  east  and  west. 
Sliow  the  gr'eat,  th(>  high  and  mighty. 

The  magnate  and  the  millionaire. 
That  you  mean  to  tight  as  freemen. 

And  tor  tliem  you  little  care. 

In  bi'ave  Arthur  you've  a  leader. 

Worthy  he  to  be  your  chief; 
Then  obey  liim  as  true  brothers. 

Be  the  struggle  long  or  l)rief. 
Sliame  tliat  some  sliould  thus  oppress  you. 

Loyal  men  so  true  iuid  good; 
But  hurrah  we'll  sliout  in  honor  — 

Arthur  and  tlie  Brollierliood! 


MRS.  EMMA  A.  TIFFANY. 

Born:  Jefferson,  Ohio,  1845. 
Being  left  a  widow  with  two  children,  this 
lady  then  tauglit  school  for  a  livelihood,  and 
later  entei'ed  the  mercantile  business  in  which 
she  is  at  jireseiit   engaged.     Her  i>ocins  li;ive 


MRS.   EMMA  A.  TIFFANV. 

appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the  local  press, 
and  have  been  favorably  received.  In  jjerson 
Mrs.  Tiffany  is  a  little  above  the  medium 
height,  is  very  frail  and  has  brown  hair  and 
eyes.  Slie  is  now  a  resident  of  her  native 
state,  at  Orwell. 


THE  ISLE  OF  SOMEWHERE. 

Oh,  the  beautiful  isle  of  soniewliere! 
Tliat  beyond  our  vision  lies; 
The  brusli  of  the  artist  hath  sketched  it 
In  crimson  and  purple  dyes. 

Oil,  the  tranquil  isle  of  somewliere! 
Where  the  storm-tossed  bark  tlnds  rest, 
Within  tiie  harbor  its  anchor  cast, 
No  more  the  waves  'twill  breast. 

Oh,  tlie  fragrant  isle  of  somewliere  I 
Tliere  blooms  rose  and  eglantine. 
And  'mid  tlie  sturdy  oak's  foliage. 
The  tender  ivy-leaves  twine. 

Oil,  the  enchanted  isle  of  somewhere 
Sliall  we  riNicli  it,  .\ou  and  I; 
And  l)ask  in  the  ladiimt  sunliglit 
Of  the  golden  by-and-by? 


* 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


395 


-* 


LIZZIE  WALDEX. 

The  poems  of  Miss  Waldeii  have  appeared  in 
the  local  press  for  tlie  past  few  years,  and 
have  been  favorably  received.    She  is  a  res- 


LIZZIE    WALDEN. 

ident  of  Union  City,  Indiana,  where  she  is 
well-known  and  greatly  admired  for  her  many 
attainments. 


fi&— 


THE  RING. 

He  kissed  her  rose-red  lips  — 

'Twas  in  the  month  of  May  — 
Her  hand  into  his  own,  he  slips. 

And  softly  wliispers:  May 
I  place  a  little  sliining  thing 

Upon  your  linger?    Say  ^ 
It's  but  a  tiny  gold  ring. 

'•  I'll  wear  it  night  and  day; 
And  I'm  the  happiest  of  any 

Under  the  light-blue  sky," 
Thought  the  lady  fair. 

Roses  are  her  lips  and  golden  lier  hair. 
Again  he  kissed  her  ro.se-rcd  lips  — 

The  angels  witnessed  it  above  — 
And  on  lier  finger  he  .slips 

The  golden  pledge  of  love. 
Wear  it,  dear,  but  don't  put  it  by. 

This  may  change,  but  ne'er  can  I. 
"O,  I  am  as  happy  as  any 

Under  llie  light-blue  sky," 
Thought  the  lady  fair. 

Ro.ses  are  her  lips  and  golden  her  hair. 
The  ring?  I've  worn  it  most-a  year; 


And  though  her  tears  to  him  did  peer, 
To  give  it  back  is  queer; 

But,  if  I  must?  Why,  liere. 
And  from  lier  finger  lore  it. 

Saying,  "  If  I  had  never  worn  it 
I  would  he  as  happy  as  any 

Under  the  light-blue  sky," 
Said  the  lady  fair. 

Pale,  pale,  are  her  lips. 
Though  golden  is  her  hair. 

A  VOICE. 
The  resurrection  day  is  nigh  at  hand 

Cried  a  voice  from  on  high ; 
Repent  ye  every  nation  of  the  land. 

An  awful  day  is  drawing  nigh; 
When  a  storm  with  peals  of  thunder,[tion; 

Shall  come  to  shake  the  earth's  founda- 
Not  a  soul  on  earth  shall  slumber, 

'Twill  be  known  to  every  nation. 
Lightnings  flash,  and  look  not  slendei-, 

Leaping,  dancing  in  mid-air; 
And  to  our  wicked  hearts  will  render. 

Greatest  of  agony  and  despair. 
Many  voices  will  be  speaking. 

Asking  why  they  are  not  saved; 
Many  and  many  a  soul  be  weeping, 

O'er  his  own  neglected  grave. 
Loud  and  clear  are  many  voices. 

Some  are  shouting  songs  of  praise; 
Others  weeping,  sorrowing,  waiting, 

Down  upon  their  knees. 
They  raise  their  voice,  to  ask  forgiveness: 

Jesus  answers  them  "Too  late;— 
In  life  you  did  not  ask  for  mercy. 

Now  you're  subject  to  your  fate." 
Loud  and  clear,  a  Christian  singing; 

"  Glory  to  my  Lord,  my  King; 
Closely  to  the  cross  I'm  clinging. 

My  conscience,  heart  at  peace  with  him." 
Jesus  with  all  his  kindness,  • 

Deals  with  hearts  of  christian  light; 
Go  to  him  in  your  blindness. 

He  will  help  you,—  give  you  sight. 
Do  not  listen  for  the  story 

To  be  told  you  o'er  and  o'er,- 
Hasten,  hasten  on  to  glory. 

Safely  your  heart  with  Jesus  store. 
Cail  upon  the  Lord  in  prayer; 

Seek  the  Lord  with  confidence; 
He  will  keep  you  from  the  slayer 

At  the  end  you  recompense. 

When  our  voices  to  God  we  uplift. 

And  our  hearts  to  him  are  given. 
It  seems  but  a  step  o'er  a  snow-white  cliff 

And  you're  in  the  gates  of  Heaven. 
Methinks,  how  grand  'twill  be 

When  around  God's  throne  we  gather. 
Our  God  in  all  his  glory  we  see, 

To  serve  him  there  forever. 


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^ 


•5f 


396 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


JOSEPH  BYRON  BROWN. 

Born:  Eldorado,  III.,  March  30, 1861. 
Since  1884  the  poems  of  Mr.  Brown  have  ap- 
peared quite  extensively  in  the  periodical 
press  For  awhile  he  was  employed  on  the 
correspondence  staff  of  the  St.  Louis  Daily 
Republican,  and  was  sent  by  that  paper  on  a 
tour  througli  Texas  and  Old  Mexico.  He  next 
engag-ed  with  the  Rocky  Mountain  News,  and 
in  "1883  returned  to  Morgaiifield  and  began 
the  publieation  of  a  country  newspaper,  but 
soon  .lisposed  of  that  peilodical.    He  then  re- 


JOSEPH  BYRON  BROWN. 


turned  to  St.  Louis  Republican,  and  was  sent 
abroad  as  traveling  correspondent  for  that 
paper.  He  sailed  from  San  Francisco  to  tlie 
Argentine  Republic,  traveled  extensively  in 
that  country  and  Brazil.  From  Rio  Janeiro 
he  voyaged  to  Capetown,  Africa,  touched  St. 
Helen's  Islands  and  stopped  for  some  time  in 
the  West  Indies.  His  coi'respondence  is  a 
lasting  record  of  this  great  voyage.  After 
his  return  honii;  he  was  ai)pointed  to  a  posi- 
tion in  the  signal  service.  He  next  received 
an  appointment  as  Indian  Inspector  under 
Cleveland's  administration.  Since  then  he 
has  been  engaged  in  tlie  mercantile  business 
in  Corydon,  Ky. 

THE  DEAR  OLD  HOME. 
The  dear  old  home  1  have  left  behind. 
The  homo  of  love  and  truth. 


No  more  to  roam  the  woods  and  vaies 

As  in  the  days  of  youth. 
I  have  left  the  home  I  love  so  well 
And  my  mother  and  father  dear: 
I  have  left  them  all  —  for  another  kind 

To  live  through  the  coming  year. 
The  home  that  sheltered  me  in  childhood. 
The  fond  mother  that  tended  me  well  — 
All  left  behind  with  loving  regret 

More  deeply  than  words  can  tell. 
My  brother,  too,  I  have  given  up 
For  another  as  loving  and  kind; 
But  my  heart  will  cling  to  dear  home  ties 

I  liave  left  so  far  behind. 
I  have  bid  farewell  to  the  days  of  old. 

To  the  friends  I  loved  so  dear; 
I  have  passed  from  out  their  midst 

With  sad  heart  and  bitter  tears. 
I  have  taken  upon  me  the  sacred  vows 

For  better  for  worse,  come  weal,  come  woe; 
What  the  future  has  in  store  for  me 

Only  God  in  heaven  knows. 
How  my  heart  turns  back  to  the  joys  that's 
past. 
To  the  songs,  the  dance  and  mirth. 
Before  I  left  my  father's  roof — 

The  dearest  spot  on  earth. 
I  do  not  regret  the  step  I  have  taken : 

Oh !  no  it  could  not  be 
That  I  would  be  so  unjust  to  one 

Who  has  been  so  kind  to  me. 
He  sought  me  out  from  a  world  so  full 

Of  damsels,  both  rich  and  fair; 
I  had  neither  beauty  nor  wealth  to  give, 

But  for  this  he  did  not  care. 
I  won  from  him  a  heart  as  true 

As  ever  beat  in  human  breast ; 
I  am  happy  from  the  choice  I  made. 

For  my  lot  is  peace  and  rest. 
We  have  left  our  home,  our  friends  behind, 

And  started  out  togetiier 
To  battle  with  cruel  fate  alone 
Thn)Ugh  storm  or  sunny  weather. 

FRANCES  ANNIE  GREGG. 

Born:  Andover,  Me.,  18ti0. 
The  sprightly  and  melodious  poems  of  Miss 
Gregg  have  appeared  in  various  publications. 
She  resides  with  her  parents  on  the  Pines' 
Stock  Farm,  a  delightful  summer  resort  In 
her  native  town. 

THE  COTTERS  SONG. 
O,  the  snow  lies  deep    and    the   snow  blows 

high; 
Tlu!  winds  they  shriek  and  moan  and  cry. 
But  what  care  I,  O.  what  care  I  ? 


«- 


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LOCAL,   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


39^ 


« 


WILLIAM  W,  STOCKWELL. 

Born:  Noiithampton,  Mass.,  Feb.  7, 1829. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Stockwell  have  appeared  in 
the  Cincinnati  Enquirer,  Kansas  City  Times 
and  otlier  papers  of  prominence,  lu  1864  Mr. 
Stockwell  moved  to  Indianapolis,  Ind.,  liaving 
contracted  to  carry  tlie  mail  on  two  routes 
from  that  city.     In  tlie  spriuu-  of  186.5  he  wrote 


WILLIAM  -SVATSON   STOCKWELL. 

Incidents  in  the  Life  of  George  W.  Murray, 
treating  of  events  of  the  civil  war  and  Lihbj' 
Prison.  In  1866  Mr.  Stockwell  removed  to 
Brown  county,  Inl.,  where  he  still  resides.  In 
1888  he  was  elected  trustee  of  the  township. 
During-  the  past  thirty  years  he  has  written 
numerous  poems,  and  will  publish  his  pro- 
ductions in  hook-form  at  some  future  time. 


®- 


RECONCILIATION. 
When  we  differ  from  another 

Wliom  we  think  to  rashly  err. 
We  shall  ever  act  most  wisely 

Kindly  with  him  to  confer. 
Friendly  interchange  of  feeling 

Fills  no  human  heart  with  guile. 
But  with  men  of  worthy  motives 

It  will  all  hearts  reconcile. 
Friendly  words  can  win  to  friendship 

Hearts  that  are  most  cold  with  liate; 
For  where  threats  can  never  enter. 

Friendly  words  can  penetrate. 


Threats  avail  mankind  but  little; 

Harsh  words  grate  upon  tlie  ear; 
Words  of  sympathy  and  kindness 

Mortals  soonest  bend  to  hear. 
Yes,  all  words  with  coldness  spoken 

Further  set  our  souls  apart. 
While  the  words  that  glow  with  friendship 

Bring  us  nearer,  heart  to  heart. 
Then  remember,  ye  who  differ. 

Ye  whose  hearts  are  filled  with  guile, 
Friendlj-  interchange  of  feelings 

Always  tends  to  reconcile. 


STRANGE  THINGS. 
'Tis  strange  that  men  of  common  sense 

Can  be  so  taken  in. 
By  drinking  at  their  own  expense. 

Of  whiskey,  rum,  and  gin. 
Which  lead  to  every  grave  offense. 

And  every  form  of  sin  — 
Since  all  should  strive  in  going  hence 

A  shining  goal  to  win. 
'Tis  strange  that  men  with  open  eyes 

Will  go  where  they  must  fall ; 
That  men,  professing  to  be  wise. 

Can  stoop  to  things  so  small. 
The  soul  to  iionor  sinks  and  dies. 

And  soriows  dark  appall, 
Wlien  there's  a  path  in  which  to  rise. 

Inviting  to  us  all! 
'Tis  strange  men  choose  a  path  so  low. 

When  they  might  rise  so  high  I 
'Tis  strange  men  buy  the  cup  of  woe. 

When  joj-'s  free  glass  is  nigh ! 
'Tis  strange  that  men  false  colors  show. 

Since  all  disclaim  to  lie! 
'Tis  strange  that  men  can  live  as  though 

They  never  were  to  die ! 
'Tis  strange  that  while  light  paths  lead  up. 

And  dark  paths  lead  us  down: 
While  light  will  fill  the  .soul  with  hope. 

And  darkness  hope  will  drown  — 
So  many  will  in  darkness  grope. 

Who  might  enjoy  renown. 
And,  Uke  the  world's  most  favored  group, 

Wear  honor's  shining  crown. 


HOW  TO  LIVE. 

I  hold  that  all  should  strive  on  earth 

To  gain  life's  richest  treasure. 
That  which  is  of  enduring  worth. 

And  yields  the  purest  pleasure: 
Our  powers  of  mind  we  should  unfold  — 

Look  forward  hopeful  ever. 
And  every  day  till  we  are  old. 

Grow  strong  through  high  endeavor. 
Each  should  espouse  some  worthy  cause. 

From  duty  never  swerving. 


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398 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    TOETS    OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  NELLIE  MARIE  BURNS. 

This  lady  was  married  iu  1878  to  Thomas  H. 
Burns,  the  actor  aud  comedian.  Slie  was  also 
a  member  of  the  dramatic  profession,  but 
abandoned  it  a  few  years  after  her  marriage. 
For  nearly  a  decade  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Ihiins 


MI!S.    M;M.IE    MAIUK   BIH.NS. 

iiaSL-ai)peared  ill  tlie  leading-  journals  of  the 
east,  and  she  is  now  preparing  a  volume  of 
her  collected  poems  for  publication.  When 
not  traveling  witli  her  husband,  Mrs.  Burns 
resides  on  the  shores  of  the  Atlantic,  at  Kit- 
tery  Point,  Maine. 


©- 


CRICKET. 

The  golden-rod  nods  l)rightly. 

The  tliistle-wraiths  float  liglitly 
Like  a  band  of  fairy  goblins  thro'  the  air; 

Still  Balder  holds  tlie  fortress 

And  Nanna  is  tlie  portress, 
Yet  this  morn  I  heard  a  cricket  chirping  tliere. 

O,  banshee  of  the  summer! 

Tliou  soniljre  little  comer. 
In  tliy  pallium  of  monasterial  black. 

Each  tender  breeze  that  passes 

Thy  synod  midst  the  grasses. 
Brings  the  Inirden  of  thy  mournful  coronach. 

Wiieii  merry  sleigh-bells  jingle, 

'I'hy  sung  l)esi(l(i  tlie  ingU^ 
Is  tlie  lullaby  of  I$aby,  John  and  Dot, 

While  memory  grows  silly 

At  thought  of  stupid  Tilly 
Dre!iming,open-mouthed,in  Peerylnnglc's  cot. 


But  for  me  beloved  faces 

From  scented  summer  places 
To  the  battle-field  of  life  base  gone  away. 

The  ocean  rote  grows  stronger. 

The  autumn  evenings  longer 
When  thy  solemn  little  pibroch  'gins  to  play. 

Tliougli  robin  in  the  thicket 

May  drown  thy  cliirping,  cricket: 
Yet  the  warning  of  thy  prelude  doth  appear; 

Thou'lt  sing  the  flowers  to  sleeping. 

Thy  tiny  masses  keeping,  [bier. 

Till  the  last  red  leaf  drifts  downward  to  its 


DREAMS. 
Beyond  the  din  and  wrestling 

Of  this  common  life  and  woe, 
'Mid  fairy-forests  nestling 

The  flowers  of  dreamland  grow. 
To  the  somljre  hills  of  science 

That  would  scatter  fancies  bright, 
We  waft  back  our  defiance 

From  each  narcotic  height. 
And  the  soul  no  more  regretting 

Its  failures  of  the  day: 
In  this  lotus-land  forgetting  — 

All  trouble  casts  away. 
»•  Adieu,"  we  say  to  sorrow. 

As  those  slumberous  mountains  rise; 
While  we  rest  until  the  morrow 

In  the  realm  of  folded  eyes. 
From  our  haVids  we  throw  the  burdens 

That  the  weary  senses  weigh. 
To  find  tlie  waiting  guerdon 

'Mong  isles  of  dreamland  gray. 

WINDS. 
When  the  north  winds  blow  and  waysides  lie 

White  in  the  arms  of  December; 
My  heart  wakes  up  with  a  pitiful  cry 

To  moan  with  the  winds  and  remember. 
And  what  say  the  winds  from  their  far  lieight 
blown 

Over  the  sunset  towers? 
Rending  the  air  with  such  desolate  moan, 

Tliat  the  frighted  eagle  cowers. 
Shrieking  aloud  as  they  I'ass  the  door. 

Hurrying  on  to  the  river: 
Lasliing  the  sea  into  maddened  roar, 

'Till  the  placid  shore  lands  shiver. 
..  Hear,  oh  hear!  "  chant  the  sigliing  winds. 

Thro'   tlie  outer  turret  waning; 
"  By  a  mighty  power  we  are  forced  to  find 

Relief  in  our  eoniplaining." 
..  Wanderers  we  from  our  home  of  cloud, 

Hiding  in  places  dreary : 
Goaded  to  wrath  'till  we  smite  tlie  prouti. 

Soothed  "till  we  fan  the  weary." 
We  are  avengers  who  challenge  the  soul, 

A  Nemesis  sad  to  awaken. 
We  are  the  steeds  of  creation,  who  roll 

Our  courses  till  worlds  are  shaken. 


® 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-® 


399 


ALBERT  ULYSSES  LESHER. 

Born  :  Fayetteville,  Pa.,  Oct.  4, 18(55. 
After  receiving-  liis  education,  Albert  taug-ht 
school  during-  the  winter  months  for  seven 
years;  he  then  read  law  and  was  admitted  to 
the  l)ar  in  1890.  Mr.  Lesher  lias  written  a  num- 


ALHKKT   ULVSSES  LESHER. 

ber  of  poems  which  have  been  widely  publish- 
ed in  the  papers  throughout  eastern  Pennsyl- 
vania. He  lias  lield  numerous  positions  of 
honor  at  Maiiheim  in  liis  native  state. 


m — 


THE  GOLDEN-ROD. 

From  Maine  to  California, 

From  AUeghanies'  crest. 
To  where  the  Rocky  Mountains 

Stand  g-uardiaus  of  the  west; 
From  fair  Dakota's  fountains 

To  tropic  Mexic  wave  — 
From  where  the  proud  Potomac 

Flows  by  our  chieftain's  grave - 
Thou  growest  beauteous  flower. 

Sown  by  the  hand  of  God; 
Thou  symbol  of  our  power. 

Thou  blessed  golden-rod. 
When  soft  blow  summer  zephyrs, 

When  fall  the  autumn  leaves. 
Or  when  the  wind  of  winter 

Through  lordly  forests  grieves - 
Tliou  liftest  still  thy  golden  crest 

Above  the  winter's  snow 


And  heedest  not  November  winds. 

However  fierce  tliey  blow. 
Oh,  lovely  little  flower. 

Uplifting  from  the  sod  — 
Thou  symbol  of  our  power  — 

Thou  blessed  golden-rod. 
Like  thee  —  the  golden-crested. 

Our  mighty  land  has  grown ; 
Like  thee,  the  tempest  breasted. 

Like  thee,  her  summer's  known: 
But  God  —  the  Great  All  Father  — 

Who  marks  the  sparrow's  fall. 
Has  raised  both  plant  and  nation. 

Has  watched  and  prospered  all. 
'Mid  storm,  'mid  hail,  'neath  sunshine, 

Still  wave  thy  golden  crest. 
Still  live  the  symbol  flower  — 

The  Shamrock  of  the  West. 
Though  thrones  and  crowns  may  crum- 
ble. 

And  kingdoms  rise  and  fall. 
Fair  western  land,  the  last  and  best. 

Thou  Shalt  survive  them  all; 
For  thee,  the  Great  Jehovah, 

Hath  lifted  from  the  sod. 
And  given  thee,  with  many  gifts. 

The  blessed  golden-rod  — 
The  g-olden-rod  of  empire. 

Which  shall  endure  alway. 
Until  the  sun  to  darkness  turns 

And  earth  shall  pass  away. 


WHEN  THE  FRIENDS  OF  YOUTH  ARE 
GONE. 
"There  are  gains,"  the  poets  tell  us, 

"For  all  losses  "  of  the  heart. 
For  the  sorrows  that  subdue  us. 

For  the  tears  that  freely  start. 
For  the  golden  sun  of  morning. 

For  the  vanished  stars  that  shone ; 
But  there  is  no  compensation 

When  the  heart  is  left  alone : 
Cho.— For,  though  Heaven  seem  more  near 
tliee 

With  life's  battle  fought  and  won. 
Nothing  on  the  earth  can  cheer  thee 

When  the  friends  of  youth  are  gone. 
There  are  joyous  hours  for  sorrow- 
Future  joy  for  present  pain. 
For  to-day  —  a  briglit  to  morrow, 

For  the  draught-refreshing  rain; 
For  the  vanished  years  of  childhood 

Manhood's  prime  reserves  reward; 
For  the  desert  stands  a  wildwood 

Pleasant  peace  for  gory  sword : 
There  is  consolation  surelj' 

In  the  thought  of  future  life. 
There  is  time  for  contemplation 

In  the  rest  that  follows  strife. 
There  are  thoughts  of  old-time  voices 


-® 


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400 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


-® 


In  the  future  chorus  grand, 
And  the  weary  heart  rejoices  — 

Almost  stirs  the  palsied  hand: 
Like  the  noble  g-ray-haired  statesman, 

You  may  win  life's  battles  all, — 
Victor  triumph  o  er  your  trials 

Like  the  sage  of  Donegal, 
Wear  the  civic  crown  of  laurel 

When  thy  active  life  is  done. 
But  the  joyous  past  will  haunt  thee 

When  thy  heart  is  left  alone. 

TWO  HARVESTS. 

As  you  look  across  the  grain-fields. 

In  the  beautiful  month  of  June, 
When  all  the  voices  of  nature 

Blend  in  harmonious  tune; 
As  you  see  the  golden  harvest 

Gleam  on  the  vernal  hills; 
As  the  merry  song  of  the  reapers 

Your  heart  with  rapture  thrills; 
As  you  gaze  in  admiration 

On  the  eartlily  fields  so  fair, 
Do  you  think  of  the  beautiful  harvest  — 

Of  the  Father  over  there? 
Of  the  harvest  that  lasts  through  the  ages, 

In  the  Heaven  that  smiles  above, 
Wliere  all  is  light  and  glory. 

And  peace,  and  joy  and  love? 
For  it  seems  to  me  that  in  Heaven 

The  blest  have  their  work  to  do; 
That  eacli  by  His  wisdom  is  given 

Some  object  to  pursue. 
Some  exalted  work  for  the  Master,— 

Some  task  supremely  blest; 
For  the  tireless  labor  of  Heaven, 

Meaneth  "eternal  rest." 


m 


MRS.  HANNAH  E.  M.  ALLEN. 

Born:  Paris,  Me.,  Oct.  6, 1831. 
Under  the  nom  de  plume  of  Ro-se  Sanborn, 
this  lady  has  contributed  quite  extensively 
to  the  periodical  press.  She  now  resides  in 
the  state  of  Nebraska  at  Agnew,  where  she  is 
well  kr.own  and  liighly  respected. 

A  WINTER  PANSY. 
Once  in  the  morning  twiliglit  of  our  love, 
When  Hope's  first  red  had  scarcely  tinged  the 

g-ray, 
I  plucked  a  pansy  from  its  winter  bed 
And  gave  it  you:  In  its  fresh  face,  perchance. 
You  read  a  vague,  sweet  propliecy  of  good. 
Of  Love  .surviving  life's  ani  umnal  cliill. 
And  blossoming  even  in  its  winter  days. 
After  long  years,  once  more  I  pluck  for  you 
A  pansy  than  liat  braved  a  frosty  sky 
And  worn  a  snow-wreath  on  its  purple  brows. 
For  a  sweet  sign  tlmt  in  our  hearts  to-<lay. 
We  find  the  okl-time  prophecy  come  true. 


MRS.  JOSEPHINE  JAMIESON. 

Born  :  Dover,  Ark.,  July  19, 1839. 
For  the  past  few  years  the  poems  of  Mrs. 
Jamieson  have  appeared  in  the  St.  Louis  Ad- 


MRS.  JOSEPHINE  JAMIESON. 

vocate  and  numerous  other  publications. 
She  was  married  in  1856  to  W.  E.  Jamieson, 
with  whom  she  now  resides  at  Dye,  Texas. 


THE  SNOW. 
The  snow,  the  snow,  the  pure  white  snow. 
Coming  down  so  soft  and  low. 
Whirling  and  drifting  througli  the  storm, 
Down  on  the  earth  to  keep  it  warm. 
It  comes,  it  comes  through  the  chilly  blast, 
Falling  on  woods  and  fields  so  fast; 
So  quickly  liiding  them  from  sight 
Beneath  its  spotless  robe  of  white. 
It  goes,  it  goes  to  the  home  of  the  poor. 
It  finds  its  way  througli  the  rich  man's  door; 
Making  the  hearts  of  children  glad. 
Pinching  the  hungrj'  and  thinly  clad. 
It  flies,  it  flics,  yes  everywhere. 
Making  diamonds  liere,  crystals  there; 
Bringing  with  it  the  chirping  birds, 
Tlie  bleating  lambs  and  lowing  herd 
O  sec,  O  see  the  crystals  shine, 
Reflectionsof  thii,t.  love  divine 
That  gave  the  world  a  sacred  light  — 
Making  the  gloomiest  day  grow  bright.    •    • 


■* 


m- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


401 


-m 


MRS.  LOUISE  G.STAUNTON. 

Born:  Allen  Co.,  Ind. 
Fob  the  past  decade  the  poems  of  this  lady 
have  been  published  far  and  wide,  and  have 


MRS.  LOUISE  G.   STAUNTON. 

been  well  received.  Mrs.  Staunton  lias  re- 
sided in  Fort  Wayne  since  1858,  was  married 
tliere  four  years  later,  and  left  a  widow  in 
in  1890.    Slje  has  two  cliildren  living-. 

THE  SEA  SHELL. 
O  beautiful  shell  from  the  murmuring  sea. 
Why  sing  of  the  charms  of  the  ocean  to  me? 
Whose  strange,  restless  waters  seem  ever  in 

quest 
Of  earth's  brightest  jewels  to  hide  in  its  breast. 
O  pink-tinted  shell  from  the  dark,  stormy  sea, 
Canst  tell  me  if  deep,gloomy  caverns  there  be. 
Where  mermaidens  sport  in  the  water's  green 

light 
Away  from  tlie  moon  and  the  sunbeams  so 

bright? 
Canst  tell  me  of  jewels  so  costly  and  rare. 
That  gleam  in  the  bands   of    their   radiant 

hair  — 
Those  bright  water-nymphs,  who  dwell  under 

the  wave. 
Whose  castles  of  coral  the  deep  waters  lave? 
i  Do  they  love,  do  they  hate,  as  other  folks  do. 
In  that  strange  nether  world,  quite  hidden 

from  view 
By  numberless  fathoms  of  salt  ocean  spray, 
That  guard  and  protect  them  forever  and  aye? 


And  did  the  most  lovely  of  all  that  fair  band, 
Stoop  low  'mid  the  grasses  and  emerald  sand, 
To  breathe  in  the  ear  of  my  wonderful  shell 
Those  musical  notes  it  forever  must  tell? 

Forever?  ah,  yes,  when  this  warm,  beating 

heart 
To  dust  has  returned,  having  finished  its  part. 
Keeping  time  to  the  rhythm  of  sorrow  and 

tears. 
Whose  echoes  are  lost  in  the  vanishing  years. 

But  through  the  thick  blackness  there  cometh 

a  ray 
That  heralds  the  dawn  of  a  happier  day. 
When  the  soul,  free  from  fetters,  shall  pass  to 

its  rest 
lu  the  mansions  of  light,  the  home  of  the  blest. 
Then  sing,  pretty  shell,  of  the  days  yet  to  be. 
And  the  days  that  are  gone,  and  of  the  deep  sea 
The  home  of  the  mermaiden, gracious  and  fair. 
And  the  mansions  of  light  o'er  the  river  of 

care. 


EXCELSIOR. 
Fair  youth,  within  whose  manly  breast 

The  fires  of  genius  smolder  low. 
Seek  well  to  feed  the  flame  aright. 

With  steady  hand,  both  sure  and  slow. 
Both  sure  and  slow,  remember  well 

The  magic  these  few  words  contain. 
Till,  in  the  fullness  of  God's  time. 

It  leaps  and  mounts  a  living  flame. 
A  shaft  of  fire  to  lead  the  way 

Far  up  the  rugged  path  to  fame, 
Till  on  the  summit's  dizzy  height 

With  dexter  hand  you  write  your  name. 
But  when  bright  honor's  diadem 

Descends  upon  thy  manly  brow 
Do  not  forget  tlie  low  of  earth. 

Compelled  beneath  the  yoke  to  bow. 
Strike  ever  for  the  poor,  the  weak. 

For  this  thy  God  hath  made  thee  strong; 
Hurl  down  the  tyrant,  lift  the  slave. 

Oppressed  by  cruel,  bitter  wrong. 
The  more  bright  honor  stoops  to  save. 

The  more  it  rises  in  its  might. 
But  why  remind  a  noble  soul 

Who  conscious  is  of  wrong  and  right? 
Accept  this  floral  wi-eath  from  one 

Who  knows  thee  not,    but  fain   would 
know. 
And  wear  the  blossoms  on  thy  breast 

Tlirough   summer's   heat    and   winter's 
snow. 
And  may  their  odors  ever  live 

A  tender  memory  in  thy  heart 
Of  youthful  hopes,  tlien  pass  beyond 

When  on  life's  stage  you've  played  your 
part. 


-® 


m- 


-* 


402 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OK  AMEUICA. 


J.WARREN  GARDINER. 

Born:  North  Kingston,  R. I.,  March 3, 1836. 
Mr.  Gardiner  studied  medicine  for  two 
years,  and  later  became  a  scliool  teacher. 
After  his  marriage  he  was  admitted  to  the 
bar.  His  liealth  compelled  him  to  move  to 
Florida.    Mr.  Gardiner  has  lived  at  different 


J.  WARREN  GARDINER. 

times  in  many  of  tlie  states  of  tlie  union,  and 
has  held  many  important  public  jtositions  of 
trust.  He  has  publislied  several  newspapers, 
and  is  at  present  editor  and  proprietor  of  the 
Dixie  Optic,  at  Jefferson,  N.  C.  He  has  a  large 
amount  of  uupublislied  matter  both  in  poetry 
and  prose,  which  he  hopes  soon  to  publisli. 


THE  PATCH. 

When  I  see,  beside  tlio  way. 

The  little  ureliiii  tlierc  at  play, 
Witii  a  patch  on  eitlier  knee. 

What  is  it  tliat  impresses  me? 
Memory  of  a  motlier  dear. 

Laid  long  since  upon  her  bier. 
Who,  when  T  was  young  and  small. 

Darned  and  mended  ft)r  us  all. 
Patiently,  with  thread  and  thimble, 

Eyes  yet  clear  and  fingers  nimble, 
Wliilc  we  nestled  close  in  bed, 

Tlirougii  tlie  jiatcii  I  lie  needle  sped. 
Hence  tlie  patcli  so  comely,  neat. 

On  little  trousers  ktiee  or  seat. 
Speaks  to  me  of  comfort  near. 

Of  a  home  and  mother  dear. 


m 


New  clothes  fit  and  trim  may  be 

Worn  by  urchins  wliom  we  see; 
Rags  may  flutter  on  the  street, 

Shoeless  boys  or  shod  may  meet; 
Stili  to  us  no  sign  they  give. 

Save  that  poor  or  rich  they  live, 
Boj's  who  wear  the  neat  patch  prove 

A  mother's  care,  a  mother's  love. 


BRAIN  VS.  BRAWN. 
Brain  and  Brawn  were  biothers, 

Beginning  life  together, 
Eacii  reared  to  honest  labor. 

Inured  to  wind  and  weather. 
The  former  by  economy 

And  industry  unceasing. 
Found  day  by  day  his  influence 

And  hoarded  wealth  increasing. 

He  spent  no  time  at  taverns 

In  drinking  or  carousing. 
Was  temperate  in  all  his  ways. 

All  honesty  espousing. 
Employers  learned  his  worth  to  prize. 

And  valued  him  according. 
True  merit  wins  its  way  to  wealth. 

And  is  its  own  rewarding. 
He  slowly  I'ose  to  eminence, 

Bj-  home  and  friends  surrounded. 
In  business  of  his  own  engaged. 

And  so  his  wealth  abounded. 
The  latter  to  debauchery 

His  nights  and  Sundays  giving. 
Consumed  his  hard-earned  wage? 

In  folly  and  fast  living. 
So  slowly  at  his  daily  task. 

The  weary  hours  he  numbered. 
And  grumbled  at  his  stubborn  lot. 

And  thus  success  encumbei-ed. 
Employers  learned  his  worth  to  guage, 

For  energy  was  lacking; 
Disorder  with  depressing  hand 

His  frame  was  slowly  sacking. 
His  home  was  misery  and  sloth. 

By  kindred  friends  surrounded. 
He  spent  his  time  in  bitter  plaint. 

And  poverty  abounded. 
Advancing  age  now  finds  the  two. 

But  mark  wliat  contrast  bitter; 
One  rests  upon  a  bed  of  down. 

The  other  on  a  litter. 
One  occupies  a  high-stoop  house. 

Has  stocks  and  bonds  in  store; 
The  other  grovels  in  a  hut 

With  rent-man  at  tlie  door. 
One  has  a  healthy  family. 

Grown  up  and  married  well; 
The  other's  sons  are  vile  and  low. 

Fit  for  a  prison  cell. 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


403 


-m 


MRS.  S.  HAZLETT-BEVIS. 

Born:  Zanesville,  Ohio,  July  17,  1846. 
Removing  to  Ciiieiiiuati  in  1884  from  Mar- 
quette, Miehig-an,  Mrs.  Hazlett-Bevis  has  be- 
come well  known  as  a  journalist,  and  is  now 
on  tlie  local  staff  of  the  Evening  Post.  Slielias 
the  undoubted  claim  to  author,  poet  and  jour- 
nalist; has  recently  issued  a  vohiiueof  poems; 


.MUS.    S.    IIAZLKTT-BEVI.S. 

and  is  also  editing- Noted  Women  of  Cincinnati, 
which  will  be  pubWslied  in  1891  Mrs.  Hazlett- 
Bevis  organized  the  Woman's  Press  Club  of 
Cincinnati,  and  was  its  first  president.  After 
many  years  of  widowhood  slie  was  married  in 
1888  to  Henry  H.  Bevis,  now  proprietor  of  The 
Cincinnati  Elite  News,  of  which  Mrs.  Bevis  is 
he  associate  editor.  The  poems  of  this  lady 
have  appeared  in  the  leading  publications  of 
America,  and  have  been  liighly  spolsen  of. 


A  LITTLE  CHILD. 
Only  a  tiny  hand-clasp. 

Only  an  accent  mild: 
Only  a  pattering  footstep. 

But  that  of  a  little  child. 
Only  blue  eyes  uplifted. 

Only  a  pleading  filed; 
Only  a  heart  in  yearning. 

And  that  of  a  little  child. 
Only  a  trust  in  keeping. 

Only  to  Ije  beguiled; 


Only  glistening  teardrops. 
The  blood  of  a  little  child. 

Only  a  heart-grown  callous. 
Only  a  soul  defiled: 

Only  a  saddened  memory  — 
A  neglected  little  child. 


SOMETIMES. 
Sometimes,  when  all  about  is  still. 

And  calmly  wafts  the  evening  air. 
The  pent-up  feelings,  and  the  will, 
Both  prostrate  lie  in  deep  despair. 
Sometimes. 

Sometimes  in  spite  of  reins  well  held, 
Whose  white  hand-power  is  self-control. 

With  lips  compressed,  and  bosom  swelled 
With  heartache  hunger  of  the  soul. 
Sometimes. 

We  cannot  pray,  we  only  moan. 

And  lie  in  misery  so  abject  — 
With  hands  clasped  tensely,  cold  as  stone, 

And  tears  dried  hotly—  none  suspect. 
Sometimes. 

We  long  for  death,  a  sudden  hush 

To  fall  upon  us  as  we  sit: 
Oblivion  without  noise  or  crush. 

And  thus  the  end,  while  sliadows  flit. 
Sometimes. 

Perhaps  the  deare.st  hopes  of  earth. 
Our  idols  shattered,  merest  clay. 

Long  years  of  toil,  that  knew  no  girth, 
By  lightest  breeze  are  swept  away. 
Sometimes. 

We  wonder  if  He  knew  or  cared? 

It  seems  so  to  our  breaking  heart. 
Mocking  the  life  that  He  hath  spared. 

Thinking  naught  of  that  greater  part. 
Sometimes. 


SMILE  AND  BE  GLAD. 
Smile,  tliough  the  heart  be  breaking; 

Smile,  though  the  clouds  droop  low; 
Smile,  in  the  morn  awaking; 

Smile,  when  to  rest  you  go. 

Think  of  the  day  with  gladness. 
Though  toilful  the  hours,  and  long; 

Banish  all  care  and  sadness. 
Lighten  your  labors  with  song. 

Open  the  doors  of  your  sanctum. 
That  "  Holy  of  Holies  "—your  heart; 

Let  in  the  sunshine  that  will  come. 
And  be  of  you  ever  a  part. 

Speak  kindly  words  to  the  erring; 

Harsh  ones  embitter  the  soul; 
Each  to  the  other  deferring. 

Holding  o'er  self  full  control. 


«■ 


404 


S 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


Be  content,  be  kind,  be  loving: 
Remember  the  shortness  of  life; 

Its  not  worth  wliile  to  be  proving  — 
Constantly  arguing  with  strife. 

Every  life  hath  its  bitter. 
As  well  as  its  sweets  to  drain ; 

It  is  not  "all  pomp  and  glitter," 
That's  freest  from  sorrow  and  pain. 

The  "  Golden  Rule  "  is  the  best  one. 
To  follow  the  whole  journey  through; 

"  Do  unto  others,  as  you  alone. 
Would  have  others  do  unto  you." 


ONE  OF  THESE  DAYS. 
One  of  these  days  when  all  the  years  so  silent 
Have  passed  into  eternity  at  last. 
And  you  and  I  stand  face  to  face  thus  meet- 
ing. 
Shall  we  remember  all  the  bitter  past? 

Shall  we  remember  all  the  woe  and  heartache, 
That  met  us  on  life's  morn  and  sunlit  patliV 
Shall  we  in  awe  stand  baclf,the  pain  renewing. 
As  glance,  to  glance,  the  greater  misery  hath? 

Will  stifled  moans,pale  lips  the  torture  hiding. 
Be  wrung  from  hearts   whose  cup    is  more 

than  full? 
Will  tears  trace  deeper,in  the  furrows  graven? 
Or  shall  an  apatliy  our  spirits  lull? 

Shall  aching  brain  be  horrified  with  vision. 
Panoramic  view  of  scenes  we  would  forget? 
Shall  warm  hands  clinch,  and  make  therein 

incision. 
And  blood  drip  from  a  life  full  of  regret? 

Must  all  the  thorns  be  tread  upon  as  olden. 
Our  weary  feet  no  rest  as  yet  to  feel? 
Must  burdens  borne,bow  lower  in  submission, 
Before  His  touch  our  broken  spirits  lieal? 

If  so,  dear  God,  from  out  thy  Icving  kindness. 
Let  one  soul  drift  into  a  blissful  naught  — 
My  own  —  and  if  a  wild  mistaken  blindness. 
Forgive,  and  understand  the  silence  bought. 


MRS.  JOHN  MCVICAR. 

The  poems  of  this  lady  have  been  published 
in  Godey's  Lady's  Book  and  otlier  magazines 
of  equal  prominence.  She  is  a  resident  of  De- 
troit, where  lier  liusband  is  the  manager  of 
the  Michigan  State  Printing  and  Binding. 


SB- 


DOUBT. 
With  weary  feet  we  tread  the  barren  waste, 

O'er  deep  morass,  up  rocky,  toilsome  steep; 
If  blue  breaks  through  the  clouds,  we  scarce 
can  see. 
To  dim  our  eyes  that  only  wake  to  weep. 


Or,  if  we  catch  a  glint  of  smiling  sky. 

For  us  a  pleasant  path  seems  opening  out; 
We  question:  Is  this  blue?  Where  does  that 
lead? 

And  lose  perchance  life's  purest  joy  through 
doubt. 
A  hand  is  stretched  to  us  upon  the  way  — 

Coward,  we  pause  ere  yet  we  give  our  own, 
Though  yearning  for  its  Iielpful  clasp; 

Doubt  robs  us,  and  again  we  are  alone. 
Blind  cowards  we,  life's  fairest  blossoms. 

Doubt  withered,  thickly  strew  our  way ; 
And  loyal,  loving  hearts  turn  from  us. 

The  wliile  it  whispers:  might  they  not  be- 
tray? 
Doubt  most  insures  the  loss  it  dreads. 

While  perfect  trust,  if  freely  given. 
Might  so  weld  bonds  we  fear  so  frail 

Not  all  of  time  should  see  them  riven. 


MRS.  ELIZA  H.  RUBLE. 

The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  exten- 
sively in  the  local  press.  She  is  now  a  resident 
of  Albert  Lea,  Minnesota. 


WASHING  DISHES. 

Good  exercise  is  well  prescribed 

To  give  ladies  strength  and  health. 

Ball,  horseback-ride,  or  anything 

That 's  consistent  with  their  wealth. 

There  are  roller-skates  and  tennis 

To  satisf  J'  tlieir  wislies. 

But  recommend  a  lady  fair 

Who  cares  to  wash  the  dishes  — 

Then  do  be  spry  and  wipe  tliem  dry. 

Don't  frown  or  pout,  or  kick  about 

Such  little  things  as  dishes. 

That 's  exercise  of  a  good  kind  — 

It  serves  a  purpose  double; 

Adds  strength  to  muscle  and  to  will. 

Gives  "  ma "  of  course  less  trouble. 

It  will  brace  your  nerves  in  future 

If  all  don't  godclicioiTs, 

When  with  a  -core  of  other  things 

You've  got  to  wash  the  dishes. 

Then  wasli  and  dry  and  place  them  high 

Eacii  by  themselves  upon  tlie  shelves 

Those  liarmless-looking  dishes. 

Performance  on  pianofoi-te 

Is  construed  by  all  quite  fine. 

And  rubbing  on  an  old  wasli-board 

Must  be  exercise  divine. 

Better  tlian  croquet  or  sliding. 

Or  angling  for  tlie  tlsiies. 

Is  the  i)iesi>Mt  never-ending 

Old  game  of  washing  dislies. 

Then  wash  and  rinse  with  many  squints, 

Whate'er  your  fate,  oh,  do  not  hate 

Tliose  much  neglected  dishes. 


^- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


405 


« 


JAMES  M.  L^COUNT. 

Born  :  Lyons,  N.  Y.,  Sept.  24, 1835. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  is  a  descendant  of 
the  Hugenots  that  settled  in  Duchess  Co.,  N. 
Y.  At  an  earlj-  age  liis  father  removed  to 
Michigan,  then  to  Ohio,  and  finally  settled  on 
a  farm  in  Wisconsin.  When  twenty  years  of 
age  James  learned  the  tinsmiths*  trade,  and 


JAMES  M.  L'COUNT. 

later  carried  on  a  hardware  business  in  Hart- 
ford, where  he  now  resides.  In  18T6  Mr.  Le 
Count  bought  the  Hartford  Press,  which  he 
still  publishes.  Since  entering  the  publishing 
business  the  poems  of  Mr.  LeCount  have  con- 
stantly appeared  in  the  local  press,  and  have 
received  favorable  mention.  In  1890  he  hopes 
to  publish  Tlie  Hermit  of  Holy  Hill,  a  poem  of 
five  cantos  in  the  style  of  Scott's  Lady  of  the 
Lake. 


THERE  IS  JOY  IN  OUR  HOUSE. 
There  is  joy  in  our  house  to-night—  for  I  hear 
The  voices  of         children  and  wife;      [dear 
They  are  telling  each  other  how  father,  so 

Will  wear  the  red  ribbon  for  life. 
Yes,  hark!  they  are  telling,  while  each  heart 
is  swelling. 
With  a  joy  that  it  ne'er  knew  before  — 
How  he's  taken  the  vow,  and  the  red  ribbon 
now 
He  will  wear  on  his  breast  evermore. 
There  is  joy  in  our  house  to-night,  for  I  know 
They  believe  I  will  honor  the  cause; 


That  manhood  enough  is  left  me  to  show 

To  the  world  that  I'm  not  wliat  I  was. 
Yes,  hark!  they're  believing,  that  I  am   not 
deceiving 
Those  dear  ones  who  loved  me  in  shame. 
They've  faith  in  the  ribbon,  for  I  wear  it  un- 
hidden, 
They  have  faith  in  the  pledge  to  reclaim. 
'There  is  joy  in  our  house  to-night,  I  am  sure, 

For  I  hear  their  sweet  chorus  in  song. 
And  I  know  they  are  happj-,  in  feeling  secure 

That  my  pledge  will  be  lasting  and  long. 
Yes,  hark !  thej'  are  singing,  each  happy  voice 
ringing 
Like  the  chorus  from  angels  on  high;    [say. 
And  I  list  to  the  lay,  and  the  words  seem  to 

Keep  the  ribbon  and  pledge  till  you  die. 
There  is  joy  in  our  house  to-night,  may  it  ever 

Be  thus,  hark!  I  hear  them  implore  — 
O!  God!  in  thy  mercy  protect  him,  and  never 

Again  may  he  drink  as  before^ 
Yes,  hark;  they  are  praying  — O!  list  what 
they're  saying: 
God  grant  this  our  earnest  request. 
May  his  faith  be  unshaken,  in  the  pledge  he 
has  taken 
And  the  ribbon  he  wears  on  his  breast. 


TO  A  BLUEBIRD. 
Bluebn-d,  messenger  of  spring. 

Pausing  in  thy  flight  to-day. 
Near  my  home  I  hear  thee  sing, 
Making  all  the  woodlands  ring 

With  thy  joyous,  happy  lay. 
Couldst  thou  tell  me  of  the  clime. 

Of  that  far-off  southern  land, 
Where  you  pass  the  winter's  time  — 
Is  the    landscape  fair  as  mine? 

Hills  and  forests  there  as  grand? 
When  you  wing  your  flight  to  where 

The  orange  ripens  all  the  year. 
Midst  the  heated  tropic  air — 
Do  they  greet  thy  coming  there 

With  the  joy  that  we  do  here? 
Oft  I've  pondered  and  would  know 

Who  directs  thy  wondrous  flight  — 
Tells  thee  when  to  come  and  go 
From  the  land  of  heat  or  snow. 

Whose  the  hand  that  guides  thee  right? 
Perchance  this  foresight  is  revealed 

By  Him  who  hath  created  all; 
Who  does  the  least  from  danger  shield ; 
Who  paints  the  lilies  of  the  field. 

Him  who  notes  each  sparrow's  fall. 
Bluebird,  stay  thy  northern  flight. 

Soar  not  farther  on  thy  way; 
Thou  art  welcome  to  my  sight. 
And  your  songs  are  my  delight  — 

Azure  bird,  I  bid  thee  stay. 


^ 


©- 


® 


406 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAI-   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


CATHERINE  G.  HATCHETT. 

Born:  England,  Jan.  1, 1868. 
This  lady  has  received  congrutulatioiis  from 
the  leading-  poets  of  America,  on  lln-   iiroiiii.se 


I  ATHIOKINK   (JKACE    II  A  !'(  H  KTT. 

and  beauty  of  lier  verses.  She  is  a  resident  of 
Schuyler,  Neb.,  where  she  is  very  popular. 


m- 


MENTAL  MUSIC. 

Mental  Music  is  tlie  grandest 

Tliat  tlie  human  heart  can  know, 
For  it  lightens  every  hurden 

And  it  lessens  every  woe. 
In  tlie  world  there's  no  musician 

Wlio  can  with  the  muse  compete. 
For  her  symphonies  are  perfect, 

And  her  chords  divinely  sweet. 
Oft  she'll  take  the  Harp  of  Fancy, 

And  upon  its  tender  wires 
Willingly  will  play  for  hours 

With  a  zeal  tliat  seldom  tires. 
Never  lieeding,  tho'  the  moments 

Onward  speeding:  ne'er  come  back. 
Tiny  mites,  by  otliers  followed. 

Ever  in  the  self  same  track. 
And  lier  unseen  pearly  fingers 

Hack  and  forMi  will  gently  sweep, 
Wliile  tlie  golden  strings  responsive 

Sweetest  liarniony  will  keep. 
Nevt-r  clashing  with  a  discord. 

But  with  perfect  tune  and  time. 


Bender  music  far  more  thrilling 

Than  was  heard  in  any  clime. 
Minstrel  music,  beloved  companion, 

[Into  thee  I'll  freely  give, 
Fancj^'s  silver  harp  entirely  — 

If  thou'lt  play  it  whilst  I  live. 
For  thy  tunes  are  so  beguiling 

They  dispel  all  thought  of  care, 
And  their  influence  so  charming 

That  it  makes  all  things  seem  fair. 
Therefore  long  as  life  remaineth. 

And  as  flies  eacli  fleeting  year. 
With  thy  soothing  power  to  solace 

Minstrel  music,  oh  be  thou  near. 


ABANDONED. 
Poor   painted  creature,  whom   the  virtuous 

shun, 
'Twill  not  be  long  ere  thy  sad  life  is  done; 
And  better  so,  aye  it  'twere  better  far. 
To  yield  at  once  than  live  on  as  you  are. 
For  no  one  loves  thee,  thou  hast  not  a  friend. 
Naught  to  prevent  thee  welcoming  the  end; 
And  life  methinks,  must  seem  to  such  as  thee, 
E'en  at  its  best,  a  hideous  mockery. 
Tli.v  very  smiles  thou  art  compelled  to  wear. 
To  hide  thy  hatred  and  to  mask  despair; 
And  it  must  tire,  thine  hopeless,  hollow  eyes, 
To  gaze  so  long  on  all  they  must  despise. 
The  world  to  thee  is  but  a  shaky  stage. 
An  actress  thou,  thy  life  a  blotted  page. 
Men  pass  thee  by  upon  the  thoroughfare. 
Nor  deign  to  heed  thee  in  the  daylight  glare. 
But,  when  at  last  the  heavy  pall  of  night 
Spreads  o'er  the  earth  and  hides  them  from 

the  sight 

And  'twill  not  do  for  outcasts  such  as  I 
To  own  repentance  and  to  sob  and  sigh. 
Mankind  would  laugh  and  womankind  would 

sneer. 
If  they  could  now  my  foolish  ravings  hear; 
And  so  I'm  lost,  to  infamj-  am  doomed, 
Ne'er  to  escape  until  for  aye  entombed. 

Poor,  helpless  woman,  with  your  fatal  charms, 
Once  thou  wert  cradled  in  a  mother's  arms. 
Who  breathed  a  prayer  that  God  would  safely 

guide 
Her  baby's  footsteps  to  the  Other  Side. 
'I'lien  thou  wert  pure,  thy  little  head  did'st 

rest 
In  sweetest  slumber  on  a  loving  breast. 
But  now,  how    changed,  those  happy    hours 

have  fled. 
And  tliou  hast  lived  to  wish   that  tlioii   wert 

dead. 


®- 


LOCAL,   AND    NATIONAL  TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


407 


-© 


MRS.  LIZZIE  A.  SHIMMOXS. 

Bokn:    Brookfield,  Vt.,  1853. 
Under  the  non  de  plume  of  Blanche  Gray 
Mrs.   Sliimnions  has  written   extensively  for 


the  local  press.  In  1889  she  was  married  to 
John  H.  Shimmons,  a  merchant  doing-  business 
at  Lawrence,  Kansas,  where  she  now  resides. 


m 


THE  BIRTH  OF  LOVE. 
It  was  long  ago  in  violet  time. 
That  an  angel   brouglit    from    the  heavenly 

clime 
A  message  so  pure,  and  rare  and  sweet. 
That  we  felt  for  a  time  our  joy  complete. 
For  what  shadow  could  ever  come  to  us  now, 
With  this  shining  coronet  upon  our  brow. 
This  safeguai-d  of  hope  borne  from  above 
To  hallow  our  lives,  this  blessing  called  love. 
We   lived   in  its  sunlight,  we  basked  in  its 

smile, 
'Tis  easy  when  loving  fond  hearts  to  beguile. 
We  dream  not  of  deceit  or  malice  or  sin 
While  the   heart  filled  with  love  is  beating 

within. 

Sweet  dreams  of  our  youth  are  you  flitting 

away. 
Have  life's  burdens  and  cares  made  the  heart 

grow  cold? 
If  so,  sweet  angel,  bring  a  message  I  pray, 
And  fresh  pages  of  love  to  our  hearts  unfold. 


THE  FORGETFULNESS  OF  SLEEP. 
Oh!  blessed  sleep  could  1  but  feel. 
The  soothing  powers  o'er  my  senses  steal, 
Methinks  'twould  give  my  spirit  rest. 
To  wander  away  from  the  cares  that  oppress. 
And  forget  for  a  time  life's  sorrows  and  pain, 
And  live  the  bright  past  once  over  again. 
To  shed  your  halo  on  my  troubled  heart. 
And  sweet  incense  of  sleep  to  my  eyelids  im- 
part. 

And  lull  me  to  sleep  on  your  restful  wing. 
And  awaken  me  not  witli  memories  thatbring 
Sad  recollections  to  my  weary  brain 
As  I  awake  to  the  past  again. 

But  rather  let  me  gently  glide. 
Where  peace  and  rest  for  me  abide. 
Where  cares  of  earth  can  never  come,— 
In  realms  of  bliss  I'd  have  my  home. 

So  welcome  pure  and  gentle  sleep. 
Your  arms  entwined  around  me  keep. 
And  when  your  hold  on  me  is  riven, 
■  May  I  awake  at  last  in  Heaven. 


ZITELLA  COCKE. 

Born:  Perky  Co.,  Ala. 
This  lady  is  an  accomplished  pianist  and  vo- 
calist, and  by  profession  is  a  teacher  of  music. 
She  has  published  several  very  fine  musical 
compositions.  Literature  has  always  occu- 
pied a  prominent  place  in  her  life.  In  1878 
her  translations  from  German  novels  were 
published,  and  the  press  at  once  commended 
the  purity  of  her  style  and  the  beauty  of  her 
English.  Her  poems  have  appeared  in  the 
Continent  and  various  magazines  of  promi- 
nence. The  Baltimore  American  speaks  in  the 
highest  praise  of  Zitella  Cocke's  literary 
ability. 

HER  NAME. 

I  pondered  long  —  you've  done  the  same 
No  doubt  —  on  what  should  be  the  name 
Of  that  fair  one  whom  fate  and  I 
Should  choose  for  true  love's  constancy. 
Mythology  and  legend,  classic  lore 
I  searched  —  and  yet,  I  looked  for  something 
more ! 

Should  she  be  Helen?  goddess?  queen? 

The  very  name  pictures  the  scene 

Of  discord ;  I'll  not  put  my  Troy 

At  such  a  chance  for  such  a  toy. 

That  bard  was  blind,  indeed,  spite  his  renown. 

Who  thought  a  woman  worth  so  fine  a  town ! 

Lucretia  was  a  model  dame: 

Besides,  I  rather  like  the  name;  / 

But  then,  I'd  fear  a  tragedy. 

And  heroines  are  not  for  me. 


© 


m- 


408 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


^ 


Cornelia's  fair,—  but  then  slie  had  a  way 
Of  repartee,  and  having-  the  last  say! 

Vii-g-inia!  Ah,  a  lovely  wife! 

But  that  I'd  always  see  the  knife 

At  her  white  throat.    Iphigenla, — 

A  martyr  that  I  much  admire? 

Aspasia's  charms  might  suit  great  Pericles, 

But  she  would  never  do  for  times  like  these! 

Rebecca  might  please  Ivanhoe 
(It  seems  as  if  she  didn't,  though). 
The  beautiful  and  proud  Rowena 
I  might  have  loved  if  I  had  seen  her: 
I'm  glad  I  didn't.    As  for  Rosamond, 
She's   just  the  woman  I  would    most  have 
shunned! 

0  fair,  unparagoned  Elaine ! 

The  very  thought  of  her  brings  pain: 
And  as  for  royal  Guinevere, 
She  's  far  too  fine  for  daily  wear; 
And  husbands  of  the  nineteenth  century 
Griselda's  patience  must  not  look  to  see ! 

Aurora  rises  much  too  soon; 

1  like  to  see  the  sun  at  noon, 
Preferring  fashionable  hours, 

I  do  not  care  to  wake  the  flowers. 
Phyllis  and  Plioebe  love  the  milking  pail; 
I  love  a  beauty  rather  pale  than  hale. 

Berthas  that  fill  a  poet's  mind. 

And  Mauds  to  gardens  I  resigned. 

In  vain  my  wanton  fancy  roved  — 

I  never  found  the  name  I  loved 

The  girl  I  met—  I  love,  yes,  I  adore  her! 

I  never  asked  her  name  —  they  call  her  Nora ! 


SB- 


GODS  OF  HELLAS. 
O  ye  gods  of  sunny  Hellas,  are  ye  gone  for- 

evermore 
From  the  crystal  caves  of  Ocean  and  the  sing- 
ing, wave-kissed  shore! 
Are   ye  hiding  in  the  mountains,  do  ye  lurk 

withhi  the  streams? 
Can  ye  come  no  more  to  mortals  in  their  long- 
ings and  their  dreams? 
Have  ye  quit  serene    Olympus,—  is  it  o'er, 

.vour  golden  reign? 
And  the  grand  Ida-an  Mother  with  her  fair  im- 
mortal train. 
Shall  they  never  come  again? 

O  ye  gods  of  sunny  Hellas,  do  the  clouds  en- 
fold you  now 

From  our  mortal  ken,  as  when  ye  leaped  from 
high  Olympus's  brow 

To  the  green  Thessalian  forests  and  the  founts 
of  Cast-aly,— 

Or  to  fierce  Scamander's  niging  tid(>,  to  flglit 
for  tir  Atridii'? 

Ai'e  Dodona's  oaks  forsaken,  and  the  lieaven- 
inspired  Dove- 


Shall  she  never  utter  more  within  the  dark 
and  mystic  grove — 
The  dread  oracles  of  Jove? 

Does  the  pure,  untarnished  Artemis,  with  sil- 
ver-sandaled feet. 

Lead  her  goddess-nymphs  no  longer  to  the 
chase, —  a  huntress  fleet? 

Nor    the  winged   messenger  of    gods    make 
bright  the  common  air? 

Nor   the  blue-eyed    virgin    Pallas   heed  the 
maiden's  'plaining  prayer? 

Does  the  Goddess  of  the  Graces  hold  her  prize 
of  golden  fruit! 

Do  the  waters  of  bright  Helicon  awake  Apol- 
lo's lute? 
Are  the  Muses  all  grown  mute ! 

Nay,  the  gods  of  sunny  Hellas  give  us  answer 

when  we  call; 
We  shall  hear  them,  if  our  struggling  souls, 

we  loose  from  worldly  thrall,— 
Bring  the  eyes  lo  see  the  substance  in  the 

shadow ;  for  'tis  so. 
Plastic  Nature  yields  her  secrets  to  the  hearts 

that  love  her ;—  lo ! 
Echo  lives  on  yonder  hills  —  fair  Dryads  s  peak 

and  zephyrs  fan 
Out  of  the  brook-born  reed-pipes,  music  sweet 

as  when  tlie  great  god  Pan 
After  trembling  Syrinx  ran ! 


POMEGRANATES. 
Pomegranates  sweet  and  pomegranates  sour 

Hang  in  the  red  October  sun : 
Nobody  knew,  when  they  were  in  flower 

And  their  life  had  just  begun. 
Which  was  the  sweet  and  which  was  the  sour, 

Till  they  ripened  one  by  one. 

The  blooms  were  hats  of  cardinal  hue 

And  trumpets  of  yellow  flame; 
And  as  the  fruits  to  perfection  grew, 
Tlieir  red-coats  were  just  the  same. 
Then  the  darts  of  the  sun  cleft  the  rinds  in 

two. 
And  their  deep-red  hearts  burst  out  to  view. 
But  till  tiiey  wevo  tasted,  nol)()dy  know 
Wliere  the  swt'ct  and  the  sour  cnnie. 
For  pomegranate  sour  is  a  bitter  cheat. 
But  a  luscious  thing  is  pomegranate  sweet. 

In  youth-time's  bright  and  rosy  bower 

A  bevy  of  niiiidens  jilay: 
Tlii'ir  fresh  young  life  is  just  in  flower. 
But  wliich  is  the  sweet  and  which  is  the  sour, 

Pray,  who  will  dai'o  to  say? 

But  there  will  come  a  day 
When  life's  sharp  darts 
Will  cleave  their  iiearts. 
And  taste  we  must  in  adversity's  hour 
Wliich  nature  is  sweet  and  which  is  the  sour. 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   I'OETS   OF  AMEltlCA. 


409 


-•5 


HORACE  B.  DURANT. 

Born:  Washington  Co.,  Pa.,  Dec.  37,  1828. 

The  subject  of  this  sketch  w;is  educated  at 
Jefferson  College,  and  afterward  studied  med- 
icine, which  he  practiced  until  the  advent  of 
the  war  in  1861,  when  he  enlisted.  He  served 
fiuir  years  in  tlie  fi\"il  war  — tirst  as  a  [irivate 


HOHACl;  B.  DLltANT. 

and  afterward  was  promoted  as  a  surgeon  in 
his  own  regiment.  At  the  close  of  the  war 
Mr.  Durant  engaged  in  journalistic  and  liter- 
ary i)ursuits.  He  is  an  earnest  prohibitionist. 
On  all  current  topics  Mr.  Durant  is  widely 
and  favorably  known  as  a  vigorous  and  poi- 
ished  prose  and  poetic  writer.  He  is  a  res- 
ident of  his  native  state  at  Philadelphia. 


9 


A  NIGHT  AT  SEA. 
Tiie  night  came  down  in  sullen  g-loom, 

Tlie  winds  grew  shrill  and  loud. 
And  swept  like  wail  of  liuman  pain. 

Through  spar  and  sail  and  shroud. 

The  angry  clouds,  like  trampling-  steeds. 

Swept  o'er  the  wrathful  sky. 
And  crowned  with  crest  of  fiery  foam. 

The  waves  rolled  mountain    high. 

On  board  the  regal  ..  Ocean  Queen," 

Full  fifteen  hundred  men 
Were  rocking-  on  the  stormy  deep. 

Whose  thouglits  went  homeward  then. 


•Then  many  an  anxious,  throbbing  heart. 

Went  out  in  ardent  prayer. 
That  Heaven  would  save  tlieir  absent  ones 

That  hour  imperiled  there ! 

Yes  as  unnumbered  prayers  went  up. 

But  little  did  they  know 
The  tempest  wing  that  flapped  above. 

The  waves  that  yawned  below; 

Or,  how  careening-  decks  were  paced 

With  calm  yet  hopeless  tread. 
That  hollow  sounded  'neath  the  feet. 

Like  coffins  for  their  dead! 

'Tis  vivid  in  our  mem'ry  still, 

How  all  that  fearful  night. 
We  stood  aloft,  and  tried  to  pierce 

The  gloom  with  straining  sight. 

While  ever  and  anon,  tlie  swift 
And  blinding-  lightning's  flash. 

Came  di-agging  o'er  tlie  shudd'ring  depths. 
The  thunder's  awful  crash ! 

While  mingled  with  the  hissing  spray, 

Down  came  the  slanting  rain. 
That  swept  across  the  trembling  decks. 

And  smote  the  cheek  with  pain. 

Ah,  it  was  painful  listening  there. 

To  hear  the  timbers  creak  — 
Creak  all  the  long,  long  night,  as  though 

Thej'  suffering,  strove  to  speak! 

'Twas  sad  to  hear  the  struggling  wheel 

Turn  with  a  plunging  groan. 
Within  the  trougli  of  boiling  waves, 

Amid  the  tempest's  moan ! 

It  made  the  heart  giow  still  with  awe. 

To  hear  the  billows  smite 
Like  giant  Ijlows  against  the  bow. 

And  thundered  past  in  might. 

And  one  could  not  help  but  feel,  the  while. 

That  He  alone  could  save. 
Who  reigns  supreme  upon  the  land. 

And  calms  the  stormy  wave. 

Long  years  may  pass,  and  other  scenes 

From  mem'ry  fade  awaj-. 
Yet  comrades,  ye  can  ne'er  forget 

That  night  of  storm  and  spray ! 

And  oft  in  summer  twilight  still, 

Ye'll  sit  within  the  door. 
And  to  an  eager,  listening  band. 

Relate  your  perils  o'er; 

Or,  when  the  drifted  snows  lie  deep, 

On  upland,  glade  and  lea. 
Rehearse  beside  the  blazing  fire. 

That  night  upon  the  sea. 


-)5 


©- 


-Sj 


410 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS    OF  AMElllCA. 


THE  FROZEN  SHIP. 
O  mariner  brave,  on  the  crested  wave 

That  rolls  'neath  the  tropic  skies, 
Whj'  seek  ye  the  perils  of  frozen  zone, 

That  human  research  defies? 
In  tempest  or  calm,  ye  may  voyage  safe 

To  many  a  sunny  strand; 
But  ye  may  cruise  in  vain  to  that  icy  main. 

That  girds  the  polar  land. 
Look  out  on  that  sea,  if  such  it  may  be. 

Whose  surges  seem  turned  to  stone; 
Lo,  a  bark  lies  there,  in  the  north-light  glare. 

And  her  decks  are  still  and  lone ! 
No   audible   sound    breaks  the   silence 

'I'ound 

But  the  groan. of  the  ice-floe's  shock. 
Or  the  shivering  fall  of  some  glacier  wall 

From  fhe  brow  of  the  crystal  rock! 
The  auroral  gleam  sheds  its  wizard  beam 

From  the  deck  to  cabin  and  hold; 
The  motionless  watch  leans  against  the  rail- 
But  he  feels  not  the  bitter  cold ! 
The  mate  with  his  tinder-box  kneels  to  light 

His  last  chip  of  wood  below; 
But  the  feeble  flame,  if  it  ever  came. 

Warmed  him  not  with  its  transient  glow. 
Looking  up  with  pen  half  raised,  as  il  then 

He  listened  some  painful  cry. 
The  captain  sits  there  with  a  sorrowful  gaze, 

That  is  fixed  in  his  motionless  eye! 
On  the  open  page  of  his  log-book  read 

The  words  he  has  written  last  — 
"  All  frozen  but  me !"    He  is  ice,  as  you  see. 
With  the  pen  in  his  fingers  fast ! 

They  seem  life-like  so,  in    the  arctic  glow, 

We  scarcely  can  think  it  death; 
As  they  dream  away  unharmed  by  decay- 
Just  touched  by  the  frost-king's  breath! 
They  sit  or  recline;  they  stand  or  they  kneel; 

All  perfect  in  feature  and  form; 
But  their  dirge  is  the  wail  of  the  freezing 
gale. 
The  roar  of         eternal  storm ! 
All  the  ages  through,  with  that  ghostly  crew. 

The  wind-gods  their  revels  shall  keep; 
And  mutter  and  moan  in  each  dull  cold  ear. 

Yet  never  .shall  waken  their  sleep! 
Their  marble-like  forms  shall  never  require 

Any  funeral  rite-s  to  be  paid; 
Neither  coffin  is  meet,  nor  a  winding  sheet, 

Nor  a  grave-digger's  solemn  spade! 
O,  mortal,  seek  not  that  desolate  spot, 

Where  chaos  forever  reigns; 
Where  the  icy  spires  freeze  in  sunless  fires 

And  tlie  ocean  is  bound  in  chains. 
On  the  stormiest  billows  rather  glide; 

Go  wander  each  other  clime; 
But  the  mystic  pole  shall  solemnly  roll, 
Unapproached  to  the  end  of  time. 
« 


JAMES  STUART  DON X AX. 

Born:  Scotland,  Feb.  28,  1835. 

For  many  years  the  poems  of  Mr.  Donnan 
have  appeared  in  the  periodical  press.  He 
was  married  in  1884.  and  now  resides  in  Long 
Island,  where  he  is  very  popular. 


'TWAS  ANOTHER  DREAM. 

'Twas  another  dream  mj'  darling, 
And  my  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 
As  I  woke  from  restless  slumbers. 
Full  of  heart  unburdened  fears. 

'Twas  the  terror  born  of  waiting, 
'Twas  the  anguish  of  the  soul, 
'Twas  the  essence  of  misgiving, 
'Twas  of  bitterness  the  goal. 

A  million  fancied  dangers 
Crowded  in  a  moment's  time, 
The  world  seemed  full  of  demons. 
There  was  nothing  left  but  crime. 

Such,  darling,  was  the  struggle. 
Of  my  wearied  frenzied  brain, 
Such,  dearest,  was  the  sorrow 
Of  a  love  by  absence  slain. 

'Twas  another  dream,  mj'  darling, 
A  dream  and  nothing  moi-e. 
But  it  made  you  dearer,  darling 
Than  you  ever  were  before. 


TELL  ME  DARLING. 

Tell  me  darling,  tell  me  pray. 

Why  there's  not  anight  or  day. 

In  the  Calendar  of  time. 

Is  not  filled  with  thoughts  sublime. 

Thoughts  of  tliee,  my  sweet,  my  own. 

Queen  of  love's  eternal  throne? 

Tell  me  darling  if  you  can. 
Why  there's  not  a  scheme  or  plan. 
Passing  through  my  weary  brain. 
Is  not  filled  witli  joy  and  pain, 
Joy  to  know  tliat  you  are  mine. 
Grief  to  think  that  at  some  time 

When  upon  the  verge  of  life. 
Weary  with  the  cares  and  strife 
Which  surround  our  path  below, 
Full  of  sorrow,  full  of  woe. 
One  must  be  the  first  to  say 
Darling,  I  am  called  away. 


^- 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL,    TOETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


)S 


411 


JOHN  WILLIAM  BOXELL. 

Born:  Muskingum  Co.,  Ohio,  Feb.  6, 1824. 
In  1848  tins  gentleman  was  married  to  Miss 
Mary   Shaw.    His   verses  have  appeared  in 
various  newspapers  in  Ohio,  Pennsylvania, 
New  York  and  Minnesota,  and  he  has  written 


JOHN  WILLIAM   BOXELL. 

both  prose  and  verse  quite  extensively  for  the 
Northwest  Magazine.  Mr.  Boxell  served  in 
the  union  army;  and  his  father  was  in  the  war 
of  1813.  Mr.  Boxell  came  to  Minnesota  Terri- 
tory in  1854,  and  is  now  a  resident  of  St.  Paul. 
This  gentleman  has  seven  sons  and  two 
daughter  living.and  eigliteengrandchildren. 


m- 


THE  ELMS  OF  ELMO. 
0  Mary,  put  your  worls  away. 
And  let  us  for  a  while  be  gaj'. 
And  watch  the  yellow  perches  play 

Beneath  the  elms  of  Elmo. 
The  summer  now  is  in  its  prime. 
And,  just  to  pass  away  the  time, 
I'll  make  a  simple  little  rhyme 

About  tlie  elms  of  Elmo. 
The  brown  thrush  sings  on  every  tree. 
The  cat-bird  trills  his  gushing  glee. 
And  not  less  happy,  love,  are  we 

By  the  triplet  elms  of  Elmo. 
The  grossbeak  with  his  rosy  breast. 
The  oriole  'n  orange  dressed. 
With  music  welcome  every  guest 

That  seeks  the  elms  of  Elmo. 


Wild  roses  bloom  along  the  shore 

With  pinks  and  harebells  covered  o'er;— 

Their  fragrance  on  the  breeze  they  pour 

That  stirs  the  elms  of  Elmo. 
The  boatman  sets  his  snowy  sail 
To  catcli  the  gentle  evening  gale. 
While  lovers  tell  the  ancient  tale 

Around  the  elms  of  Elmo. 
That  tender  tale  so  often  told 
When  sheep  are  gathering  to  the  fold;— 
Though  ancient,  it  will  ne'er  be  old 

Beneath  the  elms  of  Elmo. 
As  with  our  boat  we  smoothly  glide. 
We'll  watch  the  water-lilies  ride 
L'pon  the  gently-heaving  tide 

That  laves  the  elms  of  Elmo. 
We'll  watch  the  roving  dragon-fly 
Dart  to  and  fro  across  the  skj% 
As  free  from  care  as  you  and  and  I, 

Or  the  happy  elms  of  elmo. 
Should  coming  years,  to  vou  and  me. 
Bring  thoughtfulcare,  asitmay  be, 
Vft  still,  in  fancy,  we  snail  see 

The  three  green  elms  of  Elmo. 
And  in  our  life's  declining  daj% 
We'll  not  forget,  though  far  away. 
That  youthful  lovers  still  are  gay 

Beneaili  the  elms  of  Elmo. 
Come,  Marj%  leave  your  work  to-day. 
And  let  us  watch  the  jjerches  play. 
And  while  the  pleasant  hours  away 

By  the  bonnie  elms  of  Elmo. 

A  WINTER  LAMENT. 
Our  ladies  sit  out  in  the  parks  every  day 
And  sigh  for  the  gliding  toboggan  and  sleigh. 
Each  evening  the  dust  is  swept  up  from  the 

street 
That  nothing  may  soil  the  most  delicate  feet. 
'Tis  said  —  very  odd !  yet  so  does  the  law  go  — 
The  feet  are  much  bigger  that  flatten  Chicago. 
The  riciiest  of  furs  are  poked  under  the  bed. 
Hung  up  in  the  wardrobe,  or  thrown  in  the 

shed. 
Mink,  beaver  and  otter  have  all  gone  to  grass, 
Unworn  and  quite  useless,  indeed,  and  Alas- 
Ka  seal  cloaks  are  no  longer  the  go 
In  a  winter  that  brings  neither  cold,  ice  nor 

snow. 
From  Itasca, not  Glazier.clear  down  to  the  sea. 
The  Father  of  Waters  flows  open  and  free ; 
Our  weather  is  perfect,  our  roads  very  fine. 
Our   skies    are   the    brightest,    and   still   we 

repine. 
Oh,  give  us  our  old-fashioned  winter,  we  pray. 
Not  miscegenistic  December  and  May; 
Or  even  a  breath  from  the  blizzardy  East 
To  enliven  this  mildness  and  calmness,  at 

least. 


-m 


*- 


fB 


412 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


®- 


WHITE   BEAR  LAKE. 
If  you  would  know  the  fairest  spot 

In  all  this  pictured  northern  land, 
Where  every  care  may  be  forgot, 

With  peace  and  rest  at  your  command. 
Go  ask  the  happy  birds  that  tune 
Their  joyful  lays  in  leafy  June 
Where  White  Bear  Lake  In  beauty  lies 
Beneath  the  Minnesota  skies. 
And  crystal  waters  lave  the  shore 
With  quartz  and  ag-ates  pebbled  o'er. 

On  either  side,  where'er  you  stray. 
Kind  nature's  hand  has  decked  the  way. 
Upon  the  west  a  wooded  plain. 
Where  native  oak  trees  still  remain. 
With  avenues  and  lawns  and  glades 
Amid  primeval  forest  shades. 
And  many  a  vista  opening  wide, 
With  sylvan  scenes  on  either  side; 
A  lovers'  walk  along  the  shore. 
With  bowery  branches  arbored  o'er. 
Where  many  a  tender  word  is  said 
Beneath  the  green  leaves  overhead. 
May  Heaven  guard  that  naught  but  good 
Shall  e'er  be  spoken  in  this  wood ! 

Elsewhere  around  are  gentle  swells. 

And  wooded  hills  and  flowery  dells. 

Where  to  the  singing  birds  repair 

And  vocalize  the  fragrant  air. 

Upon  the  high  peninsula,  [pines. 

Fringed  round  the    shore    with    feathery 
The  softest  summer  breezes  play 

Through  lofty  trees  and  tangled  vines; 
A  true  Arcadian  spot  is  this. 
Where  but  to  be  is  almost  bliss. 

How  shall  words  paint  tlie  lovely  isle 

That  seems  an  island  of  the  blest? 
Sweet  as  the  little  infant's  smile 
That  sleeps  upon  its  mother's  breast. 
When  angels  whisper  in  its  ear 
The  loving  words  we  cannot  hear. 
These  grand  old  elms  that  tower  so  high. 
For  many  a  year  have  pierced  the  sky ; 
For  many  a  year  these  linden  trees 
Have  given  their  perfume  to  the  breeze; 
Nah-do-beed,  the  sap-carrier  here 
Made  maple  sugar  many  a  year. 
And  many  a  dark-haired  Indian  maid 
Beneath  these  sugar  trees  has  played. 
The  Manitou  that  guards  from  harm 

This  Spirit  Island  in  the  lake. 
Has  given  it  a  magic  charm 

No  evil  power  can  ever  break. 
Not  strange,  the  enterprising  bear, 

Tliat  once  forsook  tlie  Arctic  sliore 
And  traveled  all  the  country  o'er. 
Upon  this  island  made  Ids  lair. 
And  gave  this  lake  his  uohU;  name. 
And  won  a  never-tlyiiig  fume 


When  first  I  stood  by  White  Bear  Lake 

The  wild  deer  came  his  thirst  to  slake; 

The  Pelican,  with  scarce  a  wisli. 

Could  fill  his  pouch  with  finest  fish; 

The  eagle  and  the  whooping  crane 

Found  here  a  genial  home  and  reign; 

And  here  tlie  owl  and  loud-voiced  loon 

Called  nightly  to  the  listening  moon; 

Here,  then,  the  wild  goose  hatched  her  young. 

And  here  the  wild  swan  dying  sung  — 

If  swans  thus  sing,  as  poets'  lays 

Tell  us  they  did  in  ancient  days. 

The  wild  swan,  fearing  now  to  light. 

Far  to  the  northward  wings  his  flight. 

To  find,  if  haply  still  he  can. 

Some  spot  uuvexed  by  meddling  man; 

But  all  his  beauty,  all  his  grace 

Are  found  in  many  a  form  and  face 

That  comes  from  all  the  country  o'er 

To  summer  on  this  charming  shore. 

Around  the  isle  of  beauty  steering, 

Behold  a  hundred  sail-boats  veering, 

With  all  their  snowy  canvas  spread. 

As  graceful  as  the  gulls  o'erhead. 

O  hopeful  youths,  O  happy  daughters, 

Enjoy  j'oung  life  upon  the  waters! 

Killarnej',  Katrine.  Windermere, 

Are  surely  more  than  rivaled  here. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  MOTHER. 
When  unrelenting  sorrow  wraps  her  shroud 
Around  the  tender  feelings  of  the  heart. 
And  to  the  troubled  mind  a  restless  crowd 
Of  agonizing  thoughts  their  woe  impart. 
Where  can  the  tortured  spirit  find  a  balm 
To  heal  the  broken  heart,  the  sea  of  grief  to 

calm? 
When  darkness  overspreads  the  face  of  day. 
And  fearful  phantoms  pass  before  the  eyes 
And  strike  the  doubting  soul  with  deep  dismay 
While  boding  sounds  are  heard  along  the  skies. 
Where  can  we  find  a  shield  of  armor  bright? 
Where  can  we  tui'u  to  find  one   I'ay  of  living 

light? 
Wiien  thro'  the  cold  and  heartless  world  we 
Our  weary  footsteps  in  life's  pilgrimage, [wend 
When  faith  is  broken  by  our  nearest  friend. 
And  t(>ars  bedim  tlie  leaf  of  memory's  i)agt'. 
Where  can  the  crusli'd  att'ections  And  a  stay? 
Where  And  a  faithful  one  that  never  will  be- 
tray? 
Wlien    roaming   o'er   the   desert    waste,  our 

tracks 
Lead  thro'  the  scenes  of  deadly  hate  and  strife. 
Or  struggling   'mid    the   furious  waves  and 

wrecks 
When  tempest-tost  upon  the  .sea  of  life  — 
He  who  has  not  forgot  his  mother's  prayer, 
Tlie    iiaveii    slie    pointed    out,    will   cast  his 
aiidior  there. 


-« 


*- 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


413 


-* 


REV.  JOPIN  G.  VAN  NESS. 

Born:  Fulton  County,  N.Y,  Dec.  6,  ia53. 
After  graduating  at  Union  College  the  Rev. 
John  G.  Van  Ness  entered  upon  his  labors  as 
a  clergyman  and  is  now  minister  of  the  Metho- 
dist Episcopal  Church  at  Maquoketa,  la.    His 


REV.  JOHN  G.    VAN    NESS. 

poems  have  appeared  in  the  secular  papers  of 
Iowa,  and  in  religious  jiublications  generallj*. 
Rev.  Van  Ness  has  been  prominent  in  temper- 
ance work  of  his  state ;  and  has  also  met  with 
great  success  as  a  lecturer. 


©- 


THE  WINGED  BABY. 
Out  of  the  realm  of  gladness  one  bright  De- 
cember morn. 
With  angels  to  watch  its  progress  and  guard 
the  spirit  form, 
A  baby  soul  went  winging  its  pathway  to  the 
earth. 
To  bless  the  home  that  waited,  to  give  it 
earthly  birth. 
Down,  down  it   swept,   far   downward,  past 
planet,  star  and  mist ; 
Past   where  the   clouds   draw   water,    and 
winds  hide  where  they  list ; 
Past  mountains   always   snow-crowned  and 
valleys  famed  in  song. 
Like   shafts   of   glory    falling   the   convoy 
sped  along. 

The  stars  sang  in  their  orbits,  a  question  as 
they  flashed 


The  spheres  in  heavenly  music  the  same  odd 

query  asked. 
And  voicef  ul  were  all  the  spaces,  while  angels 

laughed  or  smiled 
To  each  interrogation,Why  this  is  love's  own 

child. 

The  travelers  reach  a  doorway,  and  find  a 
chamber  fair. 
Where  wifely  heart  beats  promise  to  make  a 
mother  rare; 
Tlien  hastening  down  a  staircase  love  casting 
out  all  fear. 
The  angels  leave  the  baby  with  papa  and 
mama  near. 

The  eyes  so  laughing  loving  caught  from  the 
haze  of  blue. 
Bring  tears    on  grandpa's    wringles,  (I'm 
sure  that  tliis  is  true;) 
A    straying   beam  of  sunshine    makes    lips 
pink  round  and  sweet. 
While  grandma's  snowy  tresses  frost  dimp- 
les in  each  cheek 


MY  LITTLE  NEIGHBOR. 
We  played  together.  Will  and  I, 

One  summer  long  ago. 
His  body  full  of  life  and  joy  — 

Mine  full  of  pain  and  woe: 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  tempting  lips, 

I  think  I  see  them  yet: 
His  chubby  arms  around  my  neck 

How  lovingly  they  met. 

We  wandered  'neath  the  orchard  boughs, 

With  unripe  fruit  now  laden; 
Where  lazily  the  swing  hung  down. 

Untouched  by  boy  or  maiden. 
With  salt  in  hand  we  watched  the  birds. 

Our  flowers  we  often  traded; 
We  shut  the  bees  in  milkweed  pods. 

And  then  were  serenaded. 

He  asked  for  pears,  and  grapes  and  plums. 

This  curly-headed  Will; 
When  they  are  ripe,  love  held  the  land. 

You  sure  may  have  your  All. 
We  lift  our  hearts  for  fruits  unripe. 

On  branches  growing  liigh; 
God  hears  the  prayer.  His  heart  is  touched. 

Yes,  dear  one,  by  and  by.— 

We  climbed  the  kitchen's  half-worn  stairs. 

And  found  three  kitties  new. 
With  shut  up  eyes  and  dainty  paws 

And  plaintive  little  mew. 
He  stroked  thcni  all,  tliis  three  year  old  — 

His  voice  like  fairy's  pipe: 
Say  uncle  Don,  tan  I  have  one. 

When  'ittle  tats  are  ripe. 


« 


— ® 


GEORGE  C.RHODERICK.  JR. 

BORN  :   MIDDLETOWN,  MD.,  FEB.  19, 1861. 

AFTER  ^ecei^-i^g  a  limited  education  at  the 
puSe  aud  private  schools  of  Mifletown 
George  entered  the  printing  estabhshment  of 


GEORGE  C.   RHODERICK,  JR. 

his  father,  where  he  still  remains,  doing  gen- 
eral newspaper  work.  His  poems  have  ap- 
peared from  time  to  time  since  1884. 

FALSE. 
The  silken  tie  that  once  did  bind 

This  heart  to  thine,  fair  one. 
Lies  torn  and  severed  at  thy  feet, 

Its  work  forever  done. 
The  hopes  that  once  thou  gave  to  me. 

How  quickly  have  they  flown; 
The  joys  that  once  1  knew  with  thee. 

Are  like  the  wind's  sad  moan. 
Tlie  years  have  come,  the  years  have  gone, 

And  falser  hast  thou  grown. 
Till  now  at  last  1  find  my  hopes 

Left  silently  alone. 
Ah !  thou  art  fair  to  look  upon. 
But  oh!  how  false  thy  heart; 
Ere  this  I  knew  thee  as  thou  seemed. 

Now  know  thee  as  thou  art. 

So  now  to  thee  I  say  farewell, 

Witli  wishes  for  thy  peace; 

But  from  this  moment  ever  on, 

I  My  love  for  thee  shall  cease. 

© ■ 


DRIFTING  WITH  THE  TIDE 
With  retrospective  thought  I  sit 

Beside  Time's  flowing  river; 
Beside  the  ebl)ing,  surging  tide 

Tliat  floweth  on  forever.  i 

And  as  I  gaze  upon  this  stream, 

I  see  the  ceaseless  glide 
Of  countless  crafts  of  human  freight 

All  drifting  witli  the  tide. 
I  see  the  waves  beat  to  and  fro, 

I  hear  their  sullen  roar. 
As  ever  and  anon  they  dash 

With  force  from  shore  to  shore. 
I  see  the  ever  constant  stream 

Bear  on  its  bosom  wide, 
The  rapid  flow  of  precious  souls. 

All  drifting  with  the  tide. 
Ah :  mem'ry  crowds  my  vLsion  dim 

With  those  who've  passed  before -[safe 
Witli  those  who've  long  since  anchored 

Upon  the  other  shore. 
I  count  the  friends  most  dear  to  me 

Who  once  were  by  my  side; 
But  now,  alas,  they  are  no  more  — 

They've  drifted  with  the  tide. 
Ah!  soon  my  frail  bark,  too,  will  launcli 

Upon  Time's  boundless  sea. 
And  drift  upon  its  bosom  wide 

Into  eternity. 
And  on  will  flow  the  mighty  deep. 

And  on  the  years  will  glide, 
While  countless  more  will  swiftly  sweep 
Down  with  the  rushing  tide. 

THE  FLOOD. 
Onward  speeds  the  mighty  rivei-s. 

In  their  mad  and  wild  career; 
Down  through  cities,  towns  and  hamlets. 

Causing  misery  far  and  near. 
On  through  fertile  plains  and  valleys. 

On  the  raging  billows  ride; 
Carrying  with  them  deep  destruction 

And  distress  on  every  side. 
Higher,  higher,  grows  the  flood-tide. 

Deeper,  deeper,  is  the  gloom; 
Homeless  thousands,  starving  hundreds. 

Is  the  city's  awful  doom. 
Busy  streets  turned  into  rivers - 

Quiet  homes  made  desolate- 
Awful  ruin,  dire  destruction. 
Is  the  city's  sad,  sad  fate. 

oil!  hear  the  saddened  cry  for  help- 

The  wail  of  sore  distress; 
Oh!  hear  the  awful  cry  of  woe 

That  comes  from  out  the  west. 
Oh!  sky  of  dark  and  sullen  clouds. 

Give  way  to  sunshine's  r.ays; 
Oh!  dashing  waves  that  spread  the  land. 

Give  way  to  happier  days. 


*■ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-© 


415 


CHARLES  A.  DeWITT. 

Bokn:  Boscobel,  Wis.,  Sept.  35,  1859. 
In  his  youth  Charles  was  apprenticed  to  the 
printing'  business,  and  has  ever  since  followed 
that  occupation.  He  has  contributed  many 
short  sketches  and  stories  to  leading-  papers 
and    litrnirv   bim   iii-        In    1---    Mr.   DcWitt 


m- 


CHARLES  A.  DE  WITT. 

established  in  Wisconsin  the  Cassville  Index; 
the  following  year  he  sold  that  publication 
and  purchased  the  Kepublican-News,  publish- 
ed at  Lanark,  111.,  of  which  he  is  proprietor. 

"THE  VEIL  LIFTS." 
A  marble  statue,  symmetrical  and  grand. 
Rises  like  Phcenix  from  the  sun-kissed  land; 
And  'neath  the  shadow  of  the  old  elm  trees, 
That  spread   their   foliage   to   the   morning 

breeze. 
The  people  gather  and  their  homage  pay 
To  the  creator  of  a  lifeless  clay. 
The  sculptor  stands  the  center  of  all  eyes. 
Unconscious  fully  of  the  surging  throng; 
The  hour  is  coming  when  a  glad  surprise 
Shall  wake  the  land  with  praises  loud  and  long. 
And  from  each  quiv'ring  lip  the  cry  be  hurled : 
"'Tis  Liberty  enlightening  the  world." 
Fair  is  the  statue,  but  its  drapery  hides 
The  face  from  view,  and  the  greatest  con- 

cour.se  bides 
All  too  impatiently  the  signal  gun. 
When,  in  the  glory  of  the  golden  sun. 


'Neath  heaven's  dome  and  azure-tinted  field 
The  drapery  falls— the  statue  stands  revealed. 
Hushed  for  a  moment  are  the  words  of  men;~ 
Fast  beats  the  heart,  immortal  souls  are  filled 
With  wonder  at  its  majesty  and  then 
The  air  is  rent  with  praise  of  him  who  willed 
That  man  should  be  the  instrument  of  God 
To  fashion  beauty  from  a  shapeless  clod. 
Inferior  man,  abashed  by  works  of  art 
That  magnify  and  yet  decrease  his  power. 
Within  the  inmost  recess  of  his  heart 
Feels  his  deep  need  of  culture  for  the  hour 
When  reason's  blazing  torch  shall  light  the 

way 
To  nobler  things  —  where  intellect  holds  sway. 
The  student  like  the  rough  and  unhewn  stone. 
Possesses  qualities  which  need  the  hand 
Of  truest  sculptor  worlds  have  ever  known  — 
Deep  hidden  in  the  mind,  as  yet  unscanned; 
This  sculptor,  education,  once  availed 
The  beauties  of  the  soul  are  thus  unveiled. 
Mind,  heart  and  soul  are  Nature's  trinity 
Which  mold  and  rule  eternal  destiny. 
Reason  holds  on  her  course,  yet  undismayed 
By  homage  to  deep  superstition  paid; 
Slie  proudly  climbs  o'er  every  hill  and  dale 
And  from  the  Golden  Future  "Lifts  the  "^eil." 

THE  ANGLER. 
He  often  seeks,  'neath  cooling  shade, 

The  murmuring  woodland  stream; 
Where  calm,  clear  pools  lie  deep  and  still 

And  dancing  ripples  gleam. 
Where  shady  nook  'neath  waving  bough 

Invites  the  angler's  skill. 
And  where  the  speckled  beauties  lie 

The  monarchs  of  the  rill. 
With  beating  heart  he  casts  his  line 

From  trembling  lancewood  tip; 
The  gauzy  flies,  like  nature's  own, 

O'er  dancing  water's  skip; 
Now  fluttering  o'er  the  ripples  broad, 

Then  floating  o'er  the  pool. 
All  gleaming  in  the  golden  sun 

Or  dimmed  in  shadows  cool. 
Then  from  beneath  o'erhanging  bank 

A  fla.sh  of  living  light 
Darts  upward  toward  the  dancing  flies  — 

Then  safety  seeks  in  flight. 
The  silken  line  cuts  thro'  the  air. 

The  supple  rod  bends  low,— 
While  mirrored  in  the  limpid  stream 

The  dazzling  sunbeams  glow. 
Then  rises  from  the  troubled  stream 

To  meet  the  angler's  glance, 
(Like  jewels  rare  from  ocean  cave. 

Whose  rays  the  soul  entrance,) 
With  gleaming  sides  of  golden  hue 

The  monarch  of  the  rill;— 
A  flash  in  air!—  on  land  he  lies 

A  trophy  of  man's  skill. 


-* 


*- 


416 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-* 


NETTIE  H.  PELHAM. 

Born:  Galesburg,  Mich.,  Dec.  20, 1860. 
Teaching  school  for  two  years,  Nettie  subse- 
quently entered  Michigan  university  at  the 
age  of  twenty.     Since  1884  she  has  written 
poems  for  the  Detroit  roniTncrcinl  Aflvcrtiser, 


.Nh;r'iii;  ii.  im.lha.m. 
Journal,  and  the  Chicago  Union  Signal  under 
the  nom  de  plume  of  Edith  Carle.  Miss  Pel- 
ham  has  written  several  plays  for  children 
which  have  received  publication.  She  is  now 
a  resident  of  Plymouth,  in  her  native  state. 


*- 


EEN  AS  THE  SNOW. 
Over  the  earth  so  bare  and  brown. 
Silvery  flakes  are  falling  down. 
Robing  it  rich  as  iin  ermine  gown 

Fashioned  for  fairest,  queen. 
Silvery  flakes  tliat,  here  and  there. 
Glisten  and  glint,  thro'  the  sunlit  jiir 
BrilliiiMtr  as  gems  a  belle  might  wear 

Decked  for  her  wedding  day. 
Glittering  flakes,  ah,  who  could  tell 
Since  the  bare  old  eartli,  they  clothe  .so 
well. 
That,  underneath  where  they  softly  fell. 

Desolate  fields  now  lie. 
E'en  as  the  snow,  with  mantle  bright, 
Covers  tlie  dreary  land  from  sight 
And  robes  it  witli  garment  i)ure  and  whiti' 

As  garment  e'er  can  be; 


So  may  the  Father,  who  ruleth  all. 
Over  my  faults,  both  great  iind  small. 
Soft  let  the  flakes  of  His  mercy  fall 
Till  He  hides  them  from  His  sight. 


THE  NEW  PAUL  REVERE. 

A  cloud  of  dust  in  Johnstown's  street, 

The  sound  of  a  horse's  flying  feet. 

And  down  the  road,  at  a  fearful  speed. 

Like  a  lightning  flash,  comes  a  gallant  steed. 

There's  scarce  a  glimpse  of  the  rider's  face. 

As  the  horse  skims  on  at  his  maddened  jiace. 

But  loud  on  the  air  the  warning  thrills, 

"  Run  for  your  lives,  to  the  hills!  to  the  hills  I" 

The  startled  people  gather  'round. 

As  the  horse  leaps  on  with  mighty  bound. 

'•  Who  is  the  man?  "    "  Whence  has  he  come?" 

Are  the  eager  questions  asked  by  some, 

W^hile  some  are  dumb  with  a  sickening  fear. 

As  the  warning  words  ring  loud  and  clear, 

And  echo  back,  on  the  stirring  breeze. 

As  swift  thro'  the  street  the  rider  flees. 

Still,  fast  and  faster,  upon  his  course. 

His  voice  grows  still  more  wild  and  hoarse. 

As,  over  and  over,  he  shouts  aloud 

His  warning  cry  to  the  startled  crowd. 

To  cliildren  at  play,  to  maids  and  wives, 

"To  the  hills  I  to  the  hills  1  Run  for  your  lives  I" 

And  only  the  rider  knows  the  need 

Of  the  cruel  race  or  the  reckless  sjieed. 

But  the  awful  riddle  is  solved  at  last. 

And  the  torrent  comes,  O  God!  so  fast  — 

Chasing  the  rider  along  his  course. 

On,  on  it  comes  with  a  fearful  force; 

Down  the  alleys  and  swift  along, 

O'erturning,  alike,  the  weak  and  strong. 

Engulfing  them  all  in  its  billows  dread. 

Forms  of  the  living,  forms  of  the  dead. 

Ponderous  buildings  that,  meet  and  crash. 

As  the  surging  billows  around  them  dash; 

On  speeds  the  rider,  on  sweeps  the  wave. 

No  hand  is  raised,  no  power  can  save. 

And  buried  at  last,  'neath  the  torrent's  height. 

The  horse  and  rider  an>  swept  from  sight. 

The  few  who  heeded  the  warinng  well. 

And  fled  to  the  hills,  shall  live  to  tell 

The  story  over,  in  after  years. 

With  thankful  hearts  and  silent  tears. 

And  a  ]irayer  for  l)lessings  on  the  head 

Of  that  hero  among  the  nameless  <lead. 

And  ye  who  sing  of  th(<  days  of  old. 

Of  its  faithful  knights  .so  brave  and  bold, 

O,  was  there  ever,  in  ancient  lime, 

A  knight  more  worthy  of  poet's  rhyme 

Than  the  valiant  rider  wlio  swiftly  sjjcd 

To  warn  the  town  of  its  danger  dread? 

O,  Hero,  brave,  with  an  unknown  name. 

None,  none  can  tell  us  whence  you  came; 

But  we  write  your  name  on  history's  jiage, 

"The  Paul  Revere  of  the  present  age." 


■* 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


417 


-® 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 

Born:  Litchfield,  Conn.,  June  14, 1812. 
When  about  twelve  years  of  age  Harriet  went 
to  Hartford,  where  her  sister  Catherine  had 
opened  a  school.  In  1833  she  went  to  Cincin- 
nati, and  four  years  later  was  married  to  Pro- 
fessor Calvin  E.  Stowe,  a  man  of  learning:  and 
distinction. 

For  several  years  before  her  marriage  she 
had  contributed  occasionally  to  the  periodical 


HARRIET  BEECHEU  STOWE. 

literature  of  the  day,  and  gave  promise  of  be- 
coming noted  among  men  and  women  of  let- 
ters. At  the  meeting  of  the  Semicolon  Club  in 
Cincinnati,  she  first  became  conscious  of  the 
power  she  could  wield  with  her  pen;  and  short- 
ly after  her  marriage  published  Mayflower. 
In  1853  Mrs.  Stowe  took  up  her  residence  at 
Andover,  and  soon  after  went  abroad  to  recu- 
perate her  exhausted  strength.  Her  visit  was 
one  continuous  ovation-  and  a  year  later,  she 
gave  to  the  public  her  Sunny  Memories  of  For- 
eign Lands.  Subsequently  she  wrote  Dred:  a 
Tale  of  the  Dismal  Swamp,  The  Minister's  Woo- 
ing, Agnes  of  SoiTento,  and  several  novels  of 
quite  domestic  interest.  This  gifted  woman 
has  produced  poetry,  some  of  which  has  been 
pubUshed.  It  is  chiefly  religious  and  pathetic 
in  character. 


SIMON  THE  CYKENIAN. 

But  lo!  a  crowd:— he  stops,— with  curious  eye 

A  fainting  form  all  pressed  to  earth  he  sees; 

The  hard,  rough  burden  of  the  bitter  cross 

Hath  bowed  the  drooping  head  and  feeble 

knees. 

Ho!  lay  the  cross  upon  yon  stranger  there. 
For  he  hath  breadth  of  chest  and  strength  of 
limb! 

Straight  it  is  done;  and  heavy-laden  thus. 
With  Jesus'  cross,  he  turns  and  follows  him. 

Unmurmuring,  patient,  cheerful,  pitiful, 
Prompt  with  the  holy  sufferer  to  endure, 

Forsaking  all  to  follow  the  dear  Lord, 
Thus  did  he  make  his  glorious  calling  sure. 


THE  OTHER  WORLD. 
It  lies  around  us  like  a  cloud, 

A  world  we  do  not  see ; 
Yet  the  sweet  closing  of  an  eye 

May  bring  us  there  to  be. 
Its  gentle  breezes  fan  our  cheek: 

Amid  our  worldly  cares. 
Its  gentle  voice  doth  whisper  love. 

And  mingle  with  our  prayers. 
Sweet  hearts  around  us  throb  and  beat. 

Sweet  helping  hands  are  stirred. 
And  palpitates  the  veil  between 

With  breathing  almost  heard. 
The  silence,  awful,  sweet,  and  calm. 

They  have  no  power  to  break; 
For  mortal  words  are  not  for  them 

To  utter  or  to  partake. 
So  thin,  so  soft,  so  sweet,  they  glide. 

So  near  to  press  they  seem, 
Thy  lull  us  gently  to  our  rest. 

They  melt  into  our  dream. 
And  in  the  hush  of  rest  they  bring 

'Tis  easy  now  to  see 
How  lovely  and  how  sweet  a  pass 

The  hour  of  death  may  be;— 
To  close  the  eye,  and  close  the  ear. 

Wrapped  in  a  trance  of  bliss. 
And,  gently  drawn  in  loving  arms, 

To  swoon  to  that  —  from  this,— 
Scarce  knowing  if  we  wake  or  sleep. 

Scarce  asking  where  we  are. 
To  feel  au  evil  sink  away, 

Aa  sorrow  and  ail  care. 
Sweet  souls  around  us!  watch  us  still '. 

Press  nearer  to  our  side; 
Into  our  thoughts,  into  our  prayers, 

Witii  gentle  helpings  glide! 
Let  death  between  us  be  as  naught, 

A  dried  and  vanished  stream; 
Your  joy  be  the  leality. 

Our  suffering  life  the  dream. 


-« 


©- 


418 


■^ 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POKTS  OF  AMERICA. 


THOMAS    BAILEY   ALDRICH. 

Born:  Portsmouth,  N.  H..  Nov.  11, 1836. 
The  early  youth  of  this  poet  was  spent  in 
Louisiana.  At  the  death  of  his  father  he  entered 
the  eountiug-room  of  his  uncle  in  New  York, 
where  he  remained  three  years.  During  this 
time  he  beg-an  to  contribute  prose  and  verse 
to  various  journals.  His  Ballad  of  Babie  Bell 
won  universal  favor,  and  other  successes  fol- 
lowed. E%-cr  since  he  has  been  engaged  in 
literary  work,  and  his  poems  and  prose  writ- 
ings are  read  throughout  Europe  and  America. 


PRESCIENCE. 

The  new  moon  hung  in  the  sky,  the  sun  was 
low  in  the  west. 

And  my  betrothed  and  I  in  the  churchyard 
paused  to  rest— 

Happy  maiden  and  lover,  dreaming  the  old 
dream  over; 

The  light  winds  wandered  by,  and  robins  chirp- 
ed from  the  nest. 

And  lo!  in  the  meadow  sweet  was  the  grave  of 

a  little  child. 
With  a  crumbling  stone  at  the  feet  and  the  ivy 

running  wild  — 
Tangled  ivy  and  clover  folding  it  over  and 

over: 
Close  to  my  sweetheart's  feet  was  the  little 

mound  up-piled. 

Stricken  with  nameless  fears  she  shrank  and 
clung  to  me. 

And  her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears  for  a  sor- 
row I  did  not  see: 

Lightly  the  winds  were  blowing,  softly  her 
tears  were  flowing  — 

Tears  for  the  unknown  years  and  a  sorrow  that 
was  to  be ! 


m 


ON  LYNN  TERRACE. 
All  day  to  watch  the  blue  wave  curl  and  break, 

All  night  to  hear  it  plunging  on  the  shore,— 
In  this  sea-dream  such  draughts  of  life  I  take, 

I  cannot  ask  for  more. 

Behind  me  lie  the  idle  life  and  vain. 
The  task  unfinished  and  the  weary  hours; 

That  long  wave  bears  me  softly  back  to  Spain 
And  the  Alhambra's  towers! 

All  this  is  mine,  as  I  lie  dreaming  here. 
High  on  the  windy  terrace,  day  by  day; 

Ami  mine  the  children's  laughter,  sweet  and 
clear. 
Ringing  across  the  bay. 

For  me  the  clouds;  the  ships  sail  by  for  me; 
For  me  the  petulant  sea-gull  takes  Its  tlight; 


And  mine  the  tender  moonrise  on  the  sea, 
And  hollow  coves  of  night! 

IDENTITY. 
Somewhere,— in  desolate,  wind-swept  space,- 

In  Twilight-land,  in  No-man's-land,— 
Two  hurrjiug  shapes  met  face  to  face. 

And  bade  each  other  stand. 

"And  who  are  you?  "  cried  one,  agape. 
Shuddering  in  the  glooming  light. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  the  second  Shape, 
"  I  only  died  last  night!  " 


SLEEP. 

When  to  soft  sleep  we  give  ourselves  away. 
And  in  a  dream  as  in  a  fairy  bark 
Drift  on  and  ou  through  the  enchanted  dark 

To  rosy  daybreak  —  little  thought  we  pay 

To  that  sweet  bitter  world  we  know  by  day. 
We  are  clean  quit  of  it,  as  is  a  lark 
So  high  in  heaven  no  human  eye  may  mark 

The  sharp  switt  pinion  cleaving  through   the 
gray. 

Till  we  awake,  ill  fate  can  do  no  ill. 
The  resting  heart  shall  not  take  up  again 
The  heavy  load  that  yet  must  make  it  bleed: 

For  this  brief  space,  the  loud  world's  voice  is 
still, 
No  faintest  echo  of  it  brings  us  pain. 
How  will  it  be  when  we  shall  sleep  indeed? 


UNSUNG 


As  sweet  as  the  breath  that  goes 
From  the  lips  of  the  white  rose. 
As  weird  as  the  elfin  lights 
That  glimmer  of  frosty  nights. 
As  wild  as  the  winds  that  tear 
The  curled  red  leaf  in  the  air. 
Is  the  song  1  have  never  sung. 

In  slumber,  a  hundred  times 

I've  said  she  enchanted  rhymes. 

But  ere  I  open  my  eyes 

This  ghost  of  a  poem  Hies; 

Of  the  iutertlucnt  strains 

Not  even  a  note  remains: 

1  know  by  uiy  pulses'  beat 

It  was  something  wild  and  sweet. 

And  my  heart  is  strangely  stirred 

By  an  unremembered  word. 

I  strive,  but  I  strive  in  vain. 
To  recall  the  lost  refrain. 
On  some  miraculous  day 
Perhaps  it  will  come  and  stay; 
In  some  unimagined  Spring 
1  may  find  uiy  voice,  and  sing 
The  song  1  have  never  sung. 


^- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


419 


-« 


RICHARD  P.  KEPLINGER. 

Born:  Waverly,  III.,  April  22, 1856. 
This  writer  is  well  known  as  The  Poet  of  the 
Plains.  After  receiving  a  thorougli  educa- 
tion, he  began  teaching- school  in  18TX.  In  1885 
he  removed  to  Kansas,  where  lie  took  a  special 
course  in  the  Kansas  Central  Normal  College, 


RICHARD  PRESTON   KEPLINGER. 

and  he  is  again  working  in  the  field  of  educa- 
tion. His  poems  have  appeared  constantly  in 
the  local  press  for  the  past  few  years.  Mr. 
Keplinger  is  now  residing  with  his  family  in 
Larnea,  Kansas. 


EULOGY  ON  WOMAN. 
From  Genesis,  chapter  one, 
I  draw  this  true  conclusion: 
The  Author  of  creation 
Created  by  progression. 
After  creating  the  earth. 
He  gave  day  and  niglit  their  birth ; 
And  following  after  these. 
He  divided  land  and  seas; 
And  afterward,  at  a  word 
He  made  the  grass,  flowers  and  herb; 
Then  the  sun  to  rule  the  day. 
In  his  daily  course  and  way. 
Next  he  made  the  moon  so  bright. 
And  the  stars  to  rule  the  night. 
Of  creatures  created  He 
First  the  fish  within  the  sea; 


And  next  the  fowl  of  the  air 

And  bii'd  of  paradise  fair. 

Then,  the  beast  to  till  our  grain, 

The  cattle  on  hill  and  plain; 

Next  man  in  his  own  likeness. 

But  lacking  in  politeness. 

Last  fairest  and  purest,  too. 

Woman,  God  created  you. 

Yes,  woman,  you've  become  the  capstone 

And  crown  of  God's  Allwise  creation. 

For,  after  creating  all  the  rest. 

He  then  made  woman,  though  last,  the  best. 

Woman  is  man's  fair  benefactor  — 

Although  he's  oft  her  malefactor. 

For  by  your  loving,  angelic  ways 

His  drooping  spirits  you  cheer  and  raise. 

Woman's  presence  makes  man  more  polite, 

Her  loving  smiles  chase  away  his  night. 

In  fact,  like  an  angel  from  above. 

She  is  man's  fair  messenger  of  love. 

She's  the  magnet  of  influence,  too. 
With  her  loving-  lieart  so  kind  and  true. 
And  she's  the  compass  and  guiding  star 
That  beckons  man  toward  the  "  Gates  Ajar." 
'Tis  woman's  counsel  and  loving  rule    [school 
That   molds  great  minds    in  the  home  and 

Your  worth  consists  not  in  these  alone. 
Woman's  most  angelic  sway  's  at  home— 
The  citadel  of  earth's  paradise  — 
Where  alas!  you  too  oft  sacrifice 
Your  talents  and  life  foi- those  you  love,— 
Your  most  constant  devotion  to  prove. 
Woman's  jealous  nature  doth  but  prove 
Her  fitness  to  be  loved  and  to  love. 
'Tis  a  universal  admission 
She  excels  man  in  intuition; 
And  more  power  for  good  in  woman  lies 
Than  in  the  press,  pen,  or  statesman  wise. 

Of  all  earth's  gifts,  sure  there's  no  other 
Dearer  than  sister,  wife  and  mother. 
Fair  personage  of  human  neatness, 
Purest  type  of  angelic  sweetness. 
Type  of  beauty  and  chaste  demeanor. 
And  mother  of  the  world's  Redeemer. 


GEMS. 
Let  him  who  cannot  wield  the  poet's  pen. 

Remember  there  is  a  grace  far  more  sweet,— 
Though  alas  more  rare  in  women  and  men,— 

'Tis  that  priceless  gift  of  being  discreet. 
When  you  number  the  drops  in  ocean  blue. 

Or  e'en  the  stars  of  heaven  above. 
Then,  but  not  till  then,  I'll  define  for  j-ou. 
That  purest  emotion  that  men  call  love. 
Of  all  the  agents  that  beckon  the  soul  above 
The  most  potent  are  music,  poetry  and  love. 
Of  all  the  dear  names  to  men  in  life. 
The  dearest  are  mother,  lover,  wife. 


« 


e- 


420 


LOCAX,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


® 


P.  CUD  MORE. 

Born:  Iheland,  1831. 
As  lawyer  and  author  this  gentleman  has  gain- 
ed quite  a  reputation  and  now  practices  his 
profession  at  Faribault,  Minn.  He  served  in 
the  union  array  through  the  war,  and  in  1868 
was  elected  county  attornej'  for  Le  Sueur, 
Minn.     In  1871  lie  publislied  a  prose  work  en- 


f.  CUDMORE. 

titled  The  Irish  Republic,  and  in  1875  Civil 
Government  of  the  United  States.  In  1880  Mr. 
Cudmore  published  two  editions  of  a  large 
pamphlet  of  poems  and  songs,  and  in  1885 
published  a  volume  entitled  Songs  and  Satires, 
a  fine  work  of  over  two  hundred  pages.  Mr. 
Cudmore  is  now  engaged  in  literary  work  and 
practicing  law. 


SI- 


FAME. 

To  gain  the  world's  praise  bad  men  do  well, 
And  fame  incites  others  to  excel  — 
For  immortal  fame,  the  world's  flattery. 
Men  brave  the  waves  and  storm  a  battery. 
To  the  love  of  fame  happiness  must  yield, 
Millions  perish  on  the  battle-fleld! 
What  toil,  wliat  misery  will  not  man  brave, 
For  a  bust,  a  tomb,  an  e|>itaph,  a  name! 
He  will  brave  the  i)lagiie  and  tlie  liattle  gory. 
To  live  in  song  and  immortal  story !      [flame. 
In  some  men's  hearts  there    is    a   burning 
Which  prompts  great  deeds  to  gain  immortal 

fame! 
Millions  venture  on  fame's  stormy  way. 
Numbers  falter,  others  go  astray. 


Patriots,  who  the  despot's  chain  do  sever. 
Will  live  in  fame  ever  and  for  everl 
The  liberator's  tomb  of  brass  or  stone. 
Is  more  precious  than  the  monarch's  throne. 
And  in  fame's  temple  to  have  a  niclie. 
Men  write  and  kill  —  such  is  their  fond  wish. 
And  he  who  climbs  to  the  cliffs  of  fame. 
Never  dies,  for  lie  lives  in  a  name! 
Millions  perish  in  battle  and  in  foray. 
That  some  hero  may  ever  live  in  story. 
Th'  poet  needs  no  monument,  shrine  or  fane 
Of  brass  or  stone  to  immortalize  his  name! 
A  thirst  for  fame  has  been  the  rage. 
With  the  ambitious  in  every  clime  and  age. 
Fame  is  their  great  concern  and  creed, 
And  to  gain  it  they  would  ever  bleed  1 

WOMAN'S  LOVE. 
When  a  woman  wants  j-our  love. 
She  will  try  to  please  you : 
When  a  woman  has  your  love. 
She  will  try  to  tease  you. 
She  will  please  you, 
She  will  tease  you. 
When  a  woman  wants  yt)ur  love 
She  will  trj'  to  please  you. 


AN  EPIGRAM. 

The  western  farmers  will  find  when  late. 
That  big  farms  are  a  curse  to  the  state ; 
The  farmers  will  yet  lose  much  property. 
By  weeds  in  the  roads,  that's  my  prophecy. 


FORGET  ME  NOT. 
Pleasanter  the  time  is  fleeting. 
When  dearest  friends  are  meeting; 
Alas!  the  sadnesssof  the  mind. 
When  loving  friends  we  leave  behind; 
For  to  mingle  with  the  stranger. 
Braving  fortune,  toil,  and  danger; 
But  whatever  may  be  our  lot. 
My  dearest  friend,  forget  me  not. 


SORROW. 
Sorrow  is  a  vain  regret. 
For  something  we  can  never  get. 
Be  it  happiness  or  beauty. 
Love,  friendship,  pleasure  or  money; 
Honor,  power,  or  great  fame; 
Or  the  splendor  of  a  name. 
Let  us  never,  never  borrow. 
Pain  for  what  has  no  to-morrow. 
Yesterday  sliould  not  make  us  sad; 
To-morrow  we  should  leave  to  God. 
What  we  miss  oft  gives  us  a  pain, 
What  seems  a  loss  may  be  gain 
Let  contentment  be  our  aim. 
Then  no  sorrow  will  remain. 


SB- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-© 


421 


CLARENCE  A.  SHALER. 

Bokn:  Mackford,  Wis.,  May  29,  1860. 
After  receiving- a  good  education  he  returned 
to  his  fatlier's  farm.  On  the  death  of  liis 
father  in  1883,  the  care  of  the  farm,  some  si.v 
Imiidred  acres,  devolved  upon  the  subject  of 
this  sketch.     Since   that    time    Mi-.  Phaler  lias 


CLAiSENCE   A.    SllAI>Eli. 

invented  several  labor-saving-  macliines,  two 
of  which  have  been  patented.  He  has  become 
quite  skillful  with  brusli  and  pencil,  and  dur- 
lug  the  long  winter  evenings  he  devotes  him- 
self to  the  muses.  For  the  past  fifteen  years 
his  poems  have  received  publication. 


® 


THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  WAVES. 
I  lay  dreaming,  my  soul  filled  with  music, 
Lilie  a  shell  that  is  cast  in  the  depths  of  the 
sea;  [bers 

And  over  the  chords  of  my  feeling  sweet  num- 
Were  trembling  in  light  and  subdued    har- 
mony. 

Oh,  was  it  tlie  waves  that  were  lonely  thus 

sigiiiiig. 
If  so,  could  I  dwell  in  the  depths  of  the  sea. 
Where  my  soul  to  their  music  forever  could 

listen,  [rest  unto  me. 

And  their  beatings  would  bring  their  sweet 
They  were  strains  only  such  as  the  soul  can 

remember,  [ing  ear. 

Those  chords  that  were  played  to  my  slumber- 


For  no  hands  that  are  mortal  could  wake  with 

each  murmur 
A  thrill  of  glad  joy,  and  a  lieart-rending  tear. 
They  were  tones  that  awake  the  soul  to  new 

beauties,  [cold  ear; 

They  were  tones  played  too  fine  for  a  mortal's 
1  slept  on  as  a  man,  yet  my  dreams  were  of 

iii'Sels,  [near. 

And  I  felt  tliat  their  heavenly  presence  was 
Oh,  will  they  come  back,  those  numbers  not 

mortal. 
Or  will  they  be  ever  again  breathed  to  me. 
Those   strains  that  I  heard  like  soft  music 

from  heaven. 
As  I  lay  in  deep  slumber  beside  of  the  sea. 

THE  BROKEN  HARP. 

Ah,  silent  is  the  harp  to-night. 

Its  strings  are  all  unstrung; 

Oh  let  us  weep  for  her  that  died 

In  that  she  died  so  young. 

For  evermore  its  golden  tIn-oat 

Is  dumb  to  mortal  ears. 

For  oil !  we  heard  each  breaking  string. 

Ring  though  tne  moisture  of  our  tears. 

The  harmony  of  f  ormei*  days 

Around  them  .still  doth  cling. 

But  never  more  will  treml)le  o'er 

Each  light  and  airy  string. 

Ah,  silent  is  the  harp  to-night, 

'T  has  lost  the  master's  will; 

And  shall  those  sweet  tones  be  forgot  — 

Those  lips  that  now  are  still. 

Her  spirit  was  a  lovely  sound 

That  dwelt  around  a  string. 

But  when  that  sweet  sound  died  away. 

Her  soul  had  taken  wing 

And  wafted  her  to  skies  beyond. 

Where  she  again  shall  reign. 

And  there  has  strung  her  harp  anew 

Unto  a  sweeter  strain. 

Ah,  shall  we  chant  for  her  a  song. 

An  anthem  o'er  the  dead. 

When  her  bright  soul  has  flown  before, 

Upon  the  strains  she  led. 

Ah,  nevermore,  but  let  us  weej) 

Over  the  broken  lyre. 

And  listen  for  those  heavenly  strains 

Lit  by  celestial  fire. 


COME  TO  ME  ANNA! 
EXTRACT. 

Yes,  Anna  come,  and  lay  your  white 

Arm  'round  my  neck,  as  oft  of  yore. 

My  gloomy  fancies  will  take  flight. 

And  the  whole  world  look  brighter  than  it 

has  before; 
'Tis  joy  to  feel  that  there  is  one, 
Adown  beside  life's  pathway  waits. 
Will  weep  when  my  short  race  is  run 
And  softl.v  close  life's  glimmering  gates. 


-© 


©- 


-)S 


422 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMEUICA. 


JEREMIAH  LONG. 

Born  :  Ireland,  Sept.  29, 1838. 

The  poptiis  nf  .TtTPmiHli  Loiia-  liiive  aiipt'ared 

q  1 1 1  n '  I  ■  M  I  I ;  ~  1 


JEREMIAH  LONG. 

married  in  1870,  and  now  resides  on  a  farm 
near  Madison,  Nebraska. 


*- 


THE  TELEPHONE. 

O,  listen  to  the  teleplione,  liello; 

Go  turn  the  crank  to  make  it  known 

You  hear  the  bell,  then  telephone,  hello; 

Now  place  the  trumpet  to  your  ear, 

A  mes.sag-e  comes  distinct  and  clear. 

As  if  some  person  standing-  near 

Your  elbow  said,"  my  friend  I'm  liere,  hello." 

'Tis  thus  inventive  genius  flings 
Along-  tlie  wire  tlie  song  he  sings, 
A  tlash,  a  glance,  no  faster  go 
Than  does  the  telephone's  hello. 

Perliaps  it  may  be  by  next  June 
The  earth  will  telephone  the  moon 
To  ask  the  man  we  see  up  tliere 
What  kind  of  folks  his  people  are: 
Let  doubting  cease,  kind  nature  lies 
Revealed  by  art  before  our  eyes. 
And  time  and  distance  have  to  yield 
Control  to  science  of  their  field. 
For  time  and  distance  are  outdone 
By  that  inventor,  Edison. 


THE  BARBER  POPS  THE  QUESTION. 

It  was  in  the  season  of  the  year 

When  leaves  are  changing-  yellow. 
When  skies  are  blue  and  evenings  clear. 

And  fruit  looks  ripe  and  mellow ; 
The  sleekest  barber  in  the  town 

Put  up  his  brush  and  razor. 
And  took  his  girl  with  liaii-  so  brown 

Out  courting  and  to  praise  her. 

A  crabbed  cynic  would  feel  good 

To  see  the  pair  together. 
While,  side  by  side,  they  walked  or  stood. 

It  seemed  they  cared  not  whether: 
Thus  on  they  roved  where  none  could  hear. 

Upon  the  grassy  prairie: 
He  was  a  gay  young  gamboleer, 

And  she,  no  sprite  or  fairy. 

Love  led  them  where  they  still  did  roam 

Among  some  vines  and  bushes. 
Which  during  summer  was  the  home 

Of  nightingales  and  thrushes; 
The  nests  remaining- on  the  Ijoughs 

The  maiden  loved  to  mention. 
Her    wondering     "O's,"    and     "niys"    and 
.•how"s,"' 

Woke  up  the  boy's  attention. 

He  told  her  why  the  nests  were  made 

So  prettily  and  cosy 
In  that  secluded  sylvan  shade. 

All  fragrant  with  the  rosy; 
His  love  for  her  he  tried  to  tell 

Was  more  than  for  a  sister. 
She,  laughing,  answered,  •>  very  well;" 

And  then  he  kissed  and  kissed  her. 

Through  all  the  changing  scenes  of  life 

Those  pleasant  days  are  brightest. 
When  lov^er  courts  his  future  wife 

With  words  and  looks  politest; 
Returning-  home  another  way 

Fond  Cupid  urged  suggestion; 
Beneath  the  pale  moon's  silvery  ray 

The  barber  popped  the  question. 


THE    INCUBATOR. 

That  incubator  beats  tiie  dickens 
For  hatching  little  downy  chickens; 
To  get  two  hundred  in  a  batcli 
Looks  like  the  pioper  way  to  hatch, 
And  .seems  to  beat  tlie  old  way  hollow— 
And  is,  perhaps,  the  best  to  follow: 

Besides  it  gives  the  hens  a  rest 
From  three  weeks'  sitting  t)n  a  nest. 
And  saves  that  time  to  use  their  legs. 
To  sing,  and  rustle  and  lay  eggs; 
But  luiture  mourns  her  trade  departed, 
And  clucking  hens  feel  broken-hearted. 


-5' 


^- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL.   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


423 


-® 


ALLEN  DORMAN. 

Born-.  Field's  Creek,  Mo.,  Sep.  9, 18.57. 
This  rising  young-  poet  has  written  both  prose 
and  verse  for  the  local  press  since  1875,  and 
has  a  collection  of  over  six  hundred  poems 
■svliich  he  liopes  to  publish  in  book-form  at  an 
ciilv  (l.itr.     AlU-n    has   lived   all  his   life  nn  a 


ALIjEN     UDK.MAN. 

farm  near  Clinton,  Missouri,  where  he  still  re- 
sides. The  poems  of  Mr.  Dorman  have  ap- 
peared in  some  of  the  leading-  publications  of 
America,  from  which  they  have  been  exten- 
sively copied  by  the  local  press.  We  predict 
for  this  young  Htterateur  a  bright  future. 


GREAT  MEN. 

Great  men  are  bright  and  shining  lights, 

They  help  the  world  to  shine. 
And  luminate  the  firmament 

Of  turmoil  and  of  time; 
And  when  the  clouds  of  darkness  spread 

O'er  every  plain  and  hill. 
And  when  the  foe  oppress  them  most 

They  shine  the  brighter  still. 
Great  men,  we  know  them  by  their  deeds, 

And  see  their  actions  bright; 
They  rule  and  sway  the  hearts  of  men. 

For  they  are  gems  of  light. 
So  let  us  all  determ'd  to  be, 

As  all  great  persons  should. 
And  honor  merit  in  gi-eat  men, 

Tlie  worthy  and  tlie  good. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

The  bright  gems  and  the  wortliy. 

The  jewels  of  the  earth, 
Are  with  tlie  human  sacred 

Of  real  gist  and  worth; 
The  diamonds  of  the  human, 

In  n-.erit  pure  and  fine. 
The  highest  and  the  rarest 

Of  mortal  most  divine. 

And  thus  it  was  with  Henry, 

Divine  that  he  shall  live, 
A  gem  for  earth  and  heaven. 

The  purest  earth  could  give; 
A  light  of  hope  and  glory, 

A  lonely  star  to  shine 
In  this  great  world  of  darkness. 

For  ages  and  for  time. 


GIVE  ME  LOVE. 
Give  me  love  —  pure  sacred  love  — 

With  all  its  hopes  and  pleasure. 
Sweet  maiden's  love  and  heaven's  love 

Are  man's  best  gift  and  treasure. 

Oh,  when  I  die,  pray  let  me  die 
The  death  of  lovers  sighing; 

The  death  of  love,  pure  happy  love, 
A  thousand  years  a-dying. 


LIFT  THE  FALLEN. 
Go  help  your  fallen  brothers. 

And  help  them  like  a  man; 
Go  cheer  them  with  your  presence. 

Go  lend  a  helping  hand. 

In  helping  fallen  brothers. 

The  Lord  will  surely  see 
And  give  the  heart  due  credit 

Out  in  eternity 


HOMER. 
Homer,  Homer,  epic  Homer, 

Distant  far  away. 
Like  a  lonely  star  of  glory. 

Stationed  there  to  stay ; 
Shining  lonely  in  its  distance. 

With  a  lucid  hue. 
Tinted  with  a  diamond  lustre. 

Ever  beaming  new. 
Yes,  a  name  of  ancient  glory, 

Real  far  away. 
Bearing  us  much  light  and  story 

Of  his  ancient  day; 
Thus  the  great  men  of  the  present 

Will  in  future  be. 
Distant  like  the  ancient  Homer 

Is  with  you  and  me. 


© 


©- 


424 


fi< 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


EVENING  SHADES. 

Beauty  charms  and  beauty  praises; 

The  evening-  shades  how  still  they  grow. 

Beauty  hides  the  art  of  sin. 

And  hasten  in  their  length, 

With  the  shroud  of  its  discretion 

Until  the  g-lorious  sun  is  set 

Fastens  what  it  gets  within. 

In  all  his  mig-ht  and  strength. 

Beauty  serves  a  noble  purpose; 

The  evening  shades,  how  oft  they  come. 

God  is  beauty  and  divine; 

At  close  of  sunny  days, 

And  we  all  should  claim  it  ever. 

And  tho'  their  scenes  are  sometimes  sad, 

Let  our  deeds  with  beauty  shine. 

May  have  their  mirth  and  praise. 

Beauty  sweet  is  fascinating; 

'Tls  sweet  to  watch  the  evening  shades 

Fancied  colors  light  and  gaj' 

The  little  shadows  move; 

Charms  the  heart  till  it  is  blinded. 

The  little  lessons  that  they  teach. 

And  he's  rich  who  feels  that  way. 

Yet  mighty  problems  prove. 
And  as  the  shades  of  evening  come, 

MOTHER  IS  DEAD. 

Will  come  the  shades  of  time, 

And  hearts  will  vanish  in  the  dark. 

Oh,  Lord,  my  God,  my  Savior, 

That  have  no  lights  to  shine. 

My  heart  is  filled  witli  pain : 

My  mother,  O,  my  mother, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  again; 

AT  EARLY  MORN. 

In  death  she  sweetly  slumbers. 

How  bright  the  morn  is  dawning. 

I  ne'er  shall  see  her  more  — 

And  opening  into  day. 

Her  face,  her  form,  and  features, — 

And  melting  thoughts  of  sadness. 

Or  pleasant  smiles  she  wore. 

And  driving  them  away. 

It  is  indeed  delightful, 

With  her,  bright  hopes  have  perished. 

To  see  the  rising  sun 

Bright  hopes  within  my  breast. 

Shed  forth  his  rays  of  gladness 

Yet  one  that  I  must  cherish. 

Around  for  every  one. 

Is  that  she's  with  the  blest. 

We  hope  to  meet  thee,  mother, 

We  feel  it  is  a  blessing, 

On  heaven's  far-off  shore; 

The  sun  alone  can  give. 

Y''es  meet  and  greet  thee  mother. 

That  we  so  much  enjoy. 

Where  we  shall  part  no  more. 

So  frequent  while  we  live; 

And  as  our  sun  that  rises 

And  opens  into  morn. 

HENRY  CLAY. 

The  sun  of  life  eternal 

The  great  men  and  the  useful  men, 

Will  likewise  truly  dawn. 

The  worthy  and  the  true. 
We  love  to  praise  and  imitate 

NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE. 

In  much  they  say  and  do. 

Of  all  great  men  who  ever  lived 

l''es,  great  names,  and  the  cherished  names 

In  this  great  world  of  ours, 

That  glow  in  history  bright, 

There's  none  that's  swayed  more  human 

They  shine  like  lone  and  stationed  stars, 

hearts. 

Or  burning  suns  of  light. 

In  conquest  with  earth's  powers. 

They  help  the  world,  they  bless  the  woi'ld, 

He  awed  the  world  with  monarch  force. 

In  all  their  might  and  main; 

More  dreadful  than  a  flood 

Their  lives  and  deeds  are  shining  lights, 

Was  cannon  fright  along  his  trail 

Of  what  we  should  attain. 

That  flowed  with  human  blood. 

Oh  to  the  hearts  that  rule  the  world. 

Oh  shall  who  fought  to  check  his  march, 

By  Avortliy  deeds  and  ways. 

Still  hope  for  victory; 

We  owe  a  debt  of  gratitude. 

Or  shall  their  wounds  go  unrevenged 

Of  honor  and  of  praise. 

Out  in  eternity. 

Yet  he  was  great,  we  call  him  great. 

GLOKIOUS. 

As  his  great  actions  show; 

He  often  tried  to  do  the  right 

All  glorious,  glorious. 

To  overcome  life's  foe. 

Happy  and  divine. 

She  helped  me  pop  the  question- 
Said  she  would  be  mine. 

BEAUTY. 

Beauty,  l)eauty,  charming  beauty 

Now  if  you'll  be  :uy  lover. 

Making  every  heart  so  glad. 

My  sweet  pretty  maid. 

Is  a  screen  that  hides  the  ugly. 

.Tust  give  me  your  hand  gently. 

Tho'  it  may  be  good  or  bad. 
i 

And  call  it  a  trade. 

a 

SB- 


m- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


425 


-« 


MRS.  VESTA  A.  R.  CROCKETT. 

Bokn:  Canton,  Me.,  Feb.  23, 1836. 
This  lady  received  her  education  in  Liver- 
more  and  Canton.  Under  the  nom  de  plume 
of  Inez  she  wrote  quite  extensively  for  the 
Boston  Cultivator,  Ladies'  Enterprise,  and 
other  prominent  eastern  publications.  In  her 
early  life  she  took  g'reat  delight  in  writing- 


MRS.   VKSTA   A.   U.  (    KOCKKTT. 

humorous  and  dramatic  poems.  She  still 
resides  in  her  native  state  at  Portland,  where 
her  husband,  J.  Henry  Crockett,  is  eng-ag-ed 
in  business.  Mrs.  Crockett  is  fully  represent- 
ed in  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Maine,  in  which 
state  she  is  very  popular— not  only  for  her 
high  literary  standing  but  also  for  her  many 
amiable  and  social  qualities. 


3B 


ASPIRATION. 
Oh  loose  the  chains  that  bind  me  prone  to 

earth 
In  one  continuous  tliralldom,  blindly  sweet. 
And  hold  me  in  their  fond  and  close  embrace; 
That  o'er  my  soul  their  ceaseless  vigils  keep. 
Oh  lift  me  out  from  fllmy  folds  of  flesh. 
Which  close  around  me  wrapping,  day  by  day, 
Which  I  dream  not,  in  my  obscured  retreat ' 
Shut  out  from  beckoning  light  of  inner  day. 
But  guide  my  instincts,  dimmed,  obscure  and 

blunt. 
Into  the  radiance  of  inner  light 


Just  so  I  see  my  gropings  in  the  flesh. 
Within  the  corridor  of  star-dimmed  night. 
Let  me  not  walk  the  desert  wastes  of  time. 
And  gather  bubbles,  shining  to  my  eyes. 
When  on  the  other  hand  are  broad  plateaus 
Which  must  be  traversed  ere  I  gain  the  prize. 
Release  me  from  the  lesser  two-fold  grasp. 
And  let  me  struggle  with  its  bland  content; 
Oh,  let  me  loose  from  earthly  trappings,  all. 
And  seek  the  garniture  from  Heaven  sent. 
From  out  the  gilded  rubbish  fondly  worn, 
IJi'held  by  blinded  sense  to  be  the  true; 
Lrt  me  emerge  and  take  one  primal  look 
\V  here  Inspiration  spreads  her  softening  dew. 
Li't  me  just  catch  one  glimpse  of  inner  life 
Which  circles  'round  and  'round  me  rich  and 
clear  —  [through— 

A    life   which    permeates   me   through    and 
Which  holds  in  me   all   that  which   is  most 
dear  —  [source, 

A    life  which    links    my   l^eing  with    infinite 
Whose  truth  absorbs  the  human  in  the  divine. 
Which  subtly  leaas  me  in  its  mystic  course 
Within  the  illuiuined  center  of  my  chime. 

'Tis  answered,  and  from  out  my  soul  a  hymn 
Of  praise  spontaneous,  wings  its  upward  flight. 
In  aspiration's  depths  I  found  within 
My  own  real  self,  revealed  by  inner  light. 
Nor  tide,  nor  flood,  nor  sweeping  storm,  nor 

wind. 
Nor  all  the  flush  allurements,  which  abound. 
Can  me  again  unto  that  darkness  bind; 
A  stronger  light  has  compassed  me  around. 

A  deeper  phase  of  life  has  on  me  dawned  — 
I  find  myself  within  its  Author,  God; 
A  purer  fire  has  all  my  spirit  warmed; 
I  find  within  myself  its  Author,  God  — 
A  richer  landscape  mirrors  on  my  soul. 
With  colorings  deep,  in  tints,oh,  unsurpassed. 
Each  innate  charm  that  opens  on  the  roll 
Reveals  a  deeper,  riper  glory  than  the  last. 

A  rapturous  grandeur,  impartation  keen. 
Seems  breathing  in  my  spirit's  every  vein. 
Sweet  intuitions  softly  float  between. 
Then  answer  back  the  soft  and  hushed  re- 
frain ; 
Each  gladsome  tendril  seems  to  waft  to  me 
A  voice  of  chiming  and  impassioned  song, 
Wliile  each  pulsation  joins  the  minstrelsy 
In  leaps  aloft,  on  pinions  soft  and  strong. 
A  lialo  glorious  with  the  blended  light 
That  comes  from  higher  commune,  soul  with 

souls. 
Reveals  a  smile,  so  strangely  sweet,  so  bright 
It  melts  within  her  opal,  shimmering  folds. 
Oh!  deep-felt  harmony,  thy  living  strains 
But  set  my  heart  athrill  with  liroadening  love. 
While  Inspiration  witli  her  soft  refrains 
Enlinks  me  with  my  liigher  life  above. 


-a 


I® 


426 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL,   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-* 


SIMEON  TUCKER  CLARK. 

Born:  Canton,  Mass.,  Oct.  10, 1836. 
When  but  fourteen  j^ears  of  age  Simeon 
Tucker  Clark  determined  that  be  would  make 
his  life  a  success,  and  he  certainly  has  suc- 
ceeded in  a  marked  degrree.  He  has  obtained 
the  Master's  degree  in  arts,  become  a  doctor 
in  medicine,  and  holds  many  positions  of  pro- 


SIMEON  TUCKER  CLARK. 

minence.  His  writings  have  appeared  in  the 
magazines  of  Appleton,  Scribner,  Godey, 
Peterson,  and  other  publications,  from 
which  they  have  been  extensively  copied  by 
the  periodical  press  from  Maine  to  California. 
As  a  lecturer.  Dr.  Clark  has  always  attracted 
enthusiastic  audiences.  Besides  his  success- 
ful practice  as  a  physician,  Dr.  Clark  is  an 
indefatigable  student,  and  is  a  member  of 
many  of  the  most  important  scientific  bodies 
In  the  United  States.  His  place  of  residence 
is  Rockport,  in  the  state  of  New  York. 


*- 


THE  DEAD  VIOLINIST. 
In  grief,  I  sing  for  tiiose  alone 

Whose  heart-strings  are  so  sadly  strung, 
They  only  tremble  when  a  moan 

From  Music's  soul  is  wrung. 
TlKiy  dare  to  sit  with  me  to-night, 

Wiiere,  like  a  statue;  cold  and  still 
The;  master  lies  — the  man  wliosi'  might 

Brouglit  smiles  or  tears  at  will  1 
Ask  neitlier  wife  nor  child  to  speak; 

Nor  man  nor  maid  a  woi'd  to  lend. 


In  yonder  well  worn  case  we  seek 

The  dead  man's  fondest  friend ! 
His  violin.    He  touched  and  heard 

The  soul-throbs  of  that  instrument. 
And  every  pressure,  every  word. 

With  his  caress  was  blent. 
His  viol.    Raise  with  reverent  fear 

And  press  it  to  your  tear-stained  cheek 
As  was  his  wont,  and  you  shall  hear 

What  words  the  dead  would  speak ! 
Hear  them  and  heed,  but  not  repeat. 

There  are  so  few  that  understand 
The  Sons  of  Genius,  till  tlieir  feet 

Have  touched  death's  silent  land! 
To  speak  were  easting  pearls  away ; 

Who  needs  to  be  forgiven,  forgives! 
Wliere  night  is  lost  in  endless  day 

Our  great  musician  lives! 
We  who  have  loved  will  not  forget 

The  rosy-thorny  path  he  trod ! 
Beyond  upbraiding  or  regret 

We  leave  him  safe  with  God! 


AFTER  THE  HARVEST. 

The  wonders  of  liarvcst  are  manifold 
As  mystical  words  fi-om  the  sphinx  of  old. 
When  over  the  meadows  the  sheaves  are  rolled. 
The  barley  like  silver,  the  wheat  like  gold; 
But  the  darkest  riddle  of  life  is  told. 
When  love  like  the  grain,  for  a  price  is  sold! 
Janett  and  I  with  the  reapers  wrought 
As  a,  lowly  lad  and  a  lassie  ought. 
When  little  is  said,  but  much  is  thought; 
What  did  I  garner  but  sorrow?    Naught ! 
As  over  tlic  meadows  the  sheaves  we  rolled; 
And  barley  was  silver  and  wheat  was  gold ! 
She  was  a  woman  wondrous  fair, 
A  score  of  summers  had  sunned  her  liair; 
My  lips  were  beardless,  my  brown  cheeks  bare; 
For  sixteen  seasons  liad  brought  no  care 
If  barley  was  silver,  or  wheat  was  gold  — 
Or  love,  like  the  grain,  for  a  pi-ice  was  .sold! 
This  was  the  way  my  love  was  won  — 
She  turned  to  me  when  our  task  was  done. 
As  ripe  grain  turns  to  the  glowing  sini 
Before  the  hai'vesting  is  begun ! 
A  riddle  alilce  to  the  young  and  old 
Wlien  barley  seems  silver  and  wheat  luircgdld. 
We  liissed  I    Before,  luit  a  mother's  kiss 
Had  hleiKled  with  mine;  but  this.  Oh!  tlii- 
Discovered  and  filled  my  soul's  abyss 
With  life's  best  vinl'age    a,  lover's  bliss! 
But  the  story  of  harvest  will  never  be  told: 
And  the  wonders  of  loving  are  manifold  ! 
N(>xtday  I  wrought  in  tlie  fields  alone. 
The  heart,  in  my  bosom  a  blood-red  stone, 
For  1  lu'ard  tl«e  winds  to  the  stul)ble  moan; 
..Tlie  lord  of  tliese  lands  lias  wedded  liis  own!" 
Wlien  lo\-e  like  the  grain  foi-  a  jiriee  is  sold. 
No  liarley  seems  silvci',  no  wheat  like  gold! 


* 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OP  AMEUICA. 


427 


-® 


C.  DREW. 

Born:  Alexandria,  Va.,  Jan.  (>,  18~0. 
In  1833  Mr.  Drew  entered  Gale's  &  Seaton's 
office  in  Washington  as  an  assistant  to  one  of 
the  proof-readers,  where,  by  way  of  pastime 
he  soon  picked  up  a  knowledge  of  type  set- 
ting. In  1845  he  became  associated  with 
James   M.  Davis  In  the  publication  of   The 


c,  i>in:w. 

American,  al  Wa^hiiiLitMii.  I'lii-fr  \cai->  hili'r 
he  removed  to  Florida  and  publislied  a  news- 
paper in  Jack.sonville,  where  he  finally  open- 
ed a  book  store,  which  is  still  conducted  on  a 
good  scale  b5'  his  sons  —  Horace  Drew  &  Bro. 
Mr.  Drew  served  four  years  as  state  comptroll- 
er of  Florida,  and  he  lias  also  held  other  pub- 
lic positions  of  trust.  The  poems  of  Mr.  Drew 
have  appeared  from  time  te  time  in  the  period- 
ical press  since  his  youth. 


THE  POET'S  GRAVE. 
I  marked  a  lonely  grave  among 

The  mansions  of  the  dead. 
Where  slept  an  humble  child  of  song. 

His  notes  forever  fled. 
Save  when  their  echoes  gently  stole 

Back  to  the  haunts  where  he 
Poured  forth  the  music  of  his  soul 

In  numbers  wild  and  free. 

I  knew  it  was  the  poet's  grave, 

Altliough  no  sculptured  stone. 
Nor  urn,  nor  towering  column,  gave 


His  memory  its  own; 
Some  loved  one  who  had  known  his  worth. 

Unable  to  do  more. 
Had  smootlied  the  rugged  mound  of  earth 

And  turf 'd  it  greenly  o'er. 

The  sauntering  crowd  passed  heedless  by 

That  lowly  place  of  rest. 
To  view  the  marble  piled  on  high 

Above  the  rich  man's  breast; 
But  they  forget  the  wreath  of  love 

That  lives  when  gold  and  stone 
Have  perished  from  the  earth  above 

And  left  tlie  dust  alone. 

They  knew  not  that  the  form  laid  nigh 

By  lowly,  loving  hands. 
In  memory's  mystic  alchemy 

Would  turn  to  golden  sands; 
For  had  they  felt  one  throb  that  stirred 

The  loving  hearts  that  knew 
The  poet's  grave,  their  ears  had  heard 

His  lingering  music  too. 

The  crowd  will  linger  by  the  scene 

Where  marble  shafts  uprise, 
But  some  will  seek  the  hillock  green 

And  precious  in  their  eyes; 
For  well  they  know  who  sleeps  below. 

Whose  pillow  they  could  crave  — 
Tlie  one  below  the  shaft  of  snow. 

Or  'neath  the  poet's  grave. 


THE  FADED  FACE. 

There  are  faded  faces  we  sometimes  see 
Haloed  in  eloquent  mystery. 
Even  though  every  trace  marked  there 
Be  the  sign  of  sorrow,  the  seal  of  care, 
Often,  it  seems,  a  beautiful  grace 
Covers  the  lines  of  the  faded  face. 

After  the  bloom  of  the  fragile  rose. 

The  petals  fall  as  the  summer  goes. 

And  the  rose  tree  sinks  to  its  winter  sleep. 

In  the  valleys  the  germs  of  springtime  keep; 

But  there's  never  a  season,  there's  never  a 

place. 
We  read  not  the  tale  of  a  faded  face. 

If  sight  were  ne'er  glad  with  a  rouge-leaf  more. 
The  mind  could  liave  spring  — time  o'er  and 

o'er. 
And  joy  fill  our  souls  as  the  seasons  came : 
The  breast  should  fill  with  shame,  with  shame. 
If  we  could  not,  in  loving,  before  us  spread 
The  heart's  repast  of  the  leaves  still  red. 

And  every  true  heart  should  have  a  place 
To  keep  the  bloom  of  a  faded  face. 
For  love  and  fancy  to  paint  sublime 
With  the  brighter  tints  of  an  olden  time  — 
Even  its  pallor  will  cliange  and  glow 
For  the  heart  that  .sees  it  turning  so. 


-® 


5t- 


428 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMERICA. 


>s 


JAMES  FRANCIS  GELLETLY. 

Born  in  Scotland,  1848. 
In  his  youth  James  was  apprenticed  to  the 
silvpi'sniiths'  trade,   at  wiiich  he  worked  for 
six  .^■^■al■s,  when  ho  eame  to  America.     He  lias 


JAMES  FRANCIS  GELLETLY. 

always  taken  a  great  interest  in  literature, 
and  lias  a  volume  of  poems  that  he  hopes  soon 
to  place  upon  the  market. 


©- 


HOPE. 

I  am  embarked  on  life's  tempestuous  sea, 

I  hear  the  roar 
Of  billows  as  they  beat  destructions  shore 

Awaiting  me 
The  cloudy  darkness  deepens  into  night, 

And  the  bright  sheen 
Of  starry  prospects  now  no  more  is  seen 

To  shed  its  light. 
Fear,  pa.ssion,  doubt,  the  treacherous  friend, 
the  foe 

Strain  hard  my  l)ark 
That  toils  upon  their  surges  in  the  dark. 

Rocked  to  and  fro. 
Through  deepening  shades   no  longer  will  T 
grope 

My  devi()\is  way, 
I  cast  beiicalh  the  l)ill()ws  as  they  swa.v 

Tiie  ariclioi'  Hope. 
And  while  the  warring  elements  t\vvvv  fight 

With  clamorous  sound. 


Here  will  I  rest  deep-grappled  in  the  ground. 

Waiting  for  light. 
Oh  God !   On  whose  vast  bosom  I  lay  hold, 

Hear !  thou  my  prayer. 
And  give  me  patient  fortitude  to  bear 

Life's  waters  cold. 
And  iu  the  fury  of  the  muffled  night. 

While  tempests  roll,  [soul 

Strengthen  the  cordsthat  bind  my  wavering 

To  thy  great  might. 

THE  ARTIFICIAL  AND  THE  NATURAL. 
.You  take  a  yokel,  lumbering  in  his  walk. 

And  put  him  in  your  military  school. 
Braced  to  a  ramrod,  teach  him  how  to  stalk, 

And  dress  him  like  a  monkey,  or  a  fool, 
Boss  him  well  down,  and  wheel  him  'round 

about. 
And  yfiu  will  turn  a  first-rate  soldier  out. 
To    make    a   priest  you    take   the    ••  family 
dunce," 

What  little  sense  he  has  you  strain  awaj'. 
Cram  him  with  cant  theology  at  once,  [maj-— 

And  mold,  or  dish  him  for  what  sect  you 
Just  as  the  French  cooks  fix  up  f  i-ogs  or  snails. 
Or  pig-iron's  fused  and  rolled  out  into  rails. 
To  make  a  lawyer—  best  to  take  a  knave, 

But  sometimes  you  can  work  an  honest  man, 
If  for  some  "  paying  office  "  he  should  crave -^ 

And  strives  to  stretch  his  conscience  all  he 

can,  [ayo  — 

Keeping  a  sharp  look  out  for  "  number  one  " 

Most  likely  lie'U  die  rich  —  at  least  in  money. 

Doctors   are  formed  of  somewhat   dififcrent 

stuff: 

The  minimum  of  wit  allowed  by  law 
Will  make  out,  if  the  stomach's  strong  enough 

To  see  dead  negro  paupers  car^•ed  up  raw; 
Still  they  must  have    for  "Stock    in    trade" 

complete 
Some  little  knowledge,  and  the  rest  conceit. 
Artists  are  built  by  unremitting  toil. 

Combined  with  natural  taste  and  aptitude; 
But  poets  spring  spontaneou.s  from  the  soil, 

Wild  flowers  adorning  lierbiage   the  most 
rude. 
And  like  the  love-begetting  mistletoe. 
Must  ever  flouriFh  wild  if  they  woidd  grow. 

RULE  FOR  INDIVIDUAL  ACTION. 
When  compassed  'round  by  factious  zealots 
who 
Would  fain  pi'oscribe  and   prescribe  from 
mankind,                                      [bind, 
("ontcnin  the  tieacherous  burdens  they  would 
Who  gave  the  thy  volition,  gave  thee  too 
A  mointor  within—  to  that  be  true  — 
And  let  none  shaeki(>  tlu-e  in  limb  or  mind, 
And  let  no  fog  of  logic  make  thet"  blind 
Concerning  what  thou  shall  or  shall  not  do. 
|P 


»- 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOKTS   OF  AMBUICA. 


429 


ADLINE  SILLIMAN  KIEFFER 

Born:  Miami, Mo.,  Aug.  1, 1840. 

From  an  early  age  this  writer  has  coutributed 
hotli  prose  and  verse  to  the  press.  He  has 
followed  the  profession  of  printer  and 
journalist,  «nd  is   now    intit  proprietor  and 


alium;  ^ili.iman  kikifer. 


editor  of  the  Musical  Million,  published  at 
Dayton,  Va.,  where  he  now  resides.  Mr.  Kief- 
fer  has  published  a  neat  Tolume  of  poems  en- 
titled Vigil  and  Vision,  which  has  had  a  verj' 
extensive  sale. 


m- 


DEPARTED  DAYS. 
O  dear  departed  days! 

0  days  that  come  no  more ! 

O  sea  of  joy,  whose  wave  hath  ebbed 
From  mortal  shore ! 

Thy  tide  shall  flow  no  more ; 
Thy  wrecks  lie  on  the  strand; 
And  Memory  walks  with  shoeless  feet 
Thy  barren  sand. 

1  tread  where  thou  hast  been 
O  sea  of  days !    gone  by— 

An  arid  waste  lies  out  beneath 
An  ashen  skj-. 

Here  lies  Hope's  painted  hull ; 
Her  broken  masts  are  gone,— 
Her  rotten  decks  scarce  hold  the  ghosts 
That  walk  thereon. 


Love's  fairy  craft  lies  tliere. 
Round  which  tlie  sad  winds  sing: 
The  tide  went  out,  returned  no  more,— 
Poor,  stranded  thing! 

Wliore  are  the  radiant  forms 
Whose  gentle,  lily  hands 
Once  bound  each  otlier's  golden  curLs 
With  silken  Imnds';:' 

Aye,  they  have  perished  too, 
Along  life's  ocean  strand: 
The  fire  of  love  strewed  ashes  hero 
Upon  the  sand. 

Light  gho.sts  go  tripping  by  :— 
No  perfume  in  their  iiair. 
No  song,  no  voice,  no  whispered  breath 
Disturbs  the  air. 

O  sea !     O  bark !    O  soul ! 
O  days  that  come  no  more ! 
O  Memory,  why  walk  ye  here 
This  dreary  shore? 


KISSING  BY  THE  WELL. 
In  the  land  of  eastern  story 
Strewn  with  wrecks  of  ancient  glory. 

Like  a  lawn  with  autumn  leaves. 
There  are  ruins  that  surprise  us, — 
Temple  walls  whose  age  defies  us, — 
Broken  shrines  that  solemnize  us, — 

Yet  the  he  art  for  glory  grieves. 

In  that  land  of  faded  glories. 
Where  the  dust  is  full  of  stories 

That  no  tongue  can  ever  tell! 
There's  a  spot  I  love  to  think  of. 
Where  in  olden  days,  the  pink  of 
Eastern  beauties  came  to  drink  of 

Our  old  father  Jacob's  well. 

Ah,  those  pretty  maids  of  Sychem ! 
(Who  with  soul  could  help  but  like  them!) 

With  their  eyes  of  wondrous  light? 
Even  yet  the  whispering  fairies 
Tell  the  loves  of  Ruths  and  Marys, 
Gentle  Magdalenes  and  Saralis, 

Round  this  olden  well  at  night. 

Therein  mystic,  antique  ages. 
Prophets,  bards  and  royal  sages. 

Told  their  loves  when  twilight  fell;— 
Breathed  soft  words  in  love's  warm  meas- 
ure;— 
Dreamed  sweet  dreams  of  fame  and  pleas- 
ure,^ 
Drew  sweet  draughts  of  living  pleasure 
From  the  heart's  unfailing  well. 

By  a  well  of  living  water 

Jacob  kissed  old  Laban's  daughter  — 

Fair-faced  Rachel,  half-divine; 
And  though  earth  with  age  is  hoary. 


•^ 


^- 


430 


-* 


LC>CAL    AND   XATIuXAL   FOETS  OF  AMERICA. 


Still  she  owes  one-half  her  glory. 

More  than  half  her  sacred  story, 

KaeheU  to  that  kiss  of  thine '. 

Though  thy  heart  with  dust  hath  blended. 
Thy  heart's  love  hath  never  ended ! 

Israel's  daughters  live  to  day '. 
BacheLs,  with  their  sunny  faces 
Still  make  glad  the  olden  places. 
Leaving  on  Time's  page  new  traces. 

As  the  old  years^die  away. 

Lips  of  love!    ah  me.  the  blessing. 
■What,  but  for  their  sweet  caressing 

Were  this  tear-stained  world  of  ours? 
Lips  of  Love  have  soothed  the  weary  — 
Lips  of  Love  have  blessed  the  dreary  — 
M;iking  life's  wild  pathway  cheery 

With  sweet  smiles  and  sunny  hours. 

Gentle  reader,  boy  or  maiden. 
If  your  heart  with  love  is  laden. 

Kiss  beside  Life's  wayside  weLL 
Keep  your  young  hearts  pure  and  stain- 
less,— 
So  shall  Love's  sweet  life  prove  painless, — 
And  life's  dream  be  not  the  gainless. 

Joyless  thing  that  ix)ets  tell. 


DREAMS. 


Hideous  dreams :    terrible  dreams '. 
Visit  my  nights  of  despair: — 
Wearisome  birds  are  they. 
Clad  in  their  sable  and  gray. 
Driven  by  storms  on  the  spray 
O'er  the  shoreless  Ocean  of  Time, 
Perching  themselves  on  my  bed. 
Pecking  their  bills  in  my  heart: 
Flapping  their  wings  on  my  head  — 
Lifting  themselves  with  a  start. 
Only  to  light  again. 
To  feast  themselves  on  my  brain; 
O  horrible  birds :    terrible  birds '. 
Devilish  dream-birds  of  prey : 


*- 


DREAMS. 
This  fair  land  of  ours  I've  traversed 

Without  inconvenience  or  cost; 
I've  come,  and  I've  gone,  and  none  missed 
me. 
The  time  —  I  have  not  counted  lost. 


EVALINE  WRIGHT  NELSON. 

BoR>-:  Xew  Lisbox,  O.,  April  13,  185t. 
This  lady  is  a  member  of  the  Ohio  Woman's 
Press  Association,  and  is  a  regular  corres- 
pondent to  the  Wellsville  Daily  Union.  Both 
her  prose  and  verse  have  appeared  in  some  of 
the  leading  magazines.  Miss  Xelson  is  still  a 
resident  of  her  native  town. 


I've  oft  watched  the  poor  blind  birdies 

Gainst  Liberty's  Light  dash  and  die. 
And  long  at  the  Golden  Gate  tarried 

With  many  a  laugh  and  a  sigh. 

In  my  dreams. 
I've  heard  N^iagara's  thundering  roar. 

And  felt  the  damp  spray  in  my  face: 
And  I  have  gathered  in  Florida, 

Moss,  finer  than  exquisite  lace. 
I've  crossed  the  tempestuous  ocean 

Quite  often  without  any  fear. 
And  wonderful  thoughts  have  come  to  me 

With  only  the  sea  and  sky  near. 

In  my  dreams. 
I've  visited  Shakespeare  at  Avon, 

And  Tennyson.  Browning  and  Burns; 
I've  fished  in  the  Lakes  of  Killarney; 

In  Scotland  I've  oft  gathered  ferns. 
I've  been  the  guest  of  Victoria, 

I've  looked  at  the  weird  ••  Midnight  Sun:" 
I've  traveled  in  every  direction. 

And  O,  but  I've  had  fun,  fun,  fun. 

In  my  dreams. 

I've  taken  Bibles  to  heathendom. 

And  cheering  words  to  workers  there. 
And  freedom  sweet  to  the  shackled  ones 

Who  blot  Siberia,  the  fair; 
I've  rescued  the  weak  from  power's  grip. 

And  happiness  brought  to  the  sad; 
Why,  I  cannot  tell  all  that  I've  done. 

How  glad  I  have  been,  glad,  glad,  glad, 
In  my  dreams. 

Been  courted?  Of  course:  and  married  too? 

Yes.  many  a  time,  who  has  not? 
With  noblest  and  truest  of  lovers 

I  have  lived  in  mansion  and  cot. 
All  lovers  are  knightly,  maid  noble. 

And  happiness  easy  to  find: 
But  I'm  not  to  tell  all  the  secrets 

Of  this  realm,  you  must  mind,  mind,  mind, 
Of  our  dreams. 

There's  naught  that  is  fine  in  the  landscape. 

In  poetry,  music  or  art. 
But  touches  me  more  as  a  memory 

Than  something  quite  new  to  my  heart; 
I've  seen  it.  I've  heard  it.  I've  known  it 

Some  time  in  the  past,  and  it  seems 
A  part  of  the  infinite  empire 

I  own  and  control  in  my  dreams. 

In  my  dreams. 

Cloud-pictures,  a  rainbow,  a  sunset; 

Ah:  these  have  a  mission,  believe: 
He  misses  a  glory  worth  having 

Who  will  not  their  beauty  perceive. 
They've  helped  me  to  weave  brightest  fancies. 

For  them  I  am  richer  to-day: 
Can  beautiful  dreams  hurt  one  who  feels 

Reality's  Ijetter  than  they? 

Dear  old  dreani> 


-«• 


®- 


LOCAL   AXD   XATIOXAL   POETS   OF  A3IEKICA. 


^SARA     J.  SITTLER. 

This  lady  is  a  resident  of  Jefferson.  Iowa.  Hbe 
has  written    ,  ::*       xTvu-hv  :y  v,^-iy  credible 


-131 


-^ 


SARA       J.    SITTLER. 

poems  for  the  press,  wliioh  liave  been  high] 
commented  upon  by  her  friends  and  admirer: 


A  MOCRXIXG  DG^-E. 
Ah  mournful,  mournful  bird. 
The  music  that  I've  heard 
Has  driven  me  almost  mad. 
Thy  ..  IxxMXHxi  "•  uttered  po  far  apart 
Lies  deep  within  my  heart, 
Tls  oh  so  sad :  so  sad: 
Wilt  thou  cease  thy  strain  so  dreary? 
For  it  makes  me  feel  so  weary 
When  thy  mournful  voice  I  hear. 
And  my  heart  sinks  low. 
As  I  through  the  wild  wood  go 
To  the  bnxtk  that  runneth  clear. 
If  O.  bird:  thy  strain  youd  change. 
To  some  song  that's  sweet  and  strange. 
It  would  please  me  more. 
But  thy  ..  bocKX>-oo  '•  beyond  the  tree 
StUl  keeps  echoing  back  to  me  — 
Cursed  bird:  repeat  it  oer 


COXTEXTMEXT. 
Contentment,  thou  art  erervthing- 
Without  thee  this  world  would  be  ' 
Xoihmg  but  woe. 
Pure  are  the  lives  that  keep  thee. 
As  onward  through  life  they  gr.. 


You  bless  the  poor  home.  Contentment  - 

The  poor  mans  hand  you  grasp 

With  the  kindest  regard. 

The  rich  mans  soul  without  thee  will  perish. 

For  thou  art  a  reward . 

Pure  are  the  lives  that  possess  thee. 

From  the  un.selfishness  of  the  world 

Tliey  are  free. 

They  take  their  reward  according  to  rule 

And  all  agree. 


A  PRACTICAL  JOKE. 
She  sat  by  the  dim  firelight ; 
And  the  moon  cast  her  beams  on  the  walL 
He  came  of  cf»urse  as  he  promised. 
To  give  her  an  evening  calL 
She  gently  said,  "Good-evening;' 
Her  voice  was  sweet  and  clear; 
But  to  him  it  was  not  natural 
As  it  fell  upon  the  ear. 

And  she,  herself  was  not  the  same; 

She  treated  him  so  cold. 

He  longed  to  speak  the  words  of  love. 

But  feared  that  hed  get  sold. 

His  thoughts  were  off  in  dreamland 

As  they  sat  so  far  apart ; 

And  the  silence  of  his  once  talkative  love. 

Cast  darkness  over  his  heart. 

At  last  he  arose  to  kiss  her 

As  parting  time  drew  nigh; 

But  I  hardly  think  he  finished  kissing. 

For  sometbing  met  his  eye. 

What  was  it?  It  was  the  servant  girl 

Dressed  in  her  mistress"  gown : 

While  she.  the  mistress  was  in  the  sleigh 

With  a  gay  young  chap  from  town. 


TIS  OXLY  A  PICTURE. 
*Tis  only  a  picture  — that  is  all: 
Yet  naught  can  from  my  heart  erase. 
Tlie  form  that's  penciled  with  such  grace. 
The  picture  of  my  fathers  face  — 
My  angel  father? 
"Tis  only  a  picture  —  that  is  all : 
Yet  it  helps  to  keep  his  memory  clear; 
And  often  helps  my  heart  to  cheer. 
When  clouds  float  low  — and  life  seems 

drear, 
O  angel  father? 
'Tis  only  a  picture—  that  is  all:— 

Yet  it  brings  to  me  another  day. 

When  near  his  knee  I  loved  to  play; 

Wlien  I  grew  older  loved  to  say, 

'•  Dearest  father:  " 

"Tis  only  a  picture  —  that  is  all : 

But  as  long  as  the  stars  shine  from  above. 

To  light  my  pathway  as  I  rove. 

Tliere  will  remain  a  daughters  love, 

O  angel  father. 


© 


^- 


432 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-® 


MARIE  WALSH-CAHILL. 

born:  New  York  City,  about  1850. 
AS  the  author  of  Hazel  Kirke,  The  World,  and 
Saints  and  Sinners  (novelized  from  plays),  and 
the  original  novel  of  His  Wife  or  his  Widow, 
this  lady  has  gained  quite  a  reputation  in  the 
world  of  literature.  Commencing  her  literary 
career  when  very  young  by  writing  for  a  Bos- 
ton Weelily,  she  has  since  dramatized  a  num- 


And  so!  And  so 
Our  lassos  thus  we  throw ! 
Car-r-r-r-r-rambo ! 
Our  leather  rings  we  throw  1 
O'er  pampas  wild,  through  tall  mesquite. 

The  plembos  rush,  like  storms  along, 
The  herds  fly  fast,  for  life  is  sweet; 
Away  we  go  with  jest  and  songs 
Relying  on  our  trusty  thongs. 
The  plembo  always  gains  his  prey ; 
His  arm  is  strong,  his  lasso  swifl ; 
He  rides  his  mustang  all  the  day. 

Then  taketh  sleep,  the  great  king's  gift; 
We  are  the  monarchs  of  the  plain  — 
His  lasso  never  coils  in  vain. 
And  so!  And  so 
Our  lassos  thus  we  throw ! 
Car-r-r-r-r-rambo ! 
Our  lassos  thus  we  throw ! 


MKS.  MAiai;    W  Al,Ml-(   Aiin.i,. 

ber  of  popular  iiovels  and  written  s(>veial  or- 
iginal dramas,  which  have  been  produced  in 
the  leading  cities  of  America.  In  18HT  the  sub- 
ject of  this  sketch  liecame  the  wife  of  Edward 
Walsh,  a  gentleman  engaged  in  mercantile 
pursuits  in  New  York  City.  She  was  left  a 
widow  in  188:5,  and  resided  in  Brooklyn  until 
1890.  when  she  married  M.J.  Caliill,  the  jiopu- 
lar  Chicago  publisluT. 


O'ER  PAMPAS  WILD. 
O'er  pampas  wild,  through  tiill  mesquite. 

Our  mustangs  swift  like  lightning  Hash  — 
Our  mustangs  fly  like  north  winds  fleet, 

The  buffalo  before  us  dasli. 

While  through  the  plains  we  onward  flash, 
For  curled  ui)on  our  i)onunels  high 

A  trusty  lasso  bear  we  all; 
The  frightened  herds  before  us  fly,— 

Our  lasso's  chains  ai'c strong,  though  small; 
It  is  the  serpent  of  tlie  plain. 
I       The  victims  rear  and  i)lunge  in  vain. 

© ^ ■ 


A  LOVER  OF  MINE. 
A  lover  of  mine  comes  ev'ry  night, 

But  never  once  by  day. 
And  yet  he  loves  the  candle  light; 
He  always  sings  this  way: 
Hum!  hum!  hum! 
Hum!  hum!  hum! 
He  clasps  my  hand  all  in  the  dark. 

He  whispers  low  to  me, 
His  kisses  always  leave  a  mark. 
Though  him  I  seldom  seel 
Hum!  hum!  hum! 
Hum!  hum!  hum! 
And  you  are  like  this  lover  o'  mine. 

Mosquito,  vile  and  mean !  [wuie 

For  you've  tried  in  vain  to  drink  love's 
From  all  the  lips  you've  seen! 
Hum! hum! hum! 
Hum! hum! hum! 
You  buff,  you  fly,  you  try  to  sting,— 

Mosquito!  Nothing  more! 
You  hum  and  sing,  you  mean  old  tlnng.- 
You're  such  an  awful  love! 
Hum!  hum!  lium! 
Hum!  lium!  hum! 
Though  stiff  and  old.  you  try  to  sip. 

(Leave  that  to  younger  men!) 
Rich,  red  blood  from  each  rosy  lip, 
Oh!  don't  try  it  again! 
Hum! hum! hum! 
Hum ! hum ! hum! 

EXTRACT. 
I  once  had  a  sister- 
The  sunlight  oft  kissed  lier  — 
For  a  flower  mistook  lu'r 
And  never  forsook  lier; 
As  onyx  lier  skin  fair. 
As  nises  her  lips  rare. 
As  fair  skies  her  eyes  blue.     • 


•©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


433 


-® 


MARY  J.KING. 

Born:  South  Scituate,  R.  I.,  March  10, 1852. 
Commencing  to  write  poonis  at  an  early  ajrc, 
they  have  since  .■ijiiM'arcil  firini  liiin'  ti  i  r  iici-  in 


MARY  J.  KING. 

the  local  press.    Miss  King  follows  the  occu- 
pation of  a  weaver,  at  Crompton,  R.  I. 


©- 


MOTHER. 

Dear,  gentle,  loving  mother, 

Ofttimes  we  think  of  thee. 
In  the  midst  of  life's  stern  duties 

Thy  form  we  seem  to  see; 
And  when  the  shades  of  evening 

Are  deepening  in  the  sky. 
In  some  bright  star  we  fancy 

We  see  thy  gentle  eye. 
We  seem  to  hear  thy  loving  voice 

In  the  twilight  still  and  calm. 
Murmuring,  ..  God  protect  my  children 

And  keep  them  from  all  harm;" 
Oh:  for  thy  deep,  true  fervent  love. 

How  oft  our  liearts  doth  yearn. 
For  thou  hast  past  away  from  earth. 

And  never  .sliall  return. 
Dear  mother,  by  thy  gvntle  side 

How  oft  we  have  knelt  in  prayer. 
And  you  bade  us  look  to  heaven, 

And  told  us  God  was  there; 
And  then  thy  hand  so  lovingly. 

Would  press  each  little  head, 


And  give  to  eacli  one  fond  embrace. 

When  evening  prayers  were  said. 
What  was  it  in  the  morning 

Awoke  us  from  dreams  of  bliss, 
As  it  sweetly  brushed  each  little  cheek? 

It  was  our  mother's  kiss. 
As  fond  memories  recall  the  past. 

With  tears  our  eyes  oft  fill. 
When  we  think  of  thee,  dear  mother, 

Now  in  death  forever  still. 
Oh  !  What  sadness  filled  our  dwelling. 

When  we  knelt  around  thy  bed. 
When  thine  eyelids  closed  forever. 

And  thy  gentle  soul  had  fled; 
'Twas  our  blessed  Savior  called  thee 

From  this  world  of  sin  and  care. 
And  heaven  to  us  seems  nearer. 

Because  our  mother's  there. 
Thou  didst  suffer  long  and  patiently. 

But  thy  sufferings  now  are  o'er. 
And  we  hope  in  heaven  to  meet  thee. 

Thou  art  onlj'  gone  before; 
Thy  gentle  form  lies  sleeping 

In  St.  Mary's  hallowed  ground. 
And  we  hope  among  God's  saints 

Thy  name  has  been  enrolled. 
We  will  ask  our  Savior's  mother 

To  pray  to  her  dear  Son, 
That  He  may  reunite  us 

When  our  task  on  earth  is  done; 
We  trust  for  us  she  is  pleading 

Before  our  Savior's  throne; 
Oh !  how  sweet  will  be  our  union  there 

Where  parting  is  unknown. 


JOHN  A.  VINEY. 

Born:  Bodkins,  Ohio,  May  28, 1853. 
After  receiving  his  education  at  tlie  Biddle 
university  of  North  Carolina,  John  A.  Viney 
entered  the  ministry,  and  is  now  located  at 
El  Paso,  Texas.  Since  1881  he  has  written 
((uite  a  few  poems  that  have  been  published. 

SAVED  AT  LAST. 
When  waked  by  the  alarm  of  death 

That  sin  had  long  her  portion  been; 
Then  she  did  fly  to  Jesus'  breast 

And  humbly  begged  an  entrance  in. 
Is  Jesus  the  vile  sinner's  friend, 

When  hope  of  life  's  forever  gone? 
Would  he  in  mercy  thus  transcend 

And  prove  his  pow'r  to  utmost  l)ound? 
Yes  children,  hung  there  on  his  cross, 

A  thief  close  by  his  Savior's  side; 
When  hope  of  life  to  him  was  lost. 

Was  saved  by  faith  in  Christ,  then  died. 
Take  hope  then  you  whose  mothers  gone, 

Who  sought  her  God  in  dying  breath; 
She  safely  was  convoyed  beyond  — 

To  the  sweet  saints'  immortal  rest. 


© 


©- 


434 


■® 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    I'OETS    OF  AMEKICA. 


CLARA  H.MOUNTCASTLE. 

Born:  Canada, Nov. 36, 1837. 
At  the  age  of  twenty-six  Miss  Mountcastle 
entered  a  private  syhool  as  teacher,  which 
position  she  lield  for  two  years.  She  then 
studied  painting- iu  water  colors  and  in  18V0 
took  five  jirizi'^.  Sitifi'  tliat  tinif  she  has 
tauji'ht  (lf;i  w  iiiu  111    iii;iii>    |iinniiiiriit    ^(■|]()(lis. 


CLAKA    H.  MOUNTCA.STLE. 

In  1883  she  published  the  Mission  of  Love  and 
Other  Poems,  and  l;iter  published  a  novel.  As 
a  mark  of  appreciation  of  her  literary  worli. 
Miss  Mountcastle  was  in  1889  unanimously 
elected  as  lionorary  member  of  the  Trinity 
Historical  Society  of  Dallas,  Texas. 


©- 


MY  SISTERS  AND  I. 
The  years  roll  on,  youth  flies  apace; 
And  ageo'ertakes  us  in  the  race; 
While  poverty  runs  "  neck  and  neck," 
And  little  doth  the  oppressor  reck. 
That  oft  he  sets  his  iron  lioel 
Upon  the  corn  we  soi'est  feel. 
He  goads  us  onward  o'er  the  ground. 
And  lacerates  each  half-healed  M'ound. 
More  slowly  moves  the  tide  of  life. 
As  thus  we  meet  the  iinequal  strife; 
A  weight  .seems  clinging  to  our  feet; 
The  tired  hearts  forget  to  beat  — 
The  spirits  faint  —  the  strength  is  gone; 
Yet  weary  limbs  are  toiling  on 
Along  the  paths  that  lead  to  thee; 
Thou  vast,  unknown,  eternity. 


ART  THOU  THINKING  OF  ME. 

Art  thou  thinking  of  me,  my  belovedV 

Though  distance  doth  sever  us  wide, 
Tlie  fancy  still  haunts  me,  my  darling. 

That  thou  ai't  again  by  my  side. 
I  feel  an  intangible  presence. 

About  me  wherever  I  move  — 
A  something  that  whispers,  my  darling. 

Of  thee  and  thy  passionate  love. 
My  spirit  communes  with  thy  spirit; 

My  thoughts  cannot  wander  from  thee; 
Thy  aerial  presence  enchains  them, 

And  haunts  me  wherever  I  be. 
There  is  naught  in  this  world  that  can  give 
me 

A  tithe  of  the  joy  that  doth  fill 
Mj'  being,  when  whispers  thj"  spii-it 

To  mine  that  thou  lovest  me  still. 


MRS.  VITULA  M.CLARK. 

Born:  Minier,  III.,  Jan.  30, 1867. 
The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  in  the 
Bloomington  papers.    She  was  married  in  1889 
to  Mr.  J.  H.  Clark  of  Fern  Hill,  where  she  now 
resides. 


NIGHT. 
The  stars  gleam  forth  their  soft  and  silvery 
light. 

The  sad  winds  moan  and  sigh ; 
And  fleecj'  clouds  of  grayish  white 

Sail  slowly  o'er  the  sky. 
Hushed  are  the  many  sounds  of  day; 

Tranquil  is  the  busy  street. 
Mournfully  the  dark  waves  play 

O'er  the  mighty  deep. 
Clasfied  in  slumber's  sweet  embrace, 

Happy  in  the  land  of  dreams; 
Sori'ows  from  our  hearts  are  chased. 

Till  morning  brightly  beams. 
The  wild  beasts  rest  within  their  hidden  lair; 

The  cattle  on  the  hillside  peaceful  dream, 
Forgetful  of  the  day  however  fair,     [stream. 

Lulled  to  blissful  slumber  by  the  rippling 
And  little  children  free  from  every  care. 

Now  sweetly  sleep  upon  their  snowy  beds: 
Hushed  are  the  lips— that  lisped  their  even- 
ing prayer,  [heads. 

To  Him  who  watches   o'er  their  youthful 
O!  night,  how  heavenly  sweet  art  thou: 

O'er  rich  and  poor,  thy  dewy  breath  doth 
fall. 
Upon  the  homeless  wanderer's  brow; 

O'er  high  and  low,  o'er  great  and  small. 
Night,  lovely  night:  thy  holy  balm  dotii  steal 

Into  many  a  breaking  heart, 
Alas!  that  cannot  heal; 

God's  blessing  to  impart. 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


435 


-« 


GRANT  LEE  SHUMWAY. 

Born:  New  Windsor,  III.,  March  7, 1865. 
Eemoving  to  Nebraska  at  the  age  of  twenty, 
Mr.  Sliumway  has  made  that  state  his  head- 
quarters  ever   since.    He    has    published   a 

poem  in   booli-fi)rni,   entitled  The  St)d  C;il)in, 


(il{  \N-I    I  1  1,  ^11  L  MWAY. 

which  is  a  very  able  and  Interesting  produc- 
tion. Mr.  Shumway  now  has  the  manage- 
ment of  the  Ashford  Advocate,  a  position 
that  affords  him  better  opportunities  for  lit- 
erary work  than  he  has  heretofore  enjoyed. 


SUNSET  ON  THE  PLATTE. 
Upon  the  bridge,  above  the  flowing  river. 
There  we  admired  the  fast  declining  day, 
Like  those  dark  waters,  moving  on  forever. 
Each  heart  was  borne,  in  ecstacy,  away. 
The  sun  sank  low  behind    the  horizon; 
It  lighted  up  the  fleecy  western  sky :      [gone ; 
An  emblem  of  great  persons,  when  they're 
They  leave  a  brilliant  lustre,  when  they  die. 
The  sky  back  to  the  stream,  reflecting,  cast 
Resplendent  light,  of  purjtle  and  of  gold; 
And  all  the  rainliow  colors,  changing  fast 
From  lurid  red,  'til  fading  gray,  turns  cold. 
But  here  and  there  the  shimmering  surface 

mars 
Its  glossy  face,  by  interceding  bars; 
And  where  the  elements  each  other  wars. 
The  spray-fleck'd  sand  shoue  like  bright 
Glittering  stars. 

5— —_^_ 


A  pine  root  clinging  to  some  shoal,  here. 
Reached  forth  its  various  prongs,  and  .sepa- 
rate. 
Resembling  the  antlers  of  a  deer, 
Whose  form  lies  'neath  tlie  stream. 

Inanimate. 
One  lovely  islet,  deck'd  with  foliage  green, 
Breaks  the  bright  scene,  reaching  from 

Shore  to  shore. 
Tranciuil,  she  reigns,  an  Oriental  queen; 
In  majesty  and  silence,  wields  her  power. 
Far,  to  the  southwest,  reared  a  silent  tower, 
A  temple,  in  which  human  ne'er  has  trod. 
Erected  by  the  Omnipotent  power; 
To  man  is  given,  a  symbol  of  his  God. 
An  intervening  gap,  and  then  another 
Great  edifice,  its  head  to  Heaven  doth  rear, 
In  silent  mem'ry  of  an  ancient  brother. 
Who  used  it  in  defense  of  country,  dear. 
Time-traces  on  its  crest  are  visible; 
The  wall  is  slowly  crumbling  to  decay; 
And  like  an  earlier  relic,  doth  it  tell 
Its  history  in  its  own  inspiring  way. 
But,  from  the  crag  of  noble  grandeur,  leap- 
ing-. 
Our  vision  falls  upon  the  level  plain. 
Swift,  over  it,  the  evening-  shadows  creeping 
Leaves  a  dull,  dreary  waste  upon  the  main. 
Beneath  the  plain,  a  wall  of  dingy  brown 
Obscured  the  last  faint  rays  of  waning  light 
The  lark's  last  note  sounds  through  the 

Twilight  gloom. 
As  monitory  of  the  coming  nigiit. 
Along  the  surface  of  of  the  golden  river, 
A  sleepy  swallow  skims  the  water's  brim ; 
So  close  it  makes  the  glossy  surface  shiver 
The  light,  translucent,  flashing  thro'  the  dim. 
We  gaze  upon  the  fine  artistic  work 
By  nature  drawn,  and  painted  on  the  sky 
On  island  and  on  shore  that's  growing  dark 
And  on  the  turbid  water,  murmuring  by. 
It  fades,  the  picture  was  too  rare  a  kind 
To  linger  long  and  gladden  mortal  sight. 
Like  every  earthly  pleasure,  leaves  behind 
Dark  shadows,  creeping  on  to  darker  night. 


THE  SOD  CABIN. 

EXTRACTS. 

>.Will,"  she  began,  "you  know  that  you 
Once  told  me  of  your  fair-haired  lass. 
What  would  she  think  poor  girl?    Alas ! 
If  you  in  absence  prove  untrue. 
Ah !    This  must  never  come  to  pass  — 
Go  back  to  her  —  Come  not  to  me  — 
Unless  she  kindly  sets  you  free 
Of  her  free  will. 

I  cannot  speak 
The  love  I  have  for  you,  but  ere 


-© 


«■ 


436 


-m 


LOCAL,  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


SB- 


I'd  have  you  her  engag-emeat  break, 
Let  base  dishonor  your  name  share, 
I'd  suffer  pain  no  tongue  could  tell, 
My  heart  witli  anguish  overflow. 
My  life-blood  break  its  prison  cell 
And  make  a  crimson  flood  for  you. 
Go  back  to  your  fair  Isabelle, 
Forget  the  wild  girl  in  the  dell." 
One  sad  reproachful  look  she  gave 
Him  as  she  slowly  turned  to  leave. 
A  stinging  pain  shot  to  his  heart 
And  pierced  it  like  a  quivering  dart. 
His  countenance  was  fluslied  with  shame 
To  join  dishonor  with  his  name. 
"Please,  Lilly,  do  not  leave  me  so. 
Your  virtues  I  more  highly  prize 
On  hearing  what  you've  said. 

But  know, 
"WiU  Curtis  will  not  tell  you  lies. 
So  when  I  tell  you  I  am  free, 
Bound  by  no  promises  or  ties, 
Perhaps  you'll  kindly  think  of  me. 
Here  read  this  note."    With  trembling  hand 
He  cast  a  letter  on  the  sand 
Before  her  heavy  downcast  eyes. 
She  picks  it  up  —  her  eyes  she  dries  — 
And  reads  the  missive's  contents  through: 

Viola,  State  of  — -^ 

March  27th,       '75. 
Will  Curtis : 

Sir,— I  freely  give 
You  back  the  longed-for  liberty: 
Am  glad  to  know  that  I  am  free. 
Our  promises  were  premature 
And  brouglit  about  by  other  hands. 
Neitlicr  are  satisfied  I'm  sui-e 
Wliile  our  engagement  stands. 
Like  you,  my  heart  for  freedom  yearaed 
Until  you  did  that  freedom  send. 
With  this  your  kindness  I've  returned. 
Remember  me 

Your  sincere  friend 
Belle  Morton. 

"Will,  another  star 
Sliall  guide  my  future,  brigliter  far 
Than  any  I  have  ever  known 
Save  one,  and  that  from  lieaven  shone. 
Tliis  letter  has  revealed  to  me 
Your  noble  heart,  and  that  it's  free. 
So  if  on  m(^  unworthy  me. 
You  would  its  tenderness  bestow, 
I'll  gladly  give  my  heart  to  thee, — 
You'll  gently  care  for  it  I  know." 
Again  he  clasped  lier  to  his  breast 
And  j(jyous  rapturous  kisses  pressed 
To  her  sweet  lips  upturned  to  his 
As  if  to  seal  eternal  bliss. 
MHiile  standing  thus  in  close  embrace, 
Her  face  upturned  to  meet  his  face. 
Some  jiower  seemed  to  bear  away 
Her  mind  in  wliicli  blight  visions  play, 


A  stately  mansion  on  a  hill 
In  which  were  dwelling  her  and  Will  . 
Rich  paintings  on  the  frescoed  wall. 
Lace  drapery  and  curtains  fall. 
The  rustling  silk,  the  marble  floors. 
While  servants  came  at  her  command. 
Their  footsteps  heard  on  every  hand 
Resounding  through  the  corridors. 
The  mist  float  from  before  lier  eyes, 
'Twas  but  a  dream  of  paradise. 
Their  future  sealed  their  homeward  way 
They  step  with  hearts  so  light  and  gay. 


MRS.  ANSELINA  E.  DWYER. 

Born:  England,  Oct.  7, 1846. 
A  FEW  of  the  poems  of  this  lady  have  appear- 
ed in  the  Transcript  of  Lynn,  Mass.,  in  which 
city  she  now  resides. 


MY  WINDOW  GARDEN. 
A  tiny  garden  I  possess. 
Hid  in  a  window's  deep  recess; 
Grateful  beneath  the  sun's  caress 
Expands  its  leafy  loveliness. 
And  when  the  sun  lights  up  the  green. 
And  quivering  shadows  play  between, 
The  blossoms  on  my  ivy  screen 
Like  dewdrops  glisten  in  its  sheen. 
My  stately  calla  pearly  crowned,— 
No  queenlier  flower  e'er  was  found — 
And  lesser  beauties  grouped  around 
Rare  fragrance,  sweet,  shed  o'er  the  mound. 
A  symbol  in  the  passion  vine 
I  see,  transfixed  the  Man  Divine, 
The  whips,  the  hails,  the  cords  that  twine 
Around  his  limbs,  the  halo's  shine. 
And  hei-e  in  emerald  velvet  dressed 
Geraniums  lift  their  scarlet  crest; 
Pinks,  fuschias,  lilies  'niong  the  rest, 
And  soulful  pansies  — loved  the  best. 
No  florists'  skill  T  boast,  or  know 
The  names  which  science  doth  bestow; 
But  knowledge  greater  far  they  show; 
God's  loving  care  to  all  below. 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUL. 

'Tis  not  confined  to  bards  alone. 

The  poetry  of  the  .soul; 
It  is  a  great  and  glorious  theme 

Which  few  men  can  control. 
It  is  a  pure  and  virtuous  life, 

High-iuiiulcd.  true,  sincere, 
Wliich  makes  the  soul  so  beautiful. 

And  life  so  happy  here. 
Sweet  are  the  songs  that  poets  sing 

When  the  muses  them  control ; 
But  leally  nothing  can  compare 

With  the  poetry  of  the  soul. 


SB- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMElilCA. 


437 


-* 


SAMUEL  W.  GOLDBERG. 

Born  in  Russia,  May  1, 1858. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Goldberg-  have  appeared  in 
many  of  the  leading-  American  publications. 
In  person  he  is  a  little  above  the  average 
height  and  weig-ht,  and  is  of  good  stature, 


SAMUEL  W.   GOLDBERG. 

■With  brown  hair  and  eyes.  Mr.  Goldberg-  is  a 
book-keeper  by  profession,  and  now  resides 
at  Dallas,  Texas.  The  poems  of  this  writer 
have  generally  appeared  under  the  nom  de 
plume  of  Schirhaschirim. 


TWO  SHOULDERS  AT  THE  WHEEL. 

Should  you  meet  a  troubled  brother, 

Tlien  a  kindred  spirit  feel; 
Heavy  burdens  might  be  lifted 

With  two  shoulders  at  the  wheel. 
Let  him  know  you  take  an  interest, 

'Twill  not  take  him  long  to  see 
Whether  jou're  a  true  well-wisher 

Or  a  shamming  Pharisee. 
And  the  time  might  not  be  distant 

When  you'll  lack  both  strength  and  zeal  — 
When  perhaps  yon  would  be  grateful 

For  one  e.\tra  at  your  wheel. 
Do  not  turn  your  l)ack  upon  him. 

Do  not  coolly  walk  away. 
Just  because  you  tliink  you're  made  of 

Some  superior  sort  of  clay. 
When  we  come  to  think  about  it  — 
© . . 


As  sometimes  we  mortals  must  — 
There  is  nothing  very  striking 

In  the  finest  kind  of  dust! 
More  than  that,  we  cannot  claim  it; 

'Tis  but  lent  to  us  on  trust, 
And,  pray,  what  is  there  to  boast  of 

In  ashes,  claj-,  or  dust? 


NIGHT  AND  MORN. 
Nig-ht,  and  a  clouded  moon. 

With  a  dark  and  stormy  sky; 
While  the  eyes  that  are  watching- 

Are  -wet  -with  tears. 
And  the  bo.som  is  weary 

With  unknown  fears. 
And  heaving  with  deep,  sad  sighs. 
Morn,  and  a  smiling-  sky, 

A  dawning  fair  and  sweet; 
While  the  tears  that  are  falling 

Are  chased  away. 
And  glances  as  bright 

As  this  gladsome  day. 
In  unison  fondly  meet. 

Such  are  our  lives,  dear, 

A  night  and  a  day; 
And  love  ever  chases 

The  clouds  away. 


ENVY. 

In  life's  fair  paradise  there  lurks  a  snake. 

Envy  its  name.    The  nobler,  more  sublime 
An  act,  the  easier  it  doth  envy  wake; 

And  envy,  wakened  once,  wakes  for  all  time. 
Green-eyed  and  pale.it  poisons  every  pleasure, 

It  hates  good-doing  and  humanity's  creed. 
And  wages  war  with  its  heart's  dearest  treas- 
ure. 

Good  will,  which  bids  him  help  his  neigh- 
bor's need. 


INGRATITUDE. 
Tliere  was  a  peasant  found  a  frozen  snake, 

And,  with  a  sweet  simplicity  sublime. 
He  placed  it  by  the  fire,  that  it  might  wake 
To  thoughts  of  comfort,  for  'twas  winter- 
time. 
The  snake   began  to  writhe   and   curl  ■\vith 
pleasure. 
And,  in  accordance  with  its  snakish  creed. 
It  turned  around  (the  fascinating  treasure!) 
And    stung-    its    too-confiding-  "Friend   in 
need! " 


CHILDHOOD. 

In  our  ehildiiood's  springtime. 

Basking-  in  the  glade, 
How  we  listened  to  the  chime 

Wiiich  the  sweet  bells  made! 
Cliildhood,  happy  childhood! 

Days  that  swiftly  g-o ! 


-m 


©- 


438 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMKRICA. 


« 


HENRY  M.  DOWNING. 

BoKN :  Boston,  MasSi,  Sept.  7, 1853. 
At  the  age  of  fourteen  Henry  went  to  seu  and 
made  three  voyages  to  India,  and  next  joined 
a  steamsliip  running-  from  'Frisco  to  Panama. 
For  a  time  he  was  hi  the  Indian  service.  For 
severul   jears  Mr.  Downing-  was  the  marine 


in.Nin  M 'Mi i/roN  DOWNING, 
editor  of  the  ISoston  Daily  Post,  and  is  no-vv 
engaged  in  special  woi-k  on  tlie  Boston  Globe. 
He  has -written  principally  stories,  and  both 
his  prose  and  verse  have  appeared  in  the 
leading-  ])ublications  of  America.  Mr.  Down- 
ing- was  married  in  1873  to  Miss  Sarah  Thayer. 


«- 


A  BABY'S  SHOE. 
Tlie  wind  was  cold,  the  nig-lit  was  dark, 

Tlie  ice  made  tlhcli  and  fast, 
A  bark  drew  near  tlie  rugged  rocks 

Before  the  wintry  blast. 
The  craft  unpeopled,  saving  one. 

And  he  at  the  helm  lashed. 
His  Ixuird  was  iced,  and  his  fratiic  was  chilled. 

By  tlie  S[)ray  that  o'er  him  dashed. 
The  noble  siiip  i)nrsued  her  course. 

Approaching  fast  her  doom. 
But  still  tliat  single  soul  remained 

Finshrouded  in  the  gloom. 
He  recked  not  of  the  soli(  ude, 

Nor  felt  the  dashing  si)ray. 
For  while  his  hand  was  on  the  wlieel. 

His  heart  was  far  away. 


He  saw  a  little  cottage  home, 

A  picture  pure  and  fair. 
An  infant's  cot,  a  sailor's  wife, 

Upon  her  knees  in  prayer. 
A  smile  broke  o'er  his  freezing-  face. 

His  hand  his  bosom  sought. 
And  tenderly,  with  wiser  care, 

Some  treasure  forth  he  brought. 
He  pressed  it  fondly  to  his  lips. 

His  lips  so  pale  and  cold. 
And  tears  gushed  from  his  eyes,  which  froze, 

As  down  his  cheeks  they  rolled. 
A  mighty  wave!    A  sudden  shock! 

She  strikes—  and  all  is  o'er; 
The  noble  vessel  lies  a  wreck. 

Upon  the  rocky  shore. 

The  sun  climbed  up  the  eastern  arch. 

And  shone  with  baleful  glare. 
And  tranquilly  looked  down  upon 

The  desolation  there. 
Among  the  w-eed  the  bodies  lay 

A  cold  and  icy  bed. 
And  on  each  frozen  face  was  stamped 

Death's  horror  and  its  dread  — 
Save  one  —a  smile  was  on  his  lips, 

Damp  with  death's  clamnij-  dew. 
And  in  his  rigid  hiind  -was  clasped, 

A  little  baby's  shoe. 


H.DWIGHT  BENJAMIN. 

Born:  Hampshire  Co.,  Mass.,  Dec.  18, 1824. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Benjamin  have  appeared 
in  the  Rochester  Advent  Harbinger,  Ports- 
mouth Republican  and  other  papers.  Mr. 
Benjamin  occasionally  preaches,  but  is  by  oc- 
cupation a  farmer.  H(?  resides  at  Lucasville.O. 

THE  RIGHT  WAY. 
Be  true  to  all,  and  ever  true; 
Pay  what  you  owe  when  it  is  due. 
Sing  "  Psalms  and  Hymns,"  and  songs,  a  few, 

To  cheer  you  o'er  the  river. 
CHO.-Oh!  sing  and  pray  and  happy  be, 

Frtmi  death  we  all  shall  soon  be  free, 
Tlien  free  from  sin  forever  be. 
And  free  from  death  forever. 
As  you  would  have  all  do  to  yon. 
So  do  to  them,  for  (Jod  is  true; 
Your  ways  be  fail-,  your  wo)-ds  be  few, 
"  God  loves  the  cheerful  giver." 
Thus  on  your  way  both  sing  and  pray; 
Do  good,  not  bad,  from  day  to  day, 
And  sin,  no  never,  never  "nay," 
Tlien  sin,  no  never,  never, 
riien  when  you  die  most  happy  be,— 
If  pain  afflict  y(nril  soon  be  free; 
Tluii  free  from  sin,  forever  free,— 
'I'licii  fi-ce  from  deatli  foi-ever. 


> 


®- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIOKAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


439 


-« 


MRS.  R.  N.  HEBBARD. 

Born:  Deerfield,  N.Y.,  Sept.  19. 1836. 
After  receiving'  lier  education,  tliis  lady 
taugbt  scliool  in  Deerfleld,  Marcy,  Wliitestown 
and  Utica,  and  also  at  St.  Josepli,  Mo.  The 
poems  of  Mrs.  Hebbard  laave  received  publi- 
cation in  the   Boston  Waverly  Magazine  and 


MRS    H.  N.  HEBBARD. 

many  prominent  western  periodicals.  She 
has  devoted  considerable  time  to  prose,  and 
has  delivered  lectures  upon  literary  and  econ- 
omic  subjects  at  the  Atchison  institute  at 
Topeka,  and  other  points  in  Kansas  and  Ne- 
braska.   Mrs.  Hebbard  has  a  daughter. 


THE  OPEN  SE.\. 
Aloft,  on  an  icy  pinnacle,  g-rand, 

'Mid  the  tints  of  a  pi)lar  sky. 
An  anxious,  weary  and  footworn  band 

In  the  distance  a  sea  descry. 
Through  ills,  disaster  and  wild  unrest, 

They  have  yielded  to  no  dismay. 
While  their  comrades  fatigued  in  the  fruitless 
quest 

Retraced  their  wearisome  way. 
O'er  glisf  ning  glaciers  with  perilous  haste, 

'Mid  the  gloom  of  a  polar  night. 
They  have  journeyed  afar  on  an  icy  waste 

To  gain  but  this  far-ofif  sight. 
And  now  jis  they  gaze  from  the  distant  view. 

Transfixed,  as  it  were,  they  stand. 


For  myriad  obstacles  strangely  new 

Reach  forward  on  every  hand. 
Alas!  what  a  sad  fruition  they  sigh. 

For  effort  so  earnest  and  true ; 
Its  ice-bound  brink  we  shall  never  draw  nigh 

Or  sail  on  its  boundless  blue. 
A  throng  of  adventurers,  timid  and  bold. 

Yet  with  purpose  alike  are  we. 
Amid  life's  barriers  and  icebergs  cold. 

In  search  ot  the  open  sea. 
Though  glaciers  of  doubt  tower  over  us  steep 

And  ills  like  a  current  may  roll. 
From  fragment  to  fragment  for  footing  we 
leap, 

In  hopes  we  are  nearing  the  goal. 
Now  clambering  summits,  assured  from  some 
height. 

We  shall  gaze  on  that  silvery  sheen ; 
Alas!    each   disclose   through    Time's   iJolar 
light 

The  barriers  that  still  intervene. 
Strange  concourse!  our  beacon,  one  mystical 
star 

Even  Hope,  how  delusive  its  light. 
Its  rays  give  a  parallax  greater  by  far 

Than  each  orb  in  the  blue  vault  of  night. 
Her  vistas  still  widen  with  each  advance. 

Yet  when  for  the  goal  do  we  sigh. 
And  from  some  high  cliff  of  Ambition  per- 
chance 

Its  far  distant  azure  descry. 

We  find  it  is  flecked  with  some  fragments  still 

That  float  ever  on  with  its  tide, 
Def  yiug  each  resolute  human  will 

That  over  its  water  would  glide. 
Oh !  why  so  strive  in  a  race,  all  so  vain? 

It  is  folly  for  you  and  for  me. 
For  never  while  here  on  this  earthly  plane 

Shall  we  sail  on  this  Open  Sea. 


TO-DAY'S  DUTIES. 

EXTR.\CT. 

Though  othei-s  would  move  with  the  many. 

Fear  not  to  be  found  with  the  few; 
Nor  coui't  the  approval  of  any. 

Save  the  thoughtful,  the  earnest  and  true. 
Have  a  well-defined  cause  for  opinions, 

Nor  let  gold  cast  its  glittering  veil; 
Truth's  balance,  trust  not  to  its  minions. 

Judge  yourself  of  the  poise  on  its  scale. 
Though  new  obstacles  round  j-ou  may  cluster. 

Let  your  standard  ne'er  trail  in  the  dust; 
Give  the  cause  you  espouse  a  new  lustre. 

By  your  patient  adherence,  and  trust. 
Duty's  call  transfer  ne'er  to  your  neighbor. 

Nor  adjudge  that  your  cause  may  be  lost; 
In  the  grreat  moral  vineyard  of  labor, 

A  unit  may  count  as  a  host. 


■88 


©- 


440 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMKKICA. 


MRS.  BERTA  W.  BOWEN. 

Born:  Victoria,  Tex.,  Sept. 28, 1854. 
In  187-4  this  lady  was  married  to  Walter  C. 
Boweu,  at  that  time  editor  of  a  weekly  pa- 
per publislied  at  Oakville,  Texas,  in  1883  Mr. 
Bowen  and  ids  wife  establislied  tlie  CotuUa 
Li-{li;i-r,  wliii'ii    they    still    own    and   contn^l. 


MRS.  KKRTA  W.  BdWKN. 

Since  1879  Mrs.  Bowen  has  written  Ijotli  prose 
and  verse  for  different  papers  and  magazines, 
which  liave  always  been  favorably  received. 
Mrs.  Bowen  has  a  family  of  four  boys,  and 
consequently  has  led  a  busy  life.  Tliis  lady  is 
of  medium  height,  with  dark-brown  hair  and 
dark  amber  gray  eyes,  and  is  possessed  of  a 
spirit  full  of  pride  and  determination. 


» 


LOST  AT  SEA. 
Life's  day  hath  lost  its  golden  glow, 

Adown  life's  west  the  sun  is  low. 
And  soon  into  theg-reat  unknown. 

My  spirit  barque  must  drift  alone. 
It  is  not  ag-e  — age  is  not  all. 

Griefs  blighting  snow  as  heavy  fall, 
And  touehc^d  by  sorrow's  icy  breath. 

Life's  llow'ret  withers  oft  in  death. 
I  stand  upon  the  wotidrous  strand. 

Laved  by  the  tide  of  vanished  years, 
Willi  aching:  heart  and  outslrelclu'd  hands. 

With  crying  strong  and  hitler  tears. 
I  i)lead  unto  the  voiceless  main. 

To  bring-  my  treasures  back  agrain, 


With  white  sails  spread,  I  sent  my  fleet. 

To  bring'  me  happiness  complete. 
All,  all  were  lost  upon  the  main. 

And  prayer  and  tear  alike  are  vain '. 
And  some  went  down  'neath  fairest  sky. 

And  many  fathoms  deep  they  lie. 
Some  knew  a  darker,  fleicer  death. 

Tossed  on  the  waves  by  tempests'  breath. 
Until  the  masts  and  sails  all  worn. 

They  on  the  cruel  i-eefs  were  driven. 

And  one  —  the  fairest  of  the  fleet. 

Laden  with  youth  and  hope  and  love, 
I  sent  —the  sky  was  fair  above. 

And  bright  the  sparkling  waters  'neath. 
O,  coward  heart,  be  brave,  I  cried. 

No  ill  can  this  strong-  ship  betide, 
But  scarcely  had  it  sailed  away 

Before  a  cloud  o'ercast  the  day. 

I  saw  the  ang-ry  tempest  rise. 

And  lightnings  flash  along-  the  skies. 
Then  soon  the  muttering-  thunder  rolled. 

That  dang-er  to  my  ship  foretold. 
And  soon  the  billows,  wild  and  dark, 

Assailed  my  fair  love-freighted  bark. 
But  scorning  Neptune's  proffered  grave, 

It  triumphed  long-  o'er  wind  and  wave. 
At  last  upon  a  rock  'twas  cast  — 

O,  heart!  thy  greatest  loss  is  past! 
No  other  canst  thou  ever  know 

With  lialfits  bitterness  and  woe. 
Oh!  sea,  I  cry,  oh,  cruel  sea! 

Return  my  treasures  unto  me! 
The  hissing-  waters  mock  my  moan. 

As  on  the  strand  the  wrecks  are  strewn. 
So  standing-  by  life's  troubled  main, 

I  watch  and  wait  but  all  in  vain, 
No  white  sail  flutters  o'er  the  sea, 

To  herald  a  coming  .shij)  to  me. 
Peace,  peace!  be  still,  O  heart  of  mine! 

Sorrow  and  loss  were  ever  thine. 
Soon  will  life's  trouljled  dream  be  o'er. 

And  thou  shalt.seek  another  sliore, 
Where  wreck  and  loss  are  known  no  more. 


LIFE'S  SADDEST  LOSS. 
O,  heart  of  mine!  why  do  you  grieve, 
Thesliores  of  loss  and  lime  to  leave; 
As  our  barque  glides  slowly  out  to  sea, 
The  great  dark  sea  of  eternity? 
Why  backward  turn  with  longing-  and  tears? 
What  have  they  brought  you  -  lhos(>  vanish 

ed  years':* 
I  remember  well,  how  in  sweet  childluMiil, 
When  I  thought  the  world  all  puie  and  good, 
To  you  I  said:     How  sweet  is  life! 
Ah !  little  we  reeked  of  its  cruel  strife! 
But  we've   learned  since  then,   have  not  w 

heart -^  [to  par 
We  were  young  when  tii-st  called  with  a  hoi  I 
iS 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


441 


-* 


MRS.  LOU  GREER  BUTLER. 

Born:  Santa  Kosa,  Cal.,  Feb.  4, 1855. 
This  lady  is  the  wife  of  J.  C.  Butler,  sheriff 
at  Little  Kocli,  Ark.  She  takes  great  delight 
ill  crayon,  pastel  and  landscape  drawing-, 
and  lias  a  photograpliic  establishment  in  con- 
nection with  lierstudio.She  is  an  artist  well 
known  tlirouLilicmt  the  west,  and  has  received 

r 


88- 


MHS.  LOU  OKKKK  BUTLER. 

several  premiums  on  jiictures  painted  on  can- 
vass. As  a  poet,  Mrs.  Butler  has  gained  an 
enviable  reputation  in  the  field  of  literature. 
Her  poems  have  appeared  in  the  leading  peri- 
odicals of  America,  from  which  they  have 
been  extensively  copied  by  the  local  press.  In 
person  this  lady  is  a  Iilonde  with  auburn  hair, 
and  of  a  very  amiable  and  social  disposition. 

DELUSION. 
We  madly  follow  pleasure. 

The  phantom  of  a  day; 
We  dance  to  folly's  measure 

While  with  remorse  we  pay. 
We  flatter  those  above  us. 

Their  frailties  imitate. 
Neglecting  friends  who  love  us 

To  fawn  on  those  we  hate. 
Each  has  his  beau  ideal 

And  each  deplores  his  lot ; 
We  overlook  the  real 

In  search  of  what  is  not. 


We  hear  the  voice  of  reason 

Resoh'e  and  hesitate; 
Defer  then  for  a  season 

And  heed  it  when  too  late. 
While  happiness  pursuing 

0"er  land  and  sea  we  roam; 
The  goddess  thus  we're  wooing 

Is  waiting  us  at  home. 
Still  counting  on  the  morrow. 

We  reach  the  end  at  last; 
Then  worlds  would  give  to  borrow 

One  moment  from  the  past. 


TWO  GRAVES. 

'•  Come  forth,"  and  forth  he  came  from  out 

the  gloom. 

The  wandering  man  who  had  been  dead  four 

days,  [tomb 

"Loose  him  and  let  him  gol"  and  from  the 

Back  into  Bethany  he  went  his  ways. 
Yet  once  again  the  sable  shadow  fell 

Upon  the  home  where  Jesus  oft  had  stayed, 
And  Lazarus  did  die ;  but  who  shall  tell 
Where  in  this  world  of  graves  his  dust  was 
laid? 
Mingled  with  grass  and  llowers,  and  all  fair 
things. 
Somewhere   it   sleeps  beneath    the  star-lit 
skies,  [sings, 

Deaf  to  the   rippling  stream,  the  lark  that 

Waiting  until  the  dead  in  Christ  shall  rise. 
"  If  thou  hast  borne  Him  hence,"  she  sadly 
said. 
Standing  beside  the  tomb  at  break  of  day, 
"  Say  where  the  body  of  the  Lord  is  laid, 

That  I  may  go  and  carry  it  away." 
Then    from  the  lips  divine  one  word  there 
came. 
The  loving  lips  of  Him,  the  crucified. 
The  sweet,  soft  music  of  her  humble  name, 

"Mary!"and  she"  Rabboni:"faintly  sighed. 
No  sepulcher  the  Master's  form  e'er  kept; 

By  Him  captivity  was  captive  led; 
Become  the  first-fruits  He  of  them  that  slept ; 

The  Savior  ever  liveth  that  was  dead. 
And  we,  because  the  Savior  lives,  shall  live 
No  matter  where  our  moldering  forms  may 
sleep; 
All  graves  upon  the  rolling  globe  shall  give 
Tiieir  silent  retinue  that  death  doth  keep. 
The  coroneted  dust  from  vaulted  naves. 
And  dust  of  saints  from  country  church- 
yards, where 
The  simple  folks  do  rest,  whose  lowly  graves 
Are  grass-clad,  with  a  daisy  here  and  there. 
"Thanks  be  to  God,  who  giveth  victory  [rise! 
Through  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord,  in  whom  we 
Their  loud  triumphant  song  of  praise  shall  be, 
When  Jesus  conieth  in  the  opening  skies. 


■« 


^- 


-© 


442 


LOCAL,   AND    NATIONAL  I'OKTS   OF  A3IEU1CA. 


JOHN  B.  TORRANS. 

Born:  jEFrEKSON,  Tex.,  March  11, 1863. 

Evincing  a  taste  for  poetry  at  a  very  early 
age,  the  poems  of  Mr.  Torrans  have  from  his 
youth  appeared  from  time  to  time  la  the 
periodical  press.    He  now  follows  the  oceupa- 


r     ^-^"^ 


JOHN  BEAUREGARD  TOHRANS. 

tion  of  a  merchant,  but  devotes  much  of  his 
spare  time  to  literary  worli.  Mr.  Torrans  is 
very  fond  of  literature,  and  at  one  time  had  a 
library  of  some  six  hundred  choice  books. 


THIS  SIDE. 
Across  the  deeps  of  my  despair 

I  call  to  thee  but  tliou  art  dumb; 
And  cati  it  be  thou  dost  not  hear? 

O,  for  one  word  by  whicli  to  come 
To  tliee,  as  though  by  beacon  lij;ht 

The  boat,  delayed,  comes  lionie  at.  night. 

My  lieart  cries  out  against  such  fate; 

1  know  thou  liast  not  callous  fri'owii. 
I  feel  you  somewlnn'o  watcli  and  wait; 

Ayi;,  watcli  and  wait  for  mo  alone. 
O,  vasty  deeps  of  my  despair, 

Tliat  int(!rvene  from  licre  to  there. 


©- 


IN  PEACE. 
Two  little  slendei'  liands. 
Snowy  and  stark, 


Clasping:  my  baby  girl 

Close  in  the  dark; 
Ah,  me,  how  motherlj'. 

On  that  fond  breast. 
Where,  in  all  time  to  come 

Baby  shall  rest. 

Was  it  not  merciful? 

Aye,  even  so; 
Life,  in  her  tenderness, 

Let  them  both  go; 
Go  ill  the  arms  of  death. 

Smiling-  and  pure. 
Hence,  from  the  unsure. 

Unto  the  sure. 


AFTERWARD. 

'  O,  slender  g-rave  in  g-rasses  set, 

No  marble  gleaming-  overhead 
Now  I  remember,  they  forget, 
And  after  all  was  done  and  said. 

Aye,  they  forget,  and  it  is  well. 

And  meet  it  is  that  1  remember 
One  April's  grief,  an  inmiortelle. 

To  have  througli  all  my  life's  December. 

Dear  God,  so  be  it  and  forever, 
I  would  not  have  it  otherwise; 

Nor  she,  for  wliich  a  soul  is  never 
More  glad  than  her's,  in  Paradise. 


A  HANDFUL  OF  BITTER-SWEET. 

Restless  as  a  restless  tide, 
Nowliere  here  do  I  abide. 

In  this  world  of  ours. 
Always  meeting-,  greeting,  passing, 
And  the  heart  its  grief  amassing. 

Losing  all  those  fragrant  tlowers 
That  I  gathered  on  the  way. 
When  my  heart  was  pure  as  they. 

Here  to  hate  where  I  should  love, 
Now  relinquish  where  1  strove. 

What  does  it  avail. 
All  youth's  dreams  are  less  than  dust, 
Brightest  swords  can  only  rust, 

Some  where  soon  fate  furl  thy  sail. 
Loose  the  sandles  from  my  feet. 
Dead  hands  hold  no  bitter-sweet. 


THE  SNAKE  IN  THE  GRASS. 
O  gamesome  lad  and  gamesome  lass, 

Wlio  gather  cowslips  lair; 
Say,  know  ye  not,  that  in  the  grass 

A  snake  may  hide  him  there. 
O  gamesome  lad  and  gamesome  lass, 

I  warn  ye,  well  and  fair; 
Let  not  my  warning  lightly  pass. 

Beware,  beware,  beware! 


— * 


® 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


443' 


-)© 


MAY   CLIFFORD. 

Born:  Napa  City,  Cal.,  Sep.  2, 1866. 
Since  1884  Miss  Clififord  has  written  poems  for 
tlie  Califi)riiia  papers.    She  received  a  colleg- 


„*a«r-v^ 


MA^'   CI.IFFORD. 

iate  education,  and  is  now  eujraged  in  teacli- 
ing,  painting-  and  drawing-.  She  resides  with 
her  father,  a  clergyman,  at  Santa  Rosa. 


UNEXPRESSED. 

Put  by  the  pencil!  throw  down  the  brush! 

Words  are  too  weak  to-day. 
And  nothing  my  palette  liolds,  compares 

With  tlie  tints  on  the  hills,  that  play. 
The  lark  is  singing  a  vesper  song, 

As  slie  soars  up  into  tlie  light. 
While  down  in  the  hollow  the  wild  flowers 
close. 

Awaiting  the  commg  night. 
You  hear  the  brook  as  it  gaily  flows; 

See  shadow  of  drifting  cloud. 
As  over  the  mountain  it  softly  draws 

The  dead  day's  fllmy  shroud. 
And  oh!  it  is  glorious  music 

The  pine  harp  grandly  sings. 
As  the  wind  sweeps  fairy  fingers 

Across  its  thousand  strings. 
But  drop  the  pencil  and  fold  the  hands. 

Let  words  give  jilace  to  thought; 
iJsten!  all  nature's  voices  cry. 

Behold  what  God  hath  wrought. 


THE  LIFE  WEB. 
The  lattice  is  open,  the  roses  nod 

Over  the  casement  gray; 
The  web  is  there  with  the  silken  floss ; 
A  fair  hand  tosses  the  shuttle  across, 

And  a  bird  sings  over  the  way. 
The  sun  mounts  high,  and  the  roses  fade; 

Unheeded  falls  the  song; 
The  pattern  is  still  for  the  weaver  spread. 
But  the  work  ismai-red  by  the  tangled  thread; 

Life's  noon  is  dull  and  long. 

The  thread  is  broken,  the  shuttle  is  still. 

The  worker  has  gone  away; 
The  lattice  is  closed  for  the  hours  of  rest. 
And  the  crimson  dies  in  the  darkening-  west; 

So  ends  a  wearisome  day. 
Ah,  the  web  is  there  with  its  broken  threads  - 

Its  tangled  skein,  and  all; 
But  the   bird   has   flown  and  the  snow  lies 

deep; 
The  worker  is  sleeping  her  last  long  sleep 

Under  the  pure  white  pall. 


VOICELESS. 
If  I  could  sweep  these  mists  of  life  away. 
Then  stand  where  God  omnipotent  would 
speak, 
And  grasp  his  thought  and  feel  the  pulse  of 
power  — 
But  when  I  strive  earth  binds  me,  helpless, 
weak. 

If  I  could  paint  tne  picture  of  a  soul  — 

A  tliought  creation,  wondrous,  infinite  — 
The  beauty  of  God's  image  shadow  forth. 

The  coming  glories  that  our  spirits  wait : 
If  nerves   of   fingers   could   but   strike   the 
chords 

That  nature  whispers  in  the  ear  of  thought; 
The  melody  of  ocean's  chant,  winds  wail ; 

Some  echo  from  the  crystal  sea  be  cauglit. 
My  soul  is  dumb !  I  broke  the  golden  pen ; 

I  hid  my  brush  and  colors  from  my  sight ; 
I  swept  the  organ  keys  in  one  wild  cry. 

And  bowed  my  head  amid  a  darksome  night. 


LEGEND  OF  THE  PINE. 

EXTRACT. 

When  all  the  b;ittles  in  heaven  were  o'er, 

And  Lucifer  cast  into  hell. 
The  victors  gathered  the  crowns  and  harps 

Of  the  angels  that  sinned  and  fell. 
The  broken  fragments  were  ground  to  dust 

And  hid  in  the  rocks  of  tlie  earth ; 
The  strings  of  the  harps,  witliouta  hand 

To  give  to  their  music  birth, 
God  gathered  together  and  gave  them  all. 

As  leaves  to  the  pine  tree  cold. 
But  the  wroughten  band  that  held  them  fast 

Was  hid  with  the  crowns  of  gold. 


-® 


©- 


444 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OV  AMEKICA. 


-S 


MRS.  FANNIE  L.  FANCHER. 

Born:  Litchfield,  O.,  June  21, 1849. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  Fauclier  have  appeared  in 
the  New  York  Observer,  Ladies'  Home  Jour- 
nal, Godey's  Lady's  Magazine,  and  other  pa- 
pers (if  equal  pioiniiuMK'f.     She  was    married 


MRS.  FAN'ME  I-INDSl.EY   FANCnEIi. 

in  1870  to  John  K.  Fancher,  and  now  resides  in 
Dodg-e  Center,  Minn.  Mrs.  Fancher  follows 
the  profession  of  a  music  teacher,  and  devotes 
quite  a  little  time  to  literary  pursuits.  She 
has  also  composed  several  pieces  of  music. 


©- 


ENDEAVOR. 

Our  life  is  but  a  meager  thing- 

If  into  it  there  never  creeps 
A  longing-  that  we  yet  msiy  wing 

A  flight  to  nobler,  grander  steeps. 
Tlie  blood,  which  courseth  in  our  veins, 

And  feels  not  soaring  fever. 
Flows  slowly,  at  the  best,  and  wanes 

From  lack  of  earnest,  true  endeavor. 
If  on  the  plains,  where  now  we  grope, 

A  satisfied  content  is  ours. 
Ne'er  will  we  climb  tiie  upward  slope 

Where  spirit  growtli  enlarge  our  powers. 
Aye,  living's,  but  a  failure  dire, 

Hatli  we  no  aim,  or  purpose  great; 
Achieving  naught;  naught  to  aspire. 

Earth's  groveling  beasts,  we  emuliito! 
Oh,  speed  the  lieart  that  beateth  strong 

With  liopes  of  liighost  good  to  gain; 
That  climbs  the  tliorny  paths  along 


The  rugged  steeps  it  would  attain! 
Aye!  speed  it  upward  to  its  goal, 

Witli  helpful  word  and  earnest  prayer; 
Full  well  we  ken,  there  bides  a  soul. 

Deserving  of  a  crown  to  wear. 


ARTIST  AND  PEASANT. 
"  I  wish,  Mr.  Painter,  a  picter  — 

A  model  o'  beauty  to  me  — 
Au'  if  ye  can  paint  it  like  life,  sir, 

This  stout  bag  of  gold  is  ycr  fee. 
The  task  will  be  naught,  sure,  for  ye,  sir; 

A  little  brown  hand  full  o'  flowers; 
Wild  roses,  an'  ferns,  an'  field  blossoms, 

Thet  grew  in  thet  meader  o'  ours. 
On  course,  we'd  prefer  the  whole  picter, 

WMth  eyes  all  aglow,  an*  her  hair 
Full  o'  sunbeams,  thet  lingered  caressin', 

'S  if  loth  tu  escape  from  their  lair. 
No  artist  could  paint  that,  I'm  sure,  sir. 

The  face  o'  that  baby  o'  ours; 
So  jojous  she  held  up  that  hand,  sir, 

Sayin',  •  Papa,  I've  dot  'oo  some  f'owers!' 
We  thought,  p'raps  the  hand  an'  tlie  flowers - 

So  purtj- they  looked  thet  June  day  — 
A  master  miglit  make,  'like  as  life,'  sir. 

If  so,  I'm  right  willin'  tu  pay." 
•»  I  think,  my  good  man,  I  can  do  it. 

The  little  one  bring  for  your  quest, 
One  sitting,  perhaps,  will  suflice  me, 

I'll  do  what  I  can  —  do  my  best. 
And  when  slie's  before  me,  I'll  try  then. 

Those  eyes,  and  locks  kissed  by  the  sun; 
Perchance,  tlie  sweet  babe  in  her  beauty, 

You'll  find  on  the  canvas  when  done." 
"What!  bring  her  'round  here?  Why,  I  can't 
sir! 

She  lies  with  flowers  clasped  to  her  breast  — 
Clasped  loose,  in  that  little  dead  hand,  sir. 

The  way  we  have  laid  her  to  rest; 
We  thought  p'raps  ye  might  easy  do  it. 

If  told,  or  made  plain  to  yer  eye;  [sir, 

Well-a  day!  there  are  things  we  would  have, 

That  money,  though  mighty,  can't  buy." 


MRS.  MAGGIE  F.  MCRRIDE. 

Born:  Canada,  Dec.  31, 18(53. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  Mc  Bride  have  been  gener- 
ally upon  religious  topics,  and  they  have  ap- 
peared in  the  Messiah's  Herald  of  Boston,  In- 
dependent Cliristian  and  the  local  press. 

EXTRACT. 

Oh !  let  us  gird  our  ai-mor  on. 

And  keep  our  weapons  bright; 
And  our  lamps  all  trimmed  and  burning, 

For  aiiace  comes  on  the  night. 
Our  Bridegroom  .soon  is  connng 

For  to  call  his  Hride-Church  home. 
And  to  those  who  wait  his  coming, 

He  will  give  a  glory  crown. 


® 


-« 


LOCAL,   AND   XATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


445 


MRS.  KATE  T.WOODS. 

Born:  Peekskill,  N.  Y. 
This   writer    has    published    some    sixteen 

Vdluiilf^  nf  |ifiw,',   ;nid  innni'Viill^  Iinciii>^.      Slir 


MKS.  KATE  TANNATT  WOODS. 

is  the   wife   of   Col.    Georg-e    H.    Woods,    of 
Salem,  Mass.,  where  she  now  resides. 


DAN'S  W]FE. 
Up  in  earlj'  morning-  light. 
Sweeping-,  dusting,  "  setting  right," 
Oiling  all  the  household  springs. 
Sewing  buttons,  tying  strings. 
Telling  Bridget  what  to  do. 
Mending  rips  in  Johnny's  shoe, 
Running  up  and  down  the  stair. 
Tying  baby  in  his  chair. 
Cutting  meat  and  spreading  bread. 
Dishing  out  so  much  per  head. 
Eating  as  she  can,  by  chance. 
Giving  husband  kindly  glance, 
Toiling,  working,  busy  life, 
"  Smart  woman, 
Dan's  wife." 
Dan  comes  home  at  fall  of  night. 
Home  so  cheerful,  neat  and  bright. 
Children  meet  him  at  the  door. 
Pull  him  in  and  look  him  o'er. 
Wife  asks  "how  the  work  has  gone?" 
"Busy  times  with  us  at  home  I" 
Supper  done  —Dan  reads  at  ease, 
I      Happy  Dan,  but  one  to  please. 
5(- 


Children  must  be  put  to  bed  — 
All  their  little  prayers  are  said; 
Little  shoes  are  placed  in  rows, 
Bed  clothes  tucked  o'er  little  toes, 
Busy,  noisy,  wearing  life. 

Tired  woman, 

Dan's  wife. 
Dan  reads  on,  and  falls  asleep. 
See  the  woman  softly  creep. 
Baby  rests  at  last,  poor  dear. 
Not  a  word  her  heart  to  cheer; 
Mending  basket  full  to  top  — 
Stockings,  shirts  and  littie  frock  — 
Tired  eyes  and  weary  brain. 
Side  with  darting,  ugly  pain  — 
"Never  mind,  'twill  pass  away;" 
She  must  work,  but  never  play. 
Closed  piano,  unused  books. 
Done  the  walks  to  cosy  nooks. 
Brightness  faded  out  of  life, 

Saddened  woman, 

Dan's  wife. 
Up  stairs,  tossing  to  and  fro. 
Fever  holds  the  woman  low. 
Children  wander,  free  to  play. 
When  and  where  they  will  to-day. 
Bridget  loiters  —  dinner's  cold, 
Dan  looks  anxious,  cross  and  old; 
Household  screws  are  out  of  place. 
Lacking  one  dear,  patient  face; 
Steady  hand  —  so  weak,  but  true  — 
Hands  that  knew  just  what  to  do. 
Never  knowing  rest  or  play. 
Folded  now  —  and  laid  away ; 
Work  of  six,  in  one  short  life. 

Shattered  woman, 

Dan's  wife. 


MRS.  ANNIE  P.  OLIX. 

Born:  De  Ruyter,  N.Y.,  March  31,  1833. 
After   receiving   her    education    this    lady 
taught  school  for  a  while,  and  subsequently 
was  married  to  H.  S.  Olin.    Her  poems  have 
received  publication  in  the  local  press. 


WELCOME  CHILDREN. 

Welcome  children,  happy  children. 

Come  from  busy  toil  or  play. 
Here  to  cheer  us  by  your  presence. 

All  for  you  this  picnic  day. 
Don't  you  think  the  birds  are  happy 

Singing  fi-om  the  boughs  so  high; 
Not  as  blithe  as  you,  our  children. 

Nor  so  artless  —  watch  them  fly ! 
Then,  how  fly  your  thoughts,  the  echoes 

Coming  from  your  store  of  mind. 
And  these  prompting  grow  to  motives 

'Till  vour  character  we  find. 


m 


©- 


446 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


-* 


MORTIMER  CRANE  BROWN. 

Born:  Rome,  N.Y.,  Sept.  11,  1857. 
While  followiug-  alternately  the  occupation 
of  farming-  and  teaching,  Mr.  Brown  occasion- 
allj'  finds  time  to  court  the  muse,  and  bis  pro- 


]  ■  \     . ' 

^ 

1 

^^^^^^^^^^^K  '                 afl 

ll 

MORTIMER  CRANE  BROWN. 

ductions  have  been  published  in  the  Yanliee 
Blade,  Good  Houselieeping-,  and  the  local 
papers  generally.  Mr.  Brown  is  now  living 
In  South  Dakota,  at  Beresford. 


AUTUMN  DREAMS. 

When  the  maples  turn  to  crimson 

'Neath  the  fingers  of  tlie  frost. 
When  the  gardens  and  the  meadows 

All  their  summer  bloom  have  lost; 
When  from  ofif  the  lowland  marshes 

Blue  etliereal  vapors  rise. 
And  a  dreamy  haze  is  floating, 

Tlu-o'  tlie  mellow,  sunlit  skies.- 
Theii  I  know  the  year  is  dying. 

Soon  the  summer  will  bi^  dead; 
I  can  trace  it  in  tlie  flying 

Of  the  black  crows  overhead. 
I  can  hear  it  in  the  rustle 

Of  the  dead  leaves,  as  I  pass. 
And  the  .south  wind's  plaintive  sighing 

Thro'  the  dry  and  withered  grass. 
Ah,  'tis  then  I  love  to  wander. 

Wander  idly  and  alone; 
Listening  to  the  solemn  nuisic 


*- 


Of  sweet  nature's  undertone; 
Wrapt  in  thoughts  I  cannot  utter, 

Dreams  my  tongue  cannot  express, 
Dreams  that  match  the  autumn's  sadness 

In  their  longing  tenderness. 

Thoughts  of  friends  my  heart  hath  cherished 

In  the  summer  days  gone  bj*; 
Hopes  that  all  too  soon  have  perished. 

E'en  as  summer  blossoms  die. 
Luckless  plans  and  vain  ambitions. 

Stranded,  long  ere  summer's  prime. 
Buried,  as  will  be  the  flowers, 

'Neath  the  winter-snows  of  time. 

Yet,  altho'  my  thoughts  are  sadder 

Than  in  summer's  wealth  of  bloom, 
'Tis  a  sadness  that  makes  better. 

And  is  not  akin  to  gloom. 
Ah,  the  human  heart  seems  purer, 

Much  of  earth's  defilement  lost, 
When  the  maple  turns  to  crimson 

'Neath  the  fingers  of  the  frast. 


AFTER. 


After  the  burning  heat  of  day. 
After  the  stifling,  dusty  way. 
After  the  weary  hours  of  strife 
That  dim  the  eye  and  try  the  heart, 
Cometh  the  restful,  cooling  breeze, 
Cometh  the  dewy  touch  of  trees. 
Where  balmy  fragrance  soothes  the  brow. 
And  bids  each  throbbing  pain  depart. 

After  the  round  of  household  cares. 
The  daily  cross  each  mother  bears. 
After  the  thickly  crowded  hours 
That  leave  no  time  to  re.st  or  pray, 
Cometh  the  evening,  calm  and  sweet, 
Cometh  the  tread  of  home-bound  feet, 
And  clinging  clasp  of  loving  arms. 
Beguiling  every  cai-e  away. 

After  the  battle-field  of  life, 
After  the  hours  with  danger  rife. 
After  the  weary,  uphill  toil 
That  marks  each  day  of  life  below 
Cometh  a  certain  recompense, 
Cometh  the  soul's  iiiheiitance. 
The  goodly  land  where  crystal  streams 
Through  verdant  meadows  gently  flow. 


LULLABY. 

EXTH.\CT. 

Evening  shadows,  sweetly  falling. 

Lull  the  little  one  to  sleep. 
And  the  night  l)ird's  gentle  calling 

Echoes  through  the  silence  deep. 
Sleep,  my  baby,  do  not  fear. 

Mother  is  beside  thee, 
Holy  angels  hover  near. 

Harm  cannot  betide  thee. 


— s 


©- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


447 


-* 


ELLA  HIGGINSON. 

Bokn:  Council  Grove,  Kan.,  1862. 
Under  the  iiorn  de  plume  of  The  Countess, 
EUa  has  written  quite  extensively  for  Harp- 
er's Weekly,  Frank  Leslie's  Magazine,  Once  a 

Wcrk.  Yiiuth's  ('(inipanion,  Pfti'rson's  Mapa- 


>"-'£..i^<««Wf^ik^^, 


Eia.A   HlCCl.NSI  )N. 

zine  and  numerous  publications  of  equal 
prominence.  Miss  Hig-g'inson  resided  in  Ore- 
gan  City  and  Portland  until  1888,  when  she  re- 
moved to  Sehome  on  Puget  Sound,  where  she 
Is  at  present  located,  engaged  as  a  druggist. 


LIFE  AND  DEATH. 

As  one  may  breatlie  without  a  sigh. 
Yet  cannot  sigh  without  a  breath: 

So  love  may  life  to  passion  be, 
While  passion  unto  love  is  —  death. 

SUNSET  ON  PUGET  SOUND. 

Broad  wave  on  wave  of  scarlet  fleck'd  with 

gold. 

Outstretched  beneath  an  opalescent  sky. 

Wherein  pale  tints  with  glowing  colors  vie; 

From    their    birth-place  witliin  the  sea  are 

rolled 
Sweet  perfumes  by  the  sea  breeze  strong  and 
cold. 
Here,  white   sails    gleam    and    soft  cloud- 
shadows  lie. 
And  isles  are  kissed  by  winds  that  wanton 
by, 
Or  rocked  by  gales  in  unchecked  passion  bold. 
Locked  in  by  swelling,  flr-clad  hills  it  lies  — 
One  stretch  of  purpling,  heavy  gold;  serene. 
It  laughs  and  dimples  under  sunset  skies. 
Toward  wliich  liie  chaste  Olympics,  snow-girt, 
lean. 
And,  bathing  in  that  flood  of  glory,  make 
Fit  setting  for  that  burnished  ocean  lake. 


HOW  I  LOVE  THEE. 
How  do  I  love  tliee,  sweet?    I  love  thee  so, 
I  tremble  when  thy  low,  soft  voice  I  hear; 
I  scarce  dare  lift  my  eyes  when  thou  art 
near. 
Lest  something  of  my  passion  thou  shouldst 

know ; 
My  voice  is  tremulous,  my  words  are  slow, 
When  1  can  speak  at  all.    I  love  thee,  dear. 
With  all  my  heart  and  soul ;  thy  glance  so 
clear,  [flow 

And  true,  can  make  the  blood  more  calmly 
Along  my  swelling  veins.    I  long  to  press 
My  lips  upon  thy  brow  —  against  thy  hair. 
Yea,    in   the   cleft   that  beats  within    thy 
throat  —  [yes. 

Yet  would  not  touch  them  till  thy  lips  breathe 
I  love  thee,  yet  would  save  thee  from  love's 

care, 
And  gladly  all  my  life  to  thee  devote. 
© . 


ALWAYS  SO]\fB  ONE  BELOW. 
On  the  lowest  round  of  the  laddei", 

I  firmly  planted  my  feet. 
And  looked  up  at  the  dim,  vast  distance 

Tliat  made  my  future  so  sweet. 
I  climbed  till  my  vision  grew  weary, 

T  climbed  till  my  brain  was  on  Are; 
I  planted  each  footstep  with  wisdom  — 

Yet  1  never  seemed  to  get  higher. 
For  this  round  was  glazed  with  indifference. 

And  that  (me  was  gilded  with  scorn. 
And  when  I  grasped  flrmly  another, 

I  found,  under  velvet,  a  thorn. 
Till  my  brain  grew  weary  of  planning 

And  my  heart-strength  began  to  fail. 
And  the  flush  of  the  morning's  excitement 

Ere  evening  commenced  to  pale. 
But  just  when  my  hands  were  unloosing 

Their  hold  on  the  last  gained  round. 
When  my  hopes,  coming  back  from  the  fu- 
ture. 

Were  sinking  again  to  the  ground,— 
One  who  has  climbed  near  to  the  summit 

Reached  backward  a  helping  hand; 
But   strengthened,  encouraged  and  fresli- 
ened, 
I  took,  once  again,  my  stand. 
And  I  wish  —  O,  I  wish  —  that  the  climbers 

Would  never  forget,  as  they  go. 
That,  though  weary  may  seem  their  climb- 
ing. 

There  Is  always  some  one  below. 


-«& 


®- 


448 


-© 


LOCAL,    AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  MARTHA  A.STEWART. 

Born:  Princeton,  Wis.,  Aug.  6, 1860. 
This  lady  occasionallj'  reads  and  speaks  in 
public,  and  has  been  admired  for  her  dramatic 
talents  in  social  entertainments.    She  takes 
great  interest  in  temperance  work,  and  be- 


MRS.   MARTHA  A.   STEWART. 

longs  to  the  cliurch.  Mrs.  Stewart  has  written 
poems  since  a  child  which  have  received  ex- 
tensive publication.  This  lady  is  still  a  resi- 
dent of  her  native  state,  at  Tomahawk,  where 
she  is  held  in  high  esteem. 


CONSTANCY. 
There  are  teardrops  on  my  cheeks,  darling. 

Falling,  falling; 
There's  a  low  voice  in  my  heart,  darling. 

Calling,  calling 
Thy  loved  name  to  me  so  dear, 
Which,!  once  with  joy  could  hear, 
How  it  brings  tlie  blinding  tear. 

Darling,  darling. 
There's  a  promise  in  my  heart,  darling, 

Sleeping,  sleeping, 
But  an  angel  standeth  watch,  darling. 

Keeping,  keeping 
Guard  above  the  promise  true, 
That  I  pledged  sweet  love  to  you 
'Neath  the  gaslight  and  the  dew. 

Darling,  darling. 
There's  a  bright  hope  in  my  heart,  darling. 

Burning,  burning. 


And  it  soothes  my  spirit  oft,  darling. 
Yearning,  yearning, 

'Tis  a  hope  that  I  shall  see 

Brighter  days  again  with  thee! 

Then  my  heart  at  rest  will  be 
With  thee,  darling. 


©- 


EVENTIDE. 

Evening  settled  pure  and  gentle 

'Mid  the  tinted  hills  of  red, 

While  the  rifts  of  golden  sunset 

Lent  their  arrows  ere  they  fled  — 

Leaving  room  for  purple  night-fall 

As  she  pined  her  veil  with  stars, 

And  her  crown,  the  pale,  sweet  crescent, 

Rides  to  meet  the  warrior  Mars. 

'Tis  the  hour  when  love  enchanted 

Binds  the  heart  with  rapturous  kiss. 

And  the  maiden  with  her  lover 

Steals  away  to  meet  such  bliss. 

But  if  sorrow-shedding  teardrops 

Heedeth  not  the  lovers'  waj% 

They  must  reap  the  pearls  she  scatters  — 

Even  bright-winged  hope  will  stray. 

'Tis  the  hour  when  sad  thoughts  wander 

Back  to  childhood's  happj-  home  — 

Where  we  knelt  to  pray  with  mother 

Ere  our  feet  had  learned  to  roam. 

Now  her  face  seems  like  an  angel's, — 

Mystic,  yet  so  fair  to  see. 

Let  me  wipe  a%yay  tliese  teardrops 

Ere  they  fall  too  fast  for  me. 

'Tis  the  hour  when  music,  laden 

With  sweet  strains  from  angel  bands. 

Enters  in  the  soul  and  wafts  us 

Upward,  while  blest  guardian  hands 

Lead  us  from  the  path  of  sorrow  — 

Point  us  to  a  brighter  day. 

Where  the  soul  unfettered,  riseth. 

Lost  in  sweetest  ecstacy. 

Oh !  tlien  why  not  make  the  sunset 

Of  our  lives  sublimely  pure? 

Steal  away  when  evening  settles 

In  with  death,  which  comes  to  live-- 

Steal  away  to  rest  with  Jesus,— 

Pass  from  labor  into  love 

While  the  rifts  of  golden  sunset 

Settles  with  the  spirit  dove. 


EXTRACT. 
I'll  sing  of  him  who  is  away  — 
My  gallant  lover,— still  some  say 

He  is  not  true  to  me. 
And  that  is  why  my  heart  is  sad: 
But  I  will  seek  to  make  it  glad 

And  wave  sad  destiny; 
I'll  find  some  hope,  some  treasure  yet 
Within  the  walls  of  memory  set, 

And  sing  its  charms  to-night: 

And  strive  to  make  thought  bright. 


-5 


»- 


LOCAL,  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


449 


-m 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD 

Born:  Hingham,  Mass.,  July  3, 1835. 
Stoddard  had  written  verses  from  his  early 
years,  and  in  1849  printed  privately  a  collection 
in  a  small  volume  called  Footprints,  the  edition 
of  which  he  afterward  destroyed.  In  1853  a 
volume  of  poems  appeared  entitled  Knicker- 
bocker. From  1853  to  1870  he  held  a  position  in 
the  custom-house,  serving  various  other  capa- 
cities later  on.  From  1860  to  1870  he  was  litera- 
ry reviewer  of  the  New  York  World ;  also  on 
the  Mail;  and  the  Mail  and  Express  since  1880. 
His  works  are  numerous.  Song's  of  Summer, 
especially,  abounding  in  luxuriant  imagina- 
tion. Mr.  Stoddard's  wife,  Elizabeth  Barstow, 
is  also  a  poet  of  national  reputation. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  YOUTH. 

There  are  gains  for  ail  our  losses, 

There  are  balms  for  all  our  pain; 
But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs, 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts. 
And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better. 

Under  manhood's  sterner  reign: 
Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  youth,  with  flying  feet, 
And  will  never  come  again. 

Something  beautiful  is  vanished. 
And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain: 

We  behold  it  everywhere. 

On  the  earth,  and  in  the  air, 
But  it  never  comes  again. 


S 


THE  FLOWER  OF  LOVE-LIES-BLEEDING. 
I  met  a  little  maid  one  day. 

All  in  the  bright  May  weather; 
She  danced,  and  brushed  the  dew  away 

As  lightly  as  a  feather. 
She  had  a  ballad  in  her  hand 

That  she  had  just  been  reading. 
But  was  too  young  to  understand 
That  ditty  of  a  distant  land, 
"The  flower  of  love-lies-bleeding." 

She  tripi)ed  across  the  meadow-grass. 

To  where  a  brook  was  flowing, 
Across  the  brook  like  wind  did  pass, 

Wherever  flowers  were  growing. 
Like  some  bewildered  child  she  flew. 

Whom  fairies  were  misleading; 
"Whose  butterfly,"  I  said,  "are  you. 
And  what  sweet  thing  do  you  pursue'?" 

"The  flowers  of  love-lies-bleeding. 

I've  found  the  wild  rose  in  the  hedge. 
And  found  the  tiger-lily, 


The  blue  flag  by  the  water's  edge, 

The  dancing  daffodilly, 
King-cups  and  pausies,  every  flower 

Except  the  one  I'm  needing; 
Perhaps  it  grows  in  some  dark  bower, 
And  opens  at  a  later  hour. 

This  flower  of  love-lies-bleeding." 

"I  wouldn't  look  for  it,"  I  said, 

"  For  you  can  do  without  it; 
There's  no  such  flower."  She  shook  her  head, 

"  But  I  have  read  about  it!  " 
I  talked  to  her  of  bee  and  bird. 

But  she  was  all  unheeding; 
Her  tender  heart  was  strangely  stirred. 
She  harped  on  that  unhappy  word, 
"The  flower  of  love-lies-bleeding! " 

"  My  child,"  I  sighed,  and  dropped  a  tear, 

"I  would  no  longer  mind  it; 
You'll  find  it  some  day,  never  fear, 

For  all  of  us  must  find  it. 
I  found  it  many  a  year  ago. 

With  one  of  gentle  breeding; 
You  and  the  little  lad  you  know, 
I  see  why  you  are  weeping  so  — 

Your  flower  of  love-lies-bleeding!  " 


SONGS  UNSUNG. 
Let  no  poet,  great  or  small. 

Say  that  he  will  sing  a  song: 
For  song  cometh,  if  at  all. 

Not  because  we  woo  it  long. 
Not  because  it  suits  its  will. 
Tired  at  last  of  being  still. 

Every  song  that  has  been  sung 
Was  before  it  took  a  voice. 

Waiting  since  the  world  was  young. 
For  the  poet  of  his  choice. 

O,  if  any  waiting  be. 

May  they  come  to-day  to  me! 

I  am  ready  to  repeat 

Whatsoever  they  impart; 
Sorrows  sent  by  them  are  sweet 

'  They  know  how  to  heal  the  heart; 
Ay,  and  in  the  lightest  strain 
Something  serious  doth  remain. 

What  are  my  white  hairs,  forsooth. 
And  the  wrinkles  on  my  brow? 

I  have  still  the  soul  of  youth. 
Try  me,  merry  Muses,  now! 

I  can  still  with  numbers  fleet 

Fill  the  world  with  dancing  feet. 

No,  I  am  no  longer  young. 
Old  am  I  this  many  a  year; 

But  my  songs  will  yet  be  sung. 
Though  I  shall  not  live  to  hear. 

O  my  son  that  is  to  be, 

Sing  my  songs,  and  think  of  mel 


© 


S^" 


450 


J.OCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OFA3IEUI0A. 


-^ 


ELIZABETH  KAUTZ. 

Since  iier  cliildliood  Miss  Kautz  lias  sliown 
unusual  musical  and  poetical  talent.  Her 
poems  liave  occasioiiaily  appeared  \u  the  lo- 
cal pi'c^s      At  one  time  slie  'studied   with   the 


ELIZABETH   KAUTZ. 

intention  of  becoming-  a  professional  musi- 
cian, but  was  unable  to  endure  the  severe 
practice  necessarj'.  Elizabeth  is  the  daugh- 
ter of  Mrs.  Julia  Kautz,  who  is  represented 
elsewhere  in  this  worlv. 


LOST. 
What  was  the  lovely,  dainty  thing 
That  perished  with  the  How"ry  spring? 
That  something  passed,  I  know  full  well. 
But  what  it  was  I  cannot  tell. 
For  when  the  blossoms  decked  the  trees 
My  heart  was  glad,  niy  soul  at  ease. 
And  now  from  earth  and  sky,  I  miss 
SoiiH'thing,  but  know  not  what  it  is. 
Some  fair  thing  perished  —  this  full  well 
I  know  —but  what,  1  cannot-  tell. 


®- 


LONELINESS. 

<),  my  darling,  come! 
Hirds  have  ceas'd  their  shrill,  sweet  call- 
ins', 
Dew  upon  the  flow'rs  is  falling, 
O,  my  dai'ling,  come! 

Come  liome ! 
O,  my  darling,  come! 
From  the  sky  the  stars  are  peeping 


On  a  world  where  all  is  sleeping; 
Oh,  my  darling,  come. 

Come  home! 
Thou  wilt  never  come  — 
O'er  thy  grave  the  moon  is  beaming, 
'Kound  thy  rest  its  light  is  streaming 
Thou  wilt  never  more 

Come  home ! 
Thou  wilt  never  come; 
Ev'ning  comes,— but  thou,  ah  never, 
Thou  art  gone  from  me  forever; 
Thou  wilt  never  more 
Come  home! 


REMEMBER  ME. 
Dear   Savior,   through   life's  pathway    as   I 
stray. 

Forgetful  oft  of  thee. 
Watch  o'er  me  all  along  the  weary  way ; 

Oh  Lord,  remember  me ! 
About  the  rugged  path  which  l  must  tread 

Apart  from  any  friend. 
The  winds  rage  fiercely,  and  the  clouds  o'er- 
head 

With  deepest  darkness  blend. 
There  in  the  gloom  before  me  gleams  a  star. 

With  clear  and  tender  light; 
I  know  it  is  Thy  City,  that  afar 

Breaks  dimly  on  my  sight. 
O  guide  me !  guard  me  safely  from  the  fear 

That  'round  my  path  may  be; 
Thy  presence  will  the  gloom  and  sorrow  cheer. 

Dear  Lord,  remember  me ! 


EMMA  L.  SOUTHWORTH. 

The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  quite 
extensively  in  the  periodical  press.  She  is  a 
resident  of  Flint,  Michigan. 

EVENING    SONNET. 
How  cold  and  clear  the  stars  this  wintry  night 
Gleam  forth.    Each  star  shines  with  a  light 

as  pure 
As  that  on  Vcfta's  altar  doth  endure. 
Ye  rays  serene,  my  soul  uplift,  aud  Light, 
From  worlds  remote,  ilhuiu^  for  me  aright 
Night's  lessons.    List  ye  what  they  teach:  Se- 

cure 
Tlie  portals  of  tiiy  heart  from  sin ;  assure 
Thy  soul  with  steadfast    virtue.     Calm  and 

blight 
And  constant  let  thy  spirit  ever  be. 
Serene  and  jieaccful  move  upon  thy  way. 
So  Shalt  thy  daily  life  in  beauty  shine. 
Thus  taught,  I  raise   in   trust,   my   heart  tc 

thee, 
Etei'iial  One,  and  earnestly  I  pray  i 

That  Thou  wilt  strength   bestow,  and  grac< ' 

di\ine. 
i 


m- 


LOCAT.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


451 


MRS.  MELISSA  E.BANTA. 

BoKX :  Cincinnati,  C,  March  27, 18:34. 
Tn  1856  this  lady  was   married  to  Judg-e  D. 
Uanta,  theu  a  colleg-e  student  at  Blooming-ton, 
Indiana,  with  whom  she  now  resides  at  Frank- 


MHS.   iMELlS.SA   E.  BANTA. 

Ini,  Ind.,  together  with  her  sons  and  daughter. 
Mrs.  Banta  has  written  poems  from  her 
youth  which  have  mainly  received  publication 
in  the  literary  papers  of  Indianapolis. 


ALONE. 
Down  from  the  hospital's  lonesome  tower. 

In  wind  or  calm,  sunshine  or  rain. 
Come  autumn,  or  spring,  or  winter  time. 

Fell  ever  the  sound  of  this  sad  refrain: 
"  Not  a  friend  in  the  world,  alone,  alone!" 
Year  in,  year  out,  wailed  this  desolate  moan. 
There  was  woe  as  vast  as  the  mighty  waste 

Of  the  broad  Atlantic's  sullen  deep. 
When  the  north  wind's  wrath  sets  tempests 
loose 

Bearing   wreck   and    death  in  its  furious 
sweep. 
In  this  desolate  cry  from  the  tower  alone  — 

"Not  a  friend  in  the  world,  alone,  alone!" 
The  story  was  never  told  to  me 

What   brought  to  the  hospital's  tower  lone, 
This  frozen  soul  from  a  ruined  life. 

Making  forever  its  desolate  moan, 
••  Not  a  friend  in  the  world,  alone,  alone!" 

But  I  knew  that  despair  had  won  Its  own. 


And  fancy  pictured  a  woman  fair. 

With  every  gift  of  wonuuihood  rare  — 
For  the  voice,  like  a  tlute,  was  clear  and  low. 

That    wailed  from  the  tower  its  deathless 
woe  — 
Forsaken  despair  in  every  tone  — 

•'  Not  a  friend  in  the  world,  alone,  alone!" 
What  human  wrong  and  loss  had  broke 

The  poor  mad-woman's  heart  in  the  tower. 
Grated  all  apart  from  her  kind,— 

Shut  up  with  despair  to  her  dying  hour? 
I  only  know,  when  all  love  his  flown 

From  a  woman's  life,  that  her  life  is  done. 


PARTING  WORDS. 
When  lovers  part  at  eventide 

To  meet  again  to-morrow. 
With  laughing  lips  and  backward  glance, 

Undimmed  by  thought  of  sorrow 
Ah,  then,  as  glows  the  sickle  moon, 

And  soft  distills  the  dew. 
What  other  word  so  fitting  sweet 

As:  "Love,  adieu,  adieu?" 
When  true  friends  part  whose  lives  in  one, 

Like  rippling  streamlets  blended. 
As  clinging  hands  and  tearful  eyes 

Bespeak  that  all  is  ended 
Ah,  then  beneath  life's  summernoon. 

Or  autumn's  stormier  sky. 
What  word  so  fond  on  friendship's  lips. 

As:  "Friend,  good-by,  good-by?" 
When  o'er  some  life  knit  to  our  own 

Death's  darkness  settles  stillj% 
As  fades  the  love-light  from  the  eyes. 

And  falls  the  clasped  hand  chilly; 
With  raining  tears  and  aching  loss 

That  tears  may  not  dispel. 
The  tortured  heart  throbs  to  the  lips, 

"  Farewell,  beloved,  fiirewell." 


EXTRACT. 
A  woman  sat  by  the  cabin  fire 

With  a  hand  on  either  knee. 
Her  hair  as  gray  as  the  snowy  sky 

On  a  winter's  day  would  be; 
And  the  fitful  firelight  leaped  and  fell 

O'er  the  quaint  old  woman's  face,— 
Her  sad  brown  eyes,  so  deep  with  thought. 

Gazing  into  the  fire-place. 
"Ah,  me!  it  is  five  and  thirty  years 

Since  we  kissed  and  said  good-by,      [pink 
Where   the  laurel  blossoms  were  clustered 

Underneath  the  sweet  June  sky. 
Yet  I  seem  to  see  the  speckled  trout 

'Mong  the  rocks  of  the  mountain  stream  — 
Where  the  honeysuckle,  white  and  sweet, 

O'ershadowed  its  shining  gleam. 
And  I  look  in  the  tops  of  the  fragrant  pines, 

As  they  whisper  sweet  and  low, 
W'ith  your  arm  around  me  as  we  kissed 

And  parted  so  long  ago. 


-I® 


® 


452 


S 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


WILLIAM  F.WATSON. 

BOKN :  Canada,  May  11, 1862. 

Commencing  to  teach  in  the  State  of  Maine  at 
the  age  of  seventeen,  he  later  completed  the 
classical  course  at  Houlton  academy.  Mr. 
Watson  next  entered  the  Colhy  university  at 
Waterville  and  graduated  thei-efrom  in  1887. 
He  is  now  professor  of  chemistry  in  Furman 


WILLIAM  FKANKLIN  WATSON. 

university  at  Greenville,  S.  C.  Prof.  Watson 
lias  written  poems  from  his  youth,  and  has 
published  a  neat  work  entitled  The  Children 
of  the  Sun  and  Miscellaneous  Poems.  The 
professor  was  married  In  1889  to  Miss  Clara 
Norwood. 


*- 


VERY   LONG. 
"  So  very  long-,"  said  the  little  boy, 

•'  To  sit  in  the  schoolhouse  old  and  gray. 

When  I  like  so  much  to  be  at  play : 
It's  oh  so  hard!"  said  the  little  boy. 
But  he  turned  his  eyes  to  the  dog-eared  book, 

Forg-ot  his  master,  stern  and  cold. 

Unconscious  how  the  nionients  rolled. 
He  finished  the  task  lie  undertook. 

And  when  'twas  over  his  merry  song 

Declared  it  wasn't  so  very  long. 
"So  very  long,"  he  said  one  day, 

•'  To  wait  till  I  become  a  man." 

Hut  lie  scarcely  saw  how  the  moments  ran. 
Till  he  found  him  far  on  manhood's  way; 


And  there  came  a  time  when  his  eyes  grew 
dim. 
The  wavering  pulse  and  failing  breath 
Threatening  dull  decay  and  death. 

Life's  joys  and  sorrows  were  naught  to  him  . 
And  the  faltering  %^oice  that  erst  was  strong 
Said,  "Life  itself  is  not  very  long." 

Beyond  a  river  that  darksome  rolled, 
In  a  land  where  shining  fountains  play, 
A  soul  was  welcomed  home  one  day 

By  angels  touching  their  harps  of  gold. 

In  the  presence  of  Him  who  died  to  save. 
Earth's  tears  and  struggles  are  no  more 
To  him  who  walks  the  blessed  shore. 

By  the  river  of  life  with  crystal  wave. 
For  it  matters  not  to  the  ransomed  throng 
Whether  Life's  day  be  short  or  long. 


BEE  EYE'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  SISTER. 
I  dreamed  of  home,  my  sister. 

When  evening  shadows  fall. 
Where  the  peaceful  time  of  summer 

Throws  its  mantle  over  all. 
I  dreamed  of  home  just  as  it  was 

Ere  I  had  thought  to  go 
And  leave  the  scenes  we  cherished 

In  the  days  of  long  ago. 
I  often  hear  the  birdies 

That  sing  amid  the  grove; 
They  remind  me  of  he  birdies 

In  the  trees  we  used  to  \ove; 
Tho'  sweet  they  sing  the  old-time  song. 

And  flutter  to  and  fro. 
No  birdies  sing    as  sweetly 

As  the  birds  of  long  ago. 
As  oft  I  sit  and  ponder 

None  sees  but  One  above. 
And  I  yearn  again  to  wander 

'Mid  the  scenes  we  used  to  love, 
To  lay  Life's  duties  all  aside 

And  for  a  moment  know 
The  pure  and  happy  pleasure 

Tliat  was  ours  long  ago. 
With  bright  associations 

Far  from  our  early  home. 
In  the  wide,  wide  world  there's  pleasure 

Wheresoever  I  may  roam. 
But  brighter,  dearer,  happier 

The  joys  we  used  to  know, 
O  bonnie  Annie  Laurie, 

lu  the  home  of  long  ago. 


EXTRACT. 
Dark4he  world  to-night  and  wildly 

Torrents  down  tiie  falling  lain  ; 
For  I'm  desolate  and  lonely, 

Mists  are  gathering  in  my  eye. 
And  I  yearn  for  Maggie  only, 

Maggie  of  the  days  gone  by. 


i^ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


453 


-® 


LINUS  TOWNSEND. 

Born:  near  Apollo,  Pa.,  Dec.  25,  1819. 

For  the  past  fifty  years  the  poems  of  this 
writer  have  appeared  extensively  in  the  per- 
iodical press  of  America.  In  1883  lie  publish- 
ed a  volume  of  Miscellaneous  Poems  of  over 
three  hundred  pages,   wliicli    li.is  been  widely 


* 


I-IM  S   TOWNSEND. 

Circulated  through  Pennsylvania  and  other 
states.  Mr.  Townsend  has  lived  the  alloted  age 
of  man  —three-score  years  and  ten.  He  is  six 
feet  in  height,  weig-hs  one  hundred  and  eighty 
pounds,  and  is  in  possession  of  an  unusual 
amount  of  g-ood  health  and  vitality.  He  lives 
with  his  wife  in  the  place  of  his  nativity. 

TO  THE  THRUSH  OR  MOCKING  BIRD. 

Among  the  birds  that  wake  the  morn. 

With  tuneful  glad  and  sweet  surprise. 
We  claim,  the  timid  Thrush,  that  one 

With  golden  plume,  and  sparkling  eyes. 
Far,  fur  excels  in  matchless  song. 

All  others  in  the  grovy  choir. 
Perliai)s  the  Lark's  blithe  artless  tongue 

May  raise  aloof  his  cadence  higher. 
But  lacks  that  sweetness  of  address 

That  marks  our  favorite  in  gold. 
We  fail  in  language  to  express 

The  beauties  that  his  songs  unfold. 
No  busy  tongue  could  count  the  links 

That  form  his  sweet  rhythmical  chain. 
Nor  the  enchanted  mind  that  fondly  drinks 

The  raptures  of  his  artless  strain ! 


High  on  some  nude  and  lifeless  limb. 

His  Maker's  praise  lie  adorates. 
Whilst  far  beneath  the  swallows  skim. 

Low  'mid  the  weeds  the  sparrow  prates. 
Down  amongst  the  nameless  bowers 

A  happy  noteless  concert  sing. 
Whilst  high  upon  his  lofty  tower. 

He  makes  thearchy  welkin  ring. 
He  mocks,  with  marked,  unfeigned  disdain. 

The  notes  that  reach  his  listening  ear. 
And  adds  them  to  his  endless  chain, 

That  rings  out  on  the  morning  clear. 
He  breathes  the  nectar  of  the  morn, 

Distilling  from  the  sky  above. 
To  soothe  his  faultless,  artless  tongue. 

In  chiming  forth  his  notes  of  love. 
From  his  lofty,  dizzy  tower 

Reluctantly  he  now  descends 
To  find  some  wild  secluded  bower. 

Whose  safe  retreat  a  shelter  lends, 
Where  fearlesslj'  within  its  shade, 

Tliroughout  the  day  his  notes  may  swell. 
Whose  cbeeiy  echoes  from  the  glade 

Are  heard  within  the  lonely  dell. 
Dear  bird,  thine's  a  clear  and  cloudless  sky. 

No  sorrow  in  thy  gifted  song, 
Thine's  a  bright  and  tearless  eye, 

And  thine  a  gay  and  happy  throng; 
No  sleepless  nights  break  thy  repose. 

All  with  thee  is  calm  serene. 
Unbroken  by  drear  winter's  snows  — 

Embowered  with  perpetual  green. 
Thy  transit  to  a  southern  clime. 

Gives  to  thee  unceasing  spring. 
Lends  to  thy  voice  a  ceaseless  chime. 

And  adds  new  notes  for  thee  to  sing. 
Magnolias  rich,  fragrant  perfume 

Nor  soft  congenial  southern  skies 
Can  keep  thee  from  thy  northern  home. 

Enchanting  spring's  renewed  surprise! 
Dear  bird!  in  me  thy  cheery  song. 

Produces  a  nameless,  saddening  thrill. 
But  as  it  calmly  drifts  along 

Must  own  we  dearly  love  it  still. 
Thy  ever  sweet  and  busy  tongue 

Recall  again  sweet  memories. 
When  we  a  list'ner,  gay  and  young. 

Unto  thy  song  among  the  trees. 

WINTER. 

Stern  winter's  come!  None  to  restrain 

Him  in  his  brief  cold,  dreary  reign; 
None  to  stay  the  ruthless  hand 

That  sways  the  scepter  o'er  the  land. 
Lately  a  land  in  beauty  clad. 

Made  by  the  smiles  of  Spring-time  glad. 
And  by  the  wiles  of  summer  too. 

To  dress  up  in  a  gaudy  hue. 
Emerald  tints  did  then  prevail, 

Alikeo'er  mountain  hill  and  dale; 


-® 


* 


454 


-m 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   I'OKTS   OF  AMKKICA. 


« 


The  gentle  rill  in  ciiiUiunce  sweet 
Did  then  the  rippling-  brooklet  meet. 

Tipt  with  flowers  on  everj'  side 

Would  through  the  grassy  meadows  glide, 
Acres  of  corn  —  Emeralds  green. 

Did  add  unto  this  glorious  scene. 
From  pastures  green  in  twiliglit  gray 

The  lowing-  herds  would  wend  their  way. 

Then  golden  fields  of  waving  grain. 
Would  stretch  out  o'er  tlie  fertile  plain; 

'Twas  then  a  generous  rural  queen 
Kuled  o'er  this  beauteous  gorgeous  scene; 

'Twas  then  around  her  vernal  throne 
That  flowers  sweet,  were  thickly  strewn. 

With  carpets  green  the  vales  were  spread 

O'er  which  this  dainty  qi-een  might  tread; 
There  siren  song  would  fill  tlie  air 

To  greet  tliis  soverig-n  empress  fail-; 
And  rare  perfume  on  zephyr's  wing- 
Would  scent  the  pathway  of  sweet  spring. 
But  now  alas!    Tlie  flowers  are  dead, 

Tlie  songsters  from  the  bowers  have  fled. 
And  for  the  fields  of  wavj'  grain 

The  wistful  eye  may  seek  in  vain ; 
The  rustling-  corn  has  passed  away 

Before  this  cruel  monarch  swaj^ 
'Neath  icy  thralls  the  streamlets  flow. 

Or  wend  tiieir  way  througli  frost  and  snow. 
The  blusliing  flowers  on  their  strands 

Lie  torpid  now  'neath  chilly  bands. 
The  lowing-  herds  in  humble  sheds 

Are  now  by  generous  yeomen  fed. 
The  storm-king,  he  has  changed  the  scene 

To  snow-white  from  a  living-  green. 
He  comes  in  a  despairing  mood 

To  rule  awhile  this  solitude. 
From  joy  elate  to  dark  despair 

He  has  reduced  the  landscape  fair. 

A  DREAM  OF  CHILDHOOD. 
I  dreamed  the  ceaseless  tide  of  time 

KoU'd  back  itsci-estless  wave  once  more. 
And  I  appeared  in  youthful  prime 

Again  upon  my  native  shore; 
Where  the  elm  and  sugar  tree 

Their  favored  branches  o'erspread, 
Wliere  liigli  witliin  in  wanton  glee 

The  birds  seem  singing  o'eriiead. 
Its  sparkling  current  roll'd  along. 

While  far  above  its  dimpling-  tide 
The  birds  rehearsed  their  sweetest  song-, 

Amid  the  branches  spreading  wide. 
Tliose  tow' ring   monarchs  seem  to  span 

My  fond,  devoted  native  stream. 
In  raptured  fancy  mutely  scanned 

The  happy  and  transporting  theme. 
I  seemed  to  gather  up  the  sliells 

That  there  lay  stranded  —  scattered  o'er, 
And  watched  again  tlie  dimpling  swells 


Tliat  break  upon  its  sandy  shore. 
And  formed  them  in  an  artless  wreath 

These  tributes  of  my  native  deep. 
Once  more  I  seemed  to  hear  and  breathe 

The  wild  winds  through  the  forest  sweep. 

Once  more  to  hear  the  weird  breeze 

Through  the  green  arcade  sigh  and  moan, 
And  see  the  lofty  forest  trees 

Unchanged  around  mj'  happy  home: 
Enchanted  hands  seemed  busy  there 

Around  my  home  — parental  door, 
As  the  rosy  vine  I  loved  so  dear, 

With  fragrant  bloom  was  covered  o'er. 
I  awoke  amid  this  glorious  scene, 

Tlie  enchantment  seemed  to  pass  away, 
The  enraptured  fields  of  living-  green. 

The  roses  too,  that  bloomed  so  gay. 
The  emerald  arch—  the  wild  arcade 

That  spanned  my  cherished  native  stream. 
All  appeared  to  vanish  and  to  fade 

Out  with  my  childhood's  happy  dream. 


AUTOGRAPH. 

Oh,  thou  divine  pray  kindly  send 
Thy  choicest  blessing  on  my  friend. 
Teach  her  the  path  that  love  has  trod 
The  way  that  leads  to  Thee  our  God, 
Where  fragrant  flower  perennial  bloom. 
And  shed  for  aye  their  sweet  perfume. 


MRS.  MARGARET  L.LEA. 

Born  :  Pike  Co  ,  Miss.,  Jan.  28, 1867. 
The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  quite 
extensively  in  the  local  press  and  tlie  South- 
ern Baptist  Record.  She  was  married  in  1887 
to  James  E.  Lea,  and  resides  in  her  native 
state  at  Magnolia. 


SLANDER  AND  PRAISE. 

Tiie  faintest  breath  of  slander 

M;iy  blacken  an  honest  name. 
As  a  poisonous  vapor  arising- 

Brings  death,  disease  and  pain. 
Wliile  a  word  of  praise  outspoken 

May  brighten  somebody's  fame. 
As  a  pleasant  breeze  from  tlie  northland 

Brings  sunshine  and  scatters  tlie  rain. 


EXTRACT. 
I  sat  in  the  glowing  sunshine 

Of  a  perfect  summer  day. 
And  listened  to  the  sweet  song: 

Of  a  brooklet  glad  and  gay. 
The  air  was  full  of  whispers 

That  pleasant  day  in  June, 
But  my  lieart  to  Nature's  music 

Was  sadlv  out  of  tune. 


«l 


88- 


LOCAL   AXD   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


4.5.5 


-)5 


EDWIN  FRANCIS  PARRY. 

Born:  Salt  Lake  City,  Utah,  June  11,  I860- 
As  a  composer  of  music,  Mr.  Parry  has  at- 
tained quite  a  reputation.  He  received  a 
fine  business  education  at  Morgan's  college; 
at  an  early  age  was  ajiprenticed  to  the  print- 
ing husiness,  at  wliich  occupation  he  is  still 


EDWIN   FKANCIS  'PARRY. 

employed,  being  manager  of  the  J.  H.  Parry 
&  Co.  printing  and  publishing  establishment 
at  Salt  Lake  City.  This  journalist  is  the 
editor  of  Parry's  Monthly  Magazine,  which  is 
acknowledged  to  be  the  leading  magazine  of 
the  territory. 


5 


LIFE  ON  THE  FARM. 
A  farmer's  life  is  the  one  for  me. 

And  a  home  among  the  waving  fields; 
Where  the  sons  of  toil  are  ever  free, 

And  wliere  the  earth  abundance  yields. 
I  love  the  pure  refreshing  air. 

And  to  view  the  fields  of  golden  grain ; 
I  love  a  habitiition  wiiere 
Contentment,  peace  and  joy  doth  reign. 
Where  the  gay  birds  sing 
In  the  early  spring. 
As  they  flit  among  the  budding  trees; 
Where  the  wild  flowers  bloom. 
And  their  sweet  perfume 
Is  wafted  on  the  gentle  breeze. 
Where  the  toads  and  frogs 
That  revel  in  the  bogs. 


Croak  requiems  to  each  dying  day; 

Where  the  watch-dogs  bark 

When  the  nigiit  is  dark. 
And  the  mules  in  the  stables  bray. 

Where  the  fat  ducks  quack 

Round  the  yard  and  straw-stack. 
And  the  rooster  crows  on  the  top  of  the  barn; 

Where  the  fat  hogs  grunt 

At  tlie  pig-sty  front. 
While  awaiting  their  breakfast  of  corn. 


THE  BEAUTIES  OF  HOME. 

Let  us  cherish  a  love  for  the  beauties  of  home. 

There  is  nothing  more  charming  on  earth; 
Tho'  in  distant,   fair  climes  seeking  pleasure 
we  roam. 
We  will  find  not  their  equals  in  worth. 
There's   a   peace   and   a  joy   that  our  dear 
home^  afford 
Which  the  wand'rer  abroad  will  not  find, 
Tho'    he  meet   with   kind   friends   who   will 
gladly  accord 
Unto  him  many  favors  so  kind. 
All  the  happy,  bright  days  of  our  childhood 
were  spent 
In  our  innocent  glee  round  its  hearth. 
And  the  memories  sweet   of  those  moments 
have  lent 
To  its  richness  in  beauty  and  worth. 
There  we've  played  'neath  the  shade  of  the 
trees  that  o'erhung 
The  low  cottage  that  sheltered  our  heads; 
And  have    romped    through    the   orchard  to 
hide  there  among 
The  green  bushes  in  soft,  gra.ssy  beds. 
But  most  precious   it  is  for  the  dear,  loved 
ones  there. 
Whose  affections  entwine  round  our  heart. 
And  which  bind  us  together  wherever  we  are 

In  a  friendship  that  time  cannot  part. 
Let  us  then  be  content  with  the  beauties  of 
home. 
Since  nauglit  else  upon  earth  is  more  fair. 
Though  in  lands  far  or  near,  seeking  pleasure 
we  roam. 
We  will  find  not  more  joy  than  is  there. 

EXTRACT. 
Each  gentle  ray  of  morning  light 

That  beams  upon  one's  face. 
And  outward  marks  of  loveliness 

Grim  care  maj'  soon  erase; 
But  tliere  is  a  lasting  beaut3-. 

One  that  never  should  depart: 
Yes,  the  sweetest  charm  of  nature,— 

'Tis  a  cheerful,  loving  heart. 
The  flcry  glance  from  sparkling  eyes 

With  age  grows  dim  and  cold. 
And  footsteps  once  so  light  and  free 

Will  totter  when  one's  old. 


m 


*- 


456 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEllICA. 


* 


JUDGE  J.  A.  KERR. 

This  gentleman  took  the  scientific  course  in 
the  National  normal  school  of  Lebanon,  Ohio, 
after  which  he  entered  and  went  through  the 

law  (leii:ii'< 'iiiMit  (if  the   Michi^'an    Universitj'. 


II    IM.I,   .).    \.   Kl.Uli. 

In  1878  Mr.  Kerr  opened  a  law  oflBce  in  Tippe- 
canoe City,  Ohio,  where  he  has  ever  since 
pursued  a  lucrative  practice.  In  1889  he  was 
elected  a  judge  of  the  common  pleas  court  of 
the  county.  The  poems  of  Judge  Kerr  have 
appeared  in  the  Chicago  Current  and  the 
leading  periodicals  of  America. 


A  VISION. 


©- 


BIRTH. 

A    wliite-winged   messenger  from  the  spirit 
land 

Descended  the  abyss  to  tlie  shores  of  time. 
And  waived  into  l)eing  witli  a  mystic  wand, 

A  child  of  dust  with  a  soul  divine. 

lilFE. 

Angels  guarded  the  fair  young  flower 
In  this  world  of  trials,  of  triumphs  and  of 
tears ; 
Tlie  Savior  blessed  in    pleasure's  dream  and 
sorrow's  li(nir 
Tlirougli  the  rallying  mists  of  twenty  years. 

DEATH. 

A  face  and  a  form  and  a  I'ootstei)  vanished. 
Nor  is  longer  known  on  this  billowy  shore. 


Hark!  The  wings  of  a  spirit !  An  angel  shines 
in  heaven. 
Heir,  with  Clu-ist,    of    the    bright  forever- 
more. 


A  DECEMBER  DAY. 
Low-drifting  clouds  o'erspread  the  skj-; 

The  day  is  dull,  the  landscape  drear; 
On  earth's  fair  bosom  snowflakes  lie. 

While  trees,  their  snow-clad  branches  rear. 
From  lowering  clouds  the  winter  rain. 

Cheerless,  descends  no  longer,  now; 
To  patter  loud  on  roof  and  pane. 

But  falls  the  dancing  flakes  of  snow. 
The  birds  give  fortli  no  notes  of  cheer. 

For  tliey  liave  flown.    The  woods  are  still ; 
The  fields  are  shorn,  and  brown,  and  sear; 

Ice-bound  are  river,  brook  and  rill. 
All  nature  seems  grown  graj'  with  rime. 

And  long  for  rest  —  to  die,  to  sleep ; 
Like  man,woos  sweet  rest,  courts  decline. 

And  feels  the  death-chill  o'er  her  creep. 
Her  race  seems  short,  and  almost  run: 

Her  knell  is  tolled  by  pattering  hail. 
In  clouds  of  crape  is  clad  the  sun ; 

The  wind  gives  forth  a  moaning  wail. 
The  earth  seems  wrapped  in  lier  last  sleep- 
All  nature  robed  in  shrouds  of  snow. 
Tlie  lowering  clouds  in  pit.v  weep. 

That  she,  like  man,  is  thus  laid  low. 


MRS.  ANNA  D.  ROBINSON. 

Born:  Plymouth,  N.  H. 
This  lady  has  written  a  volume  of  jjrose  and 
one  of  verse.    She  still  resides  in  lier  native 
state  at  Bristol. 


TWO  PICTURES. 

An  old  farm-house  with  meadows  wide. 
And  sweet  with  clover  on  eacli  side; 
A  bright-eyed  boy,  who  looks  from  out 
The  door  witli  woodbine  wreatlied  about. 
And  wishes  his  one  thought  all  day:— 
"O,  if  I  could  but  fly  away 
From  this  dull  spot  the  wttrld  to  see, 
How  happy,  liappy,  happy. 
How  happy  I  sliould  be. 

Amid  tlie  city's  constant  din, 
A  man,  who  'round  the  world  has  been. 
Who  'mid  ttie  tumult  and  the  throng. 
Is  tliinking,  tliinliing  all  day  long,— 
"O,  could  1  only  tri-ad  once  more 
The  tteld-palh  to  the  farm-liouse  door. 
The  t)ld  green  mi-adows  could  I  see. 
How  happy,  happy,  liappy, 
How  h;ippy  I  should  be! 


^■ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEllICA. 


4o7 


-® 


WILLIAM  J.  WARRENER. 

Born:  England,  Aug.  23,  1845. 
Although  ;i  carpenter  and  builder  by  trade, 
besides  Imving  a  perfect  kuowledg-e  of  geome- 
try, perspective  and  free-liand  drawing  as 
applied  to  architecture,  Mr.  Warrenerbas  fol- 
lowed the  occupation  of  farming'  since  bis 
arrival  in  America  in  1869.     He  was  ordained 

"1 


"WILLIAM  JOHN  WARRENER. 

an  elderin  thechristian  church  in  1879,  and  oc- 
easionallj'  delivers  sermons.  Mr.  Warrener 
has  also  become  prominent  as  a  speaker  and 
writer  on  matters  ag-ricultural,  social,  politi- 
cal and  religious.  He  received  the  nomina- 
tion for  state  senator  on  the  proliibition  ticket 
at  Zanesville,  Ohio,  in  1889.  Mr.  Warrener  has 
alarg-e  library,  containing-  works  on  history, 
philosophy,  science,  poetry,  law,  medicine, 
political  economy  and  theology.  He  is  now  a 
resident  of  Amesville,  Ohio. 


* 


THE     LORDS     PRAYER     AND     REFLEC- 
TIONS THEREON. 
Our  Father,  who  in  heaven  art, 

Hallowed  shall  be  thy  name; 
Tiiy  kingdom  come,  thy  will  be  done 

In  heaven  and  earth  the  same. 
Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread ; 

Our  trespasses  forgive. 
As  we  of  tliose  who  'gainst  us  sin ; 

Thus  may  we  daily  live. 


Into  temptation  lead  us  not, 

And  evil  save  us  from ; 
Thine,  kingdom,  power,  and  glory  be. 

For  ever  yet  to  come. 

Ob  !  what  a  soul-inspiring  tliought. 

That  lie  who  reigns  above. 
Doth  with  a  father's  feeling  guard 

And  guide  and  keep  and  love. 

"Our  Father,"  bow  suggestive  is 

The  name  by  Jesus  given ; 
It  shows  that  I,  a  child  of  earth, 

Am,  too,  a  child  of  heaven. 

0  tender,  lovely,  pregnant  name. 
It  is  so  dear  to  me; 

It  shall  be  honored  rev'renced,  loved 
To  all  eternity. 

Thine  ever  is  the  right  to  rule, 

I,  Lord,  thy  subject  am; 
And  ready  always  thee  to  serve, 

As  follower  of  the  lamb. 

As  in  the  courts  of  light  alMve, 

Angels  and  saints  obey; 
So  in  the  time  to  come  may  all 

Thy  bidding  do  alway. 

'Tis  thou,  O  Lord,  alone  can  give; 

From  thee  comes  all  supplies; 
I,  daily,  on  thy  bounty  live. 

To  thee  I  raise  my  eyes. 

1  am  a  great  transgressor.  Lord, 
Oft  have  I  sinned  'gainst  thee; 

I  pray  thee  to  forgive  my  sins 
And  mercy  show  to  me. 

I  pardon  free  and  full  do  give, 

True  mercy  I  would  show; 
1  must,  if  pardon  I  would  have. 

When  e'er  in  prayer  I  go. 

And  so  with  each  recurring  day, 

lo  love  to  all  mankind; 
To  know  the  father  loveth  me 

Inspires  my  heart  and  mind. 

The  soul  cannot  be  led  to  sin. 

Unless  inclined  that  way; 
Lord  purify  and  make  me  proof 

Against  the  tempter's  sway. 

From  evil  thoughts,  desires,  and  acts, 

I  would,  O  Lord,  be  free; 
Thy  power  can  cleanse  and  keep  me  clean. 

Exert  that  power  on  me. 

Thou  art  the  great,  the  pure,  the  good. 

The  glorious  and  the  true ; 
A  nd  to  thee  now  do  I  ascribe 

The  praise  and  honor  due. 

From  all  eternity  thou  art. 

And  to  the  same  wilt  be; 
My  praises  and  my  prayers,  then. 

Shall  e'er  be  unto  thee.    Amen. 


m 


©- 


458 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


-® 


PARKER  B.DAVIS. 


Born:  Winn,  Me.,  Jan.  11,  1859. 
AFTER  graduating  at  Lee  Normal  academy, 
young  Davis  traveled  through  Florida,  Texas 
and  New  Mexico.  Since  returning  to  Mauie 
he  has  been  alternately  farmer,  lumberman 
and  school  teacher.    Since  1886  Mr.  Davis  has 


PARKER    B.   DAVIS. 

contributed  poems  to  the  Yankee  Blade,  Port- 
land Transcript  and  various  other  periodicals. 
In  1888  this  writer  Lssued  a  volume  of  poems 
under  the  title  of  Tangled  Rhymes,  which  was 
well  received,  and  has  had  an  extensive  sale. 


WALLACE  AT  CAMBLTS-KENNETH. 

You'll  pardon  Wallace  for  his  crimes 

And  peace  to  Scotland  bring. 
If  we  aside  our  arms  will  throw 
And  own  proud  Edward  king? 

Think  ye  for  this  we've  gathered  here? 

Look  o'er  that  bright  array, 
And  answer,  if  ye  tliiiik  these  chiefs 

Are  come  for  peace  to-day? 

No !  never  more  to  England's  lord 

Shall  bend  the  Scottish  knee; 
We  come  not  here  to  treat  witli  you. 

But  to  set  fair  Scotland  free. 

We  take  no  peace  that  comes  witli  chains, 
Though  Scottish  hearts  may  bleed 
® 


On  every  rood  from  Pentland's  wave 

To  Berwick  on  the  Tweed. 
We've  felt  the  peace  that  Edward  gives: 

Our  homes  in  ashes  lie. 
While  hordes  of  English  ruffians  camp 

Beneath  our  Scottish  sky. 

And  every  trampled  blade  of  grass 

Oppression's  storytells; 
While  Scottish  nobles  rot  to-day 

In  England's  dungeon  cells. 

No  peace  with  Wallace  can  ye  have 

Until  his  grave  he  fills, 
If  yet  one  English  soldier  stays 

On  this  side  Cheviot  Hills. 

The  land  our  fathers  ruled  of  yore 

Shall  once  again  be  free. 
Or  every  stream  'neath  Scotland's  sun 

Go  crimson  to  the  sea. 


ONLY  A  MOMENT. 

Only  one  little  moment; 

All  our  work  to  be  done  — 
Sheaves  of  a  life-time  gathered. 

Victories  lost  or  won. 

No  time  to  be  standing  idle : 

No  time  to  be  gazing  back 
To  the  flowers  we  leave  ungathered- 

We  cannot  retrace  the  track. 

No  time  for  vain  repining 

O'er  battles  we  have  lost; 
Nor  after  every  conquest 

To  sit  and  count  the  cost. 

No  time  for  idle  dreaming 

Of  victories  to  be  won. 
Of  pleasures  that  may  greet  us 

When  the  moment's  work  is  done. 

No  time  for  hate  and  malice; 

No  time  for  idle  strife  — 
We've  only  ju.st  a  moment 

In  which  to  live  a  life 

Only  one  little  moment; 

All  our  work  to  be  done  — 
Sheaves  of  a  life-time  gathered. 

Victories  lost  or  won. 

OVER-REACHING. 

How  often  we  sink  too  deep 

For  the  fishes  we  fain  would  catch; 
And  many  a  wall  we  climb 

For  the  want  of  a  lifted  latch. 
Through  wearisome  years  we  search 

For  invisible  rainbow  gold. 
Till  lost  are  the  priceless  gems 

That  were  safely  within  our  hold. 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


4.59 


-® 


DAVID  DANA  SPEAR. 

Born  :  North  Yarmouth,  Me.,  May  26,  1839. 
Although  actively  eng-aged  in  tlie  profession 
of  a  pliysieian  and  surg-eon,  Dr.  Spear  has 
found  time  to  court  the  muse.  In  liis  youtli 
he  taught  school  for  awhile,  next  studied  the- 
ology and  was  a  minister  for  three  years.  Com- 
mencing the  study  of  medicine  in  1864  he^soon 


DAVID  DANA  SPEAR. 

received  his  diploma,  and  first  practiced  his 
profession  at  Kennebunk,  and  now  is  located 
at  Freeport,in  liis  native  state.  His  first  poems 
were  written  while  a  student,  and  were  pub- 
lished under  a  nom  de  i)lume:  he  has  con- 
tributed quite  extensively  to  christian  pub- 
lications. In  1886  the  degree  of  A.  M.  was  con- 
ferred upon  Dr.Spear  by  tlie  Colby  university. 

WINTER. 

Millions  dancing-!  snowflake  crystals 

Whirling,  twirling-  in  mid  air. 
Make  a  robe  of  ermine  beauty  — 

Deck  the  landscape  everywhere. 
There  is  ringing  of  the  sleigh  bells. 

Now  tlie  jiraneingstepof  steeds; 
Peal  on  peal  of  merry  laughter 

As  the  fleetest  onward  speeds. 
Children  rosy-cheeked  and  gleeful 

Coasting  down  the  village  hill. 
There  are  others  just  as  joyful 

Skating  near  the  mossy  mill. 
Thus  old  winter  with  his  pleasures 

Compensates  for  chilly  cold, 


And  he  makes  the  weaker  stronger  — 

Keeping  hearts  from  growing  old. 
True,  no  season  is  so  cloudy 

That  it  brings  us  nauglit  to  prize. 
If  we  only  see  the  sunshine 

Which  around  the  shadow  lies. 
If  we  only  can  remember, 

As  it  passes  into  view, 
Every  cloud  is  always  smaller 

Than  the  broad  expansive  blue. 


VACATION. 


With  vacation  time  returning 
Comes  a  longing,  comes  a  yearning  — 
Comes  a  thirsting,  comes  a  burning. 
Comes  an  earnest  ardent  wishing 
To  the  lakes  to  go  a  fishing. 
E'en  a.sleep  I  am  a  dreaming. 
Catching  speckled  trout  I'm  seeming. 
And  I  wake  with  tears  all  streaming— 
From  the  hook  I  thought  I'd  lost  him 
As  I  sudden  upward  tossed  him. 
Now  I  have  the  spotted  shiner; 
There  is  ne'er  a  spot  that's  finer; 
There  can  ne'er  be  fun  sublimer 
Than  to  catch  and  eat  the  beauties 
While  we  rest  from  toils  and  duties. 


SAMUEL  MAGILL. 

Born:  Baltimore,  Md.,  March  25, 1805. 
Mr.  Magill  has  resided  in  Iowa  City  since 
1847,  with  the  exception  of  nine  years  on  a 
farm.  He  served  one  term  in  the  city  coun- 
cil, and  was  a  member  of  the  school  board 
during  that  period.  Gifted  with  poetic  talent, 
Mr.  Magill  has  written  verses  for  many  years 
past.  He  has  a  cheerful  disposition,  and 
possesses  a  great  fund  of  humor,  and  is  quick 
at  repartee. 

SERENE  SATISFACTION. 
Mj^  "gal"  and  I  did  both  agree 
We  would  get  married  —  yes,  siree. 
Then  to  the  priest  both  of  us  went; 
He  tied  the  knot,  with  our  consent. 
Fifty-seven  years  have  gone  past. 
And  yet  the  knot  is  still  tied  fast; 
We've  never  felt  the  need,  of  course. 
During  that  time  for  a  divorce. 
Here  -we  will  fill  our  humble  places 
Till  time  will  end  our  earthly  races; 
And,  when  the  time  shall  come  to  go. 
We'll  both  be  ready  then,  we  know. 
We  now  have  lived  near  four-score  years, 
And  overcome  'most  all  life's  cares; 
Yet  we  will  wait,  our  time  to  fill. 
Both  Samuel  and  Priscilla  Magill. 


* 


©■ 


460 


« 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


CHARLES  HENRY  FREER. 

Born:  Washington  Co.,  Wis.,  Jan.  14, 1849. 
This    gentleman   follows  the   occupation  of 
painting- and  decorating,  and  is  now  a  resident 

of  Blue  Earth,  Minnesota.    Most  of  tlie  writ- 


CHARLES  HENRY  FREER. 

ings  of  Mr.  Freer  are  of  an  elocutionary  style, 
composed  purposely  for  recitations  and  char- 
acter speaking.  His  poems  have  received  ex- 
tensive publication  in  the  periodical  press. 


^- 


AUTUMN. 
How  richly  dyed  the  wine  of  morn. 
At  rest  on  autumn's  ruddj'  lips. 
When  gently  sways  the  tasseled  corn, 
As  gold  beneath  the  green  is  born, 
Wliile  distant  sounds  the  drinking  horn 

Through  all  tlie  valley  slips. 
Come,  poets,  feast  each  fancy  muse. 
That  loud  tlieir  mellow  lutes  may  sing, 
Tlu'ough  days  that  bring  contending  hues ; 
True  seasons  of  most  holy  dews. 
In  heraldings  of  happy  news, 

O,  let  them  gaily  ring. 
Sing  welcome  to  the  wiugs  of  change. 
Those    crimsoned    wings    tliat   autunui 

waves, 
Far  down  tlie  fading  heath  we  range. 
To  garner  from  tlie  faint  and  strange. 
To  i)hH'k,  arrange  and  re-arrange 

The  gilt  on  summer  graves. 


O,  autumn!  sweet  with  moon  and  stars; 
With  purpled  skies  and  crimsoned  wood, 
Witli  coral  leaf  on  harbor  bars. 
That  sound  the  sea  of  Time's  guitars. 
While  harvest  rolls  her  golden  cars 
In  one  grand  sisterhood. 


GEORGE   E.   NAFTZGER. 

Born:  Lima,  Ohio,  April  30, 1859. 
In  1879  Mr.  Naftzger  was  editor  of  a  literary 
paper  known  as  Our  Boys  and  Girls,  and  later 
published  the  Sunday  Morning  Gossip  atEd- 
gerton.  Since  that  time  he  has  been  identi- 
fied with  the  Ohio  newspapers,  and  is  at  pres- 
ent associate-editor  of  the  Spencerville  Jour- 
nal. Mr.  Naftzger  is  not  so  widely  known  as 
a  poet,  but  has  gained  an  enviable  reputation 
as  a  humorous  writer  of  prose,  having  contri- 
buted many  brilliant  articles  to  tlie  Detroit 
Free  Press,  Atlanta  Constitution,  New  Or- 
leans Picayune,  and  other  papers  of  note.  He 
is  also  well  known  as  a  lecturer. 


ONLY  A  WOMAN'S  WAY. 
Boys,  when  you  pop  the  question 

And  the  girl  tells  you  nay. 
Don't  despair,  for  you'll  get  there  — 

It  was  only  a  woman's  way. 
Her  sweet  blushes  tell  a  different  tale, 

There  is  hope  for  you  to-day. 
So  be  not  cast  down  by  a  girlish  frown  — 

It  was  only  a  woman's  way. 
She  must  not  be  too  easily  won. 

She  begs  for  more  delay. 
In  your  hour  of  bliss  remember  this  — 

It  was  only  a  woman's  way. 
And  when  once  you  are  married. 

She'll  "dive"  into  your  montlily  pay, 
For  slie'll  want  a  bonnet  with  flowers  on  it— 

But  it  is  only  a  woman's  way. 
So  it  will  be  your  whole  life  through, 

Until  your  hair  turns  gray  — 
It  may  be  absurd— slie'lI  have  the  last  word- 
But  tliafs  only  a  woman's  way. 


ONLY  A  BABY. 

..Only  a  baby  small,"  hark,  how  it  cries; 
Only  a  chubliy  face,  two  tearful  eyes; 
Only  two  little  teetli  tit  for  a  mouse; 
Only  ten  sticky  lingers  all  through  tlie  house 
..  Only  a  golden  head,"  with  one  little  curl; 
..  Only  a  tt'iider  Hower,"  only  a  girl ; 
Only  two  little  ears,  ten  little  toes: 
She  may  wed  a  millionaire  —  nobody  knows. 
Only  a  baby  small,  never  at  rest. 
Crawling  o'er  the  tioor,  rigged  in  its  best, 
..  Only  a  baby  small,"  gone  like  a  breath, 
Growing  to  womanhood,  loving  till  death. 


SB 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK  AMEUICA. 


4G1 


® 


FERNANDO  C.SEARL. 

Born:  Scioto  Co.,  Ohio,  July  18, 1825. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Searl  have  appeared  quite 
extensively  in  the  periodical   press.     He  is  a 
member  of  the  tirm  of  Harper.  Searl  &  Miluer, 


FERNANDO  C.  SEARI,. 

attorneys-at-law  at  Portsmoutli,  Ohio,  where 
he  is  well  linown  and  respected.  Personally 
Mr.  Searl  is  of  very  fine  stature,  with  light 
hair  and  blue  eyes. 


® 


THE     LAND     WHERE     MY     TREASUKES 
ARE    HID. 

The  birds  are  away  for    their   homes    in   the 

south. 
The  river  flows  on  to  the  sea,  at  its  mouth 

The  Summer-sea  islands,  amid. 
The  mountains  are  sere  and  the  heavens  are 

gray. 
The  flowers  have  faded  that  grew  by  the  way 
To  the  land  wliere  my  treasures  are  hid. 

The  spring-time    shall  come  as  the  spring-- 

times  of  old, 
And  the  sheplierd  shall  gather  his  lambs  to 
the  fold. 
But  mine  come  not  home  at  my  bid: 
They  are  over  the  river,  are  lost  to  my  sight. 
But  I  visit  them  st'U  in  my  dreams  of  the 
night. 
In  the  land  where  my  treasures  are  hid. 


When  my  spirit  is  calm  and  my  soul  is  at  rest 
Au  angel  comes  down  from  the  land   of  the 
blest, 
And  I  follow  away  at  her  bid 
To  an  island  of  beauty,  beyond  the  dark  sen. 
Where  my  treasures  are  hid  and  are  awaiting 
lor  me. 
In  the  land  where  my  treasures  are  hid. 
My  MoJlie,  my  Duga,  my  Vasco,  my  Bell; 
Not  the  arrows  of  death  nor  the  kingdom  of 
hell. 
Shall  me  from  my  darlings  forbid 
When  my  spirit  is  free,  and  my  soul  takes  its 

flight 
Through  the  valley  of  Death  and  the  shadows 
of  night, 
Q'o  the  land  where  my  treasures  are  hid. 
The}'  were  children  of  mine,  they  were  hu- 
man by  birth. 
And  trod  the  low  valleys  and  pathways  of 
earth. 
Bore  the  stains  of  all  follies  we  did; 
But  they  travel  no  more  in  the  valleys  below. 
They  are  fairer  than  angels  and  whiter  than 
snow, 
In  the  land  where  my  treasures  are  hid. 
O  pardon  my  weakness,  I  strove  with  it  long; 
Then  my  soul  found  relief  in  the  gush  of  my 
song. 
And  my  heart  of  its  burden  was  rid ; 
For  I  saw  on    the   dark    troubled    bosom  of 

night. 
The  tokens  of  day,  and  a  glimmer  of  light 
From  the  land  where  my  treasures  are  liid. 


AMONG  THE  HILLS. 
Lo!  I  have  wandered  in  life's  beaten  patli, 
Where  men  are  ever  rushing  to  and  fro; 
Have  borne  the  fierceness  of  the  noon-day's 

heat, — 
My  limbs  are  weary  and  my  sun  is  low. 
Shall  I  in  Lethe's  fountain  bathe  my  head. 
And  bid  life's  rugged  landscape  fade  away; 
As  outlines  of  the  mountain  crags 
Dissolve  and  soften  in  the  twilight  gray? 
Or  hold  communion  with  the  grand  old  hills; 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  earth  once  more. 
In  shady  covert  rest  my  weary  limbs  — 
The  fervor  of  my  languid  faith  restore? 
Long  have  1  wandered  from  the  haunts  of 

youth,— 
The  dark  green  arbors  of  the  forests  wild ; 
But  unto  thee,  O!  mother  nature  now, 
I  turn  my  footsteps  as  a  home-sick  child. 
Where  nature  carves  her  caverns  in  the  rock. 
Or  rears  her  stony  battlements  on  high. 
Rest  in  lier  amphitiieater  of  hills. 
All  roofless  save  the  azure  of  the  sky. 


-© 


©- 


462 


© 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   TOKTS  OF  A:ME1MCA. 


And  liere  and  tliere  an  argosy  of  clouds 
Flecking  the  uzuro  of  the  upper  deep. 
And  low  hung'  frettingof  the  forest  trees 
Tlirough    which    the    glimmers  of  the  sun- 
beams creep. 
In  rock  and  hill  behold  the  record  of  the  past. 
In  growing  tree  and  in  corroding  stone 
The  hand  of  nature,  at  her  silent  work 
Molding  creation  as  tlie  years  roll  on. 
What  are  the  ebulitions  of  man's  eager  strife. 
When  once  the  fever-dream  of  life  is  past? 
The  diapason  of  sweet  nature's  song 
Shall  blend  all  things  in  harmony  at  last. 


EXTRACTS. 


A  SONG. 

It  is  said  that  a  bird  that  is  lonely  and  sad 
Sings  sweeter  than  one  that  is  lively  and  gay : 
Is  the  wail  of  its  lieart  by  its  music  subdued 
Or  the  omen  of  anguish  enchanted  away? 
Can  the  song  of  a  poet  whose  heart  is  as  lead 
Flow  smoothlj'  along,  as  a  calm  tide  might 

flow 
O'er  the  wreclc  of  a  ship,  and  tlie  liopes  that 

went  down. 
And  are  strewn  on  the  floor  of  the  ocean   be- 
low? 

THE  FAR  WEST. 

Land  of  the  west  what  mist  involves 
The  glories  of  thy  by-gone  days, 
No  scroll  of  fame  thy  record  bears, 
No  poet  sings  thy  tragic  lays. 
No  Colloseum  of  the  past, 
No  fallen  tower  of  ruined  fane. 
No  graven  symbols  on  thy  rocks. 
No  Balbec  ruins  on  thj'  plains. 

A  NEW  year's  ADDRESS. 

O  fountain  of  eternal  life. 

Thee  would  I  know  and  sweetly  sing. 

How  death  is  but  eternal  life. 

And  winter's  dirge  the  song  of  spring. 

FROM  A  REUNION  WELCOME. 

Does  man  liis  nobler  courage  prove 
In  heat  of  battle  courting  deatli. 
And  l)reathing  of  the  cannon's  breath. 
While  as  a  messenger  of  love. 
His  lieart  would  sink,  his  check  would  pale, 
To  stand  where  Florence  Nightingale 
Stood  calm  as  angel  from  above. 


«- 


SIMON  HENRY  BRIGHT. 

Rorn:  Lenoir  Co.,  N.  C,  Dec.  ;i",  18G-t. 

The  poems  of  Mr.  Rright  have  appeared  in 

the  New  York  Cricket  on  the  Hearth  and  tlie 


local  press  generally, 
native  place- 


He  still  resides  in  his 


MONEY-FOOLS. 

Men  will  seek  and  men  Avill  labor  — 
Spend  their  lives  in  toil  and  pain. 

Never  stop  to  look  above  them. 
So  intent  on  earthly  gain. 

Men  will  seek  and  men  will  labor, 

Growing  older  day  by  day, 
Soon    their  youth  and  strength  have 
them  — 

Soon  their  locks  are  mixed  with  gray. 

Men  will  seek  and  men  will  labor. 
Till  they  feel  the  chill  of  death. 

Then  they  find  that  gold  and  silver 
Will  not  stay  the  fleeting  breath. 

Then  they  think  of  all  the  evil 

Mingled  with  their  lives  of  gain  — 
Of  the  sorrow  caused  to  others  — 

Of  the  hearts  they've  filled  with  pain. 
In  my  mind  I  have  a  picture 

Of  a  dying  man  whe  lies 
Toitured  by  the  horrid  visions 

Which  rise  up  before  his  eyes. 
Now  he  sees  the  tattered  beggars 

Empty-handed  leave  his  door; 
Widowed  wives  and  orphan  children. 

Wretched,  hungry,  weak  and  jioor. 
Oh!  the  joy  he  might liave  caused  them. 

Oh!  the  good  he  might  have  wrought; 
Oh!  how  costly  was  his  treasure. 

Oh!  how  cheap  his  life  was  bought. 
Then  he  looks  with  dying  glances 

On  his  kindred  standing 'round- 
Vultures  waiting  for  the  carca.ss. 

Eager  for  the  feast  they've  found. 
Vultures,  yes,  they'll  prey  upon  him; 

They,  his  kin,  who  little  care 
Whether  heaven  or  hell  receives  him, 

Sohe  leaves  his  treasures  here. 
And  he  dies,  and  none  are  sorry. 

Law  suits  follow  not  a  few. 
And  his  money  goes  to  others  — 

Lawyers,  men  he  never  knew. 
And  the  old  man  is  forgotten. 

And  his  grave  is  decked  with  weeds; 
Nothing  lives  iiis  love  has  cherished; 

All  his  past  was  selfish  deeds. 
This  they  know  has  been  the  ending 

Ever  since  the  world  was  made. 
Of  the  men  who've  lived  for  riches,— 

Yet  their  course  they  h;ive  not  stayed. 
Still  men  seek  iind  still  they  labor. 

Never  v>ause  to  look  ahead, 
Tt>  that  lile  that,  lies  beyond  them. 

Soon,  alas,  too  late,  they're  dead. 


left 


-fl) 


©- 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


463 


MRS.  ELIZA  LAMB  MARTYN. 

Bokn:  Charlton,  Mass.,  July  8, 1845. 
This  lady  has  written  for  the  Boston  Globe 
and  other  prominent  journals      She  was  mar- 
ried in  1868  to  Monroe  M.  Martyn,  with  whom 


MK8.  ELIZA    LAMB   MAKTVN. 

she  resides  at  Fitehburg.  In  person  Mrs.  Mar- 
tyn is  of  good  stature  with  light-brown  hair 
and  blue  eyes.  She  is  engaged  almost  entirely 
in  literary  worlj. 


15- 


THE  WORLDS  UNKNOWN. 
Our  land  abounds  in  monuments  of  art. 
Memorial  halls,  fine  statues  —  bronze  and 
stone; 
To  heroes,  sages,  let  the  world  impart 

Its  praise  I  sing  to  those  to  fame  unknown. 
The  unknown  heroes  that  have  lived  and  died, 
.  In  silence  suffering,  scorning  all  complaint. 
Who  buried  hopes,  their  ideals  and  their  pride. 
And  burdens  bore,  though  weary,  worn  and 
faint. 
The  recluse  soul,  to  all  the  world  unknown. 

Save  to  one  faithful  heart,  powerless  to  save. 
Whose  cloister   cell  the    world  misnamed  a 
home. 
Their  path  of  life  marked  round  an  open 
grave. 
I  sing  to  poets  whose  sad  lips  are  dumb. 

Whose  ears  are  heavy  with  the  din  of  toil. 
Who  to  their  full  estate  could  never  come; 
Slaves  to  hard  circumstance  and  life's  tur- 
moil. 


I  sing  to  artists  whose  souls  caught  the  beam 
Of  heaven's  own  light,  the  light  of  perfect 
day. 
Whose  soul's  recesses    with    rare     pictures 
gleam. 
That  bands  grown  hard  with  toil  failed  to 
portray. 
I  sing  to  all  the  good,  the  noble,  true. 
Who  walked  with  bleeding  feet  through  all 
life's  years; 
I  sing  because  I  catch  a  heavenly  view 
Of    their    grand  souls   in    more   congenial 
spheres. 

HOPES  AND  FEARS. 

O,  beautiful  world  tliat  greets  our  glad  eyes ! 
O,  beautiful    landscape    and    sapphire-hued 

skies! 
O,  flowery-fringed  brooklets  and  sweet  sylvan 

bowers  I 
A  world  filled  with  music,  with  sunshine  and 

flowers ! 
Is  heavenly  beauty  more  perfect  than  this? 
Does  any  far  planet  afford  greater  bliss? 
With  gladness  and  goodness  the  whole  world 

is  rife! 
If  hope  leads  us  on  through  the  journey  of 

life. 
O,  dark,  dreary  world  that  pains  our  sad  eyes! 
O.mist-hidden  landscape  and  dull  leaden  skies ! 
The  brooks  are  complaining  and  long  for  re- 
pose? 
The  serpent's  shine  poisons  the  breath  of  the 

rose! 
There  is  no  perfection ;  all  beauty  is  scarred. 
By  coarseness  and   grossness    all    nature  is 

marred. 
And  life  is  a  burden  that  drags  through  the 

years. 
When  we're  led  through  its  intricate  maze  by 

our  fears. 


GIVE  ME  THY  HAND. 
Give  me  thj'  hand 
When  storms  are  fiercely  blowing, 
When    masts   are   shattered  by  the  angry 
blast. 
When  nothing  tells  the  way  thy  ship  is  going. 
When  blackest  darkness  o'er  the  sea  is  cast. 
Give  me  thy  hand. 
Give  me  thy  hand 
When  every  breeze  is  sleeping. 

When  demon-like  a  dead  calm  holds  the  sea. 
When  patience  pales,  her  tedious  vigil  keep- 
ing. 
When  sea  and  sky  have  naught  of  hope  for 
thee. 
Give  me  thy  hand. 
Give  me  thy  l)and 
When  everv  sail  is  swelling 


-® 


©- 


464 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


-^ 


With  freshening  wind,  when  laughing  is  the 
sky, 
And  perfumed  breath  from  distant  flowers  is 
telling- 
Of  isles  enchanted  that  before  thee  lie. 
Give  me  thy  hand. 
Give  me  thy  hand 
In  storm ;  in  calm,  forever, 

I  have  thy  heart  fast  hidden  in  my  breast. 
For  God  long  since  has  joined  our  souls  to- 
gether. 
He  beckons  only  on  to  heaven  and  rest. 
Give  me  thy  hand. 


TRUSTING. 
Here  on  this  neck  of  land 
I  stand. 

The  ocean  breaks  with  sullen  roar, 
Its  white-capped  waves  dash  on  the  shore. 
And  parting,  sink  to  rise  no  more. 
A  stormy,  restless  sea 
Taunts  me! 

On  either  hand  skies,  waters  meet, 
Without  one  sail  my  eyes  to  greet, 
While  rising  tides  wash  o'er  my  feet. 
I  walked  with  backward  tread. 
He  led 

Me  through  the  stretch  of  fertile  land. 
Through  barren  wastes  of  rock  and  sand. 
And  here  I  wait:  wait  his  command. 
Waiting,  his  love  I  fully  trust. 
I  must ! 

I  know  his  hand  will  set  me  free, 
And  though  the  way  I  cannot  see 
I  know  his  love  is  guiding  me. 


JAMES  BALLARD. 

Born:  England,  June  5, 1837. 
This  poetical  lecturer  has  written,  about  fif- 
teen thousand  lines  in  rhymes,  part  of  which 
has  been  published  in  pamphlet  form.  He 
emigrated  to  Canada  in  1856  and  settled  in 
America  three  years  later.  Mr.  Ballard  is  lo- 
cated at  Red  Oak,  Iowa,  engaged  in  gardening 
in  summer;  but  in  winter  he  generally  goes 
on  a  lecturing  tour. 


^ 


WOMEN'S  RIGHTS. 
In  Women's  Rights,  good  poets  delight; 

They  cannot  do  otlierwise ; 
Many  are  so  kind,  and  so  refined. 

How  can  they  riglits  despise. 
Women's  Rights  is  good,  and  it  always  should 

By  heroes  bo  defended; 
For  weaker  vessels,  wise  men  wrestle  — 

Wrestle  till  wrongs  are  mended.' 
Wrongs  in  laws,  is  one  great  cause; 

Some  tliink  tliey  are  inferior: 


But  in  many  things,  their  judgment  rings 
In  tones  out  far  superior. 

If  their  judgment  then,  is  equal  to  men. 

And  riglits  men  wish  to  enhance. 
Do  not  dispise,  if  you  love  your  wives. 

But  give  them  an  equal  chance. 
An  equal  chance  will  pleasure  enhance. 

And  in  pleasure  good  folks  delight ; 
Then  work  together,  to  enliance  pleasure. 

And  uphold  women's  rights. 


TILLING  THE  SOIL. 
When  I  am  dead,  and  out  of  sight, 
The  wise  will  read  with  great  delight; 

Some  useful  rhymes  I've  written: 
And  even  foes  will  change  their  plan. 
And  say  the  author  was  a  shrewd  man ; 

And  feel  conscience  smitten. 

After  years  of  toil  and  grievance, 
I've  found  out  from  long  experience; 

Since  tillage  I  have  watched: 
That  one  acre  well  tilled. 
And  with  a  crop  well  filled, 

Is  better  than  ten  botched. 

I  never  gave  it  such  deep  thought. 
Until  poor  crops  the  lesson  taught; 

That  till  less  land  I'd  better: 
And  till  it  well  and  at  the  right  time; 
And  let  it  have  frost  and  sunsliine ; 

And  keep  off  it  rainy  weather! 

If  tillers  heed  what  I  do  say. 

They  will  find  in  time  that  it  will  pay 

To  plow  laud  in  tlie  fall. 
Instead  of  waiting  until  spring. 
And  plow  in  the  rain  to  get  crops  in; 

Or  else  not  plow  at  all ! 

By  plowing  in  tlie  fall,  the  frost  will  shake. 
And  again  early  in  the  spring,  it  will  clods 
break. 

And  the  land  will  get  warm  as  well: 
Whoever  this  poem  should  happen  to  read, 
Will  do  real  well  if  they  take  heed; 

And  also  their  neighbors  tell! 


THE  LARK. 

When  I  was  quite  a  little  boy. 
My  father's  pet  and  motlier's  joy, 
I've  laid  down  in  the  bright  sangfoy ; 

And  listened  to  the  lark  in  the  morning 
As  he  flew  out  of  tlie  sangfoy. 
And  sang  liis  notes  without  alloy; 
It  filled  my  heart  with  sweetest  joy; 

As  I  listened  to  the  lark  in  tlie  morning. 
I've  watched  the  lark  with  great  delight, 
Soar  higher,  and  higher,  till  out  of  sight; 
But  never  saw  him  soar  at  night, 

But  often  in  the  morning. 


m- 


LOCAT.   AND   XATIOXAL    TOETS   OK  AMKKICA. 


405 


-^ 


FLORENCE  N.  BOWEN. 

Born:  Pitcher,  N.Y.,  Sept.  14,  1867. 
When  twelve  years  of   age  Miss  Bowen  had  a 
severe  run  of  scarlet   fever,  and  lias  never 


I 


since  fully  regained  her  health.  She  is  con- 
sidered by  competent  critics  a  fine  writer. 
Miss  Bowen  resides  in  Litchfield,  Minn 


UNCLAD  THOUGHTS. 
A  sentence,  word  or  accent. 
Without  tlie  thought  beliind. 
Is  but  a  blank,  a  nothingness 
To  consciousness— to  mind. 
It  is  the  swelling  current 
Beneath  the  spoken  word. 
By  wliich  the  heart  to  joy,  or  grief, 
To  love,  or  hate,  is  stirred. 
But  man's  soul,  in  its  deafness. 
Will  recognize  no  thought. 
Which  to  tlie  outer,  grosser  sense, 
is  not  distinctly  brought. 
Man  chooses  words  as  garments; 
in  his  soul's  babv-hood 
To  hide  the  sliape-  conceal  the  form 
Of  all  thought,  ill  or  good. 
He  apes  his  sinning  parents 
And  seeks  to  clothe  his  mind 

iom?''"'"",'"  ^'""'■'-  ^"^'^  "'^  true  self 
N)me  searclnng  eye  may  find. 


Wlien  minds  are  strong  through  purity. 
The  naked  tliought  will  reach 
A  sister  mind,  in  all  its  force. 
Without  misguiding  speech. 

God  speaks  thus  to  His  children; 

He  needs  no  foiling  dress 

In  which  to  clothe  the  Truths  He  sends. 

The  listening  soul  to  bless. 

'Twas  thus  the  soul  of  Moses, 
Jehovah's  message  heard. 
And  we,  to-day,  with  inner  ear. 
May  listen  to  his  word, 


ZEDDEKIAH  H.  COPP. 

Born:  Fisher's  Hill,  Va.,  Sept.  14, 1864. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Copp  have  appeared  in  the 
local  press  of  his  native  state,  where  he  still 
resides  at  Kernstown.    Mr.  Copp  follows  the 
profession  of  teaching. 

MORNING. 

See  the  approach  of  morning— 

The  heralder  of  day  — 
When  the  sunlight's  piercing  rays 

The  darkness  drives  away. 

See  the  wondrous  beauty 

Of  this  early  morn  — 
That  which  causeth  nature 

Her  gayest  robes  to  'dorn. 

See  all  delicate  colors 

Are  painted  in  the  sky — 
All  art  could  nothing  find 

So  pleasing  to  the  eye. 

See  the  stars  are  failing 

The  incessant  light  to  show. 
All  nature  is  being  awakened 

By  this  early  morning  glow. 

See  the  sun  reflecting 
Upon  the  mountain  farawaj-. 

Has  caused  the  sweet-voiced  songster 
To  chant  his  morning  lay; 

See  the  dewdrops  sparkling 

As  if  it  wore  a  jewel 
In  the  morning  light  reflecting 

Its  diamond  lustre  cool; 
See  the  sun  is  rising 

The  glorious  orb  of  day 
Which  cause  these  splendid  beauties 

All  to  fade  away; 

To  those  wlio  rise 
To  look  at  this  wondorful  view 

Must   acknowledge    in    God's    hand- 
work. 
There  is  always  something  new.  | 

-51 


©: 


466 


m 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL,    POETS    OF  AMERICA. 


VIOLA  VIRGINIA  PRICE. 

Born:  Barnesville,  Ohio,  Dec.  12, 1855. 
Graduating  from  Mt.  Union  coUego  in  1878, 
Miss  Viola  later  received  tlie  degree  of  M.  Pli., 
and  in  the  summer  of  1887  slie  took  a  course 
in  the  study  of  poetry  and  literature  at 
Martha's  Vineyard.  Following  the  profession 
of  teachins:-  Miss  Price  has  had  charg-e  of  the 


1 

Wl 

m 

,^M 

ir 

i 

^^ 

^ 

VIOLA  VIRGINIA  PRICE. 

department  of  English  in  the  Normal  School 
of  Kansas,  at  Emporia,  since  1881.  Tliis  lady 
is  a  member  of  the  Western  Autliors'  and  Ar- 
tists' club,  the  Social  Science  club,  and  acting 
president  of  the  State  Academy  of  Language 
and  Literature.  She  has  also  written  several 
popular  lectures  which  have  been  favorably 
received. 


©- 


JENNY  LIND. 

As  birds  of  lieavenly  plumage  soft  and  rich 
Tell  by  bright  hues  they  came  from  fairer 
climes. 

So  Jenny  Lind  with  artistic  skill  would  pitch 
Her  melody  to  seraphim's  sweet  chimes. 

As  pink  shells  murmur  of  the  far-off  sea. 
Her  voice  trilled  sweetest  native  Sweden's 
airs. 
Yet  such  inspiring  matins  bi'eathed  slie 
That  love  for  her  a  world  entranced  still 
bears. 


Sweet  as  old  songs  of  which  we  never  tire  — 
Sweet  as  fresh  hymn  from  morn-awakened 
lark; 
Sweet  as  low  strains  that  purled  from  Tas- 
so's  lyre. 
Her  symphonies  made  Phoebus  e'en  to  hark. 

The  songs  of  this  rare  bird  were  sweeter  far 
Than  melodies  of  heavenly  harpers  are. 


WHEN  LEAVES  GEOW  GOLD. 
When  leaves  grow  gold  and  north  winds  blow, 
October's  brush  makes  landscapes  glow; 
Decks  monarch  oak  in  cloak  blood-red. 
Her  graceful  elms  chrome-yellow  spread. 
Through  ivies  green  makes  ruby  flow. 

And  gentian  blue,  so  loth  to  go. 
Greets  golden-rod,  while  to  and  fro 
Soft  fringes  wave.    Bowed  sunflower's  head 
When  leaves  grow  gold. 

In  wealth  of  nuts,  glad  squirrel  chirps  low. 
Midst  sigh  of  leaves  caws  luckless  crow. 
And  sad  our  hearts  wlien  comes  the  dread 
Cold  snow  as  swift  departs  the  tread 
Of  autumn  fair  —  all  loved  her  so. 
When  leaves  grow  gold. 


A  VIOLET. 


Your  cheeks  are  so  pink 

The   peach   bloom  must  have  kissed 
them. 
Cupid  lurks  on  the  brink  — 
Your  cheeks  are  so  pink 
With  blushes  that  shrink. 

Who  wouldn't  have  bit  tliem? 
Your  cheeks  are  so  pink 

The   peach  bloom   must   have  kissed 
them. 


SPRING  FLOWERS. 
O !  sweet  and  charitable  friend 

Your  gift  of  fragrant  bloom 
Has  brought  the  spring-time  and  the  woods 

To  cheer  my  lonesome  room. 

It  rests  my  weary  aching  eyes, 
And  soothes  my  heart  and  brain ; 

To  see  the  tender  green  of  the  leaves, 
And  the  blossoms  wet  with  rain. 

For  I  love  and  prize  you  one  and  all. 
From  the  least  low  bloom  of  siiriiig; 

To  the  lily  fair,  whose  clothes  outshine 
The  raiment  of  a  king. 

And  when  my  soul  considers  these. 
The  sweet,  the  grand,  the  gaj'. 

I  marvel  how  we  shall  be  clothed 
With  fairer  robes  than  they. 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


467 


® 


LIZZIE  SMITH  LEAVELL. 

Born:  Christian  Co.,  Ky. 
In  1876  Lizzie  removed  with  her  father  to  San 
Marcos,  Texas,  wliere  she  has  since  resided. 
Since  1885  the  poems  of  this  lady  have  appear- 

' : i 


LIZZIE  SMITH    LEAVELL. 

ed  from  time  to  time  generally  under  the  nom 
de  plume  of  Bessie  Smith.  In  person  she  is 
tall  and  slender  with  a  fair  complexion,  deep 
blue  eyes  and  brown  hair. 


ADOWN  THE  RIVER. 
Well  I  remember  an  evening  fair. 

We  glided  adown  the  river; 
The  world  aglow  with  the  summer's  bloom. 

And  the  wavelets  alla-quiver. 
The  sunbeams  glanced  in  splendor  down. 

Gold  bars  on  the  waters  leaving. 
And  with  their  magic  fingers  bright. 

Gold  threads  in  your  brown  hair  weaving 
The  liquid  depths  of  your  soulful  eyes. 

The  blue  from  the  skies  was  stealing; 
And  the  changeful  glow  upon  your  cheek. 

Was  the  sea-shell's  tints  revealing. 
A  song-bird  perched  in  the  willows  green. 

Told  sweetly  of  fragrant  bowers ; 
And  the  low  refrain  was  echoed  back 

By  the  bees  amid  the  flowers. 
And  the  busy  zephyrs  heavy  lade 

With  the  fragrance  from  the  clover. 
Lingered  along  in  tlieir  onward  way 

To  whisper  their  joys  over. 


And  the  shadows  played  at  liide-and-seek. 

Among  the  waving  rushes. 
That  with  their  rustling  softlj'  broke 

Upon  the  blissful  bushes. 
The  baby  wavelets  splashing  by 

Told  me  a  sweet,  glad  story. 
And  in  my  heart  the  mystic  pow'r 

Of  love's  entrancing  glorj'. 
The  world  seemed  wrapt  In  fairy  light. 

And  the  stream  a  magic  river. 
Upon  whose  breast  the  changeful  gleam 

Of  ripples  all  a-quiver. 
Upon  the  water-lilies'  hearts 

The  brightest  gems  were  beaming. 
And  in  the  ripples'  foamy  spray 

Bright  rainbow  tints  were  gleaming. 
But  as  we  glided  lightly  down, 

I  saw  jou  start  and  shiver. 
And  thought  'twas  from  the  wind's  strong 
breath 

Grown  cold  with  mists  from  the  river. 
As  you. turned  away  my  heart  grew  cold. 

And  pain  its  joy  was  stilling; 
A  glance,  a  sigh,  our  cheeks  were  white, 

Our  hearts  were  sadly  thrilling. 
With  weary,  aching  eyes  I  saw 

The  tears  on  your  pale  cheeks  quiver, 
A  hand's  strong  clasp,  a  lip's  light  touch. 

We  parted  — and  parted  forever. 


GRIFFITH  0.  JONES. 

Born:  Wales,  1836. 
Emigrating  in  his  youth  with  his  father  to 
Wisconsin,  the  subject  of  this  sketch  entered 
the  drug  business  in  1863.  In  1883  he  estab- 
lished the  Eagle  at  Augusta,  which  he  still 
publishes.  He  has  written  numerous  poems 
of  merit  that  have  received  extensive  publi- 
cation in  the  periodical  press. 


COME  CLOSER. 
Come  closer,  clasp  tighter,  kiss  sweeter,  dear, 

For  O,  love  has  its  winter,  its  death ! 
Though  God-like,  thou  'rt  only  a  sweet  flower. 

That'll  wither  in  autumn's  cold  breath. 
There's  no  kiss  so  warm   but    'twill    freeze, 
dear. 

No  treasure  I  always  can  keep; 
No  arms  but  will  fail  to  clasp,  dear; 

No  eyes  but  will  finally  sleep! 

Come  closer,  clasp  tighter,  kiss  sweeter,  dear- 
Let  us  crowd  all  eternity  in  a  breath ! 
Come  closer,  clasp  tighter,  kiss  sweeter,  dear. 

We'll  soar  beyond,  conquer,  forget  death  1 
Yes,  come  closer,  closer,  clasp  tighter,  tighter, 
dear. 
Kiss  sweeter,  sweeter,  sweeter,  dear. 
Let  us  crowd  all  eternity  in  a  breath ! 
® 


®- 


468 


51 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  MARTHA  L.EMERSON. 

BOKN :  Chelmsfokd,  Mass.,  Nov.  1, 1832. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  Emerson   liave  appeared 

in  tin- liujtun  .JuuriKil,  -  ,"      ,ii  izittc  Cnui  l;i- 


.Mlx^.   MARTHA  Ij.    >,M1  I.-oN. 

town  AdvoL-ale  and  otlier  publications.  She 
was  married  in  18.5.5.  and  still  resides  in  her 
native  stute  at  Box  ford. 


LISTEN! 
Let  the  tumult  and  swell  of  earth's  cares  go 
by 
With  its  rusliinjf  high; 
And  in  the  pause  'twi.xt  the  ebb  and  flow 
Wiiile  the  winds  are  low. 
Listen ! 
Cease  for  a  moment  the  toil  and  strife 

That  burden  thy  life;  [close. 

Let  the  tired  hands  fall  and  the  tired  eyes 
And  while  they  repose. 
Listen  1 
Just  over  our  heads  is  music  sweet. 

Full  and  complete: 
From  tlie  earth  to  tlu- stars  it  sweeps  and  rolls 
The  music  of  souls. 
Listen! 
Rested  and  strengtiiened  our  feet  spurn  the 
soil 
As  we  turn  to  our  toil ;  [vine. 

For  the  strains  from  the  upper  world  ever  di- 
Seo  for  your  hearts  and  mine, 
Listen ! 


«- 


ADVICE. 
An  M.  D.  existed  who  thought  for  one  day 
He  would  rest  from   his  labors   and  hasten 

away 
With  his  gun,  to  discover  in  forest  and  field. 
The  game  which  he  hoped  that  their  coverts 

might  yield. 
He  wandered  all  day    hut  his  gun  was  not 

heard; 
There  appeared  neither  squirrel,  nor  rabbit, 

nor  bird. 
Disheartened  and  weary  he  returned  to  his 

wife. 
Declaring  he  ne'er  had  such  luck  in  his  life; 

•  •  I've  killed  nothing  to-day,  and  such  terrible 

waste 
Of  time  and  of  strength,  is  not  much  to  my 
taste." 

•  ■  Killed  nothing,"  said  she,  "Well,  the  reason 

is  clear. 
You  should  have  adhered  to  your  calling,  my 
dear." 


MRS.  JANE  E.  HILDRETH. 

Mrs.  Hildreth  has  written  several  stories, 
and  occasionallj'  writes  verse.  She  is  a  resi- 
dent of  Kirksville,  Missouri,  where  she  is  well 
known  and  admired  for  her  accomplishments. 

AN  ABSENT  FRIEND. 
There  came  to  my  liome  in  the  long  ago, 

A  youth  with  a  manly  face; 
The  rich  jewels  of  friendship  and  worth 

All  aglow  on  his  young  manly  face. 
Kindred  ties  bound  the  lad  to  my  lieart, 

For  he  came  as  a  child  to  a  mother. 
And  my  door  stood  ajar  for  his  wandering 
feet. 

As  it  oft  had  for  many  another. 
Years  sped  away  and  he  comes  back  again. 

And  there  steals  o'er  my  soul  a  sense  of 
For  the  lines  on  his  once  sunny  face    [sorrow. 

Tell  their  story  of  sadness  and  sorrow. 
Tis  the  old,  old  story  of  wither  and  blight. 

Of  clouds  that  came  soon  in  life's  dawning, 
Shutting  down  o'er  the  soul  like  a  pall. 

That  hides  away  the  bright  morning. 
Will  you  come  back  agaui  in  the  twiligiit  of 
years. 

When  the  sun's  sinking  low  in  the  west. 
And  tell  of  the  roses  'twere  plucked  'mid  the 
tlH)rns, 

Or  speak  of  thy  soul's  unrest. 
Friend,  a  door  stands  ajar  for  thy  wandering 
feet, 

A  path  leading  to  it  that  many  have  trod. 
To  a  home    in   the  mansion    not   made  with 
hands. 

In  the  beautiful  gardens  of  God. 


* 


©■ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


469 


-® 


LILLIE  BINKLEY. 

born:  Atchison  Co.,  Kan.,  Dec.  9, 1869. 
THE  poems  of  this  young-  lady  have  received 
publication  in  the  Texas   Siftino-s.   Woman  s 


LII.I.IK  lUNKI.EV. 

Tribune,  and  imuieruus   other  pubhcatit>ns. 
She  is  at  present  engaged  in  school  teaching-. 

..WOMAN,  THY  VOWS   ARE  TRACED  IN 
SAND." 
So  it  -was  said  in  days  of  yore. 
And  quoted  by  some  six  or  more. 
That  woman's  vows  are  traced  in  sand: 
And  Byron  said  'twould  ever  stand. 
Though  some  are  fickle,  false  and  fair. 
And  some  wear  curls  who  have  straight 

hair. 
The  truest  liearts  mankind  can  claim 
More  often  wear  a  woman's  name. 
To  her  who  hath  a  vow  to  mend 
A  helping  hand  we  would  extend. 
If  she  hath  failed  to  act  her  part 
You'll  likely  find  a  broken  heart. 
A  woman's  wrong  is  oft  endured 
While  other  wrongs  less  wrong,  are  cured. 
True  woman's  vow  will  stand  till  time 
No  more  shall  beat  its  silvery  chime. 
But  she  whose  vow  is  falsely  made 
Deserves  the  tribute  Byron  paid. 
Oh:  woman,  may  this  tribute  stand, 
Thv  vows  are  writ  in  heaven  s  sand. 
1® 


MEMORY. 

Softly  as  an  angel's  foot-fall. 

Memory  treads  her  golden  shore. 
Brightly  in  the  sparkling  waters 
She  reflects  the  scenes  of  yore. 
Dear  familiar  faces  greet  us, 

As  the  stream  glides  slowly  by 
Winter's  clouds,  and  summer's  sunshine. 

All  reflected  from  the  sky. 
Softly,  gently,  let  her  fan  us. 

But  for  her  our  youth  would  die. 
Let  her  wield  her  wondrous  scepter 

As  the  changeful  years  go  by. 
Fading  pictures,  fleeting  phantoms. 
Fancies,  loves  and  dreams  are  one. 
She  hath  claimed  them,  let  her  keep  them. 

In  her  closed  and  silent  room. 
Gently  answer  to  her  echo 

When  she  calls  unto  her  heart; 
Fancy  takes  the  future's  keeping. 

But  the  past  is  memory's  part. 
Fading  memories,  fleeting  memories. 
Memories  sad,  and  memories  sweet, 
All  upon  the  silent  threshold 

Bowing,  passing,  hourly  meet. 
Bitter  memories  unforgotten, 

Happy  memories  cherished  yet. 
Yours  it  is  that  crowns  our  sorrow, 

Youi-s  it  is  that  brings  regret. 
Coldest  waves  of  time  blow  softly. 

Lightly  rise  and  lightly  fall. 
Steal  no" memory,  mar  no  blessing. 
To  the  world  our  past  is  all. 


STILL  PICTTRED  IN  MY  MIND. 
I  pause  behind  the  ceaseless  din 

That  mingles  in  the  town. 
My  thoughts  go  back  to  country  fields. 

Whilst  streets  I  wander  down; 
The  restless  crowd  goes  to  and  fro. 
They  all  may  have,  for  aught  I  know, 
A  green  field  pictured  in  the  mind 

Of  days  and  lands  afar  behind. 
Oft  when  the  cares  of  life  are  still. 

Or  peacefully  go  by. 
I  seem  transported  to  the  farm. 

Beneath  the  country  sky ; 
Beneath  the  sunset  tint  I  stand,        [hand. 
My   sweetheart's   pulse   throbs   in   my 
With  youthful  glee  again  we  stray 

Across  the  fragrant  new-mown  hay. 
My  old  white  hat  and  trousers  blue, 

My  bare  feet  hard  and  tan, 
Tl,e  eggs  we  stole  for  Easter  day. 

Our  tow  shirts,  made  by  hand- 
Are  scenes  that  still  are  bright  and  clear 

\s  when  mv  boyhood  painted  there. 
And  when  I'm  tired  of  life's  great  game 
I  turn  and  view  my  youth  again. 


© 


©- 


-* 


470 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POKTS    OF  AMERICA. 


MARTHA  EILEEN  HOLAHAN. 

Born:  Turner,  111,.,  July  1, 18G3. 
Since  1885  this  poet  lias  written  for  the  Chica- 
go Herald,  St.  Paul  Globe,  Boston  Tiansfiipt, 
New  York  Sun,  Peterson's  MagMzinc,   Mun- 


roe's  Mati'aziKc,  and  her  i>()cins  lia\'e  been 
much  admired.  In  1888  she  published  a  long- 
poem  in  a  neat  volume  entitled  Nondescript 
or  Tlie  Passionate  Recluse.  She  is  now  a  ivs- 
ident  of  Waba.sha,  Minnesota. 


UNDERNEATH  THE  MISTLETOE. 
From  Christmas  dance  and  pleasant  plans. 

You  stole  away,  perchance  to  rest; 
You  were  a  daujfhter  of  the  manse, 

And  I  —  a  homeless,  liapless  guest. 
AlfaiK  those  storied  halls  you  sped  — 

Forjiivc  m(^  that  I  walched  you  go! — 
But  could  1  help  it,  when  you  slied 

More  radiance  than  the  tapers'  glowi? 
From  Hght-spun  jest,  and  careless  niirtli. 

You  lied  —  Oh,  love,  why  did  you  He(>? 
Could  you  have  dreamt  liow  void  of  worl  li 

Your  absence  Jiiade  that  chee)'  to  me'? 
The  rooms  were  gay  with  Christ  inas-tlme; 

And  ladies'  laughter,  trained  and  low, 
Rang  soft  as  distant  silver  cliinic 

Of  l)ells,  acro.ss  the  crystal  snow. 
A  waltz  sobbed  sensuous,  soft.    Indeed, 

Within  till!  mazes  of  that  dance 


©- 


One  might  have  well  resigned  liis  creed. 

Disarmed  by  Beauty's  magic  lance; 
Yet  o'er  the  fairest  there  you  shone, — 

Ah,  did  1  not,  love,  tell  you  so,  \ 

While  we  two,  briefly,  we  alone. 

Enraptured,  'neath  the  mistletoe? 
Within  the  yule-log's  light  j'ou  stood,-  - 

Naj',  was  I  then  so  much  to  blame?— 
Your  eyes  down-cast  in  pensive  mood. 

Seemed  wooing  e'en  that  breast  of  flame. 
I  loved  you  sol— you  were  .so  fair! 

But  far  above  me  dear,  I  know; 
Yet  I  forgot,—  yet,  then  and  there, 

I  kissed  you  'neath  tlie  mistletoe. 
In  dreams  I  oft  repeat  tliat  night 

While  pausing  'neath  some  verdant  bough; 
The  distant  strain,—  that  leaping  light,— 

My  maddened  pulse,—  long  sobered  now  I 
And  oft  I've  wondered  love,  since  then,— 

While  yule-log  seasons  come  and  go,— 
1  f  you  recall  that  Christmas,  when 

I  kissed  you  'neath  the  mistletoe. 
One  thrilling  second  'neath  that  kiss. 

Your  warm  lips  pulsed.    Could  you  forget? 
Tliat  moment  of  mad,  tempting  bliss. 

Seems  worth  a  whole  life  of  regret. 
Your  sweet  face  quiveied  on  my  breast 

So  long,  before  I  let  you  go, 
For  I  in  Paradise  was  blest 

Full  well,  beneath  that  mistletoe. 
Ah.  well!  The  strangest  are  but  weak. 

When  pushing  'gainst  Fate's  iron  chain: 
The  passions  which  we  dare  not  speak. 

Are  those  that  burn  within  the  brain. 
And  whether  better  to  forget 

That  Christmas-page  of  long  ago, 
I  would  not  if  I  could,  regret 

One  moment  'neath  its  mistletoe. 
So  otten,  when  I  pass  you  by,— 

A  serf  where  you  :ire  throned  a  queen,— 
I  wonder  if  you  ever  sigh. 

Or  wee]),  perchance,  when  all  unseen. 
And  if  we  two  should  stand  again. 

Alone,  as  in  that  yule-log  glow. 
Would  you  be  tender,  love,  as  when 

I  kissed  you  'neath  the  mistletoe? 


M.\M.MON. 

'Twi.vt  golden  spires  by  Mammon  carved  — 

Insignia  of  her  sordid  creed,— 
The  millions  jolt  and  languish,  starved  — 

Bah!  Is  it  hymns  the  hungry  need? 
Ye  gods!  Methinks  the  angel  lyres 

Crash  rudely  forth  —  their  music  fled. 
W' lien  wealth  erects  such  costly  sjiires 

O'er  creatures  mad  for  want  of  bread? 
Down  aisles  of  gilt  and  splendor,  rolls 

Monopoly,— ill  spoils  arrayed; 
All  careless  of  the  passioned  souls 

Lost  in  tiie  strife  such  gain  has  made! 


* 


m- 


LOCAL    AXD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  A3IEKICA. 


471 


-® 


RUDOLPH  WORCH. 

Born:  Germany,  June  10,  1846. 
Rudolph  Worch  is  one  of  the  best  known 
German  journalists  of  the  country,  and  is  a 
thorough  master  of  the  English  as  well  as  the 
German  language.  At  the  beginning  of  our 
civil  war  he  came  to  the  United  States,  where 
bis  fatlii-i',  Major  Cliristiau   Woroh,  Mas   thi'ii 


RUDOLPH    W()H(  H. 

serving  thecountry  of  his  adoption.  Although 
hardly  16  years  old,  young  Rudolph,  shortly 
after  his  arrival  in  this  country,  joined  bis 
father's  regiment  and  had  the  double  misfor- 
tune of  catching  tlie  typhoid  fever  and  being 
caught  by  Stonewall  Jackson's  cavalry.  After 
his  return  from  captivity  he  was  appointed  to 
a  clerkship  in  the  military  department  of  the 
Washington  post  office,  where  he  served  until 
the  end  of  the  war,  and  was  then  attached  to 
the  editorial  staff  of  the  German  correspond- 
ent at  Baltimore.  In '69  he  married  Mathilde 
Lehmann,  the  daughter  of  Chas.  F.  Lehmann, 
a  Baltimore  painter  of  note.  After  losing 
all  his  savings  in  the  publication  of  a  German 
daily  at  Baltimore  he  accepted  an  editorial 
position  under  Fred  Hassaurek  of  the  Cincin- 
nati Volksblatt.  In  '71  he  was  called  to  Fort 
Wayne,  Ind.,  to  take  charge  of  the  Volks- 
freund,  which  paper  he  afterward  bought 
and  took  to  Jackson.  Michigan,  where  he  is 
publishing  it  at  this  writing,  the  paper  being 
in  Its  18th  year.  The  bulk  of  Worch's  poetry 
as  well  as  prose  is  written  in  German,  but  he 


has  brought  forth  quite  a  number  of  English 
pieces,  mostly  unassuming  little  lyrics  con- 
densing a  depth  of  thought  into  a  few  simple 
lines.  He  has  also  translated  some  master- 
pieces of  German  poetry  into  excellent  Eng- 
lish verse,  always  foUowingthe  original  close- 
ly enough  to  preserve  its  peculiar  beauty 
without  ever  appearing  stiff  or  strained. 


PARTING. 

It  is  ordain'd  by  Him  above. 

That  we  from  those  whom  most  we  love 

Be  parted. 
Though  nothing  in  all  nature's  course 
The  heart  fills  with  such  deep  remorse. 

As  parting. 
A  friend  gave  you  a  rosebud  rare. 
You  water  it  with  tender  care. 

Yet  know  ye. 
To-morrow  it  may  bloom  so  bright, 
And  wither  ere  another  night, 

That  know  ye. 
If  God  has  granted  you  a  love, 
Sweet  as  a  rose,  pure  as  a  dove, 

Yet  fear  ye. 
In  little  time  she  will  be  gone, 
And  you  remaining  all  alone. 

Be  weeping. 
But  you  must  understand  me  right, 
Nor  ever  lose  this  from  your  sight. 

Remember! 
While  parting-  sorrow  gives  sad  pain, 
Tliere's  alwaj-s  hope  to  meet  again 

For  ever ! 


DEFIANCE. 

The  wor.se  fickle  fortune  does  toss  you  about, 
The  loftier  your  bearing,  your  courage  more 

proud ! 
The  mightier  the  foes,  the  truer  your  aim. 
The   fiercer   the   conflict,    the   greater   your 

fame! 
The  louder  life's  turmoil,  the  quieter   your 

rest. 
The  more  they  denounce  you,  the  more  you'll 

be  blest. 
Tlie  longer  the  distance,  the  earlier  to  start, 
The  colder  the  weather  the  warmer  the  heart. 
The  greater  the  struggle,  the  greater  the  bliss. 
The  coyer  the  maiden,  the  sweeter  the  kiss! 


THE  DARK  AND  THE  FAIR. 

A  TRANSLATION. 

Thou  art  ju3t  like  a  flower. 
So  bright,  so  pure,  so  sweet, 
I  look  upon  thee,  and  sorrow 
My  heart  makes  strangely  beat. 
I  feel  that  I  in  blessing. 
Should  touch  thy  hair  so  light. 
Praying  that  God  may  preserve  thee. 
So  sweet,  so  pure,  so  bright. 


•ffi 


©- 


472 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


-® 


MRS.  MAY  J.  DILLEY. 

Born:  St.  Maky's,  III.,  May  15,  1863. 
Since  1883  this  lady  has  written  both  prose 
and  verse.    Slie  was  married  iu   1886  to  S.  V. 
Dilley,  with   wiiom  slie   resides  in   Mora,  New 


MRS.   MAY  J.   DILLEY. 

Mexico.  Mrs.  Dilley  is  of  a  very  charitable 
disposition  and  is  matron  of  a  mission  school, 
and  consequently  has  become  very  popular 
amongst  lier  many  acquaintances. 


©- 


TO  A  VIOLET. 
Look  up  dear  little  violet, 

Wliy  art  thou  sad  and  lone? 
Wliy  droop  tliy  lovely  head  so  low? 

Why  have  thy  smiles  all  flown? 
Hiive  wanton  winds  been  wliispering- 

Tales  t-liat  have  made  thee  sad, 
Tliat  thou  look'st  so  like  a  love-lorn  girl 

Who  can  never  more  be  g'lad? 

Look  up  dear,  gentle  violet. 

Lift  tliy  soft  and  velvet  cheek, 
Thy  saucy  love,  thv  sunbeam 

Would  kiss  thy  lips  so  ni(>ek: 
He  wonld  chnsc  away  tli(>  teardrop 

'I'rciiihlitig  iti  thy  soft  dark  eye; 
Why  shrink  away  from  love  so  warm 

Amid  thy  mates  to  droop  and  die? 

Look  u])  thou  graceful  violet, 
He  never  more  downcast. 


Thy  love  makes  thy  life  bright  and  warm. 

Thy  storms  are  over,  past. 
Ah !  What  is  this?  his  fervent  breath 

Blights  beauty  from  thy  brow  — 
Poor,  tender,  withered  violet, 

Thy  sorrows  are  o'er  now. 


IN  AUTUMN. 


There  is  a  glorious  golden  glow 

In  the  far-off  western  deep. 
And  from  the  seas  of  light,  below 

The  sun  has  dropped  to  sleep. 
Swaying  clouds  like  hammocks  near. 

O'er  the  darkening  forests  stir. 
Little  clouds  scud  bj'  in  fear 

When  night  lights  her  Jupiter. 
The  rosy  mists  now  flee  away. 

Followed  by  the  purpling  shade  — 
Cold  gray  twilight  comes  to  stay. 

And  wraps  the  earth  as  in  a  plaid. 
Wild  winds  wing  from  winter's  couch. 

Chilling  with  their  icy  breath 
Every  shivering  leaf  they  touch  — 

Wilt  and  witlier  it  to  death. 


LINES  FOR  AN  ALBUM. 
As  an  artist  paints  a  picture. 

Or  sculptor  chisels  a  stone 
Into  the  loveliest  imagery 

To  imagination  known ; 
So  stroke  by  stroke  our  characters 

By  our  own  works  are  made  — 
With  the  Master  Artist  to  train  us 

Our  cliaractcrs  never  can  fade. 


MOONLIGHT  MUSINGS. 
Earth  is  so  fair  and  God  so  good. 
Oh!  that  I  his  goodness  understood; 
Would  that  my  soul  could  see  and  know 
Of  all  He  dt)th  on  me  bestow. 
I  look  into  tlic  solemn  nigiit 
And  there  behold  the  pale  moon's  light, 
Her  queenly  majesty  on  high 
Sails  t  lirough  the  deep  and  arched  sky. 
While  far  around  and  over  all 
A  silvery  m;nitle  she  lets  fall, 
While  she  and  all  her  heavenly  train 
Smile  down  on  fields  of  .sleeping  grain, 
Ujion  the  hill  whose  brow  is  crowned 
With  a  city  uttering  ne'cn-  a  sound. 
And  sweet,  serene  and  solemn  stand 
Shafts  pointing  to  a  bet  ter  land. 
Those  whom  we  love  and  mourn  for  still 
Sleep  'neath  the  moonlight  on  the  hill. 
And  through  the  weeping  willows  wail 
Wilful  winds  with  mourn fnl  tale. 
While  all  the  bright-eyed  flowers  nod 
"Mong  t  he  whispering  waving  .sod. 


9 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF  AMEKICA. 


473 


© 


CHARLES  CARGILE. 

Born:  Jasper  Co.,  Ga.,  Dec.  28, 1823. 
This  geutleman  received  his  education  at  the 
Mercer  university  of  his  native  state.  For 
the  past  quarter  of  a  century  Mr.  Cargile  has 
contributed  quite  a  number  of  meritor- 
ious poems  to  the  leading-  papers  of  America, 


CHARLES  CARGILE. 

from  wliich  tliey  have  been  extensively  copied 
by  the  local  press.  In  person  he  is  of  good 
stature,  being:  full  six  feet  in  height  and  tips 
the  beam  atone  hundred  and  .seventy-two 
pounds.  Mr.  Cargile  has  generally  followed 
the  occcupation  of  farming  and  also  furniture 
dealer,  in  which  latter  business  he  is  at  pres- 
ent engaged  at  Oiiolona,  Arliansas,  where  he 
is  very  popular. 


MAN. 

The  grandest  structure  reared  by  the  Al- 
mighty's hand 

Is  the  tenement  in  which  dwells  the  soul  of 
man; 

For  ages  men  have  sought  to  know  it,  but  it 
still 

Baffles  the  efforts  of  the  wisest  and  most 
skilled; 

The  more  they  learn  the  more  they  find  there 
is  to  learn,— 

Each  knowledge  gained  reveals  new  troubles 
in  its  turn. 


The  faculties  and  senses  of  the  human  kind 
Surpass   the   comprehension  of   the  human 

mind,— 
Like  their  lleshly  abode  they  too  must  pass 

away. 
But  unlike  it,  do  not  return  to  dust  nor  clay; 
Ages  upon  ages  yet  around  will  roll 
And  leave  half  its  wondrous  mysteries  un- 
told. 

But,  above  all  the  greatest  study  is  the  soul. 

Whose  mysteries  by  pen  nor  tongue  can  ne'er 
be  told. 

Men  may  cut  and  probe,  and  cut  and  probe 
again. 

But  to  locate  the  soul  in  man  is  an  effort  vain ; 

And  wlien  released  from  its  prison  here  below. 

Takes  its  flight  and  knocks  for  entrance  at  an- 
other door. 

Then  think,  oh  man,  the  fate  that  awaits  thy 
soul. 

Worth  more  to  thee  than  this  world  with  all 
its  gold,— 

For,  like  your  frail  form,  they  too  will  pass 
away 

And  leave  your  soul  alone  to  test  the  judg- 
ment day  — 

And  receive  its  sentence  with  the  saints  in 
Heaven  to  dwell. 

Or  make  its  abode  in  an  agonizing  hell. 


THE  BOLD  GIRL  AND  THE  MAN  IN  THE 

MOON. 
I  loved  him  dearly,  but  answered  nay, 
Fearing  that  I  might  something  .say, 
'Twould  cause  him  my  eagerness  mistrust. 
And  turn  his  love  into  disgust ; 
But,  should  he  ever  come  again, 
I'll  give  him  an  answer  straight  and  plain. 
He  came  again  but  'twas  so  late, 
Impatience  led  me  to  the  gate; 
We  seated  'neath  the  old  oak  tree. 
He  on  a  stump,  I  on  his  knee. 
Fondly  he  said.  My  darling  dear. 
What  brought  you  out  to  meet  me  here; 
Knowest  thou  not  'tis  out  of  place? 
Oft  acts  like  tliis  lead  to  disgrace. 
Now  George,  you  know  I  meant  no  harm, 
So  'round  his  neck  I  laid  my  arm. 
Fondly  I  said.  George,  my  dear. 
Listen  and  something  good  you'll  hear; 
I  will  no  longer  answer  nay  — 
Now  you  yourself  may  name  the  day, 
Look  at  the  man  in  the  moon,  hush !  be  still, 
Peeping  at  us  from  over  the  hill. 
Now  really,  Jane,  I  am  afraid. 
He'll  tell  what  we  have  done  and  said. 
You  timid  boy,  what  do  you  mean, 
If  he  should  tell  what  he  has  seen, 
Or  anything  that  we  have  said, 
I'll  take  a  stick  and  break  his  head. 


-5! 


s- 


-® 


474 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


OLD-STYLE  FIRE  TONGS. 
Would  that  some  genius  of  inventive  mind, 
Could  enough  of  leisure  from  his  business  find 
To  somewhat  mitigate  poor  woman's  wrongs 
By  an  improvement  on  the  old-style  flre  tongs. 
For  they    have   drunk  the  bitter  cup  to  its 

dregs, 
In  tlie  use  of  loose- jawed  tongs  with  dangling 

legs. 
Ye  fathers,  brothers,  sons  and  other  kinsmen 

near, 
'Tis  with  you  I  plead  for  those  we  hold  most 

dear; 
Cannot  one  be  found  the  task  to  undertake? 
If  for  naught  else,  then  for  pity  sake, 
That  the  blood  within  our  veins  may  no  more 

curd 
At  hearing  them  say  some  little  ugly  word. 
The  wreath  of  fame  will  surely  deck  the  brow 
Of  him  who  shall  first  make  and  fill  the  vow; 
Historians  will  do  honor  to  his  name. 
And  hoist  it  on  the  very  pinnacle  of  fame. 
And  ladies  of  every  land  and  clime 
Will  chant  his  name  in  sweetest  rhyme. 


BURGLAES. 

This  morning  as  the  clock  struck  four 
A  gentle  rapping  at  my  floor 
Caused  me  to  spring  upon  my  feet 
And  quickly  through  the  keyhole  peep; 
Three  burglars  stood  on  the  porch  floor. 
Not  far  behind  them  stood  three  more. 
Still  as  tombstones  they  did  stand  — 
Each  with  a  navy  six  in  hand; 
Puzzled  to  know  what  best  to  do, 
I  from  my  bed  two  pistols  drew. 
Then    lowly  whispered  to  my  wife, 
.'Wake  up  and  try  to  save  your  life," 
Then  tiptoed  back  to  the  door 
Just  as  I  had  done  before. 
Impatient  now  at  my  delay, 
I  heard  one  very  softly  say: 
He's  fast  asleep  I'll  force  the  door; 
Another  softly  said,  oh,  no. 
Perhaps  he  may  not  be  asleep,  - 
Ho  through  the  keyliole  too  did  peep.— 
I  blazed  away  tluough  the  keyhole: 
A  shriek,  a  groan,  the  tale  was  told. 
For  strange  to  you  as  it  may  seem. 
It  all  turned  out  to  be  a  dream. 


ee 


LOUD  PRAYING. 
As  I  passed  a  country  church  one  day 
Some  one  within  so  loud  did  pray. 
It  seemed  he  thouglit  that  God  was  deaf. 
And  bawled  till  he  was  out  of  breath. 
If  God  knows  each  wish  before  expressed, 
Each  thought  within  each  liunian  breast, 
'Tis  strange  a  man  of  common  sense 


Would  dare  to  ofi'er  such  offense. 

Christ  was  a  good  and  righteous  man  — 

Imitate  him  then  near  as  you  can; 

Kneel  down  beneath  some  lonely  tree. 

And  pray  in  silence  as  did  he; 

Or  to  your  closet  in  secret  go. 

Where  none  but  God  your  wants  needst  know, 

And  there  to  him  in  silence  pray,— 

From  such  he  will  not  turn  away. 

For  God  who  heareth  all  we  say 

111  lowest  whispers  when  we  pray, 

Would  know  one's  faith  was  very  weak, 

Who  praying  to  him  so  loud  would  speak. 


NO  REST  THIS  SIDE  OF  THE  GRAVE. 

Oft  my  mind  when  left  to  roam, 

Goes  forth  in  search  for  me  a  home. 

Where  free  from  life's  vexatious  cares 

I  may  spend  the  remnant  of  my  years. 

Sometimes  in  caverns  twixt  the  liills. 

Whose  depths  the  mind  with  terror  fills: 

Sometimes  on  islands  far  away 

Where  forests  hide  the  sun  all  day. 

Sometimes  on  some  oasis  wild. 

Where  neither  man,  woman  nor  child. 

Have  ever  bowed  in  prayer  to  God, 

Or  across  its  desert  border  trod. 

It  seeks,  but  such  can  ne'er  be  found 

This  side  of  where  the  sun  goes  down. 

Then  bowed  with  grief  alas  I  cry : 

Where,  oh!  tell  me  where  can  rest  be  found' 

Echo  sends  back  the  sad  reply: 

No  where  save  in  the  silent  ground. 


KATEKAUFFMAN. 

Born  in  Ohio. 
This  lady  is  a  graduate  of  the  University  of 
Delaware  in  her  native  state.  A  vivacious 
person  of  energetic  and  artistic  temperament, 
she  has  won  a  respectable  measure  of  success 
as  teacher,  artist  and  writer. 

THE  EVENING  FlUE. 

Better  to  me  llian  wine,  as  good  as  friend. 

This  blazing  basket  fixed  mid  pictured  tile; 

Its  welcome  warmth  contentments  through 

me  send  while, 

In  veins  and  flesh,  in   mind  and  soul,  meau- 
Forgiven  he  who  coldly  gave  me  slight. 

Forgotten    restless    longings,    thoughts   of 
change. 
With  feet  eiislippei'cd  and  my  books  to-night 

No  kinder  fale  there  .seems  in  world's  wide 
ningc. 
O,  could  1  in  my  heart  aglow  convey 

To  exorcise  all  spells  of  baleful  kind. 
From  thence  a  charity  to  all  purvey,  ^ 

And  calm  my  teasing  self  in  faith  so  Miiul. 
At  lasl  in  life's  as  iti  tlie  day's  decay 

O,  may  this  sacred  fire  burn  pain  away'. 


m 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL    TOETS    OF  AMERICA. 


475 


^ 


ELMORE  E.  EWING. 

Born-  Ewington,  Ohio,  Feb.  16, 1840. 
Entering  college  at  twenty,  Mr.  Ewing  two 
years  later  enlisted  as  a  private  in  tlie  civil 
war.  He  was  soon  afterwanl  i)romote(i  to 
lieutenant,  and  was  severely  wounded  in  1864. 
Tn  1865  this  ji-entlem:iii   ent'ag-ed  in  business; 


EL.M(MtE  E.   EWING. 

and  in  the  same  year  was  married  to  Miss 
Minerva  Folsom.  Tlie  poems  of  Mr.  Ewing- 
have  appeared  in  various  newspapers  and 
magazines,  and  many  of  them  have  been  de- 
livered at  re-unions  and  social  g-atherings,  al- 
ways being  enthusiastically  received.  Mr. 
Ewing  is  still  a  resident  ot  his  native  city, 
where  he  is  a  prominent  wholesale  merchant. 


©- 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  YEARS. 
The  stuff  of  which  our  lives  are  made, 

Is  time,  so  say  the  sages ; 
A  person-dge  that  greed  and  trade 
Can  not  control,  nor  make  afraid  — 
Receives  no  hue  from  light  or  shade. 

But  doles  to  men  their  ages. 
So  potent  is  his  regjil  sway. 

Men  deify  liis  title: 
And  make  him  lord  of  night  and  day. 
As  one  by  one  tliey  speed  away. 
And  beauty  bring,  or  else  decay 

To  every  thing  that's  vital. 
Men  put  a  scythe  upon  his  back, 

A  sand-glass  in  his  clutches; 


His  bones  are  bare  and  painted  black. 

And  desolation  in  his  track 

The  picture  shows,  and  there's  a  lack 

Of  any  pleasing  touches. 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man, 

They'd  have  old  time  to  .share  it; 
But  what  recks  he  for  mortal  ban, 
Man's  race  he  measures  with  a  span, 
And  terminates  each  selfish  plan  — 

The  schemes  that  men  inherit. 
Time  gently  deals  with  patient  souls 

Who  strive  in  life's  endeavor, 
To  render  solace  not  in  doles. 
In  sable  gown,  or  fringed  stoles. 
But  seek  that  love  which  still  controls 

And  keeps  them  young  forever. 
Time  gently  deals,  while  yet  his  plow 

Makes  deeper  still  the  furrows 
That  he  has  marked  across  the  brow, 
And  we  discern  them  even  now. 
And  'neath  his  burdens  meekly  bow, 

Or  be  they  griefs  or  sorrows. 
We  speak  of  time  and  lo,  we  mean 

God's  love  and  providence; 
And  though  our  senses  intervene 
Our  souls  and  him  who  gave,  between. 
Our  fondest  hope  is  that  we  lean 

On  these  as  we  go  hence. 
God's  love  is  not  a  bruised  reed. 

It  never  breaks  nor  pierces; 
It  bears  us  up  through  sorest  need. 
It  solace  brings,  though  heart-strings  bleed. 
It  heightens  joy,  is  joy  indeed,— 

In  desolation  cheers  us. 
I'm  conscious  that  I  stand  to-night 

Within  a  circle's  center. 
Whose  band  is  broken,  and  the  light 
From  realms  unknown  to  mortal  sight 
Comes  streaming  down,  though  Death's  sad 
blight 

Forbids  the  light  to  enter. 
When  years  have  tied  we  see  at  last 

The  beauty  of  the  blending; 
Companionship  forever  past. 
Could  not  the  eye  of  faitli  forecast 
Within  the  future's  domain  vast 

And  bright  and  never  ending. 
We  upward  turn  the  weary  eye 

To  where  the  stars  are  shining. 
Like  sentinels  upon  the  sky. 
That  watch  us  while  the  years  go  by. 
But  we  shall  falter,  you  and  I, 

Whatever  our  inclining. 
In  our  association  here 

We  form  a  constellation ; 
We  do  the  work  within  our  sphere. 
In  conscious  weakness  and  in  fear 
And  though  it  doth  not  yet  appear, 

God  knows  our  destination. 


-© 


*- 


476 


W 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    TOETS    OF  AMERICA. 


No  star  is  known  to  quit  the  sky, 

And  liere  is  no  abiding-; 
And  as  tlie  years  go  flitting-  by, 
Like  birds  of  passage  swiftly  fly. 
We  quit  our  stations,  you  and  1, 

Our  patlis  awliile  dividing. 
Tlie  re-assembling-  not  long  hence, 

Now  dimly  lies  before  us; 
Nor  recognized  by  sign  or  sense. 
Nor  whither  gone,  nor  yet  from  whence. 
Nor  where  shall  end,  nor  where  commence 

The  everlasting  chorus ! 
For  once,  'tis  said,  the  morning  stars 

Sang  sweetly  in  the  azure; 
And  if  their  songs  were  hushed  by  Mars, 
Or  Jupiter's  resounding-  cars. 
Or  ceased  when  mortals  went  to  wars, 

Let  peace  renew  their  measure. 
When  man  has  lived  aright  his  day. 

And  served  his  generation. 
What  can  he  do  but  pass  away. 
And  leave  to  other  hands  the  sway 
That  once  he  bore  in  life's  array 

Of  griefs  and  exaltation? 
Life's  work  well  done,  life's  crown  well  won, 

The  goal  of  our  ambition  ! 
And  when  the  sleep  of  death  shall  come 
May  we  awake  beneath  the  dome 
That  over-spans  our  heavenly  home 

When  hope  becomes  fruition. 


MY  MOTHER'S   SMILE. 

I'm  getting  old;  my  head  is  gray. 
And  three-score  years  along  the  way, 
I've  kept  my  pilgrimage.    To-day 

1  pause.    No,  that  can't  be! 
But  I  can  glance  along  the  years 
Through  which  I've  passed,  and  mary  tears 
Have  flecked  the  way;  still  there  appears 

A  smile  to  comfort  me. 
That  smile  I  saw  so  long  ago, 
Tliat  one  would  scarcely  think  its  glow 
Would  sweetly  warm  my  heart,  but  know 

It  was  my  mother's  smile,— 
The  first  that  over  beamed  on  me, 
'Twas  full  of  love  as  smile  could  be, 
Born  of  a  faitli  that  1  might  be 

To  her  a  loving  child. 
My  dimpled  hand  lier  own  woiild  seek, 
And  i)lacc  it  softly  on  herclieek. 
Ere  I  a' word  of  love  could  speak. 

Yet  slie  could  comprehend. 
That  lier  own  love  in  me  begot 
Affection  that  should  perish  not. 
That  time  should  bring  to  it  no  blot. 

Till  time  itself  should  end. 
Such  faith  of  her  own  love  was  born, 
Alas!  that  ever  should  bo  torn. 


The  fabric  that  a  heart  has  worn. 

So  warm  with  hoped-for  bliss! 
What  changes  have  the  flying  years 
Brought  in  their  train  of  hojies  and  fears. 
And  smiles  that  struggled  oft  through  tears, 

When  all  had  gone  amiss. 
I  cannot  say  how  well  was  kept 
The  promi.se.    Oft  it  may  have  slept, 
And  o'er  its  slumbers  I  have  wept  — 

Perhaps  I  wept  too  late. 
But  mother's  loving-  heart  ne'er  gave 
A  sign  of  disai)pointment,  save 
When  thinking  that  fc>r  me  the  grave 

Might  open  first  its  gate. 
I  fondly  hope  that  there  will  be. 
When  I  have  crossed  the  crj  st:il  sea. 
My  mother's  smile  awaiting  me 

Hard  by  tlie  Pearly  Gate. 
Her  spirit  voice  and  spirit  hand 
Will  greet  me  in  tlie  better  land. 
And  I  at  length  with  her  shall  stand 

Where  she  has  gone  to  wait. 


TIMOTHY  PERRY. 

Born:  New  Ipswich,  N.  H.,  Nov.  7, 1829. 
Aftek  receiving  his  education,  Mr.  Perry 
afterward  taught  mathematics.  He  studied 
law  in  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  wliere  he  is  still  en- 
gaged in  the  practice  of  his  profession.  Many 
poems  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Perry  have  ap- 
peared in  the  periodical  press,  and  he  is  fully 
represented  in  Poets  of  New  Hampshire. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  BROOK. 
I  sit  by  the  side  of  the  mountain  brook 

In  the  shade  of  a  maple  tree. 
And  I  wonder  well,  w  hat  magic  spell 

Gives  the  place  such  a  charm  to  nie. 
The  sun  shines  higii  in  the  sununcM-  sky. 

The  air  is  cleiii-  and  still. 
As  the  mountain  brook,  by  tlic  quii't  nook, 

Comes  laugliing  down  the  hill. 
My  boy  with    a    heart   like  tlie    mountain 
brook. 

In  tlie  siinliglit's  golden  gleam. 
Cheers  loud  as  he  floats  iiis  mimic  boats. 

With  his  bare  feet  in  tlie  stream. 

And  tlie  laugh  of  llie  boy,  and  the   laugh  of 
the  brook. 

And  the  bark  of  a  squirrel  ncai-, 
And  the  buzz  of  a  bee  in  the  iiKiplf  tree 

Are  the  only  sounds  1  Ikmi-. 
So  I  sit  by  the  side  of  the  nioiinlain  brook. 

In  tlie  shade  of  the  ninple  ti-i'e. 
And  1  wonder  well,  wlial  magic  spell 

Gives  tlie  place  sucli  acliarm  to  nie. 


®- 


*• 


LOCAL,   AKD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-^ 


REV.  JAMES  ALBERT  LIBBY. 

Born  :  Poland,  Me.,  July  3, 1833. 
COMMEXCiNCi  txi  court  the  muse  when  a  j'outh, 
the  poems  of  the   Rev.  J.  Albert  Libby  have 


REV.  JAMES   ALBERT   LIBBY. 

since  appeared  extensively  in  the  eastern 
publications.  He  is  an  adventist  clergyman 
in  his  native  town,  and  is  very  popular  with 
his  flock. 


m 


PATHS. 
We  cannot  take  our  paths  away  — 

They  linger  when  our  feet  are  gone; 
Bordered  with  green  —  yet  trodden  gray. 

With  here  and  there  a  smooth-worn  stone. 
I  know  the  ways  of  little  feet. 

And  those  of  others  older  grown  — 
And  oft  as  o'er  these  paths  I  beat, 

I  muse  with  wordless  thoughts  alone. 
I  follow  now  a  presence  swift  — 

A  tire  is  fluttering  in  the  wind. 
Or  gently  breezes  softly  lift 

Her  curls  —  and  I  am  just  behind; 
I  hear  tiie  frolic  in  the  laugh. 

And  then  the  shouting  words  of  glee 
As  running  half  and  halting  half. 

The  player  cried  —  ..  You  can't  catch  me." 
Sometimes  T  meet  in  memory's  way 

The  stretching  hand,  the  glance  of  eyes, 
My  lips  seem  parting,  as  to  say 

Some  words  of  welcome  and  surprise; 


Or  in  my  ear  there  sweetly  falls 

The  words  of  old-time  tenderness  — 
My  arms  are  thrilled  to  hear  the  call 

And  rise  all  ready  to  caress. 
Ah !  how  thej'  mock  me  —  these  old  ways ! 

And  yet  I  would  not  lose  their  thread  — 
These  hallowed  paths  of  other  days 

Lead  from  my  heart  out  to  my  dead. 
Sleep  on !  I  tread  where  you  have  trod  — 

Your  goal  may  soon  arrest  my  feet, 
Till  breaking  from  the  tangled  sod 

In  everlasting  joy  we  meet. 


ANOTHER  DAY. 
Old  earth,  we  know,  shall  have  another  day; 
Her  trembling  age— if  good  the  voice   of 
Truth  — 
Shall,  by  the  help  of  Heaven,  pass  away. 
And  she   takes  on   again  the  strength  of 
youth ; 
We  hear  her  groans  along  the  dying  years. 
As  she  hath  shed,  like  autumn  skies,  her  tears. 
But,  earth,  take  heart,  thou  shalt  be  young 
again. 
And   doflf   thy  robes   of  mourning  with  a 
smile ; 
Glad  to  forget  all  weariness  and  pain. 
And  know  they  come  not  back  the  endless 
while ; 
The  trees  shall  clap  their  hands  for  very  joy. 
That  sin  and  death  can  never  more  destroy. 
Where  are  thy  graveyards?  Emptied  of  their 
prey; 
Where  are  thy  tears?  Dried  by  a  hand  divine ; 
Where  are  thy  sorrows?  They  all  went  away 
When  graves  were  spoiled,  and  saints  arose 
to  shine; 
The  hills  re-echo  now,  as  these,  one  throng. 
Rehearse  their  victories  the  plains  along. 
Spring  now,    ye   flowers,  for  winters  never 
come ; 
Be  not  afraid,  O  sky,  of  stormy  clouds; 
Mothers,  your  babes  are  safely  all  at  home, 
And    looms    are    weaving    here  no    coffin 
shrouds; 
Yonder  is  lifted  high  a  kingly  throne. 
And  Christ  is  there  with  all  the  earth  his  own. 
Where  is  the  king  that  was?  in  black  attire  — 
Where  are  the  hosts  that  marshaled  at    his 
word? 
Perished  forever  in  the  lake  of  Are; 
And  naught  but  praise  from  any  tongue  is 
heard. 
O  earth,  take  heart,  thou  shalt  be  new  again ! 
Thousands  of  voices  cry  for  this  —  Amen. 


The  arching  sky  is  an  open  book  [der; 

And  the  clouds  are  the  leaves  turned  un- 
The  stars  are  the  letters  whereon  we  look 

While  the  lines  are  traced  with  wonder. 


-® 


©- 


478 


& 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  A3IEU1CA. 


ADELAIDE  D.  ROLLSTON. 

Born:  Paducah,  Ky.,  Feb.  23,  1854. 
Since  1884  this  lady  has  written  verse  with 
great   success.     Many  of   her  slietches   and 
stories  have  appeared  in  the  Youth's  Compan- 


AI>i;i.Allll.    I>.    Kill. 

ion,  Once  a  Week,  Harper's  Bazar,  and  other 
equally  prominent  eastern  periodicals.  She 
is  still  a  resident  of  her  native  town,  where 
she  is  well  known  and  admired. 


FOR  THE  OLD  LOVE'S  SAKE. 
Tliy  way,  he  said,  "is  smooth  and  green  and 
fair. 
There  are  no  thorns  to  wound  and  prick  thy 
feet  — 
Where  summer  reigns  and  star-like  blossoms 
sweet 
Heiid  to  the  winds'  low  call— thy  path  is 
there! 
And  mine!  Alas!  no  dewy  morning-'s  break 

Aci'oss  the  valley  where  my  way  hath  lain; 
And  yet  thougli  youth  be  dead  and  faith  be 
slain 
T  keep  these  tokens— for  the  old  love's  sake! 
Reside  the  urn  that  holds  no  hidden  flame 
Of  altar  fires  thai  long-  have  paled  away, 
I  yi'1  may  i)ause,  and  in  the  ashes  gray 

Kead  with  dim   eyes  the  old   familiar  name! 
And,  if  some  shad'wy  memory  should  awake— 
And  once  again  my  eyes  with  tears  grow 
wet  — 


If  in  my  heart  should  spring  some  vague  re- 
gret, 
Nay,   do  not  chide  me— for  the  old  love's 
sake! 
As  one  who  sees  in  old-remembered  nooks. 
With  eyes  that  have  grown  sad  with  cease- 
less tears. 
The  same  glad  beauty  of  the  long-lost  years. 
And    hear    again    the    sound    of    summer- 
brooks — 
So,  if  from  troubled  dreams  I  could  awake 
To  feel  J;hy  warm,  soft  kisses  on  my  face, 
1  think  the  sweetness  of  thy  winsome  grace 
Would  touch  me  — only  for  the  old  love's 
sake! 


»- 


SOME    DAY. 
Beside  the  grave  that  hides  my  poor,  dead 
face. 
Some  day  beloved,  you  will  come  and  wait, 
And,    kneeling    with    the    old,    remembered 
grace. 
With  lips  to  dust  will  say:    "O  life,  grow 
desolate! 
O fond,  true  heart!    O  heart   that  loved  me 
so!" 
But  then  I  shall  not  know. 
When  through  the  stillness  of  the  warm,  sweet 
air 
Shall  pulse  the  music  of  the  spring's  glad 
call. 
Your  lips  will  call:    "Odaysso  fair,  so  fair! 
Poor,  faithful  heart  that  you  should  lose 
them  all. 
And  I  should  learn  at  last  to  need  you  so!  " 

But  ah !  I  shall  not  know ! 
O  love!    O  loss!    O  fair,  sweet  yesterday! 

To-day  we  walk  in  bitterness  apart! 
And  yet  though  youth  and  hoi)es  are  gone 
away 
Wliat  need  of  tears  and  vain  regret,  sweet- 
heart'i' 
Since  all  the  love  that  thrills  my  pulses  so 
Some  day,  .some  day  you'll  know! 


A   WOODLAND  FLOWER. 

EXTRACT. 

Some  day  — who  knows';'  — with  strange  and 
wondrous  power 
From  out  my  dreams  a,  sudden  tliought  may 
spring,  • 

Tlu)se  gems,  long  hidden,   like  my  way-side 
flower, 
A  message  to  some  lonely  heart  may  bring; 
And    like   my    star-eyed    blossom,  hid    from 
mortals 
In  cool,   green  woods,  and  dim,  untrodden 
ways. 
Some  untried  verse  may  open  the  mystic  por- 
tals, 
And  the  world  find  it  — "after  many  days." 

— a 


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LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMJfiUICA. 


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479 


JOSIAH  MOODY  FLETCHER. 

Born:  Halifax,  Mass,.  Jan.  14, 1838. 

Graduating  at  Lowell  high  school  in  1842, 
the  following-  year  Mr.  Fletcher  settled  at 
Nashua,  where  he  has  ever  since  resided,  with 
the  exception  of  a  year  spent  in  Mexico  and 
California.  In  1861  he  married  Miss  Adaliue 
Jane  Eastman.  For  six  years  Mr.  Fletcher  was 
engaged  in  the  booli-selliug  and  publishing- 
business,  but  since  1854  he  has  been  iu  bus- 
iness as  a  manufacturer  of  furniture,  and  is 
now  in-esident  of  the   Fletclier  and  Webster 


JOSIAH  MOODY  FLETCHER. 

Furniture  Co.,  and  proitrietor  of  tlie  Nashua 
Novelty  Works.  Since  hisyoutli  he  has  court- 
ed the  muse,  and  at  eighteen  published  Gold- 
en Gift,  a  work  that  contained  a  half-dozen  of 
his  own  pieces,  and  which  reached  a  sale  of 
over  one  hundred  thousand  copies.  In  1890 
Mr.  Fletcher  publislied  a  magnificent  volume 
of  nearly  three  hundred  and  fifty  pages,  en- 
titled A  Thousand  Songs  of  Life,  Love,  Home 
and  Heaven.  Mr.  Fletcher  is  the  editor  of 
several  gift  books;  and  occasionally  writes 
under  the  nom  de  plume  of  Park  Moody. 


m- 


I  ASK  NOT  FOR  WEALTH. 
I  ask  not  wealtli,  I  ask  uot  fame. 
Nor  lofty  place,  nor  sounding  name, 
For  oh,  there  is  a  dearer  lot. 
Although  the  worldly  know  it  not! 
It  is  to  love,  to  feel  the  sweet 


Delight  of  hearts  that  warmly  beat. 
To  dwell  in  trustful  love  and  peace, 
That  fleeting  time  can  but  increase. 


A  PRAIRIE   HOME. 

Give  me  a  home  where  evening's  banners 

Gayly  wave  o'er  tlie  twilight  strand; 
Life  is  sweet  on  the  broad  savannas, 

Far  away  in  the  sunset  land. 
Give  me  a  home  -where  freedom's  pinion 

Waveth  her  snow-white  folds  on  high. 
Far  in  the  broad  and  brave  dominion. 

Closed  around  by  the  sunset  sky. 
Soft  is  the  blue  of  star-gemmed  azure. 

Green  are  the  fields  where  the  bison  roam; 
All  things  add  to  the  hunter's  pleasure. 

Far  away  in  his  Western  home. 
Oh!  't  is  sweet  when  the  heart  is  weary. 

Far  from  the  busy  world  to  fly; 
Give  me  a  home  on  the  distant  prairie, 

Closed  around  by  the  sunset  sky. 


BARREN  OF  LOVE. 
A  barren  world  the  lieart  will  find 
When  really  't  is  a  barren  mind 
That  makes  it  so;  in  that  degree 
That  love  is  cold,  love's  world  will  be. 


HATE. 
The  vestibule  of  hell  is  hate. 
Where  hungry  devils  lie  in  wait 
For  silly  souls  of  low  estate. 


LET  TIME  ROLL  ON. 
Let  time  roll  on,  we  need  not  moan; 
It  eases  not  the  way  to  groan ; 
Be  up  and  cheerful,  by  and  by 
Old  Time  himself  will  have  to  die. 


TOLERATION. 
Things  often  in  a  sense  are  false 

That  in  another  sense  are  true. 
And  wrangling  makes  the  heart  ache  oft, 

To  merest  misconception  due; 
The  wiser  way  for  all  mankind 

Is  toleration's  smoother  course; 
A  stubborn  and  unyielding  mind 

Is  wounded  by  its  own  self  force. 


ADMITTANCE  TO  HEAVEN. 
Wlien  for  heaven  a  soul  is  fitted 

By  an  all-perfecting  love. 
Then  to  heaven  't  will  be  admitted. 

Whether  here  or  up  above. 


BEAUTY'S  DANGER. 

With  double  care  the  devil's  net 
Is  for  a  liandsome  woman  set. 
With  double  consequences  fraught. 
For  with  the  Eves  are  Adams  cauglit. 


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480 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK  AMEUICA. 


THE  MORNING  SONG. 
A  few  inquiring-  little  chirps  are  heard 
Before  the  morning-  carol  of  a  bird, 
Seeking-  assurance  that  the  day's  at  hand 
Before  it  bids  its  little  throat  expand; 
And  in  the  early  morning  well  it  may,— 
"T  is  always  darkest  just  at  break  of  day. 
So,  oft,  the  spirit  in  distress  and  gloom 
Holds  back  its  song  in  presence  of  the  tomb; 
It  lacks  assurance  that  the  morning  light 
Is  following  closely  on  the  shades  of  night; 
And  well  it  may,  o'erspread  by  death's  dark 

wing. 
But  oh !  the  songs  't  will  in  the  morning  sing. 


THE  DAISIES. 
While  wintry  tempests  coldly  blow, 

And  o'er  the  meadows  sweep. 
Beneath  the  drifts  of  downy  snow 

Unharmed  the  daisies  sleep. 
In  sunless  solitude  tliey  dwell 

Through  all  the  wintry  hours. 
Till  summer  skies  dissolve  the  spell 

And  welcome  forth  the  flowers. 
Oh  I  let  me  live,  when  tempests  roll 

And  rage  around  my  path, 
In  such  humility  of  soul 

As  to  escape  their  wrath : 
And  let  me  like  the  daisies  lie. 

When  done  with  mortal  strife. 
Believing  that  a  fairer  .sky 

Will  wake  my  soul  to  life. 


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WOMAN'S  LOVE. 
Had  I  a  harp  by  angels  strung 

To  breathe  the  music  of  the  skies; 
Had  I  the  skill  and  power  divine 

To  wake  its  grandest  ]i;i,rmonies, 
I'd  strike  it  not  to  sounding  fame. 

Ah,  no!  but  let  its  breathings  prove. 
Though  every  chord  sIkhiUI  melt  with  flame, 

The  tenderness  of  woman's  love. 
They  know  it  not  who  pay  their  court 

At  beauty's  shrine  with  licartless  praise; 
They  know  it  not  who  idly  sport 

With  woman's  smile  in  summer  daj's; 
But  when  the  clouds  of  sorrow  lower. 

And  man's  frail  bark  is  temiiest-driven 
O'er  lif(»'s  dark  sea,  oh!  then  its  power 

Is  like  tlie  very  strength  of  heaven. 

THE  LUNATIC. 
Just  to  test  a  lunatic  the  doctor  asked  him 

"  whether 
The  weather  made  the  rain  or  the  rain   made 

tlie  weather;" 
Sizing  up  the  doctor,   he  answered  him  by 

saying: 
"Does  the  braying  make  the  ass,  or  the  ass 

make  the  braying?  " 


WILL  H.HOSKINSOX. 

BoKN  :  Mud  Kivek,  Ky.,  Oct.  13, 1860. 
The  subject  of   this  sketch   follows  the  pro- 

fc^sinii  (if  IcricliiiiL:',      Hi-  i-iirlirr    iii'Milurtidns 


WII.I,   H.  noSKlNSON. 

were  in   tljc   form  of   parodies.      His  jioems 
have  appeared  in  the  local  press  generally. 


DO  WHAT  IS  BIGHT. 

Through  sunshine  and  shadow,   through  sor- 
row and  pleasure. 
O'er  rivers  of  bliss  and  o'er  gulfs  of  despair; 
May  tills  maxim  of  old  be  preserved  as  atreas- 

u  i-e 
In  the  depth  of  thy  nund   as  a  light   shining 

tliere.  [forsake  thee. 

Should  foes  overpower  thee,  or  loved  ones 
Should  troubles  surround  thee  like  clouds  of 

the  night  — 
Stand  firm  through  the    storm  — liarm  shall 

not  overtake  thee,  Li"if?ht. 

And  remember  this  maxim:  to  do  what  is 
Let  scofifers  rebuke  and  let  enemies  chide  thee, 
Let  this  be  youi-  sliield  in  the  l)ittero.st  strife: 
Insi)ired  !)>•  the  I'ight   let   the  envious   deride 

tliee:  .  Llife. 

Ever  knowing  no  falsehood  can  stain  ;i  pure 
Walk  not  from  the  path  where  these  lines 

would  direct  thee  — 
O'er  thorns  they  will  lead    tlice  to   th'lds  fair 

and  bright ; 
Omnipotent  i)ower  shall  surely  protect  thee 
Down  life's  rugged   road,   if  you   do  what  is 

right. 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


481 


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GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS. 

Born:  Providence,  R.  I.,  Feb.  24, 1824. 
The  early  education  of  Mr.  Curtis  was  received 
in  a  private  sclaool  at  Jamaica  Plain,  Massa- 
chusetts. When  fifteen  years  of  ag-e,  he  became 
a  clerk  in  a  mercantile  house  in  the  city  of  New 
York,  and  in  1843  became  a  member  of  the 
Brook  Farm  Community. 

From  1846  to  1850  Mr.  Curtis  spent  in  Italy 
Berlin,  Egypt,  and  Syria,  and  on  his  return  to 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS. 

America  he  published  his  first  book,  Nile-Notes 
of  a  Howadji,  and  soon  thereafter  joined  the 
staff  of  the  New  York  Tribune.  Since  that 
time  he  has  been  a  journalist  continuously. 

He  was  one  of  the  original  editors  of  Put- 
nam's Monthly,  which  was  commenced  in  1853. 
Curtis  has  been  a  constant  contributor  to  Har- 
per's Monthly  Magazine  since  1853;  and  to  Har- 
per's Weekly,  of  which  he  has  been  oditor-in- 
chief  since  1857.  A  number  of  articles  also 
Irom  his  pen  appeared  in  Harper's  Bazar  dur- 
ing 1867-73. 

Some  of  hlfl  magazine  articles  were  also  col- 
lected and  pubhsned  in  book-form  under  the 
title.s  of  The  Potiphar  Papers  and  Prue  and  I 
A  novel  -vas  also  written  by  him,  for  Harper's 
weekly  entitled  Trumps,  which  also  afterward 
appeared  in  book-form. 

This  great  American  journalist  has  won  an 
enviable  reputation,  not  only  as  a  great  writer, 
out  also  aa  a  great  lecturer  and  public  speaker, 
ana  he  has  been  a  constant  contributor  to  the 
literature  of  the  day  ever  since  he  chose  writ- 
ing as  his  profession. 


Mr.  Curtis  has  also  attained  a  national  re- 
putation as  a  politician.  The  political  senti- 
ments of  this  gentleman  have,  as  a  rule,  been 
invariably  in  favor  of  the  republican  party. 


EGYPTIAN  SERENADE. 

Sing  again  the  song  you  sung 
When  we  were  together  young— 
When  there  were  but  you  and  I 
Underneath  the  summer  sky. 

Sing  the  song,  o'er  and  o'er. 
Though  I  know  that  nevermore 
Will  it  seem  the  song  you  sung 
When  we  were  together  young. 


SPRING  SONG. 


A  bird  sang  sweet  and  strong 
In  the  top  of  the  highest  tree! 

He  said  "  I  pour  out  my  heart  in  song 
"  For  the  summer  that  soon  shall  be.' 

But  deep  in  the  shady  wood. 

Another  bird  sang  ■•  I  pour 
"My  heart  on  the  solemn  solitude 

"  For  the  spring  that  return  no  more. 


THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

KILLED  AT  GREAT  BETHEL  JUNE  10,  1861. 

How  often  in  the  strange  old  days 
Before  the  war's  sharp  summons  blew. 

We  strolled  through  all  these  woodland  ways 
While  loud  the  blue-bird  sang  and  flew. 

How  gaily  of  a  thousand  things 

We  talked,  and  rusthng  through  the  leaves 
We  sang  the  songs  of  other  springs 

And  dreamed  the  dreams  of  summer  eves. 

To  this  bold  height  our  footsteps  came, 
Our  eyes  beheld  the  distant  sea:— 

To-day,  I  sit  and  call  his  name. 
And  know  he  will  not  answer  me. 

0  friend  beyond  this  voice  of  mine. 

Beyond  these  eyes,  this  baffled  hand. 
Immortal  in  a  youth  divine 

I  see  thy  radiant  figure  stand. 

We  do  not  count  each  other  lost 
Divided  though  our  ways  may  be: 

Two  ships  of  different  breezes  tost 
Still  sailing  the  mysterious  sea. 

No  cloud  of  death  can  long  obscure, 
Nor  touch  with  any  doubt  or  fear. 

The  love  that  keeps  the  old  faith  pure. 
Contented  whether  there  or  here. 


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482 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


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GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP. 

Born:  Honolulu,  H.  1.,  Aug.  25, 1851. 
This  great  author  received  his  educatiou  in 
New  York  and  Germany.  In  1870  he  attended 
Columbia  law  school  one  term,  then  adopted  a 
literary  life,  and  again  went  abroad.  In  1871 
he  married  Eosc,  second  daughter  of  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne.  From  187.5  to  1877  he  was  assistant 
editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  and  following 
two  years  edited  the  Boston  Courier.  In  1875 
appeared  his  first  volume  of  poems,  entitled 
Rose  and  Roof  tree.  He  has  also  written  several 
novels,  edited  various  works,  and  dramatized 
Tennyson's  Elaine. 

His  wife.  Rose,  has  also  written  numerous 
short  stories  and  poems,  and  is  somewhat  of  an 
artist. 


THE  PHCEBE-BIRD. 

Yes,  I  was  wrong  about  the  Phcebe-bird. 
Two  songs  it  has,  and  both  of  them  I've  heard : 
I  did  not  know  those  strains  of  joy  and  sorrow 
Came  from  one  throat,  or  that  each  note  could 

borrow 
Strength  from   the  other,  making  one  more 

brave 
And  one  as  sad  as  rain-drops  on  a  grave. 
But  thus  it  is.     Two  songs    have   men   and 

maidens: 
One  is  for  the  hey-day,  one  is  sorrow's  cadence. 
Our  voices  vary  with  the  changing  seasons 
Of  life's  long  year,  for  deep  and  natural  rcr.- 

sons. 
Therefore  despair  not!     Think  not  you  have 

altered. 
If,  at  some  time,  the  gayer  note  has  faltered. 
We  are  as  God  has  made  us.    Gladness,  pain. 
Delight,  and  death,  and  moods  of  bliss  or  bane, 
With  love,  and  hate,  or  good,  and  evil  — all. 
At  separate  times,  in  separate  accents  call; 
Yet  'tis  the  same  heart-throb  within  the  breast 
That  gives  an  impulse  to  our  worst  and  best. 
I  doubt  not,  when  our  earthly  cries  are  ended. 
The  listener  finds  them  in  one  music  blended. 


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THE  SINGING  WIRE. 
Hark  to  that  faint  and  fairy  twang 

That  from  the  bosom  of  the  breeze 
Has  caught  its  rise  and  fall ;  there  rang 

/Eolian  harmonies ! 

I  looked ;  again  the  mournful  chords, 
In  random  rhythm  lightly  flung 

From  off  the  wire,  came,  shaped  in  words; 
And  thus,  meseemed,  they  sung: 

"I,  messenger  of  many  fates, 
Strung  to  all  strains  of  woe  or  weal. 

Fine  nerve  that  thrills  and  palpitates 
With  all  men  know  or  feel,— 


"  O,  is  it  strange  that  1  should  wail? 

Leave  me  my  tearless,  sad  refrain. 
When  in  the  pine-top  wakes  the  gale 

That  breathes  of  coming  rain. 

"  There  is  a  spirit  in  the  post; 

It,  too,  was  once  a  murmuring  tree; 
Its  sapless,  lone  and  withered  ghost 

Echoes  my  melody. 

"  Come  close,  and  lay  your  listening  ear 
Against  the  bare  and  branchless  wood. 

Say,  croons  it  not,  so  low  and  clear. 
As  if  it  understood? 

I  listened  to  the  branchless  pole 
That  held  aloft  the  singing  wire; 

I  heard  its  muffled  music  roll. 
And  stirred  with  sweet  desire. 

"  O  wire  more  soft  than  seasoned  lute, 
Hast  thou  no  sunlit  word  for  me? 

"  O,  though  so  long  so  coyly  mute, 
Sure  she  may  speak  through  thee!  " 

I  listened;  but  it  was  in  vain, 

At  first,  the  wind's  old,  wayward  will 

Drew  forth  again  the  sad  refrain: 
That  ceased,  and  all  was  still. 

But  suddenly  some  kindling  shock 

Struck  flashing  through  the  wire:  a  bird. 

Poised  on  it,  screamed,  and  flew;  the  flock 
Rose  with  him,  wheeled,  and  whirred. 

Then  to  my  soul  there  came  this  sense: 
"  Her  heart  has  answered  unto  thine: 

She  comes,  to-night.    Up!  hence,  O  hence! 
Meet  her:  no  more  repine!  " 

Mayhap  the  fancy  was  far-fetched ; 

And  yet,  mayhap,  it  hinted  true. 
Ere  moonrise.  Love,  a  hand  was  stretched 

In  mine,  that  gave  me  —  you ! 

And  so  more  dear  to  me  has  grown 
Than  rarest  tones  swept  from  the  lyre. 

The  minor-movement  of  that  moan 
In  yonder  singing  wire. 

Nor  care  I  for  the  wi  11  of  states, 

Or  aught  besides,  that  smites  that  string, 
Since  then  so  close  it  knit  our  fates. 

What  time  the  bird  took  wing. 


THE  SUNSHINE  OF  THINE  EYES. 

The  sunshine  of  thine  eyes, 

O  still,  celestial  beam ! 
Wliatever  it  touches  it  fills 

With  the  life  of  its  lambent  gleam. 

The  sunshine  of  thine  eyes, 

0  let  it  fall  on  me ! 

Though  I  be  but  a  mote  of  the  air, 

1  could  turn  to  gold  for  thee, 


— ^8i 


)►]& 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEHICA. 


483 


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MANLIUS  T.  FLIPPIX. 

Born  :  Monroe  Co.,  Ky.,  July  29, 184L 
From  the  ageof  sixteen  to  twenty-four  young 
Flippin  Wits  engaged  in  studying-  and  teach- 
ing-. He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  In  1865,  and 
began  the  practice  of  his  profession  at  Tomp- 
iiinsville,  the  county  seat  of  liis  native  coun- 
ty, where  he  still  resides.  Mr.  Flippin  has 
served  several  sessions  as  republican  member 
to  the  house  of  the  Kentucky  legislature.  In 
1.ST4  he  was  elected  .judi:e  of  the  comitv  court 


8 


M.  T.  FLIPPIN. 

for  four  years,  and  received  the  re-election  in 
1878;  and  again  in  1886  was  elected  to  the  same 
position.  He  has  also  held  other  impor- 
tant positions  of  public  trust,  and  is  very 
popular  in  his  native  state.  He  was  married 
in  1871  to  Miss  Susan  Maxey.  The  poems  of 
Mr.  FHppin  have  generally  appeared  under 
the  nom  de  plume  of  Eugene.  Tliis  gentle- 
man has  a  very  strong  predilection  for  lit- 
erature, but  for  twenty  years  the  demands 
and  the  labors  of  official  and  professional  bus- 
iness have  left  him  little  time  to  devote  to 
literary  pursuits.  He  has  a  splendid  library 
and  is  a  close  student.  Personally,  Judge 
Flippin  is  of  fair  complexion,  auburn  hair, 
and  eyes  of  hazel,  and  is  six  feet  four  inches 
In  height. 


THE  REAL. 
Yes,  Truth  is  more  than  Fiction  strange! 
The  weird  and  dim  Ideal 


Gives  out  no  shape  or  shade  so  bright. 

So  gorgeous  as  the  Real. 
No  pencil  touch  can  ever  slietch 

The  halos  of  the  even. 
As  shining  streaks  of  golden  light 

Stretch  up  the  western  heaven. 
The  soul  was  ne'er  on  canvas  thrown. 

By  painter's  magic  easel. 
Nor  Hebe's  nor  Hecate's  blush  e'er  traced 

By  cunning  sculptor's  chisel. 
The  best  nor  worst  of  heart  or  soul 

Ne'er  on  the  canvas  lingers: 
The  smile  of  joy,  the  throe  of  grief 

Elude  the  wizard  fingers. 


LETTERS. 

The  frozen  heart,  locked  up  in  breast  of  snow. 
Secure  from  word  or  glance,    secure  from 
harm  — 
While  through  it  only  icy  currents  flow  — 

O,  Letters,  ye  can  touch  and  make  it  warm! 
Magicians,    thou  dost  wield  a   wand    which 
starts 
Strong  tempests  in  the  heart's  soft-swelling 
sea; 
Thou  hast  a  talisman  so  sweet  that  hearts 
Of  stone  must  yield  their  treasures  up  to 
thee. 
The  ice  and  snow  on  Hecla's  lofty  crest, 

Defy  the  storms  of  night,  the  beams  of  day; 
But  by  thy  wizard,  unseen  fingers  press'd. 
The  ice  dissolves.tlie  snow-banks  melt  away. 
Thj'   mute   and   voiceless  words,   when  all 
alone. 
Still  sigh  and  whisper,  to  the  heart  appeal- 
ing; 
Awake,  asleep,  they  woo  us,  on  and  on. 
And  pluck  and  twine  the  wild-flower  wreath 
of  feeling. 


REMEMBER  ME. 

Remember  me  I  remember  me  I 
When  morning's  pure  and  brilliant  light 
Springs  from  thedark  embrace  of  night; 
When  birds  from  out  the  bower  sing. 
And  plume  anew  their  silken  wing. 

My  dearest  friend,  remember  me! 

Remember  me  I  remember  me! 
Amid  the  splendid  glow  of  noon. 
When  day  displays  her  richest  boon ; 
When  every  heart  with  joj-  is  crowned. 
And  all  is  life  and  light  around. 

Oh!  then  wilt  thou  remember  me! 

Remember  me !  remember  me ! 
In  evening's  calm  and  holy  hours. 
When  zephyrs  kiss  the  blushing  flowers. 
When  clouds  of  gold  hang  o'er  the  west. 
And  nature  lulls  herself  to  rest. 

Oh  I  dearest  friend,  remember  me! 


-© 


-^ 


484 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   I'OKTS   OF  AMERICA. 


THE  SOUTHLAND. 

O  realm  of  the  southland!   fair  clime  of  the 


Whose  birds  and  wliose  blossoms  enrapture 

the  sight;  . 

Whose  valleys  of  emerald  and  mountains  of 

Smiles  sweetly  in  daytime  and  ^leam  through 

the  night. 
The  sheen  of  thy  meadows,  the  blue  of  thy 

sky. 
Shine  on  and  forever  with  passionate  glow. 
And  the  morn,  noon  and  evening  unfold  to 

ttlG  GVG 

Thy  wild  wealth  of  flowers  of  crimson  and 
snow. 

There  the  best  gifts  of  spring-time  forever  re- 
main. 

And  the  fruit  and  the  blossom  their  seasons 

prolong; 
There  the  sweet-scented  breezes  float  over  the 

plain. 
And  bear  on  their  bosoms  the  incense  of  song. 

There  the  queen-like  palmetto,  the  myrtle  and 
vine,  . 

And  the  wild  waste  of  blossoms  environ  the 
maze; 

While  the  moss-covered  cypress  and  whisper- 
ing pine. 

Throw  over  the  valleys  a  soft  summer  haze. 

'Tis  there  the  weird  moonbeams  are  wander- 
ing through 

The  ruins  of  castles  distinguished  in  story; 

And  there  that  the  shimmer  and  sparks  of  the 
dew. 

And  the  shine  of  the  astral  unite  in  their 
glory. 

It  IS  there,  it  is  there  that  the  murmuring 
palm 

Bends  over  and  kisses  the  clear  crystal  wave; 

It  is  there  that  the  flow'rets,  in  the  night  s 
holy  calm, 

Dip  down  in  the  waters,  their  beauties  to  lave. 

O,  beautiful    southland!    the   shrine   of  the 

heart ! 
Land  of  the  banana,  the  lemon  and  lime! 
No  sky  and  no  clouds,  no  sun  can  impart 
Such  a  wild  wealth  of  passion  as  glows  in  thy 

clime. 
And  oh!  with   what   fever  the    heart    must 

adore 
The  notes  of  thy  soft  harp,  the  song  of  thy 

bird; 
While  the  sea  waves  that  break  on  thy  gray, 

rocky  shore. 
Make  music  the  wildest  the  ear  ever  heard. 

Thy  picture,  bright  clime,  shall  glow  in   my 
breast  — 


Thysun-riiys,  in  fancy  around  me  shall  beam; 
And  shrined  in  my  heart  still  thy  glories  shall 

rest 
Forever  and  aye,  like  some  beautiful  dream. 
Smile  on.  blessed  land!  thou  art  lovely  and 

lorn. 
With  thy  deep-tangled  wildwoods  and  shad- 
owy hills ; 
Still  back  on  the  tide  of  my  memory  is  borne 
The  sound  of  thy  cascades,  the  song   of  thy 

rills. 
O  bright  sunny  south!  though  shattered  and 

torn. 
And  rent  by  the  strife  of  the  war-darkened 


years;  , 

Though  broken  and  bleeding,  and  mangled 

and  shorn. 
Thy  beauty  and  glory  still  smile  through  thy 

tears. 
And  now  that  the  war-cloud  obscures  thee  no 

more. 
Remember  thine  honor,  thy  glory  remains; 
And  the  wealth  and  the  worth  that   adorned 

thee  of  yore. 
Shall  Phcenix-like,  rise  from  the  wreck  of  thy 
plains. 

CONSTANCY. 
The  heart  that's  dull  and  cold  may  love 

And  soon  forget  the  flame; 
But  some,  when  lit  by  passion's  beam. 

Forever  glow  the  same. 
Some  faiths  are  like  a  vestal  Are 

In  fane  forever  burning, 
A  vital,  subtile  element 

That  knows  no  shade  of  turning. 
Some  loves  are  like  that  fabled  heart 

So  long  the  vulture's  prey. 
Though  fed  on  by  consuming  years. 
They  can  not  waste  away. 

THE  HARP. 

What  wild  and  glorious  "''"-^^^l^y^,^/,^';^. 
What  respite  from  the  starless  gloom  of  ^oe. 
What  antidote  from  every  shape  ''f'   • 
Belongs  to  thee.  O  harp  of  golden  strings.        , 
Whysl.ould  the  willing  tongue,  or  meaning 

Or  penS:  feeling  ever  speak,  when  tl^ou^ 
Canst  breathe   their    very    soul    so   s«cetl> 

well?  ,    ,  .  ,,.,  ,,,.,, 

Dear,  faithful  harp!  When  all  thmgs  ebt  an 

Thou  stSJ"n.aineth  true!  Thou  ar,  a  f.W 
When  glorious  sunshine  g.lds  our  >kj  ol'.te^  ^ 
A.^  wlien  that  sky  is  flecked  with  cloudsand 
•Tis  thino'thine  to  sweep  our  load  of  grief  I 
Into  the  Lethean  wave! 


SB- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAl,    POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


48? 


-® 


JAMES  DEWITT  C.  HOIT,M.D. 

Born:  Laconia,  N.  H.,  Aug.  25,  1843. 
The  poems  of  Dr.  Hoit  have  appeared  in  the 
Voice  of  Masonry,  Cliicago  Inter-Ocean   and 

ihr  jipi-ioflii'al  pr("i-;  <roni>r:illy.    Ho  cnifhritcd 


JAMES  U'WITT  C.  HOIT,  M.  D. 

in  medicine  at  Missouri  medical  college  at  St. 
Louis,  and  now  practices  iiis  profession  of 
physician  and  surgeon  at  Yates  City,  111.  Dr. 
Hoit  was  married  in  1867  to  Miss  Mary  Taylor, 
but  he  is  now  a  widower. 


m 


BRAVE  LITTLE  GREECE. 

Rrave  little  Greece!  in  learning's  dawn, 
A  realm  in  story,  known  to  fame; 
That  gloried  in  the  lustre  of — 
Inspired  Phidias'  radiant  name. 
In  hold  designs  and  works  of  art. 
He  made  the  fame  of  Greece  renowned; 
Thro'  every  age  of  time's  great  scroll, 
Honor  to  him  and  her  redound. 
■Birth-place  of  scholars  and  statesmen. 
Law-givers,  philosophers,  sage. 
Their  valor,  wisdom  and  grandeur. 
Made  Atticas'  heroic  age. 
Bright  tho'  the  years  that  are  coming. 
The  beacon  they  lighted  shall  grow. 
Reaching  gigantic  proportions. 
Like  a  vast  river's  onward  flow. 
'Twas  here  that  Socrates  gave  us 
The  first  in  academy's  ways: 


Lycurgus,  too,  dealt  in  law's  lore. 
And  Sappho  sang  sweetly  her  lajs. 
Her  warriors  in  freedom's  first  van, 
Advancing  with  buckler  and  shield  — 
The  fate  of  Chaeroneas'  battle. 
Caused  freedom's  first  banner  to  yield. 
The  prize  that  Macedon's  Philip, 
From  Demosthenes'  phalan:x  bore. 
Sank,  only  to  rise  ages  hence. 
On  Columbia's  ocean-washed  shore, 
Guiding  from  tyranny's  darkness. 
To  the  light  of  a  brighter  day  — 
Aye,  France,  in  B;irtlu)ldi's  mission. 
Bids  God  speed  to  liberty's  way. 
We're  gathered  here  in  festal  mood. 
Yes  — 'tisour  thanksgiving  meeting; 
No  victor  of  Olympian  game. 
To  be  crowned  wiiii  laurel  greeting: 
No  Isthmean  Knight,  of  noble  form. 
Who  with  spruce  awaits  our  crowning. 
Yet  Steele  is  here,  our  library's  friend, 
To  whose  thought  belongs  its  founding. 
None  to  claim  the  parsley  garland 
Of  the  Pythian  and  Nemian  sport; 
But  up  steps  librarian  Ransom, 
With  his  last  annual  report. 
Showing,  in  a  financial  way. 
With  pleasure  — how  the  status  looks; 
How  barren,  too,  this  life  .would  be, 
Without  our  festivals  and  books. 


GARFIELD. 
In  gilded  hall,  in  guarded  tent. 

Or  in  the  battle's  fray. 
Not  a  statelier  head  has  fallen. 
Than  that  we  mourn  to-day. 
And  among  the  world's  great  mirtyrs, 

Higli  on  the  scroll  of  fame, 
Yes,  beside  lamented  Lincoln's 

Stands  Garfield's  cherished  name. 
Where  the  lullabies  of  ocean 

Break  sadly  on  the  shore, 
Columbia  sits  weeping,  as 

She  once  has  wept  before. 
There,  stern  diplomat  and  statesman. 

With  eyes  bedimmed  with  tears. 
Tell  the  Nation  of  its  sorrow. 

Its  agony,  its  fears. 
The  beacon  lights  of  freedom,  now 

Relit  from  Jersey's  shore. 
Proclaim,  in  accents  lurid,  that 

Our  hero  is  no  more. 
Ere  the  morrow's  sun  is  risen 

On  darkness,  death  and  gloom. 
The  muffled  drum,  and  tolling  bell 

Resound  a  patriot's  dtx)m. 
Now  the  Nations  stand  uncovered 

Around  the  chieftain's  bier; 
Now  all         parties,  creeds  and  people 


-® 


©- 


* 


486 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OK  AMEKICA. 


©■ 


His  memorj'  will  revere. 

Friends,  thanks  for  your  kind  attention 

As  we  join  in  this  last  requiem. 

At  our  humble  Libi'ary  say. 

This  tribute  to  the  dead; 

And  as  we  go  through  Arch  of  Titus, 

We  have  g-ained  by  this  sad  lesson. 

Passing  on  by  Appian  Way. 

Be  it  forever  said. 

THE  FORUM. 

MRS.  L.K.H.  WHITEHEAD. 

We  have  read  of  Rome's  great  Forum, 

Bokn:  Niles,  Mich.,  Nov.  14, 1853. 

Of  its  arches  deep  and  high, 

The  v>oems  of  Mrs.  Whitehead  have  occasion- 

How its  columns  and  its  friezes 

'Neath  the  dust  of  ages  lie; 

Yes,  how  men  of  wondrous  power. 

ally  appeared  in  the  county  pjipers.    She  was 

, 

In  this  ample  circle  swayed 

.^m\    — 

The  great  surging-  Roman  masses; 

^H£|yyK*jttb 

How  the  tumult,  too,  was  stayed. 

J|H|kSj^H||^^^ 

Aye,  'twas  in  this  spacious  structure 

^gupr^^Sfl^^HB 

And  hard  by  Severus'  lig:ht. 

w^B^^              N^^^K 

That  Ca;sar  came  and  talked  and  planned 

~^W              ^^^b> 

E'er  Rome's  eagle  took  its  flig-ht. 

1              ^^h| 

Swift-winged  to  Europe's  fartherest  shore. 

^^  f*^  W' 

O'er  hot  Afric's    arid  sand. 

Or  on  to  Asia's  desert  plain 

*                              *                        ^j^^vf 

With  Imperial  Rome's  command. 

"^Mif          ^^f '. 

Here  upon  the  sacred  rostrum. 

■""*^       ^M* 

Gems  of  thought  were  ever  heard; 

:^BBp 

Here  Rome's  Orators  and  Statesmen 

^[ytHH|B, 

On  to  valor  Romans  stirred; 

1:         _^      I^K^L^ 

As  the  swinging  of  the  portals 

iL..^S.  TS^raii^^ 

And  the  sentry  on  liis  round. 

IniiMwIw         1  ^— >fc 

With  the  chanting  of  the  vestals 

1#'    *■-    >    A            > 

Through  these  massive  walls  resound. 

'^Z.  ^.  *•'  '^''  --^-''•' 

Rising  high  in  stately  grandeur. 

'*,  ^  1  *  f  *  - 

Monument  of  Rome's  great  pride. 

Like  a  giant  sternly  gazing 

Out  upon  old  Tiber's  tide. 

As  its  strong  and  yellow  current 

Flows  I'esistlcss,  full  and  free. 

Onward  past  the  Roman  fortress. 

MUS.  LILLIE  K.    H.  WHITEHEAD. 

Till  it  mingles  with  the  sea. 

married  in  1870  to    Charles   Whiteheail,  and 

'Twas  upon  its  stony  pavement 

I 

jow  resides  at  Festus,  Mo. 

Tyrant  greed  caused  blood  to  flow. 

As  Virginia's  life  here  ended 

GERANIUM. 

By  a  father's  cruel  blow; 

As  I  sit  here  rocking  my  baby  fair. 

Here  among  the  shrines  and  altars 

A  delicate  fragrance  fills  the  air. 

Wrong(>d  Virginius  lifts  the  knife, 

Of  a  leaf  that  is  crushed  in  bab\  's  hand. 

in  plain  view  of  hated  Chmdius, 

From  the  rose  geraiiinm,  on  the  stand. 

Takes  his  only  daughter's  life. 

Oh  lliat  the  life  of  my  bal)y  fair 

Just  beside  you  marble  statue 

Siiall  be  filled   with  the   fragrance   of  truth 

Of  Rome's  Pomuey,  called  the  great. 

and  prayer. 

Ca^sar  tottered,  weak  and  bh^'ding, 

And  like  geranium  leaves,  so  sweet, 

Wrapped  within  his  cloak  of  state; 

Scatter  the  fragrance,  to  all  she  may  meet. 

Cassins  'twas,  witli  Brutus  aiding. 

We  iiavo  a  baby  at  our  house— 

Sent  the  dagger  to  his  heart, 

Tlie  sweetest  you  ever  saw, 

With  no  plea  save  his  ambition, — 

Her  eyes  so  blue,  her  lips  so  red. 

Well  tliey  done  a  traitor  part. 

In  fact  our  baby's  without  ;i  Haw. 

Here  came  Senators  and  Generals, 

She  has  the  tiniest  hands  and  feet. 

Witii  the  lyflwyei'S  to  the  courts. 

Red  rosy  cheek  and  .soft  brown  liair. 

The  victors  in  triuniplial  car 

Sucli  a  cunning  a  nose  and  diinplt  d  chin. 

Atid  the  Prii'tors  to  the  sports. 

Indeed  our  baby's  veiy  fair. 

* 


©■ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


487 


-^ 


MRS.  CORELLI  C.  W.  SIMPSOX. 

Bokn:  East  Taunton,  Mass.,  Feb.  20, 1837. 
Prior  to  her  marriage  this  lady  led  an  event- 
ful life  as  teacher,  artist  and  was  the  first  to 
open   a   kinderg-arten    in    Maine.    Since   her 
marriage  in  1865  to  A.  L.   Simpson,  a  leading 


MRS.   CORELLI  C.   W.   SIMPSON. 

lawyer  in  Bangor,  the  pencil  and  brush  of 
Mrs.  Simpson,  together  with  lier  pen,  have 
been  kept  busily  employed.  Her  poems  have 
received  extensive  publication  in  the  period- 
ical press,  and  have  been  very  favorably  re- 
ceived. 


ENDEAVOE. 

Like  skyward  sparks  our  souls  aspire 

To  fall  as  drops  the  sand. 
Morn  finds  'mong  clouds  each  heart's  desire; 

At  eve  we  grope  on  land. 
We've  failed  our  highest  to  attain. 
Shall  we  tlien  cease  to  try  again? 
Alike  to  things  both  near  and  far 

With  gleeful,  prattling  shout, 
To  nurse's  cap  or  distant  star 

The  babe's  wee  hands  stretcli  out. 
From  striving  shall  tlie  babe  desist 
Because  the  moon  meets  not  his  fist? 
How  grew  the  tree  with  deep-set  root? 

By  reacliing  toward  the  sun. 
Thougli  standing  at  the  ladder's  foot. 

Its  rounds  are  one  by  one. 
By  constant  striving  we  sliall  find 
Our  sheaves  and  tlie  wherewitli  to  bind. 


© 


CONTENT. 
While  waiting  for  tlie  lily 

We  lose  the  sweet  May-flower; 
While  longing  for  the  sunshine, 

The  beauties  of  the  shower. 
While  dreading  distant  thunder 

We  miss  the  bird's  sweet  song;    • 
While  fearing  all  life's  evils 

We  blind  our  eyes  with  wrong. 
We  wait  and  long;  we  fear  and  dread  — 
Why  may  we  not  enjoy  instead? 
If  heav'n  we  ask,  to  heav'n  draw  near  — 
Come  with  the  children  —  Lo !  'tis  here. 


SONNET  TO  MRS.  FRANCES   LAUGHTON 

MACE. 
Dear  Friend,—  in  leafy,  balmy  days  of  June 
Tliy  rarest  gems  of   verse  were  sung.    Thy 

liand 
Pure   thoughts   unwrapped  and    into    being 

fanned 
As  screened  from  sun,  or  'neath  the  silent 

moon 
With  brook  and  branch  of  pine  thy  heart  kept 

tune. 
Dost  dream  on  California's  gold-stored  strand 
Of  rock-built  mansions,  one  that,— towering 

grand 
From    banks   of   waving   grass,  —  tiiis   quiet 

noon, 
O'erlooks   and   guards    our    fair    Penobscot 

stream? 
'Mong  ferns  and  sedges  which  the  brooklet 

wets 
Birds,  buds  and  blossoms  breathe  of  thee  to- 
day. 
With  brush,   tliough   faintly,   to  refresh   thy 

dream 
I've  traced  for  thee  both  home  and  violets. 
These  simple  tributes  at  tliy  feet  I  lay. 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  WELCOME   TO   THE  LIT- 
TLE ONES. 
Come,  little  ones,  with  all  your  wealtii 
Of  joy  and  mirth,  of  youtli  and  healtli ! 
What  would  our  New  Year's  gatiiering  be 
Without  your  harmless  gaiety? 
Haste,  tiny  feet,  and  join  the  dance. 
Let  eye  greet  eye,  with  loving  glance. 
Let  each  bright  face,  like  some  rare  gem. 
Shine  in  our  New  Year's  Diadem. 
Come,  love-lit  smiles  of  sweet  content! 
You're  not  dear,  tliough  freely  spent. 
Come,  bappy  hearts!  ye  ever  shall 
Be  welcome  at  our  festival. 
Sing!  sing!  for  peace  reigns  o'er  our  land. 
May  good  will  guide  each  lieart  and  liand. 
Let  bird-like  voices  reaeli  tlie  sky, 
Christ's  life  of  love  to  glorify '. 


■)® 


m 


488 


-* 


LOG  AT.    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


EDITHA  E.  WIARD. 

Born:  Keithburg,  III.,  June  9, 1853. 
The  poems  of  Miss  Wiard   have  appeared  in 

th(-  F.iriiifr's    Ailvni'-itc,    Xc\v   Pcpublic  and 


EDITHA    E.   WIAKU. 

the  local  press  goaerall.v.  She  has  also  writ- 
ten considerable  prose  and  is  a  local  corres- 
pondent for  several  newspapers. 

IN  MEMORY. 
Methinks,   that,   thus  the  voice  of  Christ  I 
Falling  softly  on  tlie  ear,                             [hear. 
Giving  streng-tli  and  holy  cheer. 
As  the  nig-ht  of  death  draws  near; 
Nearer  still  to  Lucy  Hayes; 
Wlu)  acknowledged  Him  in  all  her  ways. 
With  his  word  of  truth  to  guide. 
Ever  ready  sin  to  chide; 
In  the  cot  or  mansion  grand, 
In  the  highest  of  our  land. 
Turning  out  the  flend  of  wine; 
Whose  serpent  coils  so  tiglitly  twine, 
'Round  its  victims  day  by  day. 
Leading  them  so  far  astray; 
Down  to  depths  of  sin  and  shame. 
Winch  we  dare  not  even  name. 
The  voice  of  the  world  to  her  was  naught. 
She  followed  only  what  God  taught, 
"  Looked  not  on  the  wine  when  it  was  red," 
Nor  lieeded  what  men  thought  or  said. 
Now  with  the  faitliful  she's  crowned  above, 
In  the  heavenly  home  where  all  is  love. 
As  she  neared  the  judgment  throne, 
© 


She  heard  not  tlie  drunkard's  moan; 

No  throng  of  ruined  lives. 

Of  sorrowing  children,  heart-broken  wives, 

Obstructed  her  pathway  of  light. 

She  saw  not  the  fearful  sight. 

Which  many  I  fear  will  see: 

The  wrecks  they've  caused  to  be. 

Behold  the  shaking  hand. 

The  tottertug  feet  which  can  not  stand. 

The  bloodshot  eye,  beclouded  brain. 

Hastening  on  in  the  funeral  train, 

Down  to  the  drunkard  s  doom. 

Eternal  death  and  gloom. 

Do  we  want  to  hear  them  call, 

'Twas  you,  'twas  you  caused  us  to  fall? 

Hear  a  mother  say  you  ruined  my  boy,  [boy. 

My  life  and  joy,  my  well-beloved,  my  precious 

Has  ours  been  the  tempter's  hand? 

Alas  I  there's  many  a  one  in  our  land. 

But  praise  the  Lord,  it  was  not  Lucy  Hayes, 

She  acknowledged  Him  in  all  her  ways. 

As  our  tribute  of  love  we  give. 

We  praj-  that  in  like  manner  we  may  live; 

Though  ours  be  but  a  lowly  sphere. 

Yet  the  voice  of  Christ  we  may  hear; 

As  of  old  he  said  to  one, 

"  What  she  could,  she  hath  done." 


SONG  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 
Flowers,  bright  and  beautiful  flowers, 

When  your  perfume  fills  the  air. 
Being  distilled  by  passing  showers. 

We  rejoice  our  world's  so  fair. 
That  for  our  pleasure  as  well  as  our  need, 

The  earth  her  verdure  doth  yield: 
Love,  infinite  love  herein  we  read. 

The  tiny  flow'r  the  waving  field. 
Flowers,  bright  and  beautiful  flowers. 

In  the  glen  or  on  tlie  hill. 
As  on  your  beauty  we  feast,  our  eyes 

See  your  tints  surpa.ssing  art; 
The  violet  gazing  at  the  skies. 

Finds  the  hue  to  paint  her  heart. 
Flowers,  bright  and  beautiful  flowers. 

Royal  rose, the  garden  <jueen. 
Carrying  us  back  to  childhood's  hours  — 

Our  home  on  the  hillside  green; 
Where  we've  dreamed  away  the  summer  day, 

By  merry  laughing  brook. 
In  sjlvan  shade  heard  the  bright-winged  jay, 

And  read  from  Nature's  book. 
Flowers,  bright  and  beautiful  flowers. 

Emblems  of  ••  Our  Fatiier's"  love; 
They  come  in  even  the  darkest  hours, 

With  a  me.ssage  from  above, — 
A  message  sent  his  children  here. 

That  as  He  did  clothe  tiie  grass. 
So  He'll  care  for  them,  they  need  not  fear. 

Drink  the  cup.  He  holds  the  glass. 


-« 


m- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


489 


-© 


JAMES  H.  J.WATKINS. 

Born:  Wales,  March  20, 1843. 
In  1866  Mr.  Watkins  was  ordained  as  a  minis- 
ter.   He  has  tauglit  elocution  in  some  of  the 
leading  academies  and  seminaries  of  America. 
Mr.  Watkins    now    teaches   vocal    music;  is 


m- 


JiJIES  H.  J.  W  ITKINb. 

clerk  of  the  board  of  supervisors  of  Herkimer 
county;  and  has  been  justice  of  the  peace  for 
twenty  years.  Mr.  Watkins  was  editor  of  the 
Frankfort  Register  in  1887.  The  writings  of 
this  journalist  and  farmer  have  appeared  ex- 
tensively in  the  periodical  press. 

GETTYSBURG. 

What  priceless  glory,  what  unfeigned  delight. 
What  depth  of  joy  beyond  expression  quite 
Is  centered  in  a  nation's  memory! 
The  patriot's  heart  forever  seems  to  be 
A  sacred  shrine,  an  urn  of  purity. 

It  is  not  strange  ye  love  this  place  the  best, 
For  on  this  field  was  freedom's  crucial  test. 
We  meet  to-day  that  statue  to  unveil. 
And  to  review  the  .sad,  though  fruitful  tale. 
That  monument  suggests.  Could  Upton  speak 
As  from  that  mass  of  marble  he  looks  forth. 
He'd  say,  >.  No  regiment  in  all  the  north 
Was  braver  than  the  one  I  did  command." 
In  twenty-flve  engagements  did  they  stand 
Firm  as  tlie  rock,  nor  did  they  ever  quail 
Undei-  the  fiercest  charge  of  leaden  hail. 


Though  oft  hemmed  in  and  worried  by  the  foe, 
They  never  lost  their  flag;  the  records  show. 
No  matter  whether  victory  or  despair. 
Their  colors  always  floated  in  the  air. 
From  Crampton's  Pass  to  Fredericksburg  and 

then 
From  Salem  church  and  Heights  to  "  Devil's 

Den." 
They  bore  the  blood-red  cross   in  Heaven's 

name 
At  Rappahannock  station  where  the  flame 
Of  war's  red  battle  lit  the  very  sky 
Their  thought  was  only  one  — to  win  or  die. 
Mine  Run  came  next,  the  bloody  Wilderness 
With  all  its  depth  of  shadow  and  distress. 
At  Spottsj'lvania  Court  House  flashed  their 

steel, 
While  rebel  hordes  their  force  were  made  to 

feel. 
North  Anna  saw  their  sure  and  deadly  aim, 
And  Totopotomoy  behelcJ  the  same; 
Cold  Harbor  came  and  Petersburg  in  gloom, 
Sending  full  many  a  brave  boy  to  his  doom. 
Then  came  Fort  Stevens,  then  came  Summit 

Point, 
Then  Winchester  where  Heaven  did  anoint 
The  black  horse  and  his  rider.    Upton  brave 
Was  wounded  on  this  field,  but  at  once  gave. 
Like  Herkimer  of  old,  command  to  place 
Him  at  the  front;  here,  bleeding,  did  he  face 
The  enemy,  and  did  direct  the  fight. 
Until  the  end,  when  Early  took  to  flight 
Remembrance  e'er  will  hold  his  prowess  dear. 
And  o'er  his  grave  we'll  shed  the  sacred  tear. 
At  Fisher's  Hill  the  plucky  Sheridan 
Early  repulsed  again;  and  every  man 
Who  wore  the  red  cross  on  that  bloody  field. 
Fought   with   that   ardor    never   known    to 

yield. 
Then   came  New  Market,  then    came    Cedar 

Creek, 
In  all  the  annals  will  you  vainly  seek 
For  braver  work  than  that  which  here  was 

done 
By  "Upton's  regulars;"  here  was  begun 
The  blow  that   crumbled   Richmond   to  the 

ground. 
And  to  the  Sixth  Corps  let  the  praises  sound. 
At  Hatcher's  Run  and  Petersburg, 
They  forced  the  fight  like  brave  and   fearless 

men. 
At  Sailor's   Creek,  which  closed  the  bloody 

fray. 
They  fought  like  tigers  till  they  won  the  day. 
And  when  at  Appomattox,  General  Lee, 
Tired  and  worn  out,  surrendered  peacefully. 
The  few  remaining  clothed  in  battle  scars. 
Beheld  the  triumph  of  the  stripes  and  stars; 
Saw  like  a  meteor  falling  from  night's  crown. 
The  star  of  southern  chivalry  go  down. 
But  what  a  few !  Where  are  the  noble  brave 


-m 


©- 


490 


-® 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


« 


Who  left  their  homes  their  cherished  land  to 

save? 
They  sleep  in  glory  in  a  shroud  of  fame; 
And  as  each  brave  boy  fell,   straightway  his 

name 
Was  changed  into  a  star,  flashing-  and  briglit. 
And  standing  in  the  gloom  of  sorrow's  niglit. 
We  look  aloft  and  ever  keep  in  view 
Those  names  emblazoned  on  the  'therealblue. 
The  many  fell,  the  few  are  left  to  weep. 
And  up  in  memory's  towers  long  vigils  keep. 
Look  at  the  list  of  casualties.    Look  o'er 
The  list  of  dead  and  wounded.    What  a  score! 
Great   heavens!    Their's   was   not    a    dress 

parade. 
They  did  the  work  while  others  only  played. 
Of  thirteen  hundred  men  that  were  enrolled. 
Men  that  were  clean  and  pure  as  burnished 

gold, 
Less  than  three  hundred  saw  the  glorious  day 
When  northern  blu#  defeated  southern  gray. 
Rest,  martyrs  brave !    Your  work  was  nobly 

done. 
The  strife  is  o'er,  the  victory  is  won. 
Ours  be  the  task  with  each  returning  spring- 
To  render  as  holy  offering, 
The  choicest  blossoms  that  shall  sweetly  shed 
Their  perfumed  sweetness  o'er  the  nation's 

dead. 
This  battlefield  which  has  so  famous  grown. 
But  thirty  years  ago  was  hardly  known, 
Save  to  the  few;  and  yonder  busy  town 
Slumbered  upon  those  hills  without  renown. 
But  in  July  of  eighteen  sixty-three 
Then  dawned  an  era  in  its  history. 
Upon  this  spot  great  empires  turned  their  eye 
And  watched  the  conflict  as  the  days  went  by. 
Old  England,  jealous  of  our  grand  success; 
Our  enemy  stood  waiting  to  caress; 
While  flighty  France  was  puckering  up  her 

mouth 
To  shout  a  greeting  to  the  solid  south,  [here ! 
WTiat  great   momentous  questions  centered 

The  brave  and  ho.stile  hosts  of  Mead  and  Lee 

Are  on  the  eve  of  battle.    Eveiy  road 

That  leads  to  Gettysburg   groans  with    the 

load  [Hill, 

Of  serried  hosts.    From  Chambersburg  comes 
While  from  Carlisle  comes  Ewell  with  a  will, 
Flushed  with  success  on  recent  fields  of  strife. 
The  foe  is  kindled  up  anew  with  life. 
On  they  advance  full  fifty  thousand  .strong. 
Sure  triumph  is  the  burden  of  tlieir  song. 
The  union  soldiers  stricken  with  a  chill 
By  our  reverse  at  fated  Chancellorville, 
Are  still,  as  always,  ready  for  the  fray. 
And  che(;rfully  the  "forward  march  "  obey. 
From    Emmetlsburg  and    Taneytown    they 

si)ced 
At  double  quick;  the  new  commander,  Mead, 


Has  not  arrived,    but  Reynolds,   brave  and 
true,  [through 

Assumes    command;     onwiird    he    marches 
The  quaint  old  town,  until  he  meets  tlie  foe. 
The  conflict  rages,  the  initial  blow 
Is  struck  by  Buford;  but  disaster  came. 
The  noble  Reynolds,  born  for  deeds  of  fame. 
Fell  at  the  first  encounter.    The  first  day 
Yields  bitter  fruit,  construe  it  as  we  may. 
'Tis  July  second.    Mead  is  on  the  field. 
Surely  this  mass  of  patriots  ne'er  will  yield, 
Hancock's   and   Slocum's,    Sedgwick's   sixth 

corps  brave. 
Have  all  arrived,  and  surely  thej-  can  save 
The  daj'.    'Tis  true  they  strive  until  the  niglit 
Falls  on  the  scenes,  and  yet  the  fight 
Is  undecided  as  when  Reynolds  fell. 
Great  God,  what  carniige?  Who  can  fully  tell 
The  tale  of  .sorrow  here  endured  this  day. 
Haste  on  the  day  of  hallowed  peace  we  lu-ay. 
'Tis  July  third.    Slocum  has  won  Gulp's  Hill. 
The  sixth  corps  bravely  force  the  fight,  until 
John.son  is  driven  from  the  vantage  ground, 
When  silence  reigns  o'er  all  the  field  around. 
'Tis  noon ;  and  not  a  signal  gun  is  heard. 
At  length  the  quick  air  of  heaven  is  stiried 
As  if  by  thunderbolts;  fierce  shot  and  shell 
With  fearful  havoc  on  our  army  tell. 
Our  cannoneers  at  once  return  the  fire. 
And  men  by  hundreds  on  the  ground  expire. 
This  fierce  artillery  fire  was  ne'er  outdone; 
Here  noble  Gushing  fell  upon  his  gun. 
At  length  our  firing  ceases;  silence  reigns. 
And  suddenly  across  the  open  plains 
Come  Pickett's  forces  led  by  Armistead. 
Now  comes  the  tug  of  war.    Are  they  misled? 
Our  firing  ceases;  do  they  deem  us  worn. 
Our  lines  are  all    broken    and    our   eoumjie 

gone? 
It  is  a  sad  mistake.    With  solid  ball 
We  mow  them  down,  but  as  the  colunms  full 
Otliers  re-forni  in  iilace,  and  onward  still 
They  inarch  until  lliey  reach  the  fatal  liill. 
Tlio  l)l()()dy  angle  (;ind  the  name  is  right) 
For  here  is  found  the  thickest  of  the  flgnt; 
Here  is  the  contest  that  must  tell  the  tale. 
If  on  this  spot  the  union  army  fail 
No  future  contest  will  by  us  be  won. 
The  stars  and  bars  will  float  over  Washington. 
But  God  is  in  tlie  conflict.     Backward  flee 
The  battered  lines  of  soutlu-i-n  chivalry. 
Backward  they   flee,  hut    leave  their    leader 

dead. 
The  gallant  though  misguided  Armistead. 
Four  hundriMl  monuments  like  lines  of  light 
Stand  on  this  field  to  mark  the  bloody  fight. 
Here  will  the    nation    come  through  future 

years 
To  show  its  ardor  and  to  shed  its  tears. 
'Tis  well;  this  land  redeemed  by  blood,  is  ours, 
Against  the  hopes  of  hostile  foreign  powers. 


B 


^- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-® 


491 


MRS.  ELLA  D.BENTLEY. 

BOKx:  New  Orleans,  La.,  1858. 
In  1874,  at  the  age  of  si.vteen,  tliis  lady  was 
married  to  Linden  E.  Bontley,  editor  and 
proprietor  of  tlie  Donaldsonville  Cliief.  She 
is  now  associate-editor  of  that  publication, 
and  is  considered  one  of  the  most  prominent 
literary   women  of  Louisiana.     Jfrs.  Bentley 


MRS.  ELLA  D.  BENTLEY. 

was  the  first  vice-president  of  tlie  Louisiana 
Press  Association  for  a  term  of  tiiree  years, 
and  again  received  the  re-election.  Her  poems 
have  appeared  in  the  New  Orleans  Times, 
Picayune,  Republican  and  other  prominent 
publications.  Mrs.  Bentley  is  possessed  of 
rare  good  spirits,  is  of  pleasing  address,  and 
a  leader  in  social  circles. 


®- 


THE  THRESHOLD. 

Again  we  stand  with  weary,  faltering  feet 

Upon  the  threshold  of  another  year. 
Unclasp  once  more  the  ponderous  scroll  of 
time. 
With  sad  eyes  read  the  record  written  here. 
Across  Its  pages  memory  sends  a  gleam 

Of  sunshine,  or  a  .shade  of  deep  regret. 
And  recollection's  mystic  finger  points 

To  that  we  cherish  most  or  would  forget. 
Here  friendship's  hand  has   written   tender 
words. 
And  there  a  trusted  heart  has  proved  un- 
true: 


Each  solemn  leaf  is  touched   with   checkered 
tints 
Of  pain  and  pleasure,  joy  and  sorrow,  too. 
Yet,  who  would  quatf  the  cup  of  Lethe  to- 
night. 
For  all  the  book  is'stained  with  tears  of  woe. 
Somewhere  it  holds  the  light  of  happier  days. 
Sweet  brightness  in  the  gloom  of  ••  Long 
Ago." 
But  see  the  promise  in  the  distant  east, 

Encarmined  with  the  glow  of  coming  morn ; 
The  sobbing  wind  wails  out  the  dead  years 
dirge. 
Then  laughs  a  greeting  to  the  year  new- 
born. 
And  swells  in  echoes  from  the  walls  of  time 

Up  to  the  splendor  of  the  star-gemmed  sky— 
Tlie  future's  Mecca  tempts  life's  pilgrim  on; 
So  shut  the  book,  and  bid  the  past  good-by. 


FINIS. 
Six  feet  of  earth,  and  a  hero  lies 
Under  the  sheen  of  the  sun-kissed  skies, 
While  a  weeping  nation  stills  its  sighs 

To  whisper  the  meed  of  his  glory ; 
Six  feet  of  earth,  and  a  felon's  clay 
Thrust  from  the  pitiless  light  of  day. 
An  Ishmael  outcast,  with  none  to  pray 

Or  grieve  o'er  his  shameful  story. 
Six  feet  of  earth,  and  an  honored  wife. 
Whose    pure    hands  weary  of  struggle  aud 

strife. 
Caught  at  the  hope  of  a  higher  life. 

And  are   clasped    'neath    the   marble's 
praises; 
Six  feet  of  earth,  and  a  wanton  bold. 
Whose  birth  was  a  crime,  whose  honor  was 
sold 
In  the  market  of  lust,  for  the  glint  of  gold. 

Is  slumbering  under  the  daisies. 
Chiseled  column  and  sculptured  bust, 
Towering  high  over  cherished  dust. 
Or  a  grass-grown  grave  in  the  potter's-field. 
With  only  the  bending  clouds  to  sliield: 
Who  knows  the  story  of  chances  lost. 
Of  fond  hearts  broken  and  passion-tossed 
Amid  life's  tumult,  and  who  can  tell 
Which  was  deserving  heaven  or  hell. 


QUIEN  SABE. 

There  is  within  our  souls  a  hidden  life 
Which  those  we  cherish  fondest  cannot  share. 
Where  long  remembered  love  and  tenderwords 
Are  treasured  deep.    And  none   may   enter 

there. 
The  secrets  which  we  hold  so  close  to  guess ; 
Or  when  we  blithely  laugh,  seem  glad  and 

gay. 
Can  tell  how  near  the  bitter  tears  may  press. 
Or  what  deep  griefs  our  sad  hearts  hide  away 


■* 


©: 


492 


LOCAI.   AND   NATIONAL,    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


® 


ANNE  GARDNER  HALE. 

Born:  Newburypokt,  Mass.,  Aug. 2,  1823. 
As  a  writer  of  both  prose  and  verse  this  lady 
has  gained  an  enviable  reputation.  Her  poems 
have  appeared  in  over  twenty  of  the   leading 


ANNE  (iAUI)NKK  HA  MO. 

eastern  periodicals,  from  wliieh  they  have 
been  extensively  copied  by  the  local  i)ress. 
She  is  the  author  of  several  works  and  is  now 
preparing  a  volume  of  poems  for  the  press. 
Miss  Hale  is  genial  and  agi'eeablein  manners, 
and  very  entertaining  in  conversation. 


^- 


CONQUERING  AND  TO  CONQUER. 

Now  hath  the  conqueror.  Spring, 

Her  banner  of  life  unfurled; 
Out  fiom  the  sliadowof  dealli's  dark  wing 

Calling  the  sleeping  world! 
Over  the  sunny  hills 

Sending  the  silver  streams. 
Swelling  the  song  of  the  joyous  rills 

'Neath  the  fair  moon's  jilacid  beams. 
The  blast  of  her  trumpeter,  March, 

Hang  througli  tlie  kingdom's  wide. 
Shivering  winter's  triuniph-areh— 

Hazing  Ids  throne  of  pride; 
And  lie,  a  dotard  old. 

Fled,  as  liis  footsteps  light 
Wakened  to  verdure  the  sere,  dry  w 

111  tlie  fairies'  dance  at  night. 
Lady  of  grace  serene. 

Patiently  April  wrought. 


)ld 


Weaving  a  robe  for  the  beauteous  queen 

From  the  promise  of  life  she  brought. 
Her  scepter  a  budding  spray, 

Her  crown  but  a  Howery  wreath. 
Yet  the  gentle  maid  hath  a  firmer  sway 

Than  the  stern,  cold  king  of  death. 
The  rocks  to  dust  may  fret. 

The  lulls  and  mountains  fall, 
On  ;dl  things  earthly  death's  seal  be  set, 

Yet  breaks  at  length  his  thrall. 
From  the  crypts  of  the  vanished  past. 

From  the  ashes  of  grim  decay. 
This  earth,  exultant,  brings  forth  at  last 

The  bounding  life  of  May  I 
The  world  is  growing  old  — 

Hoary  in  pain  and  crime; 
Yet,  still,  the  promised  age  of  gold 

Shall  the  years  bring  'round  in  time; 
Sure  —  as  from  winter's  gloom 

Rises  the  springtime  glow; 
Sweet  as  the  blossoms  that  bud  and  bloom 

From  the  buried  bulb  below. 


SONG. 
Come  over  the  hills  to  the  sea,  love! 

Come  over  the  hills  to  the  sea!  [sky 

Here  the  sun  looks  down  from  the  arching 

And  the  wild  winds  wander  free. 
•We  will  think  no  more  of  the  sad.  sad  past, 

All  joy  shall  our  future  be. 
And  we'll  muse  at  will  on  her  kingdom  vast 

As  we  gaze  on  the  open  sea. 
From  the  dismal  wood  and  the  stifling  town. 

Come,  love,  with  your  drooping  heart, 
And  the  mighty  voice  of  the  ocean,  here. 

Shall  bid  each  grief  depart. 
We  will  watch  the  sun  from   his  moniiug 
couch 

Ascend  to  his  topmost  tlirone. 
And  fondly  mark  at  the  twilight  hour 

Where  his  lingering  rays  have  shone. 
When  the  moon  comes  up  from  the  glitter- 
ing tide. 

As  if  from  her  diamond  caves, 
We'll  list  to  the  song  of  her  vassal  throng, 

The  ever  restless  waves. 
Where  the  flsher- boats  rock  on   tlie  yeasty 
deep 

Shall  our  thoughts  in  their  roving  go. 
And  the  white  sea-gull  like  our  glad  hearts 
seem 

As  he  glimmers  to  and  fin. 
Oh  I  the  .sea  to  us  shall  a  i>icture  be 

Of  our  unknown  futuri',  love,— 
With  its  cea.seless  song  and  its  vassal  tides. 

And  its  blue  sky  lient  above! 
So  come  o'er  the  hills  to  the  sea,  love! 

Come  o'er  the  hills  to  the  seal 
Forget  the  past,  our  lot  is  cast 

By  the  sfde  of  the  glorious  sea !  ^ 


©- 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEIilCA. 


493 


-i® 


JOHN  S.SMITH. 

Born:  Jay  Co.,  Ind.,  March  13, 1848. 

This  journalist  is  the  editor  and  proprietor 
of  the  Advance,  pubhshed  at  Osceohi,  Mo. 
He  was  married  in  1881  to  Miss  Annie  B.  Nal- 


•JOHN   S.    SMITH. 

ley.  The  poems  of  Mr.  Smith  have  appeared 
in  the  Chicag'o  Ledger  and  the  periodical 
press  generally.  Mr.  Smith  has  become  well 
and  favorably  known  in  the  state  of  his  adop- 
tion, and  numbers  among  his  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances many  ardent  admirers. 


*- 


WORK  TO-DAY. 

Life  is  but  a  moment  — 
It  passeth  soon  away ; 
There  is  no  room  for  idlers, 
There  is  no  time  for  play. 

Toil  ever  without  ceasing. 
With  willing  hands  and  strong; 
And  with  undaunted  courage 
Wage  battle  'gainst  tlie  wrong. 

Labor  for  the  Master, 
The  toiling  soul  will  win 
A  crown  of  fadeless  glory, 
A  home  that's  free  from  sin. 

Then  be  up  and  doing. 
The  morning's  rosy  light 


May  soon  be  changed  to  shadows 
Of  deep  ahd  cheerless  light. 

"  Onward,"  be  your  motto, 
Oh,  hasten  to  fulfill 
In  love,  each  kind  requirement 
Of  Jesus'  holy  will. 

Soon  you'll  liear  him  calling: 
"  Come,  all  ye  blessed  come, 
And  reign  with  me  forever 
lu  an  eternal  home." 


TO-DAY  AND  TO-MORROW. 

To-day,  the  soft  resplendence, 

Of  morning's  rosy  light. 
Has  filled  the  world  with  gladness, 

Each  heart  with  pure  delight. 

Oh,  consummate  exhaustless. 
The  source  of  human  joy! 

Our  earth  an  Eden  seemeth. 
With  nothing  to  annoy. 

To-morrow,  deepest  shadows 
Have  covered  like  a  pall. 

The  silent  king-  of  darkness 
Is  reigning  over  all. 

To-day,  fair  fortune  smileth; 

The  wealth  of  health  is  ours; 
Our  tireless  feet  are  treading 

In  paths  o'erstrewn  with  flowers; 

Kind  friends,  with  smiling  faces. 
Speak  words  of  comfort  sweet, 

Until  our  hearts  are  thrilling. 
With  happiness  replete. 

To-morrow,  friends  have  vanished. 
And  all  is  wrapped  in  gloom ; 

Aweary    faint,  desponding. 
We  near  the  silent  tomb. 

To-day  a  father  liveth, 

A  mother's  voice  I  hear; 
A  brother  and  a  sister 

Fill  home  with  love  and  cheer. 

No  thoughts  of  sorrow  darken 
The  brow  with  ruffled  care; 

No  clouds  obscure  the  future  — 
All,  all  is  briglit  and  fair. 

To-morrow,  all  is  silent; 

Each  fairy  vision's  fled; 
Loved  one,  so  well  rememb'red, 

Are  sleeping  with  thedead. 


PHILANTHROPY. 

Honor  first  to  him  belongs 
Whose  heart  with  deep  compassion  glows; 
Whose  every  word,  whose  every  deed. 
Intense  humanity  disclose. 


-© 


©- 


494 


-«& 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


BURT  FOWLES. 

Born:  Ahnapee,  Wis.,  April 23, 1864. 
The  occupation  of  Burt  Fowles  is  that  of  a 
marble  cutter,  but  lie  is  now  tlie  manager  of  a 


*- 


BURT  FOWLES. 

monthly  mag-azine.  The  poems  of  Mr.  Fowles 
have  appeared  In  a  number  of  well-known 
periodicals,  and  have  received  verj-  flattering 
praise. 

THE  DESERTED  HOME. 

Beside  the  wooded  hill  it  stands 

Forsaken  and  so  awful  still. 
As  tho'  the  tread  of  happy  bands 

Had  never  crossed  its  wcU-woru  sill 
No  merry  lauph  or  jesting-  word  — 

Alas,  no  faithful  watch-dogs  bark. 
No  lowing  of  the  kine  is  heard 

As  evening  shades  grow  long  and  dark. 

The  path  where  many  feet  have  ti'oad 

Ls  all  o'ergrown  witli  tangled  grass. 
The  orchard  old  whose  trees  are  dead 

And  broken  down,  is  of  the  past. 
The  roof  is  going,  the  door  is  gone. 

And  forward  leans  the  rustic  gate. 
Almost  too  weak  to  stand  alone, 

And  for  the  loved  ones  seems  to  wait. 
No  stranger  now  e'er  enters  there, 

No  gentle  voice  is  heard  in  .song. 
No  footsteps  echo  on  the  stair. 

Nor  tread  the  grassy  pathw;iy  long. 


No  merry  laughter  now  is  beard 

By  children's  voices  light  and  gay. 
Naught  but  the  echo  of  the  bird 

That  sings  its  song  and  soars  away. 
Ah  1  Gone  are  all  it  held  once  dear, 

Yes,  gone  to  live  in  other  lauds, 
And  left  to  crumble  with  the  years 

This  long  de.serted  farm-house  stands. 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  hill 

In  sweet  repose  there  calmly  sleep 
Au  aged  pair  in  silence  still. 

And  vigil  o'er  tliat  home  they  keep. 


THE  MASTER-HAND. 

The  list'ner  stood  in  solemn  awe 

And  listened  to  the  master-hand 

That  idly  roamed  the  keys,  and  saw 

Down  secret  aisles  a  mystic  strand,— 

A  chord  harmonious  rang  and  woke 

To  life  the  silent  empty  space 

Its  echo  drifting  back  —  then  broke 

A  light,  and  glory  tilled  the  place  — 

A  pause  —  a  measure  soft  and  slow 

As  whisp'rings  thro'  the  swaying  pine 

Its  cadence  sweet,  and  sad,  und  low. 

From  solemn  depths  to  heights  sublime. 

Then  like  the  great  tempestuous  sea 

With  heaving  breast  'neath  light'ning  flash  — 

Then  breaks  a  calm  that  lulls  the  free. 

Bright  waves  to  rest,  they  cease  to  splash 

But  rip'ling  turn  to  pat'ring  rain 

Whose  drop,  drop,  drop,  drifts  by  — 

A  wail  —  a  sob  —  a  mournful  strain 

That  ending  echoes  back  a  sigh. 


A  LOST  DAY ! 
A  lost,  lost  day  —  what  matters  it 

Among  so  many  days? 
With  careless  words  and  idle  wit 

We  drive  dull  care  away. 
Can  one  small  day  be  really  lost 

In  this  great  world  of  ours'j? 
Can  it  unnoticed  float  across 

The  stream  of  lime,  with  hours? 
So  many  idle,  empty  days 

That  ever  go  and  come. 
What  can  it  matter  to  our  ways 

'I'o  lose  a  single  one? 
So  many  weary,  dreary  days, 

We'i-i'  glad  to  wasti'  a  few. 
We  tiy  our  best  in  diflerent  ways 

To  lose  just  one  or  two. 
That  day  is  lost  wherein  no  deed 

Of  kindness  has  been  done. 
Where  patient  hand  has  sown  no  seed. 

No  kuidly  snule  has  won. 
O  lost,  lost  day  !  forever  still. 

Embalmed  with  bitter  tears, 
Insolt'mn  silence,  wreaking  chill. 

Within  the  tomb  of  years. 


9 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMJSKICA. 


495 


-51 


ANNA  MARIE  NEIS. 

Born:  New  York  City,  Sept.  28,  1867. 
This  young-  lady  is  verj'  fond  of  literaturo, 
and  has  written  both  prose  aud  v'erse.    She  is 


ANNA  MARIE  NEIS. 

very  ambitious,  and  is  now  studying-  to  be- 
come an  artist.  Miss  Neis  now  resides  in 
Newark,  N.  J. 


©- 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 

Ho !  the  village  blacksmith. 

All  the  live-long-  day, 
The  ringing-  of  his  anvil, 

Wears  many  hours  away. 

How  manfully  he  lifts  his  arm. 
And  strikes  the  heavy  blow. 

The  hammer  beating-  perfect  time. 
As  he  swings  it  to  and  fro. 

Listen  to  the  anvil! 

The  sound  is  very  dear. 
As  across  the  little  park. 

It  rings  out  loud  and  clear. 

'Tis  the  only  chiming  sound. 
That  keeps  the  villag-e  stirringr. 

For  in  the  quiet  little  town. 
There's  nothing  much  occurring. 

On  a  bright  and  sunny  morning. 

When  the  sky  is  blue. 
And  the  grass  is  fresh  and  green, 

And  slightly  wet  with  dew. 


The  farmer  boy  may  be  seen 

Coming-  from  afar. 
With  horse  to  shoe,  wagon  to  fix, 

Aud  to  get  a  box  cf  tar. 

Then  a  little  chit-chat 

In  a  loud  and  jolly  tone, 
Tlie  farmer  boj"  hooks,  up  his  horse. 

And  hurries  on  toward  home. 

No  sooner  is  he  out  of  sight. 

Than  others  come  and  go, 
Thus  keeping  the  village  blacksmith's 
shop 

In  a.  continual  glow. 

The  smith  is  known  for  many  a  mile, 
And  greatly  esteemed  it  appears. 

For  he  has  been  the  village  smith 
For  five  and  twenty  years. 

But  things  will  change  as  time  goes  ou 

And  cause  us  deep  despair. 
For  in  the  little  village  shop. 

The  smith  is  no  more  there. 

For  sickness  came  as  it  will  to  all 
Midst  pleasui-e  aud  midst  mirth, 

Aud  sad  to  say  in  three  short  days 
He  departed  from  this  earth. 

The  shock  is  great  to  all  around, 
Even  those  who  knew  him  not. 

His  death  casts  a  shadow. 
Which  will  not  be  soon  forgot. 

In  the  quiet  little  churchyard 

The  smith  was  laid  low. 
Where  the  green  grass  and  the  flowers. 

Will  soou  begin  to  grow. 

The  birds  will  sing  their  songs 
In  the  bright  and  genial  days, 

Near  the  lonely  grave  where 
The  village  blacksmith  lays. 


VACATION. 


EXTRACT. 

In  loneliness  there  we  ponder. 
How  long  the  time  will  be. 

Ere  we  shall  have  the  pleasure 
Our  native  town  to  see. 

We  muse,  but  still  we're  happy- 
Studying  all  the  daj% 

And  as  we  study  diligently 
Our  loneliness  wears  away. 

We  long  for  a  glimpse  of  sunshine, 

That  spreads  itself  so  free. 
All  over  the  grass  and  trees  and  flowers. 

And  over  the  whole  country. 
But  still  the  sun  shines  'round  us, 

The  trees  and  flowers  are  all  the  same. 
But  still  it  is  not  the  village 

From  whence  we  shortly  came. 


m 


©- 


-® 


496 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


CHARLES  L.CLEAVELA^'D. 

Bokn:  Canada,    Feb.  25, 1855. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Cleaveland  have  appeared  in 
the  Atlantic  Monthly,  Chicago  Daily  Inler- 
Ocean,  News,  Current  and  other  papers  of 


CHARLES  LORENZO  CLEAVELAND. 

equal  prominence,  from  wliich  they  have  been 
copied  by  the  periodical  press.  He  is  now  a 
resident  of  MiUbury,  Mass.,  where  he  is  well 
known. 


A  PINE  WOOD'S  SONNET. 
This  is  the  inner  circle  of  the  pines; 
Yet  here  within  the  sweet  and  ancient  shade 
The  calls  are  heard  of  labdr  and  of  trade. 
The  saw  mill's  >vhistle,  as  the  sun  declines) 
IJreaks   through   this   solitude;  and   certain 
signs 
Mark  where  shrewd  men  have  keen  inspec- 
tion made 
Of  these  tall   timbers,  whose  stjuare  feet 
arrayed 
Made  quick  their  blood,  as  the  )Ut;li  with  nitl- 

low  wines. 
And  wliile  that  brook,  like  a  full  artery, 
With  silent  force  throbs  through  the  wood- 
land wild. 
While  likeabreathingbosom  does  appear 
Tlie  gentle  waving  of  each  rounded  tree 
Tliat  stirs  witliin  tiie  evening  breezes  mild. 
It  seems  the  heart  of  M id ligan  beats  here  I 


SHE  SPEAKS. 
How  fair  tlie  moonbeams  mild  that  shine 
Within  the  apple  boughs, and  twine 
With  peaceful  light  the  loving  leaves! 
Hark,  love,  the  whip-poor-will  that  grieves, 
Amid  the  bluff's  secluded  wood. 
For  some  lost  thing  not  understood. 
Our  little  friend  within  tlie  grass. 
The  cricket, as  we  slowly  pass. 
Gives  us  a  cheerful  roundelay 
That  chases  every  doubt  away. 


A  WILD  FLOWER. 
Thou  milk-white  creature  of  May  — 

White  petals,  and  golden  hearted  — 
What  dreams  of  a  vanished  day 

Hast  thou  in  memory  started  I 

Thy  sisters  of  long  ago 

Were  sweet  to  their  human  brothers; 
And  thou  recallest  the  glow 

Of  a  spring  above  all  others. 

Ah,  haply  some  careless  wight 
Shall  look  upon  thee  to-morrow. 

From  a  Jlay  day  full  of  delight 
That  hideth  no  old-time  sorrow ; 

And  thy  kin  of  a  future  year 

Shall  meet  him  in  sadder  places; 
Then  thou  to  his  heart  shalt  appear 
With  earth's  most  heavenly  graces! 


STONE. 
Unlike  all  other  shapes  of  earth  that  he 
They    seem,    in   their   uniqueness,    to   one's 

thought 
To  be  with  some  ennobled  passion  fraught  — 
The  rock's  distinct  and  ancient  chivalry! 


PLOWING. 
My  furrow  is  a  royal  road; 

A  tender  song  I  sing. 
To  think  my  love  is  standing  where 

Tlie  glass  is  glittering. 


SYMPATHY. 


Her  sympathy  is  wide  and  sweet. 

Joined  unto  knowledge  deep  and  clear. 
Th(nigii  never  be  the  world  complete, 
f  Slie  holds  the  simple  creed,  good  cheer. 
As  much  as  is  at  life's  command. 
To  be  the  best  for  heart  and  liand. 


© 


THE  COYS. 
We  felt  no  need  of  art's  adorning. 

No  thought  of  method's  countless  names. 
Tiie  wakeful  currents  of  the  morning 

Were  Hashing  in  our  lusty  frames. 


*- 


LOCAL,   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


49^ 


•© 


BYRON  T.  KING. 

Bokn:  Portland,  Me,,  April  15, 1856. 
Commencing  life  as  a  bundle  boy  in  a  dry 
goods  store,  young'  King-  soon  became  one  of 
tlie  brightest  and  most  popular  dry-goods 
clerk  in  his  native  city,  lu  1871  he  went  to 
Boston,  where  he  became  one  of  the  higliest 
salaried  men  in  the  trade.  But  he  would  see  the 
woi'ld.  andin  1875  he  started  on  a  inp  around 
the  world;  in  four  years  he  had  traveled  in 
Africa,  China,  India,  Japan  and  the  continent 


88- 


liVKON  T.  RING. 

Of  Europe.  In  1879  Mr.  King  returned  to  this 
country  and  settled  down  to  business  as  a 
succes.sful  dry-goods  merchant  in  Springfield, 
Mo.  He  retired  from  that  business  in  1889,  as 
the  Scott  Investment  Company,  one  of  the 
largest  corporations  in  the  southwest,  of 
which  he  is  vice-president  and  general  man- 
ager, requires  the  greater  part  of  liis  time. 
Since  1868  various  poems  from  tlie  pen  of  Mr. 
Kingliave  appeared  in  the  periodical  i)ress, 
and  he  lias  also  contributed  letters  of  travel 
in  Spain  and  Portugal  and  other  countries. 

LIFE'S  TKUE  SIGNIFICANCE. 
Deeper  than  all  sense  of  seeing, 

Lies  the  secret  source  of  being. 
And  the  soul,  with  truth  agreeing. 

Learns  to  live  in  tlioughts  and  deeds; 
For  the  life  is  more  than  raiment. 


And  the  earth  is  pledged  for  payment 
Unto  man  for  all  his  needs. 
Nature  is  our  common  mother. 

Every  living  man  our  brother; 
Therefore  let  us  serve  each  other, 

Not  to  meet  the  law's  behests, 
But  because  thi-ough  cheerful  giving 

We  shall  learn  the  art  of  living; 
And  to  live  and  serve  is  best. 
Life  is  more  than  what  man  fancies! 

Not  a  game  of  idle  chances; 
But  it  steadily  advances 

Up  the  rugged  lieights  of  time. 
Till  each  complex  web  of  trouble. 

Every  sad  heart's  brolsen  bubble. 
Hath  a  meaning-  most  sublime. 

More  religion,  less  profession ! 

More  firmness,  less  concession ; 
More  of  freedom,  less  oppression, 

In  the  church  and  in  the  state: 
More  of  life  and  less  of  fashion. 

More  of  love  and  less  of  passion  — 
That  will  make  us  good  and  great. 

When  true  hearts,  divitiely  gifted. 

From  the  chaff  of  error  sifted, 
On  their  crosses  are  uplifted. 

Shall  the  world  most  clearly  see 
That  earth's  greatest  time  of  trial 

Calls  for  holy  self-denial, 
Calls  on  men  to  do  and  be. 
But  forever  and  forever. 

Let  it  be  the  soul's  endeavor 
Love  from  hatred  to  discover; 

And  in  wliatso'er  we  do. 
Won  by  love's  eternal  beauty 

To  our  highest  sense  of  duty, 
Evermore  be  firm  and  true. 


MRS.  LAURA  A.  RANDALL. 

Born:  Ingham  Co.,  Mich.,  Mav  7, 1847. 
This  lady  was  married  in   1865   to  Dr.  C.  L. 
Randall,  and  still  resides  in  her  native  state 
at  Dansville.    Her  poems  liave  appeared  quite 
extensively  in  the  local  press. 


FLOWERS. 
Another  season  is  coming. 

Swift  passes  the  fleeting  hours; 
Coming  with  golden  sunshine. 

And  its  wealth  of  beautiful  flowers. 
As  stars  light  the  glorious  heavens, 

Flowers  gem  and  beautify  earth ; 
We  thank  the  bountiful  Giver, 

For  their  fragrance,  beauty  and  worth. 
O  flowers,  sweet  flowers  in  your  brightness. 

Ye  comfort  and  gladden  our  heart. 
And  help  us  along  in  our  life  work 

To  act  nobler  and  better  our  pai-t. 


-« 


©- 


-)5& 


498 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


JOHN  SAMUEL  I>FORTUNE. 

Born:  Elk  Creek,  Neb.,  Aug.  22,  1S62. 
Emigrating  to  California  in  1875,  Mr.  LaFor- 
tune  now  resides  at  Tulare.    At  tlie  age  of 
twenty  lie  Ijecame  the  associate-editor  of  a 

loc;il  p.iiuT,  and  from  that  time  lie  has  contri- 


JOHN  SAMUEL   L'i'ORTUNE. 

buted  poems  more  or  less  to  the  public  press. 
In  1887  Mr.  LaFortune  became  the  editor  and 
proprietor  of  the  Tulare  Democratic  Free 
Press.  For  nearly  three  years  this  journalist 
has  been  connected  with  stafifof  telegraphic 
correspondence  of  the  leading  papers  of  tlie 
Pacific  coast. 


© 


CALIFORNIA  SPRING. 

Our  California  liills  are  green,  'tis  Spring, 
Tlie  Vales  are  rife  witii  Song  and  blossoming. 

The  flowers  of  many  lands  we  here  behold. 
In  dress  of  aml)er,  purple,  red  and  gold. 

Tiie  birds  in    chambers    green    and  streams 

along, 
Tlie  forests  wake  witli  bursts  of  matin  song. 

Aurora  gilds  the  stream,  the  field  and  plain. 
And  Ceres  smiling  walks  the  fields  of  grain. 

At  Eve  when  in  the  glorious  golden  west, 
Tiic  Sun  has  sunk  behind  tlie  hills  to  rest; 

O'er  the  mountAins  like  a  blushing  bride. 


The  moon  looks   o'er  the  valleys,    fair   and 

wide ; 
And  paints  the  verdure  here  in  darker  hue. 
And  gilds  the  snowy  mounts  against  the  blue. 

'Tis  then  the  hour  when  loving  eyes  shine  out. 
And  Cupid  smiles,  and  rosebud-lips  do  pout. 

Oh,  California's  hills  and  spangled  bowers. 
Her  singing  birds  and  cool  refreshing  show- 
ers. 
Her  orange  groves  and  lier   swift  blushing 

streams. 
Are  fairer  than  the  poet's  idle  dreams. 


ELDORADO. 
Peace  smiles  upon  the  verdant  hills 

And  o'er  the  flowery  dells. 
And  from  ten  thousand  flashing  rills 

Fair  Nature's  pean  swells. 

Here  side  by  side  this  Spring-tide  day, 
Earth's  fairest  flowers  gleam; 

The  royal  purple  and  the  gray 
Contrast  their  glowing  sheen. 

There's  "  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills," 

The  flocks  roam  by  the  lea; 
Wliile  fields  of  grain  the  wide  plains  fill 

From  mountains  to  the  sea. 

The  feathered  songster  blithely  sings 

Among  the  fruited  trees. 
From  bloom  to  flower  on  busy  wings 

Speed  on  the  busy  bees. 

The  river's  sing  their  songs  of  praise. 

The  wooded  banks  prolong; 
The  echo  of  tlieir  roundelays 

Their  simple,  grateful  song. 

Afar  the  mountain's  fleecy  crown 

And  robe  of  dazzling  white. 
On  fields  of  waving  grain  look  down 

With  brilliant  sparkling  liglit. 

There  miners  break  the  slubliorn  earth 

Beneath  the  mountain  pine. 
Or  toil  where  sunliglit  ne'er  had  birth 

Within  the  gloomy  mine. 

A  city  stands  beside  the  sea, 

A  fair  and  saintly  queen  — 
Her  Kingdom  is  tlie  dark-blue  sea, 

Tlie  hills  and  valleys  green. 

Tliere  commerce  threads  its  snowy  wings 

Outri'acliing  far  and  wide, 
The  wealtli  of  foreign  lands  it  brings 

On  eacli  recurring  tide. 

O,  land  by  many  ixiets  sung, 

O,  land  by  nature  lilest. 
How  proud  thy  place,  fair  lands  among. 

Bright  daughter    of  the  west. 


-® 


SB- 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEllICA. 


499 


-m 


KATHARINE  J.  MOORE. 

Born:  Balto,  Md. 
One  of  the  well-known  local  poets  of  southern 
PeuusjivaniaisMiss  Katble  Moore.  Although 
born  in  Maryland  she  claims  Pennsylvania  as 
her  native  state,  her  family  locating?  there 
when  Kathie  was  but  a  few  months  old.  With 
the  exception  of  two  years  and  a  half  spent  in 


KATHARINE  JOSEPHINE  MOORE. 

traveling-,  the  whole  of  her  life  has  been 
passed  quietly  in  the  little  valley  city  of 
York.  Pa.  Miss  Kathie  graduated  from  the 
high  school  of  that  place  in  1876,  and  for 
several  years  thereafter  taught  school.  Later 
Miss  Moore  took  charge  of  The  Kaleidoscope, 
a  child's  magazine.  She  is  now  engaged  as 
editor  of  The  Home  Guard,  and  also  is  now 
the  editor  of  The  Fountain,  a  flrst-class  month- 
ly magazine  devoted  to  supplementary  read- 
ing in  the  schools. 


m~ 


THE  TANGLE  OF  GRASSES. 
A  tangle  of  dripping  grasses 

With  daisies  abloom  and  sweet, 
A  shining  of  placid  waters 

Where  land  and  the  river  meet. 
Beyond,  fair  slopes  of  the  grasses. 

Fair  clumps  of  the  daisy  sheen, 
A  sky  stooping  tenderly  over, 

A  soft  wind  blowing  between. 
Beyond  on  the  fair,  wide  river, 

A  glinting  of  sunlight  afar. 


A  gleaming  of  wide,  white  lilies, 

A  sail  shining  out  like  a  star. 
A  vision  outlying  in  sunshine; 

A  land  and  a  river  serene  — 
Life  blooming  and  death  like  a  river, 

A  tangle  of  grasses  between. 
Life  blooming  and  death  like  a  river; 

Forever  it  touches  life's  strand. 
With  naught  but  a  tangle  of  grasses 

Dividing  the  water  and  land. 


I  CAN'T  HELP  IT. 

If,  in  between  my  page  and  me. 
This  languid,  dreamy  weather. 
There  comes  a  face  I  used  to  see 
When  we  two  were  together; 
If  mem'ries  of  those  sweet  old  days 
Bloom  out  from  time's  embalming  haze. 
And  thoughts  more  dear  than  I  can  tell 
Awake  and  bind  me  with  their  spell,— 
Well  —  I  can't  help  it ! 

And  if  between  my  page  and  me. 

This  fragrant,  sunny  weather. 

There  comes  a  time  I  used  to  know 

When  we  two  were  together; 

And  if  I  think  her  tender  eyes 

More  pure  than  are  these  clear  June  skies. 

And  if  I  think  her  sunny  smile 

Migiit  all  earth's  weary  cares  beguile. 

Well  — I  can't  help  it! 

A  picture  grows  upon  my  page. 

We  two  are  there  together; 

We  drive  through  mists  of  drenching  rain; 

But  who  minds  cloudy  weather? 

And  if  I  call  that  time  most  fair. 

And  wish  that  we  again  were  there. 

And  if  I  fancy  that  she,  too. 

Deems  that  the  gladdest  day  she  knew. 

Well  —  I  can't  help  it ! 

Ah,  well !  those  days  are  past  and  gone  — 

Those  days  of  perfect  weather ; 

Our  paths  lie  so  remote,— could  they 

Have  once  been  near  together  ? 

But  if  I  long,  just  once,  to  go 

To  where  the  cool  north  breezes  blow. 

And  if  I  long,  just  once,  to  see 

That  face  grow  bright  with  smiles  for  me. 

Well  — I  can't  help  it! 


EXTRACT. 
There's  a  patter  and  a  tapping  on  the  pane, 
And  the  music  of  a  steady  falling  rain, 
As  it  f  alleth, 

Falleth, 

Falletb, 
On  the  earth  so  brown  and  bare, 
Where  in  summer  time  the  grasses  grew 
So  green  and  high  and  fair. 


■© 


©■ 


500 


© 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    I'OKTS    OF  AMERICA. 


JOHN  LETCHER  PATTERSON. 

Born:  Lexington,  Ky.,  June  10, 1863. 
Graduating  at  Harvard  iu  1883,  Mr.  Patter- 
son later  entered  the  profession  of  teaching-, 
and  is  now  principal  of  the  high  school  at  Ver- 


JOHN   LETCHEU  PATTEKSON. 

sallies.  Prof.  Patterson  has  contribnted  quite 
extensively  some  very  fine  poems  to  the  lead- 
ing magazines,  and  hopes  soon  to  issue  a  vo- 
lume of  his  productions. 

TWO  SIGHS. 
One  sigh  for  a  song. 
For  a  song  that  is  sung; 
It  was  sung  me  erst  long 
Was  the  song. 
A  nd  one  for  a  rose. 
For  :i,  rose  wiiilom  white. 
It  is  faded  to-night 
Is  tile  rose. 
Love  s:ing  mo  the  song. 
And  lo^'e  gave  me  the  flower 
In  ii  long  vanished  hour- 
Rose  and  song. 
And  so  will  I  sigh 
Since  'Us  all  lov(^  has  left; 

When  in  lliought  I'ln  adrift. 
Willlsifili. 


«■ 


UNDEIt  THK  ASPENS. 
The  minstrel  wind's  love-touch  has  made 
The  gleaming  bosom  of  the  lake 


To  palpitate  in  sweet  alarm. 

The  aspen  trees  resent  the  kiss 

The  saucy  reveller  gave,  trembling 

Musicallj'  to  eye  and  ear. 

While  silver  leaves  beam  like  faint  stars 

And  twinkle  iu  the  tender  blue. 

A  careless  dreamer  lies  beneath 

The  milky  way  of  leaves,  and  loves 

To  hear  the  tales  the  aspens  tell 

How  such  a  lover  said  "I  love," 

And  carved  within  their  snowy  peel 

Two  names  he  would  were  one. 


OVER  A  PICTURE. 
Sweet  girl,  1  love  thee  for  thy  face 
Where  soul  and  beauty  find  a  place 
To  dwell  with  purity.    A  mien 
Of  poesy's  conceit  hast  thou  — 
In  Grecian  mind  thou  must  have  been 
A  Goddess  meant  for  Parian  snow. 
God  took  the  thoug  ht  and  chiseled  thee 
From  his  divine  and  throbbing  elaj'. 
Above  the  pictured  face  I  dream 
And  look  until  my  eyes  grow  dim; 
Her  features  blend  into  a  blot. 
My  heart's  cold  altar  of  desire. 
Her  eye,  a  flame  forget-me-not 
Shall  light  forever  with  pure  flre, 
And  l)y  those  heaven-tender  eyes 
Shall  burn  a  holy  sacrifice. 


TO  A  MOCKING  BIRD. 
When  the  slender  shidlop  of  the  moon 
Glides  among  the  stars  on  the  jiurple  sea. 
Propelled  by  sails  unseen  and  winds  unknown. 
Dashing  softly  earthward  a  silver  spray, 
Wakefid  thou  art  singing  dreamily. 
All  unbeautiful  is  now  unseen 
Beneath  the  silver-plating  of  the  spray. 
The  white-robed  Earth  swings  incense  to  her 

queen. 
And  silent  are  the  choristers  for  thee 
To  sing  the  .solo  of  thy  roundelay. 
Poet-laureate  of  blossomed  glade, 
The  interwoven  notes  of  melody 
Whicli  loudly  till  thy  milled  throat  or  fade. 
And  faint  in  tiMuk'rness  from  tree  to  tree 
Were  made  for  such  a  night,  the   iiiglit  for 

thee. 
Fragrant  almost  is  thy  minstrelsy !        [bliss— 
I  scarcely  know    wliich    sense    receives  tlie 
I  hear  it,  smell  it  with  the  apple  tree. 
And  even  feel  it  with  the  breezes'  kiss. 
So  all  pervading  is  its  tenderness. 
And  beautiful  is  each  phantjisy 
Awakened  by  thy  song  —  a  prayer  were  true 
Than  any  christian  even  sent  on  high. 
And  peaceful  calmness  comes  witli  lliy  adieu 
As  that  pure  ori.son  transcends  the  blue 


* 


m- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOBTS   OF  AMERICA. 


-SB 


501 


REV.  HOLMAN  K.  HASTINGS. 

Born:  Bhistol, N.  H.,  Oct.  15,  1853. 
In  1875  Mr.  Hasting-s  entered  the  Vermont 
Conference  and  served  pastorates  at  Guilford, 
Bondville,  Tunbridg-e  and  Hancock,  V^ermont. 
Mr.  Hastings  was  superintendent  of  schools 
for  two  ycai'^,  and  in  1883  was  elected  a  repre- 


® 


KEV.  HOLMAN  II.  HASTINGS. 

sentative  to  the  Vei-mont  legislature.  In  1886 
he  received  the  degree  of  Ph.  D.  at  the  Illinois 
Wesleyan  University  at  Bloomington.  The 
same  year  the  Rev.  Hastings  was  transferred 
from  the  Vermont  conference  to  northwest 
Iowa  and  appointed  pastor  at  Odebolt,  and 
later  at  West  Side,  where  he  is  at  present 
methodist  episcopal  minister. 

POEM. 
Three  and  fifty  years ;  years  fraught  with  care, 

and  toil  have  passed, 
Tliough    not   lost,    yet     reckoned    evermore 

among  tlie  vast 
Realm  of  yeats,  filling  the  cycle  of  eternal 

ages; 
Whose   annals  are  wortliy  of  historians   or 

sages. 
Half  a  century  and  more  ago,  when  it  was 

said. 
That  a  lovely  blue-eyed  maiden  to  the  altar  led 
In  a  plain    gown,    nature's   beauty  mantled 

with  golden  hair. 
By  a  stately  young  man,—  weren't  they  a  love- 
ly pair! 


There  lived  a  respectable  tanner  in   Bristol 

town, 
A  royal  good  man,—  since  honored  with  the 

governor's  gown ; 
And  well  to  do,  he   had,    'twas  thought  for 

those  early  days. 
Something  uncommon  to  see,  much  less  to 

own  a  chaise. 
One  delig-htful  morn  in  early   spring,  John 

hastened  to  hire 
The  chaise,  that  tliey  might  ride  all  the  day 

long-  and  not  tire. 
To  the  parson  in  great  pompt  and  ease  they 

sped  away. 
And  they  twain,  until  death  should  part,  were 

made  on  that  day. 
All  day  long  through  the  streets  of  the  town 

in  burning  sun. 
For  what  do  you  suppose  they'd   now   care 

since  they  are  one? 
Up  and  down  hill,  over  dale  rode  they  merry 

and  gay. 
This,  j'ou  will  remember  was  fifty-three  years 

to-day. 

Think  you  not  the  bride  with  sparkling  eyes, 

affection's  beauty. 
And  the  g-room,  kind  and  true,  ever  strong 

and  brave  to  duty. 
Were  as  worthj-  a   couple  as  ever  achieved 

success? 
More  than  miniature  of  hope  and  promise  they 

possess. 

Firm  and  manly,  true  and   virtuouslj'  side 

by  side. 
Braving  the    storms,   sharing  the    toils   and 

stemming  the  tide; 
John  and  Doi-othy  to  each  other,  happiness 

and  streng-th 
Have   been,    riches,    too,    and  blessing,    the 

whole  journey's  length. 

This   anniversary    of   your   solemn   nuptial 

vows, 
While  over  life's   rolling-  main,    your    bark, 

storm-tossed,  still  plows, 
Is  a  noble  monument  of  God's  most  holy  laws. 
Reared   and  dedicated  this  day  to  the  mar- 

riag-e  cause. 

Dear  parents,  of  children  j-ou've  had  the  num- 
ber of  eleven. 

Of  boys  a  large  g-roup  all  in  a  row  the  sacred 
seven ; 

One  boy,  then  three  g-irls,  God  added,  to  your 
lives  now  troubled ; 

Wonder  surprising-,  behold!  the  eleven  have 
doubled. 

Gustavus  Adolphus,  after  the  roj-al  prince 
was  named, 

Exampled  the  Swedish  warrior  marched,  but 
never  maimed. 


-« 


©- 


-fi& 


502 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMEUICA. 


With  the  boys  in  blue  to  the  front,  often 

times  forsaken ; 
The  war  over,  for  better  or  worse,  Nellie  was 

taken. 
The  first  name  was  appropriate  to  the   very 

letter. 
In  search  of  another,  and  for  the  want  of  a 

better, 
Since  for  a  girl  a  royal  name  is  difficult  to  find, 
Liza  Ann  given  to  Batchelder's  arts  much 

study  in  mind. 
Clarinda  Jane  Bartlett  appears  along  in  the 

train. 
Fraught  with  such  a  name,  will  ever  work 

with  might  and  main ; 
With  a  heart  as  broad  as  the  name,   Cupid 

from  above 
For  a  Sanborn  filled  with  sweet  nectar,  the 

cup  of  love.  [sire. 

Records  old  and  poets  many,  sage  alike  with 
Gleaning  for  names,  the  spell  was   broken, 

Laura  Maria 
Sounded  forth,   and  before   the   last  maiden 

corner  passed, 
Tailoress  she  was,  a  Taylor  truly  is  at  last. 
Exploring  the  realms  of  the  dead,  the  living 

inspire. 
Sir  John  Franklin,  Jr.,  explored   no    farther 

than  the  choir. 
Perchance,  charmed  with  Helen,  afairdaugh- 

er  of  these  lands. 
Has  music  enough,  since  they  joined  hearts 

and  hands. 
Giving  many  mechanics,  the  smith  and  the 

wheel-right. 
But  none  skilled  in  oratory,  nor  teachers  of 

the  right. 
To  this  sacradotal   office  was  given    George 

Henry, 
Who  associated  with  him  in  this  portion,  Jen- 
nie. 
Charles  Albert,  a  mighty  prince  over  his  house 

doth  reign ; 
To   Frankie,    his   idol  joined,  forever  to  ic- 

main, 
Not  to  a  heathen  God,  all  hallowed  blood  of- 
fering. 
But  at  liberty's  altar,  for  freedom  laboring. 
From  the  royal  line  of  gubernatorial  fame, 
Levi  Woodbury,  honest  and  true,  deiived  his 

name. 
Wandering  far  and  wide  over  western  prair- 
ies vast. 
Roamed  till  satisfied,  concluded  to  take  Tillio 

at  last. 
The    i)arents  before  the    altar    coiisecralc   a 

teacher. 
And  christened  a  circuit  rider,  Ilolman  Kel- 
ley,  llie  i)reaolier. 


*- 


Tlie  writer,  to  exalted  fame  no  high  claims 

can  lay. 
But  to  parents  and  Phie,  ever  grateful  tribute 

pay. 
Myron  Lincoln,  from  Abe's  own  bosom  with 

genius  full. 
The  thunder  and  roar  of  engine  and  throttle 

pull 
His  highest  glory ;  and  Maggie  his  fond  admir- 
ation. 
Now  flying  on  his  steed  o'er  plain,  sweeping 

in  rotation. 
The  seventh  son  in  row,  failing  in  a  name 

more  renowned, 
Almon  Curtis,  for  his  Addie,  much  preference 

abound. 
The  Doctor  most  aptly  and  potently  applies 

his  skill. 
The  old  homestead  in  Bristol  town,  ever  dear, 

to  till. 
Dear  parents,  of  all  your  long  and  respectaVile 

train. 
Only  four  of  your  own   in  old  New  England 

remain; 
Six  are  scattered  thoughout  the  great  west  for 

a  short  time. 
And  one  is  abiding  In  Florida's  sunny  clime. 

In  this  world  of  conflict  and  change  sundeied 
must  we  be. 

But  God  grant  that  all  may  be  gathered  be- 
yond the  sea. 

With  devout  thankfulness,  not  one  is  counted 
to-day. 

With  the  sacred  dead,  consigned  in  mother 
earth  to  lay. 

Sail  on  thou  storm-rocked  bark  with   thy  sil- 
vered locks  like  sails 
Floating  in  the  autumnal  breeze,  borne  from 

heaven's  gales; 
Tliy    knit-ted    bows,    dew     lunlecked    ami    all 

wrinkled  with  age. 
Gemmed  witli  many  stars;  thy  soul's   eternal 

love  engage. 
May  it  never  tempest-riven   be,   or  caused  to 

strand 
Till   tliy    lives    in  snowy  whiteness  gain  tlie 

glory  laud. 
Thou  hast  almost  gained   the   hea\-enl>-   jiorl : 

Sail  on! 
Night  a  little   longer,   then   'twill    he  elerii.'d 

morn. 
Once  more  deal'  ones  we   turn  and    lingtT   in 

the  old  home. 
While  our  hearts  and  iiiiTids  ;iiise  to  heaven's 

dome, 
Tliat  ill  tliis  dear  home  your  cliildien  you  iii;iy 

often  view. 
Till  this  spot  and  eacli  other  on  earth   we  bid 

adieu. 


-« 


©- 


LOCAL,   AND    NATIONAL   POKTS  OK  AMElllCA. 


5o:j 


-m 


MRS.  FANNY  SPEAR  YOUNG. 

Born:  Kemper  Co.,  Miss.,  Oct.  6, 1844. 
The  poems  of  tliis  lady  appeared  quite  ex- 
tensively in  the  periodical  press.  She  was  mar- 
ried in  1866  to  Ciipt.  W.  F.  Young-.    She  has 


MRS.  FANNY  SPEAR  YOUNG. 

written  hoth  prose  and  verse  from  :in  early 
ag-e.  Mrs.  Young-  resides  with  her  family  at 
Longview,  Texas,  where  she  lias  become  very 
popular.  ■ 


m 


TO  MY  BABY'S  PICTURE. 
O,  image!  dearer  far  to  me 

Than  costliest  gem  in  earth  or  sea. 
Than  diamonds,  brighter,  and  .nglow 

With  love,  those  eyes  that  glad  me  so. 
Those  lips  of  coral,  bathed  in  love. 

Breathe  sweets  that  lift  my  heart  above  — 
This  mother's  heart  such  transports  sliare 

That  every  care  some  bliss  doth  wear. 

0,  eyes!  may  never  sorrow  blight 

The  sweet  young  joy  that  makes  your  light. 
May  naught  e'er  dim  those  eyes  with  tears. 
From  wrong,  O  Fate !  guard  well  her  years. 
Alas!  how  bitter  'tis  to  feel 
That  woe  to  us  is  otlier's  weal. 
Oh!  may'st  thou  ne'er  have  foes  assail  thee, 
And  th'  ties  thou  deem'dst  could  never  fail 
thee 
Prove  broken  faith.    Our  joy  is  fled. 


When  th'  faith  we  trusted  wags  its  head. 
From  out  that  mouth,  my  lovely  child, 

Speak  words  of  wisdom,  gentle,  mild, 
O,  brow!  wiih  intellect  abeam. 

May  thought  and  act  and  effort  teem 
With  good,  and  thus  commend  the  ways 

Of  Him  whom  Heaven  and  angels  praise. 

O,  time!  deal  gently  with  my  jewel. 

And  safely  through  temptation's  cruel 
And  thorny  pathway,  lead  my  child; 

Oh!  lead  her  past  each  wicked  wild. 
I  wonder  now  and  strive  to  see 

What  in  the  future  thou  wilt  be, 
O  innocence!  it  can't  be  true. 

That  crime  thy  heart  will  e'er  imbue, 
Forebodings  vain.    My  prayer  shall  be. 

My  God !    1  trust  it  all  to  thee. 


A  MOTHER'S  LOVE. 

EXTRACT. 

A  father  looks  upon  his  boy  with  pride. 
With  prospect  bright  the  future  lures  his  joy 
And  admiration.    His  intellect  he  prunes. 
And  with  his  own  strong  arm  he  leads  him  up 
The  rugged  hill  to  manhood  — gives  the  world 
His  second  self,  a  noble  scion,  and  then. 
In  quiet  content,  he  hails  the  sweeter  calm 
Of  life's  adieu. 

Old  ocean  wafts 
No  lullaby  so  sweet  as  mother's  words. 
The  winds  no  language  whisper  half  so  pure. 
The    brightest    flower    boasts    no    fadeless 

bloom ; 
And  yet  a  mother's  love  endures  forever. 
No  cruelty,  or  absence,  or  frowning  horde 
Of  ills  can  break  this  tie  of  adamant, 
A  mother's  love   is   earth's  one  plant  from 

Heaven. 


FAITH. 

Faith  soars  aloft  on  eagle  wing, 

LTndaunted  e'er  and  sun-ward; 
In  triumphs  thro'  each  fiery  tiling 

In  majesty  't  moves  onward. 
With  mighty  stride  o'er  mountains  rife 

It  mounts,  the  highest,  the  fleetest; 
Beneath  the  boisterous  storm  of  life 

Faith  finds  a  calm  the  sweetest. 

With  iron  hand,  faith  grasps  the  throne 

Of  mighty  God  Jehovah, 
And  claiming  heaven's  sweets  its  own. 

With  joy  it  spreads  earth  over. 
And  faith  will  lead  us  home  at  last. 

Where  mind  and  soul  are  blended  — 
Where  light  and  love  are  joined  and  blest 

In  wisdom's  feast  unended. 


^ 


© — 

604 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


-© 


MRS.  ANNIE  H.  MAGEE. 

Born  :  Canada,  Dec.  14, 1850. 
During  a  busy  life  Mrs.  Mag-ee  has  occasion- 
ally found  time  to  court  the  muse,  and  her 
poems  have  frequently  appeared  in  the  local 


MRS.  ANNIE  H.   MAGEE. 

press.  She  liopes  to  publish  a  book  at  no  dis- 
tant date.  Mrs.  Magee  is  now  a  resident  of 
Michigan  at  Golden-Rod  Place. 


TIME. 


PART  I. 

Just  merging  from  the  simple  walks  of  child- 
hood's merry  ways. 

The  youth  and  maiden,  peering  forth  with  all- 
impatient  gaze, 

Tlie  fields  of  man  and  womanhood,  in  glowing 
color  see. 

And  long  to  pass  the  border  line,— to  solve 
their  mystery. 

Time  passes  all  too  slowly  now,  scarce  seems 
to  move  at  all, 

Wliileo'er  the  youthful  senses,  dreams  of  fu- 
ture blessings  fall: 

For  that  future  in  the  distance,  ever  f;iir  and 
templing  lies,— 

Youth  fain  would  overleap  all  Itounds  and 
seize  the  glowing  prize. 

O,  thou  whose  boyisli  mind  is  filled  with  visions 
fair  to  see! 


Dream  on  for  soon  enough  thou'lt  wake  to 

stern  reality; 
Be  not  impatient,— lagg'ing'  time  ere  long  will 

use  his  wings. 
Then  watch  —  for  only  active  hands  can  catch 

the  good  he  brings ! 
And,  little  maid  with  beaming-  face  and  softly 

g-lowing-  eyes. 
In  which  a  child's  unconscious  grace  and  wo- 
man's power  lies. 
Qlie  path  that  thou  art  treading  now  is  fair 

with  budding  flowers  — 
Enjoy  their  bloom,  they'll  vanish  soon  with 

girlhood's  care-free  hours. 

PART  II. 

Now  time  reveals  the  man's  strong  will. 
Youth's  radiant  halo  lingers  still. 

But  life  is  growing  real. 
With  busy  hands  and  active  brain. 
The  toiling  man  strives  hard  to  gain 

The  dreaming  youth's  ideal. 
The  maid,  her  happy,  girlish  days 
Half-hidden  by  time's  misty  haze. 

In  earnest,  thoughtful  mood, 
At  last  within  the  threshold  stands, 
Takes  up,  with  untaug-ht,  trembling  hand. 

The  task  of  womanhood. 
'Tis  thus  life's  springtime  slips  away. 
Till,  flying  fast,  each  summer  day 

To  man  and  woman  calls; 
(Time's  sands,  how  swiftly  now  they  runlj 
"  Let  summer's  work  be  quicklj-  done. 

Before  the  autumn  falls!  " 

PART  III. 

Softly  now,  with  measured  tread. 
Trembling  feet  with  snowy  head. 
All  youth's  glowing  fire  dead. 

See  the  aged  come  I 
Broken  idols,  severed  bands. 
Chastened  hearts  and  patient  hands. 
Wide  for  them  the  portal  stands, 
Thej'  are  almost  home. 

Through  the  changing  scenes  of  life. 
Fraught  with  joy —  with  sadness  rife. 
Past  the  dreaming,  past  the  strife. 

Seed-time,  harve-st  gone; 
Backward  turn  the  dimmed  eyes. 
Back  to  where  the  life-work  lies. 
Deeds  of  light  or  darkness  rise. 

Past  recall,—  they're  done! 

Memories  happy,  memories  sad, 
{{right  or  j;l(M)ni.\-.  good  or  bad. 
Noble  acts  or  errors  made  — 

Each  and  all  abide; 
While  time's  stream  flows  softly  on, 
Bearing  to  the  land  iniknown. 
Sage  and  infant,—  every  one, 

On  its  ceaseless  tide. 


©- 


*■ 


LOCAL   AXD    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


505 


-)5 


MRS.  CLARA  M.  A.  SHORES. 

Born:  Parsonsfield,  Me.,  Aug.  1, 1827. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  Shores  have  occasionally 
appeared  in  the  Sunday  School  Times,  Motli- 
er's  Journal,  and  tlio  local   press  generally. 


-MKS.    ('I,AK.A.   M.    A.    SHOIUOS. 

Shu  has  wi'ilteu  simply  for  the  i)leasure  of  it. 
Mrs.  Shores  resides  with  her  iiusband  and 
children  at  West  Bridgewater,  Mass. 

SONGS  AND  SINGING. 
Is  the  life  of  song  so  fleeting? 
Like  an  airy  sliade  a-greeting 

Of  a  thrush  or  linnet  in  the  dewy  morning? 
Nay  immortal  is  its  power. 
Life  on  earth  is  but  an  hour  [iug. 

Of  its  endless  inspiration,  its  eternal  dawn- 
Words  of  joy,  or  sobs  of  sorrow. 
Love's  enchantment,  hope's  bright  morrow, 
Calm  of  peace,  or  thrill  of  pleasure 
Will  o'erflow  in  rhytlimic  measure. 

While  the  soul  has  glad  existence  in  worlds 
of  divine  adorning. 
Whenthou  hast  almost  crossed  the  ocean. 
Passed  its  heaving,  wild  commotion. 

Almost  reached  the  restful,  quiet  liaven  of 
thy  quest. 
When  "  Jerusalem  the  golden  " 
In  the  twilight  is  beholden. 

Faintly  gleaming   through  the  amber,  au- 
tumn heavens  in  the  west. 
Take  thy  lute  again  for  singing. 
All  thy  youthful  fire  upspringing. 

Like  the  swan's  thy  last  song  be  thy  best. 
SJ ■ 


I  AM  LOOKING. 
I  am  looking  o'er  the  dreary  mist, 

Which,  stretcliing  far  away. 
Conceals  the  mountain's  wooded  brow 
And  the  broad  river's  sparkling  flow, 

And  dims  the  light  of  day. 
Makes  sad  this  fading  light  of  day. 
And  now  my  busy  fancy  Alls 

That  mist  with  richest  dower 
Of  gorgeous  scenes  in  eastern  clime. 
Palace,  and  dome,  and  vesper  chime. 

For  this  lone  twilight  hour. 
This  still,  sad,  dreamy  hour. 
Beyond  it  all  I  seem  to  hear 

Old  Ocean's  murmurs  come. 
And  see  the  white  sails  dimly  glide 
Far  off  on  the  receding  tide. 

Joyfully  sailing  home; 
Bearing  fond  hearts  toward  home. 
Would  that  it  were  not  fancy's  dream 

And  I  were  on  that  sea, 
Rushing  as  swift  as  thought  can  fly 
Through  mist  and  foam  and  surging  high 

My  home  once  more  to  see. 
With  my  loved  ones  to  be. 


SHADOWS. 
I  am  sitting  in  the  moonlight 

And  looking  o'er  the  snow. 
Where  shadows  from  the  tree  tops 

Are  gliding  to  and  fro. 
And  I  am  thinking  of  the  shadow 

Of  that  Reaper  cold  and  strong. 
Who  is  gathering  in  his  harvest 

Night  and  day  the  whole  year  long. 
To  some  he  seems  an  angel. 

With  face  of  heavenly  light; 
To  others  grim  and  fearful. 

With  countenance  of  night; 
But  I  have  only  seen  liis  shadow 

Fall  o'er  the  loved  ones  gone. 
And  I've  shuddered  at  his  footsteps 

As  I've  heard  them  stealing  on. 
And  yet  my  heart  oft  prayeth, 

Let  the  shadow  fall  on  me; 
'Tis  not  because  so  radiant 

Is  that  changeless  smile  I  see 
On  the  still  face  stamped  forever. 

Of  the  pale  earth-freed  one, 
'Tis  not  because  the  sorrowing 

And  toiling  all  are  done. 
No,  'tis  a  sweeter  blessing, 

Mj'  soul  desires  to  win 
From  the  shadow  of  the  Reaper, 

'Tis  freedom  from  all  sin; 
For  those  who  sleep  in  Jesus 

Are  free  from  earthly  stain, 
And  when  the  shadow  falleth 

They'll  know  no  sin  again. 


© 


*- 


-^ 


506 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OK  AMERICA. 


THOMAS'  F.  PORTER. 

Born:  Nova  Scotia,  Oct.  30,  1847. 
This  gentleman  is  possessed  of  fine  literary 
talent;  wrote  a  column  weekly  for  the  Dan- 
bury  News  in  its  palmiest  days,  and  is  a  con- 
tributor (if  both  prose  and  verse  to  th(^  Jiidsrc, 
Boston  .hiiiMial.   Yankee  Blade,  the  w  ;i\ril.v 


51- 


THOMAS    FREEMAN    l'(  (liit-l!. 

Magazine  and  the  periodical  press  generally, 
besides  doing  considerable  reportorial  work 
for  the  local  press.  Mr.  Porter  is  prominent 
in  Odd  Fellowship,  and  is  a  Mason,  and  has 
held  numerous  positions  of  trust.  He  is  now 
principally  engaged  in  real  estate  and  insur- 
ance at  Lynn,  Mass.,  where  he  is  well  known. 

THE  BIRD'S  REPLY. 

What's  your  mission  little  bird. 

To  this  world  so  cold  and  dreai? 
1  with  joy  your  songs  have  heard 

From  my  window  many  a  year. 
,  Oft  with  thee  my  lunch  was  shared, 

And  you  gave  me  good  return; 
Why  have  you  so  long  been  spared? 

Please  reply ;  I  wish  to  learn. 
Others  1  have  seen  like  you. 

But  so  .soon  they  Mew  away, 
While  your  song  is  ever  new, 

And  it  cheers  me  day  by  day. 
Thus  I  did  the  birdling  chide, 

Tims  the  bird  rci)lied  to  ine: 
Tlio'  the  world  bo  great  and  wide, 

I  but  live  to  sing  for  tliee. 


THE  WILL  IS  MORE  THAN  HALF  THE 
MAN. 

The  claim  I  make  is  strong  and  bold. 

And  yet  disprove  the  same  who  can. 
Whether  of  big  or  little  mold 

The  will  is  more  than  half  tlie  man. 
The  men  who  scale  the  heights  of  fame. 

Leaving  the  aimless  throng  below. 
And  chisel  there  a  deathless  name. 

Are  those  alone  who  will  it  so. 
Whoever  turns  the  written  page 

To  see  by  what  mysterious  skill 
Men  stamp  themselves  upon  their  age 

Will  find  that  it  is  force  of  will. 
Why  idly  prate  that  fortune,  luck. 

Aids  men  some  great  work  to  fulfill. 
Away  with  this;  blind  guides!  'Tis  pluck, 

Determination,  courage,  will. 
Luck  does  not  guide  the  artist's  hand 

To  paint  those  forms  which  live  for  aye. 
Nor  cause  the  sculptor's  work  to  stand 

Deathless  in  marble,  bronze  or  clay. 
Luck  never  made  a  martyr  strong 

To  suffer  for  the  true  and  right; 
Luck  never  wrote  a  deathless  song. 

Or  armed  a  chieftain  for  the  fight. 
The  claim  I  make  is  strong  and  bold. 

And  yet  disprove  the  same  who  can. 
Whether  of  big  or  little  mold 

The  will  is  more  than  half  the  man. 


THY  NEIGHBOR. 

Who  is  thy  neighbor?  all  who  need 

The  care  aifd  comfort  jou  can  give. 
Despite  their  country  or  their  creed. 

Despite  the  land  in  which  they  live. 
Who  is  thy  neighbor?  they  whose  eyes 

Are  dimmed  by  sorrow,  pain  and  grief; 
These  claim  thy  sympathy ;  arise. 

And  carry  to  such  souls  relief. 
Thy  neighbor  he  whose  bleeding  feet 

Need  shelter  from  the  winter's  cold  — 
Who  gives  such  shoes  or  bread  to  eat 

Have  a  reward  worth  more  than  gold. 
Who  is  thy  neighbor?  she  whose  way 

With  thorns  and  brambles  sharp  are  f  rant;  ht. 

Go!  smooth  that  hard  rough  road  to-tla.\ 

And  both  to  heaven  were  nearer  brouglit. 
Thy  neighbor  he  who  thirsts  for  drink 

And  soon  must  lall  to  deptlis  l)eKiw  — 
Haste!  snatch  him  from  that  awful  l)rink 

And  angi'l  bands  thy  deed  sliall  know. 
Thy  neighbor  he  whose  honest  name 

The  thrusts  of  scandal  dei>p  have  slain  — 
Fly  to  him,  and  in  love  proclaim 

That  this  world's  hate  is  heavenly  gain. 
Who  is  thy  neighbor?  all  who  need 

The  care  and  comfort  you  can  give; 
Despite  tlieir  country  ov  their  creed. 

Despite  the  land  in  wliicli  tliey  live. 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


507 


-SB 


AUGUSTA  J.CROCHERON. 

BoKN :  Boston,  Mass.,  Oct.  9, 1844. 
When  grown  to  womanhood,  Augusta  went 
to  Utah  with  her  mother  and  sister,  and  was 
married  m  Salt  Lake  City  and  now  has  a  fam- 
ily of  three  sons  and  two  daughters.  She  has 
been  very  prominent  in  young  ladies  mutual 
improvement  associations,  and  has  been  re- 
cording secretary  of  twenty-four  associutlons 


AUGUSTA  J.  CROCHERON. 

at  one  time.  Mrs.  Crocheron  has  been  an  oc- 
casional contributor  to  the  Woman's  Expon- 
ent, Juvenile  Instructor  and  other  periodicals. 
In  1881  she  published  a  volume  of  poems  en- 
titled Wild  Flowers  of  Deseret,  and  in  1884  Re- 
presentative Women  of  Descret,a  biographical 
work.  Mrs.  Crocheron  has  taken  three  gold 
medals  and  cash  prizes  for  Christmas  stories. 
In  addition  to  her  poetical  writings,  she  has 
two  volumes  of  prose  wliich  she  hopes  to  pub- 
lish at  an  early  date.  Mrs.  Crocheron  is  still 
a  resident  of  Utah  in  Bountiful. 


*- 


ESTRANGED. 
And  hast  thou  shut  and  locked  thy  heart 

Against  me?    Nay,  not  so. 
Whom  once  I  loved,  I  ever  love; 

I  cannot  let  thee  go. 
Thou,  who  liast  dwelt  within  my  love. 

Winning  thy  place  so  well ; 
Ah!  must  we  .say  good-by  to  hearts? 

I  cannot  say  farewell. 


Thou,  w  iio  alone  didst  watch  my  bed 

Of  sorrow,  pain  and  fear: 
While  wintry  night  raged  dark  and  wild. 

And  death  seemed  all  too  near. 
Can  I  forget  those  dream-like  days. 

When,  resting  in  thy  care, 
I  traced  the  wanderings  of  thy  song 

Upon  the  charmed  air? 

E'en  if  some  idle  word  let  fall, 

(As  leaves  float  on  the  wind) 
Long  wandering,  to  thy  gentle  heart 

Its  way  at  last  did  find. 
Ah !  who  would  weigh  it  'gainst  the  past. 

With  all  its  memories  dear? 
Not  thou,  or  I,  who  know  so  well 

Life's  holj'  mission  here. 

Ah  I  who  would  take  the  perfect  rose. 

Love  on  its  heart  had  worn. 
And  counting  not  it's  loveliness, 

Treasure  alone  the  thorn? 
I  could  not  sing  in  heaven,  if  there 

A  loved  face  turned  away. 
Unreconciled;  'twould  chill  my  joy. 

E'en  in  that  perfect  day. 
Tliough  life  be  long  and  earth  be  wide. 

All  vain  to  turn  away; 
We  oft  shall  meet  amid  that  throng, 

W'ho  walk  the  narrow  way. 
When  we  shall  meet  beside  that  gate. 

Thou  wilt  not  answer  no; 
Thou'lt  know  with  joy  my  patient  faith - 

For  I  have  loved  thee  so. 


AN  IDEAL. 
Here  is  my  ho\ise!    Far  below  me  lying. 

The  city  spreads  its  streams  of  busy  life 
Unto  my  watching,  dreaming  eyes  replying, 

Banishes  loneliness  and  hushes  strife. 
Sense  of  companionship  without  its  sighing, 
Hearts  rest  from  scenes  with  vexing  ques- 
tions rife. 
Just  within  sense  of  life's  sincere  endeavor, 

Just  within  sight  of  art's  creations  rare. 
So  comes  the  life  draught  welling  up  forever. 
As  breezes  wand'ring  through  the  sunlight 
air. 
Gather  the  freshness  from  the  flowing  river. 
And   scatter  perfumes  culled  from   every- 
where. 
Mountains  that  yet  are  white  with  winter's 
snowing. 
Shut  out  the  fair  world   from  my  blest  re- 
treat. 
Out  through  their  riven  side  a  stream  is  flow- 
ing. 
Chanting  k  psalm  the  rocky  walls  repeat, 
'Till  in  the  valley  with  warm   sunlight  glow- 
ing 
Breaketh  its  voice  to  ripples  low  and  sweet. 


-® 


)5- 


-* 


508 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL,   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


Sheltered  from  winds  adown  a  dimpled  hol- 
low, 
Earliest   suns   have  waked    the  leaves   of 
spring-; 
Here  come  the  robin  and  the  glancing  swal- 
low, 
Here  comes  the  lark  to  build  her  nest  and 
sing. 
And  here  as  soon  as  bud  and  perfume  follow, 

Loiters  the  butterfly  on  idle  wing. 
Here  is  my   home,    low    roofed   against   the 
sweeping 
Of  winter  winds  that  spend  their  strength 

in  vain; 
Here  may  I  listen,  wakened  from  my  sleep- 
ing. 
Close  overhead  the  music  of  the  rain; 
And  with  the  morning  light  a  welcome  keep- 
ing. 
Flowers   are    nodding  'gainst  my  window 
pane. 
Here  are  my  trees,  each  has  its  separate  mean- 
ing. 
These   were  for   shelter,  these    for  beauty 
bought; 
From  far  and  near  my  search  was  long  in 
gleaning 
These  most  befitting  the  eyrie  T  had  sought. 
Drawing  from  out  my  fancy's  farthest  screen- 
ing 
The  real,  living,  picture  here  is  wrought. 
Here  come  the  few,  one  is  not  long  in  finding 
Tliose  who  will  deem  it  worth  tlieir  while  and 
care 
To  thread  the  pathway  up  the  mountain  wind- 
ills'. 
Catching  the  rapture  of  the  upper  air. 
Worship  and  joy  with  sacred  friendship  bind- 
ing 
In  a  sweet  charm  the  soul  may  inly  wear. 
Here  come  the  loved,  the  dear  ones  who've  de- 
parted. 
Softly  their  arms    my  <lroopiiig    form    en- 
twine; 
Here  come  the  sacred,  great  and  noble  lieart- 
ed. 
Softly  their  spirits  cheer  and  beckon  mine; 
Have  I  been  dreaming?    Hide  the  tears  tliat 
started. 
Ah!  would  that  this  ideal  liome  were  mine! 


KXTKACT. 
Say,  wliere  hast  thou  wandered,  sweet  spirit? 

I've  missed  tliee  for  ever  so  long; 
Thine  absence  and  frown  did  I  merit 

That  I've  waited  in  vain  for  tliy  song? 
Did  I  wrong  tliee  when,  leaning  beside  me, 

1  slighted  thy  voice  in  mine  ear? 
Did  I  gi'ieve  thee  in  Ihat  I  denied  tliee 

My  lioniage  when  last  llu)u  wert  near? 


©-- 


JOHN  DOBSON  CARROLL. 

Born:  Magnolia,  N.C,  Sept.  3, 1870. 
Mr.  Carroll  is  now  the  editor  of  the  Florida 
Hawkeye,  published  at  Branford.  His  poems 
have  appeared  in  local  papers  of  North 
Carolina,  Georgia,  Virginia  and  Florida.  Mr. 
Carroll  was  married  in  1889  to  Miss  Georgia 
McDonald,  of  Atlanta,  Ga. 


HOPE. 
Hope  is  the  guiding  star  of  life 

Which  leads  the  luckless  wand'rer  on, 
Nor  disappointment,  pain  nor  strife 

Can  conquer  till  all  Hope  is  gone; 
And,  with  the  sanguine,  Hope  will  last 

Till  liuman  hearts  are  still'd  in  death  — 
The  hopes  of  life  are  never  past 

Till  drawn  is  our  last  fleeting  breath. 
We  hope  for  greatness,  wealth  or  love. 

With  all  the  sti'ength  of  earnest  hearts  — 
We  hope  for  life  and  joy  above 

And  ne'er  till  death  this  Hope  departs. 
We  never  stop  to  count  the  cost 

Of  disappointment,  or  the  pain. 
But  strive  to  regain  what  was  lost, 

And  fight  our  battles  o'er  again. 
Thus  may  it  ever  be  with  me  — 

May  hope  frustrated  give  me  strength 
My  weakest  lighting  points  to  see. 

That  I  may  conquer  fate  at  length ! 
I'll  live  in  Hope  and  bless  the  day 

Misfortune  made  me  weep  or  wail. 
Success  will  come  to  me  some  day  — 

With  Hope  there's  no  such  word  as  fail. 

THE  REASON  WHY. 
Dark-eyed  beauty,  proud  and  peerless. 

Why  should  you  my  heart  beguile?— 
Why  should  I,  so  cold  and  careless. 

Seek  .so  anxiously  your  smile? 
Why  should  I  be  always  thinking 

Of  your  sweet  and  pretty  face?— 
Why  am  I  forever  sinking 

Into  dreams  of  your  rich  grace? 
Why  should  sleep  be  flH'd  with  visions 

Sweet  and  dear,  because  of  you  — 
Dreams  of  happiness  elysian. 

Such  as  nioi'tal  never  knew? 
Why  sho\ild  I,  with  such  iiei-sistcnce, 

Watch  you,  even  when  afar?— 
Why  should  you,  of  my  existence. 

Be  the  briglit  and  morning  star? 
Why  shoulil  I,  when  'wake  or  dreaming, 

Think  of  nothing  else  but  you  — 
As  my  loadstar,  brightly  gleaming 

In  the  darkness,  i)ure  and  true. 
Let  me  not  your  feelings  liarrow. 

For  tlie  reason  I  can  prove  — 
Cui>id,  with  his  bow  and  arrow. 

Has  i)ierced  my  poor  heart  with  Love! 


^- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OK  AMifiKlCA. 


509 


-« 


MRS.ELLA  H.STRATTON. 

BoiiN:  Cakibou,  Me.,  March  26,  1849. 
In  1867  this  lady  was    mari-ieil   to    Albion    W. 
Strattoa,  wlio  served  with  lioiioi-  tltiougliout 
the  civil  war.  Althoujih  Mis.  Stratton  is  cliief- 
ly  litiown  as  a  writer  of  short  stories,  she  has 


MRS.  ELLA  HINES  STRATTOX. 

written  numerous  poems  of  merit,  which  have 
appeared  in  the  Woman's  Magazine,  Portland 
Transcript,  Youth's  Companion  and  other 
publications.  She  still  resides  in  her  native 
state  on  a  farm  at  Washburn. 


THE  KINGDOM    OF  HOME. 
There's  a  liingdom    the    fairest   on    earth,    I 
ween. 
Though  it  finds    no    place    upon    history's 
page. 
It's  titles  are  grander  than  noble  or  dean. 
It's  infiuence  grejiter  than  poet  or  sage. 
This  Kingdom  of  Home  is  a  beautiful  land. 

Its  subjects  the  truest  that  ever  were  seen. 
If  the  sceptre  is  in  a  wise  father's  hand. 
And  a  loving  mother  is  the  faithful  queen. 


l5^- 


GRIT. 

It  is  not  so  much  genius  that  wins  the  race 
In  the  contest  for  glory  or  fame. 

As  it  is  the  possession  of  an    inborn  grace 
By  a  homely,  significant  name. 
Success  is  won  by  it, 


Fame  built  upon  by  it. 
This  sturdy,  bull  dog  grit! 

Your  ancestors  may    have    been    noble   and 
great. 
And  their  virtues  may  fall  unto  you. 
These  cannot  avail  if  but  idly  you  prate, 
And  leave  the  worli  which  you  have  to  do. 
Genius  is  tame  to  it. 
Ancestry  lame  to  it. 
This  sturdy,  bull  dog  grit! 


ALTHINE  F.SHOLES. 

Born:  Goshen,  N.  H., Feb.  10, 18.5T. 
This  lady  is  a  young  writer  who  has  already 
achieved  success  with  lier  pen,  and  gained  a 
creditable  place  among  the  poets  of  the  Gran- 
ite State.  Miss  Sholes  is  still  a  resident  of  her 
native  place. 


THE  MOUNTAINS. 
Above  the  lowly  village 

And  tlie  plains  that  'round  them  lie. 
Forever  grand  the  mountains  stand. 

Outlined  against  the  sky. 
I  never  tire  of  watching. 

As  the  seasons  come  and  go,  [and  ward. 
How  they  lieep  their  guard  with  watch 

Above  tlie  world  below. 
Whether  in  drear3'  winter. 

The  Frost-liing  there  abides. 
With  somber  lines  on  the  grove  of  pines 

That  clothe  their  rugged  sides; 
Or  through  the  mists  of  azure 

In  golden  summer  time, 

I  see  as  now  each  nolDle  brow 

In  majesty  sublime. 
The  storms  may  break  around  them. 

Or  the  pleasant  sunlight  fall. 
But  naught  shall  harm  that  mighty  calm 

That  restetli  over  all. 
For  God  has  blessed  the  mountains 

With  everlasting  youth; 
And  gives  eacli  face  a  rugged  grace, 

Unchangeable  as  Truth. 
Oh,  are  they  not  true  emblems 

Of  noble  human  souls. 
That  will  not  quail,  tliough  foes  assail. 

And  dark  the  storm-cloud  rolls"? 
But  far  above  earth's  tempests 

Of  care,  and  wrong  and  strife. 
They  lift  their  eyes  to  the  waiting  skies. 

And  live  their  patient  life. 
Unchanging,  firm  and  fearless. 

Oh,  may  our  natures  be! 
Then  our  souls  shall  stand  forever  grand. 

Through  all  eternity. 


m 


®- 


^ 


510 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS    OF  AMERICA. 


MOSES  H.  GREENE. 

born:  Chester,  N.  H.,  March  10, 1843. 
THE  poems  of  Mr.  Greene  have  appeared  quite 
frequently  in  the  eastern  periodicals.    He  has 
been  principally  engaged  In  mercantile  pur- 

r  ■ 


MOSES    11.    (.KLl.M  . 

suits,  and  also  has  been  correspondent  for 
various  publications.  Mr.  Greene  is  now  a 
resident  of  Haverhill,  Mass.,  where  he  is  well 
known  and  highly  respected. 

IS  LOVE  IMMORTAL? 

Cold  gleams  the  moon, 

The  twink' ling  stars 

Shine  sadly  on  her  grave: 

The  screeching  wind 

In  sorrow  mourns 

For  her,  so  early  saved. 

Aged  twenty  years. 

She  passed  from  life. 

The  gayest  of  life's  fair 

Higli-favored  ones, 

Wlio  live  their  day 

]{l(;st  with  the  tenderest  care. 

For  two  decades 

This  cherished  form 

Has  crumbled  b:ick  to  dust, 

The  turf-bound  grave 

Hath  level  grown 

1  Above  its  sacred  trust. 

Tln^y  excavate 
This  earthly  home. 
To  place  another  there; 

m 


While  yet  one  more 

Stands  ready  by 

To  join  this  husband  fair. 

A  signet  ring 

Around  a  bone 

Of  her  right  hand  appears:— 

A  token  dear 

Of  one  true  friend. 

Way  back  these  twenty  year. 

Alas,  for  man. 

Inconstant  man, 

How  sad  is  thy  career! 

Remember  lier 

Who  married  thee 

Way  back  these  twenty  years. 

Dear  kindred  dust. 

Peace  to  thy  shades, 

Man's  love  is  not  immortal,     •      • 

UNDER  THE  LINDENS. 
We  wandered  there  together 
In  joyous  years  ago; 
The  linden  trees  above  us 
Were  waving  to  and  fro; 
We  watched  the  changeful  shadow's 
Sweep  over  hill  and  plain, 
But  never  more  together 
Shall  we  wander  there  again. 
We  gazed  into  the  mirror 
The  waters  kindly  gave; 
And  saw  the  milk-white  lilies 
Rise  with  the  heaving  wave: 
The  forest  birds  in  gladness 
Poured  forth  a  tuneful  strain. 
But  never  more  together 
Shall  we  hear  that  song  again. 
The  other  day  I  sought  the  path 
Down  by  the  river  side. 
And  sad  at  heart  and  weary, 
I  gazed  upon  the  tide ; 
The  flowers  still  were  lending 
Sweet  perfume  to  the  air. 
But  I  remember  only 
Thou  wert  not  with  me  there. 
Around  me  dark  and  st)mbre 
Tlie  cypress  shadows  fell ; 
And  bars  of  golden  sunshine 
With  tlu'ir  sweet  magic  spell. 
But  the  voice  that  in  the  old  time 
Made  sweetest  music  there; 
It  was  hushed  away  in  silence 
On  the  still  soft  summer  air. 
I  lireathed  tliy  name  in  reverence. 
As  the  words  of  an  olden  prayer; 
With  its  sweet  soothing  memory 
Came  to  my  spirit  there. 
And  now  with  feet   aweary 
I  trciid  the  way  alone; 
A,„i  wonder  if  this  darkness 
Will  ever  know  a  morn. 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   XATIOXAL    POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


-* 


-511 


CHARLES  W.  HILLS. 

Born  :  Mayfield,  Ohio,  July  30, 18-10. 
Many  of  the  poems  of  Mr.  Hills  have  appear- 
ed in  the  New  Eclectic  Magazine,  and  have 
been  \(i\    fi\niil)l.\-   rrcciNiMl   liy  pre^-,  .-iiid 


(  11  VKLh-   W.   HILLS. 

public.  Mr.  Hills  is  now  a  resident  of  Wash- 
iagton,  D.  C,  where  he  is  well  known  and 
highly  respected  as  a  scholar  and  a  g-entleraan. 


STATUARY. 

Half  to  the  ear,  half  to  the  eye. 

The  sculptor's  marble  forms  belong; 
The  group,  in  postured  symmetry. 

Is  but  embodied  song. 
The  severed  inid,  the  broken  vase. 

The  stricken  bird  in  act  to  drop, 
The  column  perfect  at  the  base 

But  shattered  at  the  top, 
Tlie  lamb  at  rest,  the  angel  white. 

The  pillar  wound  with  sombre  crape. 
Are  anthems  palpable  to  sight. 

And  dirges  turned  to  shape. 
Tile  voice  of  music  dies  away. 

But  art  arrests  a  truant  tone 
Within  her  charmed  halls  astray. 

And  turns  it  into  stone. 


BROTHERS. 
I  walked  abroad  at  eventide. 

With  brothers  twain,  to  view  the  sea: 
One  climbed  the  cliffs  with  haughty  stride, 


One  trod  the  sands  with  me. 
What  word  to-day  of  him  whose  feet 

Were  swift  to  run  in  pathways  dim? 
How  wrought  he  in  the  dust  and  heatV 

The  plodder,  what  of  him? 
Tlie  duller  wight  o'ertops  the  crowd, 

The  bolder  delves  with  willing  hands; 
One  dares  the  storm  and  fronts  the  cloud, 

One  cowers  amid  the  sands. 
Ah!  slow  to  liail  the  princely-born. 

And  spirit  darkling  swift  to  chide: 
The  taper  lit  at  early  morn 

Burns  low  at  eventide. 


THEY  CAME  NO  MORE. 
A  lordly  castle  fair  to  see ! 

The  sloping  beams  of  early  suns 
Illume  its  chambers  royally; 

Hard  by,  a  tranquil  river  runs, 
In  shadow,  to  the  sea. 
Long  years  ago,  ere  moss  and  rime 

And  storm  had  blackened  roof  and  walls, 

A  maid  abode  within  those  halls. 
In  woman's  dreamy  wooing-time. 
The  maiden's  birth  was  half  divine: 

Her  sire  had  walked  among  the  stars; 

The  king,  long  heir  of  names  and  wars, 
Could  boast  no  higher  line. 
And  troops  of  suitors  from  afar. 

To  whom  this  thing  was  told. 
Some  clad  in  vestments  silken,  rare, 

And  some  in  shining  gold. 
Came,  singing,  to  the  radiant  gates,— 
"  Go  tell  the  maid  what  suitor  waits 

To  breathe  the  olden  story ; 
Around  her  life,  a  wedded  wife. 

Shall  dawn  an  added  glory." 
But  still  the  warder  from  within 

Made  answer  as  the  wooers  came,— 
"  Who  weds  my  charge  must  be  of  kin 

To  deathless  gods,  or  bear  a  name 

Of  new  renown  or  ancient  fame." 
And  worthy  lovers,  day  by  daj-. 

Withdrew  with  humbled  pride; 
Each,  grieved  and  silent,  turned  away. 

To  seek  a  willing  bride. 
But  now,  when  winter  hours  are  long. 

No  footfall  breaks  the  snow. 
Not  one  of  all  the  vanished  throng 

Returns  to  woo. 
Unmated,  hopeless,  desolate. 

The  faded  damsel  rules  her  own. 
And,  scowling,  by  the  castle  gate 

The  bafHed  warder  sits  alone. 

This  legend  shows  in  stone:— 
"When  strangers  knock  give  prompt  response. 

Unbar  the  door; 
For  guests  forbade  to  enter  once 

Return  no  more." 

© 


-® 


®- 


512 


LOCAL   AND   NA'^'IONAL   POETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


THE  LOST  TEMPLE. 

A  chronicle  of  faith,  a  tale  of  crimes 
That  staiu  the  dark  mid-years  from  now  to 
Christ, 

Comes  to  me,  musing;,  like  the  voice  of  times 
That  wait  au  annalist. 

The  dubious  records  of  a  vanished  age 
Preserve  this  monkish  legend,  quaintly  told 

In  later  time  by  one  whose  every  page 
Is  bright  with  lines  of  gold. 

In  Gothic  Spain,  when  luckless  Roderick 

Withstood  the  Crescent -cross-surmounted, 
stood 
The  Home  of  Nuns  of  good  Saint  Benedict, 

A  pious  sisterhood. 
The  dusky  conqueror  came  in  lust  and  greed; 

The  sacred  crypt  became  the  spoiler's  den; 
The  churchyard  herbage  fed  the  trampUng 
steed 

Of  ruthless  Saracen; 

Old  shrines  were  pillaged;  holy  vessels  graced 

The  sinful  feast  beside  the  wassail  bowl ; 
And  gaudy  garb  and  nodding  plume  displaced 

The  surplice  and  the  cowl. 
Our  convent  slumbered:  at  the  night's  full 
noon 

Came  blare  of  trumpets  and  the  warrior  cry 
Of  Islam;  and,  dew-bright  beneath  the  moon, 

A  swart  host  thundered  by. 

Then  pale  forms  hurried  to  the  place  of  pray- 
er 
With  beads  and  crucifix;  in  spotless  gown 
And   loose,  affrighted  maids  with    unbound 
hair 
Ran  wildly  up  and  down. 

One  clasped  a  marble  saint;  one  rang  the  bell ; 

One  conned  her  cloister  vows;    one  sang, 
dismayed ; 
But  silence  fell,  from  vault  to  pinnacle. 

The  while  the  Abbess  prayed: 

..Loose  the  swift  darkness,  Lord!  from  pres- 
ent harm 

Hide  thy  handmaidens  with  a  kindly  veil. 
Friend  of  the  helpless,  bare  the  potent  arm 

Tliat  smote  the  gods  of  Baal ! 

..  Give  altar-stone  to  axe,  and  shrine  to  flame. 
Let  roof  and  1  urret  fade  like  morning  mist, 

Ere  Paynhn  wretches  drag  to  sin  and  shame 
These  stainless  brides  of  Christ!  " 

Down  sank  the  walls;  the  pale  moon  overhead 
Looked  on  a  void,  a  houseless  solitude. 

Amain  tlie  doiiglily  Moslem  warriors  fled. 
Pale-faced  anil  fear-pursued; 

m ■ 


But  one  who  cast  a  furtive  look  behind 
Beheld  the  Cross  uplifted,  white  and  dim. 

And  heard  above  the  sighing  midnight  wind 
The  sisters'  triumph  hymn. 

When  prayer  arose,  the  blue  sky  opened  wide; 

A  flaming  sword  shot  upward  and  lay  bare: 
What  time  the  towers  sank  earthward,  voices 
cried 

And  trumpets  rang  in  air. 

The  Goth  and  Moor  had  passed  like  later  snow ; 

A  broken  pilgrim  sought  the  spot,  alone. 
The  sound  of  singing  came;  and,  turning,  lo! 

A  moon-lit  cross  of  stone! 


Not  mine,  in  spirit  of  a  later  day. 
To  free  this  tablet  old  from  clinging  moss. 

For  still  the  hosts  of  darkness  fall  away 
Before  the  lifted  Cross. 

There  are  who  see,  by  faith,  the  sinless  One 
In  daily  sacrifice  uplifted  on  the  tree; 

Before  whose  eyes,  in  shadow  and  in  sun, 
Christ  walks  upon  the  sea. 

For  them  the  ancient  symbols  shine,  though 
far 

\nd  dim  to  me;  the  angel-crowded  stair 
Scales  the  wan  sky;  the  heavenly  gates  unbar 

Moved  by  the  breath  of  prayer. 


We  walk  through  temples,  blinded,  passing 

by 
Lung  colonnade  and  many-pictured  hall, 
Chancel  and  transept,  aisle  and  sacristy. 
And  dim  confessional. 

In  rarer  seasons  some  fine  sense  reveals 
This  inner  world;   we  catch  the  gleam  of 
spires. 

And  liear,  far  off,  the  solemn  toll  of  bells 
And  chant  of  unseen  choirs. 

The  stately  ritual  of  a  creed  unknown. 
Applausive  murmurs  of  a  mighty  host. 

Echoes  of  anthems  sung  and  trumpets  blown 
At  some  wild  Pentecost. 

And  then  the  spirit  wakes,  its  ^l^^^^'''' 
It  sings  its  longings  and  it  will  not.  est 

Though  Mother-Earth  sing  to  the  wearj  one 
Close-gathered  to  her  breast. 

Soul!  keep  thy  holy  days:  f"--^"**;;" '^^f'he  I 
The  league  with  Death,  the  kinship  ^^ iH'  tM  j 

The  hou'ifof  clay,- walk  thou  in  purest  light  I, 
Where  man  may  talk  with  God. ^ 


s 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


.513 


-« 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 

Born:  Greenfield,  Ind.,  IsrA. 
Mr.  Riley  in  his  youth  led  rather  a  wandering- 
hf e  —  traveling  from  place  to  place  as  a  sig-n 
writer,  sometimes  simulating  blindness  in 
order  to  attract  custom.  He  thus  acquired  a 
knowledge  of  men.  Tor  some  time  he  perform- 
ed in  a  theatrical  troupe.  In  1875  he  began  to 
contribute  to  the  local  papers  verses  in  the 


m 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 

western  dialect,  which  he  found  more  pop- 
ular than  serious  poetry.  He  afterward 
found  regular  employment  on  the  Indianapolis 
Journal,  and  in  that  newspaper  many  of  his 
poems  have  appeared  from  time  to  time.  The 
collected  works  of  James  Whitcomb  Riley  are 
Old  Swinimin'  Hole  :uid  'Leven  More  Poems, 
Boss  Girl  and  Other  Sketches,  and  .in  1887  ap- 
peared Afterwhiles,  and  Character  Sketches 
and  Poems.  The  narrative  of  his  poems  and 
sketches  are  connected  with  prose,  thus  mak- 
ing them  stand  out  more  boldly,  and  also  giving 
more  life  thereto. 

The  name  of  James  Whitcomb  Riley  as  a 
great  poet  has  become  especially  prominent 
the  last  few  years,  his  poems  having  been  ex- 
tensively quoted  from,  in  the  journalistic  press 
throughout  the  country;  and  in  consequence, 
his  works  have  met  with  great  success. 


IN  BOHEMIA. 

Ha !  My  Dear !  I'm  back  again  — 

Vendor  of  Bohemia's  wares ! 
Lordy!  How  it  pants  a  man 

Climbing  up  those  awful  stairs! 
Well,  I've  made  the  dealer  say 
Your  sketch  might  sell,  anyway! 
And  I've  made  a  publisher 
Hear  my  poem,  Kate,  my  dear. 

In  Bohemia,  Kate,  my  dear  — 

Lodgers  in  a  musty  flat 
On  the  top  floor  — hving  here 

Neighborless,  and  used  to  that,— 
Like  a  nest  beneath  the  leaves. 
So  our  little  home  receives 
Only  guests  of  chirping  cheer  — 
We'll  be  happy,  Kate,  my  dear! 

Under  your  north-light  there,  you 

At  your  easel,  with  a  stain 
On  your  nose  of  Prussian  blue, 
Paint  your  bits  of  shine  and  rain; 
With  my  feet  thrown  up  at  will 
O'er  my  littered  window-sill, 
I  write  rhymes  that  ring  as  clear 
As  your  laughter,  Kate,  my  dear. 

Puff  my  pipe,  and  sti-oke  my  hair  — 

Bite  my  pencil-tip  and  gaze 
At  you,  mutely  mooning  there 

O'er  your  "  Aprils  "  and  your  '•  Mays ! " 
Equal  inspiration  in 
Dimples  of  your  cheek  and  chin. 
And  the  golden  atmosphere 
Of  your  paintings,  Kate,  my  dear! 

Trying!  Yes,  at  times  it  is. 

To  clink  happy  rhymes,  and  fling 
On  the  canvas  scenes  of  bliss. 
When  we  are  half  famishing!— 

When  your  "jersey  "  rips  in  spots. 
And  your  hat's  "  forget-me-nots  " 
Have  grown  touled,  old  and  sere  — 
It  is  trying,  Kate,  my  dear! 

But— as  sure  — some  picture  sells. 

And  —  sometimes  —  the  poetry  —   ' 
Bless  us !  How  the  parrot  yells 
His  acclaims  at  you  and  me ! 
How  we  revel  then  in  scenes 
Of  high  banqueting !  —  sardines  — 
Salads  —  olives  —  and  a  sheer 
Pint  of  sherry,  Kate,  my  dear ! 

Even  now  I  ci-oss  your  palm. 

With  this  great  round  world  of  gold?  — 
"  Talking  wild?  "  Perhaps  I  am  — 
Then,  this  little  flve-year-old!  — 
Call  it  anything  you  will, 
So  it  lifts  your  face  until 
I  may  kiss  away  that  tear 
Ere  it  drowns  me,  Kate,  my  dear. 


* 


igB 


514 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


-® 


®- 


ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE. 

Born  :  Mendham,  N.  J.,  May  10, 1818. 
Mr  Coxe  has  devoted  his  life  to  Christianity, 
and  is  now  Second  Bishop  ot  western  New 
Yorli,  a  position  he  has  held  since  1865.  This 
g-entleman  has  made  various  valiial  le  contri- 
butions to  theological  learning,  biblical  criti- 
cism, and  church  literature.  He  published 
several  volumes  of  jioems  before  receiving  or- 
dination. In  18T7  appeared  the  well  known 
poem  The  Ladye  Chase.  Christian  Ballads,  his 
best  known  volume  of  poems,  appeared  in 
1845.  and  became  so  popular  that  it  was  re- 
printed in  England  in  18.50. 

EASTER  MADRIGAL. 

MARY  AND  SALOME. 

Tell  us,  Gard'ner  dost  thou  know 
Where  the  Rose  and  Lily  grow, 
Sharon's  Crimson  Rose  and  pale 
Judah's  Lily  ot  the  ValeV 
Rude  is  yet  the  opening  year. 
Yet  their  sweetest  breath  is  here. 

GARDENER. 

Daughters  of  Jerusalem, 
Yes,  'tis  here  we  planted  them: 
'Twas  a  Rose  all  red  with  gore, 
Wondrous  were  the  thorns  it  bore! 
'Twas  a  body  swathed  in  white, 
Ne'er  was  Lily  half  so  bright. 

THE   WOMEN. 

Gentle  Gard'ner,  even  so, 

What  we  seek  thou  seem'st  to  know. 

Bearing  spices  and  perfume, 

We  are  come  to  Joseph's  tomb: 

Breaks  e'en  now  the  rosy  day; 

Roll  us,  then,  the  stone  away. 

GARDENER. 

Holy  women :  this  the  spot. 
Seek  him,  but  it  holds  him  not. 
This  the  holy  mount  of  myrrh. 
Here  the  liills  of  incense  were. 
Here  the  bed  of  his  repose, 
Till,  ere  dawn  of  day—  He  rose. 

MAGDALENE. 

Yes,  my  name  is  Magdalene : 
I  myself  the  Lord  have  seen. 
Here  I  came,  but  now,  and  wept 
Where  I  deem'd  my  Saviour  slept. 
But  He  called  my  name  — and  lo'i* 
Jesus  lives,  'tis  even  so. 

GARDENER. 

Yes,  the  mouniains  skii)pcd  like  rams; 
Leaped  the  little  hills  like  lambs. 
All  was  dark,  when  shook  the  ground, 
Quaked  flu!  Roman  soldiers  round, 
Strciiincd  a  glorious  light,  and  then 
Lived  the  Crucitled  again. 


WOMEN. 

Magdalene  hath  seen  and  heard ! 
Gard'ner.  we  believe  thy  word. 
But  oh !  where  is  Jesus  fled. 
Living  and  no  longer  dead? 
Tell  us,  that  we  too  may  go 
Where  the  Rose  and  Lily  grow. 

MAGDALENE. 

Come,  the  stone  is  rolled  away ; 
See  the  place  where  Jesus  lay; 
See  the  lawn  that  wrapp'd  his  brow; 
Here  the  angel  sat  but  now. 
•«  Seek  not  here  the  Christ,"  he  said; 
"  Seek  not  life  among  the  dead." 
»-«-• 

EDITH  MATILDA  THOMAS. 

Born:  Chatham,  Ohio,  Aug.  13, 1854. 
Edith  was  educated  at  the  Geneva  normal  in- 
stitute of  her  native  state.  She  has  contribu- 
ted largely  to  periodicals,  and  has  published  in 
book  form  A  New  Year's  Masque  and  Other 
Poems,  The  Round  Year  in  1886,  and  in  1887 
Lyrics  and  Sonnets. 

THE  FOUNTAINS  OF  THE  RAIN. 
The  merchant  clouds  that  cruise  the  sultry  sky, 
As  soon  as  they  have  spent  their  freight  of  rain 
Plot  how  the  cooling  thrift  they  may  regain; 
All  night  along  the  river-marsh  they  lie, 
And  at  their  ghostly  looms  swift  shuttles  ply 
To  weave  them  nets  wherewith  the  streams  to 

drain; 
And  often  in  the  sea  they  cast  a  seine. 
And  draw  it  dripping,  past  some  headland  high. 
Many  a  slender  naiad  with  a  sigh. 
Is  in  their  arms  uptaken  from  the  plain; 
The  trembling  myrmidons  of  dew  remain 
No  longer  than  the  flash  of  morning's  eye. 
Then  back  unto  their  misty  fountains  fly :  — 
This  is  the  source  and  journey  of  the  rain. 


HOMESICK. 
This  were  a  miracle,  if  it  could  be! 
If,  never  loitering  since  llie  jirinie  of  day. 
Since  kissing  the  cool  lips  of  Northern  May, 
This  drowsy  wind,  at  evening,  brought  to  me 
The  fragrant  spirit  of  the  apple-tree; 
Or,  if  so  far  sweet  sounds  could  make  their  way, 
That  I  should  hear  the  robin's  twilight  lay 
Float  o'er  a  thousand  leagues  of  foamy  seal 
Now,  save  I  know  those  eyes  exchange  no 

beams 
With  yonder  star  (so  curves  the  earth  between,, 
I'd  say:    My  friend  doth   fnom  his  casement 

lean. 
And  charge  Canopus,  l)y  his  pilol-gleains. 
To  bear  love  to  my  port,  and  lovely  dreams 
Of  homeward  slopes  new-dothed  withsuiiuncr 

green. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


515 


-® 


DANIEL  SIDNEY  WARNER. 

Bokn:  Bkistol,  Ohio,  June  25, 184;3. 

Afte[{  attending:  school  for  a  few  terms  in 
Oberlin  coUeg-e,  Mr-  Warner  pursued,  some 
years  later,  his  studies  in  connection  with 
ministerial  duties  in  Vermillion  college  at 
Hazesville,  Ohio.    1m  !>•;''   Mr.  Warner  began 


DANIEL  SIDNEY  WAKNEK. 


the  publication  of  the  Gospel  Trumpet  at 
Indianapolis, which  he  now  publishes  at  Grand 
Junction,  Micliigran.  For  several  years  past 
he  lias  written  verso,  and  about  two  hundred 
hymns  luive  been  composed  by  this  minister 
and  journalist,  many  of  which  have  appeared 
with  music  in  several  song-  books.  Mr.  Warn- 
er hopes  to  publish  a  volume  of  his  poems  at 
an  early  date. 


RAYS  OF  HOPE. 

There  are  some  rays  of  hope  divine. 

To  cheer  the  darkest  heart. 
Around  tlie  cross  they  ever  shine. 

Where  life  anew  may  start. 
Despondent  soul  can  you  not  see 

Hope  gleaming  from  above? 
O  look  once  more  to  Calvary, 

And  know  that  God  is  love. 

Though  shame  and  guilt  oppress  thy  soul. 

Thy  heart  as  adamant. 
Yet  Jesus  will  thy  name  enroll 

If  ye  will  but  repent. 


Thy  life  of  sin  now  weighs  thee  down. 

And  death  and  hell  are  near. 
But  Heaven  wills  thee  yet  a  crown 

And  angels  want  thee  there. 
O  guilty  one!  tho'  bound  in  chains 

Of  dark  infernal  pow'r. 
The  grace  of  God  supremely  reigns 

To  save  you  in  this  hour. 


TKUTH. 

"What  is  truth?"  inquired  Pilate,  sober, 

Immersed  in  deep  perplexity. 
Trembling,  while  in  judgment  over 

The  One  his  final  Judge  must  be. 
He  asked,  but  waited  not  the  answer; 

For  in  his  majesty  there  stood 
The  truth  himself,  at  his  tribunal, 

The  incarnate  truth  of  God. 
Shine  on,  with  all  thy  constellations 

The  precious  attributes  of  God; 

Love,  merc.v,  justice  and  compassion. 
For  second  in  thy  magnitude 

Thou  only  art  to  love's  effulgence. 

••  I  am  the  Truth,"  and  "God  is  love;" 
From  both,  in  one  omniflc  fullness. 

Proceed  the  streams  of  truth  above. 
High  honored,  and  from  everlasting. 

Thou  art,  O  Truth  !  a  pillar  strong  — 
Upholding  justice,  faith  and  virtue. 

Before  the  stars  together  sang 
Our  ill-doomed  planet's  new  creation. 

Thy  liand  didst  hold,  on  Heaven's  throne, 
The  baliinces  that  weighed  all  nations. 

Upon  all  worlds  that  'round  thee  shone. 


Then  Pity  broke  the  silence  weeping. 

Love,  deeply  moved,  to  justice  spake, 
And  mercy  joined  his  interceding, 

That  fallen  man,  for  pity's  sake. 
Should  now  be  ransomed  back  to  Heaven; 

Then  rose  up  Truth  in  majesty 
Thus  saying:  "  I  for  man  shall  suffer. 

Here  love  and  mercy  offer  me. 
Great  Spirit  give  to  me  a  body, 

A  proper  sacrifice  for  sin. 
And  thou,  O  justice!  sum  man's  debit 

And  let  me  surety  be  for  him." 
Then  answered  Pity.  Love  and  Mercy: 

"  O  speed  tliee.  Truth,  but  not  alone. 
For  we,  thy  sisters,  will  go  with  thee 

To  rear  on  earth  thy  peaceful  throne." 


TWO  CONTRASTING  SCENES. 
Along  a  winding  path  there  came 
A  band  of  saints  in  Jesus'  name. 
Leading  downward  t'ward  the  flowing  river; 
The  rock-paved  Allegheny  stream. 


* 


*- 


* 


516 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


Whose  oil-biotched  waters  flow  between 
Tow'ring  hills  that  drop  upon  her  mirror. 
Adorned  in  His  own  holiness, 
Who  first  "  fulfilled  all  righteousness," 
True  disciples  of  the  Great  Exemplar, 
Came  here  to  show  their  love  to  Him, 
By  burial  in  the  crystal  stream: 
Resurrected  in  His  life  forever. 
The  trees  that  emulative  rose 
From  banli  to  summit's  high  repose. 
Waving  in  the  sunliglit's  golden  glory. 
Displayed  to  their  enraptured  eyes 
A  thousand  tints  of  richest  dyes. 
Varied  in  sweet  autumn's  goi'geous  beauty. 
A  hymn  flowed  o'er  the  water,  still, 
And  echoed  on  from  hill  to  hill; 
Rising  upward  to  the  throne  of  Heaven, 
This  was  the  song  that  sweetly  breathed 
Their  praise  to  Him  their  hearts  believed. 
Even  Christ,  with  whom  their  souls  had  risen. 
Down  into  the  flowing  river, 

Lo !  the  Lamb  of  God  we  see. 
There  he  speaks  in  clear  example, 
Take  the  cross  and  follow  me. 
Cho.— Gently  buried  with  my  Savior, 

Let  me  sink  beneath  the  wave; 
Crucified  to  earth  forever, 
Hence  alone  to  God  I  live. 
Now  the  sacred  waters  cover. 

O'er  the  holy  Son  of  God. 
Thus  he  washed  me  in  the  fountain 

Of  his  sin-atoning  blood. 
Crucified  with  my  Redeemer, 
Now  I  sink  into  the  grave, 
I  am  dead  to  sin  foi-ever. 

By  the  life  of  God  I  live. 
Here  I  witness  a  confession. 

As  1  merge  from  human  sight. 
In  the  tomb  of  yielding  water 

That  the  blood  has  washed  me  white. 
O  how  sweet  to  follow  Jesus, 
In  this  ordinance  to  show. 
That  we're  cleansed  in  life's  pure  river, 
Even  wiiiterthan  the  snow. 
To  him  who  said  that  every  where. 
He  wills  that  men  should  ofl'er  prayer. 
By  this  emblem  of  the  tomb  of  Jesus, 
His  humble  saints  then  meekly  bowed. 
Amid  the  awe  decorumed  crowd. 
Richly  favored  by  His  loving  presence. 
Then  one  by  one  were  downward  led 
And  numbered  with  the  sainted  dead, 
Pilgrims  happy  in  the  Lord's  approval. 
Anew  the  spirit  of  their  God 
Bore  witness  to  the  cleansing  blood, 
Making  lofty  hills  witli  praises  vocal. 
But  some  that  st«od  beside  tlmt  stream 
Recalled  to  mind  another  scene. 


Thirty  years  had  tied  along  unceasing, 
As  flows  the  water  o'er  tliat  spot. 
Where  red  intemp'rance  left  a  blot 

Time  and  tide  have  passed,  yet  unerasing. 

A  husband,  father,  genial  friend. 

But  demonized  by  liquor  fiend. 
Deeply  by  this  maddening  viper  bitter. 

Unto  his  home  near  Ijj'  this  shore. 

Then  came  rum-fired  as  oft  before: 
Driving  thence  his  own  in  terror  stricken. 

Three- daughters  fled  adown  the  ledge. 
And  spied  the  skifl'  at  water's  edge. 

Boarding  this  they  rowed  into  the  river. 
To  utmost  strength  they  plied  the  oar. 
And  hastened  to  the  fai-ther  shore; 

Praying  God  from  wrath  and  waves  deliver. 
Tlie  frenzied  came  with  angry  mien. 
To  drown  liis  children  in  the  stream. 

Breathing  threatening,  stagg'ring   'mid  the 
billows. 
The  madman  heedless  onward  surged 
Till  in  the  depth  at  last  submerged: 

Drowning  there,  a  warning  to  His  fellows. 
Behold  the  contrast  'twixt  the  scenes! 
The  first  in  mem'ry  sadly  gleams. 

Over  thirty  years  tliat  flowed  unceasing; 
As  flows  the  water  o'er  that  spot. 
Where  dread  intemp'rance  left  a  blot, 

Time  and  tide  have  passed  yet  unerasing. 
Baptized  in  spirits  from  the  still. 
Led  captive  by  the  devil's  will. 

Into  awful  death  he  plunged  a  victim. 
From  thence  raised  up  a  lifeless  clay 
His  spirit  fled  in  wild  dismay. 

Leaving  in  that  stream  a  doleful  requiem. 
But  these  immersed  in  Heaven's  light. 
In  garments  pure  and  spotless  white. 

Follow  joyful  down  into  the  river, 
Tiie  steps  of  him  who  died  on  earth. 
To  give  their  souls  a  Heav'nly  birth; 

Buried  deep  in  Jesus'  love  forever. 
He,  dead  in  sin  and  lost  in  woe. 
They,  dead  to  sin  and  white  as  snow, 

Botli  were  buried  in  tliis  river's  bosom. 
His  name  dislionored  floats  along. 
They  ri.se  to  sing  redemption's  song. 

Prai.sing  Him  wlio  gave  their  spirits  freedom. 
He  builded  there  a  monument 
Of  liquors  l)lack  and  flendisli  bent ; 

Casting  on  that  tide  a  gloomy  shadow. 
They  leave  upon  that  sacred  shore 
Footprints  of  Him  wlio  went  V)efore. 

And  His  blessing  leaves  a  brilliant  halo. 
Beliold  two  ways  divide  our  race, 
The  road  of  sin,  and  path  of  grace. 

Choosing  this,  or  that  to  thee  is  given. 
Botli  these  ways  dip  in  death's  cold  tide, 
And  judgment  sits  on  yonder  side. 

Bending  tliat  to  hell,  and  this  to  Heaven. 


«- 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


517 


* 


OBADIAH  BAYLY. 

Born:  Deahborn  Co.,  Ind.,  Aug.  7,  18:3.3. 
In  liis  youth  Mr.  Bayly  lived  on  a  farm.    In 
1860  ho  was  married  to  Miss  Cornelia   Buck. 
He  then  spent  a  luiniber  of  years  in  teaching-. 


OBADIAH  BAYLY. 

and  is  now  engaged  in  farming-  in  Mitchell 
county.  Kansas.  Mr.  Obadiah  B-iyly  is  also  an 
inventor,  having-  patented  in  18.57  the  first 
burglar  proof  time  lock  ever  invented  in 

the  United  States. 


THE  YEARS  LAST  NIGHT. 

Twelve  o'clock,  'tis  midnight's  ring  — 

A  faithful  warning  sound. 
To  teach  all  men  from  serf  to  king. 

How  fast  the  years  roll  round. 
Tlie  dying  year  wakes  up  a  thought 

That  slumbered  long  and  low. 
That  earth's  last  treasures  must  be  bought 

With  measured  beat  and  slow. 
The  echo  dies  not  on  our  ears 

Till  busy  scenes  of  life 
Witli  joys  and  sorrows,  hopes  and  fears. 

With  broils,  tumults  and  strife, 
Have  caught  the  thought  from  mem'ry's 
page 

That  leads  us  to  tlie  goal. 
That  gives  us  strength  with  age 

To  vitalize  the  mind  and  soul. 


But  all  through  life  we  find. 

Though  the  mills  of  life  grind  slow. 
Two  classes,  there  are,  they  ahv;iys  grind; 

The  lovers  of  fashion  and  show. 
And  the  lovers  of  cupid's  line  arts, 

As  wandering  too  and  fro 
They  search  for  his  wonderful  darts 

That  conquer  and  charm  as  they  go. 

But  luck  toils  hard  with  hands  raised  high. 

As  highei-  the  gold  he  piles. 
With  heavy  breath  and  sweat  and  sigh 

While  riches  his  soul  beguiles. 
And  love  is  building  castles  tall, 

Just  like  a  spider's  net. 
She  plans  to  catch  him  and  his  all. 

And  now  her  trap  is  slily  set. 

She  has  him  now,  him  and  his  gold, 

And  joined  in  hand  for  life 
With  both  hands  tilled  they  hold 

Naught  else  Init  care  and  strife; 
What  then  can  wean  the  soul  away 

From  such  rude  (jares  as  these? 
The  proud,  the  rich,  the  gay 

Can  nowhere  be  at  peace  and  ease. 

Gold  can  not  give  such  share. 

Nor  j'et  can  knowledge  buy, 
Where  then,  O,  tell  us  where 

Such  precious  treasures  hie? 
For  riches  knows  not,  neither  seeks 

Such  high  and  holj'  aims. 
But  wisdom  riches  speaks. 

Though  riches  wisdom  claims. 

The  christian's  heart  doth  yield 

Such  priceless  jewels  rare, 
A  fragrant  flowering  field 

Of  thoughts  both  pure  and  fair, 
To  stir  us  up  to  deeds  of  worth 

And  garnish  our  minds  like  leaven. 
To  wean  our  souls  away  from  earth 

And  guide  our  footsteps  up  to  heaven. 

Kind  reader,  do  not  pass  with  slight 

The  thoughts  here  roughly  hewn. 
For  mind  and  soul  with  heavenly  light 

Should  have  their  alleys  stored  and  strewn ; 
Then  death  though  dark  and  stormj'  too 

You'll  welcome  with  delight. 
These  lights  will  then  be  set  to  show 

That  heaven  is  in  sight. 


EXTRACT. 
Come  men  of  worth  through  all  the  earth. 

In  high  and  lowly  stations, 
Come  help  us  fight  witli  all  your  might. 

This  enemy  of  nations. 
Now  all  good  song  has  value  strong. 

To  thrust  at  his  distillery. 
Then  let  us  choose  the  poet's  muse, 

As  part  of  our  artillery. 


® 


©■ 


518 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKIOA. 


-« 


NATHAN  CHORION. 

Born:  Chester,  N.  J.,  Nov.  2.  1869. 
Mr.Horton  taught  school  when  only  sixteen 
years  of  age,  and  later  graduated  at  the  State 
Model  School  at  Trenton,  N.  J.  In  188  lie  en- 
tered the  law  department  of  the  university  of 
Pennsylvania,   and  for  a  short  while  was  the 


NATHAN  C.   HORTON. 

city  editor  of  the  Advance  of  Middletown.  In 
the  spring-  of  1889  he  graduated  and  receiv- 
ed the  degree  of  bachelor  of  laws.  Mr.  Hor- 
ton  is  now  editor  of  the  Insurance  News  of 
Philadelphia,  but  he  expects  to  follow  the 
profession  of  the  law.  His  poems  have  ap- 
peared in  many  of  the  leading  publications. 


SB 


EASTER  DAY. 

'Tis  Easter  Day.    Come  strew  the  way 

With  early  springtime  flowers; 
Let  peace  and  joy,  without  alloy. 

Fill  up  the  sunny  liours. 
Our  griefs  .and  pains,  'midst  rueful  strains. 

Were  buried  long  ago; 
Now  love  and  lile  and  hope  are  rile. 

And  hearts  with  .j^iy  o'ertlow. 
In  sweet  perfume  the  lilies  bloom. 

In  token    of  the  day; 
The  roses,  too,  with  life  anew. 

Are  out  in  ricli  array. 
And  every  shoot  and  tiny  root 

In  Nature's  'wakening  bed 


Burst  forth  and  tell,  to  liill  and  dell. 

The  resurrected  dead. 
Let  hope  arise,  let  gladsome  eyes 

Witli  joy  be  bright  and  gay ; 
Let  all  confess  their  joy  and  bless 

This  happy  Easter  Day. 


THE  VIOLET. 

Sweeter  than  the  lips  of  Venus, 

Fairer  than  the  wood-nymphs  are, 
Is  the  modest  flower  that  blossoms 

In  the  wild-wood  near  and  far. 
Kissed  by  dews  and  rocked  by  zephyrs, 

Sweetest  flower  that  woos  the  day. 
Scarce  before  we  know  thy  fragrance 

Thou  liast  died  and  passed  away. 
Hidaen  half  bj'  leaves,  thy  perfume 

Gentle  breezes  to  us  In-ing, 
Tenderly  we  stoop  and  pluck  thee, 

First  and  fairest  love  of  spring. 

JUST  OVER  THE  STREET. 
I  think  it  was  just  before  twilight. 

As  I  sat  in  the  parlor  alone, 
I  was  musing,  my  thouglits  were  at  random, 

And  all  but  my  fancy  had  flown. 
When  a  vision  appeared  at  the  window, 

At  the  window  just  over  the  street. 
In  the  form  of  a  beautiful  maiden, 

A  maiden  exquisitely  sweet. 
She  was  fair,  was  this  beautiful  maiden. 

This  maiden  just  over  the  street, 
As  she  carelessly  toyed  with  the  curtains 

That  enclosed  her  half-hidden  retreat. 
Her  tresses,  in  charming  abandon. 

Were  as  black  as  the  blackest  of  jet. 
And  the  dimples  plaj-ed  sweetly  and  softly 

By  the  mouth  of  this  lovely  brunette. 
Her  features  were  those  of  a  Venus. 

Witli  a  smile  more  of  heaven  than  earth. 
Her  cheeks  were  rose-tinted  and  tender. 

Her  face  was  all  radiant  with  ihirth. 
And  her  eyes  had  a  wondrous  lustre 

As  they  coyly  glanced  over  at  mine. 
And  she  seemed,  as  she  stood  at  the  window. 

A  creature  almost  divine. 
And  I  sat  and  I  thouglit  and  I  wondered 

If  ever  and  how  we  should  meet. 
For  I  longed  to  be  nearer  this  maiden 

Than  to  see  her  just  over  the  stret>t. 

I  sit  and  1  muse  in  the  parlor. 

Hut  I  sit.  and  I  muse  not  .-ilone. 
For  1  now  liave  a  jolly  companion. 

Who  quaffs  with  me  all  of  life's  foam. 
And  she  is  the  self-same  maiden  ! 

Whom  I  erstwhile  had  longed  to  meet. 
But  she  is  now,  forsooth,  no  longer,  ! 

The  maiden  just  over  the  street.  .     ; 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


.519 


-® 


MRS.  A.G.BENNETT. 

Bor.n:  Wakner,  N.  H.  Nov.  8,lJvi8. 
While  at  school  this  lady  was  considered 
quite  a  poet,  but  notliing-  of  importance  ap- 
peared from  lier  pen  in  the  press  until  the 
year  of  her  marriage  in  1877.  At  that  time 
she  furnished  holiday,  anniversary  and  spe- 
cial poems  as  occasions  demanded,  and  soon 


MRS.  ADELAIDE  G.  BENNETT. 

achieved  quite  a  reputation  as  a  local  poet. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  Bennett  have  appeared  in 
the  Cliicago  Advance,  Interior,  Brattleboro 
Household,  Good  Housekeeping-,  Wide  Awalie 
and  nearly  a  liundred  other  prominent  pub- 
lications, from  whicli  they  have  been  exten- 
sively copied  by  tlie  local  press  from  Maine 
to  California.  She  is  now  a  resident  of  Pipe- 
stone City,  Minnesota. 


51- 


A  PICNIC  DETOUR. 
We  left  the  dull  and  dusty  streets. 

And  with  the  crowd  we  wended 
Tlie  rural  iiighways  to  retreats 

Alone  by  nature  tended. 
We  left  the  busy,  bustling-  crowd  — 

So  winsome  was  the  weather  — 
Beyond  tlic  jarring  voices  loud. 

We  found  ourselves  together. 
We  strayed  among  the  leafy  trees. 
Where  constantly  were  trilling 
Clear  bird-notes  wafted  on  the  breeze, 

Our  eager  senses  filling. 


O  sweet  the  air  that  summer  day 

And  sweet  the  wild-bird's  singing! 
But  sweeter  than  the  roundelay 

Which  through  the  woods  came  ringing. 
Was  the  shy  voice  so  sweetly  heard 

Of  one  who,  with  me  faring. 
Was  timid  as  the  wild-wood  bird. 

As  wary  of  ensnaring. 
We  rowed  upon  the  lucent  lake  — 

Our  skiff  was  deftly  hollowed  — 
And  flying  after  in  our  wake. 

The  skimming  songsters  followed. 
0  fair  the  water  lilies  pure 

Upon  its  bosom  floating! 
But  fairer  far  that  face  demure 

Which  went  with  me  aboating. 
O  bright  the  sunbeams  shining  hot, 

No  shadows  o'er  us  casting! 
So  bright  the  day  we  both  forgot 

It  was  not  everlasting. 


APPLES  OF  SODOM. 
One  Tristam  pensive,  melancholic,  grave, 
Replete  with  surfeit  of  all  earthly  joy. 
Bereft  of  power  once  potent  to  decoy. 
Deemed  life  a  bubble  burst,  a  shore-spent 

wave. 
Too  burdensome  to  hold,  too  poor  to  crave. 

Mixed  as  It  was  with  cankering  aUoy. 
Lead,  trusty  Faith,  and  when  time  shall  de- 
stroy 
And  blight  the  buds  which  once  sweet  pro- 
mise gave. 
Bear  us  triumphant  from  the  alien  shore 
Where  bounteous  Nature  bears  no  grateful 
boon. 
And  tropic  richness  chains  the  sense  no  more 
And  rouse  us  with  a  grand,  inspiring  tune. 
As  onward  speeds  the  bark  and  dips  the  oar; 
The  way  is  short !   Be  brave !   Christ  cometh 
soon! 


THE  PRAIRIE  LARK. 
Not  where  dark  hills  contract  the  scene 
And  shadowed  vales  lie  cool  between. 
Is  thy  clear  song  the  sweetest  heard. 
Thou  blithesome,  fearless,  bonny  bird! 
A  wider  field  thy  wing  explores,  [soars, 

Tlirough    broader    space    thy   sweet  song 
And  fills  the  vast  acoustic  dome 
Where  thou,  unfettered,  lov'st  to  roam. 
Where    pasque    flowers    stud    the    velvet 

sward, 
A  carpet,  reaching  far  abroad 
Till  the  wide  floor  is  lost  to  view 
And  merges  in  the  airy  blue 
Of  arching  ceiling  overhead;— 
In  this  vast  hall  thy  wing-  is  spread. 
Here  ringing  notes  of  music  sound 
And  fill  the  eclioing  space  around. 


-m 


©- 


520 


-« 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


With  one  glad,  rapturous  rush  of  song 
In  soaring  billows  rolled  along 
Clear  as  transparent  crystal  bright 
Or  water  in  the  glad  sunlight. 
Redundant,  brimming  over,  free, 
One  overflowing  melody! 
O  sweet-voiced  bird!  in  joy  we  stand, 
Thy  home  is  summer's  Beulah  land. 


THE  BATTLE  ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS. 
A  darkening  cloud  surcharged  with  mist, 

And  chill  November  rain. 
Hung  low  o'er  Lookout's  rocky  crest. 

Where  erst  the  foe  had  lain. 
There  two  contending  forces  waged 

A  battle  high  in  air. 
And  watchers  in  the  vale  below 

Could  see  no  action  there. 
Only  a  long,  incessant  roar. 

Of  crashing  thunder  loud. 
Came  from  the  strong  held  mountain  top. 

Above  the  darkened  cloud. 
When  from  the  west,  a  sunset  shaft 

Shot  through  the  purple  haze. 
All  eyes  were  turned  upon  the  foe. 

With,  fearful,  anxious  gaze. 
But  when  the  clear  white  stars  shone  out. 

Upon  the  frosty  night, 
The  fair-haired,  brave  Potomac  boys 

Stood  victors  on  the  height. 
They  placed  the  stai--gemmed  banner  there 

Upon  the  rocky  crest. 
The  white  stars  shining  overhead. 

The  white  star  on  their  breast. 
O  battle  waged  above  the  clouds, 

How  typical  thou  art 
Of  that  o'erwhelming  civil  strife 

Which  rent  the  nation's  heart. 
We  watching  in  the  valley-land. 

Saw  but  the  war's  dark  cloud. 
The  smoke  of  lurid  strife  and  woe, 

Low  hanging  like  a  shroud; 
Heard  but  the  surging  ebb  and  flow 

Of  mighty  armies  led 
To  victory  or  dire  defeat. 

With  steady  martial  tread. 
While  on  the  eternal  height  above. 

Stood  Liberty  unseen 
Assailing  Treason's  fortress  bold. 

With  set,  determined  mien. 
And  when  the  morning  broke  at  last. 

On  the  dark  night  of  woe. 
She  stood  secure  upon  the  mount. 

And  vanquislied  was  the  foe. 
O  Goddess,  hold  thou  still  the  height. 

The  white-starred  flag  benoatli ! 
Place  thou  tlie  white-star  on  <nir  breast 
But  leave  the  sword  in  sheath. 


CARRIE  GNAGA. 

BoKN :  Linden  Grange,  Ind.,  June  16, 1867. 
After  attending  hijuh  school  for  two  years 


Carrii.'  lu'Lian  lii'i- 


-I'lKMil  li'arlierat 


CARRIE  GNAGA. 

the  age  of  twenty.  Her  poems  have  appeared 
in  the  local  press ;  and  she  has  also  written 
several  short  stories,  which  she  hopes  soon  to 
publish.  Miss  Carrie  Gnaga  is  well  known 
for  her  many  accomplishments,  and  numbers 
among  lier  acquaintances  many  ardent  ad- 
mirers. 


8B- 


aftek  awhile. 

After  awhile  will  all  our  bitter  pain  — 
All  our  remorse,  our  care,  our  grief. 
Be  swept  away    in    life's   ceaseless  surging 
main. 
And  the  sorely -tried  spirit  find  a  sweet  re- 
lease, 

After  awhile. 
After  awhile  the  sun  will  sliine, 

And  the  rain  cease  to  fall  in  a  pitiless  heat. 
Life's  water's  taste  less  of  the  salt  sea  brine. 
And  the  thorns  grow  fewer 'neat h  t lie  weary 
feet. 

After  awhile. 
After  awhile  is  a  weary,  far-oflr  time. 

But  wait  till  it  comes,  as  it  surely  will. 
There'll  be  an  end  of  sorrow,  sin  .•md  crime. 
Of  misery,  hatred  and  human  ill. 
After  awhile. 


> 


^ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


521 


® 


JOHN  LAIGHT  WINCE. 

Born  :  R.\ppahannock  Co.,  Va.,  Dec.  24, 1832. 
At  the  age  of  nineteen  Mr.  Wince  eonmieneed 
to  teaeli  seliool,  and  in  1835  began  writing'  for 
the  press.  Since  tliat  time  he  has  written 
both  prose  and  verse  on  a  variety  of  themes, 
generally  I'eligious,  which  have  been  publish- 
ed in  the  relig-ious  and  secular  press.  Mr. 
Wince  was  married  in  1867  to  Sarah  Roxana 
Chaplin,  who  is  represented  in  this  work.  Mr. 
Wince  follows  agricultural  pursuits,  occa- 
sionallj'  preaches  the  gospel,  and  resides  in 
Pierceton,  Ind, 


® 


SIX  THOUSAND  YEARS. 
Six  thousand  years  the  tide  of  sin 

Has  spread  destruction  far  and  wide; 
Six  thousand  years  the  world  has  been. 

To  Satan's  wicked  cause  allied. 
From  this  dark  age  to  Eden's  prime. 

The  world  has  walked  away  from  God ; 
Six  thousand  years  of  blood  and  crimfe. 

Have  cursed  the  earth  and  stained  the  sod. 
Six  thousand  years !    Ah,  that  will  do ! 

To  try  the  hateful  rule  of  wrong; 
Ring- out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new. 

The  era  of  angelic  song-. 
Then  glory  to  our  God  on  high; 

Good  will  on  earth  and  peace  to  men. 
Will  swell  in  song-  through  earth  and  sky, 

In  sweeter  strains,  by  far,  than  when 
The  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night. 

And  music  sweet  fell  on  their  ears. 
From  choristers  enrobed  in  light, 

And  trained  amid  the  upper  spheres. 

CONTRASTED  CREEDS. 
We  are  not  left  alone  to  guess 
Our  pathway  through  this  wilderness; 
A  light  beneath  and  overhead. 
Illumes  the  weary  path  we  tread. 
We  ask  no  heathen  Socrates, 
About  this  self,  that  thinks  and  is; 
A  Darwin  no  sure  answer  brings. 
To  satisfy  our  questionings. 
We  know  in  truth,  from  whence  we  came. 
Our  mortal  being's  end  and  aim; 
We  learned  it  from  a  book  we  love. 
Whose  author  sits  enthroned  above. 
A  book,  which  unbelieving  sage 
Styles  legend  of  a  childish  age; 
Imposture,  which  designing  men. 
Composed  in  distant  ages,  when 
The  sun  of  science  had  not  slied 
Its  light  upon  the  human  head. 
But  our  sure  confidence  is  stayed. 
On  what  the  Hebrew  prophets  said. 
We  put  the  question  —What  of  life? 
Is  it  a  vain  and  liopeless  strife? 


Its  destiny,  an  endless  sleep. 

In  oblivion,  dark  and  deep? 

From  dust  we  came,  to  dust  we  turn; 

But  from  the  ashes  of  the  urn, 

A  glorious  form  shall  yet  arise. 

To  bloom  again  in  Paradise. 

As  pledge  of  this,  our  living  bead 

Arose  triumphant  from  the  dead. 

The  thrilling  fact  that  he  arose, 

W^as  testified  by  friouds  and  foes. 

Then  why  reject  the  blessed  hope. 

Whose  range  of  view  has  endless  scope? 

That,  in  the  ages  yet  to  be. 

The  good  shall  taste  and  hear  and  see. 

The  wondrous  scenes  of  joy  and  bliss. 

In  a  lovelier  world  than  this? 

To  love  indeed  is  happiness. 

For  love  has  power  on  earth  to  bless. 

But  only  as  it  flows  in  deeds. 

To  meet  the  cry  of  human  needs. 

Be  this  the  rule  and  this  the  test. 

Then  put  the  question  —  Who  loved  best? 

Both  saint  and  infidel,  1  ween. 

Would  give  reply  —  The  Nazarene! 

Against  whose  name  no  sin  is  set, 

From  Bethlehem  to  Olivet. 

For  here  is  love  exemplified. 

In  life  and  in  the  death  he  died. 

He  satisfies  our  deepest  quest. 

Concerning  the  eternal  rest; 

And  what  the  life  beyond  the  tomb. 

Beyond  the  silence  and  the  gloom. 

No  solace  in  the  skeptic's  creed. 

Can  bind  the  wounded  hearts  that  bleed; 

Nor  smooth  the  thorny  way  to  death, 

Down  to  the  last  expiring  breath; 

Nor  comfort  give  to  weeping  friend. 

Who  shall  above  the  dying  bend: 

Like  word  of  Christ,  so  grand  and  sweet. 

That  death-dissevered  friends  shall  meet. 

Where  painful  partings  come  no  more. 

On  Canaan's  fair  and  deathless  shore. 


MRS.S.  ROXANA  WINCE. 

Born  :  Collamer,  Ind.,  Feb  10, 1838. 
This  lady  is  the  daughter  of  Rev.  S.  A.  Chap- 
lin, now  of  Plymouth,  Ind.,  who  has  gjnined 
quite  a  reputation  as  a  poet,  and  is  represent- 
ed elsewhere  in  this  work.  She  was  mai-ried 
in  186"  to  John  Laight  Wince,  who  has  also 
been  given  a  place  in  this  worlc.  Since  1857 
Mrs.  Wince  has  written  poems  quite  exten- 
sively for  the  periodical  press,  which  have 
been  well  and  favorably  received.  Prior  to 
her  marriage  she  successfully  taught  school. 
The  only  child  of  Mrs.  Wince  died  in  infancy. 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  HOUR. 

O  let  the  surging  seas  grow  calm. 
Dear  countrymen  of  ours! 


-« 


«B- 


522 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   I'OETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


—  * 


* 


Sow  wide  the  healing  seeds  of  balm, 

Aud  plant  the  deathless  flowers. 
For  tide  of  party -strife  has  long: 

Swept  o'er  our  precious  things; 
Half  hushed  the  tender  words  of  song, 

And   stained  her  drooi)ing  wings. 
And  love  aud  hope  of  ancient  years 

Are  sinking  'neath  her  waves. 
While  dark  ambition  flings  our  seers 

In  bribery's  nameless  graves. 
But  vain  we  lift  our  anguished  cry. 

The  sea  will  not  be  still; 
No  clay  is  there  for  blinded  ej'e, 

No  chain  for  demon  will! 
When,  country  mine,  shall  man  be  found 

With  strength  for  these  dark  days. 
Who,  with  our  tangled  skeins  unwound. 

Shall  win  our  meed  of  praise? 
Who,  true  and  brave  aud  heaven-tauglit. 

Shall  rule  the  hordes  of  wrong? 
And  turn  to  safer  grooves  of  thought. 

The  swift  pens  of  the  strong? 

EXPECTANT. 
I  sit  by  my  window,  and  listen. 

While  the  mists  of  the  morning  go  by. 
To  catch  the  first  sound  of  his  footsteps; 

To  meet  the  bright  glance  of  his  eye: 
And  day  after  day,  as  the  noontide 

Ls  marked,  on  tlie  sill  of  the  door;  — 
While  the  tired  men  rest  in  the  shadows. 

And  the  little  ones  play  on  the  floor. 
I  list  for  the  sound  of  his  chariot; 

I  wait  for  the  light  of  his  smile; 
For  the  coming  in  glory  of  liim. 

Who  tarrieth  the  little  while. 
I  sit  on  the  door-step  at  evening;  — 

A  maiden  is  singing  below;  — 
T  hear  the  sweet  laughter  of  children. 

And  the  rivulet's  musical  flow. 
The  niglit-birds  are  trilling  the  chorus 

or  all  the  glad  songs  of  the  day. 
And  mingled  with  these  are  the  voices 

Of  villagers  far  away: 
But  still  in  the  beautiful  gloaming. 

My  eyes  are' gazing  afar. 
To  note  the  first  glimpse  of  the  rising 

Of  Uethleliem's  magical  star. 
The  star  that  advancing  before  him. 

Shall  herald  the  hope  of  the  world;  — 
Ah,  none  but  the  wiilcheis  will  see  it; 

The  wateliers  witli  l)anners  unfuiletll 
So  1  keep  on  the  watch   through  ilie  moi  iinig. 

My  heart  all  alert  through  the  day; 
Lest  coming  at  noon-tide  or  midnight. 

He  find  me  unready  and  say: 
Why  not  at  thy  post  in  the  vineyard? 

Thy  garments  are  stained  by  thy  sin! 
Thou  caiKst  not  to  rapture  of  wedding, 

Witli  these  my  proved  virgins  come  in! 


Thou  heard'st  not  my  voice  when  1  bade  thee, 

Go  work  at  the  forge  or  the  plo\.' ;  — 
My  bride  is  all  stainless  in  beauty; 

Unworthy,  unworthy  art  thou  ! 
So  busy  with  clothing  the  needy. 

The  lamp  freshly  trimmed  in  my  room, 
I'm  watching,  and  waiting,  and  working. 

And  training  new  hands  to  the  loom. 
And  onward  with  watchers  I'm  marching, 

While  closer  the  foeman  they  press; 
My  armor  all  girded  upon  me. 

And  keeping  my  beautiful  dress. 
I  wait  for  the  glorj'  of  morning. 

The  change  to  unchangeable  youth; 
No  doubt  in  my  heart  of  the  issue. 

Firm -bound  to  fair  dutj'  and  truth; 
For  the  Lord  holds  the  life  of  His  children; 

Not  the  rack  nor  the  flame  can  destroy; 
Nor  danger,  nor  terror  may  move  them, 

In  light  of  eternity's  joy. 
So  I  sit  by  my  window  and  listen. 

While  the  mists  of  the  morning  go  by. 
To  catch  the  first  sound  of  His  footsteps. 

To  meet  the  bright  glance  of  His  eye. 
And  still  in  the  beautiful  gloaming. 

My  eyes  are  gazing  afar. 
To  note  the  first  glimpse  of  the  rising 

Of  Bethlehem's  Magical  Star. 


MRS.  KATE  M.GUNNELL. 

The  poem  of  The  Violin  appeared  in  Braiii- 
ard's  Musical  World  and  in  numerous  other 
publications.  Mrs.  Guniiell  has  wiitten num- 
erous poems,  and  resides  in  Miiiier,  III. 

THE  VIOLIN. 
Within  that  little  case  you  lie  — 

Thy  powers  how  concealed. 
One  would  not  think  that  little  box 

Had  so  much  unrevealed; 
But  let  the  artist's  finger 

Apply  his  skillful  bow. 
And  then  from  off  those  tiny  strings 

Will  majestic  music  flow. 
Tliey  sit  enraptured,  all  who  liear— 

The  saddest  heart  is  soothed. 
And  by  thy  mournful  wailing  chords 

The  lightest  heart  is  moved. 
Tlie  human  voice  can  scarce  e.\'ccl 

Thy  notes  so  clear  and  varied. 
One  half  believes  when  'ne:itli  tliy  sound. 

He's  ill  the  realm  of  f;iiries. 
Could  I  from  off  those  magic  strings 

Draw  music  pure  and  sweet. 
My  heart  would  bound  with  silent  pride. 

My  soul's  desire  complete. 
Now  with  pride  I  look  uiion  thee 

Simple  bo.x,  and  l)ow.  and  string, 
.loin  the  thousands  to  admire  thee. 

Kor  of  all  instruments  thou  art  king. 


-« 


*- 


LOCAL,   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


523 


-® 


JOHN  S.  STEPHENSON. 

Born:  Pittsbuho,  Pa.,  Jan.  1, 1839. 
First  attending-  the  Andrew  Freese's  public 
school  at  Clevehmd,  Mr.  Stephenson  next  at- 
tended a  chissical  school  in  the  same  city.  At 
eighteen  years  of  age  he  commenced  life  as  a 
school  teacher.  Mr.  Stephenson  next  filled 
the  position  of  deputy  sheriff;  then  was  ad- 


mitted to  practice  law;  later  became  local  mail 
agent  at  Cleveland;  and  for  some  years  was 
editor  of  the  Cleveland  Plain  Dealer.  Since 
1879  Mr.  Stephenson  has  been  in  the  business 
oj  railroad  construction.  He  has  held  vari- 
ous positions  of  trust,  and  has  been  president 
of  tlie  Fireman  s  Association.  The  poems  of 
Mr.  Stephenson  have  appeared  in  the  Toledo 
Commercial  and  other  papers  of  prominence. 
He  is  at  present  located  at  Elyria,  Ohio. 


eg 


LIFE. 

The  red  sun  sets  and  the  bright  day  doth  die, 
While  night's  gray  shadows  fall  on  land  and 

sea; 
As  the  days  pass  and  silent  years  go  by. 
They  bear  life  on,— what  sliall  its  ending  be? 
0,  fleeting  life!  how  brief  thy  longest  span 
Like  a  dream  or  as  the  swift  eagle's  flight. 
As  shadows  fade  at  sunset  so  dies  man. 
Like  falling  star  lost  in  a  rayiess  night 
He  sinks  from  mortal  memory  and  sight. 


When  from  the  earthly  form,  the  trembling 

breath 
Departs,  doth  then  our  being  end,  in  death? 
Or  doth  the  spirit  live  and  speed  its  way 
To  home  of  peace,  where  shines  eternal  day? 
When  in  the  gloom  our  life-star  shall  have 

set 
Beneath  the  dark  and  troubled  sea  of  time, 
It  soon  will  rise  beyond  and  shining  yet 
Continue  ever  on  its  course  sublime. 
Man  lives  again,  dread  death  is  not  the  end; 
The  unencumbered  spirit  doth  ascend 
From  mortal  plane  to  a  celestial  birth 
In    higher  life,   'mid   grander   spheres   than 

earth. 
Each  thinking,  individual  soul  lives  on 
Forever  —  lives  to  know  and  to  be  known. 
Unchanged  in  form  and  personality 
Through  endless  ages  that  are  yet  to  be; 
As  grain  of  sand  to  the  vast  ocean's  shore, 
Is  time  compared  to  life  that  is  in  store; 
As  drop  of  water  to  the  mighty  sea. 
Death  changeth  not  the  love  for  good  or  ill. 
They  who  are  evil  will  be  evil  still: 
If  bound  by  earthly  superstition's  chain. 
The  ignorant,  debased,  and  vile  in  mind. 
Until  enlightened,  will  in  gloom  remain. 
And  each  pursue  the  course  to  which  inclined. 
They  who  love  good,  to  greater  good  aspire; 
And  as  the  ages  pass  in  onward  flight. 
Their  powers  expanding,  ever  soaring  higher. 
They  reach  in  wisdom  to  unmeasured  height; 
From  sphere  to  sphere  they  constantly  ascend 
Toward  perfection,  at  the  life  dawn  sought, 
That  will  in  distant  centuries  be  wrought; 
In  that  grand  existence  that  hath  no  end; 
We  know  not  what  their  destiny  may  be. 
What  boundless    stores  of    knowledge  they 

shall  gain, 
What  views  of  joy  and  fadeless  beauty  see. 
What  changes  pass,  what  eminence  attain. 
In  gardens  where  God's  flowers  of  wisdom 

bloom. 
Where  there  is  no  parting,  and  no  dark  gloom. 


JOHN  A.  LOGAN. 

Dark  falls  the  night,  in  gloom  the  day  hath 
fled ; 

As   years   have   swiftly    passed    with    silent 
tread ; 

Many  a  life  of  promise  bright  hath  flown. 

Death's   angel   claimed   the   highest   for  his 
own ; 

One  history  from  the  past,  now  rises  to  the 
view. 

That  time  cannot  efft^ce,  and  centuries  but  re- 
new. 
With  noiseless  stei)  and  bated  breath 
We  enter  tlie  silent  halls  of  death. 


© 


©- 


•5 


524 


LOCAT,    AND    NATIOXAT-    TOETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


S.  KINGSBURY  WHITING. 

Born:  Winthrop,  Me.,  Feb.  10. 1831. 
Since  the  age  of  twenty  the  poems  of  Mr. 
Whiting  have  appeared  from  time  to  time  in 
prominent  newspapers  and  magazines.  He 
was  married  in  1856  to  Mary  E.  Dow.  Mr. 
Whitiiifi  is  engaged  in  tlie  real  estate  l)usiness 


S.  KINO-SBUUV  WHITING. 

at  Kansas  City.  Mo.  He  tauglit  school  for 
many  years  in  New  England:  conducted  the 
musical  department  of  Youth's  Temperance 
Visitor,  and  for  two  years  published  the  daily 
and  weekly  Herald.  Mr.  Whiting  has  publish- 
ed .several  musical  works,  including  Crystal 
Spring.  Pure  Light.  Music  Without  a  Master, 
Church.  School  and  Home.  Mr.  Whiting  has 
conducted  musical  conventions  over  tlie  en- 
tire west,  and  has  contrilnited  church  music 
tu  many  collections  publisheil  since  18.59. 

THERE'S  MANY  A  SLIP  'TWIXT  CUP  AND 
LIP. 

•  •  There's  many  a  slip 'twi.\t  the  cup  and  the 
lip," 

Is  a  proverb  both  old  and  true; 

But. if  you  doubt  for  a  minute,  there's  any- 
thing ill  it. 

Let  me  tell  you  a  thing  or  two! 

Just  tiike  your  own  case,  and  with  a  good 
honest,  face. 

Tell  me  whom  did  you  marry  at  last :  [fe;it  Lire 

Was  it  the  angelic  creature,  in  form    and   in 

You  courted,  way  back  in  the  past'? 


O  no!  not  at  all  — tho'  the  heavens  might  fall. 
You  vowed  you'd  be  true  to  each  other. 
But  the  fitful  emotion  of  boyhood's  devotion 
Unconsciously  changed  for  another. 
It  ne'er  entered  your  head,  you  never  would 

wed 
The  sweetheart  you  courted  at  school: 
Of  course  you  would  marry  the   sweet  little 

fairy! 
But  you  did'nt  —  and  that  is  the  rule. 
So  there's  many  a  slip  'iwixt  the  cup  and  lip 
In  most  that  we  do  or  wish; 
And  a  bird  in  hand,  young  man,  understand, 
Is  worth  two  or  three  in  the  bush. 

OLD  MAN'S  QUERY. 
At  what  age  does  love  begin 
Our  Cupid  seek  the  heart  to  win? 
Methinks  your  rosy  lips  reply— 
"  I  can't  tell  you,  if  I  try." 
When  does  hoary  love  expire. 
And  silvery  Age  put  out  the  Are? 
My  lips  shall  answer  — old  and  wise  — 
Though  youth  may  pass,  love  never  dies. 


G.W.LYON. 

The  poems  of  Mr.  Lyon  have  appeared  quite 
extensively  in  the  periodical  press.  He  has 
written  enough  poems  to  fill  a  fair-sized  vol- 
ume. Mr.  Lyon  is  engaged  in  the  subscrip- 
tion and  publishing  business  at  Cedar  Rapids, 
Iowa. 

PERENNIAL  LIGHT. 

If  sometimes  lone  and  sad,  the  heart. 

And  rayless  night  hangs  o'er  the  soul. 
If  so  bereaved,  in  mourning  clad. 

How  weary  hours  like  ages  roll. 
No  smiling  faces  greet  the  .sight. 

Nor  voices  sweet  entr;ince  the  ear. 
E'en  love  seems  but  a  broken  pliglit. 

And  friendship  cold  with  doubt  and  fear. 
Obscure  the  rugged  path  of  life 

With  valleys  deep  and  niountains  high. 
Suggesting  ceaseless  toil  and  strife. 

And  groping  thus  to  fall  and  die. 
And  yet.  if  we  but  A-iew  aright. 

Above  are  fadeless  starry  skies. 
And  worlds  revolve;  upturn  in  flight, 

From  nadir  forth  to  zenth  rise. 
As  clouds  and  darkness  drift  away. 

The  heavens  will  open  wide  and  blue. 
And  glorify  with  rising  tiay, 

Our  journey  on  with  raptures  new. 
So  life  may  pass  serene,  secure. 

Like  sliip  througli  calm  or  shifting  blast. 
With  coniiiass  guiding  straiglit  and  sure 

To  heaven  of  peace  and  joy  at  last. 


®- 


« 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


51 


-m 


ISAAC  DURAND. 

Born:  Old  Milford,  Conn.,  1808. 
COMJiENCiNG  to  write  verse  at  an  early  age, 
the  poem.s  of  Mr.  Durand  have  appeared  from 
time  to  time  in  tlie  i^eridilical    ])ress.     lie  lias 


® 


ISAAC  DURAND. 

followed  various  mercantile  pursuits,  but  is 
now  living-  on  a  farm  at  Verdon,  Nebraska. 
Mr.  Durand  has  traveled  quite  extensively 
throughout  the  United  States  and  Canada. 

A  HUSBAND'S  TALK  TO  HIS  WIFE. 

Just  four  and  fifty  years  to-day 

Has  pass'd  of  wedded  life. 
We  Iieard  the  Eeverend  Preacher  say 

You  now  are  man  and  wife. 
I  could  not  tell  the  prize  I  drew 

Tliese  many  years  now  tell. 
That  in  the  act  of  choosing  you 

The  choice  was  wise  and  well. 
A  patient,  kind  and  loving  wife  — 

You've  shared  my  hopes  and  fears  — 
You've  cheered  the  patliway  of  my  life 

Through  four  and  fifty  years. 
What,  though  there's  silver  in  your  hair 

And  wrinkles  on  your  face, 
1  know  the  same  kind  heart  is  there 

And  love  thee  none  the  le-ss. 
How  wise  your  acts  in  social  life. 

Your  many  friends  can  tell; 
As  sister,  daughter,  mother,  wife 
You  have  succeeded  well. 


Just  list  to  me,  my  own  g-ood  wife, 

I'll  whisper  in  your  ears: 
I've  fondly  loved  you  through  a  life 

Of  four  and  fifty  years. 
Of  all  the  gifts,  through  all  the  scenes 

Of  this  mysterious  life. 
To  me  the  greatest  blessing  seems 

That  faithful  friend,  the  wife. 
Our  children,  they  will  ever  keep 

Your  council  and  j'our  care. 
You  sowed  good  seed  and  now  you  reap 

A  harvest  rich  and  rare. 
A  harvest  that's  more  highly  prized 

Than  rubies,  far  above; 
And  every  message  that  arrives 

Begins  and  ends  in  love. 
How  greatly  would  it  cheer  our  hearts 

To  see  them  here  to-day ; 
But  they  are  dwelling  far  apart. 

And  far  from  us  away. 
How  few  of  all  tliose  friends  still  live 

That  cheered  our  wedding  day. 
The  few  their  love  we  still  receive 

The  rest  have  passed  away. 
When  death  h;is  entered  our  abode 

And  borne  loved  ones  away, 
Our  sighs  and  tears  together  flowed 

On  the  sad  parting-  day. 
And  still  deatli's  work  goes  steady  on. 

Not  heeding  tears  or  sighs. 
The  last  one  called,  our  eldest  son 

Bade  friends  farewell  and  dies. 
O!  wife  and  mother,  dearest  friends 

On  earth  to  mortals  given ; 
Your  presence  and  your  memory  sends 

Our  grateful  thanks  to  heaven. 
If  first  I'm  call'd  to  yield  my  breath 

And  bid  farewell  to  time, 
You'll  smooth  my  pillow  down  to  death. 

Or  I'll  do  so  by  thine. 
And  when  we've  traveled  all  life's  road 

We  most  devoutly  pray. 
We  may,  sustained  by  thee  our  God, 

Serenely  pass  away. 
And  may  the  blessed  Lord  above. 

Who  knows  our  hopes  and  fears, 
Grant  us  an  interest  in  his  love, 

Through  all  the  eternal  years. 


EXTRACT. 

Those  days  seem  brightest  of  my  life 

I  can  to  recollection  call, 
When  all  the  children  and  the  wife 

Were  seated  round  the  dining  hall. 
And  now  through  life  1  pass  along-, 

My  children's  voice  I  may  not  hear. 
Nor  ever  hear  their  voice  in  song, 

Though  lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear. 


-m 


©- 


^ 


526 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    I'OETS   OK  AMEUICA. 


MRS.  LAURA  GRICE  PEKUEL. 

Bokn:  Nukth  Cakolina. 

This  ludy  has  resided  in  Hoarne,  Texas,  for 
ten  yea  rs,  and  for  a  year  assisted  Dr.  Royall  as 


MKS.  LAURA  GKICE  PENUEL. 

teacher  in  Baylor  university.  Mrs.  Penuelisat 
present  engaged  in  teaching,  in  which  pro- 
fession she  has  a  reputation  of  being  a  super- 
ior literary  instructor.  She  is  the  author  of  a 
volume  of  poems  entitled  Rain  Lilies, 


SB- 


LONGINGS. 

"  Oil  for  the  clash  of  the  battle, 
Tlie  shouting,  the  banners,  the  strife!" 

So  longed  we,  ignorant  cliildren. 
Not  knowing  tlie  whole  of  life. 

Tlien  cherry  bougiis  drooped  in  the  orchard, 
Aud  strawberries  liid  in  tlie  leaves. 

And  blackberries  girdled  the  cornfields. 
And  poppies  sprinkled  the  slieavcs. 

We  wandered  at  dawn  in  tlie  woodland. 

We  lingered  at  eve  on  the  hill, 
And  the  Brownings  sang  in  the  bird's  song, 

And  Tennyson  laughed  in  the  rill. 

The  golden  glow  of  tlie  gloaming. 
With  one  star  trembling  tiirough. 

Were  the  shining  streets  of  Heaven, 
And  "  the  city's  "  distant  view. 

We  leaned  from  the  lattice  at  midnight. 
Tiie  roses  bluslied  beneath. 


But  the  stars  above  were  marching. 
And  they  shouted,  "Tlie  victor's  wreath?' 

And  we  longed  to  march  with  the  legions. 

Heroic,  and  giand  and  strong. 
That  storm  the  castles  of  evil. 

That  scatter  the  ranks  of  wrong. 

Now,  we  know  not  if  gardens  are  sunny. 
If  blossoms  and  berries  are  sweet. 

We  dare  not  lay  down  our  armor, 
Or  linger  for  resting  feet. 

And  yet,  in  the  glare  of  the  conflict. 
Remembering  beauty  and  balm. 

Not  backward,  but  forw.-ird  forever, 
We  look  for  refreshment  and  calm. 

Dear  God !  ever  gracious  and  tender, 
The  earth  is  thy  footstool  small. 

But  Heaven  is  the  heait  of  Thy  beauty. 
Where  we  may  recover  all. 

We  know  'twill  be  wondrously  lovely, 
Dear  Lord,  could  we  only  know. 

That,  there,  we  may  cherish  the  roses. 
And  the  lilies  of  long  ago! 


M.  C.  KING. 

The  poems  of  this  gentlemen  have  appeared 
quite  extensively  in  the  periodical  press.  We 
here  give  an  extract  from  The  Silent  Majority, 
one  of  his  most  popular  pieces. 


THE  SILENT  MAJORITY. 

EXTRACT. 

Could  all  who  thirst  for  empty  fame  he  con- 
scious of  false  liopes, 

One  ship,  witli  crew  of  .some  fourteen,  would 
not  have  loosed  its  ropes. 

But  it  sailed  on  the  tempting  waters  of  glory 
and  renown ; 

And,  not  without  fair  warnings,  the  ship  and 
all  went  down. 

There  was  our  Captain,  Tracy,  the  bravest 

man  on  deck. 
As   he'd    never    heeded    danger,    he    never 

thought  of  wreck; 
He  saw  his  doom  before  him,   but   filled  with 

contemplation. 
He    thought    of     nothing,    to    the    last,    but 

"  Irren's  Vindication." 
O,  for  private  Zimmerman,  most  timid  of  the 

lot. 
Who  sniffed  the  breeze  of  ruin,  took  sick,  and 

died  upon  the  spot. 
His  mother'l  ever  weep  and  mourn  the  fate 

of  her  mad  son. 
Who  died  for  ..  Old  England  and  the  Policy  of 

Gladstone." 


^ 


88- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL,   I'OETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


* 

527 


MRS.  SOPHIE  M.A.HENSLEY. 

Born  :  Nova  Scotia,  May  31, 1866. 
From  fifteen  to  eighteen  years  of  age  this 
lady  was  at  school  in  England  and  Paris.  She 
has  a  passion  for  poetry  and  some  of  her  pro- 
ductions were  written  and  publislied  when 
hut    foiirlr.,  M    M-ir,    i,r   niiw     This   lafly   was 


MRS.  SOPHIE  M.  A.  HENS  1. 1 


married  in  1889  to  Arthur  Hensley,  a  rising- 
young  barrister.  Mrs.  Hensley  has  publish- 
ed a  small  volume  of  short  poems  which  has 
received  quite  a  wide  circulation.  She  is  now 
preparing  a  volume  for  the  literary  world,  to 
be  brought  out  in  London  in  1890.  The  poems 
of  Mrs.  Hensley  have  appeared  in  the  leading- 
pubUcations  of  Canada,  and  have  received 
flattering:  praise. 


« 


TOUT  POUR  L'AMOUK. 
The  world  may  rage  without, 

Quiet  is  here; 
Statesmen  may  toil  and  shout, 

Cynics  may  sneer; 
The  great  world,—  let  it  go,— 
June  warmth  be  March's  snow, 
I  care  not,—  be  it  so 

Since  I  am  here. 

Time  was  when  war's  alarm 

Called  for  a  fear, 
When  sorrow's  seeming-  harm 

Hastened  a  tear. 


Naught  care  I  now  wliat  foo 
Threatens,  for  scarce  1  know 
How  the  year's  seasons  go 

Since  I  am  here. 
This  is  my  resting-place 

Holy  and  dear. 
Where  pain's  dejected  face 

May  not  appear: 
This  is  the  world  to  me, 
Earth's  woes  I  will  not  see. 
But  rest  contentedly 

Since  I  am  here. 
Is't  your  voice  chiding.  Love, 

My  mild  career. 
My  meek  abiding-.  Love, 

Daily  so  near'?— 
"  Danger  and  loss,"  to  me? 
Ah,  Sweet,  I  fear  to  see 
No  loss  but  loss  of  thee. 

And  I  am  here. 


I  WILL  FORGET. 

I  will  forget  those  days  of  mingled  bliss 
And  dear  delicious  pain, —  will  cast  from  me 
All  dreams  of  what  I  know  can  never  be, 

l-"ven  the  remembrance  of  that  parting  kiss. 

I  knew  that  some  day  it  would  come  to  this 
In  spite  of  all  ovir  sworn  fidelity. 
That  I  must  banish  even  memory. 

And,  sorrowing,  learn  to  say,  nor  say  amiss, 
I  will  forget. 

I  register  this  vow,  and  am  content 
That  it  be  so.    A h  me !—  yet,  if  the  door 

Shut  on  our  heaven  might  be  asunder  rent 

Even  now,  and  I  could  see  the  way  we  went, 
T  might  retract  my  vow,  and  say  no  more 
I  will  forg-et. 


TRIUMPH. 


The  sky,  grown  dull  throug:h  many  waiting 
days. 
Flashed    into     crimson    with  the    sunrise 

charm. 
So  all  my  love,  aroused  to  vague  alarm. 
Flushed  into  fire  and  burned  with  eager  blaze. 
I  saw  thee  not  as  suppliant,  with  still  gaze 
Of  pleading-,  but  as  victor,— and  thine  arm 
Gathered  me  fast  into  embraces  warm. 
And  I  was  taught  the  light  of  Love's  dear 

ways. 
This  day  of  triumph  is  no  long-er  thine. 

Oh  conqueror,  in  calm  exclusive  power.— 
As  evermore,  throug-h  storm,  and  shade,  and 
shine. 
Your  woe  my  pain,  your  joy  my  ecstacy. 
We  breathe  together,— so  this    blessed 

hour 
Of  self-surrender  makes  my  jubilee! 


~© 


*- 


528 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMEKICA. 


-© 


EMMET  D.  C.  HEGEMAN. 

Born:  Avon,  III.,  Mav  23, 1859. 
After   receiving   bis   education   at  Milford 
classical    and    collegiate    seminary,  Emmet 
commenced  to  court  the  muse,  and  his  poems 


EMMET  D.    C.    HEGEMAN. 

have  since  appeared  quite  extensively  in  the 
periodical  press.  Mr.  Hegeman  follows  the 
profession  of  journalism,  and  is  now  editor  of 
the  Gazette,  published  at  Laurel,  Delaware. 


*- 


WITH  THEE  ALONE. 

Witli  thee  alone!    How  much  is  meant 

By  tliese  three  little  words: 
What  language  could  express  the  joys 

Tliat  thine  embrace!  affords. 
With  thee  alone!  And  thy  dear  face, 

Tliat  liaunts  my  nightly  di'eams; 
How  swift  the  hours  would  flit  away; 

Like  paradise  it  seems. 
With  thee  alone!  And  tliy  great  lieart 

Returning  my  fond  love; 
My  happiness,  as  poets  sing, 

Were  •>  lilic  tliat  above." 
With  thee  alone!  What  other  form 

Is  half  so  dear  as  thine? 
I  often  t-liink  of  lliy  pure  face 

As  something  that's  divine. 
With  thee  alone!  Say,  may  it  be, 

Tliat  I  may  know  such  bliss? 


May  linger  in  thy  sweet  embrace? 

Thy  darling  lips  may  kiss? 
With  thee  alone!  'Tis all  my  thought. 

For  thee  my  fond  heart  sighs; 
To  hear  the  music  of  thy  voice, 

To  watch  thy  laughing  eyes. 

With  thee  alone!  How  strange  'twould  be 

Such  loveliness  as  thine. 
Would  condescend  to  list  to  love 

From  sucli  rude  lips  as  mine. 
With  thee  alone!  Ah  yes  my  love. 

Thou  dost  not  guess  my  heart; 
With  thee  alone,  I  long  to  be, 

Nor  ever  from  thee  part. 
With  thee  alone ;  this  dreary  world 

Would  wear  a  golden  mask. 
And  daily  toil,  for  thy  sweet  sake. 

Would  be  a  welcome  task. 


AN  ACROSTIC. 
Under  a  star-lit  sky  and  over  softly  rippling 

waves, 
Peacefully  our  fair  steamer  glides  on;  [night. 
Over  all  reigns  the  silence  of  the  mid-summer 
Nor  is  there  a  wish  for  the  dawn. 
This  stillness  and  rapture  entrances  the  soul. 
Heartaches  and  cares  are  all  forgot: 
Environed  by  the  spell  that  such  pleasures 

afford. 
Naught  but  joy  is  the  enthusiast's  lot.   [dear. 
Ah,  happy  the  place  when  enchantment  so 
Nurture  thoughts  but  of  i-apturo  and  love, 
'Tis  the  scene  of  sweet  memories,  when  night- 
ingales sing 
In  response  to  the  note  of  the  dove  — 
Can  this  fair  earth  afford  a  more  restful  resort 
Of  the  weary,  to  rest  from  care's  yoke? 
Knowledge  fails  in  completeness  nor  reaches 

its  bounds; 
E'er  it  explores  the  old  Nanticoke. 


1 


ACROSTIC. 
Delightful  revery  inveighs  my  soul  to-night. 
Over  my  spirit  breathes  a  sweet  delight; 
Love  thrills  my  heart  with  an  intense  desire. 
Love  pulses  every  nerve  with  amorous  tire. 
It  breathes  thy  name  like  music  sweet  to  me. 
Each   day    reveals   some    new    and  pleasing 

grace. 
Portrays  some  fresh  charm  in  thy  lovely  face 
Endears  thee  more  and  more  to  my  fond  lieart. 
Closer  entwines  the  lioiids  enwove  by  Ciipid  s 

art. 
Keeping  my  heart  in  sure  captivity  to  thee. 
Whatever  fate  this  world  may  hold  for  nie 
Over  my  heart  whatever  griefs  there  be. 
Rest  thou  assured  my  heart  to  thee  is  true. 
True  to  \\w  flist  real  love  it  ever  knew. 
However  flckle  it  at  times  may  seem  to  be. 


®- 


m 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-© 


529 


MRS.  FANNIE  S.  LOVE  JOY. 

Bohn:  Sidney,  Me.,  Nov.  39, 1840. 
This  lady  was  educated  in  the  best  schools 
and  was  an  apt  and  ambitious  scholar.  It  1857 
slie  was  married  to  John  Lovejoy,  and  re- 
moved to  her  present  home  iu  West  Newbury, 
Mass.,  wheif  slic  has  endeared  herself  to  a 


MRS.  iANNIE  S.  LUVEJUY. 

large  circle  of  friends.  The  poems  of  Mrs. 
Lovejoy  have  appeared  extensively  in  the 
periodical  press,  and  have  won  high  praises, 
and  she  certainly  occupies  a  worthy  place 
among  the  writers  of  American  poetry.  She 
is  a  lady  of  rare  beauty,  an  interesting  con- 
versationalist, and  in  her  home  life  she  is  the 
personification  of  cheerfulness  and  domestic 
happiness. 


PROGRESSION. 
With  swiftest  strides  progression 
Is  marching  through  the  land. 
And  thinking  ones  are  joining 
Its  ranlss  on  every  hand. 
They  turn  from  superstition 
In  reason's  hall  to  throng. 
Where  growth  unites  with  progress 
To  lielp  its  cause  along. 
A  world  of  facts,  not  fancies. 
All  unexplored  is  thought; 
The  mighty  powers  which  rule  the  world 
From  its  deep  eaves  are  brought. 


But  back  of  all  these  forces 
In  this  vast  realm,  we  find, 
A  grand  and  mighty  temple, 
Where  rules  a  king  called  Mind. 
O,  haste  to  seek  this  temple. 
And  bow  before  this  King, 
That  out  of  reason's  storehouse 
Some  treasures  you  may  bring. 
To  aid  the  car  of  progress. 
And  speed  the  time  along. 
When  truth  shall  banish  error. 
And  right  shall  conquer  wrong. 

THE  ISLES  OF  LONG  AGO. 
O,  lovely  isles  so  far  away 

In  life's  vast  surging  sea. 
Around  their  slopes  the  sunbeams  play 

Their  silent  melody; 
Above  their  heights  the  changing  skies 

Their  lights  and  shadows  throw. 
As  they  again  before  me  rise  — 

The  isles  of  long  ago. 

0  lovely  isles,  forever  fair. 

And  clothed  with  green  they  stand; 
No  change  or  death  can  enter  there. 

In  that  fair  summer  land ; 
Where  happy  birds  in  shady  bowers 

Sing  with  the  brooklet's  flow. 
And  myrtles  deck,  and  fadeless  flowers  — 

The  isles  of  long  ago. 

I've  sailed  out  on  the  sea  of  life. 

Far  from  this  pearly  strand. 
Yet  often  through  the  din  and  strife 

I  see  that  sunny  land. 
The  ocean  surging  'round  it  there 

With  ceaseless  ebb  and  flow, 
So  grand,  and  pure  and  deathless  fair  — 

The  isles  of  long  ago. 
Time,  which  life's  mighty  tide  moves  on. 

Stands  ever  at  the  helm,  [storm. 

To   guide   o'er   quicksands    and  through 

Safe  to  a  higher  realm. 
There,  standing  on  the  hills  of  light 

To  view  the  scene  below, 
I'll  see  them  with  a  clearer  sight  — 

The  isles  of  long  ago. 
Far  from  the  ceaseless  rush  and  roar 

Of  life's  vast  surging  sea. 
They  stand  in  light  forever  more 

In  God's  eternity. 
There  in  that  blessed  land  of  truth 

No  death  or  change  to  know, 
I'll  walk  again  the  ways  of  youth  — 

The  isles  of  long  ago. 

EXTRACT. 

Softly  as  evening  shadows 
Fold  round  this  world  of  strife. 
Come  the  mysterious  breathings 
Of  a  purer,  better  life. 


~m 


©- 


630 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


-9 


MRS.  H.PERRY  ALLEN. 

Born:  Friendship,  N.Y.,  March  18, 1839. 
At  an  early  age  tliis  lady  displayed  a  decided 
taste  for  composition,  and  wrote  poems  from 
time  to  t'me,  some   of  wliieh    subsequently 

werepnlilislicd  in  Goilcy's   I^ady's    Budk  and 


I'l  KKI     \LLEN. 


other  prominent  mag-azines.  She  was  mar- 
ried in  1862  to  H.  Perry  Allen,  who  is  now  en- 
gag-ed  in  mercantile  pursuits  at  Colwieh,  Kan- 
sas. Mrs.  Allen  occasionally  writes  for  the 
press,  and  her  poems  are  always  g-ladly  ac- 
cepted and  receive  most  flattering-  praise. 


SB- 


FAITH. 
When  the  days  arc  dark  and  drear. 
Then,  1  know  my  God  is  near; 
'Tlio  earthly  friends  unmindful  be. 
Still  my  God  remembers  me. 
Yes,  Tie  g-uards  with  loving'  care. 
He  is  with  me  e\'ery where; 
Should  all  earth  forgetful  be. 
Still  my  God  remembers  me. 
From  all  cai-c  1  fain  would  flee, 
I  come,  T  call,  my  (Jod  lo  Thee; 
To  Thy  feet,  my  cross  1  bring-. 
To  rest  beneath  Thy  sheltering  wiug. 
Gracious  Father,  hear  my  prayer. 
Guard  me  witli  thy  loving  care, 
Wiien  I  wander  lead  me  right 
From  tiie  darkness  into  light. 


When    angry   waves  sweep  through  my 

breast  — 
When  sinful  thoughts  disturb  my  rest,— 
Through  the  tempest's  strife  I  hear 
Tones  in  sadness  whispering  near. 
"Why  grieve  the  love  that  shelters  thee. 
Return  my  wandering  child  to  me." 
And  angry  waves  obey  the  will 
Of  Him  to  whispered:  "Peace,  be  still." 


WINTER  IS  COMING. 
Glad  bells  are  ringing;  snow-birds  are  sing- 
ing. 
Winter  is  coming  with  its  fleecy  white  snow. 
Snowflakes  are    falling,  snow-birds  are  call- 
ing- 
Come  merry  north  winds  cheerily  blow. 
For  winter  is  coming,  winter  is  coming. 

Winter  is  coming  with  fleecy  white  snow. 
Life's  winter  is  bringing  song-birds  for  sing- 
ing. 
What  are  they  saying  to  you  and  to  me? 
Time's  snowflakes  are  falling,  the  master  is 
calling. 
Where  is  the  talent  that  was  given  to  thee? 
Life's  winter  is  coming,  winter  is  coming. 

Winter  is  coming  to  you  and  to  me. 
Will  our  winter  be  dreary,  our  song-birds  be 
cheery. 
Telling  of  duties  fulfilled  one  by  one? 
Glad  be  its  staying  if  the  Master  is  saying: 
Thou  hath  been  faithful,  my  servant,  well 
done. 
Winter  is  coming,  winter  is  coming. 
Winter  is  coming  to  all,  one  by  one. 


WINTER  WINDS. 
Fiercely  blow  the  winter  winds. 

With  a  cheerless,  dismal  sound. 
And  to  his  boisterous  music  dance 
The  snowflakes  o'er  the  frozen  ground. 

And  all  is  dark  and  diear. 
Dark  clouds  aie  o'er  my  heaven  spread  — 
Chill  storms  are  bursting  on  my  head. 
But  one  ray  of  joy  and  light  is  shed, 
My  lonely  path  to  cheer. 
It  is  the  thought,  through  all  tliese  scenes, 

However  cheerless,  st  range  or  new. 
For  me  one  smile  of  kindness  beams  — 
One  faitliful  heart  is  true  — 

One  soul's  deep  love  is  mine, 
Sliining  witli  pure  unwavering  light 
Tlu-ough  sunny  day  or  starless  night. 
Filling  my  soul  with  stiange  delight. 
And  thought  of  Ciod  divine. 
I  thank  Thee,  Father,  of  yon  lieaveii, 

Tliat  sorrow  has  been  mine. 
Else  these  tboughts  had  not  been  given; 
In  vain  this  humble  light  would  shine 
Ou  life's  uneven  way. 


I 


LOCAL,   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


531 


-® 


ELIZA  JANE  MCMAHAN. 

Bohn:  Callaway  Co.,  Mo.,  Dec.  22, 1837. 
A  FALL  in  infancy  caused  this  lady  to  be 
crippled  for  life.  Having-  acquired  the  rudi- 
ments of  an  education,  she  entered  Danville 
academy,  where  she  firaduated  witli  lienors, 
and  sul)si'iiuently  liefiim   :i    surcostLil  career 


ELIZA  .JANE  M'MAHAN. 

Of  teacliitifT.  This  lady  has,  on  account  of  her 
health,  now  retired  from  teaching-,  and  is 
living- in  New  Florence,  Mo.,  surrounded  by  a 
multitude  of  friends  and  associates,  upon 
each  of  whom  she  leaves  an  impress  of  her 
own  sweetness  of  nature  and  purity  of  soul. 
The  poems  of  Miss  McMahan  have  appeared 
in  many  of  the  leading  publications. 

THE  POWER  OF  THOLTGHT. 

If  we  harbor  thouglits  unbolj". 

Cherish  purposes  unkind. 
Though  we  labor  hard  to  hide  them 

They  will  some  expression  find. 
While  the  earth  is  soft  and  yielding. 

When  tlie  Spring  and  Winter  meet, 
Those  who  lurk  within  our  gateway 

Leave  the  impress  of  their  feet. 
Thus  it  is  in  hfe's  sweet  Spring-time, 

Thoughts  that  linger  in  the  breast 
Never  fail  to  leave  their  tokens 

On  the  character  impressed. 
And  when  fully  they  possess  us. 


Bring  the  will  beneath  their  sway. 
Slowly  they  will  mold  the  features. ' 

As  the  potter  shapes   his  clay. 
Thus  they  make  or  mar  the  beauty 

Of  the  human  face  divine. 
Just  as  wisdom  or  as  folly 

Leaves  thereon  its  outward  sign. 
For  upon  the  face  so  plainly 

Do  the  children  of  the  brain 
Trace  the  history  of  their  triumphs, 

W^rite  the  record  of  their  pain. 
That  the  simplest,  ofttimes  reading-. 

Quick  are  drawn  unto  their  goal. 
By  the  language  of  the  features 

Emanating-  from  the  soul. 


CHILDREN'S  DAY. 

Oh  this  has  been  a  glorious  day ! 

The  length  and  breadth  of  the  land, 

For  the  children  of  the  church  have  met 

In  many  a  joyous  band. 

By  .stream  and  Itike,  on  mountain  high. 

In  midst  of  the  City's  throng-. 

They've  called  the  golden  hours  their  own. 

To  spend  in  prayer  and  song. 

The  poor  have  come,  in  fear  of  the  Lord; 

His  holy  Temples  within ;  [wealth. 

Where    flowers    outshnie    the     children    of 

And  yet  neither  toil  nor  spin. 

But  the  hues  of  the  blossoms,  so  fair  to  be- 
hold. 

Cannot  vie  with  the  pure  simple  trust 

Of  the  meek  and  lowly  whose  treasures  are 
hid 

Far  away  from  corruption  and  rust. 

These  pretty  sweet  flowers  came  out  of  their 
graves. 

Where  the  ice  King  laid  them  low; 

So  our  bodies  will  rise  at  last  from  the  tomb 

With  fresh  life  and  vigor  aglow. 

Our   God   can    unlock    the    dark  pri.sons  of 

death. 
By  the  streng-thof  that  same  loving  arm 
That  circles  the  poor  little  sparrow  that  falls. 
And  that  keeps  little  children  from  harm. 
I  love  the  dear  birds,  the  bright  happy  birds. 
As  they  soar  far  away  from  sig-ht; 
I  think  where  the  hearts  of  the  children  must 

turn 
To  seek  for  the  fountain  of  lig-lit. 
I  missed  them  alas,  in  the  dark  winter  hours. 
When  the  clouds  gather'd  heavy  and  black: 
I  wonder  if  God  kept  them  safe  in  His  house. 
Till  beautiful  spring-  called  them  back. 

If  they've  been  up  above,  where  angels  live. 
And  nestled  around  the  white  Throne; 
I  wish  they'd  sing  us  a  song  of  that  land 
Where  winter  and  clouds  are  unknown. 


® 


©- 


532 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-S& 


Should  a  message  come  from  the  City  of  Light, 

Borne  out  on  the  songs  of  the  birds. 

How  closely  I'd  listen,  how  hard  I  would  try 

To  find  out  its  meaning-  in  words. 

For  then  I  could  live  so  much  nearer  to  God, 

When  I  heard  what  the  birds  had  to  say, 

And   linew   that  His   voice  had   spolieu   the 

words 
Sent  down  in  that  beautiful  way. 
But  now,  I  can  learn  what  his  will  is  to  us 
From    this    Book     which    came    down    from 

above, 
'Twas  utter'd    in    thunder,    'twas  written  in 

blood  — 
Yet  we  know  that  its  meaning-  is  love. 
We  all  met  this  morning-  its  truths  to  imbibe; 
Here  to  worship,  to  sing  and  to  pray. 
With  parents,  teacher  and  friends  in  our  midst 
Who  are  seeking-  to  learn  the  good  way. 
And  now  that  the  bright  happy  May-day  is 

gone 
When  the  Stars  light  us  home  to  our  rest. 
May  no  soul  g-o  out  from  the  temple  of  God, 
By  the  love  of  our  Savior  unblest. 
May  each  carry  home  a  new  treasured  thought 
That  will  brighten  his  lot  as  he  goes.         [life 
Some  hope  lighting  up  the  dark  corners  of 
And  dispelling-  its  shadow   of  woes. 
A  rich  gift  is  life,  if  we  use  it  aright. 
And  our  father  knows  best  what  we  need 
Tlieu  murmur  not,  when  tliat  is  withheld 
For  which  often,  we  earnestlj'  plead. 
These  meetings  on  earth  are  but  types  of  the 

time 
When  the  sea  giving  up  her  vast  dead. 
The  Just  shall  stand  out  on  the  righthand  of 

God, 
From  the  Fountain  of  Life  to  be  fed. 


©- 


SICK-ROOM  MUSINGS. 
Many  dreary  years  have  vanished. 

Many  friends  lie  cold  and  dead. 
Since  affliction  lieavy  handed 

Laid  me  low  upon  this  bed. 
Oh,  the  work  these  years  have  witnessed! 

Lisping  children,  balies  unborn. 
Now  I  see  as  happy  parents. 

Passing  from  life's  dewy  morn. 
Wlien  in  streng-th  I  last  went  walking. 

All  the  land  was  dark  witli  strife, 
War  was  rag-iiig,  cannon  roaring, 

Brothers  seeking  life  for  life. 
High  the  star  of  peace  lias  risen. 

Twenty  years  we've  known  hci-  rnlc; 

Oil  to  tread  familiar  pathways 
With  the  friend  I  love  so  well; 

Guided  on  some  sunny  morning 
By  the  music  of  the  bell. 


ABRAM  BEXNET  BREES. 

Born  :  Medina,  Mich.,  Dec.  30,  1841. 
The  poems  of  this  gentleman  have  appeared 
in  Signs  of  the  Times,  Spencerville  Journal, 
Ohio  Democrat  and  various  other  public- 
ations. In  1874  he  was  married  to  Miss 
Harriet  Wilson.  By  occupation  Mr.  Brees  is 
a  farmer,  at  Spencerville,  Ohio.  Mr.  Brees 
was  ordained  to  the  Baptist  ministry  in  1869, 
and  travels  extensively  preaching  the  gospel. 


HOW  I  MEET  A  MAN. 
As  I  meet  a  man  I  wonder 

What  the  motive  of  his  heart. 
Whether  honesty  of  purpose 

Doth  its  hallowed  grace  impart. 

Wliether  his  good  salutation 

Is  as  free  from  selfish  aims. 
As  his  words  are  full  of  praises, 

When  he  calls  me  honored  names; 

Whether  his  professed  affection 
Long  will  bear  the  test  of  time. 

And  his  earnest  resolui  ions 
Prove  themselves  in  acts  sublime; 

Whether  truth  or  whether  follj' 

Will  direct  his  future  state. 
And  his  aims  be  mean  and  lowly, 

Or  his  acts  be  good  and  great. 

What  the  choice  of  his  companions, 

Whether  frivolous  or  good; 
If,  in  public  life  and  private. 

All  his  ways  are  understood; 

Whether,  when  at  church  in  worship, 
Vain  conceits  his  mind  control; 

Or  a  pure  and  sweet  devotion. 
Animates  and  lifts  his  soul. 

Husli!    My  Muse,  and  let  me  ponder 

O'er  the  lesson  thou  liast  taught; 
Have  I  time  to  judge  and  censure. 

If  I  labor  as  I  ought? 
God,  I  know,  hath  wisely  hidden 

All  the  hearts  of  men  from  ine; 
'Tis  enougli  if  I  can  profit 

By  the  vanities  I  see. 
If  the  evils  of  my  nature 

Cause  me  deep  and  constant  grief. 
Greater  p;iin,  tlirougli  greater  knowledge. 

Were  a  bane  without  relief. 
'Tis  enough  that  men  arc  lu-ovon 

As  their  heart  and  faitli  are  tried; 
'Tis  enough  that.  God  hath  promised 

Tliat  his  truth  shall  be  my  guide? 
Let  some  holy  Censor  guard  me. 

Criticise  each  act  and  tliought. 
That  my  life  and  love  and  labor. 

May  employ  me  as  I  ought. 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


533 


-® 


MRS.  MAGGIE  MAY  DANEHY. 

Bokn:  Faikfield,  Ohio,  July  5, 1862. 
Graduating  at  the  liig-li  scliool  in  1880,  Magg-ie 
four  years  later  was  married  to  Mr.  Dan  Dane- 

li\ .  :i  ri-iii'-i'  >  iiuml;'   1);i  rri^tcr.     The    iiocins   nf 


MRS.  MAGGIE  MAY  DANEHY. 

Mrs.  Danehy  ha%-e  appeared  in  the  Cincinnati 
and  Lancaster  papers,  from  which  they  have 
been  extensively  coiiied  by  tlie  local  press. 


©- 


LOVE  THEE? 

Love  thee?  Canst  thou  ask  me  still 

If,  in  truth,  I  love  thee? 
Ask  tlie  breezes,  if  you  will. 

Ask  tlie  stars  above  thee. 
Nightlj-,  daily,  on  the  air 

Passing  soft  before  me. 
Breathe  I  not  thy  name  in  prayer 

To  the  heavens  o'er  me? 
Xaught  but  breezes  fond  could  tell. 

Naught  but  stars  give  token 
Of  those  words  they  know  so  well. 

Ne'er  to  mortal  spoken. 
Waking,  dreaming,  near  or  far. 

Gay,  or  when  I'm  lonely. 
Of  but  one  my  dreamings  are  — 

Thee  —  and  of  thee  only. 
Life  and  love  are  now  but  one, 

I  had  known  them  never, 
Till  witii  love  was  life  begun. 

To  live  on  forever. 


Came  a  presence  strange  to  me, 

Never  to  be  banished ; 
Brighter  as  it  grew  to  be  — 

Slow  all  others  vanislied. 
Many  footsteps  'round  me  fall  — 

One  alone  I'm  learning; 
Many  voices  to  me  call  — 

One  alone  discerning. 

Many  eyes  there  are,  1  (jwn, 
Shedding  true  love  through  tliem; 

Strange  —  but  just  one  pair  alone 
Draw  my  own  unto  them. 

Manj'  lips  unto  me  speak. 

Friendship's  faith  repeating; 
Lips  of  one  alone  I  seek. 

With  their  gentle  greeting. 
Many  hands  there  are,  I  learn. 

Fain  would  truly  guide  me; 
But  I  only  care  to  turn 

To  one  hand  beside  me. 
What  were  life,  if  love  were  gone? 

Love  —  if  life  should  sever? 
Life  and  love  will  still  be  one 

In  that  vast  forever. 


SONG  OF  THE  FOREST. 
Friend  of  my  friends,  the  poets  true. 

To  thee,  in  humble  verse,  I  sing. 
With  this  my  theme,  so  old  yet  new  — 

No  fitter  thought  the  Muses  bring. 
Old,  j'es,  because  what  year  gone  by. 

Caressed  by  breath  of  summer  morn. 
Aloft  unto  the  smiling  sky 

Has  not  its  wealth  of  verdure  borne? 
And  what  new  year  hath  other  power 

To  sway  with  sweeter  charm  than  tliese  — 
The  trembling  leaf,  the  opening  flower. 

The  grandeur  of  its  noble  trees? 
Oh !  who  is  there  within  whose  heart 

The  love  of  noble  manhood  dwells. 
Who  feels  the  thrill  of  pleasure  start 

When  other  tongue  the  story  tells 
Of  deeds  sublime?  with  true  eye  sees 

Tlie  beautiful  in  art  and  thought  — 
Dares  stand  before  God's  stately  trees, 

Declaring  that  he  loves  tliem  not? 
Companions  of  our  childhood  days! 

Companions  still  though  grown  we  be! 
Still  through   thy  leaves  the  light  breeze 
strays. 

Whispering  the  same  old  song  to  me. 
And  from  beneath  thy  cooling  shade 

Methinks  I  hear  a  well  known  tread  — 
Alasl  that  dreams  should  ever  fade  — 

The  footsteps  of  our  honored  dead. 

Those  wlio,  with  calm  and  thoughtful  brow. 
Communed  with  thee  in  days  of  yore. 


-m 


*- 


534 


*' 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


Whose  foi-Dis,  wheu  seen  beside  thee  uow, 

Foud  memory  doth  iiloiie  restore. 
ProtectiDgly  thy  broad  arms  bend 

Above  the  cool  and  waving-  grass. 
Nature's  fair  guardians  that  attend 

The  place  wliere  they  were  wont  to  pass. 
To-day  once  more  the  birds  rejoice, 

The  mui-mur  of  the  winds  I  hear, 
Imagining  some  gentle  voice 

Commingling-  with  those  sounds  so  dear. 

'Tis  here,  beneath  thy  branches  free. 

Spirits  of  old  ag-ain  appear. 
Not  elsewhere  speaketh  unto  me 

In  language  half  so  sweet  or  clear, 

The  words  that  fell  from  poet  lips. 
In  years  gone  by  —  true  words  of  power. 

That  we  imbibe  as  sunbeam  sips 
The  dewdrops  pure  from  earthly  flower. 

Dear  forest!  Down  thj' aisles  dim 
Soft  sweeps  the  zephyr's  Ught  caress; 

Worthy  indeed  art  thou  of  Him 
Who  made  thee  in  tliy  loveliness. 

Long-  may  thy  graceful  branches  wave. 

Piercing  with  pride  the  balmy  air. 
Harm  ne'er  would  come  if  I  could  save  — 

Fit  objects  of  our  love  and  care. 
But  though  erect  each  noble  form. 

As  year  by  year  rolls  swift  along. 
Thou  too,  like  man,  must  face  the  storm, 

And  fall  —  or  live  to  be  more  strong-. 
Forever,  upward,  day  by  day. 

Patient  thy  growing-  branches  turn. 
Nearer  the  heavens  each  year  alway  — 

Maj'  we  the  simple  lesson  learn. 

Though  few  our  years,  or  many  be. 
It  matters  not  the  number  given. 

If  we  can  feel  that,  like  the  tree. 
Each  year  hath  found  us  nearer  heaven. 


gB- 


EXTRACTS. 
Just  as  one  who,  idly  wandering 

In  some  forest  pathway  lone. 
Gathers  here  and  there  a  flower 

Chance  into  his  way  has  thrown. 

Stoops,  in  pleased  surprise,  on  finding-, 
'Mid  the  dead  leaves  at  his  feet, 

Some  sweet  favorite  of  the  wildwood. 
Hiding  in  its  dim  retreat. 

Climbs  the  mountain  side  to  capture. 
Where  the  rough  rocks  cheerless  frowi 

Some  rare  blossom  he  had  noticed 
On  his  pathway  smiling  down. 

Pauses  by  the  sparkling  waters,  * 

From  the  trembling-  waves  to  bear. 

Some  shy  water-maiden  nodding 
'Mong  the  green  leaves  floating  there. 


NELLIE  LINN. 

Born  :  Minonk,  III.,  Feb.  2ti,  1861. 
This  lady  has  written  quite  extensively  for 
the  local  press,  and  has  published  a  little 
pamphlet  of  Temperance  Poems  and  Other 
Recitations.  She  is  a  little  below  the  medium 
height,  with  auburn  hair  and  blue  eyes,  and 
has  a  wide  circle  of  admirers;  she  now  resides 
in  Liberty,  Nebraska. 


LIFE'S  MORNING. 
My  heart  is  light,  from  sorrow  free ; 

Time's  hand  hath  not  yet  creased  my  brow, 
I'll  dance  and  sing  in  merry  glee: 

The  present  mine!    I'm  happy  now! 
While  other's  fret,  I'll  not  complain; 

Gay  thoughts  of  joy  doth  fill  my  heart;  — 
Away,  away,  all  thoughts  of  pain ! 

Within  my  life  they  have  no  part. 
Talk  not  to  me  of  toil  and  care, 

That  wait  for  me  adown  the  road : 
'Twill  be  enough  for  me  to  bear. 

When  I  must  lift  the  weary  load. 
So  I  will  laugh  while  yet  I  may. 

If  sorrow  then  shall  come  at  last 
I  can  endure  the  coming-  day. 

For  joy  was  mine  in  days  of  past. 
Then  let  me  laugh  in  merry  glee! 

Away  with  grief!  from  me  beg-one! 
Although  we  know  the  night  must  be; 

We  still  enjoy  the  early  dawn. 


WANTED. 

Men  of  honor,  men  of  might; 
Men  who  boldly  stand  for  right; 
Men  who  scorn  to  tell  a  lie; 
Men  whom  money  cannot  buy; 
Men  who  never  take  a  drink. 
But  from  liquor  always  shrink; 
Men  who  never  learned  to  smoke; 
Men  who  do  not  always  croak; 
Men  who  know  just  what  to  say. 
Where  to  say  it  and  the  way; 
Men  whom  politics  won't  spoil, 
And  their  reputations  soil; 
Men  who  do  not  cringe  to  power; 
Men-— they're' wanted  every  hour. 


EXTRACT. 

I'm  mithing  but  an  outcast. 

No  mother,  home  or  fi-iends; 
My  father  is  a  drunkard 

And  all  his  money  spends 
For  liquor  or  in  gambling. 

While  I  am  left  to  roam  — 
Why  don't  some  one  take  |iity 

And  give  to  me  a  home. 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIOXAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-* 


•535 


m 


BELA  CHAPIN. 

Born:  Newpokt,  N.  H.,  Feb.  19, 1829. 
At  the  ag-e  of  eighteen  Mr.  Chapin  was  ap- 
prentieed  to  the  printing- busiaess,  and  after- 
ward was  employed  in  various  places  as  a 
compositor.  Having-  earned  some  money  by 
much  industry,   lie    entered   Kimball  I'liidii 


BEL.\  CHAPIN. 

academy  where  he  was  fitted  for  college. 
After  leaving  the  academy  he  continued  the 
study  of  the  Latin  and  Greek  languages. 
About  1865  Mr.  Chapin  became  proprietor  of 
the  Dartmouth  press  printing  and  book-liind- 
ing  establishment  in  Hanover,  N.  H.  Com- 
mencing to  court  the  muses  at  an  early  age, 
the  productions  of  this  writer  have  constantly 
appeared  in  the  New  England  journals  and 
magazines,  and  have  been  deservedly  admir- 
ed. In  188:i  he  edited  the  Poets  of  New  Hamp- 
shire, a  large  volume  of  some  eight  liundred 
pages.  He  has  just  completed  a  translation 
in  verse  of  Virgil's  Eclogues.  Mr.  Chapin 
now  resides  in  Claremont,  and  Is  proprietor 
of  the  Grandy  Brook  fruit  and  dairy  farm,  on 
which  are  some  very  fine  horses,  choice  Jersey 
cattle,  and  the  finest  of  fruit.  The  library  of 
this  gentleman  contains  about  two  thou.sand 
volumes  of  standard  works. 


THE  REALM  OF  RHADAM ANTHUS. 
Begemmed  upon  old  Ocean's  breast, 
Where  gentle  billows  swell. 


Lie  the  feigned  islands  of  the  blest, 

Where  souls  departed  dwell. 
Not  in  Cimmerian  gloom  profound. 

Where  ebon  night  pervades, 
But  in  the  realm  where  joys  abound, 

Rest  unsubstantial  shades. 
There  in  that  clime,  forever  bright. 

The  sun  with  equal  ray 
Illuminates  the  tranquil  night 

And  gilds  the  cloudless  day. 
There  fields  of  asphodel  and  balm 

And  roses  bloom  for  aye; 
There  naught  can  mar  the  soul's  sweet  calm. 

And  love  finds  no  decay. 
There  hero-shades  with  joy  possess 

An  ever-peaceful  home, 
A  seat  exempt  from  all  excess 

Where  pain  can  never  come. 
There  where  enchanting  beauty  teems 

In  exquisite  delight. 
Mid  citron  groves,  by  crystal  streams. 

Walk  chiefs  of  former  might. 
O'er  those  feigned  isles  no  storms  prevail. 

No  snow  white-drifting  there; 
No  raging  blast,  nor  rain,  nor  hail. 

Nor  pestilential  air. 
There  fragrant  breezes,  balmy  airs, 

Pure  offspring  of  the  main. 
Sweep  from  the  isles  corroding  cares 

And  fan  the  lovely  plain. 
There  smiling  fields  afar  extend 

In  living  verdure  new; 
There  trees  with  fruits  ambrosial  bend. 

With  flowers  of  every  hue. 
There  bright-winged  birds,  on  every  tree. 

Pour  forth  their  dulcet  strains, 
AVhile  mirth,  and  song,  and  dance,  and  glee 

Pervade  the  flowery  plains. 
There  Rhadamanthus  rules  in  trust 

The  realm  of  beings  blest; 
The  brave,  the  noble  and  the  just. 

They  own  his  high  behest. 

They  who,  in  truth  and  virtue  strong. 

From  guilt's  contagion  pure. 
Did  ever  keep  their  lives  from  wrong. 

Rest  in  the  isles  secure. 
There  with  the  honored  gods  so  dear, 

With  them  forever  blest. 
They  dwell,  and  pass  from  year  to  year 

Their  tearless  age  of  rest. 
They  who  were  once  o'er-fraught  with  care 

And  bowed  beneath  the  load. 
No  heaviness  their  spirit  bear 

In  that  their  last  abode. 
And  they  whose  weary  days  were  spent 

In  penury  and  pain. 
In  sore  disease  and  discontent. 

In  hardship  and  disdain; 


-m 


®- 


636 


© 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


And  they  who  were  by  scorn  and  pride 

Dowu-trodden  and  oppressed, 
In  joyfulness  they  all  abide 

Where  woes  can  not  molest. 
And  shades  of  men,  the  wise  and  good. 

Both  old  and  young-  are  tliere, 
Matrons  and  blooming-  womanhood. 

And  youtlis  unwed  and  fair. 
No  toil  is  there,  nor  languislnnent. 

There  no  deceit  beguiles ; 
Tliere  pleasure  reigns  with  glad  content 

Witliin  those  halcyon  isles. 
No  hurt  nor  ill  that  trouble  yields 

Can  reach  that  peaceful  shore, 
But  in  the  sweet  elysian  fields 

Is  bliss  forevermore. 
In  such  a  place  the  Greeks  of  old 

Hoped  after  death  to  rest, 
But  earth  doth  not  that  region  hold. 

Such  islands  of  the  blest. 


IN  HEAVEN. 
There  shall  the  sainted  dead  abide 

In  never-ceasing  light; 
The  pure  in  heart,  the  glorified. 

Shall  walk  in  garments  white: 
And  in  their  midst  the  lamb  shall  be 
Their  friend  and  guide  eternally. 
Tliere  God  shall  wipe  all  tears  away 

From  true  believers'  eyes; 
No  pain  is  there,  nor  sad  decay, 

No  sorrow,  grief,  nor  sighs; 
And  death  itself  shall  nevermore 
Be  known  upon  that  peaceful  shore. 
The  glory  of  the  world  of  bliss 

On  earth  we  cannot  know ; 
It  far  transcends  all  scenes  in  this 

Our  fleeting  life  below; 
The  beautiful  of  earth  and  fair 
Cannot  with  heavenly  things  compare. 
Some  gleam,  perhaps,  God's  people  see. 

While  here  they  serve  and  M'ait; 
Some  fortaste  of  the  things  that  be 

Within  the  shining  gate. 
Where  dwell  in  ever  sweet  accord 
The  ransomed  of  the  risen  Lord. 
Great  Tather,  Spirit  blest,  and  Son, 

Tliou  evei--liviiig  Three; 
Tl'.ou  ever-living  Three  in  One, 

We  place  our  trust  in  thee: 
And  in  our  dear  Redeemer's  peace 
We  hope  for  joys  that  ne'er  will  cease. 


8B- 


EXTRACTS  FROM  TRANSLATION  OF 
VIRGIL'S  ECLOGUES. 
Happy  old  man !    At  ease  how  blest, 
Beside  familiar  streams  to  rest  — 
Beside  the  pure  translucent  springs 
To  know  the  bliss  that  quiet  brings! 


Just  here  a  hedge  of  willow-trees. 

Your  pasture's  hither  bound. 
Is  fed  upon  by  Hyblean  bees. 

That  buzz  its  blossoms  round: 
And  oft  their  murmur  sweet  and  low 
Tliat  cause  you  into  sleep  to  go. 
Shall  where  yon  towering-  rock  inclines 
Shall  sit  the  pruner  of  the  vines. 

And  sing  to  every  breeze. 
Near  by  your  favorite  pigeon  throng 
Their  plaintive  clamor  shall  prolong. 
And  turtledoves  shall  utter  still 
Their  cooing  with  complaining  bill 

Upon  the  tall  elm-trees. 

Come  hither,  come,  O  beauteous  boy! 
For  you  the  smiling  nymphs  with  joy 
Their  baskets  full  of  lilies  bring; 
A  naiad  fair  is  gathering 
For  you  gay  poppy-heads  and  neat. 


CHRISTIAN  CRALL. 

Born:  Mansfield,  Ohio,  Nov.  17, 1819. 
Under  the  nom  de  plume  of  Allan  Bane,  the 
poems  of  this  writer  have  appeared  in  many 
of  the  prominent  publications,  from  which 
they  have  been  extensively  copied  by  the  lo- 
cal press.    He  is  now  a  resident  of  Pioneer,  0. 


MY  FATHER'S  CLOCK. 
My  father's  clock  hangs  on  the  wall. 

Just  as  it  hung  of  yore; 
Year  in,  year  out,  it  ticked  for  those 

Who  hear  its  tick  no  more. 
Hair  darker  then  the  raven's  wing 

Has  changed  to  silver  gray. 
Since  first  that  clock  began  to  tick. 

And  still  it  ticks  away. 
For  fifty  years  that  pendulum 

Was  swinging  to  and  fro; 
Just  how  long  I  shall  see  it  swing 

I  do  not  care  to  know. 
There  is  no  beauty  in  that  clock 

That  stranger  eyes  can  .see: 
'Tis  like  its  owner,  old  and  scarred. 

But  no  less  dear  to  me. 
I  often  look  on  that  old  clock 

And  think  of  youth's  bright  days. 
And  of  a  goodly  company 

So  liai)py,  blithe  and  gay. 
Sad  are  f  lie  changes  lime  has  wrouj. 

And  yi't  amidsl  tliem  all. 
That  good  old  clock  has  kept  its  iilace. 

Secure  against  the  wall. 
My  fatlier's  clock.  Oh,  guard  it  well! 

As  in  the  days  of  yoi-e. 
And  tliink  how  long  tiiat  clock  has  ticked. 

For  those  who  liear  no  more. 


;lit. 


®- 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  A3IEUICA. 


J.  TRE MAINE  KEEGAN. 

Born:  Berlin,  Conn.,  Sept.  16, 1847. 

Mr.  Keegan  graduated  as  a  civil  engineer  at 
an  early  age.  He  has  contributed  to  many 
newspapers  and  periodicals;  lias  traveled  ex- 
tensively through  Europe,  Mexico  and  the 
United  States,  and  many  of  his  poems  and 
sketches  are  scenes  from  life  in  other  lauds. 


J.  TREMAINE  KEEGAN. 

Among  his  best  efforts  are  the  Bells  of  San 
Bias,  Deserted  City  in  Yucatan,  The  Exile's 
Dream  and  The  Wanderer's  Return  — the  lat- 
ter pronounced  as  a  first-class  poem  and  was 
well  received  by  ihe  press  and  public.  Many 
of  his  sketches  of  life  in  the  far  west  are  very 
readable  and  humorous.  He  was  married 
June  .30th.  1887,  to  a  Jewish  lady.  Miss  Frances 
Simons,  of  New  York  City.  Mr.  Keegan  is 
now  a  resident  of  Idaho  Territory. 


©• 


ON  LAKE  CCEUR  D'ALENE. 

The  vision  burst  o'er   me  like   a   beautiful 

dream ; 
The  lake  and  the  river  of  fair  Coeur  d'Alene; 
Thy  mountains  and  canyons,  the  defile  and 

glen. 
Are  sweet  bouquets  of  beauty  in  the  pathwaj- 

of  men. 


The  old  mission  chapel  seems  lost  in  decay 
Where  the  knee  of  tlie  savage  was  once  bent 

to  pray ; 
But  mission  and  chapel  are  shrouded  in  gloom, 
And  savage  and  priests  slumber  on  in  the 

tomb. 
There  the  grand,  lofty  pines  in  yon  canyon 

behold : 
Stand  erect  like  giant  knight-errants  of  old. 
Guarding  their  treasures  of  mountain  stream 
That  glitter  and  sparkle  in  the  bright  sun-ray's 
gleam. 


THE  WANDERERS  RETURN. 

Sad  and  pensive  now  I'm  sitting 
At  the  fireside's  warming  blaze, 

Thinking  of  the  years  that's  flitting 
With    memory    struggling   through    the 
haze. 

"  Home  again" — it  sounds  so  mournful 

After  years  of  battling  strife. 
And  my  heart  is  growing  scornful, 

Grieving  o'er  my  misspent  life. 

"  Yes,  home  again,"  and  now  I'm  thinking 

Over  all  and  every  charm ; 
Happiness  and  sorrow  linking, — 

The  latter  trying  to  disarm. 

How  they  watched  last  night  at  service 
When  I  reached  the  familj'  seat. 

And  my  poor  heart  became  so  nervous 
The  text  and  prayers  could  not  repeat. 

Ob,  how  the  music  thrilled  mj-  memory! 

Subdued  and  soft  then  loud  it  rolled; 
As  thej'  sang  the  Christmas  anthem 

Tears  and  doubt  bereft  my  soul. 

And  when  the  pastor  spoke  his  sermon  — 

Recalled  to  them  his  burdened  years, 
"The  Father's  ways  he  was  ever  learning," 

While  my  poor  eyes  were  dimmed  with 
tears. 
And  when  the  pastor  gave  his  blessing, 

I  heard  the  whispers  at  my  back; 
Some  old  friend  his  son  addressing, 

"'Tis  twenty  years  since  he's  been  back." 

And  now  this  morn  I  viewed  the  village; 

The  church,  the  school,  the  old  red  mill 
The  same  old  farms  are  under  tillage,— 

The  same  old  elms  are  standing  still. 

I  viewed  the  house  with  its  gable  windows  — 
Its  quaint  old  chimney  of  rock  and  clay; 

And  in  the  fields  last  season's  winrows 
Are  left  to  molder  and  decay. 

The  last  but  me  in  the  churchyard  sleeping; 

They  sleep  beneath  yon  granite  stone. 
And  I  there  lonely  watch  am  keeping, 

I,  their  wanderer,  am  home. 


-* 


©- 


-® 


538 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  MATTIE  NICHOLS. 

Born  :  Salem,  Ohio,  1854. 
Under  the  nom  de  plume  of  J;iye  Jacques, 
many  flue  poems  liavc  appeared  in  tlie  jircss 


MRS.  MATTIE  NICHOLS. 

from  the  pen  of  this  -writer,  who,  however,  is 
devoted  to  prose  rather  than  to  verse. 


m- 


THOSE  BONNIE  EYES. 

Those  bonnie  eyes. 
They  are  my  skies; 

They  hold  for  me  both  sun  and  rain, — 
They  frown,  and  liope  within  me  dies; 
They  smile,  and  peace  is  mine  again. 
They  are  noon. 
My  sun,  my  moon. 
My  restful  light  at  close  of  day, 
They  shed  for  me  the  blessed  boon 
Of  love's  dear  light  across  my  way. 
Sweet  eyes  that  sliine 
And  si)eak  to  miiK^ 
Ot  love  lliat  never  wa.xelh  cold. 
Ah,  never  veil  thy  beams  divine. 
Though  time  bi'ings  change  and  lieurts 
grow  old. 

WHEN  THE  SILK  IS  ON  THE  CORN. 
The  geese  were  flying  southward 

And  t.lu^  clouds  were  hanging  low, 
Tlie  lealiess  boughs  were  shivering 

As  llicy  chattered  of  the  snow; 


And  the  frost  was  in  our  faces 

As  we  said  good-by  that  morn. 
But  you  promised,  sweet,  to  wed  me. 

When  the  silk  was  on  the  corn. 
'Neath  the  naked  boughs  we  parted. 

In  the  autumn  cold  and  gray; 
But  the  winter's  reign  is  over 

And  'tis  now  the  pleasant  May. 
And  I  know  you're  slyly  watching 

Each  evening  and  each  morn. 
Where  the  tender  husk  is  bursting. 

And  the  silk  is  on  the  corn. 
There  are  sweet,  contented  whisperings 

Now  among  the  tossing  trees. 
For  the  spring  has  come  to  crown  them 

And  has  brought  them  back  their  leaves. 
And  my  crown  of  love  is  waiting, 

Where,  some  sunny,  summer  morn, 
I  will  claim  my  queen,  my  darling, 

When  the  silk  is  on  the  corn. 


A  WIFE'S  LAMENT. 
I  know  a  mountain,  high  and  grand. 

And  seamed  with  chasms  dark  and  deep; 
Dark,  stern,  magnificent,  it  stands 

And  guards  the  hamlet  at  its  feet. 
Through  cloud,  and  fog  and  morning  mist. 

Unmoved  by  tempest,  storm  or  time; 
And  when  the  sun  its  brow  has  kissed. 

It  smiles  with  radiance  sublime! 
The  fertile  valley  lies  below. 

Clothed  in  her  shimmering  summer  dress, 
And  smiles  up  to  the  gray,  cold  rock 

That  guards,  but  stoops  not  to  caress. 
I  know  a  face,  a  kingly  face. 

That  towers  high  above  my  own ; 
An  artist's  eye,  a  form  of  grace, 

A  poet's  soul  —  a  heart  of  stone ! 
He  stands,  unmoved  by  praise  or  blame. 

With  conscious  power  and  mind  complete; 
He  lives  for  labor,  art  and  fame. 

Nor  heeds  the  offerings  at  liis  feet. 
I'd  give  the  world  were  I  the  sun. 

To  kiss  to  smiles  that  haughty  face. 
And  see  the  lightning  glance  of  love 

Light  up  those  eyes  with  tender  grace 
I  nestle  mutely  at  his  feet. 

He  shields  me  from  the  storms  of  life, 
I  bring  him  oll'erings  pure  and  sweet, 

A  worshiping,  devoted  wife. 
But,  ah!  his  heart  once  all  my  own, 

Foi-gets  the  gracious  tenderness 
Of  l)ygone  days.     1  sit  alone. 

He  guards,  l)ut  stoops  not  to  caress. 

A  TOUCH  OF  FROST. 

There's  a  U)uch  of  frost  in  the  wandering  air, 

Tlie  twilights  call. 

The  grass  is  all,  ['">'' 

And  streaked  with  white  like  the  first  gniy 
That  comes  with  the  rounding  years  of  ea 


* 


*- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEIIICA. 


539 


-© 


WOLFF  WILLNER,  M.  A. 

Bokn:  Germany,  July  20,  1863. 
At  the  age  of  eleven  the  subject  of  this 
sketch  emigrated  with  his  mother  and  family 
to  America,  whither  his  father  preceded  him 
the  year  before.  He  lived  first  in  Newburgh, 
N.  Y.,  then  ni  New  Haven,  Conn.,  where  lie 
entered  Yale  in  1881,  graduated  at  the  acade- 


m- 


REV.   WOLFF  WII.r.NKH. 

mic  course  in  1885,  and  in  188T  was  made  an  M. 
A.  Then  he  was  called  to  the  ministry  of  the 
congregation  Gheb  Shalom,  in  Newark,  New 
Jersey.  He  has  written  poetry  from  his 

youth,  but  his  later  years  have  been  devoted 
mostlj'  to  translating  from  the  Hebrew  or 
German.  Newspaper  articles  on  religious  and 
Hebrew  literary  subjects  are  published  in 
several  Jewish  weeklies  and  in  the  Meuorah 
Monthly.  In  1890  Mr.Willner  took  eliarge  of 
the  Hebrew  Congi-egation  in  Houston,  Texas. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  LESSING. 
Little  beauty,  kiss  me,  pray! 
Little  beauty  turns  away? 
Kisses  to  take  and  give  the  same. 
Need  not  now  cause  you  to  shame. 
A  hundred  times  pray  kiss  me  o'er. 
Kiss  me,  and  mark  well  the  score, 
I'll  repay-i-  and  I  speak  true  — 
Tenfold  each  of  them  to  you, 
Wlien  the  kiss  no  more  is  play. 
And  you're  ten  years  older  than  to-dav. 


WHOM  I  SHALL  MARRY. 
Whom  I  will  marry,  you  would  ask? 
Well  now,  it  is  no  easy  task. 
And  one  must  think  a  good  deal. 
Before  he  finds  his  true  ideal. 
But  that  in  answer  you  rejoice 
I  herewith  make  known  my  choice: 
I'll  marry  her,  both  tall  and  fair. 
Blue  are  her  eyes,  blonde  is  her  hair. 
As  beauteous  as  one  only  seeks. 
And  pretty  dimples  in  her  cheeks. 
A  tiny  nose  between  her  eyes. 
Her  ears  are  just  the  correct  size. 
Her  skin  as  fine  as  velvet  is. 
Her  ruby  lips  invite  a  kiss. 
And  whom  sh:  passes,  looks  behind. 
For  no  greater  beauty  he  can  find. 
Her  I  will  marry,  she'll  be  my  wife, 
My  beauteous  partner  throughout  life. 

Or  else  her  of  the  blackest  hair. 

Of  small  brown  eyes,  complexion  fair. 

Of  roundest,  softest,  shapeliest  arms, 

of  countless  beauties,  wond'rous  charms, 

Her  rosy  lips  are  small  and  pretty. 

Her  speech  is  bright,  her  sayings  witty; 

Of  daintiest  hands,  prettiest  feet. 

The  nicest  girl  that  walks  the  street. 

A  beauty  blonde,  beauty  brunette, 

No  matter,  a  beauty  I  must  wed! 

And  if  j'ou  ask  me,  where  I  find 

A  beauty  of  this,  or  of  another  kind? 

And  if  a  girl  I  see,  how  will  I  know, 

That  as  she  looks,  she's  really  so'? — 

What  if  no  beauty  wants  me,  you  mean? 

Oh,  then  —  you  know  I  am  extreme  — 

I  take  the  homeliest  girl  in  the  land. 

Such  as  no  other  man  would  demand; 

With  bonj',  freckled  face,  with  nose  awry. 

Long  donkey  ears,  and  .squinting  eye. 

Red  is  her  hair,  and  firm  her  grip, 

A  full  mustache  adorns  lier  upper  lip. 

Big,  gnashing  teeth,  a  cornered  chin, 

A  fiery  temper,  devilish  hard  to  win. 

Her  speech  is  rough,  her  talk  is  hoarse, 

LTgly  are  her  ways,  and  her  demeanor  coarse. 

Her  will  I  wed,  she'll  be  my  wife. 

To  vex  and  trouble  me  throughout  my  life! 

Thus  now  before  you  I  my  choice  arrange. 

And,  my  mind  made  up,  I  will  not  change: 

'T  must  either  be  a  beauty  of  renown. 

Or  else,  the  homeliest  girl  in  town. 


SONNET. 
High  be  thy  standard,  lofty  be  thine  aim. 

Know  thou  thy  duty,  know  thou  to  obey! 
On  ;-ecord's  brightest  page  appear  thy  name; 

Hope  brighten, when  in  woe.thine  every  day. 
LTiitrue  to  thee  may  never  prove  a  friend. 
This  greatest  blessing  God  upon  thee  send. 


-« 


«- 


•540 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-^ 


*- 


WHAT   THE    SPRING    TOLD  ME    OF  THE 
TRANSIT   OF  VENUS. 

Come  then,  ye  clouds!     In  darkness  clothe 

the  sky ! 
In  due  obedience  to  their  master's  call 
The  clouds  from  all  sides  came.    This  Venus 

saw 
And  to  herself  thus  spoke:    •»  Oh,  woe  is  me! 
What  can  I  do  to  set  to  naught  the  plan 
Of  wily  Zeus,  who  hid  the  sky  from  view. 
That  none  my  visit  to  the  Sun  can  see !" 
Thus  grieving-  in  her  heart  fair  Venus  said, 
And  to  ^olia  went,  the  home  of  winds, 
Where  ^olus  in  a  deep  cave  restrains 
Their  force  and  sways  his  scepter  over  them; 
Indignant  they  against  the  wall  do  press 
All  eager  seas  and  lands  and  e'en  the  sky 
To  fill  and  thither  great  commotion  hring. 
This  fearing  did  the  powerful  father  lock 
Them  in  a  cave  and  placed  a  rock 
Upon  them,  and  made  ^olus  their  king. 
Him  Venus  now  beseechingly  addressed: 
"  King  JSolus,  thou  knowest  that  to-day 
The  Sun  I'll  visit  and  with  him  converse. 
All  my  admirers  wish  to  see  the  sight. 
Now  jealous  Jupiter  has  grieved  me  much 
For  he  has  overliung  the  sky  with  clouds. 
Thee,  .JSolus,  I  do  implore,  relieve 
My  heart  from  fear  and  let  thy  winds  dis- 
perse 
The  clouds  and  open  unto  view  the  sky." 
She  said  it  and  she  stepped  to  him  and  took 
His  hand  and  pressed  it  warmlj',   looked  at 

him 
Imploringly,  contracted  then  his  lips 
As  though  she  ready  were  to  kiss  the  king. 
Who  could  resist  her  beauty?    Who  refuse 
Her  wish,  when  his  reward  would  be  a  kiss 
Of  lips  as  beautiful  as  her's?   And  so 
His  heart  failed  jEoIus.    He  promised  thus: 
•'  O  beauteous  Venus,  what  thou  sayest  shall 
Be  done.    Thy  will  to  me  is  divine  command." 
Slie   kissed    him  —  O   that   kiss,  well  was  It 

worth 
To  undergo  the  wT'ath  of  Jupiter. 
An  opening  king  .^olus  made  in 
The  cave,— out  rushed   the  winds  and  filled 

the  air. 
In  vain  they  l)lew,  the  clouds  woidd  jiot  give 

way. 
Already  rosy-flngerod  morning  rose 
Wlien  first  tlie  winds  began  to  liave  effect, 
F(n'  Uranus,  lord  of  the  sky  hold  tliem. 
Ho  Nei>tune,  all  the  phmets  envied  her. 
Lo   there    the    Sun:— 'Tis   time  now,  Venus, 

come! 
Slie  came,  and  surely  would  be  seen  by  all. 
Would  not  cloud  gathering  Jupiter  retain 
A  cloud  jnst  at  the  edge,  Ihat  no  one  saw 
Fair  Venus  enlei'ing  (he  Sun's  abode. 


"O    beauteous   Venus,  hast  at  length  thou 

come?  [all?" 

How  doest  thou  fare?    How  are  the  planets 

"O  thou    bright   shining   Sun,  great  is  the 

strife 
Amongst  the  planets;  jealous  are  they  all 
That  none  but  me  thou  entertainest  here. 
But  Jupiter  commenced;  first  he  did  cloud 
The  sky,  and  t^ranus  helped  him  in  it ; 
War-loving  Mars  in  anger  shook  his  fists 
And  Neptune,  ruler  of  the  sea,  turned  green. 
There  Saturn  offered  me  his  brightest  ring 
If  only  I  desist;  and  on  the  earth 
All  men  are  crazy  sure;  why,  only  think! 
Professors,  old  and  learned,  nothing  dt) 
But  look  at  me  —  I'm  sure  their  wives  will 

scold ! 
But  I  have  no  regard  for  aught  but  thee, 

0  ever-glorious  Sun,  tcio  thee  alone 

1  turn  my  face.    All  others  satisfied 
Must  be  to  see  my  back  —  dark  as  it  is !" 
Thus  flattering  vain  Venus  spoke.   She  kissed 
The  Sun,  called  him  her  love;  when  thus  the 

talk  [wont 

Commenced,  she   could  not  stop  —  as  is  the 
Of  women  —  till  the  time  was  come  to  part. 
Then   bright    Sun  said   with  sadness  in  his 

voice: 
•'  O  couldst  but  sooner  thou  return,  than  is 
By  time  and  almanac  here  specified. 
It  were  so  nice  —  but  ah !  it  cannot  be ! 
And  foolish  'tis  to  murmur  'gainst  the  fates. 
But  know,  thj'  visit  e'er  will  be  to  me 
Most  pleasant  recollection  of  my  life,      [bye! 
Now  one  more  kiss,  since  part  we  must,  good 
They  parted, — "Quite  a  chap,"  thought  Venus, 

"but 
He's  not  aesthetic,  not  like  Oscar  Wilde ! 
His  looks  are  not  as  handsome  as  1  tliougiu, 
For  many  spots  on  his  bright  face  I  saw. 
Not  beauty-plasters,  for  he  is  ashamed 
To  show  them,  and  the  largest  spot  ho  hid 
When  1  came  near;  I  saw  it  though !  'Tis  good 
That  many  years  will  pass  before  again 
I'll  visit  him." 

Thus  Venus  said.    Wliile  Sun 
When  she  had  gone  thus  of  fair  Venus  said: 
"  How  vain  that  woman  is  —  how  talkative 
And  old!    What  is  her  beauty,  1  should  ask, 
If  1  to  Mrs.  Langtry  her  compare! 
Vi't  she  tliinks  she  is  pn-ttiest  of  all! 
Woidd  Venus  not  be  dark  if  1 
Send  not  my  rays  to  her?    1  make  her  bright! 
And  good  it  surely  is,  that  not  so  soon 
Her  visit  she'll  repeat.    Come,  Mercury. 
To  ni(>,  n\y  sole  attendant.    Let  her  pass." 
Thus  endod  S|)ring's  report.     "What  tliiidu'st 

thou." 
He  said  to  me,  "that  Sun  and  Venus  thus 
Do  of  each  other  speak?  "     "  'Tis  just,"  said  I, 
"  As  on  our  earth  the  boys  and  girls  oft  do. 


-» 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


•541 


-« 


ARTHUR  SHELDON  PEACOCK 

Born:  Kandolph  Co.,  Ind.,  March  14, 1858. 
Since  1875  Mr.  Peacock  has  been  successfully 
entrasred    in  the    profession  of    teaching    in 

Michifraii  and  Kansas,  in  wliioh  latter  state  lie 


ARTHUR  SHELDON  PEACOCK. 

now  resides  at  Wa-Keenej-.  Since  his  youth 
Mr.  Peacock  has  occasionally  written  verse, 
which  has  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the 
press. 


® 


THE  SUNFLOWER  AND  THE  PEA. 
Good  Kansans  all,  of  every  sort. 

Come  join  with  me  in  song-; 
And  if  we  find  the  meter  short 

We  cannot  sing-  it  long. 
We'll  sing  the  praise  of  prairie  plants 

That  grow  our  fields  among. 
And  here  relate  the  circumstance 

And  burden  of  our  song: 
Ould  Ireland  has  her  shamrock  green 

And  praties  fine  galore, 
Auld  Scotia  has  her  thistle  keen 

Aboon  the  Solway  shore; 
The  Bay  state  has  her  brown-baked  bean 

In  Boston  by  the  sea  — 
But  Kansas  boasts  her  sunflower's  sheen 

And  eke  the  black-eyed  pea. 
The  sunflower  grows  so  very  tall 

And  branches  out  so  free ; 
That  where  there's  nothing  else  at  all 

It  seems  quite  like  a  tree. 


'Twas  one  of  these  Sir  Francis  climbed 
And  filled  his  heart  with  pride. 

As  peeping  o'er  Sierra's  crest 
Pacific  first  descried. 

The  sunflower's  good  as  any  wood 

That  grows  upon  the  plain; 
'Tis  proof  to  drouth  or  winds  of  south. 

And  seldom  hurt  by  rain. 
The  black-eyed  pea  is  victual  good. 

And  here  we  all  agree. 
The  Kansan  eats  no  other  food  — 

When  nothing  else  has  he. 
Then  join  with  me  the  glad  refrain 

And  sing  it  full  and  free; 
Without  her  patron  flower  and  grain 

What  would  this  country  be? 


A  DAY. 


MORNING. 

When  the  sky-light  and  the  twilight 
Fade  before  the  blushing  day. 

Blend  together  like  a  feather. 
Ribs  of  red  and  brush  of  graj-; 

These  are  forming  wings  of  morning  - 
Early  hours  soon  soar  away. 

NOON. 

Sunbeams  beat  w'ith  noon-tide  heat 
On  the  fields  of  growing  grain. 

Fierce  caressing,  yet  a  blessing 
For  the  vales  and  spreading  plain. 

Thus  performing  what  the  morning- 
Promised  by  her  ruddy  train. 

NIGHT. 

Clouds  of  j-ellow,  rich  and  mellow 
Float  across  the  evening-  sky. 

From  his  cover  in  the  clover 
Comes  the  rabbit  sleek  and  sly. 

Pigeons  homing  in  the  gloaming 
Say  to  all  the  night  draws  nigh. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  CHIP. 
On  the  treeless  plains  of  buf 'lo  grass. 
Where  the  vaulting  jack  and  coyote  pass. 
Where  the  tumbleweed  with  might  and  main 
Rolls  north,  then  south,  then  back  again  — 
O,  who  can  now  the  end  descry 
Without  our  aid  my  mates  and  1 1 
But  the  cactus'  spine  and  yucca's  bloom 
May  soon  g-ive  way  to  the  raging  boom, 
The  grazing-  herd  and  furrowed  field 
To  the  Imsbandman  rich  harvest  yield  — 
Uncertain  yet  the  end  I  spy 
Without  our  aid  —  my  mates  and  I! 
We'll  serve  you  -when  the  hot  winds  blow; 
When  wintry  winds  hurl  the  drifting  snow 
We'll  toast  your  toes  or  steep  your  tea 
And  all  shall  neat  and  cheerful  be  — 
For  on  the  plains  without  our  aid 
A  single  home  has  ne'er  been  made. 


■© 


©- 


-« 


542 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMERICA. 


GAYLORD  DAVIDSON. 

Born:  Havana,  III.,  Dec.  10, 1860. 
This  journalist  has  won  quite  a  reputation  as 
a  poet,  many  of  liis  poems  liaving-  been  widely 
published  in  the  leading-  newspapers  and  ma- 


GAYLORD  DAVIDSON. 

gazines.  Mr.  Davidson  is  now  assisting  his 
father,the  Hon.  J.  M.  Davidson,editor  and  pro- 
prietor of  tlie  Republican  at  Carthage,  111. 


©- 


MOTHER  IS  DEAD. 

Sorrow  broods  upon  blackened  wing. 
Death  has  come  with  his  cruel  sting; 
Hearts  are  bleeding,  pleading  and  crushed. 
While  rooms  are  darlfened  and  voices  hushed. 
A  mother  sleeps,  and  a  world  of  care 
Has  passed  from  the  brow  of  marble  there; 
And  the  sweet,  white  lips  are  closed  for  aye. 
Heedless,  at  last,  to  the  children's  cry. 
A  motherless  brood,  with  aching  hearts, 
A  new,  fresh  grief  as  each  day  departs; 
NothinK  remains  save  a  deep,  black  pall. 
And  mocking  echoes  through  room  and  hall,- 
Echoes  of  eartli  on  a,  cofTin  Md, 
Thoughls  of  a  face  forever  liid. 
Shafts  of  pain  tliat  pierce  and  rend, 
Sobbing  farewells  to  our  only  friend. 
Echoes  of  mother's  words  and  song, 
Eclioes  tliat  come  in  aliurrying  throng,— 
Of  kindness,  and  love,  and  ))a(i('nt  ways. 
Of  watchful  care througli  nights  and  days. 
Memory  of  hand  with  toil  acquaint. 


Of  burdens  borne  with  no  complaint; 

Echoes  of  prayers,  and  hopes,  and  fears, 

A  perfect  trust  througli  many  years; 

Echoes  of  all  that  we  did  or  said 

To  whiten  the  hair  in  that  mother's  head; 

Memory  of  acts,  in  a  childish  mood. 

That  showed  to  her  ingratitude. 

Vainly  we  call  and  cr}%  and  weep, 

We  cannot  awaken  from  that  sleep 

The  mother  who  loved  us  and  gave  us  birth, 

Her  dear  form  rests  'neath  a  swell  of  earth. 

But  night  has  fallen,  the  day  is  done, 

And  sorrow  reigns  on  his  dread,  black  throne. 

"  Mother  is  dead !  "  is  our  wailing  cry. 

And  hollow  echoes  go  hurrying  by. 

Oh!  who  can  tell  of  a  mother's  lovei? 

Who  can  measure,  save  God  above? 

And  who  can  tell  of  a  mother's  loss. 

But  those  who  bear  that  heavy  cross. 


LOOLY'S  LULLABY. 

Come  to    mammy,  honey  darling,  kase    yo' 

want  to  rock', 
Bye-o-baby,  dat's  a  purty,  whar's  de  honey's 

frock'? 
S'eepy,    s'eepy,    whar's  yo'     daddy?  —  out   a 

hoe'uco'n, — 
Rock-a-pussey,  yo's  my  baby,  sweetest  eber 

bo'u. 
Close  dem   peepers  dar,  yo'   rascal,  doan'  yo' 

fool  aroun'. 
Time  to  take  de  little  trundle;    whar's  de  ba- 
by's gown? 
Sambo's  gone  to  hunt  de  'possum  ober  by  de 

creek, 
'Possum  all  de  time  a-nappin',  berry  sly  an' 

meek. 
Dar  yo's  lafln',  little    nigga;  boun'  to  keep 

awake? 
Sambo's    comin',  an'   he's    hungry,—  bake  a 

Johnny-cake. 
Fold-de-roldy,  swing  de  baby,  gi>t  a  little  toof. 
Laws-a-massy.    my    ole    Sambo!    Haint     yo' 

kotclied  a  hoof? 
Massa's  gone  to  sell  de  cotton,  an'  de  day  an; 

done; 
See  dem  turkeys  in  de  treetop  roostin'  one  by 

one. 
Hear  dat  daddy  owl   a-hooting,  on  de  holler 

tree, 
Screeching  for  dc  manuny  owl,— wliat  a  fool 

am  he! 
Bye-o-baby,    Looly's   honey,     sleepin'  dar   so 

sweet, 
Tired  was  dc  little  chubby,— tired  little  feet. 
Dream  an' sleep   my  little   Leo,  safe   until  dc 

morn, 
God  am  carin'for  de  baby— sweetest  ever  l)o'n, 


* 


®- 


LOCAL   AXD   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF  A31KKI0A. 


543 


-^ 


MRS.  SARAH  A.  MATHEWS. 

Bok.n:  Mercer  Co.,  Pa.,  Oct.  5, 1S44. 
AFTER  iittending-  the  seminary  at  Jamestown 
for  awhile,  Sarah  commenced  teaching  school 


MRS.  SARAH  A.  MATHEWS. 

at  the  age  of  eighteen.  In  which  occupation 
she  continued  until  lier  marriage  in  1866. 

RAINDROPS. 
Pretty  little  raindrops. 

Falling  by  my  door. 
Waking  up  my  pansies' 

Bright  eyes  by  tlie  score; 
Falling  down  so  gently 

On  the  drooping  leaves. 
Hear  their  joyous  welcome  — 

Earth,  and  flowers  and  trees. 
But,  my  little  raindrop. 

Why  do  you  intrude? 
I  must  close  my  window. 

For  .you're  getting  rude. 
Really!  now  you're  trying 

Through  each  crack  to  squeeze ; 
Tell  me,  raindrop,  do  you 

Always  as  you  please? 
Madly  now  descending, 

Putting  in  a  plight 
All  my  pretty  flowers 

With  your  puny  might. 
Now  adown  the  gutters. 

What  a  rush  you  make. 


Till  the  meadow  yondei 

Looks  more  like  a  lake. 
Listen  to  the  roaring 

Of  the  swollen  stream; 
Angry  little  raindrops. 

Now  you  miscliief  mean. 
Plunging  through  the  woodlands. 

Washing  out  the  trees; 
Naughty  little  raindrops 

Doing  as  you  please. 
Pushing  through  the  mill-dam. 

Taking  mill  and  all; 
Everything  you  gatlier, 

Whether  great  or  small; 
Cattle,  barns  and  fencing. 

Trees  and  everything; 
Bridges  are  but  playthings 

For  the  water  king. 
Crowding  into  cellars; 

Through  the  streets  you  pour; 
Deafening  everybody 

With  your  thundering  roar. 
Sweeping  off  the  railroads. 

Built  by  honest  toil: 
Thieving  little  raindrops. 

Everything  is  spoil. 
Cruel,  cruel  raindrops. 

Care  j'ou  when  we  weep? 
Teardrops  now  are  dimming 

Eyes  that  cannot  sleep. 
Many  hearts  are  saddened 

By  your  hasty  fall; 
Loved  ones  who  are  missing 

Come  not  at  our  cull. 
There  are  great  disasters 

Everywhere  you  go. 
Tell  me,  wicked  raindrop. 

Why  do  you  do  so? 
Ah !  I  know  the  reason 

You  this  work  have  done  — 
Out  upon  a  frolic. 

Bound  to  have  some  fun. 
Listen  to  me,  raindrop. 

While  I  speak  a  word: 
Liberty  is  precious, 

I  have  often  heard; 
Precious,  as  it  may  be. 

And  splendid  to  be  free. 
Yet  restraint,  I'm  thinking. 

Is  good  for  you  and  me. 


TO  A  FUCHSIA  BLOSSOM. 
Poor  flower,  have  you  done  something  naugh- 
ty or  mean. 

That  you're  hanging  your  head  down  so? 
Well,  then,  it's  commendable  in  you,  I  ween. 

To  put  your  face  down  so  low.  [you. 

When  I  have  done  wrong  I  would  rather,  like 

My  sad  looks  should  publish  the  tale, 
Thau  have  my  proud  actions  proclaim  as  I  go 

That  I  care  not  tho'  evil  prevail. 


-© 


*- 


-«& 


oU 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


JONATHAN  JANES  MARVIN. 

Born:  Hammond,  N.  Y.,  Sept.  23, 1833. 
In  18.39  he  entered  the  university  of  Vermont 
at  Burlington;  deli%'ered  a  poem.  The  Trouba- 
dours, at  the  Sophomore  exhibition,  and  grad- 
uated in  1844  with  a  poem.  Truth  —  the  Life  of 
Scholars.  In  184t;  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar 
in  Franklin  county,  Vermont,  and  left  for  the 
lead  mines  of  Wisconsin.  In  the  fall  of  1847 
was  elected  county  clerk  of  LaFayette  county, 
Wi^ciiiisiii.   and   aftci-wanl     ilisliiri    atlnriicx' 


JONATHAN  JANES   MARVIN. 

and  county  judge.  In  1818  he  was  married  to 
Elizabeth  J.  Ware,  of  Galena,  Illinois.  In  1862 
he  volunteered  in  the  2.5th  regiment  Missouri 
volunteers,  and  in  186.5  he  returned  from  the 
army  to  Falls  City,  Nebraska,  where  he  was 
elected  without  opposition  as  prosecuting  at- 
torney of  Richardson  county ;  was  postmaster 
three  years  and  has  served  for  over  fourteen 
years  as  justice  of  the  peace  by  election.  Of 
his  longer  poems  the  Origin  of  Water,  a  tem- 
perance poem.  Christian  Woman's  Work, 
Eulogy  on  Gen.  Grant.  Pomona,  and  several 
fourth  of  July  and  memorial  poems  have  been 
published.  He  also  won  tlie  first  prize  of  a 
hundred-dollar  sewing  machine  for  a  poem. 


FIFTY  YE.\RS  TO-DAY. 

Alas'  hatli  half  a  century  flown 
Since  first  the  feeble  infant's  moan 


Escaped  my  helpless  frame ! 
The  happy  mother  fondly  pressed 
Her  new-born  babe  unto  her  breast,— 

The  smiling,  loving  dame. 

Alas!  her  bent  and  shattered  form 
That  held  a  heart  so  pure  and  warm. 

Long  since  has  found  repose; 
And  there  the  mossy  gravestones  tell 
Where  now  the  dust  we  loved  so  well. 

The  moldering  clods  enclose. 
The  joys  and  sorrows,  smiles  and  tears 
Of  life,  have  waned  their  fifty  years 

And  still  I  here  remain. 
While  those  I  dearly  loved  of  yore 
To  the  distant  bourne  have  gone  before, 

A  link  in  a  broken  chain. 
Ere  many  days  this  fleeting  breath 
Will  hush  beneath  the  touch  of  death  — 

This  weary  form  repose; 
But  o'er  a  life  of  failings  here, 
May  gentle  mercy  drop  a  tear 

And  brighter  life  disclose. 


UP  SALT  RIVER. 

There  is  a  stream,  'tis  said. 

Traced  to  its  fountain  head. 

Will  make  one  shake  and  shiver; 

A  troublous  creek  to  travel 

Running  over  flint  and  gravel. 

They  call  its  name  Salt  River. 

No  one  likes  to  make. 

Or  see  a  friend  e'en  take, 

A  journey  up  its  water; 

When  party  friends  betray. 

And  speed  us  on  our  way. 

We  are  apt  to  call  it  slaughter. 

'Tis  a  sort  of  Botany  Bay, 

Where  the  people  stow  away 

The  men  they  wish  to  deliver 

From  office's  turmoil 

And  duty's  arduous  toil. 

By  sending  up  Salt  River. 

And  just  about  this  time. 

You  bet  your  bottom  dime! 

Tliere  are  crowds  of  gentry  going; 

Though  the  stream  is  rough  and  shallow. 

They  navigate  a  fellow 

Up  with  little  rowing. 

And  no  one  ever  yet 

A  ticket  chanced  to  get. 

And  thanked  the  generous  giver. 

We'd  rather  stay  at  home 

Than  e'en  for  pleasure  roam 

The  banks  of  old  Salt  River. 

EXTRACT. 

Let  the  flag  of  my  country  enshroud  me, 
I  have  loved  it  so  well  and  so  long, 

I  have  cherished  that  banner  so  proudly. 
As  the  theme  of  oration  and  song: 


5(- 


-* 


m- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


-* 


.54.5 


WILLIAM    DEAN   HOWELLS. 

Born  :  Martin's  Ferry,  O.,  March  1, 1837. 
Almost  as  soou  as  he  could  read,  Howells  be- 
gan to  make  verses  and  put  them  in  type  in 
his  father's  printing  office.  Later  he  worlied 
as  compositor  on  the  Ohio  State  Journal. 
From  1861  to  1805  he  was  United  State  consul 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS. 

at  Venice.  In  18fl  he  became  editor  of  the 
Atlantic  Monthly,  Mhich  he  filled  until  1879, 
when  he  relinquished  it  to  devote  himself  ex- 
clusively to  writing.  Poems  of  Two  Friends  is 
from  his  pen,  but  although  an  ardent  lover  of 
everything  poetical  his  time  is  principally  oc- 
cupied in  writing  prose,  among  which  the  most 
read  are  No  Love  Lost,  A  Chance  Acquaintance, 
Undiscovered  Country.and  A  Modern  Instance. 
He  married  in  1862,  and  has  three  children. 

THE  SARCASTIC  FAIR. 
Her  mouth  is  a  honey-blossom. 

No  doubt,  as  the  poet  sings; 
But  within  her  lips,  the  petals. 

Lurks  a  cruel  bee,  that  stings. 


9r 


A  POET. 

From  wells  where  Truth  in  secret  lay 
He  saw  the  midnight  stars  by  day. 
"  O  marvelous  gift!  "  the  many  cried. 
"O  cruel  gift!  "  his  voice  replied. 
The  stars  were  far,  and  cold,  and  high. 
That  glimmered  in  the  noonday  sky ; 
He  yearned  toward  the  sun  in  vain. 
That  warmed  the  lives  of  other  men. 


CAPRICE. 
She  hung  the  cage  at  the  window: 

"If  he  goes  by,"  she  said, 
•»  He  will  hear  my  robin  singing. 

And  when  he  lifts  his  head, 
I  shall  be  sitting  here  to  sew. 
And  he  Will  bow  to  me,  I  know." 
The  robin  sang  a  low-sweet  song. 

The  young  man  raised  his  head. 
The  maiden  turned  away  and  Ijlushed: 

"  I  am  a  fool !  "  she  said. 
And  went  on  broidei-ing  in  silk 

A  pmk-eycd  rabbit,  white  as  milk. 
The  young  man  loitered  slowly 

By  the  house  three  times  that  day; 
She  took  her  bird  from  the  window: 

"  He  need  not  look  this  way." 
She  sat  at  her  piano  long. 
And  sighed,  and  played  a  death-sad  song. 
But  when  the  day  was  done,  she  said, 

"I  wish  that  be  would  come! 
Remember,  Mary,  if  he  calls 

To-night—  I'm  not  at  home." 
So  when  he  rang,  she  went  —  the  elf !  — 
She  went  and  let  him  in  herself. 
They  sang  full  long  together 

Their  songs  love-sweet,  death  sad; 
The  robin  woke  from  his  slumber. 

And  rang  out,  clear  and  glad. 
"Now  go!  "  she  coldly  said;  "  't  is  late:" 
And  followed  him  —  to  latch  the  gate. 
He  took  the  rosebud  from  her  hair, 

While,  "  You  shall  not! "  she  said: 
He  closed  her  hand  within  his  own. 

And,  while  her  tongue  forbade. 
Her  will  was  darkened  in  the  eclipse 
Of  blinding  love  upon  his  lips. 


CONVENTION. 
He  falters  on  the  threshold. 

She  lingers  on  the  stair: 
Can  it  be  that  was  his  footstep ! 

Can  it  be  that  she  is  thei-e? 

Without  is  tender  yearning. 

And  tender  love  is  within; 
They  can  hear  each  other's  heart-beats. 

But  a  wooden  door  is  between. 


THE  THORN. 
"Every  Rose,  you  sang,  has  its  Thorn, 

But  this  has  none,  I  know." 
She  clasped  my  rival's  Rose 

Over  her  breast  of  snow. 

I  bowed  to  hide  my  pain. 
With  a  man's  unskilful  art: 

I  moved  my  lips,  and  could  not  say 
The  Thorn  was  in  my  heart! 


® 


88- 


546 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


LUCY  LARCOM. 

Born:  Beverly,  Mass.,  in  1826. 
As  a  child  of  seven  years  she  wrote  stories  and 
poems  for  her  own  amusement.  Her  father 
died  when  she  was  ten  years  of  age,  and  a  few 
years  later  we  find  Lucy  working  as  a  mill-op- 
erative in  Lowell,  Mass.  When  twenty  years  of 
age  she  removed  to  Illinois  with  her  married 
sister,  where  Lucy  taught  school  for  some 
time,  and  later  spent  three  years  as  a  pupil  in 
Monticello  female  seminary. 

Miss  Larcom  then  returned  to  Massachusetts. 
During  the  civil  war  she  wrote  many  patriotic 
songs.  In  1884  appeared  a  complete  collection 
of  her  Poetical  Works. 


THE  ROSE  ENTHRONED. 
It  melts  and  seethes,  the  chaos  that  shall  grow 

To  adamant  beneath  the  house  of  life: 
In  hissing  hatred  atoms  clash,  and  go 
To  meet  intenser  strife. 

And  ere  that  fever  leaves  the  granite  \eins, 

Down  thunders  over  them  a  torrid  sea: 
Now  Flood,  now  Fire,  alternate  despot  reigns. 
Immortal  foes  to  be. 

Built  by  the  warring  elements  they  rise. 

The  massive  earth-foundations,  tier  on  tier. 
Where  slimy  monsters  with  inhuman  eyes 
Their  hideous  heads  uprear. 

The  building  of  the  world  is  not  for  you. 

That  glare  upon  each  other,  and  devour! 
Race  floating  after  race  fades  out  of  view. 
Till  beauty  springs  from  power. 

Meanwhile  from  crumbhng  rocks  and  shoals  of 
death 
Shoots  up  rank  verdure  to  the  hidden  sun; 
The  gulfs  are  eddying  to  the  vague,  sweet 
breath 
Of  richer  life  begun ; 

Richer  and  sweeter  far  than  aught  before 

Though  rooted  in  the  grave  of  what  has  been : 
Unnumbered  burials  yet  must  heap  Earth's 
floor 
Ere  she  her  heir  shall  win ; 

And  ever  nobler  lives  and  deaths  more  grand. 

For  nourishment  of  that  which  is  to  come; 
While  'mid  the  ruins  of  the  work  she  planned 
Sits  Ntiture,  blind  and  dumb. 

For  whom  or  what  she  plans,  she  knows  no 
more 
Than  any  mother  of  her  unborn  child: 
Yet  beautiful  forewarnings  murmur  o'er 

Her  desolations  wild. 
Slowly  the  clamor  and  the  clash  subside; 
Earth's  restlessness  her  patient  hopes  sub- 
due: 


© 


Mild  oceans  shoreward  heave  a  pulseless  tide; 
The  skies  are  veined  with  blue. 

And  life  works  through  the  growing  quietness. 

To  bring  some  darling  mj'stery  into  form: 
Beauty  her  fairest  Possible  would  dress 
In  colors  pure  and  warm. 

Within  the  depths  of  palpitating  seas, 

A  tender  tint,  anon  a  life  of  grace. 
Some  lovely  thought  from  its  dull  atom  frees. 
The  coming  joys  to  trace  :— 

A  penciled  moss  on  tablets  of  the  sand, 
Such  as  shall  veil  the    unbudded  maiden- 
blush 
Of  beauty  yet  to  gladden  the  green  land;— 
A  breathing,  through  the  hush, 

Of  some  sealed  perfume  longing  to  burst  out. 

And  give  its  prisoned  rapture  to  the  air:— 
A  brooding  hope,  a  promise  through  a  doubt. 
Is  whispered  ever j'w  here. 

And,  every  dawn  a  shade  more  clear,  the  skies 

A  flush  as  from  the  heart  of  heaven  disclose:  ! 
Through  earth  and  sea  and  air  a  message  flies. 
Prophetic  of  the  Rose. 

At  last  a  morning  comes,  of  sunshine  still. 

When  not  a  dew  drop  trembles  on  the  grass, 
When  all  winds  sleep,  and  evei-y  pool  and  rill 
Is  like  a  burnished  glass. 

Where  a  long-looked-for  guest  might  lean  to 
gaze; 
When  Day  or  Earth  rests  loyalty  —  a  crown 
Of  molten  glory,  flashing  diamond  rays, 
From  heaven  let  lightly  down. 

In  golden  silence,  breathless,  all  things  stand; 
What  answer  waits  this  questioning  repose? 
A  sudden  gush  of  light  and  odors  bland. 
And,  lo,—  the  Rose !  the  Rose ! 

The  birds  break  into  canticles  around 
The  winds  lift  Jubilate  to  the  skies: 
For,  twin-born  with  the  rose  of  Eden-ground, 
Love  blooms  in  human  eyes. 

Life's  marvelous  queen-flower  blossoms  only 
so. 
In  dust  of  low  ideals  rooted  fast: 
Ever  the  Beautiful  is  molded  slow 
From  truth  in  errors  past. 

What  flery  fields  of  Chaos  must  be  won, 
W'hat   battling   Titans   rear    themselves  a 
tomb, 
What  births  and  resurrections  greet  the  sun 
Before  the  Rose  can  bloom! 

And  of  some  wonder-blossom  yet  we  di-eam 
Whereof  the  time  that  is  enfolds  the  seed; 
Some  flower  of  light,  to  which  the  Rose  shall 
seem 
A  fair  and  fragile  weed. 
* 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMJSKICA. 


547 


* 


EDWARD  GILLIAM. 

Born:  Rockingham  Co.,  N.  C,  Feb. 37, 1868. 

At  a  very  early  age  Edward  was  apprenticed 
to  tlie  printing'  trade,  and  since  liis  sixteenth 
year  lias  had  a  passion  for  poetrj'.  His  poems 
have  appeared  in  the  leiidiiiu-  Nortli  Carolina 


EDWARD   GILLIAM. 

publications,  and  have  received  liigh  com- 
mendation. Mr.  Gilliam  first  published  Belles- 
Letters,  a  monthly  literary  periodical,  and 
later  established  the  Weekly  Review  of  Reids- 
ville.  North  Carolina,  of  which  he  is  now  the 
editor  and  part  proprietor. 


m 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  AGNOSTIC. 
"Lord,  I  believe,  help  thou  mine  unbelief!" 
And  let  me  learn  the  lesson  thou  wouldst 

teach. 
Nor  strive   in  vain    beyond    my    wisdom's 
reach 
For  thy  great  truths.  O,  Lord  giveth  me  relief. 
From  craven   tears   which    haunt   a  life  so 
brief. 
And  as  my  soul    sinks   while  the   casuists 

preach 
Incredulous  I  call  from  out  the  breach, 
"  Lord,  I  believe,  help  thou  mine  unbelief!" 
I  am  half  skeptic  —  still  a  slave  to  doubt  when 
I  would  know  thee  ere  my  lips  can  part. 


I  question  with  a  faith  still  uudevout, 

This  is  the  full  confession  of  my  heart, 
And  thus  I  cry  who  am  of  sinners  chief, 
"  Lord,  believe,  help  thou  mine  unbelief!" 


A  PICTURE. 

Phoebe,  thy  rapt,  patrician  beauty  seems 
A  type  of  that  surpassing  womanhood 
Which  in  the  days  of  earlier  Hellas  would 

l^elight   men's    hearts    and   give    the    poet 
themes; 

Divinely    tall,    high    bosomed     front     which 
gleams 
Like  two  pale  stars.  In  thy  unstudied  mood. 
Transfigured  in  the  shadow  of  the  wood, 

1  see  thee  now,  as  one  who  dimly  dreams. 

Thou  hast  the  self-same  classic  form  and  air. 
Broad   petaled   lips,  just   opening  in  sur- 
prise. 
Abundant  wealth  of  hyacinthine  hair 
And  like  a  glimpse  of  burning,  turquoise 
skies. 
Thine  eyes,  brimful  of  passionate  despair. 
Still  haunt  me  through  this  mad  world's  des- 
tinies. 


THE  HAUNTED  CASTLE. 

Upon  its  plinths  the  time-worn  arabesque 
Peeps  through  gray  lichens.    By  tlie  rifted 

wall. 
The    jasmines     nod   and    snake-like    ivies 
crawl. 

Around  the  arcades,  dimly  picturesque. 
Are  old  mosaics,  grim,  but  j'et  grotesque. 

The  watch-tower  stands,  while  through  the 
vacant  hall 

The  wind  sings  and  defiance  shouts  at  all. 

The  colonnades  cast  in  a  quaint  burlesque 
Their  mimic  shades  upon  the  settled  gloom. 
Which  fall,  half  tumbling  in  their  vain   at- 
tempt. 

No  bird  does  woo  the  castle  from  its  doom. 
Where  in  the  vines,  dismal  and  unkempt, 
Decayed,  deserted,  preyed  upon  by  fate. 
Deep-noted  death  reigns  weird  and  desolate. 


TWO  OPINIONS. 
In  your  eyes  are  a  mischievous  twinkle. 

As  you  say,  with  the  air  of  a  sage, 
"  On  her  face  there  is  surely  a  wrinkle. 

Which  betrays  the  arrival  of  age." 

But  I  think  you  decidedly  simple. 

Or  in  envy  you  murder  the  truth. 
For  it  is  but  a  beautiful  dimple. 

Which  reveals  the  abiding  of  youth. 


-m 


® 


548 


LOCAL,   AND    NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


-«  •! 


DANIEL  C.  COLESWORTHY. 

Born:  Portland,  Me.,  July  14, 1810. 
Since  his  youth  Mr.  Colesworthy  has  been 
more  or  less  ideutifled  with  the  publishing- 
business.  In  1830  he  published  Youth's  Paper, 
and  five  years  later  started  tlie  Portland  Tri- 
bune. He  has  written  and  published  about 
thirty  volumes  on  a  variety  of  sulgeeis.     The 


®- 


DANIEL  CLE.MENT  COLESWORTHY. 

poems  of  Mr.  Colesworthy  are  always  full  of 
tenderness  and  overflowing-  with  simplicity 
and  grace.  For  lialf  a  century  he  has  been 
engaged  in  the  book  business  —  twelve  years 
in  Portland;  the  remainder  in  the  city  of  Bos- 
ton, where  he  still  resides  devoting-  his  time 
almost  entirely  to  mercantile  pursuits. 

GIVE  A  TRIFLE. 
It  is  a  trifle;  give  a  mill 

To  help  the  poor  along; 
'Tis  not  ihe  amo\int,  it  is  the  will 

That  makes  the  virtue  strong. 
"  I  have  but  little,"  never  say, 

"'Twill  not  avail  to  g-ive;" 
A  penny,  if  you  give  to-day 

Will  make  the  dying-  live. 
It  is  the  spirit,  not  the  gold 

Upon  the  waters  cast. 
That  will  return  a  hundred  fold, 

To  cheer  and  bless  iit  last. 
Then  give  a  trifle  cheerfully 


Out  of  thy  little  store; 
With  interest  it  will  come  to  thee 
When  thou  wilt  need  it  more. 


FAULTS  OF  OTHERS. 

What  are  another's  faults  to  me? 

I've  not  a  vulture's  will 
To  pick  at  every  flaw  I  see, 

And  make  it  wider  still. 
14;  is  enougli  for  me  to  know 

I've  follies  of  my  own. 
And  on  my  heart  the  care  bestow 

And  let  my  friends  alone. 


WHEN  I  WOULD  DIE. 
I  would  die  when  the  day 

Lingers  bright  in  the  west; 
When  the  bird  hies  away 

To  his  soft,  downy  nest; 
When  the  hum  of  the  bee 

Is  not  heard  on  the  lilU, 
■  And  the  woodland  and  lea 

And  the  hamlet  are  still. 
When  the  sad,  weary  heart 

Can  no  longer  abide; 
O,  how  sweet  to  depart 

At  the  still  eventide  I— 
When  the  sun's  parting  rays 

Flash  glory  and  bliss. 
And  the  heart  is  all  praise  !— 

Be  my  death  like  to  this. 


MATTER  AND  MIND. 
I  built  a  city,  wide  and  vast. 

Whose  lofty  domes  and  spires 
For  many  a  league  their  shadows  cast. 

And  flashed  like  lightning  flres. 
Its  walls,  mag-niflcentlj'  grand, 

Like  solid  mountains  stood. 
And  might  for  countless  ages  stand. 

Defying-  frost  and  flood. 
I  wrote  some  verses  mild  and  sweet. 

As  simple  as  could  be. 
Which  every  mother  could  rei)eat 

To  lisping  infancy. 
Tliey  soothed  the  weary  in  their  tt)ils. 

And  shafts  of  sunshine  threw, 
Whicli  melted  to  delicious  smiles. 

And  blessed  like  evening  dew. 
The  city  crumbled,  stone  by  stone. 

Ground  by  tlie  tooth  of  Time; 
Gone  — mitred  head  and  sceptered  theme, 

Once  glorious  and  sublime. 
Tlie  verses  live,  and  day  by  day, 

Oneartli  —  in  worlds  beyond 
To  truth,  taught  in  this  simple  lay 

Ten  thousand  hearts  respond. 
Mountains  upheave  and  systems  fall. 

But  truth,  in  language  dressed. 
Gentle  and  sweet  survives  them  all. 

On  deathless  minds  impressed. 


©■ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEllICA. 


549 


^ 


ALBERT  ELISHA  JONES. 

Born:  Weld,  Me.,  Aug.  16,  184;J. 
Working  on  a  farm  until  the  age  of  twentj' 
three,  he  next  started  in  tlie  mercantile  bus- 
iness at  Strong-  in  his  native  state.  In  1873  he 
removed  to  Farming-ton,  and  four-years  later 
left  fur  TiiiM'ka,  K;ins:is,  whci'i-   he  is  now  the 


te- 


ALBERT  ELISHA  J<  i  M  v 

proprietor  of  the  Oakland  Jersey  Stock  Farm. 
Mr.  Jones  was  correspondent  of  the  Farming- 
ton  Chronicle  in  1876,  and  after  settling  in 
Kansas  he  lias  occasionally  -written  sketches 
for  that  and  other  papers.  Since  1883  he  has 
■written  poetry  more  or  less  in  leisure  hours. 

THE  DEVILS  ELBOW. 

Tell  me  in  truth,  by  word  or  Ime. 

The  simple  tale  as  heard  of  yore. 

Legend,  tradition,  or  record  give 

And  end  this  query  forevermore. 

Dill  Lucifer  come  sailing  down. 

In  a  sulphurous  skiff  of  Are, 

Or  did  old  Pierpole  take  revenge 

And  manufacture  the  name  entire? 

Perhaps  as  Satan  passed  that  way 

On  a  tour  to  visit  friends. 

His  craft  was  stranded  on  the  shore 

Where  now  the  elbow  bends. 

Go  hunt  the  cliffs,  perchance  you'll  find 

Of  cloven  hoof  and  tail  a  trace. 

And  stones,  and  earth  whereon  he  sat. 

Might  give  a  clue  to  his  hiding  place. 


Fear  not,  good  folk,  so  near  approacli 
In  your  midst,  this  serpent  sly. 
You  always  said  he  would  not  stay. 
Where  men  are  just  and  will  not  lie. 

AN  AUTUMN  SUNSET. 
We  see  far  off  'round  tlie  smoky  hills, 

On  this  radiant  autumn  day. 
Where  mi.sty  swells  of  the  battlement  clouds, 

Show  grouping-  of  colors,  in  Nature's  own 
way. 
We  wonder  and  think,  as  the  crimson  haze 

Creeps  over  the  drowsy  land,  [air. 

How  an  artist  could  grasp  from  fathomless 

And  trace  on  canvas  the  master  hand. 
The  blending  of  shades  as  evening  comes  on. 

Has  never  been  equaled  by  art.  [make. 

Who    are    the   painters,   such    pigments  can 

As  is  shown  in  each  delicate  part? 
Still  to  admire  the  ambition  of  man. 

Who  aims  to  draw  beautiful  lines. 
And  give  to  the  scene  those  wonderful  tints. 

That  charm  when  the  daylight  declines. 


DARKNESS  WAS  UPON  THE  DEEP. 

Before  our  sun  had  learned  his  course. 

Before  the  moon  in  its  orbit  shone. 
Fierce  darkness  crept  upon  the  waste. 

Chaos  reigned  supreme  and  alone. 
What  mighty  throes  convulsed  that  void, 

■What  throbbing-  mountains  rose  and  fell, 
And  oceans  lashed  by  sunless  waves. 

No  living  types  therein  did  dwell. 

No  cipher  traced  on  plastic  stone. 

No  crumbling  bones  to  mark  the  age; 
Hushed  in  deep  and  awful  gloom. 

Thy  history  sealed  from  saint  or  sage. 
No  g-lorious  morning  woke  the  earth. 

No  rainbow  the  heaven  spanned; 
Our  blackest  midnight  would  be  light 

To  the  shadowy  pall  that  bound  the  land. 
A  spirit  moved  upon  the  deep, 

A  new-born  light  swept  back  the  veil, 
'Twas  good,  the  waters  from  land  divide. 

In  the  midst  a  firmament  did  ever  avail. 
What  need  of  life,  of  sun,  or  light; 

What  need  of  man  to  till  the  soil; 
A  voice  rang  out  in  earthquake  tones. 

Thorns  mark  thy  path  and  damp  thy  brow 
with  toil. 
Ill  trouble  rule  all  beasts  and  birds. 

In  sorrow  eat  and  labor  still, 
Transgression  holds  to  strict  account 

A  flaming  sword  to  keep  his  will. 
Fulfill  our  mission  then  on  earth, 

Fulfill  the  graven  laws  on  stone; 
Be  hushed  for  Sinai  frowns  above. 

And  man,  for  his  deeds,  must  soon  atone. 


■© 


®^ 


550 


® 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMERICA. 


FRED  ERNEST  ROBINSON. 

Born:  Cato,  Wis.,  Feb.  23, 1865. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Robinson  have  qiiito  often 

appeai'fil  in  tin'  Incal  pn---.     Hi-  iv  iMiii-.-i'jcMi  in 


FRED  ERNEST  ROBINSON. 

the  profession  of  school  teaching-  at  Alexan- 
dria, Minnesota. 

THE  DREAM. 
'Twas  during  the  Grand  Army  encampment. 

When  the  town  was  full  of  fun. 
When  I  returned  to  my  home  one  morning. 

Long  after  the  clock  struck  one. 
E'er  long  I  was  deeply  sleeping. 

Where  oft  before  I  had  lain. 
And  soon  wild  fancies  came  sweeping 

Through  my  excited  brain. 
I  dreamed  I  was  on  the  ocean. 

Driven  by  a  terrible  storm. 
On  the  face  of  every  poor  sailor 

Was  the  look  of  wildest  alarm. 
I  heard  the  loud  voice  of  the  captain, 

Tn  a  lull  of  the  fearful  blast. 
Shout  forth  witli  strong  voice  his  orders. 

As  the  ci'ew  all  stood  aghast, 
«'My  men  bo  quick,  let  down  the  boats. 

And  helmsman,  tilt  the  bows. 
We  soon  will  strike  the  breakers. 

So  all  your  courage  rouse." 
The  storm  increased;  tlie  lightning  flashed; 

I  heard  tlie  thunder  roar; 
I  heard  the  wails  of  the  fated  ones 
Who  would  see  their  friends  no  more. 


The  crackling  of  the  ship  on  flre 

Soon  struck  upon  my  ear; 
I  heard  the  song  of  the  Angel  of  Death 

And  my  heart  was  filled  with  fear. 
I  felt  a  shock  —  the  ship  had  struck. 

The  waves  against  it  broke; 
I  was  hurled  from  the  deck  to  the  surging 
deep. 

And  with  the  splash  I  awoke. 

The  voice  I'd  heard  was  my  father's  voice, 

Calling  with  lungs  so  strong. 
To  rouse  me  from  my  slumbers  soft, 

As  I  had  lain  too  long. 
"  Up  quick,  and  then  put  on  your  boots. 

And  help  them  milk  the  cows. 
E'er  noon  j-ou'll  like  some  breakfast. 

So  from  your  slumbers  rouse." 
The  fancied  lightning  was  the  sun 

Glancing  through  tlie  trees, 
And  what  I  thought  was  thunder  loud 

Was  humming  of  the  bees. 
Tlie  fearful  wails  that  I  had  heard 

Of  those  poor  wretches  dying. 
Was  nothing  more  or  less  than  that 

Of  my  little  sister  crying. 
The  "  flre  "  was  crackling  on  the  hearth; 

The  song  which  1  had  heard. 
Sung  as  a  dirge  by  the  Angel  of  Death, 

Was  that  of  an  innocent  bird. 
Tliat dreadful  shock— I  hide  my  face. 

How  badly  I  was  sold ! 
My  brother  had  jerked  me  from  my  bed 

Into  a  tub  of  water  cold. 


®- 


CHRISTMAS. 

Merry  Christmas  has  come  and  gone, 
Christmas  fair,  with  its  laugh  and  song. 
Old  Santa  Claus  has  gone  around. 
And  childish  hearts  with  rapture  bound; 
The  Ciiristmas  trees  shone  in  the  hall. 
With  Christmas  gifts  for  large  and  small; 
Many  Christmas  songs  they  sang— 
The  hall,  with  Christmas  music,  rang. 

Many  came  to  the  Christmas  tree. 
While  others  chose  the  dancing  glee; 
A  few  young  men  each  with  his  ••  paid," 
Went  to  a  Ciiristmas  ball  at  Villard. 
Tlie  sleigh  bells  rang  with  Christmas  chime. 
The  eve  was  fair  —  the  weather  flue; 
All  thoughts  of  care  were  thrown  aside 
As  the  party  o'er  the  snow  did  glide. 

Soon  gentle  siiowfliikes  filled  tiio  air, 
I'ntil  you  could  scarcely  see  them  there. 
They  would  have  fared  worse,  we  greatly  fear, 
But  tlie  rest  of  the  party  hovered  near. 
And  two  young  men  soon  fixed  them  right, 
And  on  they  sped  with  all  their  might.  ^ 


m- 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


5.51 


-© 


BESSIE  PORTER. 

Born:  Ireland,  May  9,  1865. 
This  lady  is  now  a  resident  of  Currie,  Minn., 
where   she   is  engaged  in  the  profession  of 


BESSIE  POli'l  I   i; 

school  teaching-.  Miss  Bessie  Porter  received 
a  good  education  in  her  youth.  She  has  but 
recently  commenced  to  court  tlie  muse. 


© 


FORGET  THEE  NOT. 
Once  my  life  was  full  of  pain. 
Now,  I  possess  life's  richest  gain,— 
A  heart  so  strong-,  so  fond  and  pure. 
That,  well  I  know  my  love's  secure. 
No  limpid  lake,  nor  lucid  stream. 
Can  enter  into  love's  young-  dream: 
A  dream  so  sweet  for  me,  I  know 
Of  naught  that  can  my  dream  o'erthrow. 
A  love  so  fond  that  none  can  tell. 
Oh!  how  I  love  thee,  none  so  well, 
ril  follow  thee  whate'er  thy  lot; 
Forget  thee  not;  forget  thee  not. 
From  mansion  brig-lit  to  humble  cot; 
Forget  thee  not;  forget  tliee  not. 
When  tempests  strong  o'ertake  thy  bark. 
Thy  liarbor  still  find  in  my  heart; 
When  waves  doth  toss,  and  seethe  and  swell. 
And  seem  to  sound  thy  dirge  and  knell, 
ihe  hoary  foam,  and  angry  spray 
Seem  anxious,  love,  to  end  thy  day,- 
Then  steer  my  yacht  straight  to  my  heart, 


And  never  from  its  refuge  part. 
Secure  thou'lt  be  from  all  thy  foes; 
I'll  pour  sweet  balm  upon  thy  woes; 
I'll  soothe  thee,  heal  thee,  cheer  thy  lot; 
Forget  thee  not;  forget  thee  not. 
Love  thee  as  long  as  life  I've  got; 
Forget  thee  not;  forget  thee  not. 


BENEATH  THE  SNOW. 
Can'st  tell  me  where  doth  the  blue-bell  hide. 

The  primrose  sweet,  and  fox-glove  tall. 
The  lily-of-the-valley's  pride? 

I  miss;  oh!  yes,  I  miss  them  all: 
The  waving  fern  so  stately  fair, 

Found  where  wood  anemonies  blow; 
Sweet  mignonette  and  maiden  hair. 

"  They're  gone  to  sleep  beneath  the  snow." 
Can'st  tell  me  where  the  rose  doth  bloom. 

The  dainty  rose  with  queenly  grace? 
Shall  I  only  find  its  tomb 

Where  once  it  bloomed  in  the  garden  place? 
The  lilac  sweet,  and  cowslip  bell. 

The  pansiesin  their  bed  so  low? 
If  you  know,  stranger,  tell,  oh !  tell. 

"They're  gone  to  sleep  beneath  the  snow." 
Will  they  wake  when  gentle  spring 

Sends  her  zephyrs  'cross  the  plain 
To  warm  and  welcome  everything? 

Shall  I  see  their  heads  again? 
Must  I  calmly  watch  and  wait 

Anxiouslj%  as  you  well  know 
For  the  balmy  southern  breeze 

To  wake  my  friends  from 'neath  the  snow? 


FOR  YOU!    FOR  YOU! 
Last  night  the  nightingale  woke  me, 

Last  night  when  all  was  still. 
It  sang  in  the  golden  moonliglit 

From  out  the  woodland  hill. 
I  opened  my  window  so  gently— 

I  looked  on  the  dew,  and,  oh ! 
The  bird,  my  darling,  was  singing, 

Was  singing  of  you,  of  you. 
I  think  of  you  in  the  daytime, 

I  di-eam  of  you  by  night, 
I  woke  and  would  you  were  here,  love, 

And  tears  are  blinding  my  sight. 
I  hear  a  low  breath  in  the  lime-tree. 

The  wind  is  floating  thro' 
The  night,  my  darling,  is  sighing 

Is  sighing  for  you,  for  you. 
Oh!  think  not,  I  can  forget  j-ou  — 

I  could  not,  tho'  I  would ; 
I  see  you  in  all  around  me. 

The  stream,  the  night,  the  wood. 
The  flowers  that  slumber  so  sweetly. 

The  stars  above  the  blue. 
The  heaven  itself,  my  darling. 

Is  praying,  is  praying  for  you. 


© 


©- 


■®  il 


552 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.   MAY    L.   BUCKNER. 

Born:  Columbus,  Wis.,  Feb.  23,  1862. 
Under   the   nom  de  plume  of    Dolores   the 

poems  of  this  lady  liave  appeared  in  Godey's 


JIKS.   MAY    I>.   BUCKNER. 

Lady's  Book,  Arthur's  Magazine  and  otlier 
prominent  journals.  She  was  married  in  1884 
to  Van  W.  Buckner,  with  whom  she  now  re- 
sides in  Lemoore,  California. 

tulXre  lake. 

A  wide  expanse  of  waters  spread, 

Within  the  desert's  palm  — 
Silvery  waters  lying-  still. 

Naught  to  disturb  their  calm. 
On  the  low  hanks  the  tulles  bend, 

And  kiss  the  water's  brink,— 
From  it  many  a  traveler 

Has  quaffed  a  cooling  drink. 
And  far  away  the  mountains  seem. 

Wrapped  in  a  purple  veil. 
And  oft  the  flsherman  we  see 

By  tlie  sunliglit  on  his  sail. 
A  mighty  lake  —  mysterious. 

Tt  sleeps  upon  the  plain,— 
Not  ours  to  know  its  destiny, — 

We  searcli  its  shores  in  vain. 
What  curious  records  it  c<Mild  tell, 

Of  many  bygone  years!  — 
M'hat  histories  and  tragedies. 

Of  mortals'  hopes  and  fears. 


®- 


Of  days  when  hordes  of  cattle. 

Of  Ijands  of  the  wild  horse. 
Up  and  down  the  desert. 

Pursued  their  waywai'd  course. 
Of  bauds  of  fiercer  l^andits 

Who  lingered  at  its  side. 
And  chattered  as  they  rested. 

Of  their  dangerous,  weary  ride. 
What  it  could  tell,  we  know  not  — 

It  keeps  its  secrets  well. 
And  shrinks  away  as  if  it  thus 

Man's  questionings  would  repell. 
Fair  lake,  we  leave  thee  with  regret. 

Fair,  smiling,  and  serene, — 
A  sleeping  beauty  still  enwrapped 

In  love's  entrancing  dream. 


MY  BOYS. 
He  lies  in  his  cradle  asleep. 

My  baby,  my  boy! 
His  soft  cheek  caressingly  laid 

On  plaything  and  toy! 
His  tiny  mouth  kissed  by  a  smile. 

Dimpled  hands  on  his  breast. 
His  dancing  eyes  hidden  add  still  — 

My  baby  at  rest. 
He  lies  in  his  coffin  asleep. 

My  baby,  my  boy ! 
The  baby  who  never  can  know 

Earth's  sorrow  or  joy. 
With  waxen  hands  folded  and  still 

On  tiny,  still  breast.— 
He  lies  in  his  coffin  asleep. 

My  baby  at  rest. 
He  lies  in  his  cradle  asleep. 

My  frolicsome  one, — 
Forgotten  his  romps  and  his  play. 

His  glee  and  his  fun. 
Dreaming,  we  know  not  what. 

While  we,  standing  near, 
Hope  that  life's  pathway  may  be 

Bright  for  the  baby  dear. 
He  lies  in  his  coffin  asleep. 

Our  dear,  silent  one! 
His  wee  life  too  brief  to  contain 

Sorrow  or  fun; 
The  willow  bends  low  over  liim, 

Our  bal)y  at  rest ! 
Wliile  we  know,  e'en  thro'  blinding  tears, 

That  his  fate  is  best. 
Our  baby  asleep  in  his  crib. 

Awakens  to  life  — 
Life  made  of  sorrow  and  joy. 

Of  peace  and  of  strife  — 

Our  baby  asleep  in  his  grave. 

Has  done  with  tliis  life  — 
He  wakens  to  Christ  and  His  love,— 

All  peace  and  no  strife. 


© 


© 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMKUICA. 


553 


ANN  IE  STEWART  ETHRIDGE 

Boiix :  RUTLEDGE,  Ga.,  Oct.  14,  1868. 
The  poem  Bereaved  wiis  written  iu  1887  ou 
the  deatli  of  the  mother  of  Miss  Ethridge.  The 

nniMiis  of  this  lady  Imve  aiipi'iin'd  in    the  loral 


ANNIE   STEWAliT   ETnlUDOE. 

press  from  time  to  time ;  slie  is  now  engagred 
in  writing  a  novel.  Miss  Ethridge  is  now  a 
resident  of  Birmingliam,  Alabama. 


BEREAVED. 

Without  a  home:  oil  bitter  fate! 

Oh  hopeless,  loveless  destiny. 
To  sit  a  stranger  in  thy  gate. 

With  but  a  stranger's  cheer  for  me. 
A  stranger  at  a  stranger's  hearth ; 

Strange  children  prattling  at  my  side; 
Sweet  faces  — but  they  call  to  eartli 

Old  hopes  and  joys  that  long  liave  died. 
And  yet,  thou'rt  full  of  gentle  deeds 

To  me,  and  kind  words  lack  I  none; 
But  oh  thou  canst  not  know  the  needs 

Of  hearts  that  hunger  for  their  own !  [aught 
And    think   not,  friend,  thou'st  grieved   me 

If  sometimes  in  the  fire-light's  glow, 
I  silent  sit  and  mingle  not 

In  merry  laugh  and  jest.    Ah  no! 
My  thought  is  not  of  thee  unkind; 

1  dwell  on  day  forever  past: 
The  love  that  in  thy  home  I  find 

But  makes  me  crave  for  that  I've  lost. 
Ye  kindly  scold  my  tear-dimmed  eyes. 

And  chide  my  songs  because  they  grieve; 
Yet  how  can  songs  of  joy  arise 

From  hearts  of  all  their  joy  bereaved? 
® 


1  loved  onee  in  my  hap|>y  day, 

.\nd  she  I  loved  as  injreness  pure. 
And  fairer  than  all  my  songs  can  say, 

Than  all  my  songs  can  tell,  was  truer; 
But  once  I  lost  her.  Oil !  and  call 

You  yet  for  smiles,  when  joy  hath  fled, 
And  hope  with  her  —  oh,  friend  my  all! 

And  lie  with  her  adead,  adeadl' 

And  can  you  speak  of  life's  large  bound, 

When  all  my  life  is  compassed  well 
Twixt  four  low  walls  of  hollowed  ground, 

With  roof  of  turf  and  asphodel":? 
Wlieu,  on  a  mound  that  once  I  made. 

My  all-time  tlioughts  but  linger  o'er; 
And  when  my  starving  heart  will  feed 

But  on  its  mate  that  lies  below? 

Our  two  lives  were  but  halves  of  one: 

E'en  yet,  as  earth  —  half  night,  half  day  - 
Her  brighter  half  turns  to  the  Sun, 

While  mine  goes  on  night's  darkling  way. 
And  still,  oh  friend !  dost  chide  my  tears? 

Dost  bid  my  famished  soul  to  live 
On  but  the  stones  that  friendship  bears. 

When  bread  of  love  thou  canst  not  give? 
Ah!  no.    I  can  but  grieve:  my  eyes 

Must  ever  melt  in  sorrow's  stream. 
My  nights  be  voiced  with  bitter  cries. 

And  all  my  life  a  requiem. 
Aye  friend,  my  songs  must  eacb  one  be 

But  cravings  for  her  vanished  face; 
Each  year  I  live,  but  one  long  plea 

To  rest  me  in  her  dear  embrace. 
But  oh  how  drear  the  twixt-time  years, 

To  spend  intruding  each  fireside; 
A  loveless  waif  whose  simple  tears. 

But  do  recall  the  rain  outside. 
What!  has  my  chiding  given  pain! 

Forgive,  kind  friend,  I  meant  not  so, 
I  did  but  crave  those  joys  again 

That  lie  entombed  in  Nevermore! 


DAY  BY  DAY^ 

Wliy  every  morn,  a  vain  endeavor 

To  out-rise  my  jjoor  self;  and  ever. 

At  night,  to  find  me  still  back-drawn 

Unto  old  depths  —  no  new  heights  known,' 

No  memorj-  of  a  kindlier  deed 

Than  yesterday's,  to  give  its  meed 

Of  pitiful  cheer  to  my  worn  soul; 

That  dreads  the  hours  when  constant  roll 

My  tears  like  rivers,twi.\t  niglit's  black  banks. 

Ofttimes  to-day,  deep  in  regret 

O'er  yesterday's  downfalls  — and  yet. 

My  tears  do  naught  but  blind  my  eyes. 

So  that  I  fall  again,  to  rise 

With  yet  more  tears,  then  stumble  on 

Aweeping:  Or  to  gaze  upon 

My  bruised  hands  and  feet,  and  cry, 

"Wliy  am  I  Father?  But  to  die 

A  death  with  every  vesper?  " 


-® 


ti 


8&- 


— ^ 


654 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


JAMES  BRAINERD  MORGAN. 

Born:  Berkeley  Co.,  W.  Va. 
In  boyhood  James  began  writing  poems,  and 
has  ever  since  been  an  occasional  contribu- 
tor to  numerous  magazines  and  periodicals 
published  in  different  parts  of  the  country.  In 
1870  he  founded  The  Times  of  Gerrardstown, 


®- 


JAMES  BRAINERD   MORGAN. 

and  still  remains  its  editor  and  publisher. 
For  the  past  eight  years  Mr.  Morgan  has  been 
grand  secretary  of  the  Independent  Order  of 
Good  Templars,  and  was  the  editor  of  its  of- 
ficial organ  during  its  existence.  Mr.  Morgan 
was  married  in  1867  to  Miss  Maggie  Gold, 
daughter  of  the  late  Washington  Gold. 

THE  SUNNY  DAY. 
The  day  is  warm  and  briglit  and  cheery. 
It  shines  and  the  sun  is  never  dreary. 
The  roses  bloom  when  the  sunbeams  fall 
Giving  sweet  light  and  fragrance  to  all. 
And  the  day  is  bright  and  cheery. 
My  life  is  warm  and  bright  and  cheery, 
Itsliines  and  the  sun  is  never  dreary. 
My  thoughts  recall  glad  scenes  of  the  past. 
Around  t.lie  future  fair  hopes  are  cast, 
And  tlie  day  is  bright  and  cheery. 
Be  glad  my  heart  and  still  be  singing. 
Rejoice  in  all  that  time  is  bringing. 
Though  care  and  sorrow  come  to  all. 
Into  each  life  rich  blessings  fall. 
And  the  days  are  bright  and  clieery. 


TO  MY  SISTER. 
Dear  sister  mine  a  wreath  I'd  twine 
Of  Poesy's  fair  flowers  for  thee; 
For  love  as  pure  as  thine  I'm  sure 
Such  tribute  well  may  claim  from  me. 
I  hope  'twill  prove  that  tho'  I  rove 
Far  from  my  boyhood's  distant  home. 
That  oft  sweet  thought  with  pleasure  fraught. 
Of  thee  doth  to  my  bosom  come. 
When  in  sad  death  a  mother's  breath. 
One  Summer-day  grew  chill  for  e'er; 
Thou  then  didst  take  for  her  dear  sake 
A  little  child  in  love  to  rear; 
Full  well  hast  thou  fulfilled  the  vow 
Unto  that  dying  mother  given. 
And  oft  has  she  since  then  on  thee 
Approving  smiled,  methinks  from  Heaven. 
With  earnest  love,  like  hers  above. 
Her  wishes  thou  didst  e'er  fulfill. 
With  watchful  care  that  Child  to  rear 
To  love  the  good  and  shun  the  ill; 
And  here  to-day,  though  far  away. 
He  in  this  little  song  I  sing. 
With  fond  delight  a  tribute  slight 
Of  gratitude  to  thee  would  bring. 
Thy  footsteps  now  have  passed  the  brow 
Of  life's  hill,  and  thence  tend  down 
Unto  the  tide  that  doth  divide 
The  Christian's  trials  and  his  crown; 
As  years  increase  may  joy  and  peace 
E'er  unto  thee  be  multiplied; 
Life's  sweetest  flowers  wreathe  all  thy  hours. 
And  blessings  fall  on  every  side. 
Oh !  when  at  last  we  shall  have  passed 
Across  Death's  dark  and  chilly  river. 
Then  may  we  rest  amid  the  blest. 
Out  in  the  unseen  great  forever. 
When  ne'er  again  come  grief  and  pain, 
But  all  is  endless  joy  and  love. 
In  the  abode  of  Christ  our  God, 
And  angels  bright  and  saints  above. 


A  SUNSET  LESSON. 
'Mid  cloudy  curtains  of  the  west. 
At  close  of  day  though  sets  the  sun, 
Gilding  unto  his  couch  of  rest, 
Glad  that  his  daily  cour.se  is  run; 
In  brighter  light  he  will  appear 
E'er  as  the  morning  drawelh  near, 
Glowing  Hope's  bright  sun  may  set, 
ort  'mid  the  slindes  ol  sorrow's  night; 
Look  upward  still  for  day  shall  yet 
Dawn  far  more  beautiful  and  briglit. 


EXTRACT. 
■  The  gold-dust  of  tire  opening  day 
Is  strewn  along  the  eastern  sky : 
Bright  rosy  beams  of  glowing  liulii 
Over  the  earth  in  beauty  flj'. 


-« 


«- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMElilOA. 


-►5 


ooo 


JACOB  W.  GREE"tsE. 

Born:  Hakhison  Co.,  Ixd.,  Jan.  18, 1839. 
Since  1861  Dr.  Greene  1ms  been  following  the 
profession  of  a  dental  surgeon,    and   is    now 
located  at  Cliilllcothe,  Mo.     He  was  married 
In  1863  to  Miss  Annie  Eliza  Pitt,  of    New    AI- 


i 

I' 

PI 

k 

1 

f                  ^USSh. 

^- 

W^ 

\^ 

JACOB   W.    GREENE. 

bany,  Ind.  Dr.  Greene  lias  written  quite  ex- 
tensively for  tlie  periodical  press;  and  in  ad- 
dition to  his  poems  he  has  furnished  prose 
writings  on  dental  and  other  subjects.  He 
has  a  work.  Philosophies  of  Betsy  Spoon, 
which  he  hopes  to  publish  at  au  early  date. 


« 


IN  MEMORIAM. 
What  e'er  be  our  portion  in  life,  or  its  where. 
We  realize  ever  the  golden  bright  truth. 
That  the  points  of  the  compass  all    radiate 

there. 
And  center  again  at  the  home  of  our  youth. 
And  whether  in  mansion  or  hovel  we  dwelt. 
Companions'  sweet  faces  and  voices  we  found. 
Whose  presence,  like  sunshine  of  summer,  we 

felt. 
Brought  halos  of  briglitness  and    pleasures 

around. 

'Twas  there  gorgeous  sunsets,  with  glamour 
afar. 

Lit  up  the  round  heavens  to  the  zenith  above. 

And  through  the  soft  azure  one  bright  even- 
ing star  [love. 

Beamed  first  in  its  beauty  and    twinkles   of 


That  star  of  the  evening,  still  twinkling,  re- 
minds 

Of  the  liills  and  the  valleys  and  playmates  so 
fair; 

But  one,  of  all  others,  like  Venus,  outshines 

In  memory's  sweetness,  tlie  rest  that  were 
there. 

Dear  Orree  La  Faivrie,  were  yet  he  on  earth. 
Would  prize  much  thistribute  (excuse  andde- 

fend 
Its    weakness    of    genius   and   beauty   and 

worth)— 
Because  it  was  written  by  the  liand   of    His 

Friend. 


HOPE  TO  THE  RESCUE. 
Oh!  tell  me  not  this  flitting  life  is  all  — 
Is  all  there  is  in  store  for  me ; 
'Twere  better,  indeed,  I'd  never  lived  at  all 
Than  now  that  I  should  cease  to  be. 
Away  down  deep  beyond  the  ken  of  man. 
In  Nature's  bosom  hidden  lies  a  plan 
That  finite  minds  can  never  scan; 
Yet  a  kindly  whisper  of  a  low,  sweet  voice 
Bids  my  consciousness  within  rejoice. 
That  nevertheless  there  is  the  decree 
That  I  shall  never  cease  to  be. 
The  troubling  where,  the  how,  and  the  why 
Are  details  the  Goddess  of  Hope  passes  by. 
As  Supreme  over  reason  she  takes  control. 
And  proclaims  the  immortality  of  the  soul. 
Yea:  when  the  absurd   creeds   of   men   are 

rotten. 
And  materialistic  philosophies  forgotten; 
When  agnosticism  is  a  hoary  sage 
And  rules  over  a  knowledge-lacking  age: 
Still,  then  will  Hope  to  the  rescue  arise 
And  claim  the  part  that  never  dies. 

THE  INDIAN  FAIR. 

The  scene:  In  early  Southern  Hoosierdom, 
Where  'possums,  'coons  and  hoop-poles  grow. 
Amongst  the  clear  Ohio's  bluffs  and  glades, 
Wliere  poets  never  were  known  to  go. 
But  why  these  musers  always  kept  awaj- 
Is  difflcult  to  understand; 
For,     ever,     witches,     fairies,    ghosts  — and 

spooks  — 
Stood  waiting  'round  on  every  hand. 
'Twixt   knobs    and   hills   and    mossy,    rocky 

cliffs. 
Where  panthers  howled  and  hoo-owls  hoo-ed, 
A  weirdly  strange,  but  lovely  vallej',  hid. 
Where  fairy  lads  and  lasses  wooed ; 
Wliere    numerous  Indian   graves   and   dead 

men's  bones. 
And  arrow-flints,  and  quaint  old  mounds. 
Were  proof  that  there   where    fairies   often 

danced 
Had  once  been  known  as  battle  grounds. 


^ 


©- 


556 


-m 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


DR.BEN JAMIN  G.  INMAN. 

Born  :  Pleasant  Hill,  Ohio,  Aug.  11, 1836. 
Studying  medicine  in  early  youth  Mr.  Inman 
graduated  iu  1859.  Since  tliat  time  he  has 
been  busily  engaged  in  the  practice  of  his 


DR.   BENJAMIN  G.   INMAN. 

profession.  His  poems  have  received  exten- 
sive publication  in  the  local  press.  In  person 
Dr.  Inman  is  of  large  stature. 


THE  PATH  OF  LOVE. 

Love's  enchanted  chain  binds  the  soul. 

Like  Prometheus  to  the  captive  rock. 

Yet  free  from  pain  and  mortal  woe, 

And  feeds  on  food  that  angels  know. 

In  that  dream-land  of  eternal  bliss. 

'Tis  this  that  prompts  the  mother  with  her 

babe. 
In  the  silent  churchyard  to  be  peacefully  laid. 
There  to  rest  from  the  busy  cares  and  si  life. 
And  awaken  in  the  sweetness  of  a  better  life 
Wliere  love  reigns  one  eternal  golden  day. 
The  same  will  bind  the  father  and  the  son, 
When  life's  ))ilgriniage  is  closely  run. 
With  :inxious  liope  and  longing  eye 
They  look  back  and  vainly  sigh. 
For  moi'e  of  love's  enchanted  days. 
So  it  be  in  all  the  walks  of  human  life. 
Love  dispels  the  mists  of  hatred  and  of  sti'ife. 
It  feeds  the  soul  and  warms  tlu!  lieart. 
Turns  from  darkness  to  the  golden  light. 
And  bathes  in  the  ocean  of  eternal  bliss. 


The  sunlit  hills  of  peace  divine. 
In  constant  charge  of  father  Time, 
Will  melt  the  icebergs  of  hate  and  wrath. 
And  furnish  a  new  and  better  path. 
The  path  of  joy,  of  peace,  and  love. 


HOPES  OF  LIFE. 

Alas!  for  the  poor  wayfaring  man, 
How  he  sighs  as  he  thinks  of  the  distant  be- 
yond; 
But  little  to  comfort,  but  little  to  cheer  him. 
As  he  views  the  empty,  and  viewless  beyond. 
Ah !  the  vague  thoughts  of  a  future  to  all, 
'Tis  a  mystery  enshrouded  in  ogres  and  gloom ; 
We  know  of  the  past,  the  present  is  ours. 
The  future  to  all  is  in  doubt  and  in  gloom. 
We  speak  of  the  realms  of  the  blessed. 
The  home  of  the  soul,  of  the  joys  on  high: 
But  who  can  descry  witli  an  infinite  eye, 
Or  know  what  is  in  the  distant  beyond. 
Do  we  know  beyond  doubt  of  a  soul, 
That  has  crossed  the  dark  waters  of  time. 
That  is  living  to  tell  us  of  whither  we  go 
When  we  cross  the  dark  waters  of  time. 
Is  it  right  to  cherish  the  fond  hope 
Of  a  life  in  the  happy  and  distant  beyond? 
A  place  where  the  weary  can  peacefully  rest. 
And  hide  from  life's  tempests  and  storms. 
Verily !  verily !  'tis  right  to  hope  on 
For  what  can  we  be  without  hope  in  this  life? 
It  prompts  us  to  act,to  move  forward  in  works. 
Makes  life  to  us  blessed,  and  saves  us  from 

harm. 
Then  who  would  stay  the  fond  hopes. 
Of  the  life-giving  virtues  of  a  life  that  is  now. 
The  good  that  we  hope  for,  may  it  come  to  us 

soon, 
Perchance  we  may  miss  it,  in  tlie  liappy  be- 
yond. 
'Tis  a  hope  that  our  fathers  have  all  enter- 
tained, 
They  believed  it,  they    taught    it,  as  verily 

true; 
The  hope  that  they   had   was  stronger  than 

death. 
Let  have  been  whatever  it  was,  false  or  true. 


PULLING  THE  TOOTH. 

EXTRACT. 

1  iiave  been  racked   with  the  painsof  nour 

gia. 
With  all  kinds  of  torments,  and  of  fear. 
But  the  worst  to  be  dreaded  of  Earth 
Is  pulling  the  tooth  you've  carried  for  yea 
Sun,  moon  and  stars  may  grow  dim. 
The  earth  with  his  charms  grow  cold; 
Friends  may  forsake  us  but  we'll  never  forj 
Pulling  the  tooth  we've  carried  for  years. 


m- 


■g( 


& 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL  TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


© 


MRS.  MARY  FELTOX. 

Born:  Cedar  Falls,  Iowa,  Nov.  21, 1853. 
At  eig-hteen  years  of  age  this  lady  comnieuced 
to  teach.    From  early  cliildliood  she  was  very 
fond  of  verse.    In  1877  she   was  married  to 


MRS.  MARY  FELTON. 

Frederic  C.  Felton,  with  whom  she  now  resides 
at  Belmoud,  Iowa.  The  poems  of  Mrs.  Felton 
have  appeared  in  Good  Houselseeping-,  New 
York  Ledger,  Peterson's  Magazine  and  vari- 
ous other  publications. 


1*- 


THE  DYING  YEAR. 
I  lean  from  my  chamber  window 

And  gaze  on  the  world  below. 
A  world  that  lies  cold  and  silent, 

'Neath  a  sheet  of  drifted  snow. 
My  trusty  clock  on  the  mantel 

Will  soon  chime  the  midnight  hour; 
The  knell  of  the  dying  Old  Year, 

The  end  of  his  reign  and  power. 
But  I  love  the  dying  Old  Year, 

Though  the  New  one  looks  so  gay, 
He  brought  me  sorrows,  but  truly 

Not  more  than  the  New  Year  may. 
So  while  I  may  greet  the  New  one 

With  a  welcome  kind  and  true. 
My  heart  lies  half  with  the  Old  Year, 

To  me,  as  dear  as  the  New. 
I  lean  again  from  my  window. 

To  see,  if  only  I 


Have  love  enough  for  the  Old  Year, 

To  care  to  see  him  die. 
Bui  the  wind  sobs  through  the  tree-tops, 

A  dirge,  sincere  and  loud; 
While  a  crystal  tear  falls  softly 

Upon  the  Old  Year's  shroud. 
The  stars  like  funeral  tapers 

In  the  heaven,  shine  cold  and  bright. 
As  they  watch  the  Old  Year  dying. 

On  his  snowy  couch  to-night. 
But  the  Old  Year  dieth  bravely. 

Like  many  a  hope  of  mine  — 
He  died  in  an  hour  of  darkness, 

And  he  died  without  a  sign. 


WORDS  OF  CHEER. 
Ah!    weary  mother,  'round   whose    evening 
chair  [kissed. 

Bright   faces    cluster  to   be   washed   and 
You're  most  too  tired  now  to  hear  the  prayer 

By  baby  voices,  in  the  twilight  lisped. 
You  scarce  can  read  your  daily  page  aright. 

You  simply  voice  a  longing  cry  for  rest. 
But,  weary  mother,  cheer  thee  up,  to-night 

I  bring  thee  greetings,  we  are  truly  blest! 

Yes,  truly  blest,  that  we  can  work  and  pray 

For  those  we  love,  however  hard  the  task; 
Sufficient  sti-ength  is  promised  day  by  day. 

No  better  gift  my  grateful  heart  can  ask. 
How  many  children  creep  to  beds  to-night. 

By  mother  hearts  unloved  and  uncaressed? 
Ah!    weary    mothers,    clasp   your  ti-easures 
tight. 

Thank  God,  be  happy,  know  that  you  are 
blest. 


SUBMISSION. 

EXTRACT. 

What  heights   sublime  a  suffering  soul  may 

reach. 
While  those  around  it  little  care  or  know; 
As  Marah's  waters  lave  their  bleeding  feet. 
And  wasli   their   garments   white   as  driven 

snow. 
Lord  I  submit;  how  can  I  tell  how  great. 
How   deep,  how    good   or   wisely    thou  hast 

planned; 
I  only  know  thj-  children  well  can  wait. 
In  the  blest  knowledge,  thou  dost  understand. 


THANKSGIVING  DAY. 

EXTRACT. 

So  come,  ye  sons  and  daughters. 

Leave  restless  city  strife; 
Come  ere  you  lose  your  relish 

For  the  quiet  joys  of  life. 
Come  back  ye  roaming  children, 

Fi'om  prairies  far  and  wide; 
And  cluster  'round  the  hearthstone 

Once  more  at  even-tide. 


* 


©• 


^ 


558 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  HARRIET  M.  CONKLIN. 

Born:  Sphingville,  N.Y.,  Sept.  U,  1835. 
Removing  with  her  parents  to  AUegau,  Mich- 
igan, when  an  infant,  the  subject  of  this 
sketch  was  there  educated  and  taught  school 
for  several  years.  At  the  ag-e  of  twenty-two 
she  attended    the    Michigan   state    normal 


MRS.  HARRIET  M.  CONKLIN. 

at  Ypsilanti  for  two  years ;  afterward  became 
principal  of  the  seminary  at  West  Liberty, 
Iowa,  and  later  entered  into  the  millinery 
business.  In  1869  she  was  married  to  William 
A.  Conklin,  who  together  with  his  wife  are 
now  publishing  the  Independent  at  St.Charles, 
Mich.  Her  poems  have  appeared  in  some  of 
the  leading  publications  of  America. 


ALLEGAN,  MY  HOME. 
Allegan!   Home!  Allegan  thy  glory  lias  de- 
parted ; 
The  torch  of  the  Are  fiend  ignited  your  walls; 
My  heart  beats  quickly,    I  am   nearly  dis- 
tracted 
For  fear  that  my  kinsmen  have  lost  by  y(nir 
fall. 
Who  governed  the  wind  as  it  fanned  the 
fierce  flames? 
Nor  let  it  abate  'till  your  ruin  was  o'er. 
Had  the  Are  king  no  mercy  for  your  fortune 
or  names: 
But  to  grasp  for  your  wealth  and  blot  out 
your  store? 


Allegan!    Proud  Allegan  now  is  sackcloth 
and  ashes. 
The  clarion  of  confusion  screams  over  your 
heads. 
And  humbled  in  sorrow  the  truth  o'er  you 
flashes  — 
A  scourge  has  been  sent  here,  was  it  from  the 
Gods? 

Peace !  Peace  to  the  pioneers  who  sleep  in 
tlieir  graves. 
They  were  spared  this  grief  which  came  not 
in  their  day, — 
The  workers,   the   builders,   the  many  old 
slaves. 
Who  built  up  the  town  and  then  passed  away. 

Then  brace  up,  and  build  up  your  many  sad 
losses. 
Gather  up  those  burned  brick  without  stop- 
ping to  rest; 
Make  the  town  what  it  has  been,  don't  give 
up  foi'  crosses 
For  God  in  liis  wisdom  rules  all  for  the  best. 

Allegan  my  home!    The  home  of  my  child- 
hood, 
My  heart  melts  in  sorrow  —  for  dear  to  me  yet 
Are  its  pines  on  the  hillside  ,  and  back  near 
the  wildwood 
Loved    friends  are  sleeping  wliom  I  cannot 
forget. 

DEDICATION. 

She  had  gone  to  bed  for  the  night-time, 

Her  weary  form  laid  down  to  rest 

Beside  little  Nell  who  lay  dreaming. 

But  whose  face  was  rosy  and  sweet, 

Making  one  think  of  Life's  Eden, 

Where  naught  of  sorrow  or  tears 

Nor  the  bleak  chilling  storm  of  trials 

Had  furrowed  her  face  with  tears. 

Hark!  she  hears  a  footstep  coming 

At  the  door.    Say  Ma  are  you  tliere? 

And  she  knew  the  heart  it  came  from. 

And  that  God  had  answered  lior  prayer. 

In  the  time  and  that  hour  of  trouble 

Came  he  hopeful,  fearless  and  strong. 

As  a  fltting  stafl"  to  lean  on 

When  everything  was  going  wrong. 

Back  home  again  dear  mother. 

He  said,  and  she  stooped  to  kiss 

The  loving  lace  that  was  lifted 

For  what  some  mother's  miss. 

That  boy  will  do  to  depend  on. 

His  heart  is  kind  and  true. 

From  lads  who  care  for  their  mother 

Our  bravest  heroes  grew. 

Earth's  grandest  hearts  are  loving  ones 

Since  time  and  earth  bi'gan. 

And  the  boy  who  protects  his  mother 

Will  always  be  a  man. 


©■ 


m 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


5o9 


* 


MRS.  MARY  C.DUNCAN. 

Born:  Calaveras  Co.,  Cal.,  Nov,  24, 1860. 
This  lady  is  not  only  a  poet  but  also  a  musi- 
cian and  artist.    After  completing  her  educa- 
tion at  the  state  university  she  was  married 


MRS.   MARY  C.   DUNCAN. 

to  Dr.  M.  P.  Duncan.  The  poems  of  Mrs.  Dun- 
can have  been  widely  published  in  the  papers 
of  California  and  a  few  have  appeared  in  the 
eastern  magazines.  She  is  still  a  resident  of 
California,  at  Hanford. 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 
Beaming  in  thy  beauty  there  — 

O  Stella,  siiimmering  star! 
Enthroned  high  In  the  southern  heavens, 

In  purity  afar  — 
Out  o"er  the  dusky  dome  of  night, 

Tliy  silver  splendors  play. 
And  shadow  e'en  the  radiance  of 

The  shining  Milky  Way ! 
The  earth  quick  wakens  to  thy  kiss. 

And  language  soft  of  love 
Wafts  on  the  wind  —  the  rustling  leaves  — 

The  murmuring  of  the  dove. 
While  Arcturus  bold  and  Antares  — 

Blood-red  upon  the  sight  — 
Grow  pallid  in  those  brilliant  beams, 

And  crown  thee  King  of  Night! 
But  O  fair  jewel  —  gem  of  eve ! 

Thy  rays  have  failed  to  wrest. 
The  shadows  from  the  heavy  heart 

That  burns  within  my  brea.st! 


Fond  mem'ries  wake  when  e'er  thy  form 

Steals  soft  athwart  the  sky  — 
Of  other  eves  when  'neath  thy  glow, 

We  strayed  —  my  love  and  I. 
But  now  no  more  the  eyes  whose  light 

Was  stolen  from  thine  own. 
Shed  o'er  my  soul  their  showers  of  love  — 

To-night  I'm  all  alone! 
The  soft  sweet  voice  whose  cadence  low 

Made  music  in  my  heart. 
Is  heard  no  more,  for  silently. 

We  wander  worlds  apart! 


TO  THE  FALLEN  MONARCH. 

Aged  Monarch  of  the  forest!  Majestic  Ruin! 

Thou'rt  regal  yet  though  prone  to  earth 

And  crumbling  'ii  decay! 
And  mighty  still,  though  but  a    blackened 
trunk 

Now  shorn  of  all  thy  beauty. 
For  full   three   thousand  years  tliat   kingly 
form 

Was  reared  above  its  fellows. 
And  from  that  lofty  eminence 

Looked  proudly  down  upon  the  world. 
Vainly  then  did  the  tempest  rage 

And  beat  about  thj-  branches. 
While  the  lightning  sought  to  rend  thy  heart 

And  lay  the  giant  low. 
Many,  many  :i  summertime  the  birds  of  heaven 

Have  sought  a  refuge  in  thy  leafy  canopy. 
Hanging  there  the  downy  nests,  to  sway  in 
every  breeze. 

The  while,  their  mingled  songs 

Freighted  the  air  with  melody. 
Manya  winter's  snows  have  clothed  thy  boughs 

In  weird,  strange  beauty. 
Wrapping  about  thee  robes  of  royal  ermine. 

Meet  for  even  such  as  thou  to  wear. 

For  ages  long  that  towering  trunk  — 
Withstood  the  wear  of  Time, 
While  nations  rose  and  flourished;— 

Wavered;— waned  and  died. 

But  now,  O  forest  King!  thy  reign  is  o'er! 
And  Time  victorious,  claims  thee  for  his  own 

at  last : 
Thy  day  is  done;  and  'round  that  aged  form, 
Oblivion's  wave  is  closing  fast! 


TO  THE  FULL  MOON. 

EXTRACT. 

Far  out  across  the  lovely  lake 

A  trail  of  glory  lies. 
Whose  silvery  sheen  might  surely  mark 

The  path  to  Paradise! 
Methinks  that  glisteiiingtrack  should  roach 

Away!  beyond  tlie  night! 
•And  lead  up  to  the  City  blest 
With  many  mansions  white! 


^ 


®- 


9^1 


560 


LOCAL,    AND    NATIONAL    TOETS    OF  A:MKK1CA. 


FAY  HEMPSTEAD. 

Born:  Little  Rock,  Ark.,  Nov.  24, 1847. 
For  some  years  this  gentleman  lias  been  a 
constant  contributor  to  numerous  papers  and 
Magazines,  among  which  might  be  mentioned 
the  Boston  Transcript,  New  York  Mail  and 
Express,  Richmond  Dispatch,  and  the  St. 
Louis  Ropubliciin.     The   i>n)ductio!is   of   Mr. 


FAY  HEMPSTEAD. 

Hempstead  have  received  special  recognition 
from  both  press  and  public,  and  his  poems 
have  elicited  a  complimentary  letter  from  the 
poet  John  G.  Whittier.  He  is  frequently 
called  upon  to  read  original  poems  on  public 
occasions.  In  1878  he  published  his  first 
volume  of  poems  which  met  with  fair  suc- 
cess, and  now  has  a  second  volume  which  will 
be  brought  out  in  due  season.  Mr.  Hemp- 
stead has  become  quite  prominent  as  a  public 
speaker,  and  is  widely  known  as  a  im>se 
writer.  In  1889  he  published  Hempsteads 
School  History  of  Arkansas,  whicli  lias  met 
with  an  enthusiastic  reception.  Mr.  Hemp- 
stead was  married  in  1871  to  Miss  Gertrude  B. 
O'Neal,  by  whom  he  has  a  family  of  four  sons 
and  three  daughters.  This  lawyer,  author 
and  lecturer  is  grand  secretary  of  the  Free 
Masons  for  the  state  of  Arkansas,  in  which 
state  he  is  very  popular. 


«- 


THE  DEPARTED  YEAR. 

Old  year!  old  year!  that  liest  here 
So  cold  and  stark  upon  thy  bier. 


I  fold  thy  hands  upon  thy  breast. 
And  pray  for  thee  unbroken  rest! 

Gone,  gone!  — yea,  gone!    Thy  breath  with- 
drawn ! 
Yet  ere  the  rising  of  the  dawn. 
Like  fickle  courtiers,  do  we  sing, 
"The  king  is  dead!    Long  live  the  king!  " 
Away,  away !    In  coffined  clay 
Such  feeble  source  of  strength  doth  lay. 
We  turn  from  those  whose  lips  are  dumb 
To  worship  who  succeeding  come. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  GIRL. 
I  stand  where  the  maid  with  the  pale  cold  face 

And  her  palms  together  pressed. 
Lies  robed  for  her  last  abiding  place,— 

For  her  sleep  of  endless  rest. 
And  her  marble  cheek  is  as  fair  as  the  rose, 

That  at  her  throat  there  lies; 
And  death's  unlovely  presence  shows 

Nowhere  but  in  her  eyes. 

Not  the  placid  face,  nor  the  shining  hair, 

But  the  vacant  gaze  alone; 
And  naught  is  left  of  the  life  that  was  there, 

Save  the  place  where  the  brightness  shone. 
For  the  light  has  gone  from  her  bright  blue 
eye. 

Where  the  soul  was  shining  through; 
As  a  star  fades  out  of  a  summer  sky. 

And  only  leaves  the  blue. 
O  earth  in  time  bring  forth  the  rose, 

Bring  bud  and  blossom  rare. 
To  where  she  lies  in  soft  repose 

For  she  was  passing  fair. 
Bring  daisies  and  the  violet's  eyes, 

Wliere  swells  the  grassy  sod. 
As  calm  in  settled  peace  she  lies. 

While  her  soul  has  gone  to  God. 


HENRY  TARRING  ECKERT. 

Born:  Northumberland,  Pa.,  Aug.  20, 1842jj 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Eckert  have  appeared  W 
the  Detroit  Free  Press  and  other  publications 
He  follows  the  occupation  of  a  salesman. 

DAWN. 

Fly  fair  Aurora  o'er  the  eastern  liills. 
Distill  thy  dews,  flash  in  the  silver  rills. 
Bid  night-  and  darkness  flee  before  thy  face, 
And  beauty  dazzle  at  tliy  touch  of  grace. 
Call  forth  again  the  orient  god  of  day. 
And  bid  him  search  with  brightest  fervid  ni; 
The  darkest  morass,  glade,  or  no.xious  fen. 
And  gild  with  silver  light   the  gloomiest  giei 
Blot  out  the  planets, veil  the  moon  oncenior 
And  touch  with   pearl  the  waves  on  many 

shore. 
Gild  with  thy  wand  eternal  peaks  of  snow. 
And  flood  with  light  the  grateful  world  belo' 


«- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMKUICA. 


561 


-iS 


ANDREW  ALLEN  VEATCH. 

Born:  Brookeland,  Tex.,  May  3, 1860. 
In  1884   Mr.    V'eiitch  joined  tlie  ehurcl),   and 
soon  afterward  bi'uan  preaflnii<r.     He  still  re- 


ANDREW  ALLEN  VEATCH. 

sides  at  Brookeland,  Texas,  where  he  is  very 
popular.  From  his  youth  Mr.  Veatch  has 
written  poems,  which  have  appeared  exten- 
tensively  in  the  periodical  press. 

OVER  THE  LINE. 
Over  the  line, —  yes,  over  the  line. 
Delay  no  longer,  no  more  repine; 
Why  dost  thou  falter,  O  soul  of  mine? 
The  Master  is  calling',  ••  Come  over  the  line." 
The  world  is  cruel,  and  cold  and  hard. 
And  the  Word  has  promised  a  sure  reward,* 
To  those  who  follow  the  voice  divine 
Of  the  tender  Sheplierd,  •'  Come  overthe  line." 
Come  out  of  the  snare,  then ;  out  of  the  path 
That    is  leading    thee     forward    to    endles 

wrath  ;t 
Be  moved  by  that  whisper  of  mercy  benign. 
And  haste  to  tlie  highway  over  the  line.? 
Thou  hast  walked  full  long  in  a  desolate  way. 
Alone  in  thy  journeyings  day  by  day,     [cline. 
Thou  art  weary ;  find  rest  where  the  blessed  re- 
By  the  cross  of  the  Crucified,  over  the  line.i 
Thou  hast  sought  after  honor;  It  now  will  be 

given  — 
The  honor  to  walk    with    the    children    of 

heaven  I** 
* 


Tliou  hast  sighed  for  true  friendship;  it  now 

may  he  thine  — 
The  Faitlif  ul++  is  waiting  thee  over  the  liue. 
There's  a  void  in  tiiy  life,   there  are  tears  in 

thy  gaze. 
Thou  art  sad,  and  the  light  has  gone  out  of 

thy  days;** 
Yet  again  iu  thy  path  may  the  young  roses 

twine. 
And  the  morning  smile  o'er  thee—  Come  over 

the  line!§§ 

A  Spirit  stirs  in  tliee,  impelling  thee  on. 
With  thy  face  to  the  Kingdom,  thine  eyes  to 

the  Dawn;  [cline, II 

Hush !  Resist  not,  but  now  to  His  wooings  in- 
Aud  follow  thy  Guardian  over  the  line. 
And  these  that  would  stay  thee  — grandeur 

and  wealtli  — 
Which  have  blighted  thy  manhood,  stolen  thy 

health;  [sign. 

Cold  phantoms !  Now  learn  without  grief  to  re- 
For  the  treasure  immortal,!  justover  the  line. 
There  are  angels  watching  to  see  thee  start, 111! 
And  counting  each  stroke  of  thypulsing  heart. 
To  know  if  the  victory  at  last  shall  be  thine  — 
To  know  if  thou  yet  wilt  come  over  the  line. 
And  those  gone  up  to  the  Land  of  Bliss,  [tliis, 
As  they  gaze  through  the  portals  of  light  to 
With  hands  like  the  lily  and  brows  that  shine, 
How  lovingly  beckon  thee  over  the  line! 
Come  forth— 'tis  the  voice  of  the  Bridegroom  — 

UllCome! 
He  calls  to  His  palace  — invites  thee  home; 
He  bids  to  the  banquet  of  life  divine,W 
And  urges  thee  kindly,  >•  Come  over  the  line  I" 

Hark!  —  Music,  ringing!—  Sweet  holy  airs 
Are  floating  down  from  the  azure  stairs; 
All  Heaven's  blest  harmonies  seem  to  combine 
In  the  joyful  burden,"Come  over  the  line  I"++t 
Over  the  line,  yes,  overthe  line; 
There's  all  that  the  soul  needs  over  the  line,  II II II 
A  robe  and  a  ring,§§§  and  a  crown  divineTTIT 
And  a  pass  to  Paradise,***  over  the  line. 


*Prov.  11;18;  Psalms 

58:ll;Col.3:24;Matt. 

19:28,29. 
+  Matt.  7:13;  Prov.  14: 

12. 
*  Isaiah  35:8. 
§  Matt.  11:28. 
**Tsaiali  35:8,9;  Matt. 

5:9. 
++ Rev.  3:14;  Heb.  13:8. 
$tLam.  5:17. 
ggMatt.  5:4. 
Iljosh.  24:23;  Psalms 

78:1  &  119:36;  I  Thes. 

5:19. 


1  Matt.  6:20;  Luke  12: 
33;  I  Peter  1:4. 

nil  Luke  15-10;  Heb.l:]4 

liH  Malt.  26:6;  Isaiah 
54:5—3. 

«*Matt.  22:2  — 4.  Isa- 
iah 55:— 1—3. 

■t++ Rev.  22:17. 

II II II  Luke  12 :3L  Romans 
8:.32. 

§S§  Luke  15:22. 

•:';T  I  Peter  5:4;  James 
1:12;  Rev.  2:10;  II 
Tim.  4:8. 

***Eph.4:30;&l:13,14. 


© 


^ 


562 


9 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MALCOLM  M.LUZADER. 

Born  :  Grafton,  W.  Va.,  Nov.  27, 1858. 

The  poems  of  Mr.    Luzader   have   appeared 
extensively  iu  tlio  local  press.    By  profession 

he  is  a  iiM'-liiT  (if  vdi'ul  music,    in    wliich  he 


MALCOLM  M.  LUZADER. 


is  eugag-ed  in  his  native  state  at  Auburn.  Mr. 
Luzader  has  become  quite  popular,  and  has  a 
wide  circle  of  friends  and  admirers. 


THE    MYSTIC  VEIL. 

God,  bj'  mortal  eyes  unseen. 
By  serapli  tong-ues  untold. 
Year.s,  wrapped  up  iu  mystic  g'loom. 
Set  Destiny  to  unfold. 

Behind  the  dark  drawn  veil  of  time. 
Life's  liidden  stores  await ; 
Nor  can  we  choose  the  sweets  alone. 
But  bide  the  gifts  of  Fate. 

Yet,  who  would  dare  to  lift  the  veil 
That  binds  this  mortal  spell; 
Who,  knowiiijj-all  would  be  a  god. 
And  coming:  ages  tell? 

Dear  heart  of  mine,  seek  not  to  learn 
What  Heaven  denies  its  own  ; 
Sweet  liope  will  paint  our  darkest  doubts, 
And  meet  them  one  by  one. 


Now,  these  years  of  constant  strife 
To  us,  in  time  are  given. 
Each  joj-  or  grief  may  reappear. 
Reclaiming  us  to  heaven. 

Many  long  years  may  come  and  go. 
And  our  patlis  in  life  not  meet; 
Years  of  happiness  or  woe, 
For  you  and  me  may  wait. 


THE  BACHELOR'S  HOPE. 
We  talked  of  books,  we  talked  of  songs, 
We  talked  of  home  and  friends; 
The  longed  for  bliss  of  future  years. 
Its  ills  and  their  amends. 

And  then  my  nervous  lips  told  out 
The  story  of  my  heart ; 
And  the  lustrous  language  from  her  eyes. 
Sweet  sunshine  did  impart. 

I  told  her  of  the  timid  hopes 

That  gave  my  being  zest; 

That  doubts  and  fears  had  vainly  rose. 

My  hopeful  love  to  test. 

Said  I:  The  girl  who  shares  mj'  fate. 
Thro'  life's  revolving  years. 
Must  be  the  sunshine  of  my  home. 
To  banish  all  my  cares. 

Angelic  grace  must  clothe  her  form. 
The  fairest  of  her  kind; 
Her  face  must  hold  perpetual  smiles. 
Reflected  from  her  mind. 

Her  voice  be  like  the  full  moon's  beams  — 
As  silvery  calm  and  sweet. 
Whose  gentle  words  and  rippling  songs 
Shall  make  my  joys  complete. 

Whose  queenly  ways,  and  depth  of  soul 
Shall  fill  mankind  with  awe; 
With  noble  sense  of  truth  and  right, 
O'ercome  tlie  proudest  foe. 

A  heart  filled  with  eternal  love. 
Averse  to  pride's  coneeifs, 
Who'd  scorn  the  idle  jests  of  life. 
Nor  stoop  to  vain  deceits. 

And  now,  dear  love,  for  you  I've  lived,— 
I  took  licr  hand  in  mine,— 
And  you  of  all  the  girls  on  earth 
Can  bring  my  life  sunsliinc. 

She  stole  lier  trembling  hand  away, 
1  kni'W  my  fate  was  sealed; 
In  the  soul's  blue  windows  deej)  I  read 
The  truth  her  word  revealed. 

Then  with  an  earnest  steady  look, 
Hemembered,  but  forgiven. 
She  spoke  these  cruel,  awful  words: 
"Young  man,  your  liome's  in  Heaven." 


*• 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-* 


563 


JOHN  VINTON  POTTS. 

Born:  Napier,  Pa.,  Jur.v  33,  18:36. 
At  tlie  ;iKe  of  eighteen  Mr.  Potts  commenced 
to  teach  school,  and  since  thiit  time  has  tuuglit 
about  ninety  months,  principally  in  the  pub- 
lic schools.  In  185T  Mr.  Potts  was  licensed  as 
a  minister,  and  has  spent  seventeen  years  in 
the   anwr    pi,t..ii,il   ^\ork      n<'  h;is    hcoii   a 


JOHN   VINTON   POTTS. 

diligent  private  student  all  his  life,  and  in  ISfifJ 
entered  tlie  coUog-e  at  Westerville,  Ohio.  He 
has  written  and  published  two  ijooks,  and  has 
been  correspondent  of  various  newspapers, 
writing-  on  a  variety  of  topics  —  social,  relig-- 
ious,  political  and  educational.  Mr.  Potts  has 
spoken  in  public  in  many  states.  His  present 
home  is  at  North  Robinson,  Ohio,  where  he  is 
engaged  in  literary  work,  and  is  editor  and 
publisher  of  the  Monthly  Monograph.  He 
was  married  in  1861,  and  has  a  family  of  bright 
boys. 


THE  PENALTY. 

I  am  sick  to<lay. 

And  so  can  not  be  gay. 

I  went  away 

On  yesterday 

To  see  a  new-made  friend ; 

And  with  the  mental  strain, 

And  what  I  ate, 

And  driving  late. 

To-day  I  have  the  pain; 

And  now  will  rest  amend 


The  broken  chain 

In  healtli's  domain. 

Oil !  would  man  be  wise. 

Amid  the  scenes  that  rise, 

To  take  the  best. 

Refuse  the  rest, 

And  follow  truth  alone. 

In  all  the  walks  of  life; 

Then  were  his  fate 

A  rich  estate. 

Without  a  jar  or  strife. 

As  royal  as  a  throne; 

And  highest  joy 

Would  never  cloy. 

Oft  we  eat  too  much; 

And  ott  our  tho'ts  are  such 

As  lead  away 

The  soul  astray. 

We  toil  beyond  our  strength; 

Or  want  of  exercise 

Doth  enervate 

The  whole  estate. 

Thus  heavy  clouds  arise. 

And  bring  the  tomb  at  length, 

And  we  are  laid 

In  Stygian  shade. 

NEARLY  WILD,  OVER  THE  CHILD. 

The  precious  little  one, 

I  met  upon  the  street. 
It  could  not  walk  or  run 

Upon  its  dainty  feet. 
A  little  maiden  held 

The  babe  within  her  arms: 
Its  beauty  me  impressed 

To  pause  and  note  its  charms. 
"  Whose  child  is  this,"  I  said; 

And  then  I  saw  it  smiled. 
"  Oh !  it  belongs  to  Ned ! 

And  he  is  nearly  wild!  " 


MY  FIRST  POEM. 
Bright  spring,  the  triumph  of  the  year. 
Brings  warbling  birds  from  far  and  near 

To  sport  among  the  trees. 
In  forests  wide,  and  round  our  domes. 
With  cheerful  hearts  they  make  their  homes. 

And  float  upon  the  breeze. 
The  silent  buds  now  open  wide: 
The  branches  wave  like  ocean  tide 

By  balmy  breezes  blown. 
The  morning  dews  from  grass  and  flowers 
Arise  on  higli  and  fall  in  showers 

Where  cooling  draughts  are  thrown. 
Thee  bee  is  out  on  busy  wing. 
Though  but  a  weak  and  tiny  thing. 

To  gather  treasure  sweet 
From  opening  flowers  in  wood  and  field. 
And  finds  a  joy  in  what  they  yield. 

Of  sweetness  for  us  meet. 


-m 


^- 


564 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL,   POETS  OF  ASlElllCA. 


® 


FRIENDSHIP. 

In  friendship  pure 

Is  envy's  cure. 
Who  owns  this  sacred  treasure, 
Is  sure  of  lasting  pleasure. 

Not  bouglit  with  wealth, 

Nor  bound  to  health, 
Nor  like  the  changing  weather. 
It  warms  the  heart  forever. 

When  fortune's  urn 

At  every  turn 
Pours  joy  and  happy  greetings. 
And  brings  oft  social  meetings; 

When  summer  friends, 

For  selfish  ends, 
Are  lavishing  their  praises. 
It  shows  but  common  phases. 

When  adverse  storms. 

Misfortune's  forniS, 
Marli  gloom  upon  to-morrow, 
And  bring  lean  want  and  sorrow; 

When  most,  indeed. 

Kind  aid  we  need, 
And  outer  friendship  alters. 
True  friendship  never  falters. 

Should  foes  arise. 

That  cheat  espies 
Our  failings  with  the  rabble. 
And  o'er  them  all  will  gabble; 

But  this  will  stand, 

Tlio'  fiends  may  band 
Each  hope  from  us  to  sever. 
And  show,  'tis  friendship  ever. 

If  space  arise. 

And  dim  our  eyes, 
Tlaat  we  see  not  each  other. 
Nor  meet  at  all  together ; 

Yet  memory  brings  . 

Upon  her  wings. 
The  images  we  cherish. 
Thus  friendsliips  never  perish. 

If  mortal  fate 

Should  ope  the  gate 
Through  which  must  mankind  travel 
Before  they  can  unravel 

Those  mysteries 

Which  no  one  sees. 
This  side  the  mystic  river. 
That  makes  the  stoutest  quiver. 

Around  the  bed. 

Which  hides  the  dead. 
Slow  forms  may  sadly  wander, 
And  oft  in  sorrow  ponder; 

There  friendship  may 

Its  tribute  pay. 
In  tears  from  souls  true  hearted. 
To  loved  ones  —  the  departed. 

Time's  icy  liand 

The  heart  can  stand. 


If  every  recollection, 

And  tombs  increase  affection; 

For  grief  refined 

Exalts  the  mind. 
And  death  his  claims  releases. 
Where  friendship  but  increases. 

'Tis  liard  by  arts 

To  sever  hearts. 
If  love  be  cord  and  token. 
For  friendship  ne'er  Is  broken; 

If  virtue  grows 

Above  earth's  woes, 
If  forms  apart  be  riven. 
They  meet  again  in  heaven. 


LIGHT  AND  SHADOW. 
Here  light  and  shadow  fill  the  day. 
While  every  soul  is  sad  and  gay; 
The  sunlight  does  not  always  shine. 
Or  heaven  e'en  here  would  sure  be  mine. 
The  night  not  always  clouds  the  brow. 
Or  demons  would  possess  me  now. 
False  friends  are  often  in  dismay. 
But  truthful  friends  are  in  array. 
They  stand  and  work  in  my  defense. 
That  I  may  hope  and  onward  go. 
If  others  make  a  mere  pretense, 
I  will  in  honor  live  below. 
Then  I  shall  live  in  joy  above. 
And  be  with  those  whom  now  I  love. 


HOPE. 
I  am  sad  and  weary 

With  the  sorrows  of  my  life: 
Days  and  nights  are  dreary 

With  the  sore  and  angry  strife. 
Thus  my  soul  in  anguish 

Cries  in  hopeless  toil  of  night; 
I  in  weakness  languish 

With  the  dimness  of  my  sight. 
May  I  rest  in  heaven 

When  the  darkness  here  is  past"? 
Yes,  the  hope  is  given. 

E'en  amid  the  stormy  blast. 
Lo  the  light  is  gleaming 

On  the  path  of  fervent  souls. 
Graceful  showers  are  streaming 

While  the  angry  tempest  rolls. 

Consolations  given 
Are  for  those  who  hope  and  trust; 

So  when  tempest  driven 
Let  me  lean  upon  the  just. 

Let  no  doubting  ever 
Rob  my  soul  of  joy  or  ease; 

Naught  but  sin  can  sever 
Me  from  bliss  in  large  degrees. 

Let  the  life  be  cheery 
As  the  thrilling  joys  go  by; 

Catch  them  as  they  near  me. 
They  will  help  me  to  the  sky. 


► 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


.5()0 


-* 


D.A.REYNOLDS. 

Born;  Isabella  Co.,  Mich.,  April,  1854. 
At  an  early  age  Mr.Keynolds  became  a  school 
teacher.  He  was  married  in  1874  and  settled 
on  a  farm,  but  taught  school  during  the  win- 
ter months.  Mr.  Reynolds  was  always  very 
fond  of  liistory,  and  thoroughly  mastered 
Hume,  Macaulaj',   Gnizot,  and  other  famous 


I>.  A.     HKVNOLUS. 

European  histoiuuis.  lu  18,S:i  Mr.  Reynolds 
established  tlie  Herald  at  Lyons,  Mieliigan,  at 
the  same  time  devoting:  a  larg-e  portion  of  his 
time  to  literary  work  for  the  Metropolitan 
journals.  Among-  his  poems,  at  Heaven's 
Window,  lias  attracted  the  widest  attention, 
while  Thurman  Wolverton  is  unquestionably 
his  best  novel  The  facts  and  fancies  of 
Heaven's  Window  is  said  to  spring-  from  his 
mother's  second  marriag-e  and  is  pronounced 
monaganistic  views. 


AT  HEAVEN'S  WINDOW. 

In  a  pleasant  forest  villagre, 
'Twixt  the  highlands  and  the  lowlands. 
Basking  in  the  eastern  sunbeams. 
Stood  there  once  a  lovely  cottag-e: 
O'er  its  porch  the  clinging-  ivy 
Drooped  and  trembled  in  the  zephyrs. 
While  the  fiowers  vied  in  bidding- 
Welcome  to  the  weary  strang-er. 
Summer's  twilight's  deepening-  beauty 
Overspread  the  western  hillside. 


While  each  parting-  summer  sunbeam 

Kissed  the  lofty,  eastern  bower; 

And  the  riv'let  'ueath  the  village 

Murmured  quaintly  on  its  journey. 

While  the  chirrup  of  the  locust 

Undulated  in  the  chorus. 

'Neath  the  viue-clad  portal,  singing-, 

Sat  a  lovely  maiden  knitting-. 

And  the  notes  in  tender  cadence 

Floated  on  the  summer  air. 

Just  beside  the  gate  there  lingered  — 

Weary  with  his  day  of  hunting-  — 

One  from  out  the  busy  city. 

Wooing- nature's  fairest  boon; 

And  forgetting-  else  the  singing-  — 

For  Jiis  heart  beat  to  the  measure  — 

Drank  the  Hood  of  guileless  passion. 

Dwelt  upon  each  thrilling-  note. 

He  had  met  full  many  maidens 

In  the  brisk  and  busy  city. 

But  no  voice  had  ever  thrilled  him 

As  the  rustic  village  belle. 

He  had  mills  and  many  vessels  — 

Wealth  in  store  and  wealth  in  land; 

And  he  vowed  to  crown  his  triumph 

By  the  winning-  of  her  hand. 

Over  hill,  and  dale  and  valley. 
Where  she  strolled  in  quest  of  flowers, 
Sought  he  often,  and  her  g-reeting- 
Fired  his  heart  with  fiercest  passion. 
Thus  mistaking-  gentle  breed hig 
For  an  echo  to  his  wooing-. 
He  had  pressed  her  hand  at  parting  — 
Swore  to  her  undying  love. 

Thus  awakened  from  her  girlhood. 
Sought  her  lieart  to  know  its  meaning; 
But  within  iis  secret  chamber 
Found  she  not  one  throb  for  him. 
But  she  knew  beyond  the  village. 
By  the  broad  and  verdant  meadow. 
Whistling  in  the  early  twilight. 
Following  home  the  gentle  kine, 
Dwelt  her  playmate—  girlhood  lover  — 
Who,  in  happy  hours  of  childhood. 
They  had  played  at  "  getting  married," 
And  the  sterner  cares  of  life. 

They  had  loved  as  little  children. 
When  they  played  upon  the  meadow, 
And  the  vows  in  childhood  plighted 
Strengthened  with  each  coming  year. 
Thus  it  was  when  Allen  Alden 
Sought  the  hand  of  Annie  Gray, 
She  could  find  within  her  bosom 
Only  sorrow  for  his  loving. 

Ere  the  winter's  glistening  jewels 
Crowned  fair  nature's  brow  with  pearls, 
Lawrence  Henry  claimed  the  promise? 
She  had  made  in  childish  glee; 
And  no  happier  bride  in  Clifton 


-* 


— * 


Ever  spoke  the  solemn  promise 

As  they  bowed  before  God's  altar 

In  the  sacred  bond  of  love. 

Thus  began  their  wedded  journey. 

Fraught  with  promise,  joy  and  pleuty. 

And  though  wealth  was  not  their  portion. 

Love  supplied  each  heart's  desire, 

While  the  star  of  true  affection 

Lighted  all  their  onward  journey ; 

Angels  hovering  'round  them  chanted: 
..  Mighty  is  tlie  realm  of  love." 
If  the  world  was  cold  and  cruel. 
Threatening  doom  o'erspread  the  skies. 
He  was  never  heard  to  murmur. 
For  the  love  in  Annie's  eyes 
Told  him  of  a  purer  purpose. 
Prompted  him  to  higher  goal- 
Broadened  mind  and  heightened  purpose. 
Purifying  mind  and  soul. 

Twelve  short  years -how  soon  they  num- 

ber. 
Counted  on  afifection's  dial, 
But  they  bring  within  their  scabbard 
Deepest  sorrow  -  threatening  doom. 
For  consumption's  withering  presence 
Now  pervades  that  happy  home. 
And  the  father,  husband,  lover. 
Knows  that  he,  alas,  must  go. 
Could  my  pen  but  paint  the  bitter 
Yearning  in  that  father's  heart '. 
Could  I  sketch  that  husband's  unguish 
As  he  takes  his  last  adieu ! 
Could  my  prayer  but  reach  the  mercy 
Seat  within  the  courts  of  Heaven. 
I  would  melt  the  heart  of  nature. 
That  a  respite  might  be  given. 
..  Dearest  Annie,"  Lawrence  faltered. 
As  he  wiped  away  a  tear. 
Held  her  hand  with  gentle  pressure. 
Sought  her  sorrojving  heart  to  cheer: 
..  I  have  been  so  very  happy 
In  our  pleasant  Eden  home. 
That  1  cannot,  cannot  leave  you. 
Crossing  o'er  the  stream  alone. 
.il  am  going,  shortly  going 
Wliere  our  friends  have  gone  before. 
But  I'll  never  cross  the  river 
Till  you  meet  me  at  the  shore; 
For  I  know  the  hymns  of  Heaven 
Would  but  fill  my  heart  with  pain. 
While  I  knew  my  darling  Annie 
Cannot  sliare  eacli  joyous  strain. 
..Heaven,  they  say,  is  all  about  us. 
And  our  friends  are  ever  nigh. 
Death  is  but  a  transformation  — 
Souls  immorlal  cannot  die. 
I  shall  watch  o'er  you  my  darling. 
And  our  children  good  and  kind. 


Looking  out  at  Heaven's  window 
For  the  friends  I  leave  behind. 
..Tell  the  children  how  I  loved  them 
Ere  from  them  I  had  to  go; 
Tell  them  in  the  bright  hereafter 
They  shall  yet  their  father  know ; 
For  my  spirit  vision  brightens. 
Friends  are  gathering  'round  my  bed. 
Heaven  is  here  and  1  am  ready 
When  our  last  farewell  is  said. 

..  Darling  —wife,  I'm  going  -  going. 

Lay  my  face  upon  your  breast; 

I  would  fe(?l  its  gentle  throbbing 

Ere  1  pass  to  yonder  rest,— 

One  fond  kiss  -  the  last  dear  Annie, 

Till  we  meet  on  yonder  shore. 

Where  the  soul  to  soul  united. 

Love  shall  dwell  forever  more." 

Ah  the  sorrow  of  that  parting. 
Few  may  know  and  none  can  tell; 
How  the  heart  but  stops  its  beating 
When  we  say  the  last  farewell; 
But  in  dreams  she  often  sees  him. 
Feels  his  kiss  upon  her  brow. 
And  his  presence  ever  near  her 

Whispers  gentle  words  of  cheer. 

Many  months  of  patient  sorrow. 

Years  have  numbered  nearly  two. 

When  across  the  briny  waters 

Comes  a  friend  of  former  days. 

He  would  share  her  every  sorrow. 

Win  for  her  those  joys  anew ; 

Offered  her  that  nameless  passion 

She  had  won  long  years  ago. 

Did  she  falter  in  her  answer? 

Did  her  eyes  grow  dim  with  tears ^ 

Did  she  hear  the  voice  of  Lawrence, 

Feel  his  touch  upon  her  cheek? 
No.    'Twas  but  the  summer  zephyr 
And  the  sighing  of  the  wind: 
Yet  she  knew  with  clearest  vision. 
Lovers  twain  were  pleading  then. 

Three  short  years.    At  Heaven's  window 
Stands  a  spirit,  bowed  in  sorrow, 
wiile  all  Heaven  is  hushed  m  sadness 
For  the  grief  that  soul  hath  known. 
For  an  anguish,  deep,  unyielding. 
Turns  each  joyous  note  to  sorrow. 
Killing  all  the  courts  of  Heaven 
With  the  wail  of  deep  despair. 

-IVU  me  tales  of  withering  ;^^^>;;-;;;;'7 
HcMits  that  break  and  souls  that  fall 

Ti'U  to  me  the  saddest  ditty 
Pen  can  write  or  poet  sing; 
1  would  rob  them  of  their  sorrow  - 
Garner  up  each  word  of  Are. 
1      With  the  which  to  paint  the  anguish 
Of  a  souUiy  treason  slam. 


s 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


567 


© 


MRS.  AMBER  E.  ROBINSON. 

Born:  Bridgewatek,  Me.,  Feb.  14,  ISti". 

This  lady  was  married  in  1883  to  Willie  E. 
Kobiuson.  The  poems  of  Mrs.  Kobiuson  have 
appeared  in  the  Chicago  Christian  Scientist 
and  the  periodical  press  generally.  She  is  still 


MRS.   AMBER  E.    ROBINSON. 

a  resident  of  lier  native  state  in  the  town  of 
Blaine,  where  she  is  well  known  and  has  a  host 
of  friends  and  acquaintances.  In  person  she 
is  about  the  averag-e  lieig:ht  and  weight,  and 
has  brown  hair  and  hazel  eves. 


SOWING. 
Sowing  the  seed  of  Truth, 

Pause  not  to  sigh  or  weep; 
Joyfully  doing  thy  part; 

Knowing  not  who  will  reap. 

Scattering  words  of  life 

Into  the  valley  of  death; 
Teaching  that  life  in  Christ, 

Is  more  than  a  vapor  or  breath. 
Shedding  a  ray  of  light 

Into  a  darkened  soul. 
Bidding  the  weary  arise. 

Believe  and  thou  shalt  be  whole. 
What  shall  tlie  liarvest  be? 

Soon  shall  thine  eyes  behold. 


The  reward  of  labors  of  love; 
'Twill  yield  thee  a  hundred  fold. 

Thus  prayerfully  working  on 

Labor  at  any  cost; 
Remember  tlie  seed  that's  sown 

In  love  can  never  be  lost. 


TRIUMPHANT  OVER  DEATH. 

Quietly  on  her  piilow 

A  fair  young  maiden  lay. 
It  seemed  that  disease  was  doing  a  work 

That  was  ebbing  her  life  away. 

Death  appeared  to  her  one  night 
And  he  said  ••  Ah,  who  can  save? 

I  soon  siiall  claim  thee,  maiden  fair, 
Thy  form  ca.st  in  the  grave! 

You  have  planned  a  pleasant  future. 
You  have  hoped  and  planned  in  vain; 

For  soon  you'll  pass  unto  the  grave 
From  whence  you'll  ne'er  return. 

But  soon  the  form  of  another 

Beauteous  to  see, 
Came  and  stood  by  her  bedside 

And  said  "Believe  thou  in  me." 

Death  slirunk  away  at  the  presence 

Of  one  so  wondrous  fair, 
Hope  brightened  in  the  maiden's  heart 

Where  shortly  before  was  despair. 

"  Fear  not  my  child,"  he  spake  again, 
"  For  I  have  passed  death  too; 

And  suffered  in  a  cruel  world. 
That  life  might  be  given  you." 

"  Now,  just  now  will  you  accept 

That  blessing  which  I  g-ive, 
Believe  on  me  in  Eternity 

Forever  shalt  thou  live." 
"  I  will  accept,"  she  quickij-  cried. 

And  then  the  form  was  gone; 
Whither  lie  went  she  could  not  tell. 

Nor  yet  from  whence  he  come. 
Again  stood  beside  the  maiden. 

The  monster  Death  —  so  grim  : 
He  claimed  in  accents  harsh  and  cold 

That  she  belonged  to  him. 
He  quickly  grasped  her  slender  form 

And  hissed.  Ah,  wc  shall  see. 
For  none  is  mightier  than  I, 

All  stand  in  fear  of  me. 
A  smile  broke  o'er  his  features  cold. 

For  now  his  work  is  done: 
"Aha,"  cried  lie,  ••  I  liold  tliec  now,— 

The  victory  I  have  won ! 
In  liis  stern  and  cold  embrace 

But  a  lifeless  form  there  lay; 
He  looked  in  rage  upon  tlie  face. 

For  lie  held  but  a  form  of  clav. 


-® 


©- 


)5 


568 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    I'OETS   OF  AMERICA. 


He  heard  a  song  so  soft  and  sweet, 

He  looked  beyond  the  sky; 
For  he  saw  the  sainted  maid, 

For  her  'twas  life  to  die. 
Close,  close  to  her  Redeemer's  feet, 

The  miglity  one  to  save. 
She  sang  ..  Where  is  thy  sting,  O  Death, 

Thy  victory  boasting  grave." 

"  All  worthy  is  the  Lamb,"  she  sang, 
"Whositteth  ou  tlie  throne; 

All  glory  unto  Him  be  given. 
The  victory  his  alone." 


SB- 


FALLING  LEAVES. 
I  strolled  to  the  forest-clad  liillside. 

The  day  was  uearing  its  close; 
To  me  the  gay  colors  of  autumn 

Seem  fair  as  the  tint  of  the  rose. 

A  feeling  of  sadness  came  o'er  me; 

I  could  not  refrain  a  sigh, 
When  I  thought  as  the  leaves  we  are  failing. 

As  the  leaves  we  must  all  fade  and  die. 

I  gathered  leaves  from  the  forest 

Of  hues  so  bright  and  gay. 
But  some  I  did  not  gather. 

And  there  unnoticed  they  lay. 

In  my  imagination 

I  heard  them  breathe  a  sigh ; 
Because,  devoid  of  loveliness, 

I  passed  them  quickly  by. 

Tlie  human  mind  will  ever 

Seek  out  the  good  and  bright; 
As  the  traveler  in  the  darkness 

Seeks  yon  sinning  light. 

But  I  think  of  another  autumn 
Succeeding  the  summer  of  life; 

And  I  wondered  if  mine  would  be  glorious 
With  gentle  zephyrs  rife. 

But  there  comes  the  closing  day 

Of  a  lifetime,  long,  misspent; 
When  the  faded  leaves  uncared  for  lay. 

And  the  tree  stands  lone  and  bent. 

The  naked  tree  sighs  mournfully 

As  it  feels  the  Winter's  blast; 
And  remembers  the  days  forever  gone  — 

Remorsefully  views  tlie  past. 

I  think  again  of  another; 

A  good  and  useful  life, 
Abounding  with  love  toward  the  neighbor, 

Ai)art  from  hatred  or  strife. 
There  comes  a  glorious  autumn 

A  foliage  grand  to  see; 
While  the  golden  rays  of  a,  scttinc  sun 

Are  lovely  beyond  degree. 
Tho'  stern,  relentless  Winter 

Comes  where  the  leaves  have  lain. 


Yet  soon  in  a  robe  far  brighter 
The  tree  shall  appear  again. 

Fair,  e'en  fairer  than  before 
In  the  courts  of  our  God  and  King, 

The  tree  shall  bloom  forever 
In  the  land  of  Eternal  Spring. 

The  autumn  leaves,  the  memories 

That  we  leave  behind; 
They  speak  the  life—  God  grant  that  mine 

May  be  ever  true  and  kind. 


UNFORGOTTEN  STILL. 
'Twas  during  the  calm  days  of  summer; 

The  flowers  sweet  fragrance  threw; 
And  the  Sun  climbing  high  in  the  Heavens 

Gladdened  the  concave  of  blue. 

Yet,  amid  the  rejoicing  of  Nature, 

I  was  weary  and  ill  at  ease; 
E'eu  the  singing  of  birds  seemed  discordant 

As  they  sang  from  the  green  leafy  trees. 

In  vain  had  I  sought  rest  and  comfort. 
Where  others  had  drunk  at  tlieir  will; 

Friends  proved  unworthy  and  heartless. 
With  gall  my  cup  seemed  to  fill. 

When  one  appeared  for  a  moment; 

And  a  chord  struck  by  hands  divine. 
Came  from  her  soul  as  I  met  her. 

And  entered  into  mine. 

As  a  dove  flutt'ring  over  tlie  waters. 

And  restoring  order  again : 
Her  presence  seemed  as  a  glimmer. 

Of  sunshine  after  rain. 

Would  she  trust  her  heart  to  my  keeping? 

Her  freedom  for  me  resign"? 
I  felt  this  question  was  answered. 

When  I  clasped  her  hand  in  mine. 

Her  voice  so  soft,  it  thrilled  mc. 

When  a  sad  sweet  strain  she  sung; 
I  remember  it  now  as  plainly 

As  in  days  when  my  heart  was  yt)ung. 
But  my  dream  was  momentary; 

The  one  I  loved  had  gone; 
Yet  tiioughts  of  that  angel  vision. 

Comfort  me  wlieii  I'm  alone. 
Tho'  I  knew  her  but  for  a  moment, 

We  met  but  met  to  part; 
Yet  amid  those  mem'ries  cherished 

I  liave  deeply  buried  my  heart. 
'Twill  know  no  resurrection 

Till  I  meet  her,  my  lost,  my  love: 
I'll  wait  e'en  tho'  unrewarded 

Till  I  reacli  those  regions  above. 
For  it  may  be  that  somewhere  in  (Uory 

I  shall  liear  that  sad  sweet  strain : 
It  may  be  that  only  in  Heaven 

1  sliall  clasp  that  liand  again. 


©- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


© 


569 


HENRY  H.  JOHNSON. 

Born:   Cobleskill,  N.Y.,  Jan.  14,1840. 
SiNCK  1880  Mr.  Joliuson  has  written  poetry 
almost  exclusively  for  the  New  York  Banner 
Weekly,  for  which  publication  he  has  written 
nearlj-  two  hundred   poems.    At  the  age  of 


HENRY  H.  JOHNSON. 

eighteen  Mr.  Johnson  commenced  teaching 
school,  which  he  continued  about  ten  years. 
He  was  then  given  the  position  of  railroad 
station  master  at  Hyndsville,  N.Y.,  which  he 
still  holds. 


te- 


A  REFLECTION. 

When  sickness  lays  me  low 
And  life  is  ebbing  slow. 

Whose  form  will  stand 
Beside  my  dying  bed. 
With  lowly  drooping  head. 

And  clasp  my  hand? 
Who'll  love  me  till  the  end 
With  warmer  love  than  friend 

Can  e'er  bestow? 
Whose  heart  will  bleed  for  me? 
Wliose  1ears  will  silently 

Beside  me  flow? 
Who'll  close  m.v  sightless  eyes 
When  my  freed  spirit  flies 

From  earth  away? 
Who'll  mourn  when  I  am  dead, 
And  tears  of  sorrow  shed 

More  than  a  dav? 


Will  sorrow's  teardrops  lave 
The  cold  and  silent  grave 

Wherein  I  sleep? 
Who'll  plant  sweet  flowers  there, 
With  hues  and  fragrance  rare. 

And  o'er  them  weep? 
Must  I  forgotten  be? 
Lost  to  the  memory 

Of  human  kind? 
Will  no  good  deed  I've  done 
For  some  poor  needy  one. 

Be  left  behind? 
Oh  may  kind  thoughts  of  me 
Live  in  the  memory 

Of  some  dear  one. 
When  I  am  gone  to  rest 
O  may  some  life  be  blest 

By  what  I've  done. 


DOT    BABY. 

Who  yells  und  screeches  ven  he's  mad, 
Und  laughs  and  cackles  ven  he's  glad, 
Ish  somedimes  good,  und  somedimes  bad? 
Dot  Baby! 

Who  greeps  und  grawls  around  the  vloor, 
Und  rolls  himself  right  out  de  door, 
Und  jams  und  hurts  himself  some  more? 

Dot  Baby ! 
Who  raises  Gain  mosht  all  de  night, 
Und  makes  me  mad  enough  to  fight, 
Or  kick  up  high  ash  any  kite? 

Dot  Baby ! 
Who  bulls  mine  viskers  und  my  nose, 
LTnd  musses  up  mine  Sunday  clothes, 
Und  alvays  into  mischief  goes? 

Dot  Baby ! 
Who  makes  me  somedimes  almost  cry, 
Und  vipe  de  teardrops  vrom  my  eye? 
Vat  would  I  do  if  he  should  die? 

Dot  Baby ! 
Who'll  be  a  big  man  ven  he  grows, 
Und  make  somebody,  I  suppose. 
Maybe  a  Bresident,  who  knows? 

Dot  Baby ! 
Dis  leetle  chap  vot  climbs  mine  knee,— 
If  I  were  poor  as  poor  could  be 
Not  worlds  of  gold  could  buy  from  me 

Dot  Babv ! 


THE  MAN  WITH  AN  IRON  WILL. 

EXTRACT. 

Give  me  the  man  with  an  iron  will. 

And  a  purpose  firm  and  strong. 
Who  dares  to  stand  by  the  riglit  until 

He  has  crushed  to  death  the  wrong; 
Who  treads  where  the  path  of  duty  leads, 

Though  the  way  be  blocked  by  foes; 
Wliose  heart  and  hand  a  good  cause  speeds 

No  matter  who  oppose. 


-* 


©- 


670 


LOCAL   AMD   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMEUICA. 


CLARENCE  LADD  DAVIS. 

Born:  Manchester, N.  H.,  Aug.  11, 1861. 

Admitted  to  the  bar  of  Michigan  in  1881  Mr. 
Davis  settled  for  a  while  at  East  Saginaw.  He 
wrote  a  series  of  articles  in  1885  for  the  Sag- 
inaw Evening-  News  on  the  labor  question, 
wliich  drew  the  attention  of  laboring-  men, 


CLARENCE   LADD  DAVIS. 

and  he  was  there  candidate  for  city  recorder 
in  the  spring  of  1886.  About  this  time  Mr. 
Davis  removed  to  New  York  City,  where  he  is 
now  engaged  in  journalism.  Since  1880  his 
poems  have  received  publication,  and  have 
invariably  been  widely  copied.  Mr.  Davis  was 
vice-president  of  the  Western  Association  of 
Writers  in  1886-7,  and  trustee  of  same  in  1888. 


«- 


THE  WINDS  OP  FATE. 
By  trifles  light  as  the  atoms  wafted 

Aloft  on  the  wings  of  a  fan's  soft  breeze. 
Our  lives  arc  fashioned,  and  conscripts  draft- 
ed. 
We  mai-('h  with  th(>  arnnes  of  Pain  or  Ease. 

Light  as  the  thistledown  blown'niid  the  ripen- 
ed sheaves. 
Doth  weigh  in  Time's  balance  our  love  or 
hut-e, 
For  we  all  are  blown  as  the  autumn  leaves 
To  Heaven  or  hell  by  the  winds  of  fate. 


ACTRESS  AND  AUTHOR. 
In  the  blaze  and  glare  of  the  footlights. 

In  the  gilded  temple  of  art. 
To  the  world  of  wealth  and  fashion. 

The  actress  played  her  part; 

And  with  phrase  from  the  playwright  bor- 
rowed — 

The  fruit  of  his  toiling  years,  — 
Touched  the  golden  chords  of  pathos. 

And  drew  from  their  eyes  the  tears. 

They  gave  to  her  their  plaudits, 
But  not  one  of  the  weeping  tliroug. 

Gave  thought  to  the  stricken  author. 
Who  had  wove  from  his  soul  lier  songl 


AT  SUNRISE. 
Dark-mantled    night,  the  star-eyed  and  the 
dumb. 
Flees  when  she  hears  the  Sun-god's  chariot 
wheels; 
When  at  her  throat  from  out  his  hand  doth 
come 
A  javelin  of  light;  she  dying  reels. 
And  her  heart's  life-blood,  as  it  ebbs  away, 
Dj'es  crimson  the  white  garments  of  the 
day. 


THE  CYCLE. 

'Tis  love  alone  creates  and  doth  destroy  — 

Sweet  love  is  lord  alike  of  life  and  death;— 

For  love  is  father  unto  joyous  life, 

And  life  in  turn  is  mother  to  desire. 

And  honey-lipped  desire  the  dam  of  death. 

And  death,  destroyer  of  all  living  things. 

Ay,  even  slayer  of  desire  herself. 

So  ran  tlie  cycle  since  Time  first  began : 

Sweet  love,  life,  mad  desire  and  death;  and  so 

Will  run  the  evcle  until  Time  shall  end. 


JUSTINE. 
A  face,  a  form,  like  a  statue  rare. 

Two  lips,  twin  roses;  bright  golden  hair 
Flowing  and  rippling  o'er  shoulders  fair; 

Two  violet  eyes,  whose  melting  sheen 
Would  thrill  the  heart  of  a  marble  man. 
Till  his  blood  iu  amorous  riot  ran 
To  the  tune  love  plays  on  the  pipes  of  Pan ; 

Such  is  your  picture,  O  fair  Justine! 
And  so  men  love  you.    Ah !  if  they  know. 
Those  poor  fools  duped   by  your  smiles  uii- 

t  rue. 
Into  a  soul  scorching  love  for  you. 

That  that  angel  face  and  form  that's  seen,— 
A  death's  head  hid  by  a  silver  casque,— 
Is  but  the  beautiful,  lying  mask. 
The  devil  gave  yt)u  to  do  his  task. 

Of  luring  men  into  hell,  Justine ! 


•* 


SB- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AilKUICA. 


571' 


-® 


REV.  DWIGHT   WILLIAMS. 

Born:  Kippleton,  N.Y.,  Apkil  26, 1824. 
As  a  religious  poet  the  Rev.  Dwight  Williams 
is  well  known.  Most  of  his  life  was  spent  in 
pastoral  work  in  the  state  of  New  York.  For 
some  years  Rev.  Williams  devoted  himself  to 
editorial  work;  he  has  contributed  to  the 
current  literature  of  the  day ;  and  many  of  his 


liL\.    DWlliUT  Wil^LlAAlb. 

productions  have  been  extensively  copied  by 
the  press  of  this  and  other  countries.  Mr. 
Williams  has  published  three  small  volumes  ot 
poems,  the  last  and  best  of  which  perhaps  is 
The  Beautiful  City.  The  verses  of  this  gentle- 
man always  contain  much  delicate  sentiment 
and  purity  of  thoug-ht  and  feeling-.  Mr.  Wil- 
liams is  a  polished  christian  gentleman,  and  a 
great  lover  of  music  and  art. 


©- 


SNOW  FLAKES. 
Little  snowflake,  number  one. 
Lives  up  yonder  near  the  sun; 
Come  to  stay  with  us  awhile. 
Till  the  great  sun  gives  a  smile, 
And  the  snowflake  will  be  gone. 
Number  two  came  all  alone. 
From  an  angel  land  unknown; 
May  no  touch  of  sin  defile 
Little  snowflake. 
Precious  as  a  diamond  stone. 
Never  eyes  more  lovely  shone; 


All  our  hearts  doth  she  beguile 
While  the  storm  drifts  'round  us  pile. 
Queen  she  is  upon  a  throne. 
Little  snowflake. 


SPRAY  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SEA, 
My  bark  is  outward  bound 

O'er  stormy  billows  far; 
Beneath,  are  depths  jtrofound, 

Above,  the  sailing  star; 
Somewhere  the  waves  divide 

Along  the  shadowy  way. 
And  I  shall  reach  the  tide 

Where  leaps  the  golden  spray. 
To  catch  the  breezes  there 

Will  touch  with  youth  the  hrow: 
Nor  shall  a  danger  dare 

Disturb  my  sunlit  prow: 
O  voyage  of  delight, 

To  watch  the  sails  that  cross 
The  line  where  storms  affright, 

With  bitter  pain  and  loss. 
To  welcome  them,  and  know 

The  battle-flags  they  bore, 
For  him  who  loved  them  so 

And  won  them  evermore; 
The  salt  sea  spray  is  here. 

What  if  it  buffet  me? 
The  boundless  tides  are  near 

Spray  of  the  golden  sea. 


THE  EVENING   RIDE. 
Bring  Dapple  up!  the  velvet  ribbons  take! 
Which    way    to  catch  the  sunset's  golden 

hues. 
And  make  the  most  of  twilight's  charming 
views? 
Up  past  the  walnuts  where  the  glassy  lake 
Reflects  the  beauty  of  the  clouds  that  break 
In  archipelagoes  of  light.    Now  choose 
A  by-road  fragrant  with  the  evening  dews. 
Where  roadside  maples  pleasant  vistas  make; 
Let  Dapple  out!  the  stars  begin  to  gleam 
On  past  the  farm-house  porches  dim  and 
low  — 
Now  by  the  winding  of  a  stream. 
Till  thicker  under  shadows  grow  the  stars 
and,— 
Ah,  soon  it  will  be  time  to  rest  and  dream. 
The  home  stretch  quickly  made, — 
.'  Whoa,  Dapple,  whoa!" 


MY  FRIEND  AND  I. 

My  friend  and  I  —  two  souls  agreed  — 

His  way  I  take  as  he  doth  lead. 
Or  in  some  path  he  may  not  know. 
He  follows  me,  and  thus  we  go. 
And  mutual  honor  we  concede. 

My  friend  hath  moods,  ah  strong  indeed. 

As  if  an  autocrat  decreed 


-© 


SB 


572 


m 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   I'OETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


MRS.  DORCAS  FOSTER  COOKE. 

Born:  Somerset  Co.,  Me.,  May  25, 1839. 
Mrs.  Cooke  is  a  resident  of  Oeonto,  Wis., 
where   her  liusbaud    is    a    iiurserymuii    and 
farmer.    Since  her   twentieth  year  the  pro- 


MKS.  DORCAS  FOSTER  COOKE. 

ductions  of  this  lady  liave  appeared  more  or 
less  in  the  periodical  press.  In  1888  she  pub- 
lished, in  conjunction  with  Mrs.  Julia  Ellen 
Jenkins,  a  neat  volume  of  poems  entitled 
Memories,  a  work  that  has  been  well  and 
favorably  received. 


5(- 


DROPS  OF  DEW. 

Radiant  spark  of  trembling-  liglit. 

Little  silver  spray ; 
The  spear  of  knot  grass'  shining  bright 

In  gorgeous  array. 
As  diamond  bright  it  does  entrance, 

Tlie  various  rays  combine. 
Garnet  and  topas  at  a  glance. 

With  violets  do  entwine. 

Yes,  there's  tlie  ruby's  clearest  hue, 

And  amethyst  so  gay. 
And  s;ippliires  ever  cluiiiging-  too, 

Tlic  cineraUl;  but  stay. 
It  all  in  one  bright  rainbow  seems, 

Atid  by  the  breezes  tossed. 
Like  sudden  gleams  on  life's  dark  stream. 

Is  quickly,  strarig-ely  lost. 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Indian  summer's  g-olden  days, 

Tho'  the  leaves  are  sere  and  brown. 
The  lonely  heart  now  breathes  thy  praise, 

Blue-crested  jays  scream  thy  renown. 
Oil!  blest  incensed  reviving- air; 

Than  balmy  June's  most  perfumed  flower, 
That  lines  the  walks,  thou  art  more  fair, 

Indian  summer's  golden  hours. 
Indian  summer's  golden  hours. 

How  soft  thy  breeze  o'er  smoky  hill. 
Bears  autumn  leaves  and  wrecks  of  flowers, 

Ere  winters  breath  comes  cold  and  chill. 
I  love  thy  tints,  thy  sweet  perfume. 

Thy  dimmest  ray,  thy  loudest  tone; 
Thy  voiceless  morn,  thy  mellow  moon, 

Indian  summer's  golden  day. 


MRS.  ROSALINE  E.  JONES. 

Born:  Sparta,  Ind.,  Mav  7, 1846. 
For  the  past  ten  years  Mrs.  Jones  has  written 
numerous  poems  that  have  appeared  in  the 
leading  periodicals  in  the  east.  She  was  mar- 
ried in  1870,  and  now  resides  with  her  husband 
in  Geneva,  N.  Y. 


IN  THE  GLOAMING. 

When  the  earth  lies  steeped  in  dreams. 
And  the  glinting  starlight  beams 

On  the  mist; 
Mystic  speech  of  elfln  sprite, 
Through  the  awesome  hush  of  night 

Lisp,  "Olist." 
And  I  hear  the  whisperous  murmur 
Of  the  lullabies  of  summer 

Softly  croon. 
While  the  owl  hoots  his  reflections 
In  lugubrious  inflections 

To  the  moon. 
All  the  night  creatures  uncanny 
Sally  forth  from  nook  and  craiuiy 

Bosk  and  fen, 
For  their  nightly  reconnoiter. 
Where  the  .somber  shadows  loiter 

In  the  glen. 
Now  a  dusky  bat  flops  thither. 
And  a  beetle  hit^s  him  hither 

With  a  thump; 
And  a  whippoorwill  is  singinjr 
Where  the  woodbine's  arms  are  clinging 

Round  a  stump. 
O  this  night!  Howc'erl  crave  it 
Thougli  I  try  I  cannot  save  it 

Or  bring  back 
Bat  or  beetle,  owl  or  moon. 
Unless  in  a  grim  cartoon 

On  a  plaque. 


m 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL,   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


573 


* 


ROBERT  HUNTER  FENTON. 

Bokn:  Peekskill,  N.Y.,  March  7,  1847. 
Since  an  infant  Mr.  Fenton  has  resided  in 
Nyack,  New  York,  wliere  he  is  now  emploj'ed 
most  of  the  time  in  local  newspaper  work. 
His  poems  have  appeared  in  mag'nzines  and 


'^ 


ROBERT   HUNTER  FENTON. 

miscellaneous  publications,  and  he  has  writ- 
ten several  hymns  for  public  celebrations.  As 
a  poet  the  compositions  of  Mr.  Fenton  exhibit 
more  talent  tiian  genius,  and  are  written  in 
widely  different  measure  and  style. 

THE  THRUSH. 

Sweet  is  the  song  that  tlie  l)rown  thrush  sings. 

From  its  lofty  seat 'midst  the  forest  gloom; 
Sweeter  by  far  than  tlie  notes  that  ring 

From  other  songsters  of  brighter  plume. 
The  oriole  flits  through  the  blossoms  white. 

Displaying   its    beauty    and    flaunting    its 
pride. 
And  the  jay  with  its  colors  so  blue  and  bright. 

Disports  on  the  hills,  and  the  mountain  side. 
They  sing  in  their  season,  so  full  of  clieer:— 

The  chippy  its  paradise  song  of  spring. 
And  the  robin  calling  so  loud  and  clear. 

And  the    bluebird  warbling  while   on  the 
wing. 

But  sweeter  than  all  is  this  minstrel  fair 
Which  keeps  in  the  loneliness  of  the  wood. 

And  sings  in  the  purple  twiliglit  there. 
Its  harp-like  anthem  of  solitude. 


NYACK. 

Oh  fair  and  quiet  village,  peacefully 

Thou  lyest  by  the  Hudson's  noble  stream. 
While  art  and  nature  blend  their  charms  in 
thee. 

And  all  the  prospect  doth  with  beauty  teem ; 

No  spot  on  eartli  is  worthier  for  a  theme. 
For  where  doth  lands  more  beautiful  appear! 

Not  e'en  Arcadia  of  the  poet's  dream 
Hath  fairer  scenes  the  human  heart  to  cheer. 
For  each  fair  season  bears  its  phase  of  beauty 
here. 

The  spring  returns  and  spreads  her  robes  of 
green. 
And  summer  follows,  lingering  long  until 
The  amaranth  of  autumn  crowns  the  scene. 
And  doth  the  landscape  with   new  glories 

fill; 
Then  winter  comes  —  stern  winter,  when  the 
rill 
Is  ice-bound  and  all  nature  sleeps  in  white; 
Still  fair  the  prospect  seems  o'er  town  and 
hill. 
And  by  the  river  side,  'neath  floods  of  light. 
And  o'er  the  cheerful  scene  there  cometh  not 
one  blight. 

No  storms  have  swept  thee  with  a  ruthless 
hand. 
Nor  war  nor  pestilence  dealt  dire  dismay: 
So  long  a  favored  latitude  —  a  land 
Protected  by  kind  Providence  each  day; 
While    nature's   warring   hosts  may  press 
their  way 
Through   other    lands   with    havoc,    dealing 
woe,— 
The  cyclone  or  the  earthquake,  far  away. 
Or  simoons  that  o'er  desert  gardens  flow; 
Of  these  and  kindred  ills  thy  people  do  not 
know. 

Go  out  upon  the  waters,  or  across 
The  bosom  of  the  river  wide,  and  there 

Look  on  the  prospect  that  extends,  or  pause 
On  distant  hill  tops,  if  you  will,  or  where 
The  panorama  may  appear  most  fair; 

But  let  no  vision  tluis  th.v  heart  delude. 
Thinking  that  all  is  perfect,  for  a  share 

Of  earthly  ills  do  even  here  intrude. 

For  sorrow  comes,  alas,  and  deatli  with  hand 
most  rude. 

And  if,  with  nearer  view,  all  hearts  did  seem 

As  perfect  as  the  scenes  that  here  repose, 
'Twould  be  a  paradise  beyond  life's  dream  — 

A  favored  realm  e.xempt  from  human  woes; 

But  wheresoever  nature  thus  bestows 
Her  choicest  gifts  the  serpent's  trail  is  found; 

In  human  hearts  the  imperfection  shows. 
And  elements  of  evil  there  abound 
That  veils  the  spirit's  sight  to  that  which  dotli 
surround. 


© 


I  574 


-« 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMEKICA. 


LEWIS  LAMAR. 

BOKN  :   BUKKITTSVILLE,  Md.,  1838. 

THIS  gentleman  taught  school  for  six  years 
during- which  time  he  prepared  himself  for 
colleo-e  For  two  years  he  was  school  com- 
mi-sLner.    In   ISHT  Mr.  Lamar  graduated  m 


Along  the  track  he'll  bring  us  hack, 
The  many  precious  things  we  lack. 
Now  ..Van  "  may  "  Winkle  "  in  his  bed 
And  dormant  lie,  appearing  dead; 
The  fogy  croak  and  shake  his  head. 
And  tell  us  what  grand-daddy  said. 
The  days  of  steam  are  drawing  nigh. 
Our  trudging  days  are  passing  by, 
Tlie  iron  horse  is  coming  through. 
His  freighted  train  will  soon  be  due. 
T  he  iron  horse  is  all  the  talk ; 
We  should  not  cease  or  make  a  balk, 
But  help  along  with  friendly  ties. 
This  great  and  public  enterprise. 

He'll  never  come,  the  iron  horse. 

Unless  we  shall  his  way  endorse; 

Unless  we  take  sufficient  stock. 

He'll  far  away  our  wishes  mock. 
Cho.—  The  iron  horse  is  halting  now. 

And  we  are  trudging,  trudging  how 


LEWIS  LAMAR. 

Starling  medical  college  of  Columbus.  Ohio. 
In  18T4  and  1875  Mr.  Lamar  was  a  member  in 
the  legislature  of  Maryland.  Since  that  time 
he  has  been  actively  engaged  in  the  practice 
of  medicine,  and  is  now  located  at  WolfsviUe, 
in  his  native  state^ 

THE  IKON  HORSE. 

The  iron  horse  is  coming  sure. 
Our  plodding  days  will  soon  be  o'er: 
The  engineer  has  gone  before. 
To  mark  the  way  and  make  it  sure, 
Cho.— The  iron  lior.se  is  coming  sure. 

Our  plodding  days  will  soon  be  o'er. 
With  hoofs  of  steel,  and  iron-bound. 

He's  coming  sure  to  Middletown; 

There's  work  around  for  evermore 

And  feed  enough  for  him  in  store. 

If  business  fly,  or  pleasure  hie. 

Alike  his  best  endeavors  try ; 

If  pressed  with  heavy  loads,  or  light, 

IHe  moves  along  in  brave  delight. 
To  better  markets  swiftly  bear 
Our  noble  products,  rich  and  fair; 

m 


THE  OLD  COVERED  BRIDGE. 

EXTRACT. 

The  covered  bridge  is  travel-worn 

By  massive  loads  across  it  borne. 

It's  sidings  once  were  new  and  fair. 

But  time  has  wrought  its  mischief  there. 

The  oaken  floor  on  duty  there, 

A  storv  tells  of  age  and  wear; 

Its  sill  is  patched,  and  here  and  there 

Are  seen  rude  traces  of  repair. 

Those  rudely  cut,  initials  show 

The  rustic  hand  of  years  ago. 

Its  aged  sides  a'-e  pencil-lined 

With  diagrams  the  oddest  kind 

On  frame  and  gabe'  and  everywhere 

Are  seen  the  marks  of  age  and  wear; 

And  on  its  ragged  hulk  appears 

The  gathered  dust  of  many  years. 

Its  high  and  handy  walls  aB'ord 

A  ready  advertising  board. 

And  gaudy  bills  are  posted  thickly 

To  fool  the  green  and  fleece  the  sickly; 

There  quack' ry  makes  a  great  display. 

It  don't  •>  verstehen,"  but  quacks  away. 

Unblushingly.  for  gain  and  pay. 

And  basely  barters  life  away. 

How  merrily  tin- light  and  gay 

Have  trii>pe(l  across  it  tunnel  way. 

And  loving  once  have  lingered  there. 

Perchance  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

And  little  feet  have  pattered  through 

This  bridge  so  trusty  aud  so  true; 

The  halt  and  bli.ui.  oppressed  and  poor 

Have  freely  crossed  its  dusty  floor. 

This  bridge  has  *een  year  after  year 

The  emerald  hue  of  s)>ring  appear. 

And  summer  full  of  Hfe  and  cheer. 

As  well  as  autumn,  brown  and  sere: 


©- 


-m 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


SALLIE  CARSON. 

Born:  Beaver  Co.,  Pa.,  March  13,  1847. 
Having  taught  school  successfully  for  one 
term,  failing  health  forlxide  further  effort  iu 
that  direction,  and  early  in  life  Miss  Carson 
became  a  great  sufferer  and  a  confirmed  in- 
valid. Siie  bravely  took  up  the  burden  of 
life,  and  her  uncomplaining  active  ways  and 
sweet  christian  spirit  have  won  tor  her  many 
friends.    When  scarcely  in  her  teens  this  lady 


i>ALLlE  CAKSO^. 

began  to  write  poems  of  more  than  ordinary 
merit,  and  she  has  since  contributed  to  the 
Pittsburgh  Post,  Telegraph,  Philadelphia 
Commonwealth,  and  other  periodicals  of 
equal  prominence.  In  1880  she  issued  a 
volume  of  her  select  poems  entitled  Wayside 
Flowers.  She  still  resides  with  her  father's 
family,  now  located  at  Beaver  Falls.  In  per- 
son she  is  of  the  average  height  but  rather 
slonder,brown  hair  and  eyes  of  brownish  gray- 


i^- 


IN  MEMORY'S  FAIRY  HALLS. 

Not  dimly  Ijurns  the  lamp  to-night 

111  Memory's  fairy  halls. 
That  gilds  with  such  a  liallowed  light 

Each  picture  on  the  walls. 
Where  olden  scenes  a  freshness  wear 

It  thrills  the  heart  to  see; 
Where  faces  fair  with  beauty  rare. 

Are  smiling  down  on  me. 


And  wliile  I  ponder  here  alone. 

Rich  music  greets  my  ear; 
I  list  to  each  familiar  lone 

I  once  so  loved  to  hear; 
What  hidden  power  thus  voice  can  lend 

Unto  this  old-time  throng. 
Till  notes  of  friend  and  lover  blend 

In  sweet,  melodious  song';r' 

Her  magic  touch  let  Fancy  boast, 

And  smile  at  sober  thought; 
The  imagery  that  charms  us  most. 

Not  Fancy's  hand  haili  wrought; 
Her  pencil  is  not  skilled  to  trace 

A  scene  of  bygone  years: 
Nor  paint  with  grace  each  vanislied  face 

That  here  to-night  appears. 
'Tis  Memory  to  the  raptured  gaze 

Can  thus  the  past  unfold. 
Till  form  and  face  of  other  days, 

All  perfect,  we  behold; 
And  pictured  lips  that  deck  her  walls 

Breathe  music  soft  and  low; 
Each  strain  that  falls  within  her  halls  — 

A  song  of  long  ago. 


WAITING. 

"  After  the  storm  a  calm,"  they  say; 

The  winds  may  blow,  and  the  rain  may  pour, 
But  we  wait  for  the  light  of  a  golden  day 
When  the  rifted  clouds  shall  drift  away. 

And,  after  the  rain,  return  no  more. 
In  the  time  of  battle  we  look  above, 

Through  mist  and  heavy  smoke,  for  we  know 
With  the  olive-branch,  from  the  land  of  love, 
Shall  come  the  beautiful  white-winged  dove. 

And  peace  shall  reign  in  the  world  below. 
Each  heart  has  a  trial  scene  in  life. 

When  good    angels  whisper,   "Be  patient, 
endure," 
Till  the  tempest  is  stilled,  and  the  bitter  strife. 
And  'mid  the  loud  din  and  discord  rife, 

..  Be  silent,  and  keep  your  garments  pure." 


A  SUMMER  REVERIE. 

The  gentle  summer  breezes  bear 

On  their  soft  wings  a  ricli  perfume. 
Fresh  from  the  fragrant  gardens  where 

The  sweetest  roses  bud  and  bloom. 
All  nature  wears  a  smiling  face, 

As,  robed  anew  in  gorgeous  dress. 
With  queenly  air  and  modest  grace, 

She  blushes  in  her  loveliness. 
The  birds  in  yonder  forest  now 

In  gladsome  chorus  blithely  sing; 
And  from  the  waving,  leafy  bough 

Ascends  their  simple  offering. 
Fair  childhood,  full  of  playful  glee. 

The  meadow  roams,  and  woodland  wild; 


® 


© 


576 


LOCAT.   AND    NATIONAL  TOETS   OF  AMERICA, 


« 


MRS.  S.  L.  B.  MCFARLAND. 

Born:  Halifax,  Pa.,  April  12, 1839. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  McFarland  have  appeared 
in  the  Harrisburg-  Patriot  and  Telegraph,  and 
the  periodical  press  generally.  She  was  mar- 
ried in  1860  to  C.  E.  McFarland,  secretary  of 
the  46th  Pa.  V.  V.  Infantry  at  Halifax,  where 


MRS.   SARAH   L.   B.   MFAHLAND. 

she  still  resides.  Personally  Mrs.  McFarland 
is  ratlier  small  in  stature,  but  a  little  robust, 
with  black  hair  and  brown  eyes.  She  is  well 
known  and  greatly  admired  for  her  many  ac- 
complishments among  her  many  friends  and 
acquaintances. 

SONG  OF  THE  SPARROW. 

The  sparrow  sang  as  fleeing  night. 
Gave  place  to  morning's  dawning  light- 
Heralding  gleams  of  sunshine  bright. 

Sweet!  sweet! 
Unmindful  all  of  ice  or  snow. 
From  bough  to  bough  they  fluttering  go, 
Ever  one  song  still  twittering  low : 

Sweet!  sweet! 
Oh  !  winds  of  March,  yotir  biting  blasts. 
The  sparrows  tt'l!  of  winter  j)ast; 
They  sing  to  us  of  spring  at  last: 

Sweet!  sweet! 
Brown  earth  so  cold  and  snow-clad  hill. 
Ice-bound  river  and  rippling  rill. 
The  tuneful  sjjarrow  singing  still: 

Sweet!  sweet  I 


Oh !  souls  bowed  down  with  earthly  care. 
New  buds  spring  forth  fresh  fruit  to  bear. 
New  burdens  take,  new  dangers  dare. 

Sweet!  sweet! 
Each  sorrow  brings  its  strengthening  grace, 
That  earth  may  seem  a  fairer  place, 
To  those  who  do  life's  burdens  face, 

Sweet!  sweet! 
Oh !  tiny  bird  with  dark  brown-wing. 
Teach  ever  thus  my  lips  to  sing, 
And  nearer  to  my  God  to  cling. 

Sweet!  sweet! 


WHEN   THE    EVENING    SHADOWS 
LENGTHEN. 
When  the  evening  shadows  lengthen, 

And  th'  weary  day  is  almost  done; 
Then  on  the  fainting  soul  to  strengthen. 

So  sweetly  gleams  the  setting  sun. 
Lights  all  the  hills  with  gorgeous  splendor, 

Aud  makes  earth-life  like  dreamland  seem, 
While  brilliant  clouds  reflect  the  grandeur 

That  on  the  glowing  waters  beam. 
The  gay  world  seems   fading  from  our  view  — 

All  its  cares  and  tempting  pleasures; 
Eagerly  we  grasp  with  faith  anew. 

The  Master's  heavenly  treasures. 
Whilst  heaven's  portals  widely  open. 

As  we  thus  stand  in  glad  amaze; 
Behold  of  love  divine  the  token 

Greets  again  our  wandering  gaze. 
And  the  heart  doth  thrill  to  hopes  new-born, 

At  glimpses  fair  of  better  life. 
No  more  by  dread  fear  the  spirit's  torn. 

Stern  witness  of  an  Inward  strife. 
To  the  wounded  soul  it  bringeth  balm. 

And  this  life's  terrors  vanish  all. 
For  the  wearers  of  the  victors  palm. 
Who  calmly  wait  the  Master's  call. 


SB- 


MRS.  S.  J.  STEVENS. 

Born  :  Belfast,  Me.,  July  17, 1839. 
Mrs.  Stevens  has  written  quite  a  few  poems 
for  the  Boston  Morning  Star.    Tliis  lady  re- 
sides in  Troy,  Me.,  where  she  is  very  jiopular. 

A  REVERIE. 

She  prayed  for  death's  long  dreamless  sleep. 
Beneath  tlie  ereen  turf,  cold  and  deep. 
To  rest  from  grief  and  ceaseless  pain. 
Her  aching  heart  and  weary  brain. 
The  voice  of  song  that  hearts  had  thrilled. 
In  cruel  sorrow  now  was  stilled. 
Her  cheeks,  once  bright  with  beauty's  glow, 
Were  white  and  cold  as  winter's  snow. 
Her  pale,  sweet  lips,  so  pure  and  fair. 
Are  breathing  now  their  evening  pr:iyer, 
The  moonbeams  bathe  her  pillowed  brow. 
Her  heart  In  dreamland  wanders  now. 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A3IER1CA. 


-« 


CHARLES  ANDERSON  DANA. 

Born  :  Hinsdale,  N  H.,  Aug.  8, 1819. 
The  boyhood  of  Charles  was  spent  in  Buffalo, 
where  he  worked  in  d  store  until  he  was  eigh- 
teen years  of  age.  The  jouruahstic  life  of  Mr. 
Dana  has  been  an  active  one.  Perhaps,  to  a 
greater  e.\tcat  than  in  the  case  of  any  other 
conspicuous  journalist,  Mr.  Dana's  personality 


CHARLES  ANDERSON  DANA. 


is  identified  in  the  public  niind  with  the  news- 
paper that  he  edits  — the  New  York  Sun. 

In  1843  he  became  a  member  of  the  Brook 
Farm  association,  being  associated  with  George 
and  Sophia  Ripley,  George  WiUiam  Curtis, 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  Theodore  Parker,  Willi- 
am Henry  Channing,  John  Sullivan  Dwight, 
Margaret  Fuller,  and  other  philosophers  more 
or  less  directly  concerned  in  the  remarkable 
attempt  to  reaUze  at  Roxbury  a  high  ideal  of 
social  and  inteUectual  life. 

Mr.  Dana  was  assistant  secretary  of  war  in 
1863,  and  was  in  the  saddle  much  of  the  time 
during  the  campaigns  of  northern  Mississippi 
and  Vicksburg,  the  rescue  of  Chattanooga,  and 
the  marches  and  battles  of  Virginia  in  1864- 
65.  Mr.  Dana  has  written  numerous  works.  He 
planned  and  edited  The  American  Cyclope- 
dia, which  has  since  been  revised  and  issued 
in  a  work  of  sixteen  volumes.  In  1868  he  wrote, 
with  Gen.  James  H.Wilson,  a  Life  of  Ulysses  S. 
Grant,  and  in  1883  edited  Fifty  Perfect  Poems. 
He  has  also  contributed  to  and  edited  numer- 
ous miscellaneous  works. 


ETERNITY. 
Utter  no  whisper  of  thy  human  speech. 
But  in  celestial  silence  let  us  tell 
Of  the  great  waves  of  G<^d  that  through  us 

swell. 
Revealing  what  no  tongue  could  ever  teach; 
Break  not  the  omnipotent  calm,  even  by  a 

prayer, 
Filled  with  Infinite,  seek  no  lesser  boon; 
But  with  these  pines,  and  with  the  all-loving 

moon, 
Asking  naught,  yield  thee  to  the  Only  Fair: 
So  shall  these  moments  so  divine  and  rare. 
These  passing  moments  of  the  soul's  high  noon, 
Be  of  thy  day  the  first  pale  blush  of  morn ; 
Clad  in  white  raiment  of  God's  newly  born. 
Thyself  shalt  see  when  the  great  world  is  made 
That  flows  forever  forth  from  Love  unstayed. 


HERZLIEBSTE. 
My  love  for  thee  hath  grown  as  grow  the  flow- 
ers. 
Earthly  at  first,  fast  rooted  in  the  earth. 
Yet,  with  the  promise  of  a  better  birth. 
Putting  forth  shoots  of  newly- wakened  powers. 
Tender   green  hopes,  dreams  which  no  God 

makes  ours; 
And  then  the  stalk,  fitted  life's  frosts  to  bear, 
To  brave  the  wildest  tempest's  wildest  art. 
The  immovable  resolution  of  the  heart 
Ready  and  armed  a  world  of  ills  to  dare; 
And  then  the  flower,  fairest  of  things  most 

fair. 
The  flower  divine  of  love  imperishable. 
That  seeth  in  thee  the  sum  of  things  that  are. 
That  hath  no  eye  for  aught  mean  or  unstable. 
But  ever  trustful,  ever  prayerful,  fecleth 
The  mysteries  the  Holy  Ghost  revealeth. 


MANHOOD. 


Dear,  noble  soul,  wisely  thy  lot  thou  bearest. 
For  like  a  god  toiling  in  earthly  slavery. 
Fronting  thy  sad  fate  with  a  joyous  bravery. 
Each  darker  day  a  sunnier  smile  thou  wearest. 
No  grief  can  touch  thy  sweet  and  spiritual 

smile. 
No  pain  is  keen  enough  that  it  has  power 
Over  thy  childlike  love,  that  all  the  while 
LTpon  the  cold  earth  builds  its  heavenly  bower. 
And  thus  with  thee  bright  angels  make  their 

dwelling. 
Bringing  thee  stores  of  strength  when  no  man 

knoweth ; 
The  ocean-stream  from  God's  heart  ever  swell- 
ing. 
That  forth  through  each  least  thing  in  Nature 

goeth , 
In  thee,  O  truest  hero,  deeper  floweth; 
With  joy  I  bathe,  and  many  souls  beside 
Feel  a  new  life  in  the  celestial  tide. 


« 


JULIA  CAROLINE  R.  DORR. 

born:  Charleston,  S.  C.  Feb.  13, 1835. 
IN  1847  tbis  writer  married  Seneca  R.  Dorr,  who 
did  in  1884.    Mrs.  Dorr  has  written  smoe  child- 
h^V  but  her  first  published  poem  was  sent  to 
thTunl  Magazin^e  by  her  husband  without 
h^.  knowledge,  a  year  or  t^^o-ner^^^^ 
riao-e     la  1848  she  became  a  contiibutor  to 
Sartains  Magazine,  aud  won  one  of  its  hun- 
dreSar  prizes  by  her  first  published  prose 
?ale  Isabel  Leslie.    She  has  written  numerous 
noveis  and  several  volumes  of  verse,  among 
which  Xht  be  mentioned  Friar  Anselm  and 
mher  Poems,  Bermuda,  and  Afternoon  Songs^ 
She  hafalso  contributed  both  prose  and  poetry 
to  various  periodicals. 


EXTRACT. 
O  wind  that  blows  out  of  the  West! 

Thou  hast  swept  over  mountain  and  sea, 
Dost  thou  bear  on  thy  swift,  glad  wings 

The  breath  of  my  love  to  me? 
O  sun  that  goes  down  in  the  West! 
Hast  thou  seen  my  love  to-day, 
As  she  sits  in  her  beautiful  prime 

Under  skies  so  far  away? 
O  stars  that  are  bright  in  the  West 

When  the  hush  of  the  night  is  deep! 
Do  ye  see  my  love  as  she  lies 

Like  a  chaste,  white  flower,  asleep? 

DISCONTENT. 

THE  BRIER  ROSE. 

I  cling  to  the  garden  wall 

Outside,  where  the  grasses  grow: 
Where  the  tall  weeds  flaunt  in  the  sun, 

And  the  vellow  mulleins  blow. 
The  dock  and  the  thistle  crowd 

Close  to  my  shrinking  feet, 

And  the  gypsy  yarrow  shares 

My  cup  and  the  food  I  eat. 

The  rude  winds  toss  my  hair. 

The  wild  rains  beat  me  down, 
The  way-side  dust  lies  white 

And  thick  on  my  leafy  crown. 
I  cannot  keep  my  robes 

From  wanton  fingers  free, 
And  the  veriest  beggar  dares 

To  stop  and  gaze  at  me. 
Sometimes  I  climb  and  climb 

To  the  top  of  the  garden  wall. 
And  I  see  her  where  slie  stands. 

Stately  and  fair  and  tall  — 
My  sister,  the  red,  red  Rose, 

My  sister,  the  royal  one. 

The  fairest  flower  that  blows 

Under  the  summer  sun! 


What  wonder  that  she  is  fair? 

What  wonder  that  she  is  sweet? 
The  treasures  of  earth  and  air 

Lie  at  her  dainty  feet: 
The  choicest  fare  is  hers. 

Her  cup  is  brimmed  with  wine; 
Rich  are  her  emerald  robes. 

And  her  bed  is  soft  and  fine. 

She  need  not  Uf  t  her  head 

Even  to  sip  the  dew; 
No  rude  touch  makes  her  shrink 

The  whole  long  summer  through. 
Her  servants  do  her  will : 

They  come  at  her  beck  and  call. 
Oh,  rare  is  life  in  my  lady's  bowers 

Inside  of  the  garden  wall. 

THE  GARDEN   ROSE. 

The  garden  path  runs  east. 

And  the  garden  path  runs  west: 
There's  a  tree  by  the  garden  gate. 

And  a  little  bird  in  a  nest. 
It  sings  and  sings  and  sings! 

Does  the  bird,  I  wonder,  know 
How,  pver  the  garden  wall. 

The  bright  days  come  and  go? 

The  garden  path  runs  north. 

The  garden  path  runs  south; 
The  brown  bee  hums  in  the  sun. 

And  kisses  the  lily's  mouth; 
But  it  flies  away  ere  long 

To  the  birch-tree  dark  and  tall. 
What  do  you  find,  O  brown  bee, 

Over  the  garden  wall? 
With  rough  and  farthingale. 
Under  the  gardener's  eye. 
In  trimmest  guise  I  stand  - 

Oh,  who  so  fine  as  I? 
But  even  the  light  wind  knows 

That  it  may  not  pla)-  with  me. 
Nor  touch  my  beautiful  lips 

With  a  wild  caress  and  free. 
Oh,  straight  is  the  garden  path. 

And  smooth  is  the  garden  bed. 
Where  never  an  idle  weed 

Dares  lift  its  careless  head. 
But  I  know  outside  the  wall 

Th(>>'  gather,  a  merry  throng: 
They  dance  and  flutter  and  sing,- 

And  I  listen  all  day  long. 
The  Brier  Rose  swings  outside; 
Sometimes  she  climbs  so  high 
I  (;an  see  her  sweet,  pink  face 

Against  the  blue  of  the  sky. 
WluU  wonder  that  she  is  fair. 

Whom  no  strait  bonds  enthrall/ 
Oh,  rare  is  life  to  the  Brier  Rose. 
Outside  of  the  garden  wall! 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


579 


MRS.  GRACIA  SOUTHWORTH 

Born:  Worcester  Co.,  Mass.,  Aug.  6, 1833. 
When  nineteen  j'ears  of  age  she  removed 
with  her  parents  to  Jackson,  Michig-an,  where 
she  taught  scliool  for  several  years.  At  the 
age  of  twenty-two  Gracie  was  married  to  N. 
W.  Soutiiwortli.    Slie  still  pursues  her  litti:i- 


<.l:-\(  1  \.    V     '-ol    IIIWUHTH. 

ry  pursuits  in  a  quiet  way,  and  both  iier  prose 
and  verse  have  appeared  quite  extensively  in 
the  periodical  press.  Her  oldest  daughter, 
EmmaL.  South  worth,  has  received  a  classical 
education,  and  is  a  graceful  writer  of  hoth 
prose  and  verse.  Mrs.  Southwortli  lives  with 
her  husband  on  a  farm  at  Albion, Michigan. 


AUTUMN  MUSINGS. 
The  Autunm  winds  are  wailing. 
Sadly  wailing  as  they  pass. 
The  autumn  leaves  are  sailing 
To  tlie  sere  and  withered  grass; 
The  cliilling  frost  hath  blighted 
The  wealth  of  summer's  bloom. 
And  the  torch  that  Love  hath  lighted. 
Burns  dim  in  the  Soldier's  home. 
The  Soldier's  home  is  lonely. 
When  the  shades  of  evening  spread, 
And  the  Soldier's  little  children 
Lie  down  in  their  trundle-bed; 
They  miss  a  father's  fond  caress, 
They  miss  a  father's  care: 
"  Keep  safe  dear  absent  pa  to-night," 
They  lisj)  at  their  evening  prayer. 


The  Soldier's  wife.  Heaven  help  her. 

Her  heavy  load  to  bear. 

For  on  her  brow  and  heart  is  pressed 

Tiie  heavy  weight  of  care; 

And  anxiou.s,  sleepless  nights  are  hers, 

When  hope  gives  place  to  fears; 

And  the  sanguine  strife,  and  battle-cries 

Are  ringing  in  her  ears. 

The  autumn  moon  is  sliining 
Fi'om  out  a  southern  sky; 
Its  rays  illume  the  tented  field. 
And  the  dear  flag  floating  nigh; 
It  shines  on  the  northern  Soldie:- 
Pacing  his  weary  beat; 
He  is  thinking  of  home. 
His  eye  grow  moist 
With  memories  sad  and  sweet. 

Within  his  heart  is  pictured 
His  northern  home  to-night; 
The  image  of  all  the  dear  ones. 
Love  keeps  it  ever  bright. 
The  children  in  the  trundle-bed. 
The  cradle  with  its  sleeping  fair. 
The  lonely  wife  with  fear  oppressed 
Bending  beneath  a  weight  of  caue. 
The  autumn  moon  is  shining. 
And  hope  will  its  rays  impart: 
The  cloud  "  liath  a  silver  lining," 
That  presseth  the  weary  heart; 
It  speaks  of  a  bright  to-morrow. 
When  this  cruel  war  shall  cease. 
Of  dear  ones  returned  in  safety, 
Of  Victory  and  Peace. 


GIFTED. 
A  wondrous  gift  is  tliine  my  child, 
A  wondrous  gift  is  thine; 
Within  thy  woman's  grasp  is  placed 
A  Harp  from  Hand  Divine. 
A  harp  whose  chords  when  rightly  swept. 
Attuned  with  skillful  art. 
Hath  power  to  touch  the  secret  springs 
That  move  the  human  heart. 
And  thine  the  power  to  wake  the  tones 
Of  sweetest  melody : 
To  breathe  the  spirit's  purest  thought 
In  tuneful  harmony. 
O!  better  far  this  gift  of  thine 
Than  gold  or  diadem. 
Or  treasure  from  the  ocean  depth, 
Of  pearl  or  costly  gem. 
O !  use  aright  this  gift  divine. 
And  let  its  numbers  roll 
Of  all  that  helps  humanity 
And  elevates  the  soul ; 
And  when  within  the  "  pearly  gates  " 
The  "golden  liarp  "  is  given. 
Thy  song  begun  in  weakness  here 
Shall  be  complete  in  heaven. 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  E.  H.  WEBSTER. 

Born:  1822. 
This  lady  is  the  autlior  of  Clover  Blossoms,  a 
well   written    and    entertaining    volume  of 


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MRS.  ELIZAISKTII    llKIXii:   WEBSTi;!!. 

poetry  and  prose.  Her  poems  have  constant- 
ly appeared  in  some  of  the  leading-  magazines. 
Mrs.  Webster  resides  in  Hyde  Park,  Mass. 


® 


WHO  IS  MY  NEIGHBOR? 

EXTRACT. 

"  Who  is  my  neighbor?    Not  the  one 

Who  best  may  please  my  foolish  heart; 
Nor  yet  the  wise  and  good  alone 

Who  in  my  love  and  joy  bear  part. 
Perchance  the  poor,  the  low,  or  vile 

My  steps  may  pass  and  kindness  need; 
Such  is  my  neighbor  as  myself  to  love. 

The  naked  clothe,  the  hungry  feed. 

OUR  DEPARTED  HEROES. 
Not  in  the  moldering  ground  below. 

Do  our  dead  heroes  lie; 
But  in  the  glowing  spirit-land 

Where  they  can  never  die. 
The  Howers  we  drop,  the  tears  we  shed, 

Memorials  of  our  lost. 
Bring  sadly  to  oui'  burdened  hearts 

Their  fearful  price  and  cost. 
But,  slain  in  freedom's  holy  cause 

We  may  not  mourn  their  loss; 


For  not  a  good  of  precious  worth 

Has  been  without  its  cross. 
The  freedom  which  the  black  man  shares 

Will  yet  be  given  all; 
And  male  and  female.  Gentile,  Jew, 

Respond  to  freedom's  call. 


MRS.  SARAH  S.CONVERSE. 

Born  :  Corinth,  Vt.,  1825. 
In  1857  this  lady  was  married  to  Hon.  P.  M. 
Converse  of  Lyme,  N.  H.,  where  she  has  ever 
since  resided.  Mrs  Converse  has  written  for 
a  large  number  of  newspapers  and  magazines, 
and  still  contributes  to  the  Boston  Morning 
Star,  and  other  prominent  publications. 

CONTENTMENT. 
If  with  the  lowest  station. 

The  heai't  contented  be. 
Could  happiness  be  added 

By  wealth  of  land  or  sea? 
Than  blest  contentment  in  the  breast. 
Can  mortal  here  know  sweeter  rest? 
The  poor  man  with  this  jewel. 

Views  with  most  sweet  delight. 
Earth's  thousand  varied  beauties. 

That  daily  greet  the  sight. 
And  blesses  God  with  sunny  face. 
His  lines  have  fallen  in  pleasant  place. 
He  calls  his  home  an  Eden, — 

Adores  the  God  who  reigns. 
Nor  knows  the  sting  of  envy. 

But  joys  in  others'  gains; 
Of  beauteous  things  his  eyes  may  see. 
He  claims  all  these  were  made  for  rae. 
Yet  wealth,  with  few  exceptions. 

From  man  this  treasure  steals. 
Draws  from  life's  cup  the  elixir. 

And  spring  of  love  congeals; 
Self-love  and  hate  being  the  evil  eye 
That  darkens  all  of  earth  and  sky. 
O,  great  the  curse  that  follows 

Increase  of  shining  ore. 
When  that  within  the  bosom. 

Begets  a,  thirst  for  more. 
To  kindle  rivalry  and  strife, 

And  wither  uj)  the  blooms  of  life. 
Wealth  may  give  place  and  power,— 

Let  who  will  for  it  pine. 
And  heaven  bestows  its  honors. 

On  other  heads  than  mine.— 
I  ask  no  idol  to  control 
And  sap  the  warm  currents  of  the  soul. 
B:t  grant  me,  O  Most  Holy, 

The  bliss  content  ment  Virings, 
And  let  me  taste  the  blessing 

Of  joy  in  humblest  things. 
And  prove  how  glorious  to  jiossess 
Contentment  sweet  with  godliness. 


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LOCAL   AND   XATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


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581 


KIMBx\LL  CHASE  TAPLEY. 

Born  in  Canada. 
By  profession  Mr.  Taploy  is  a  telegraph  oper- 
ator, but  that  work  being-  too  confluiug-  he  is 
at   present   a   steamboat  agent.    Under  the 
nom  de  plume  of  Casey  Tap  this  writer  lias 


KIMUALL  CHASE   TAPl.EY. 

contributed,  in  addition  to  his  many  poems, 
numerous  prose  articles  of  a  humorous  nature 
to  Pecks  Sun,  Tidbits  and  other  papers.  The 
poems  of  Mv.  Tapley  have  been  very  favor- 
ably received. 


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GETTIN'  ALONG. 

A'though  it  eums  'long-  ev'ry  year. 
It  alius  makes  me  feel  that  queer 
An'  sort  o'  juicy  round  the  eyes  — 
The  time,  I  mean,  when  dead  leaves  flies. 
Air  when  the  birds  hez  lost  ther  tune. 
An"  when  the  dark  draps  down  too  soon. 
An'  througli  the  boughs  an'  all  erlong 
The  road,  the  wind  its  dismal  song- 
Jes'  kind  o'  howls  an'  kicks  up  tricks 
With  all  the  crisped-up  leaves  an'  sticks, 
An'  flings  the  dust  right  in  yer  eyes; 
An'  wlien  the  dull  clouds  heavy  lies 
Acrost  the  sky  an'  makes  you  tliink 
The  ()k>  year's  jes'  beg-un  ter  sink  — 
Wall,  that's  erbout  the  time  o'  year 
I  alius  feel  so  kind  o'  queer! 
The  summer  days  hez  up  an'  fled. 
An'  most  the  trees  is  painted  red; 


The  jay-bird's  stopped  his  little  tlute 
An'  skipped  ofl'  in  his  bed-tick  suit; 
The  lily's  head  hez  drapped  down  low 
As  o'er  it  now  the  ciiill  streams  flow, 
An'  through  the  air  a  suddint  quack 
Cums  tellin'  us  the  wil'-<luck"s  back. 
The  hick'ry  nuts  drap  off  the  trees 
An'  makes  a  feller  think  he  sees 
The  woods  a-sheddin'  of  ther  tears 
A-thinkin'  of  the  passin'  years; 
'Cos  when  the  wind  blows  s'rill  an'  cold 
A  feller  feels  he's  g-rowin'  old; 
He's  sorj;  o'  juicy  round  the  eyes  — 
The  time,  I  mean,  when  dead  leaves  flies! 


TO-DAY  AND  TO-MORROW. 

To-day  the  wind  blows  bleak  and  chill. 

The  sun  is  hid  behind  the  mist. 
But,  with  the  morn,  each  dale  and  liill 

Shall  with  his  glad'ning-  beams  be  kissed  — 
And  so,  my  dear,  cheer  up  —  you'll  find 
Each  sombre  cloud  is  silver  lined. 
The  harp,  to-day,  twangs  out  of  tune. 

And  mournful  sound  the  piper's  notes. 
But  soon  the  birds  of  em'rald  June 

Shall  thrill  the  air  from  joyous  throats. 
And  warm  shall  blow  the  scented  wind  — 
Each  sombre  cloud  is  silver  lined. 
To-day  the  heart  feels  fraug-ht  with  woe. 

And  keen-pronged  thorns  lie  in  the  way, 
But  as  the  Spring's  breath  melts  the  snow. 

E'en  so  our  sorrows  go,  aud  gay 
And  peaceful  soars  each  troubled  mind  — 
Each  sombre  cloud  is  silver  lined. 
So,  in  my  humble  key,  my  dear, 

I  sing-  to  you  of  coming  days. 
And  bid  you  in  your  heart  take  cheer 

And  watch  the  star-gleams  thro'  the  haze; 
For,  though  to-day  the  sun's  unkind, 
Each  sombre  cloud  is  silver  lined. 


HER  GRAVE'S  GREEN  SIDE. 

When  standing  by  her  grave's  green  side, 
Methinks  I  see  the  patient  face. 
And  hear  that  voice  that  gave  no  trace 
Of  suff'ring  in  th'  unecjual  race, 
.    And  hear  her  sigh  and  say  "  good-bye!  " 

When  standing  by  her  grave's  green  side. 

Why  should  the  grave,  O,  Lord,  divide 
Two  loyal  hearts?    Ah.  why  not  take 
Both  to  their  liome  and  soothe  the  ache 
Of  one  that  mourns  for  lier  dear  sake? 
Comes  no  reply  save  a  deep  sigh. 

When  standing  by  her  grave's  green  side. 

As  strives  a  bark  'gainst  wind  and  tide. 
E'en  so  doth  strive  tliis  struggling  heart 
Against  the  throbs  tliat  thro'  it  dart 
And  leave  behind  tiieir  piercing  smart. 


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LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL  POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


SAMUEL  E.LOWRY. 

Born:  West  Salem,  Ohio,  Aug.  23, 1863 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Lowry  have  appeared  in  the 
Toledo  Blad 
periodical  i 


Kvaujielical  Messenger  and  the 
iiuTalij\     He  follows  the 


SAMUEL,  E.   LOWRY. 

occupation  of  farming  in  his  native  county. 
Mr.  Lowry  is  of  very  fine  stature,  black  haij', 
brown  eyes,  and  still  remains  unmarried. 


SI- 


HOME. 
How  blessed  the  home,  where  all  is  accord, 

Where  true   love  reigns  as  the  household 
queen. 
And  no  look  of  distrust,  or  unkind  word 

From  its  loved  ones  ever  is  heard  or  seen. 
The  patii  to  its  threshold  I  fain  would  tread, 

Witli  quickening  step  and  a  joyful  mind ; 
With  its  low  bent  roof  above  my  head. 

The  rest  of  tiie  world  is  left  behind. 
The  cheerful  cottage  with  inmates  fair; 

The  cosy  hearth  and  clean  swept  Hoor; 
The  smiles  of  a  loved  one  waiting  there 

To  welcome  me  when  the  day  is  o'er. 
These  are  more  than  the  crowded  lialls. 

Where  splendor  glitters  on  all  around; 
Where  fashion  sports,  while  virtue  falls. 

And  the  gay-clad  trip  to  the  giddy  sound 
Oil,  the  humble  home!  the  happy  home! 

No  place  on  earth  has  a  stronger  claim 


Than  the  spot  beneath  its  friendly  roof, 
Ai'ound  the  hearth  with  its  glowing  flame. 

There  love  is  found  to  comfort  and  cheer; 
And  the  richest  blessings  of  life  may  come— 

Angels  of  heaven  are  hovering  near 
To  guard  the  peace  of  the  christian  home. 


VERSICLES. 
Life  is  a  constant  transformation, 
A  process  of  change  and  new  creation ; 
A  mingling  of  new  life  with  old  decay, 
Tiie  prospect  that  allures  to-day. 
To-morrow  may  vanish  into  air; 
And  out  of  the  depths  of  dark  despair 
May  spring  a  hope  that  will  lead  the  soul 
Onward  and  upward  to  the  goal. 
The  way  to  fame  and  fortune's  ground 

Is  paved  not  with  blossoms  and  flowers  fair. 
But  with  many  a  weary  stepping  stone 

Of    sad   disappointment,  and  burden,  and 
care. 


PROSPECT  AND  RETROSPECT. 
I  look  to  the  east 

When  the  morning  light 
Has  pierced  the  veil 

Of  the  dismal  night, 
And  I  feast  my  soul 

On  the  prospect  sweet. 
Of  the  accomplishments 

Which  I  shall  greet; 
Of  the  labor  light. 

The  reward  to  cheer. 
And  the  joys  so  bright 

That  with  day  shall  appear. 
I  look  to  the  west 

When  the  sun  is  set. 
And  my  soul  is  wrung 

With  a  sad  regret. 
I  think  of  the  anguish 

And  the  labor  hard; 
Of  the  hopt's  denied 

And  the  ill  reward; 
And  I  sigh  for  rest 

From  my  effoi'ts  viiin, 
And  trust  the  morrow 

For  future  gain. 
So  ever  it  is 

In  this  world  of  strife, 
And  a  day's  experience 

Tstliatof  a  life. 
Though  the  morn  be  tilled 

With  a  cheei-ing  sense. 
The  evening  appears 

Without  recompense, 
And  the  .soul  departs 

With  a  cry  of  pain. 
And  trusts  in  God 

For  eternal  gain. 


— « 


®- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


583 


■® 


EDWARD  FRANKLIN  TABER 

Born:  Brooklyn,  N.Y.,  Dec.  30, 1859. 
Under  the  iiom  de  plume  of  B.  Frank  Liuta- 
ber  this  writer  has  eoutributed  poems  quite 
extensively  to  the  leading-  publications  of 
America,  from  wliich  tliey  liave  been  exten- 
sively copied  by  the  local  press.  He  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar  in  1887  and  four  months 


EDWARD    FKANKLIN    TABEH. 

later  graduated  with  tiie  degree  of  L.  B.  In 
1887  Mr.  Taber  was  married  to  Miss  Bertha 
May  Cleveland  of  Brooklyn.  For  a  time  he  was 
sole  editor  and  proprietor  of  The  Long  Island 
Traveler,  but  in  1888  Mr.  Taber  resumed  his 
profession  as  examiner  of  real  estate  titles  for 
the  Title  Guarantee  and  Trust  C^.  of  New 
York  and  Brooklyn. 


RETURNED  WITH  THANKS 
'•  Returned  with  thanks  "—summed  up  in  this 

Is  all  of  life's  humilation. 
The  poet's  blighted  dream  of  bliss, 

Tlie  ruin  of  his  avocation ; 
'Tis  sad  to  have  them  come  amiss. 

Those  cliildren  of  our  mind's  creation 
Whom  flekle  fortune  fails  to  kiss 

Or  gladden  with  her  approbation. 
"  Returned  with  thanks  "—  and  yet  my  heart 

Is  throbbing  with  strange  exultation. 
Let  those  who  ply  the  poet's  art 

Term  this, my  hope,  infatuation; 
I  would  not  have  it  otherwise 


Nor  change  with  any  in  the  nation, 
For  'twas  a  witch  with  sweet  blue  eyc's 
Returned  with  thanks  —  my  osculation. 


WOULDN'T  YOU? 
Her  little  hand  was  cold. 

Her  dainty  fingers  blue; 
And  so  I  held  her  little  hand 

And  pressed  it.    Wouldn't  you? 
She  hung  her  pretty  head. 

Her  eyes  were  wet  with  dew; 
I  whispered  something  in  her  ear 

To  soothe  her.    Wouldn't  you? 
My  arm  stole  'round  her  waist, 

Her  fragile  form  I  drew 
Close  up  against  my  throbbing-  heart; 

I  loved  her!  Wouldn't  you? 
Her  darling  little  mouth 

Said:  "Don't!"  I  thought  it  "Do!  " 
And  so  upon  her  cherry  lips 

I  kissed  her.    Wouldn't  you? 
And  then  I  let  her  go. 

Nor  tried  to  make  it  two ; 
If  you  were  I,  and  she  had  eaten 

Onions  —  wouldn't  you? 


FELICITY. 
The  cat  sang  on  the  back-yard  fence. 

Whence  all  but  she  had  fled; 
I  seized  my  stock  of  common  sense 

And  flung  it  at  her  head ; 
I  flung  my  best  habiliments. 

My  chair,  my  feather-bed: 
Yet  still  with  passion  quite  intense. 
With  strange  contorted  lineaments, 
Tliat  cat  sang  on  the  back-yard  fence 

Whence  all  but  she  had  fled. 
I  spake  with  strange  grandiloquence, 

In  coaxing  tones  I  plead; 
My  boots  were  gone,     my  last  defence  — 

My  Sunday  hose— had  sped; 
All  things,  or  petty  or  immense. 

Found  lodgment  on  the  shed. 
The  feline  wondered  much  from  whence 
They  came;  but  still,  with  grief  intense. 
She  sang  upon  the  back-yard  fence, 

Wlience  all  but  she  had  fled. 
Slie  roused  two  other  residents,— 

I  oft  liad  wished  them  dead. 
For  they  were  music-loving  "gents," 

And  dwelt  abov^e  my  head. 
They  seized  their  stringed  instruments. 

Which  stood  hard  by  their  bed  — 
They  played  with  wondrous  eloquence  — 
With  one  vast  howl  of  pain  intense 
That  feline  fled  afar  from  thence: 
She  sings  no  more  upon  our  fence. 
But  on  a  loftier  eminence  — 

Our  next  door  neighbor's  shed. 


-88 


©- 


584 


)i! 


LOCAL,   AND  NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMElilCA. 


HER  PHOTOGKAPH. 
I  took  her  to  a  tiu-type  man 

To  have  her  likeness  taken. 
It  looked  as  though  hy  Jersey  chills 

It  had  been  roughly  shaken; 
He  perched  her  on  a  paper  rock, 

'Mid  scenery  of  plaster. 
And  posed  her  in  an  attitude 

Betokening  disaster; 
Some  twenty  years  unto  her  age 

Remorselessly  he  added ; 

Her  fair  aiid  fragile,  fairy  form 

Seemed  plump  and  puffed  and  padded. 
Her  fair  young  face  so  Uly  like. 

In  ebon-hue  he  painted; 
And  when  she  saw  her  photograph 

What  wonder  that  she  fainted? 
I  took  her  too  an  artist  higli 

In  people's  estimation- — 
He  put  a  scowl  into  her  eye 

To  challenge  admiration; 
He  robbed  her  mouth,  her  rosy  mouth. 

Of  all  its  sweet  expression. 
And  placed  four  wrinkles  on  her  brow 

In  sorrowful  succession. 
I  took  her  to  an  amateur, — 

A  fellow  in  Hohokus, — 
Alas!  alas!  there  must  have  been 

Some  trouble  with  his  focus. 
Four  eyes  she  had,  eight  lips,  three  arms. 

And  thirty-seven  noses ! 
Deep  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea 

That  work  of  art  reposes. 
She  sat  beside  me  on  a  chair 

In  all  her  radiant  beauty; 
And  as  I  kissed  her  forhead  fair 

Love  seemed  a  simple  dutj-. 
I  gazed  enraptured  at  her  face 

Until  each  lovely  feature 
Upon  my  tlirobbing  heart  was  traced 

Of  this  delicious  creature  I 
And  now  I  have  a  photograph 

Without  one  flaw  or  error, 
AVhich  cannot  be  obtained  from  me 

By  treachery  or  terror; 
Which  proves  my  friends  that  things  there 
are 

Cannot  be  had  for  pelf; 
If  you  want  a  perfect  photograph 

You  must  do  the  job  yourself! 


«- 


MY  ROSEBUD. 
There  were  liundreds  of  showy  blossoms,  that 

proud  by  the  wayside  stood. 
There  was  cue  wee  snowy-wliite  rosebud,  all 

alone  in  the  wild,  wild  wood; 
And  my  heart  went  out  to  the  rosebud  as  it 

ne'er  to  the  otliers  liad  done, 
For  the  blossoms  were  all  of  a  sameness,  and 

the  i-osebud  was  onlv  one. 


And  often  I  went  to  the  wild-wood  and  tend- 
erly watched  by  its  side. 

Till  they  built  a  big  wall  all  around  it,  a  bar- 
rier strong  and  wide : 

Then  sadly  I  roamed  through  the  gardens  to 
seek  for  another  as  fair. 

But  never  a  blossom  so  lovely,  so  sweet  and 
so  fragile  was  there ; 

And  I  crouched  by  the  wall  in  my  sorrow,  for 
I  knew  where  my  rosebud  was  pining, 

And  I  battered  it  slowly  to  pieces  and  shook 
its  foundations  with  mining; 

And  when  the  great  wall  was  fallen,  the  rose- 
bud a  blossom  had  grown. 

More  beauteous,  sweeter  than  ever.  I've 
named  it,—  I  call  it  "  Mine  own." 


ALBUM  VERSES. 

TO   L,.   H. 

Leafless  are  the  oaks  and  beeches. 
Cold  and  shrill  the  wintry  blast. 
Whistling  through  the  forest,  preaches 

That  the  summer  time  is  past; 
Through  the  pines  no  footstep  ranges. 
But  true  friendship  never  changes. 

TO  B.   M.   C. 

Although  the  last. 
Count  me  not  least  among  thy  friends! 

We've  known  no  past, — 
The  golden  future  never  ends. 

TO  B.  c.  c. 
I  know  a  little  girl,  Bertlia, 

With  eyes  of  blue,  and  golden  hair 
Which  falls  in  many  a  curl.  Bertha, 

Briglit  and  fair. 
Sometimes  tliose  eyes  are  grave,  Bertha, 
Sometimes  they  fairly  dance  with  glee; 
And  she  is  good  and  brave.  Bertha, 

Just  like  thee. 
As  days  glide  swiftly  by.  Bertha, 

I  oftentimes  shall  think  of  thee: 
Fond  memories  nev^er  die.  Bertha, — 

Forget  not  me ! 


TO  A  YOUNG  POET. 

EXTUACT. 

Beautiful  child  with  the  fair  golden  tresses; 

Painter  and  poet,  whose  muse,  sweetly  wild, 
Comes  at  thy  bidding  to  woo  thy  caresses;— 

Sweet  is  thj'  verse  for  tlie  song  of  a  child. 
A  new  and  a  beautiful  star  has  arisen, 

A  marvelous  poet,  an  artist  of  skill: 
And  lier  song  shall  be  heard  in  the  palace  and 
l)rison  —  [thrill. 

The  he:irts  of  the  saddest  with  rapture  sliall 
Ah !  quickly  we  glide  over  life's  rapid  river, 

Eagei'Iy  seeking  its  iileasurc  and  fame: 
Anxiously,  weiirily  watching,  we  (juivor 

With  fevered  ambition,  and  all  for  a  name. 


-« 


®- 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OFASIKHICA. 


585 


-m 


MICHAEL  J.  KETRICK. 

Born:  Ireland,  March  33,  1857. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Ketrick  have  appeared  in 
the  Serautoii  Republican,  Times,   Free  Press 
ami  other  periodicals.     He   is  at  present  occii- 


MICHAEL,  J.  KETRICK. 

pied  m  teaching:  at  a  public  school  in  Scran- 
ton,  Pa.  This  gentleman  graduated  in  1879,  af- 
ter which  he  tooli  a  classical  course  at  a  Cana- 
dian colleg-e.  He  was  married  in  1884  to  Annie 
C.  Lahey,  and  resides  in  his  own  home. 


©■ 


WHY  I  LOST  HER. 
'Mid  flowers  perfume  she  mused  o'er  Hume, 

I  at  her  feet  was  lying-  — 
Among-  the  trees  the  zephj'r  breeze 

Seemed  with  me  softly  sig-hing. 
She  viewed  the  book  with  distant  look  — 

I  felt  my  heart  beat  strong-er. 
But  thoug-ht  not  wise  her  to  surprise 

And  bode-<i  little  longer. 
Then  came  a  chang-e.  I  said,   "  Chere  ange,"- 

But  oh,  my  heart  so  fluttered, 
I  thoug-ht  'twould  burst  within  my  breast! 

Ex  — beg-  —  excuse,  I  muttered. 
In  this  ado  the  soft  wind  blew 

And  swayed  the  leafy  branches. 
And  to  my  mind  dread  thoug-lits  consigned 

Of  bashful  love's  lost  chances. 
I  tried  again  in  sweetest  strain  — 

In  sofiest  language  spoken : 


I  told  her  how  true  hearts  ere  now 

AVere  oft  by  coolness  broken. 
With  love-lit  eye  I  told  her  why 

The  willow  must  be  weeping, 
And  why  in  night's  serenest  sky 

The  stars  were  never  sleeping. 
Ensuite  je  dis,  '•  Ma  chere  amie," 

She  looked  up  fnmi  her  reading  — 
With  guileful  smile  and  coquette's  wile 

She  scorned  my  earnest  pleading. 
"  Adieu,  adieu,  'tis  time  you  knew  " — 

And  leaving  where  she  sat  in 
She  added,  "  Go,  my  favored  beau 

Must  love  in  Greek   or   Latin." 


LINES. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CLASS-MATE. 

The  leafless  branches  swaying 

In  sorrow  seemed  to  say : 
A  soul  in  youthful  splendor 

Has  sought  eternal  day; 
A  soul  too  good  to  linger 

On  earthly  paths  of  sin, 
A  blooming,  wingless  angel. 

To  pure  for  haunts  of  men. 
Soar  blithely,  joyous  spirit. 

And  sing  thy  praise  to  Him 
Who  lifts  thee  up  to  enter 

His  band  of  cherubim; 
And  may  thou  be  as  cheering 

To  them  as  thou  wert  here. 
Then,  surely,  all  will  love  thee, 

And  ever  wish  tliee  near. 
Thy  many  friends  are  sighing 

At  friendship's  holy  shrine. 
And  there's  with  lonesome  faces 

Thy  class  of  79; 
Their  anxious,  searching  glances. 

Their  every  look  and  tone. 
Show        them  to  miss  the  missing, 

And  doubly  feel  alone. 


MY  MOUSTACHE  —  A  DIRGE. 
'Tis  off,  'tis  off!  ah  me,  the  fall! 
Like  leaves  it  answered  autumn's  call. 
And  lies  in  death  without  a  pall  — 

My  moustache. 
Let  salt  tears  trickle  down  thy  cheek, 
For  never  will  its  dun  down  seek 
To  rest  upon  the  two  lips  meek  — 

My  moustache. 
O,  maidens!  curse  the  hour  forlorn 
That  such  a  boon  from  view  was  torn. 
And  left  ye  weep  for—  aye,  and  mourn - 

My  moustache. 
Oh,  know  its  radiant  covirsc  is  run; 
To  ye  'twas  like  tlie  glorious  sun. 
In  atrial,  rosy  chariot  spun  — 

My  moustache. 


-m 


©- 


-^ 


586 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  EMMA  TRAIN. 

born:   Union  City,  Pa.,  Dec.  23,  1855. 
For  the  past  decade  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Train 
have  appeared  quite  extensively  in  the  Erie 
County  Independent,  Ottumwa  Offering,  Bos- 


MRS.   EMMA  TRAIN. 

ton  Banner  of  Light,  San  Francisco  Carrier 
Doxe,  Cincinnati  Better  Way,  Wonmn's  Tri- 
bune, and  many  other  periodicals.  IVTrs.  Train 
now  resides  with  her  husband  in  North  Col- 
lins, in  the  state  of  New  York. 


•B- 


SONG  OF  PROGRESS. 
Ho:  ye  toilers  in  the  valley. 

Looking  toward  the  distant  height. 
As  ye  round  your  standard  rally 
In  life's  rough,  unequal  flght. 
Let  not  clouds  and  shadows  blind  you, 

See  the  harvest  you  have  sown. 
Cast  aside  the  chains  that  bind  you  — 

Fearlessly  demand  your  own. 
Ho!  ye  workers,  never  shrinking 

•Neath  the  noonday's  blinding  glare. 
Be  ye  earnest  in  your  thinking 

'Mid  life's  turmoil,  want  and  care; 
Study  well  tbe  potent  reason 

Why  ye  sow  and  others  ivap; 
Understand  the  mighty  treason 

That  e'er  garners  while  ye  sleep 
Hoi  ye  earnest  ones  and  quiet 
Winners  of  a  nation's  good; 
Listen  to  the  sounding  flat 
Of  your  sacred  brotherhood. 


.1  By  the  noble-hearted  heroes 

Who  have  fought,  and  bled  and  died; 
By  the  martyrs  and  the  heroes 

Whose  red  blood  has  swelled  the  tide; 
By  the  hopes  of  struggling  millions. 

By  the  poverty  and  crime; 
By  the  gleaming  hoarded  billions 

Grasping  for  the  paltry  dime; 
By  the  prayers  of  soul's  awaking 

To  a  knowledge  strange  and  new; 
By  the  tender  hearts  now  breaking 

Labor  yet  shall  have  its  due." 
It  must  come;  the  trusted  fetter 

Will  be  cast  fore'er  aside. 
Progress  whispers  of  the  better 

With  its  firm,  resistless  tide. 
Ho!  ye  toilers,  climb  the  mountain, 

Though  its  steps  are  all  unknown. 
Ye  shall  drink  from  justice's  fountain. 

Know  the  right  and  claim  your  own. 

LIFE'S  POSSIBILITIES. 
Would  you  know  the  higher  way? 

Be  content  to  learn  it. 
There  shall  shine  a  purer  day 
Through  the  shadows  cold  and  gray 

For  the  ones  who  earn  it. 
Truth's  great  jewel  would  you  wear? 

Deeply  it  is  lying. 
You  must  dig  through  earthly  care. 
It  will  shed  its  ray  so  fair 
Not  for  useless  sighing. 
Would  you  fill  an  honored  place? 

Climb  until  you  reach  it. 
Much  is  said  of  saving  grace, 
But  the  truth  has  purer  face 

Than  the  ones  who  preach  it. 
Would  you  read  your  title  clear? 

Do  no  interlining; 
Trace  each  page  as  it  comes  near, 
Leave  no  blots  of  doubt  or  fear 

Where  the  light  is  shining. 
Would  you  join  the  heavenly  song? 

Learn  the  tunes  of  duly. 
Sound  the  notes  where  they  belong, 
Discords  -^ver  come  from  wrong  — 

Marring  all  the  beauty. 
Would  you  wear  a  robe  of  white? 

Labor  then  to  weave  it. 
Ff<im  the  warp  of  purest  light. 
Fill  it  with  the  threads  of  right 

And  you  shall  receive  it. 
Would  you  be  the  blest  of  earth 

As  you  stand  the  latest? 
Give  the  truth  a  grander  birth. 
Do  the  good  of  highest  worth; 

Lo!  you  are  the  greatest. 
Seek  your  wisdom's  choicest  store! 
Life  is  what  you  make  it. 


® — 


I.OOAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


587 


© 


MRS.  MARY  E.  HOWE. 

Born:  Painesville,  Ohio,  June 26, 1831. 
In  1861  this  lady  was  married  to  Orville  D. 
Howe,  an  educated  gentleman, who  has  for  the 
most  part  of  his  life  been  engaged  in  teaching, 
and  for  six  years  superintendent  of  the 
scliuolsof  PinvnoOL-ouiHy.      She  has  twd  cliild- 


MRS.  JIARY  E.  HO^\  L 

ren  — Edmund  Dudley,  who  graduated  at  the 
Nebraska  state  university  in  1887,  and  is  now 
teaching;  and  Myrta,  a  daughter  now  attend- 
ing the  Beethoven  conservatory  of  music  at 
St.  Louis.  Mrs.  Howe  received  a  prize  for  a 
composition  of  prose  and  poetry  atthePaines- 
ville  academy  in  1849.  She  is  now  a  resident 
of  Table  Rock,  Neb 


®- 


OUR  WOMAN'S  CLUB. 
"O,  write  us  a  lay," 
I  hear  the  sisters  say; 
"  For  tliis  is  our  natal  day. 
And  our  hearts  are  light  and  gay. 
So  give  us  a  happy  song 
As  the  glad  liours  sweep  along." 
Ah,  well,  let  me  sound  the  lyre; 
May  the  muses  my  pen  inspire. 
And  give  me  words  of  Are, 
Like  strains  from  some  glorious  choir. 
While  we  with  souls  elate 
Our  birthday  celebrate. 
And  this  is  a  wintry  morn 
Like  the  day  our  club  was  born; 


Ah,  many  gave  it  scorn 

And  wished  it  a  fate  forlorn; 

But  still  we  held  our  way 

And  said:  "We  have  come  to  stay." 

And  then  the  rolling  hours 

Brought  springtime's  gentle  showers 

And  suuuner's  birds  and  bowers. 

And  autumn's  golden  flowers. 

And  through  all  the  passing  year 

Our  club  still  gathered  here. 

Five  years,  and  still  we  meet, 

And  from  out  the  busy  street 

W^e  come  with  willing  feet. 

And  here  each  other  greet. 

Our  logic  and  lore  increase. 

And  over  us  hovers  peace. 

And  sometimes  in  high  debate 

We  talk  of  affairs  of  state. 

Or  of  things  not  quite  so  great  — 

Such  as  bread  and  butter  we  prate. 

Or  perchance  how  mothers  and  wives 

Should  wisely  order  their  lives. 

Of  every  household  lore 

We  gather  a  goodly  store ; 

And  stiil  we  search  for  more. 

And  study  each  precept  o'er 

That  can  help  in  woman's  art. 

Or  to  keep  a  husband's  heart. 

And  now  our  frieuds  so  dear 

We  gladly  welcome  here. 

To  give  our  social  cheer 

On  this  birthday  of  our  year. 

With  feast  and  speech  and  song. 

The  hours  shall  speed  along. 

Then  here's  to  our  long,  brave  life! 

May  our  future  with  grace  be  rife; 

And  amid  earth's  cares  and  strife. 

May  each  of  us,  maiden  and  wife. 

Press  onward  in  glad  array 

Till  we  enter  the  perfect  day. 


GEMS. 
Where  the  ocean's  waves  are  dashing 

On  the  far-oft'  Indian  shore, 
WMiere  the  coral  rocks  are  flashing 

'Mid  the  waters'  rush  and  roar  — 
Where  the  sands  are  heaped  and  gathered 

By  the  strong  and  sweeping  tide, 
And  the  billows,  capped  and  feathered, 

On  their  prancing  air  steeds  ride  — 
Where  wild  mountain  ledges,  frowning. 

High  their  granite  faces  lift. 
And  where  rivers  Oriental 

'Mid  their  palmy  islands  drift  — 
There  the  gems  of  Earth  are  gleaming. 

Diamonds  flash  and  rubies  shine; 
Pearls  of  light  are  softly  beaming 

Down  the  dark  and  foaming  brine. 


■« 


1 


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588 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMEUICA. 


DR.  ABNER  AUSTIN  COLLIER. 

born:  HUNTSViLLE,  Mo.,  Aug.  15,1830. 
GRADUATING  ill  1852  f  foiu  the  Jefferson  Medi- 
cal college  of  PliiUidelphia,  Mr.  Collier  at 
once  began  the  practice  of  his  profession  at 
ChiUicothe,  Mo.  A  few  years  ago  he  retired 
from  medical  work,  and  moved  to  Trenton, 


DR.  ABNER  AUSTIN    COLLIER. 


Mo  where  he  intends  to  devote  his  attention 
more  exclusively  to  literary  pursuits.  Dr 
Collier  has  contributed  quite  a  number  of 
articles  to  prominent  publications  that  have 
been  widely  read  and  favorably  commented 
upon. 

THE  INFIDEL'S  SOLILOQUY. 
When  sad  and  chilling- thoug-hts  of  death 

Athwart  my  soul  are  flying-. 
Like  moaning-  notes  of  wintei-"s  breath 

Around  my  mansion  sighing; 

When  earthly  pomp,  its  wealth  and  state. 

In  darkest  shadows  cast. 
And  sounds  of  earthly  fame  would  grate 

As  grates  the  midnight  blast: 

When  friends  of  earthly  mold  and  nature, 
To  my  sad  and  dreaming-  lu:art. 

Nor  a  smile  of  hope's  brig:ht  feature 
C:ui  one  solid  joy  impart  — 


I  oft-times  think  my  comrades  gone 

With  all  blasphemous  mirth. 
Of  the  sad  story  of  the  holy  One, 

Who  dwelt,  as  christians  say,  on  earth: 

Whose  life  so  pure  and  God-like  was. 

And  all  his  precepts  given. 
So  consonant  with  the  Gre:it  First  Cause, 

And  speaks  so  plain  of  heaven ; 

I  think  I  see  his  robe,  his  crown. 

His  blood-besprinkled  brow. 
The  mocking  rabble  kneeling  down 

In  taunting  suppliance  low;— 

Hail,  king  of  the  Jews,  all  hail! 

Methinks  1  hear  resound. 
And  qulv'ring  lips,  with  scornful  curl 

Speak  malice  most  profound; 

I  think!  see  — O,  horrid  sight!  — 

Upon  the  crimson  tree. 
The  God  of  all  miracles  and  might 

In  death's  relentless  agony ! 

I  think  I  see  Him  fettered,  bound  — 

All  pierced  his  hands  and  feet, 
And  from  the  cross  a  plaintive  sound 

My  unwilling  ears  doth  greet- 

..Fiither.  forgive  them,"  and  with  look 

Of  heavenly  mercy  fraught. 
He  cries,  -'Tis  finished!  "  the  bloody  book 

Is  sealed!  -  immortal  souls  are  bought! 

The  astonish'd  earth  doth  cleave  and  quake. 
The  temple's  holiest  vail  is  rent. 

The    ancient   saints   from  dusty  slumbers 
wake 
At  the  death-knell  of  the  Omnipotent. 

The  sun  withdraws  his  blushing  face, 

Tliick  darkness  hovers  o'er,- 
All  n:iture,  save  the  favor'd  human  race- 

These  guilty  scenes  deplore! 

Again !  I  see  the  sacred  stream 
Fortli  gushing  from  his  side  — 

A  living  f<nintain,  to  redeem 
Mankind  from  sin  and  pride. 

To  cleanse  and  purge  the  guilty  heart 

From  all  its  lust  and  vice. 
And  the  priceless  hojif  impart 

Of  eternal  paradise! 
For.  lo!  I  see  his  Gocl-liko  form  arise 

Up  from  t he  darkling  tomb ! 
•Tis  conquer'd  .-deatli  itself  that  dies. 

And  yields  his  horrid  gloom ! 
And  now,  methinks  1  hear  Him  sing 

Triuniph;inily  on  high  — 
Oil   '•  Deal  h !  —  where  is  thy  sting,"      ^^ 
\nd  .'  grave  -  where  is  thy  victory. 


li 


I 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   rOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


589 


-© 


COURNELLI  E.  GITHENS. 

Born:  Cameron,  O.,  Dec.  27, 18&3. 
This  g-entleman  is  now  principal  of  tlie  grad- 
ed school  at  Hannibal,  Ohio.    He  has  written 
poems  for  the  past  decade,  which  have  ap- 


CUUKNELLI  ELLSWORTH  GITHENS. 

peared  in  the  Ohio  State  Journal,  Wheeling 
Register,  Atlanta  Constitution,  Youth's  Com- 
panion and  other  publications  of  note. 


©- 


MY  DAUGHTER. 
It  is  mj'  little  daughter 

And  she  has  grown  so  sweet, 
I'm  entranced  to  hear  the  patter 

Of  her  noisy  little  feet. 
Coming  up  the  winding  stairway 

To  my  room  to  have  a  chat 
AVith  her  papa  'bout  her  playtliings. 

Coming,  coming  pit-a-pat. 
Now  she  bursts  in  through  the  doorway 

Like  a  sudden  beam  of  sun 
From  the  skies  when  all  is  gloomy 

Does  my  little  daughter  come. 
All  my  mighty  cares  forgotten. 

Every  trouble  quickly  fleeting, 
-■^s  she  puts  her  lips  of  crimson 

To  mine  for  tlie  welcome  greeting. 
How  I  pity  all  who  have  not 

Little  daughters,  loving  wives. 
And  without  such  love  as  their's  is 

Worry  out  their  liapless  lives. 


So  I  press  my  love  the  closer. 

And  I  think  her  talk  so  wise. 
Her  golden  hair  so  like  the  sunlig'ht 

And  the  starlight  like  herej-es. 
Thus  an  hour  goes  by  uiniotcd. 

Then  I  tell  my  little  love 
Of  a  blue  eyed  mamma  waiting. 

Blue-eyed  mamma  we  both  love. 
So  a  good-bye  kiss  she  gives  me, 

Calls  me  "  papa  "  and  all  that. 
And  I  hear  her  down  stairs  going, 

Going-  slowly  pit-a-pat. 
Yet  upon  me  'mid  tliis  sunshine 

Comes  a  cloud  of  misery, 
As  I  wonder  if  my  darling 

Always  will  be  spared  to  me. 
Father-like,  in  hopeful  logic, 

I  dispell  such  gloomy  thought. 
Saying  "  He  will  guard  our  treasure 

That  He  in  His  goodness  brought." 


ATONEMENT. 
Prince-like,  above  the  virgin  sod 
There  grew  a  stalk  of  Golden-Rod ; 
A  poet  low-bowed  with  worldly  care 
Passed  by  and  saw  It  blooming  there. 
With  joy  at  finding  richest  gem 
He  plucked  it  from  its  stately  stem. 
But  scarcely  done,  in  idle  greed, 
He  repented  of  the  vandal  deed. 
"  Behold  'twill  now  soon  fade  away,— 
tJnplucked  'twould  bloom  full  many  a  day." 
The  flower-Queen  saw  the  repentant  tears 
And  straightway  calms  his  sighs  and  fears. 
»•  To  atone  for  this,  you  shall  "  she  says, 
•'Attune  your  verses  to  its  praise." 
Obedient  to  the  Queen's  behest 
He  sang  the  song  as  he  knew  best. 
Its  notes  fell  on  the  pulsing  main 
And  earth-wide  grew  the  glad  refrain. 
Till  all  mankind  were  mad  to  see 
This  theme  of  the  poet's  minstrelsy. 


J.  D.  BUTTON. 

Mr.  Dutton  is  connected  witli  the  Enquirer 
of  Oakland,  California.  His  poems  generally 
appear  under  the  nom  dc  plume  of  Timothy 
Hay.  

BEAUTIFTL  OAKLAND. 

Mighty  queen  of  royal  line, 
(So  'tis  writ  in  Book  divine,) 
Wisely  spoke  these  words  sublime, 
Rising  still  adown  through  time, 

'.  The  half  was  never  told  me." 
Likewise  tourists  from  afar 
Following  the  empire's  star, 
Wlien  tbey  reach  this  Golden  Shore, 
Echo  back  those  words  once  more, 

"Tlie  half  was  never  told  me." 


-© 


m- 


m\ 


590 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


WILLIAM  E.  HOUSWERTH. 

Born  :  Selin  sgrove.  Pa.,  Nov.  7, 1853. 
At  an  early  age  William  learned  the  printers' 
trade,  but  abandoned  it  and  followed  the  pro- 
fession of  school  teaching-  for  about  twelve 
Vears.    In    1878  Mr.    Hduswciili    cdiiiiuciii 


WILLIAM  E.  HOUSW£KX-H. 

the  Study  of  law  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar 
two  years  later.  In  1885  he  was  honored  with 
a  teachers'  permanent  certificate,  and  is  now 
engaged  in  the  practice  of  the  law  and  in  lit- 
erary work  in  his  native  town.  Mr.  Hous- 
werth  is  known  in  central  Pennsylvania  as  the 
Bard  of  the  Susquehanna. 


m- 


THE  TRAMPS  SOLILOQUY. 
It's  twenty  years  since  I  have  seen 

The  house  where  I  was  born; 
Tlie  meadows  and  the  valleys  green. 

The  fields  of  rip'ning-  corn. 
Oh,  bow  I  loved  in  days  g-oiic  by. 

To  stoop  and  fondly  drink 
Tlie  brooklet's  waters  dancing  hig-h  — 

Up  to  the  mossy  brink. 
My  cliildhood's  days  —  sweet  days  of  yore  ■ 

forever  they  have  fled; 
And  soon  this  world  will  give  me  o'er. 

To  slumber  with  the  dead. 
'Tis  twenty  j'ears  since  I  have  felt 

A  mother's  love  so  dear; 
And  oft  my  eyes  to  tears  would  melt 

To  think  she's  left  me  here. 


My  father,  too,  has  g-oue  to  dwell 

With  her  in  bliss  complete; 
O  would  that  I  might  break  the  spell. 

And  join  their  chorus  sweet. 
Ah,  three-score  years  and  ten  have  passed, 

And  I  am  left  to  roam 
Unsheltered  fiom  rude  winter's  blast  — 

No  cheerful,  happy  home. 
But  soon  this  form  will  wing  its  flight  — 

My  troubles  all  will  cease, — 
To  mansions  of  the  fair  and  bright, — 

To  rest  in  Heavenly  peace. 


MRS.  XENO  W.  PUTNAM. 

The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  from 
time  to  time  in  the  periodical  press  under  the 
nom  de  plume  of  Wilder  Grahame.  She  is  a 
resident  of  Harmousburg,  Pecns3'lvania. 


THE  BELLS  THAT  RING  TO-NIGHT. 

Gently  falls  the  evening  curtain. 

As  the  sunlight  steals  away; 
And  the  old  church  bell  is  tolling. 

For  the  dying  light  of  day. 
Though  the  night  is  calm  and  silent. 

And  the  evening  air  is  clear. 
And  the  old  bell  swings  above  me. 

It  is  not  the  bell  I  hear. 
While  my  heart  is  sad  and  weary. 

There  is  something  yet  to  do; 
And  I  crave  once  more  the  freedom 

And  the  rest  my  childhood  knew. 
Though  the  world  is  full  of  promise. 

And  the  sky  is  clear  and  bright. 
Yet  the  distant  bells  of  childhood. 

Are  the  bells  I  hear  to-night. 
Oh!  The  night  is  full  of  music. 

As  the  day  has  been  of  care; 
And  it  bears  the  rest  and  comfort, 

Of  the  sacred  hour  of  prayer; 
Or  the  scented  breatii  of  summer. 

That  subdues  the  raging  sea; 
And  the  evening  bells  are  ringing. 

But  they  bear  no  charm  for  me. 
Though  the  goal  of  peace  is  nearer. 

Yet  the  road  is  rough  and  wild; 
And  I  wander  in  the  meadows 

Oft,  agaui  a  little  cliild. 
'Tis  a  walk  my  fancy  pictures. 

But  the  patlis  are  clear  and  bright; 
And  tlie  bells  that  then  are  ringing. 

Are  the  bells  I  liear  to-niglit. 


EXTRACT. 
It  was  only  a  rose  some  unknown  baud 

Had  sent  to  ambition's  slave. 
But  it  fell  like  a  pearl  in  the  ocean  sand, 

And  ope'd  iu  his  heart  a  grave. 


—3 


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LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OP^   AMERICA. 


091 


MRS.  MARTHA  E.  WRITTEN. 

Born  :  Austin,  Texas,  Oct.  3, 1843. 
At  twelve  years  of  age  Martha  contributed  to 
the  press,  and  from  that  time  on  lier  pen  has 
been  kept  busily  employed.  Marrying-  young, 
she  was  left  a  widow  at  twenty-four  witli  three 
children,  and  teaching  was  her  only  support. 
After  five  years  slie  again  married,  and  has 
now  a  large  family.   Mrs.Whitleii's  ijueiiis  arc 


MRP.   AIARTHA   E.   WRITTEN. 

full  of  thought  and  pathos;  they  wei-e  collect- 
ed in  1886  and  published  under  the  title  of  Tex- 
as Garlands,  which  work  was  followed  by  the 
Drunkard's  Wife,  a  temperance  poem  in  pam- 
phlet form.  She  has  written  numerous  other 
poems  tliat  liavc  received  a  wide  circulation, 
and  consequently  is  a  writer  of  whom  Texas 
may  well  be  proud. 


THE  SNOW!  THE  SNOW! 
The  snow,  the  snow,  oh  the  beautiful  snow ! 
Falling  so  softly,  so  gently  below; 
Hiding  the  rubbish  in  bj'-way  and  street; 
Bridging  the  road  for  the  traveler's  feet  — 
Silently,  solemnly  eddying  down 
Robing  the  hillside  and  shrouding  the  town. 

The  snow,  the  snow,  it  is  with  us  again. 
It  is  drifting  in  heaps  o'er  valley  and  plain; 
'Tis  spoiling  the  paths  our  feet  loved  to  tread. 
Winding  its  slieet  o'er  our  dear  precious  dead- 


Whisking  and  whirling  and  sailing  around, 
Filling  the  doorway  and  whitening  the  ground. 

The  snow,  tlie  snow,  how  we  liail  its  return. 
As  higher  the  fires  on  the  hearthstone  burn; 
The  young  and  the  merry,  with   fond  liearts 

aglow. 
Welcome  thy  coming,  thou  beautiful  snow! 
Flitting  and  friskuig  ;ind  Hying  about 
'Mid  the  sleigh-bell's  jingle  and  the  sch(X)l 

boy's  shout. 

Tlie  snow,  the  snow,  unsullied  it  comes  — 
In  its  vesture  of  white  'tis  draping  our  homes; 
'Tis  heaping  a  grave  for  the  dear  dying  flowers, 
Wreathingin  licauty  this  l)leak  world  of  ours— 
Till  the  woodland  sparkles  with  crystalized 

gems. 
Where  the  sun  rays  slant  through  its  glittering 

stems. 

The  snow,  the  snow,  'tis  staying  tlie  course 
Of  the  "  onward  train  "  with  its  »>  flei'y  hor.se," 
Snorting  and  neighing,  it  boldlj-  defies. 
While  deep  o'er  the  track  the  snow-mountain 

lies. 
Oh  the  snow,  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow  I 
What  ruin  and  wreck  it  can  work  below ! 

The  snow,  the  snow,  how  its  feathery  flakes 
Kiss  the  faces  cold  of  the  pure  glassy  lakes. 
Till  lost  on  their  bosom  in  rest  serene 
The  moon  looks  down  on  the  l)eautiful  .scene 
Where  the  lakes  and  flakes  are  blended  in  one, 
And  the  Frost  King  reigns    on  his  ice-girt 
throne. 

The  snow,  the  snow,  it  is  hurrying  past. 
Borne  on  the  wings  of  the  wild  wintry  blast ; 
Its  deUcate  down  is  filling  the  air 
O'er  village  and  steeple,  and  city  so  fair  — 
Over  the  churchyard  silent  and  white. 
It  gleams  like  a  specter  abroad  at  niglit. 
Tlie  snow,  the  snow,  it  is  finding  its  way 
Through  the  battered  hut  where  the  wretclied 

stay; 
It  mocks  their  wants  with  a  broad,  cold  grin. 
As  through  crevice  and  crack  'tis  hurrying  in  - 
It  heeds  not  their  tatters.but  pierces  through 

all; 
God  pity  the  xjoor  when  the  snow-flakes  fall! 
The  snow,  the  snow,  the  pitiless  snow! 
L^nheediug  the  pauper,  bereft  and  low; 
He  dies  alone  in  the  cold  dreary  street. 
With    naught  but  the  snow  for  his  winding 

sheet. 
Like  an  angel  kind  with  a  deliciite  wing. 
It  bears  liim  away  to  the  home  of  the  King. 
The  snow,  tlie  snow,  by  wayward  winds  toss'd. 
Soon  in  the  miie  of  the  sti'et't  to  be  lost. 
An  emblem  thou  art  of  man's  i)rimitive  state 
Ere  yet  the  drawn  sword  guai-ded  Iklen's  lone 

gate. 


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692 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


REV.  JAMESTHOMAS  WARD. 

Born:  Georgetown,  D.  C,  Aug.  21, 1820. 
The  poems,  which  are  chiefly  religious,  of  the 
Kev.  James  Thomas  Ward,  have  appeared  in 
the  leading  christian  publications  of  America. 

Heis  Presidentof  tlie  Th(_'olot;ical  Seniinaryof 


REV.  JAMES  THOMAS  WARD. 

the  Methodist  Protestant  Church,  at  West- 
minster, Maryland.  The  Rev.  Ward  has  been 
in  the  ministry  for  half  a  century. 


8B 


SPRING  SONG. 

Awake  my  soul!  thy  tribute  bring 
To  him  who  sends  returning  Spring; 
Mountain  and  vale  resound  his  praise. 
And  grateful  song  should  mortals  raise. 
Through  Winter  long,  his  grace  was  near, 
Amid  the  gloom  to  bless  and  cheer; 
And  now,  that  gloom  itself  removed 
Gives  proof  anew  how  much  he  loved. 
He  ever  loved  —  he  loves  us  still. 
Let  us  deliglit  to  do  his  will ; 
With  opening  Spring  renew  thy  vows 
My  soul!  and  now  to  duty  rouse. 
As  streams  go  rippling  to  the  sea, 
As  violets  bloom  in  modesty. 
As  everything  in  nature's  round, 
In  service  of  its  God  is  found:— 
So,  oh  my  soul !  be  thou  each  hour 
Employed,  with  every  gift  and  power. 
Thy  Savior   and  thy  God  to  own. 
And  make  his  truth  and  mercy  known. 


Be  good,  through  his  assisting  grace. 
Do  good  to  all,  each  chance  embrace; 
Through  life  to  God  thy  tribute  bring. 
And  thou    shait  And  unending  Spring. 


THE  WORLD  OF  BOOKS. 
The  world  of  books  is  a  wonderful  world. 

Embracing  all  facts  and  fancies; 
And   through  it  the    mind  may  be  rapidly 
whirl'd. 

As  the  car  of  thought  advances. 
But  not  too  rapidly  should  we  go. 

If  we  would  behold  its  beauties. 
And  learn  the  lessons  we  need  to  know 

To  fit  us  for  life's  great  duties. 
The  traveler  through  it,  if  he  be  wise. 

Will  pause  at  every  station. 
And  take  due  time  for  his  mental  eyes 

To  make  full  observation. 
How  many  the  lessons  he  thus  may  learn. 

For  future  profit  and  pleasure! 
Each  answering  some  good,  in  turn. 

For  hours  of  business  or  leisure. 
But  the  best  of  all  in  this  world  of  books 

Is  the  Book  that  God  has  given. 
To  guide  the  soul,  through  all  life's  crooks, 

To  an  endless  home  in  heaven. 


THE  "PUNCTUALITY  TICKET." 
Mamma,  don't  you  hear  the  bell 

With  its  merry  chime? 
That  is  for  the  Sunday  school  — 

I  want  to  be  in  time. 
Dress  me  quick  and  let  me  go 

In  my  class  to  be: 
They  give  a  ticket,  don't  you  know. 

For  punctuality. 
I  have  seven  tickets  now. 

And  when  I  get  ten 
They  a  book  will  give  to  me  — 

Oil,  I'll  be  happy  then! 
Besides,  the  lessons  are  so  nice. 

My  teacher  is  so  good. 
She  always  gives  us  such  advice 

As  you  desire  she  should. 
She  tolls  us  of  the  Savior  kind 

Who  caiiie  from  heaven  above, 
And  sliowed  us  how  the  way  to  find 

To  him  whose  name  is  Love. 
Then  dress  me  quick  and  let  me  go, 

I'll  trip  with  joy  along. 
And  reach  my  chiss  in  time  to  join 

1  n  the  sweet  children's  song. 
'Tis  all  about  that  Savior  dear 

Who  gave  his  life  for  me. 
And  I  will  sing  it  with  the  rest 

If  I  but  putu'tual  be. 


-® 


9 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


i93 


® 


JOHN   HOLMES. 

Born:  England,  about  1840. 
Mr.  Holmes  has  been  in  business  for  the  past 
twenty-flve  years  as  plumber  and  tinner  in 
Baysbore,  L.  1.    He  has   written  both  pru.se 

EBHT 


JOHN    HOLMES. 

and  verse  more  or  less  since  his  youth,  which 
have  appeared  extensively  in  the  periodical 
press.  Mr.  Holmes  is  a  charter  member  of 
the  Iron  Cross,  and  is  well  and  favorably 
known  in  his  adopted  state. 


OUR  DARLINGS. 
How  we  miss  our  little  darlings, 

No  other  tongrue  can  tell; 
Only  we  feel  they  are  safe  with  Jesus 

Who  doeth  all  things  well. 
Yes,  they  are  up  in  heaven. 

Our  dear  little  darlings  fair. 
Are  safe  in  the  arms  of  Jesus, 

From  suffering  grief  and  care. 
They  are  living  amongst  the  blessed. 

Our  sweet  little  angels  bright, 
Held  in  tlie  arms  of  Jesus, 

Clothed  in  perfect  white. 
Safe  in  the  arms  of  Jesus, 

Though  early  carried  away. 
Are  rejoicing  to  dwell  with  Jesus 

In  peace  to  endless  day. 


AN   ACROSTIC. 
Bayshore,  it  is  a  quaint  old  name. 
And  it  is  really  a  pretty  town ; 
Yea,  it  has  caught  the  progressive  flame. 
Surely  with  honor  and  renown. 
Hail,  all  hail  to  the  beautiful  bay. 
O'er  which  white-winged  skiffs  doth  glide; 
Running  to  and  fro,  busy  and  gay, 
Ever  the  people's  joy  and  pride. 


WILLIAMWxVLLACE  MAXIM. 

Born:  Buckfield,  Me.,  Sept.  19, 1844. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Maxim  have  occasionally 
appeared  in  the  periodical  press.    He  follows 
the  occupation  of  f;irming  and  gardening  in 
his  native  state  at  Paris. 


COURTING. 
she; 
O,  are  not  you  a  little  soft  my  darling. 

To  want  to  hold  me  in  your  lap  so  long? 
Let  me  arise  and  go  to  the  piano. 
And  tra-la-la  a  dainty  little  song. 
he: 
Yes,  but  be  brief,  I  can  but  poorly  spare  you, 

'Tis  awful  here  without  you  to  abide; 
I  may  be  soft,  but  then  I'm  hard  of  hearing,— 
Pray  let  me  linger  closelj-  by  your  side. 


THE  SILENT  HOUR. 
The  deepest  thought  comes  forth  in  solitude 

When  holy  stillness  greets  the  new-born  day ; 
The  purest  aims  are  sought  and  actions  rude 
Are  hated  most  when  from  our  kind  awaj\ 
When  silence    creeps    upon   the   heart   and 
brain. 
And  holds  them  in  its  long  and  sweet  em- 
brace. 
When  all  their  cords  and  fetters  loose  again, 

And  feel  true  pity  for  the  fallen  race. 
When  angels  hang  their  harps  upon  the  tree 

And  gaze  in  silence  to  the  dome  above, 
'Tis  then  the  soul  stands  forth  so  full  and  free 
And  claims  its  own  peace,  happiness  and 
love. 


NOVEMBER. 

The  low  dull,  hollow  sound  within  the  forest. 

The  leafy  tree  that  seems  to  stand  aghast 
Beside  the  ghostly  lines  of  flickering  shadow. 
Proclaim  the  summer  gone.the  harvest  past 
The  rustling  reeds  that  erst  gave  up  their  jui- 
ces 
To  sighing  winds,  are  standing  stark  and 
gray ; 
Health  breezes  blow  among  the  pines   and 
spruces. 
And  down  the  rocky  leaf-strewn  goi-ges  play 


-^ 


©- 


591 


-ft 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


MRS.  VIRGINIA  FRANTZ. 

Born:  Brandon,  Miss.,  1838. 
After  receiving'  her  education  this  lady  he- 
came  a  school  teacher,  which  occupation  she 
followed  until  her  marriage  to  Col.  A.  J. 
Frantz  in  1857.  Since  her  marriage  she 
has  resided  in  Bi'andon,  and  has  been  a  con. 


MRS.  VIRGINIA  FRANTZ. 

staiit  contributor  of  both  prose  and  verse  to 
the  periodical  press.  In  1885  she  published  a 
beautiful  volume  of  poems,  containing  over 
five  hundred  pages,  entitled  Ina  Greenwood 
and  Other  Poems,  which  have  been  highly 
complimented  by  the  press. 


S( 


ONLY  A  WORD. 

Only  a  word !  but  a  broken  heart. 
In  secret  bleeds  with  its  tale  untold; 

Only  a  word !  but  the  better  part 
Of  one  more  life  has  away  been  rolled. 

Only  a  word !  but  the  silent  tear 
And  quiv'ring  lip  of  a  little  child 

Tell  how  it  pierced,  lilce  a  sharpened  sword. 
And  made  it  weep   when    It   should  have 
smiled. 

Only  a  word!  just  a  yes  or  no. 
Hath  sealed  the  fate  of  a  noble  boy, 

Opened  the  door  that  doth  lead  to  woe. 
And  robb'd  a  true  mother-heart  of  joy. 

Only  a  word  I  'tis  a  woman  speaks. 


And  signs  away  all  her  peaceful  rest; 
'Tis  the  first  note  of  the  funeral  knell 
Of  lioi)e  and  joy  in  her  own  pure  breast. 

Only  a  word !  but  it  saved  a  soul 
From  sinking  quite  into  dark  despair; 

A  friendly  word  to  an  erring  one, 
And  hope  revived  and  she  knelt  in  prayer. 

Only  a  word !  Let  us  ever  speak 

Such  woids  as  bring  to  some  heart  sweet 
cheer, 
Intones  that  yield  the  most  sweet  of  joys. 

And  ne'er  the  word  that  will  cause  a  tear. 


HUNGRY  HEARTS. 
Is  there  no  hunger  on  this  earth. 
Save  that  in  want  of  bread  has  birth? 
And  only  lurketh  famine  where 
Walks  Poverty,  all  gaunt  and  bare? 

Yes,  many  a  spirit  starves  and  dies. 
For  want  of  life's  sweet  harmonies. 
In  wealthy  mansions,  grand  and  fair, 
With  sumptuous  viands  rich  and  rare. 

How  many  starving  hearts  doth  hide 
Beneath  the  silken  folds  of  pride; 
And  bosoms  bright  with  gems  of  gold. 
For  want  of  loving  faith  grow  cold: 

Yes,  hearts,  so  starved,  all  wealth  they'd  give 
For  crumbs  of  love  on  which  to  live; 
Yes,  with  all  earthly  treasure  part 
For  balm  to  soothe  the  aching  heart. 

Why  must  hearts  ache?    They  cannot  buy 
The  food  for  which  they  pine  and  die; 
And  yet  so  very  small's  the  cost. 
That  he  who  gives  hath  nothing  lost. 

What  brings  to  life  so  much  sure  blessing, 
As  low,  sweet  tones,  and  love's  carefsing':* 
By  what,  as  by  a  gentle  word. 
Is  all  the  heart's  deep  music  stirred? 

All  ye  who  do  the  bodies  feed. 
Of  huna-ry,  starving  hearts  take  heed. 
And  scatter  crumbs  of  sympathy 
For  every  lonely  one  you  see. 

"  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread," 
Means  more  than  it  doth  seem  when  read; 
For  all  our  wants  the  Savior  knew. 
And  he  provided  for  them,  too. 

..  Man  shall  not  live  by  bread  alone," 
Saitli  Jesus,  who  such  love  hath  shown; 
He  kindly  draws  us  to  His  breast. 
For  bread  of  life,  comfort  and  rest. 

If  hungering  for  righteousness, 
Through  sin,  and  sorrow  and  distress. 
We'll  find  relief  in  Jesus'  arms. 
From  all  earth's  shadows  and  alarms. 


m 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


m 


595 


MILTON  H.  MARBLE. 

Born:  Wayne  Co.,  Ohio,  March  16, 1839. 
The  subject  of    this  sketch  has  been  corres- 
pondent to  various  piibiications.aiid  liis  poems 
have  appeared   in  tlie    Western   Rural,  Phila- 


MILTON  H.   M.\RBLE. 

delphia  Ledger.St.  Louis  Mag-azine,  Peterson's 
Magazine,  and  the  local  press  generally.  He 
is  now  in  the  real  estate  business  at  Table 
Rock,  Nebraska. 


\i~ 


LOVE'S  BLINDNESS. 

"  Come  be  mj-  Fair}-,  Mabel, 

And  g-ive  me  a  g-ift  to-day, 
A  gift  that  shall  last  till  the  Present 

Embraces  the  great  for  Aye." 
"I  will  be  thy  Golden  Fairy, 

What  would  thy  heart's  wish  be?  " 
And  the  laugh  of  the  beautiful  Mabel, 

Sounded  so  sweet  to  me. 
"Not  a  costly,  lordly  mansion, 

Not  a  gift  of  golden  pelf; 
But  the  gift  I  ask  for,  Mabel, 

Is  nauglit  but  thy  own  dear  self." 
"Oh!  blindest  of  all  blind  mortals," 

She  said  in  a  voice  so  low, 
"Tile  gift  you  ask  me  for,  darling, 

I  gave  you,  long,  long  ago." 

WAITING. 
Only  in  the  Realm  of  Dream-land 
Have  I  seen  her  beaming  face. 


Only  in  imagination 

Has  her  form  as  yet  a  place; 
But,  I  know  tlie  briglit  Ideal 

Into  Real  stH)ii  shall  bloom. 
And  this  maid  shall  come  to  bless  me 

As  the  Soul-Queen  of  my  Home. 
Oft  when  slumber  comes  to  woo  me 

To  her  fond  and  close  embrace. 
There  arises  up  before  me 

With  a  smile,  a  beaming  face. 
Seeming  far  too  fair  a  vision 

For  this  earthly  sphere  of  ours. 
As  if  born  to  deck  the  other 

World  of  bright,  unfading  flowers! 
So  I  wait  for  buds  to  blossom. 

Knowing  it  will  not  be  long; 
While  the  bright  and  fairy  vision 

Comes  to  make  my  soul  most  strong. 
And  I  know  the  bright  Ideal 

Into  Real  soon  shall  bloom. 
And  this  maid  shall  come  to  bless  me 

As  the  Soul-Queen  of  my  Home! 


WHO  WILL  CARE? 
When  I  sleep  beneath  the  flowers, 

In  the  churchyard  on  the  hill; 
And  the  years  seem  but  as  hours 

To  my  form  so  cold  and  still  — 
And  mj'  spirit  soars  in  gladness 

To  its  blissful  home  above. 
Who  will  care?  and  who,  in  sadness. 

Who  will  drop  one  tear  of  love? 
Who  will  care?  no  one  will  miss  me 

From  the  busy  walks  of  life, 
Wlien  along  my  grave  they  pass  me, 

Where  I  rest  all  free  from  strife! 
Who  will  drop  a  tear  of  sorrow 

That  I  passed  from  earth  so  soon. 
That  there  dawned  a  brighter  morrow 

For  me  ere  I  reached  my  noon? 
Should  one  loved  one  chance  to  wander 

Down  a-through  the  churchyard  gate. 
Sit  down  by  my  grave  to  ponder 

O'er  the  problem  of  my  fate  — 
Drop  a  tear-gem,  cast  a  flower 

There,  'twould  seem  as  golden  rain. 
It  would  prove  a  glorious  hour 

That  I  had  not  lived  in  vain! 


AN  IMMORTELLE. 

EXTRACT. 

I  took  a  little  tiny  seed, 
You  might  not  dream  contained  a  treasure. 
And  placed  it  in  its  earthly  bed; 

Wlien,  after  days  and  days  of  leisure, 
I  saw  a  little  tender  plant 

Spring  gently  up,  from  old  Earth's  bosom, 
And  knew  that  soon  a  precious  hud 

Would  come,  and  afterward  a  blossom ! 


-© 


s- 


696 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL.  POETS  OF  AMElilCA. 


-® 


JAMES  HENDERSON,  M.D. 

Born:  Canada,  April  7,  185T. 
The  poems  of  this  gentleman  have  appeared 
in   the   Detroit  Commercial  Advertiser   and 
other  publications.    He  is  now  practicing  his 


DR.  JAMES  HENDERSON. 

profession  at  Bad  Axe,  Michigan.  Dr.  Hen- 
derson will  soon  issue  a  book  of  his  poems  and 
essays.  His  poems  have  received  very  flatter- 
ing praises  from  tlie  press  and  public. 


*- 


A  SPRIG  OF  HEATHER. 
A  sprig  of  Scottish  heather 

They  have  sent  me  o'er  the  sea. 
From  Grampion's  stately  mountain   foot. 

Where  oft  I  wandered  free. 
To  pluck  the  wee  blue  flowers 

That  won  my  childish  heart 
And  bound  me  so  to  native  land. 

That  death  alone  can  part. 
When  last  I  looked  on  Forfarshire 

And  Grampion's  Hills  beside, 
I  felt  my  blood  course  faster 

And  my  heart  was  filled  with  pride ; 
For  I  felt  where'er  I  wandered, 

Be  it  far  or  be  it  near. 
No  hame  like  Scotland's  Highlands, 

Would  to  me  be  lialf  sae  dear. 
Oh  welcome,  sprig  of  heather. 

You  are  doubly  dear  to-day, 
As  I  press  you  to  my  bosom. 

O'er  a  thousand  leagues  away. 


And  my  mind  reverts  to  Scotia, 
Where  you  often  clieered  my  sire; 

And  I  see  at  foot  of  Grampion  Hills, 
The  bairnes  of  Forfarshire. 


ELLEN  OF  DUNBY. 

Oh,  'twas  but  a  wliitewashed  cabin. 

On  a  barren  hill  beyond; 
But  a  something  hung  around  it. 
That  made  my  heart  grow  tond; 
And  I  quietly  stopped  to  listen. 

To  those  notes  so  full  and  sweet; 
'Twas  an  Irish  maiden  singing. 
And  her  words  I'd  fain  repeat. 
For  my  heart  sank  low  within  me. 

And  I  smothered  up  a  sigh. 
As  I  thouglit  of  lonely  Eileen, 

Lovely  Eileen  of  Dunbwy; 
As  she  sung  to  the  breezes  wafting 

Those  sweet  notes  across  the  sea, 
Oh,  could  her  love  but  listen 

To  the  song  that  greeted  me. 
Oh,  'twas  Eileen,  lovely  Eileen, 

Faithful  Eileen  of  Dunbwy 
As  she  strolled  without  the  cabin 

That  had  caught  my  wandering  eye. 
Eileen,  singing  to  her  lover. 

As  he  dwelt  far  o'er  t  he  main ; 
True  to  Ireland  still  and  Eileen, 

Safe  beyond  the  captive's  chain. 
Lovely  Eileen  sweetly  warbled, 

'Till  within  the  cabin  door. 
Stood  her  aged  mother  calling 

..Eileen,  Eileen,  come  asthore; 
You  will  break  me  heart  me  darlin'. 

Don't  be  strollin'  tliere  alone. 
Don't  be  grievin'  so  for  Terrance, 

He  will  come  some  day,  ochone." 
Soft  the  shades  of  even  gathered. 

Soft  those  notes  fell  on  my  ear: 
And  the  evening  twilight  found  me 

Deep  in  thought,  still  lingering  near. 
For  no  fairer  maid  had  ever 

O'er  my  spirit    cast  lier  spell. 
All  unconscious  of  your  conquest. 

Faithful  Eileen  fare  you  well. 
Beauteous  Eileen  sing  your  love  song 

As  the  lark  sings  to  his  mate. 
Dwell  upon  that  barren  liillside. 

Nature's  queen  in  rural  state. 
Charm  the  lieart  of  each  lone  minstrel, 

That  may  chance  to  pass  you  by. 
But  be  true,  be  true  to  Terrance, 

Lovely  Eileen  of  Dunbwy. 

THE  BELLS  OF  JOHNSTOWN. 
In  mute  abjection. 
And  sad  reflection, 
1  often  dream 
Of  those  Johnstown  bells: 


■    ^U 


m- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


597 


* 


MRS.  ALMA  P.  HAYDEN. 

Bokn:  Limerick,  Me.,  1856. 

This  lady  gained  the  first  prize  for  composi- 
tion and  in  scholarship  earned  the  rank  of 
valedictorian.  At  the  alumni  receptions  she 
has  several  times  delivered  the  poem.  She 
was  married  in  1886  to  Cliarles  Herbert  Hay- 
den,  with  whom  she  now  resides  in  Lewiston, 


MRS.   .-VLMA    PKMIEXTER    HAYDEN. 

Maine.  The  poems  of  Mrs.  Hayden  have  ap- 
peared in  the  Chicag-o  Tribune.  Boston  Tran- 
script, Globe,  Portland  Transcript,  and  other 
periodicals.  Prior  to  her  marriag-e  she  taught 
school  for  seven  years.  Personally  Mrs.  Hay- 
den is  a  little  above  the  medium  heig-ht,  with 
blue  eyes,  dark  brown  hair,  and  is  a  very  en- 
tertaining conversationalist. 


WHEN  THE  SHIP  WENT  DOWN. 
What  was  tliy  cry,  O  sailor  lad. 

In  the  wild  storm's  roaring  sound? 
What  wastliy  thought,  O  sailor  lad. 

When  the  ship  went  down? 
Was  thy  thougrht  of  the  childhood's  home. 

In  a  far-off  eastern  town. 
And  thy  cry  to  the  loved  ones  there. 

When  the  ship  went  down? 
Didst  know  they  would  pity  thy  fate. 

As  they  sadly  g-atlier  round. 
To  hear  the  tale  of  that  fearful  night 

When  the  ship  went  down? 


Alas!  their  grief  comes  late,  too  late. 

In  the  deep  grave  thou  hast  found. 
And  the  mother-land  sent  back  no  word. 

When  the  ship  went  down. 
But  the  Lord  of  seas  was  close  beside; 

His  voice  'mid  the  breaker's  sound 
Said,  "  I  am  with  thee,  fear  thou  not," 

When  the  ship  went  down. 


BETWEEN  THE  LINES. 
It  was  such  a  discreet  little  letter. 

Not  formal  enough  to  be  cold. 
Not  fond  enough  to  encourage 

The  reader  to  love  and  be  bold. 
It  held  him  at  right  proper  distance. 

No  sweet  words  or  dead  give-away, 
Yet  somehow  it  filled  him  with  gladness 

And  brightened  the  whole  prosy  day. 
For  he  read  her  love  all  unspoken. 

And  he  had  the  assurance  to  write: 
•'  My  dearest,  e.\pect  me  at  Lakewood 

On  the  late  train  Saturday  night." 
Then  he  said  that  day  in  the  office 

He  should  take  a  week  out  of  town. 
That  his  sister  was  off  in  the  country. 

And  he  "  really  must  make  a  run  down.' 
O,  happy  the  lover  whose  sweetheart, 

Tho'  prudent  and  shy  she  may  be. 
Leaves  hid  'neath  the  lines  of  her  letter 

Some  message  he  only  can  seel 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD. 
She  used  to  wait  for  him  down  by  the  gate. 

With  a  rosebud  pinned  in  her  curls. 
With  a  smile  and  a  kiss  and  a   welcome   so 
sweet. 
He  vowed  her  the  dearest  of  girls! 
Now  she  meets  him  at  noon  with  her  hair  up 
in  pins. 
On  her  face  is  an  ominous  frown,   [est  man. 
As  she  calls  out  in  shrill  tones,  "  You  stupid- 

You've  forgotten tny  errand  in  town!  " 
And  he  —  well,  he  isn't  exactlj'  the  same; 

Quite  different  from  four  years  ago,     [tect, 
When  he  promised  to  cherish,  to  love,  to  pro- 

And  all  sorts  of  nonsense,  you  know. 
Now  the  watch  dog  protects  her  at  night  while 
he  goes 
Away  to  his  club  or  to  dine. 
And  he  grumbles  and  finds  fault,  and  uses 
harsh  words. 
When  he's  taken  too  freely  of  wine. 
So  the  picture  has  changed  since  be  asked  her 
to  be 
His  loving  and  meek  little  wife. 
When  he  swore  that  to  make  her  liappiness 
sure 
Should  be  the  grand  aim  of  his  life! 


-« 


©- 


-* 


598 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


LUCY  M.  CHAFFEE-ALDEN. 

Born:  Wilbraham,  Mass.,  Nov.  20, 1836. 
For  twenty  years  tliis  lady  taught  school. 

Verses  alw:  I  \s   liad  a  rharni  t'cn-   Mi>s  CliatTee, 


■1 


MRS.  CHAFFEE  AT^DEN. 

and  her  poems  have  appeared  in  the  leading 
publications  of  America.  She  also  writes 
prose  occasionally  for  the  eastern  periodical 
press. 

TO  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 
Dear  busy  hand,  so  wont  so  long 

The  fair  white  page  to  trace. 
In  gentle  ministry  and  strong 
Dispensing  generous  wealth  of  song 

And  verse  of  sweetest  grace, 
To  take  thee  once  would  be  delight, 

Because  we  claim  thee  kin 
By  sympathy  —  in  daring  spite 
Of  will  of  thine,  or  mile,  or  hight. 

Or  social  line  between. 
And  busy  brain,  whose  patient  play 

Has  wrought  us  pleasure  so. 
In  opening  for  us  far  away 
Enchanted  galleries  of  to-day 

And  of  the  long  ago,— 
Whose  sceneries,  rich  with  cottage,  tower. 

Sea,  mountain,  stream  and  lake. 
Have  held  our  eyes  for  many  an  hour,— 
We  feel  thine  artful,  artless,  power. 
And  glad  confession  make. 


Dear  heart,  whose  faith  and  hope  and  love 

Do  make  cold  words  so  warm. 
And  find  for  doubt,  the  floods  above. 
Always  some  olive-leaf  to  prove 

The  passage  of  the  storm, 

We  court  the  friendships  thou  hast  wrought, 
The  charms  thy  loves  can  lend. 

Till  many  a  form  thy  fruitful  thought 

Has  into  mystic  being  brought. 
Seems  like  our  household  friend. 

Of  "  one  dead  lamb,"  one  "  open  door," 

One  "  solemn  voice  and  slow," 
Of  many  a  shape  that  comes  once  more 
With  noiseless  footsteps  on  the  floor. 

Ah !  yes,  we  know  ^  we  know. 

At  "Children's  Hour"  we've  seen  them  glide 

Softly  —  for  siege  prepared  — 
Then,  victor-victims,  fast  inside 
The  tender-hearted  •>  dungeon  "  hide, 

"Grave,"  "laughing,"  "golden-haired." 

What  rhythm,  witching  to  our  ears. 

In  Plymouth  story  rings, 
And  follows  far,  through  hopes  and  fears, 
Patient  Evangeline  for  years. 

And  her  sad  victory  sings ! 

War's  "  Miserere  "  on  the  air, 

Christ's  "Peace"  and  God's  "Good-will," 
The  sweet-voiced  reading  after  care. 
The  clock's  "  forever  "  on  the  stair. 

Are  sounds  that  echo  still. 
With  "  God  o'erhead  and  heart  within," 

Dear  songful  soul,  sing  on. 
Till  thou  Shalt  reach  that  ..wayside-inn 
Where  toil  shall  cease  and  rest  begin," 

When  sets  thy  westering  sun. 
Beyond  this  strangelj'-changing  lot  — 

Beyond  these  pictures  dim  — 
Be  thine  the  life  where  death  comes  not, 
Thine  ..  Ultima  "  of  this  forgot 

In  that  life's  perfect  hymn. 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

EXTRACT. 

The  years  are  full  of  men's  wedding  days, 

The  altars,  of  bridal  gifts; 
And  high  o'er  the  festive  scenes  of  joy. 

How  many  acurtain  lifts! 
Ay,  the  sun  sets  not  on  a  single  day 

Unmarked  by  the  solemn  vow 
Of  two  to  abide  in  each  other's  love. 

Till  one  to  the  grave  shall  go. 
Hut  wlien  the  years   fr.im   eacli   plijilitm 
time 

Have  woven  the  lives  of  men 
Into  half  the  web  of  a  century. 

Ah !  where  are  the  pledgers  then? 


8B- 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-® 


599 


MILLEN  SANFORD  GREENE. 

Born  :  N.  Stonington,  Conn.,  Dec.  23, 1825. 
This  g'eutleman  worked  on  a  farm  in  his 
youth,  taught  school  in  winter,  and  liis  leis- 
ure hours  were  passed  in  study.  At  the  ag-e 
of  twenty-two  Mr.  Greene  went  to  sea,  and 
continued  in  that  employment  for  six  years. 
After  his  return  he  ag'ain  took  up  the  avoca- 


MILLEN  f?ANF(>KU  GREENE. 

tion  of  a  school  teacher,  which  he  followed  for 
twelve  years,  when  he  entered  a  counting- 
room.  In  1869  he  entered  the  insurance  and 
real  estate  business,  in  which  he  has  ever 
since  remained.  Early  in  life  Mr.  Greene  de- 
veloped a  taste  for  poetry  and  music,  and  is 
the  author  of  a  series  of  Fireside  Stories,with 
sketches  of  social  ehiit.  in  verse. 


MY  MOTHER'S  SONG. 
"I  know  that  my  Redeemer  lives. 
What  comfort  this  sweet  sentence  g-ives;" 

My  mother  often  sung. 
In  soothing  numbers,  soft  and  mild, 
To  me,  when  I,  a  fretful  child. 

Unto  her  bosom  clung-. 
I  could  not  know  the  sense  of  pain. 
That,  mingled  with  the  sweet  refrain. 

Her  gentle  spirit  wrung! 
I  could  not  know  the  weight  of  care. 
With  which  she  breathed  for  me  the  prayer 

That  trembled  on  her  tongue 
That  love-wrought  cadence  to  my  ears 
Comes  floating  down  the  stream  of  years 


In  tones  that  seem  divine! 
My  soul  is  lulled  to  calm  repose. 
As  when  of  yore,  at  daylight's  close, 

She  laid  her  face  to  mine. 
And  now,  beyond  the  mystic  veil. 
Angelic  voices  never  fail 

That  song-  of  love  to  swell ; 
The  Heavenly  chorus  greets  her  ears, 
In  praise  of  Him,  who  thro'  long  years 

She  loved  and  served  so  well. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  SEA. 
What  news  art  bringing  from  over  the  sea, 

Tliou  foam-capped  billows  of  brine? 
What  messages  art  thou  whispering  to  me. 

As  thy  white  lips  beckon  to  mine? 
I  lay  mine  ear  on  thy  wave-washed  sand. 

And  list  to  the  undertone,  [strand. 

That  comes  with  the  surge  from  the  far-off 

Like  the  sobs  of  a  distant  moan. 
It  comes  like  soft  music  into  my  soul, 

In  cadences  plaintive  and  low! 
It  seems  like  the  dirge  which  the  ages  unroll, 

As  I  list  to  thy  rhythmical  flow. 
Is  it  sweet  sounds  from  the  coral  isles, 

Where  the  sea-god's  temples  are? 
The  chanting  of  priests  In  the  deep  defiles, 

That  lead  to  their  place  of  prayer? 
Is  it  the  moan  of  a  dying  gale. 

Whose  breath  is  well  nigh  spent. 
Bearing-  its  load  with  a  sorrowing  wail. 

From  the  islands  of  discontent? 
Is  it  thy  lullaby  song-  to  repose 

When  the  sunset  portal  unbars,  [goes. 

As  thy  wave-rocked  cradle,  when  the  daylight 

LviUs  in  thy  bosom  the  stars? 
Is  it  the  suppliant  pleadings  and  cries 

Of  languishing  sea-nymphs  that  weep  [skies 
While  breathing  their  love  to  the  tremulous 

Way  down  in  thy  fathomless  deep! 
Not  these!  my  spirit  bows  with  reverent  fear. 

When  the  on-c(miing  billows  I  greet; 
For  the  voice  of  thy  Great  Creator  I  hear. 

As  they  foam  and  dash  at  my  feet. 


TO  SAINT  VALENTINE. 
My  dear  old  saint,  I  thee  implore 
To  kindly  pass  my  errors  o'er. 
And  grant  that  in  thy  loving-  heart 
Forgiveness  thou  to  me  impart. 
One  only  boon  from  thee  I  crave: 
The  best  that  e'er  imuiortals  gave; 
That  I  may  at  thy  holy  shrine 
Choose  Mary  for  my  valentine; 
And  maj'  her  kind  confiding  heart. 
Transfixed  by  love's  unerring  dart. 
Receive  the  message  so  divine. 
That  I'll  be  hers  and  she'll  be  mine. 
And  live  to  bless  Saint  Valentine. 


■® 


^- 


600 


9 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  A3IEKICA. 


ISAAC  R.  SHERWOOD. 

Born:  Stanford,  N.Y.,  Aug.  14, 1835. 
In  political  and  journalistic  circles  Isaac  R. 
Sherwood  is  prominently  known  throughout 
the  union,  and  has  been  in  the  editorial  har- 
ness for  over  thirty  years.  He  is  the  present 
editor  of  the  Daily  News  Democrat  of  Canton, 
Ohio.  Mr.  Sherwood  enlisted  in  the  union 
armj'  in  1861,  and  served  until  the  close  of  the 
war:  first  in  the  14th  Ohio  infantry  and  later 
in  the  111th.  which  he  commanded  in  over 


ISAAC   K.   SHKRWOOD. 

thirty  battles.  This  hero  went  in  as  a  private 
and  came  out  a  brigadier-general.  Gen.  Sher- 
wood served  as  secretary  of  tlie  state  of  Ohio 
for  two  terms  and  represented  the  Toledo  dis- 
trict in  congress  in  1873-4.  While  Gen.  Sher- 
wood has  written  considerable  poetry,  includ- 
ing a  thrilling  epic  of  the  services  of  the  army 
of  the  Tennessee,  it  is  more  as  a  writer  of  hu- 
morous verse  in  whicli  he  has  won  most  dis- 
tinction. His  Army  Gray liack,  a  poem  issued 
in  book-form,  profusely  illustrated,  has  liad  a 
great  run  with  the  veterans,  both  north  and 
south.  Gen.  Slierwood  was  married  in  18.59  to 
Miss  Kate  Brownlee,  a  lady  who  has  also  gain- 
ed quite  a  reputation  as  ji  poet,  and  wiio  is  re- 
presented on  the  following  page  of  this  work. 


©- 


THE  SONG  AND  THE  BROOK. 
Among  the  joys  that  fade  not  with  the  dying 
year 


Will  be  the  fond,  sweet  memory  of  your  bright 

face  r' 
So  pure  in  thought,  so  chastely,  softly,fair,  so 

near 
My  heart's  ideal;  that,  when  in  smiles,  I  seem- 
ed to  trace 
The   long-shrined   image  of    a  face,  than  all 

more  dear 
To  manhood's  happiest  dreams.  Life  was  then 

to  me 
A  world  of  hope,  and  hope  a  full,  flowing  river 
Sunlit  and  silvery;  wending  to  a  far-off  sea, 
Whose  mists,  like  the  soft  haze  of  rainbows, 

take  their  flight. 
Fading  from  sight,  into  an  eternity  of  liglit. 
And  when  you  sang  "  The  Brook  "and  sent 

the  melody 
Of  song  on— «•  on  forever;"  and  looked  with 

those  brown 
Eyes  so  gently  into  mine,  I  felt  that  I  would 

be 
A  brook,  to  have  the   echo  of    your   music 

drown 
My  own  sad  murmurs;  and  while  you  stood 

upon  the  brink 
I  would  be  calm,  and  let  the  stilling  wavelets 

drink 
All  your  sheen  of  beauty;  and  as  the  kindly 

sun 
Mirrored  you  within  mj'self,  I  would  cease  to 

be 
Inanimate;  but  every  gently  sipping  wave 
Would  softly  say  — ••  Come  lave  thy  loveliness 

in  me! 
I  cannot  be  a  brook,  fair  girl,  nor  can  you  be 
The  better  part  of  my  vmcertain  destiny; 
Yet  here's  my  hope,  my  prayer,  for  now,  for- 
ever ! 
May  your  bright  life  flow  on  as  a  full  river: 
May  young  love's  fondest,  purest  joys  know 

no  surcease; 
But  bear  you  hopeful  as  a  soldier's  dreams  of 

peace. 

INCIDENTS  OP  PUT-IN-BAY. 

EXTRACT. 

And  I  was  there  among  the  fair 

To  wliile  the  twilight  hour  away; 
And  'twas  my  fate,  that  gentle  Kate, 
Tlie  radiant  belle  with  streamuig  hair, 

Should  row  with  me  upon  the  Bay! 
With  rugged  oar  I  hied  to  shore. 

Past  bold  Gibraltar's  rock  we  sped, 
Tlie  rough-faced  moon  oaine  up  too  soon; 

For  where  on  earth  was  Katie's  head? 
Oh,  pallid  face;  O,  rumpled  lace! 
O,  streaming  hair;  (),  wliile  arms  bare! 

•  >  Ht)w  can  you  I'ow  and  hold  me  so'/"  " 

The  dove-eyed  Kate  sui)inely  said. 
Loved  Island  Bay,  the  moonbeams  play 

Around  no  brighter  gem  than  this.    •    •    ■ 


®- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF  A3IEUICA. 


601 


-m 


MRS.  K.M.  B.  SHERWOOD. 

Born:  Bedford  Springs,  Pa.,  Sept.  24, 1841. 

Few  women  have  entered  more  fully  into  the 
life  of  our  nation  than  Kate  B.  Sherwood. 
She  has  been  a  prominent  flg-ure  in  the  social 
life  at  the  capitals  of  state  and  nation.  As  ed- 
itor of  the  woman's  department  of  the  Wash- 
ington National  Tribune  she  really  founded 
the  Woman's  Relief  Corps,  a  charitable  insti- 
tution that  is  known  throughout  the  United 
States.    When  but  eighteen  years  of  age  she 


MRS.   K.  M.   B.   SHERWOOD. 

was  married  to  Isaac  K.  Sherwood,  an  editor 
and  publisher,  who  has  since  become  widely 
known  as  Gen.  I.R.  Sherwood.and  whose  name 
appears  in  this  work.  Many  of  Mrs.  Sher- 
wood's poems  have  been  translated  into  Ger- 
man, and  have  appeared  in  the  leading  publi- 
cations of  America.  Mrs.  Sherwood  is  a  mem- 
ber of  numerous  societies,  and  has  held  var- 
ious offices.  At  her  home  in  Toledo,  Ohio,  the 
library  of  this  lady  is  filled  with  the  newest 
and  choicestof  of  literature,  the  perusal  and 
study  of  which  she  takes  great  delight. 


^■ 


FALL  IN. 

Fall  in,  fall  in,  old  soldiers! 

The  reveille  is  heard. 
And  bivouac  and  picket 

Are  at  the  summons  stirred; 


Fall  in,  that  you  may  answer 

The  roll-call  sounding  clear. 
And  when  the  sergeant  calls  your  name 

Prepare  to  answer  "  Here !" 

Fall  in,  fall  in,  old  soldiers. 

And  rub  your  sleepy  eyes; 
The  mists  of  time  are  heavy 

Around  you  as  you  rise; 
The  friendships  on  the  musket  sworn 

Grow  rustj'  as  its  lock; 
Fall  in  once  more,  touch  elbows, 

As  in  the  battle's  shock. 

Fall  in,  fall  in,  old  soldiers. 

By  whatever  name  you  bear,— 
If  you've  made  the  march  through  Georgia, 

If  at  Richmond  you  were  there; 
If  on  Lookout's  lofty  tablets 

You've  writ  your  names  in  blood. 
You've  stemmed  the  hosts  at  Franklin, 

Pouring  onward  like  a  flood. 

Fall  in,  fall  in,  old  soldiers,— 

You  who  recall  the  daj- 
At  Corinth  on  the  battlefield  — 

The  dead  around  you  lay. 
When  Rosecrans  rode  down  the  lines 

To  Fuller's  old  brigade: 
"  I  take  my  hat  off  in  the  face 

Of  men  like  these,"  he  said. 

Fall  in,  fall  in,  old  soldiers. 

You  who  from  Red  House  Bridge 
Moved  on  to  Chickamauga 

When  Thomas  held  the  ridge; 
Moved  on  with  gallant  Steedmau 

That  day  he  broke  away 
Like  a  lion  from  his  covert 

When  he  heard  the  battle  bray. 

Fall  in,  fall  in,  old  soldiers; 

Perchance  you  followed  well 
At  Kenesaw  with  Harker 

And  caught  him  when  he  fell; 
Perchance  you  joined  the  wild  mad  cry 

That  through  the  army  ran: 
"  McPherson  and  revenge!"  then  smote 

The  foemen  rear  and  van. 

Fall  in,  fall  in,  old  soldiers; 

A  glory  crowns  jou  still. 
For  marches  under  Sherman, 

For  raids  with  •>  Little  Pliil." 
Though  you  swore  by  Grant  or  Thomas, 

Or  bj'  Custer  early  dead. 
There  are  roses  for  each  bosom. 

There  are  laurels  for  each  dead. 

Fall  in,  fall  in,  old  soldiers; 

Each  day  the  ranks  grow  small. 
Each  day  a  voice  grows  silent 

Heard  at  the  last  roll-call ; 
A  comrade's  voice  makes  answer 


-* 


® 


602 


-^ 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMEKICA. 


Where  was  heard  a  manly  shout: 
"Disabled  in  the  service, 
And  awaits  his  muster  out!" 

Fall  in,  fall  in,  old  soldiers; 

A  few  more  flying-  years. 
And  roses  will  be  blooming 

Above  your  lowly  biers; 
The  roses  and  the  ivy 

And  the  lonely  myrtle  climb 
Above  the  sleeping  millions 

Plumed  and  knighted  in  their  time. 

Fall  in,  fall  in,  old  soldiers. 

And  fight  your  battles  o'er. 
Until  above  the  last  low  bier 

The  wings  of  Freedom  soar, 
Stand  hand  to  hand  and  heart  to  heart, 

In  Fame's  eternal  care. 
Until  the  great  reunion 

Unites  you  over  there. 


MARGUERITE. 

Like  a  glad  bride  asleep 

In  robes  of  white. 
Earth  smiles ;  and  yet  I  keep 

Sad  watch  to-night,— 
Saying,  "Marguerite, 
Ma  petite  Marguerite, 
When  in  that  fair,  far  country  shall  we  meet, 
Marguerite?" 

I  waken  with  the  dawn 

And  say,  "  Her  eyes 
Look  from  wide  windows  on 

The  dear  south-skies. 
Where,  calling,  >  Marguerite, 
Ma  petite  Marguerite,' 
She  flung  white  oleanders  at  my  feet. 
Marguerite!" 

O  fair  child  of  the  sun. 

Can  I  say.  Come, 
Where  skies  are  chill  and  dun? 

My  heart  grows  dumb ! 
Oh,  speak,  Marguerite, 
Ma  petite  Marguerite, 
Can  love  make  all  climes  beautiful  and  sweet. 
Marguerite? 


©- 


ULRIC  DAHLGREN. 
A  flasb  of  light  across  the  night. 

An  eager  face,  an  eye  afire! 
O  lad  so  true,  you  may  yet  rue 

The  courage  of  your  deep  despair! 

"Nay,  tempt  me  not:  the  way  is  plain 
'Tis  but  the  coward  checks  his  i-ein; 

For  tliere  tliey  lie 

And  there  they  cry 
For  whose  dear  sake  'twere  joy  to  die !' 


He  bends  unto  his  saddle  bow. 

The  steeds  they  follow  two  and  two; 
Their  flanks  are  wet  with  foam  and  sweat, 
Tlieir  ridei's'  locks  are  damp  with  dew. 
"  O  comrades,  haste!  the  way  is  long. 
The  dirge  it  drowns  the  battle  song; 
The  hunger  preys. 
The  famine  slays. 
An  awful  horror  veils  our  ways!" 
Beneath  the  pall  of  prison  wall 

The  rush  of  hoofs  they  seem  to  hear; 
From  loathsome  guise  they  lift  their  eyes. 
And  beat  their  bars  and  bend  their  ear. 
"  Ah,  God  be  thanked!  our  friends  are  nigh; 
He  wills  it  not  that  thus  we  die; 
O  fiends  accurst 
Of  want  and  thirst!" 
Our  comrades  gather,—  do  your  worst!" 
A  sharp  affright  runs  through  the  night. 

An  ambush  stirred,  a  column  reined; 
The  hurrying  steed  has  checked  his  speed. 
His  smoking  flanks  are  crimson  stained. 
O  noble  son  of  noble  sire. 
Thine  ears  are  deaf  to  our  desire! 
O  knightly  grace 
Of  valiant  race. 
Thy  grave  is  honor's  trystiug-place! 
O  life  so  pure!  O  faith  so  sure! 

O  heart  so  brave,  and  true  and  strong! 
With  tips  of  flame  is  writ  your  name. 

In  annaled  deed  and  storied  song! 
It  flares  across  the  solemn  night. 
It  glitters  in  the  radiant  light; 
A  jewel  set 
Unnumbered  yet. 
In  our  repuljlic's  coronet! 


THE  VETERANS  AT  LINCOLN  S  HOME- 
STEAD. 
Wrinkled  and  bronzed  the  battle-heroes  stood 
Where  erst,  retreading  through  tlie  open  door. 
The  sad  apostle  of  high  brotiierliood 
Paced  anguished  hours    across  the  humble 

fioor. 
With     mighty     prophecies     absorbed,    o'er- 

wrought 
With  dark    foreboding's    and    o'ei-inastering 

thouglit. 
The  pangs  of  mouTiting   from   tlie  (.'oiiunon 

clod 
To  kingsliip,  priesthood,  fellow.sliip  with  (iod. 
O  heroes,  brotliei's,  in  the  same  pure  cause 
Of  holier  living  and  godlier  laws! 
Tlie  form  is  vanished  and  the  footsteps  still. 
But  from  the  silence  Lincoln's  answers  thrill; 
"Peace,  cliarity  and  love!"  In  all  the  world's 

best  needs 
The  master  stands  transfigured  in  his  deeds. 


-® 


® 


® 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AM£KICA. 


Go:{ 


© 


EDWARD  BRECK  ROBINSON. 

Born:  Dokchestek,  Mass., May 29, 1821. 
At  the  age  of  tweuty-one  Mr.  Robinson  adopt- 
ed piano-teaching-  as   a  profession,  and  went 
to  Portland  in  1847  In  that  capacity.    In  1851 
he  was  orjranist  at  the   First  Parish  ehnroli, 


EDWARD  BRECK  ROBIN.SON. 

but  later  lesigned  to  go  on  an  European  tour. 
Mr.  Robinson  was  partner  in  tlie  Arm  of  An- 
drews and  Robinson,  manufacturers  of  pianos 
and  orsrans  at  Port  hind,  but  since  1858  lias  been 
engaged  in  teaching  and  dealing  in  pianos. 


THE  TRINITY  OF  TIME. 
We  throw  our  thouglits  upon  the  past, 

Reflecting  on  the  things  that  were  — 
Then  on  the  future  tliey  are  east. 

Divining  what  may  there  occur. 
The  Past  and  Future  are  but  wings 

That  lift  the  present  into  view. 
And  sliow  to  man  the  drift  of  things,— 

Tilings  drifting  from  the  old  to  new. 
The  Present  is  a  fleeting  day, 

Tliat  plunges  headlong  into  night: 
Arouiul  the  world  it  makes  its  way. 

And  on  the  Future  throws  its  light. 


ILL  LUCK. 

Most  of  us  pound  when  the  iron  is  cold; 

When  hot,  comfoiind  it,  no  anvil  is  here; 
That  found,  we  look,  and  the  hammer  is  not, 

And  when  all  are  ready,  then  no  one  is  near. 


RETRIBUTION. 
Sooner  or  later,  more  or  less,— 
And  Time  has  no  forgetfulness,— 
Nature  will  pay  us  what  we  earn; 
The  good  and  evil  shall  return 
To  bless  or  curse  —  to  curse  or  bless,— 
For  Time  has  no  forgetfulness. 
Should  charm  of  manner  and  of  speech 
The  hidden  flres  of  passion  reach. 
And  tempt  some  impulse  to  go  wrong. 
Ere  plodding  reason  gets  along; 
Remember  'twixt  the  no  and  yes 
That  Time  has  no  forgetfulness. 
No  good  to  pray,  nor  good  is  prayer. 
When  Nature's  laws  a  working  are; 
But  kneel  before  the  deed  is  done. 
And  in  your  thoughts  the  evil  shun! 
Remember  who  will  not  do  this. 
That  Time  has  no  forgetfulness. 


MY  IDOL. 

Sweet  impulse  of  the  air,  my  words  attend 

And  tell  me  of  thy  presence,  where  thou  art; 
And  of  thy  friendship  dear  —  my  loving  friend 

And  of  thy  blissful  state  to  me  impart!— 
For  in  the  flowery  land  must  many  be 

That  center' round  thy  form  to  worship  thee. 
Do  others  look  upon  thy  beauty  fair  [eyes, 
And  draw  the  radiance  from  those  tender 
And  hear  the  melodies  that  fill  the  air 

When  wander  thou  the  fields  of  paradise? 
For  in  the  flowery  land  there  many  be 
That  think  of  thee  M-hen  hearing  melody. 
And  do  they  follow  swift  along  thy  path 

To  catch  the  spicy  fragrance  of  thy  Un-e, 
And  see  the  winsome  step  thy  spirit  hath 

That   thrills   the   fancy   at   each   graceful 
m(jve? 
For  in. the  flowery  land  there  many  be 
That  feel  a  love  when  they  thy  beauty  see. 
My  idol  .sweet,  dost  thou  my  soul  await 

That  we  together  may  each  joy  pursue; 
And  walking  hand  in  hand  to  each  relate 

The  memories  of  earth  as  old  friends  do? 
For  iti  the  flowery  land  there  many  be 
That  seeing  us  alone  would  envy  me. 


SUNRISE. 
Below  the  outline  of  an  eastern  sky 

The  Sun  crowds  on  its  tide  of  flooding  light ; 
But  ere  its  gorgeous  splendor  reaches  higli 
The  stars  retire;  then  westward   wings  the 

Night, 
Alighting  on  the  shadows  in  its  flight. 
Here  lingering,  it  lurks  behind  the  trees 
And  objects  all  where  shadowed  forms  are 
laid:  [breeze 

And  when  the  hanging  branches  feel  the 
It«huns  the  light  as  if  it  were  afraid  Led. 
And  dodges  to  and  fro  when  they  are  sway- 


-« 


m- 


-m 


604 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMERICA. 


REV.  ARTHUR  J.  LOCKHART. 

Born:  Nova  Scotia,  May 5, 1850. 
The  poems  of  Rev.  Arthur  John  Loekhart 

have  appcaivd  ijuitt'  cxteiisivfly  in  tlic   Cau- 


ARTHUR  JOHN  LOCKHART. 

adian  publications.  He  is  now  a  resident  of 
Cherryiield,  Maine.  Mr.  Loekhart  is  the  au- 
thor of  The  Masque  of  Minstrels,  The  Heart  in 
the  Sleeve,  etc. 


O  OCEAN. 
O  Ocean  !  restless,  deep,  and  lone! 

What  tribute  do.st  thou  crave! 
Thou  hast  one  fairest,  favorite  one  — 

The  generous  and  the  brave. 
He  faded  from  the  yearning-  shore 

With  bark  fleet-winged  and  free; 
Ho  comes  not  —  nor  deserts  thee  more, 

O  solitary  sea! 
The  feet  of  sorrow  tread  not  wlice 

Tliy  winds  and  billows  rave; 
No  flower  that  scents  the  summer  air 

Shall  blossom  on  his  grave. 
But,  'neath  the  waves  tumultuous  stir. 

And  tempests'  thunder  sweep. 
Low-rapt  in  weedy  sepulcher. 

He  rests  with  thee,  O  deep! 


8B- 


THE  MAIDEN  EVE. 
The  maiden  eve  is  a  bride  to-night. 
And  her  brow  is  bound  with  a  circlet  bright, 


And  her  robe  of  blue  in  every  fold 

Is  sprinkled  and  starred  with  dust  of  gold. 

And  I  at  the  holy  altar  stand. 

And  hold,  sweet  Mary,  thy  lily-white  hand; 

Fair  thy  face,  and  thine  eye  is  bright. 

And  thou,  meek  maid,  art  a  bride  to-night! 


THE  LADY  IN  THE  PICTURE. 

In  my  room  from  the  rude  old  wall. 

Dinged  with  the  dust  of  years,  and  bare. 
Just  where  the  day's  last  sunbeams  fall. 

The  portrait  hangs  of  a  lady  fair; 
Pale  and  delicate,  stately  and  tall. 

Light  as  a  shower  of  snow  in  the  air; 
Her  eyes  are  stars,  and  they  shine  on  all 
From  the  billowy   brown  of  her  beauteous 
hair. 
No  nymph  of  river  or  lilied  lake. 

No  fairy  figure  on  forest  lea. 
No  creature  of  dreams  that  moves  to  make 
The  night-world  beautiful,  bright,  is  she; 
These  are  gone  when  we  start  and  wake; 

Waking,  her  pictured  face  I  see; 
They  the  haunts  of  the  heart  forsake; 

She  is  more,  as  a  woman,  to  me. 
Look  in  the  wonderful  deeps  of  her  eyes! 

See  the  calm  smile  on  her  face  that  reposes; 
Watch  the  high  spirit,  benignantly  wise. 
The  lofty  courage  her  mien  discloses;— 
A  breathing  song,  in  the  purest  guise, 

A  silent  poem  her  gaze  supposes; 
A  bosom,  birthplace  of  faintest  sighs; 
A  poet's  forehead,  whiter  than  roses. 
She  hath  homes  in  the  land  of  thought. 

She  hath  tarried  in  haunted  spaces; 
Folded  in  her  sweet  brain  hath  brought 

Odors  and  .sounds  of  holy  places; 
And  oft  when  I  come  with  my  heart  o'er- 
wrought. 
Laden  witli  frowns  of  darker  faces. 
She  drops  her  light  on  the  shadowed  spot. 

And  fills  my  spirit  witli  charms  and  graces. 
Beautiful  lights  on  the  dim  old  wall. 

Clasp  her  'round  with  your  soft  embraces; 
Lofty  o'er  her  features  fall. 

And  fondly  cover  the  kindest  of  faces! 
Sliiiie,  my  spirit  to  disentlu-all  Ltra^^^s; 

Of  the  shadows  that  linger,—  the  care-worn 
Wliile  the  smiling  welcome  she  gives  to  all 
Each  cold  repulse  of  the  world  effaces. 


EXTRACT. 

So  beautiful,  my  darling! 

Our  lowly  life's  decline; 
And  softly  'round  our  parting  hour. 

The  lights  of  evening  sliine; 
One  life,  with  faith  unl)roken. 

One  love,  from  falsehood  free; 
And,  by  God's  grace  in  a  holier  place. 

One  Heaven  for  thee  and  me. 


®- 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


605 


-m 


GEORGE  W. SNOW. 

Born:  Bangok,  Me.,  May  13,  1809. 
At  the  ape  of  twenty-one  Mr.  Snow  taught 
school  in  North  Carolina,  but  three  years  later 
returned  to  his  native  city,  where  he  has  re- 
sided ever  since.  He  then  was  employed  as  a 
copyist  in  tlieotlicecif   t  In' ci  niniy  i'(>;isier  of 


(ji.<JHUK    W.    SNUW. 

deeds,  and  subsequently  was  elected  clerk  of 
the  common  council.  In  1845  he  was  chosen 
city  clerk  and  retained  that  position  for 
twenty-seven  years.  Mr.  Snow  next  became 
clerk  in  the  bankrupt  court;  tlien  chosen  one 
of  the  city  assessors,  and  in  1877  was  elected 
clerk  and  collector  of  the  city  water  depart- 
ment, which  position  he  still  retains. 


«• 


MEMORY'S  MAGIC  SPELL. 

With  what  strange,  mysterious  might 

O'er  the  spirit  steals  — 
Sudden  as  the  lightning's  flight. 

Startling  as  its  peals  — 
Wak'ning  thoughts  which  long  have  slept 

In  the  bosom's  cell  — 
Scenes  o'er  wliich  we've  smiled  or  wept  — 

Memory's  Magic  Spell. 

When  the  shade  of  twilight  grows 

Deeper  o'er  the  scene  — 
And  the  star  of  evening  glows 

With  the  diamond's  sheen- 


In  that  sweet  and  stilly  hour 

On  the  heart  will  swell 
Voices  of  the  past—  the  power 

Of  mem'ry's  Magic  Spell. 

'Mid  the  crowd  in  festal  halls 

As  the  joj-ous  strain 
On  the  'raptured  spirit  falis 

With  its  mystic  chain. 
Then  some  long  forgotten  tone 

Thrills  us  like  a  knell,— 
Then  upon  the  heart  is  thrown 

Memory's  Magic  Spell. 

Cradled  on  the  lonely  seas. 

At  deep  midnight's  hour  — 
There  will  come,  as  if  the  breeze 

From  the  far-off  shore 
W'afted  thoughts  of  loved  ones  lost- 

Scenes  remembered  well  — 
Visions  of  the  happy  past  — 

Memory's  Magic  Spell. 

Time  nor  distance  can  control 

Memory's  wondrous  power 
Till  life's  currents  cease  to  roll; 

E'en  in  slumber's  hour 
Will  the  sleeper's  ej-es  be  wet. 

Or  a  smile  will  tell 
That  in  dreams  is  potent  yet 

Memory's  Magic  Spell. 


THE  CRYSTAL  STREAM. 

For  me  no  more  the  wine  cup  fill. 
Dash  down  the  tempting  draught, 

Henceforth  its  subtle  venom  will 
No  more  by  me  be  quaffed. 

The  limpid  stream,  the  spark'ling  brook 

To  me  far  sweeter  seem. 
And  I've  the  madd'ning  bowl  forsook 
To  drink  the  crystal  stream. 

A  serpent  lurks  beneath  the  vine 
That  wreathes  the  goblet  round. 

And  in  the  ruddy,  sparkling  wine 
A  power  the  soul  to  wound. 

Then  turn  ye  from  its  wily  lure  — 
With  death  its  red  drops  teem  — 

The  poison  cup  for  aye  abjure. 
And  drink  the  crystal  stream. 

List  to  the  warning  voice  that  comes 
From  out  the  drunkard's  gravel 

Look  on  the  wretched,  ruined  homes 
Where  drunken  maniacs  rave; 

And  learn  that  grave— that  fate  to  shun  — 

That  wild,  delirious  dream. 
Then  dash  that  fatal  chalice  down 

And  drink  the  crystal  stream. 


m 


MRS.MOLLIE  A.BOLING. 

born:  LAWRENCE  Co.,  ALA.,  MAY  23, 1856. 
This  lady  was  married  in  1874  to  B.  R.  Boling, 
I  and  resides  with  her  family  at  Carrollton, 
Kentucky.  Herpoems  have  appeared  in  the 

'  PalLMn  Deninrrat.   Xew  All.any  Ledgvr,  Mad- 


MRS.  MOLLIE  A.  BOLING. 


ison  Herald  and  the  local  press  generally. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  Boling  have  always  been 
well  and  favorably  received.  Personally  she 
is  a  little  above  the  averag-e  height,  dark- 
brown  hair,  dark-gray  eyes,  and  of  very  fine 
stature. 

TWILIGHT  MUSINGS. 
I  sit  in  the  twilight's  quickening  glow. 
And  watch  the  shadows  come  and  go. 
And  think  of  the  twilights  long  ago. 

When  boy  and  girl  together 
We  climbed  the  hill-side  hand  in  hand, 
While  coasting  on  the  snowy  strand, 
And  thought  the  work)  a  fairy  land 

In  bright  or  cloudy  weather. 

But  childhood's  days  too  swiftly  sped. 

And  all  its  joys  too  quickly  fled. 

And  all  our  hopes  seemed  crushed  and  dead 

When  youth's  bright  day  was  done: 
For  relentless  time  with  cruel  spleen 
Flung  many  years  our  lives  between. 
And  you  forgot  for  the  time  I  ween 

The  childish  heart  you  won. 

©— 


But  the  destiny  which  sliapes  our  ends 
And  all  our  joys  and  sorrows  lends, 
(For  lives  both  strong  and  weak  she  bends 

And  brinji-s  them  smiles  or  tearS) 
Has  now,  like  a  promise  from  above. 
Sent  this  hallowed  gift  of  love. 
As  in  the  end  good  faith  to  prove 

And  bless  our  later  years. 
Nor  brighter  seemed  the  youthful  glow 
Of  the  guileless  liearts  of  long  ago. 
While  coasting  on  the  frozen  snow. 

Than  this  to-day  appears. 
Which  fills  our  lives  with  roseate  hues. 
With  light  and  joy  the  soul  imbues. 
For   naught   but    peace    our  glad  hearts 
choose. 

And  find  no  time  for  tears. 

A  MEMORY. 

I^cr  what  are  you  searching  to-day  sad Jieajt, 
•Mid  the  mystic  gloom  of  memory  s  haUs- 
Art  seeking  a  trace  of  a  radiant  face. 

Which  alingering  dream  of  the  past  recalls? 
Art  seeking  a  bright,  coquettish  head. 

Crowned  with  a  wealth  of  chestnut  curls. 
Smiling  with  pride,  a  childish  bride, 

.Queen   rose   of   the    rosebud    garden  of 
girls?" 
For  a  voice  that  is  full  of  music. 

For  eyes  that  are  dancing  with  hght. 
For  a  face  with  a  halo  of  beauty. 
As  crowns  the  queen  of  night? 
Oh'  face  of  exquisite  beauty. 

Come  from  the  lethean  night; 
Come  from  the  mystic  realms  once  more. 

With  your  erst  sweet  smile  so  bright. 
Oh !  voice,  come  out  of  the  shadows. 

And  whisper  to  us  once  more. 
As  the  murmuring  of  tlie  ocean 

Ever  breatlies  of  the  long-lost  shore. 
But  no,  you  are  only  a  memory. 

Sweet  phantom  of  a  vanished  day. 
And  the  voice  of  thrilling  sweetness 

Can  only  come  in  an  airy  way. 
Like  a  sound  that  comes  from  dreamland - 

B(n-ne  on  the  wings  of  night. 
To  cheer  with  its  magical  sweeUiess 
But  is  gone  ere  tlie  coming  ol  light. 

EXTRACT. 
Dear  friends  greet  me  day  i)y  day. 

In  my  new  liome  far  away: 
And  the  skies  are  just  as  bright  :ind  blue. 

And  the  scenes  are  just  as  ga>  . 
As  th<«e  of  my  childhood's  early  home. 

Where  hope  and  joy  were  mine. 
And  love  around  my  careless  brow 

A  fairy  wreath  did  twine. 


s 


© 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


607 


MRS.  CLARA  M.  ALLANSON. 

Born  :  Cherky  Valley,  N.  Y.,  July  21, 1830. 
This  lady  was  married  at  tlie  age  of  twenty- 
two  to  Georfre  Allansou.  Her  poems  have  ap- 
peared ill  various  magazines  and  tlie  local 
press  Kt'iH'rally.    Mrs.  Allauson  is  the  mother 


MRS.  CLARA  M.  ALLANSON. 

of  a  very  interesting-  family ;  her  son,  Edward, 
has  gained  quite  a  local  reputation  as  a  poet, 
and  lie  is  represented  in  this  work.  Mrs. 
Alhmson  will  publish  a  volume  of  her  poems 
in  the  near  future.  She  is  now  a  resident  of 
Anita,  Iowa. 


A  SILENT  LESSON. 
The  sun  was  clouded,  and  my  heart 

Ketlefted  back  the  shade; 
The  raindrops  pattering  on  the  roof 

A  mournful  music  made. 
1  longed  to  solve  the  mist  and  doubts 

That  liemmed  my  spirit  in. 
And  read  tlie  precious  page  of  Truth. 

Without  a  line  of  sin. 
And  thus,  unsatisfied  I  fled 

The  cottage  with  "its  noise  — 
The  muffled  music  of  the  rain  — 

The  merriment  of  boys. 
And  wandered  through  the  rustic  bow6r 

To  larches  fresh  and  green. 
Where,  lo!  a  diamond  drop  reposed, 

Pure,  perfect  and  serene. 
* 


In  glad  surprise  I,  ling'riug,  gazed 

On  Nature's  rarest  gem 
Reposing  on  its  emerald  couch, 

Meet  for  a  diadem. 
And  while  I  mused  in  rapt  delig-lit, 

Tlie  clouds  that  vailed  the  sun 
Swept  onward,  and  a  thousand  beams 

Shot  from  the  light  of  one. 
Oh,  radiant,  siiiniiig  drop  of  dew! 

A  lesson  I  would  find 
For  every  heaven-reflected  soul, 

And  every  deathless  mind. 
In  this  existence  here  below. 

Amid  eartli's  emerald  bowers, 
A  mission  unto  yearning  hearts. 

Like  thine  to  slirubs  and  flowers. 
Not  beating  out  its  feeble  strength 

Against  the  unyielding-  bars 
Of  God's  great  wisdom ;  but  content 

To  shine  'neath  sun  or  stars. 
And  lend  with  tender  .sympathy 

Its  pure,  unsullied  ray. 
To  guide  some  weary  wandering  feet 

To  realms  of  perfect  day. 


THE  THREAD  OF  GOLD. 

Faded  and  worn,  and  out  of  date. 

In  fickle  fashion's  phrase. 
Though  once  the  pride  of  rich  and  great 

In  manhood's  palmy  days; 
Now  thrown  aside  in  a  ghostly  place, 

Te  battle  with  moth  and  mold  — 
Yet  tlirough  the  screen  of  dust  I  trace 

The  g-leaming  threads  of  gold. 
We  may  not  keep  the  tattered  part. 

Revive  the  faded  hue; 
But  with  the  treasures  of  the  heart 

This  tliought  were  sacred,  too; 
That  tlirough  the  mist  of  coming  years, 

When  time  grows  sere  and  old,        [cares, 
Our  deeds  shall  shine  through  strife  and 

Like  gleaming  threads  of  gold; 
And  whisper  of  a  better  day. 

When  truth,  the  shining  tliread  — 
Wlien  every  cliarm  lias  passed  away 

And  every  sense  is  dead  — 
Will  live  —  and  like  a  cast-ofif  vest, 

Faded  and  worn  and  old. 
We're  laid  in  somber  gloom  to  rest. 

Will  gleam  like  threads  of  gold. 
And  leave  above  the  lonely  spot. 

Above  death's  silent  steep, 
Tlie  tliought  tiiat  may  not  be  forgot 

Though  friends  forget  to  weep ; 
Tliat  though  we  faltered  in  the  fight. 

Where  fiery  billows  rolled. 
Our  heart's  frail  vesture  still  was  bright 

With  truths  of  gleaming  gold. 


-® 


^- 


608 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


9 


EDWARD  G.  ALLANSON. 

Born:  Elgin,  111.,  Nov.  11, 1863. 
This  writer  is  the  sou  of  Mrs.  Clara  M.  Allan- 
son,  a  poetess  who  is  elsewhere  represented 
in  this  work.    He  attended  the  Iowa  business 


EDWARD  G.   ALLA.Sm'N. 

college  of  Des  Moines  and  there  received  a 
prize.  His  poems  have  appeared  in  the  peri- 
odical press  generally,  and  he  bids  fair  to  be- 
come well  known  in  the  literary  world. 


©- 


DRIFTING. 
As  we  drift  away  on  the  waves  of  Time 
Fond  memory  whispers  a  low  sad  rhyme. 
For  the  days  that  once  were  bright  and  gay 
Like  the  flowers  of  spring  have  faded  away. 
There's  a  bower  of  love,  where  a  fountain 

plays 
In  the  liquid  light  of  the  moon's  soft  rays. 
And  music  floats  on  the  clear  still  air         [er. 
Like  the  low,  sweet  tones  of  an  infant's  pray- 
There's  a  whispering  grove  on  a  Southern  lea. 
Where  the  mocking  bird  sings  to  the  mur- 
muring sea,  [bliine 
And  the  beauty  of  Nature  so  grand   and  su- 
Thrills  the  aching  heart  like  a  mystical  rhyme. 
Bright  days  that  have  passed  on  this  sum- 
mer sea. 
They  will  never,  never  come  back  to  me. 
For  this  beautiful  .sea  is  the  sea  of  Time, 
And  its  waves  sweep  on  with  a  surge  sublime. 


And  we  frail  barques,  drift  to  and  fro 
On  the  breakers  of  fate  with  the  ebb  and  flow, 
Till  the  twilight  falls  on  the  Gates  Ajar 
And  we  see  the  light  of  life's  evening  star. 
'Tis  the  last  grand  finale;  j-et,  the  bell's  sol- 
emn toil  [soul. 
Marks  the  break  of  eternity's  dawn  o'er  the 


LIFE. 
This  life,  like  a  river,  unceasingly  flows 

In  many  a  winding  way: 
And  the  deeper  the  grief,  the  more  calm  the 

repose. 
Yet  stronger  the  sweeps  of  its  silent  woes 

On  its  troubled  way  out  to  the  sea. 
There  arc  ripples  of  mirth  from  the  fair  and 

the  gay. 
But  the  whirlpools  of  sorrow  and  wrong 
Will  never  cease,  until  Time  fades  away  — 
Till  we  wake  in  the  dawn  of  eternity's  daj-. 

Our  souls  filled  with  rapture  and  song. 
But  'tis  not  to  compare  the  suffering  here 

With  the  glory  to  come  by  and  bj'. 
When  our  Father  above  shall  dry  every  tear 
And  the  threatening  clouds  of  sorrow  and  fear 

Will  cease  to  drift  o'er  our  sky. 
And  so  we  should  struggle,  for  grief  is  a  test 

That  chastens  the  soul's  radiant  glow. 
Like  a  glistening  gem  in  the  river's  breast, 

That  drifts  to  and  fro,  in  ceaseless  unrest, 

Yet  brightens  with  each  turbid  flow. 
Oh,  flowers  of  hope!  that  bloom  by  the  waj-, 

And  springs  of  life-giving  love. 
Where  flashes  of  truth  from  their  fountains 

play. 
In  the  radiance  that  falls  from  day  to  day. 

From  the  light  of  a  world  above. 


GOD'S  LANGUAGE. 
I've  climbed  the  Sierra  Madres — 

I've  seen  the  big  horn's  leap  — 
I've  fought  the  mighty  silver-tip 

In  canyons  wild  and  deep. 
I've  gone  to  rest  at  evening. 

In  lonely  silent  glens, 
Wliere  dark  pines  lift  their  towering  crests, 

And  gray  wolves  seek  tiieir  dens. 
Where  light  the  perfumed  zephyrs 

Cool  on  my  brow  would  play. 
Until  the  sun  came  up  at  morn 

And  chased  the  dawn  away. 
The  tall  firs  towered  above  me; 

1  hear     them  whispering  still;— 
1  see  the  velvet  lawn  Vieneath 

Laced  with  the  mountain  rill. 
The  grandeur  of  those  grand  old  hills. 

How  infinite  —  how  sublime! 
'Tis  God's  own  language  to  the  soul  — 

The  impress  of  the  Divine ! 


-V 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


609 


-* 


ROSE   E.  CLEVELAND. 

Born:  FAYETTeviDLE,N.Y.,1846. 
When  seven  years  of  age,  her  family  remo^■ed 
to  Hollaud  Patent,  New  York  state,  where  her 
father,  a  miuister,  died  the  same  year.  Rose 
was  educated  at  Houghton  seminary,  became 
a  teacher  in  tliat  school,  and  two  years  later 
assumed  charge  of  the  Collegiate  Institute  in 


^ 


ROSE  ELIZABETH  CLEVELAND. 

Lafayette,  Indiana.  In  1885  she  published  a 
volume  of  lectures  and  essays  under  the  title 
of  George  Eliot's  Poetry,  and  Other  Studies, 
and  the  year  following  a  novel,  entitled  Long 
Run.  She  constantly  contributes  both  poetry 
and  prose  to  various  periodicals.  In  person. 
Miss  Cleveland  is  of  medium  stature  with  a 
shapely  and  highly  intellectual  face  —  good- 
looliing.  but  not  pretty. 

THE  DILEMMA  OF  THE  NINETEENTH 
CENTURY. 

EXTRACT. 

Look  around  you 
At  Nature's  bounty  open  to  your  choice; 
Rise  from  the  chains  of  custom  which  have 
bound  you 
To  slavish  deference  to  Fashion's  voice 
And  stale  convention,— chains  that  must  be 
riven 


By  the  same  hands  that  forged  and  placed 

them  there,—  [given 

Those  same  soft  hands  that  to  you  have  been 

For  better  use  than  always  "doing  hau-," 
Or  advertised  by  their  jeweled  glimmer 
Your  heart  a  bait  for  any  golden  swimmer. 

Teach  your  proud  will  to  make  those  nobler 
choices  [health; 

Which   bring  to  soul  and    heart    enduring 
Deafen  your  ears  to  these  contending  voices; 

Look  in  your  heart,  learn  your  own  being's 
wealth. 
Its  resource  vast,  its  undiscovered  treasure 

Waiting  for  these  same  idle  hands  to  mine. 
Dare  not  to  sound  its  depth  or  take  its  measure 

By  any  human  gauge  or  finite  line. 
Learn  that  the  grandest  of  Nature's  creations 
May  not  be  bounded  by  man's  limitations. 

Choose  work,—  the  work  at  hand.    Nay,  do  not 
hnger 
Where  others  wrangle  over  what  just  suits 


Choose  Love,  the  marvel,—  Love,  the  old  magi- 
cian 

Whose  alchemy  divine  transmutes  our  dross 
To  finest  gold— Love,  the  unschooled  phj-sician 

Who,  healing,  takes  no  note  of  gain  or  loss. 
Ay,  choose  thou  Love:  albeit  In  the  choosmg 

Thou  choose  a  day's  feast  and  a  life-long 
dearth. 
Thou  gainest  still  a  greater  gain  in  losing, 

For  Love  and  Pain  are  beings  of  one  birth. 

Choose  Faith,  the  salt  of  work,  the  soul  of  Love, 
whose  laughter  [Past, 

Chimes  through  an  arid  Present,  o'er  a  barren 
With  full  sweet  echoes  from  the  great  Here- 
after, 
Assuring  work  contenting  Love,  at  last. 
Faith  in  thyself,  thy  gi-eatness  surely  knowing: 
Faith  in  thy  work,  undoubting  of  its  worth; 
Faith  in  thy  Love,  evermore  trustful  growing, 
Faith  in  the  Pain  that  came  with  thy  Love's 
birth. 
Choose  for  thy  soul  such  rich,  sufficient  diet. 
And  thou  shalt  find  abounding  health  and 
quiet,— 

Such  quiet  as  the  sea  knows  where  abideth 

All  moving  Ufe,  all  treasures  rich  and  rare. 
Such  quiet  as  the  untrodden  forest  hideth 

Albeit  all  the  singing  birds  are  there. 

So  steadfast  bide,  whilst  'midst  man's  dreary 
chiding 

Eternity  is  surging  o'er  the  beach  of  Time, 
And  underneath  thy  feet  its  sands  are  sliding 

Into  that  Ocean  vast  with  sound  sublime. 
Its  surf  shall  salt  thy  patient  work's  endeavor. 
While  Love  and  Faith  echo  its  grand  FoRE^^;R! 


— fl8 


m- 


610 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AJIERICA. 


-S 


EMMA  LAZARUS. 

Born:  New  York  City,  July  22, 1849. 
Emma's  first  Poems  and  Translations  were  soon 
followed  by  Admetus  and  Other  Poems.  She 
has  also  written  and  edited  several  prose  works. 
The  translations  of  Miss  Lazarus  were  collect- 
ed and  published  as  Poems  and  Ballads  of 
Heine,  and  her  miscellaneous  poems  under  the 
title  of  Songs  of  a  Semite.  This  lady  is  a 
Jewess,  and  has  written  several  very  striking- 
essays  on  topics  relating-  to  the  condition  of 
her  race. 

Miss  Lazarus  is  held  in  high  esteem  in  New 
York  City,  where  she  is  well  known,  not  only  as 
an  eminent  writer,  but  also  by  her  high  social 
following. 


THE  WORLDS  JUSTICE. 
If  the  sudden  tidings  came 

That  on  some  far,  foreign  coast. 
Buried  ages  long  from  fame. 

Had  been  found  a  remnant  lost 
Of  that  hoary  race  who  dwelt 

By  the  golden  Nile  divine. 
Spake  the  Pharaohs'  tongue  and  knelt 

At  the  moon-crowned  Isis'  shrine  — 
How  at  reverend  Egypt's  feet. 
Pilgrims  from  all  lands  would  meet! 

If  the  sudden  news  were  known. 

That  anigh  the  desert  place 
Where  once  blossomed  Babylon, 

Scions  of  a  mighty  race 
Still  survived,  of  giant  build. 

Huntsmen,  warriors,  priest  and  sage, 
Whose  ancestral  fame  had  filled 

Trumpet-tongued,  the  earlier  age, 
How  at  old  Assyria's  feet 
Pilgrims  from  all  lands  would  meet! 

Yet  when  Egypt's  self  was  young, 

And  Assyria's  bloom  unworn. 
Ere  the  mythic  Homer  sung. 

Ere  the  God's  of  Greece  were  born, 
Lived  the  nation  of  one  God, 

Priests  of  freedom,  sons  of  Shem, 
Never  quelled  by  yoke  or  rod. 

Founders  of  Jerusalem  — 
Is  there  one  abides,  to-day. 
Seeker  of  dead  cities,  say ' 

Answer,  now  as  then,  they  are; 

Scattered  broadcast  o'er  the  lands. 
Knit  in  spirit  nigh  and  far. 

With  indissoluble  bands. 
Half  the  world  adores  their  God, 

They  the  living  law  proclaim, 
And  their  guerdon  is  — the  rod, 

Stripes  and  scourgings,  death  and  shame. 
Still  on  Israel's  head  forlorn 
Every  nation  heaps  its  scorn. 


ADELINE  D.  T.  WHITNEY. 

Born:  Boston,  Mass.,  Sept.  1.5, 1824. 
This  lady  is  the  daughter  of  Enoch  Train, 
founder  of  a  line  of  packet  ships  between  Bos- 
ton and  Liverpool ;  she  is  also  the  sister  of  the 
noted  George  Francis  Train.  Mrs.  Whitney 
has  patented  a  set  of  Alphabet  Blocks,  which 
are  now  in  general  use.  She  has  contributed 
largely  to  magazines  for  the  young.  Among 
the  poetical  works  of  Mrs.  Whitney  are  Foot- 
steps on  the  Seas,  Pansies,  Daffodils,  and  Bird- 
Talk;  her  prose  works  are  We  Girls,  Real  Folks, 
Homespun  Yarns,  and  numerous  others. 


BEHIND  THE  MASK. 

It  was  an  old,  distorted  face,— 

An  uncouth  visage,  rough  and  wild,— 
Yet,  fi-om  behind  of  laughing  grace. 

Peeped  the  fresh  beauty  of  a  child. 

And  so,  contrasting  strange  to-day. 
My  heai-t  of  youth  doth  inly  ask 

If  half  earth's  wi-iukled  grimncss  may 
Be  but  the  baby  in  the  mask. 

Behind  gray  hairs  and  furrowed  brow 
And  Avithered  look  that  life  puts  on, 

Each  as  he  wears  it  comes  to  know 
How  the  child  hides,  and  is  not  gone. 

For  while  the  inexorable  years 

To  saddened  features  fit  their  mould. 

Beneath  the  work  of  time  and  tears 

Waits  something  that  will  not  grow  old! 

The  rifted  pine  upon  the  hill. 

Scarred  by  the  lightning  and  the  wind, 
Through  bolt  and  blight  doth  nurture  still 

Young  fibres  underneath  the  rind; 

And  many  a  storm-blast,  fiercely  sent, 
And  wasted  hope,  and  sinful  staiu. 

Roughen  the  strange  integument 

The  struggling  soul  must  wear  in  i)aiu; 

Yet  when  she  comes  to  claim  her  own. 
Heaven's  angels,  happy,  shall  not  ask 

For  that  last  look  the  world  hatli  known. 
But  for  the  face  behind  the  mask! 


EXTRACT. 


I  am  not  yoiuig,  I  am  not  old; 

The  flush  of  morn,  the  sunset  calm. 
Paling,  and  deepi'ning,  each  to  each, 

Meet  midway  with  a  solemn  charm. 

One  side  I  sec  the  sinnmer  fields 
Not  yet  disrobed  of  all  their  green, 

While  westerly,  along  the  hills. 

Flame  the  first  tints  of  frosty  sheen, 


«- 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL,   TOETS   OF  AMKKICA. 


61  i 


-a^ 


THOMAS  E.  WILSON. 

Bokn;  Kittery,  Me.,  Sept.  6, 1839. 
Since  1870  Mr.  Wilson  luis  been  engaged  in 
active  business,   but  lias  found  time  for  lit- 
erary work.    Most  of  his  poetry  has  appeared 
in  the  Portland   Transcript,   Watclimnn  and 


THOMAS  E.  WILSON. 

other  publications.  He  is  represented  in  the 
Poets  of  Maine.  Mr.  Wilson  contemplates 
publishing-  a  volume  of  his  poems  at  an  early 
date.  He  is  at  present  eng-aged  as  a  builder, 
and  resides  in  Boston,  Mass. 


s- 


THE  SOLDIERS  GRAVE. 
The  early  g^rass  is  springing 

Above  the  soldiers  grave ; 
Tlie  merry  birds  are  singing 

Above  the  true  and  brave. 
My  boyhood  friend  is  sleeping: 

Witliin  this  n-.irrow  bed; 
The  years  are  softly  creeping- 

Above  the  honored  dead. 
O  comrade,  pure  and  tender, 

O  soldier,  brave  and  strong-. 
To  thee  we  love  to  render 

The  tribute  of  our  song-. 
And,  inm\e  life  eternal. 

Beyond  our  toil  and  pain. 
Where  all  is  bright  and  vernal. 

We  hope  to  meet  again 


CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 
The  winds  were  hushed  on  Zion's  hill. 
And  Jordan's  waves  were  calm  and  still. 
The  stars  looked  down  ■nith  tender  liglit 
W'hile  shepherds  kept  their  flocks  by  night, 
When,  lo:  the  shining-  angels  came 
From  worlds  above  on  wings  of  flame. 
And  while  the  hills  with  glory  shone. 
They  made  their  joyful  message  known. 
"  Fear  not,  behold  to  you  we  bring 
Glad  tidings  of  your  heavenly  king: 
To  you  in  David's  town  this  morn, 
A  Savior,  Christ  the  Lord,  is  born. 
"And  this  .shall  be  a  sign  to  all, 
His  bed  shall  be  a  manger  stall. 
The  Son  of  God,  tiie  child  divine. 
Shall  rest  amid  the  lowing  kine. 
"  Glory  to  God,  who  reigns  on  high, 
O  praise  Him,  all  below  the  sky: 
Glory  to  God  in  Heaven  above. 
Peace  on  Earth,  good  will  and  love." 
The  wmds  were  hushed  on  Zion's  hill. 
And  Jordan's  waves  were  calm  and  still. 
When  in  the  bright  and  peaceful  morn 
The  Savior,  Christ  the  Lord,  was  born. 


WOMEN  AT  THE  CROSS. 

Upon  that  sad  and  awful  day, 

When  in  thine  hour  of  sorest  need 
Thy  loved  disciples  turned  away. 

And  left  the  on  the  cross  to  bleed. 
Woman,  in  her  love  drew  near. 
And  shed  for  thee  the  silent  tear. 
When  laid  upon  tljy  sacred  head 

Was  all  our  load  of  sin  and  shame. 
While  others  from  thy  sorrows  fled 

And  feared  to  own  thy  holy  name. 
Woman  in  her  love  we  know 
Felt  the  sharpness  of  thy  woe. 
When  flowing  from  thy  wounded  side. 

Thy  precious  blood  rau  slowly  down 
Till  thou  hadst  in  thy  anguish  died 

To  gain  for  us  the  victor's  crown. 
Woman  in  her  love  was  lu'gli 
And  mourned  to  see  thee  bleed  and  die. 
Upon  that  great  and  glorious  day. 

When  from  thy  dark  and  dreary  tomb 
Bright  angels  rolled  the  stone  away. 

When  thou  hadst  risen  from  its  gloom. 
Woman,  in  her  love  so  rare. 
Was  first  to  meet  her  Savior  there. 


THE  LEAVES. 
The  summer  days,  so  fair,  so  brief. 

Too  soon  have  jiassed  awa>'. 
And  left  us  in  the  changing  leaf 

The  emblem  of  decav. 


■© 


-^ 


POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


AL  M.  HENDEE. 

Born:  Wilmington,  Ohio,  Aug.  21, 1858. 
In  1883  Mr.  Hendee,  in  conjunction  with  Chas. 
C  Kichmond,  published  a  small  volume  of 
tlieir  poems.  He  has  been  connected  with 
numerous  newspapers,  both  as  editor  and 
manager,  and  his  poems  and  prose  have  ap- 
peared in  tlH-  St.  Lnuis  Post  Dispatch,  Kansas 


MAY  1  SO  LIVE. 
May  I  so  live  that  when  the  summons  comes 
To  quit  this  world  so  beautiful  and  bright. 
To  take  a  long  farewell  of  all  my  friends  so 

dear. 
The  narrow  grave  will  not  forever  hide 
The  memory  of  all  I've  tried  to  be. 
May  I  so  live  that  when  that  hour  shall  come 
Both  prince  and  pauper  may  in  sorrow  say, 
.>  In  him  I've  lost  indeed  a  noble  friend." 


AL,   M.    iiLNDLL 

City  Times,  New  York  World,  Topeka  Lance, 
writer.  Journalist,  and  numerous  other  pub- 
lications. Mr.  Hendee  lias  in  preparation  a 
volume  on  Literary  Kansans,  in  wliich  he  will 
treat  both  critically  and  biographically  of  the 
leading  writers  of  his  adopted  state.  Mr. 
Hendee  is  now  located  at  Whitewater,  Kansas, 
and  is  editor  of  the  Tribune  of  that  city. 

FORGIVEN. 
A  beaten  path,  :ui  old-time  lover 
A  ring  that  b(!ars  a  maiden's  name: 
A  word,  a  quarrel,  and  all  is  over; 
The  little  gems  she  long  had  worn 
Were  from  her  fair  hand  rudely  torn 
Were  mine  again. 

A  pall,  a  bier,  a  pale  form  shrouded; 
Another  precious  soul  in  heaven; 

With  burning    thoughts    my    brain  was 
crowded  — 

..  Forgive  me,  love,"  1  wildly  cried, 

"Forgive  me;"  and  the  night  wind  sighed, 

..All,  all  forgiven." 


ENDURE. 
Of  my  misfortune  I  complained 
Unto  the  fields  and  hills. 
The  forests  and  the  shady  lanes. 
The  merry,  laughing  rills 
Whose  waters  flow  so  free  and  pure  — 
But  each  one  said  ..  Endure,  endure." 

I  sought  the  Bible  for  relief 

But  on  its  every  page 

In  answer  to  my  cry  of  grief, 

..Endure  "  was  all  it  said: 

I  closed  tlie  book;  I'll  search  no  more; 

I  am  content,  God  says:  ..Endure." 


THE  EDITORIAL  THREE. 
pencil: 

I'm  the  stub  of  a  Faber 
Well  worn  with  lal)or 
That  lasts  from  sun  to  sun. 
I  toil  like  creation 
W'ith  ne'er  a  vacation; 
I'm  the  all-important  one. 

paste: 
O,  I'm  made  of  flour 
And  used  every  hour, 
I'm  so  very  important  you  see, 
That  no  editor's  table 
Has  ever  been  able 
To  ]irosper  at  all  without  me. 

shears: 
With  a  familiar  clatter 
I'vechpped  the  best  matter 
'I'hafs  come  to  this  office  for  years. 
So  when  you  have  read  it 
Please  give  me  tlie  credit  — 
Tm  the  editorial  .shears. 

all: 

O,  We  are  three  powers 
So  important,  all  liours  — 
We're  the  editorial  three. 
No  one  i.s  inferior 
But  all  are  superior 
To  the  editorial  ..  we." 


© 


LOCAL,   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


613 


-® 


MRS.  HATTIE  ELNORA  HOAG. 

Bona:  Paw  Paw,  111.,  July  26, 1850. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  Hoag-  have  appeared  from 
time  to  time  in  tlie  local  press.    Slie  was  mar- 


MBS.   HATTIE  ELNORA  HOAG. 

ried  to  her  present  husband  in  1879,  and  is 
still  a  resident  of  her  native  state  at  KoUo. 


AT  REST. 
At  rest  —  sweet  rest  prepared  bj'  God, 
Calmly  she  sleeps  beneath  the  sod; 
Her  worli  all  done,  her  trials  o'er. 

In  perfect  rest  for  evermore. 
0,  Mother  dear,  sweet  be  tliy  rest. 
No  pains,  no  suffering-  fills  thy  breast; 
We  have  laid  thee  away,  wliere  grasses  creep 
O'er  thy  worn  out  fi)rni,  in  quiet  sleep. 
Sadly  we  miss  thee.  Mother,  to-niglit. 
Forever  thou'rt  hid  from  eartlily  sig-ht; 
In  tears  thou  hast  left   us,  thy  absence   we 

mourn. 
Savior,  help  us  to  say,  ^.Thy  will  bo  done." 
Sad,  sweet  reminders  of  her  who  is  gone. 
Lie  scattered   around   through    our    lonely 

home ; 
The  bitter  tears  unbidden  start. 
And  we  lay  them  away  with  an  aching  lieart, 
But  the  tired  hands  are  idle  now. 
No  suffering  mars  tlie  i)ure  white  brow; 
Why  do  we  mourn?    Why  do  we  weep? 
Thou'rt  at  rest  in  a  dreamless  sleep, 
1^ 


My  motlier,  truest  eartlily  friend. 
When  earthly  trials  are  at  an  end. 
May  we  meet  again  in  a  brighter  home, 
Where  the  parting-  hour  can  never  come. 


WILLIAM  H.COOK. 

The  poems  of  Mr.  Cook  are  generally  on  pop- 
ular subjects,  and  have  consequently  always 
been  well  received.  He  is  now  a  resident  of 
Hampton,  New  York,  where  he  is  well  known 
and  admired  for  his  many  accomplishments. 


MEMORIAL  DAY. 

Sacred  day  of  joy  and  sorrow. 

Day  of  memory  and  of  tears. 
Time  doth  touch  thee  but  to  hallow 

Througli  the  ever-rolling  years. 
Day  of  tears  —  for  we  lament  thee. 

Soldier  —in  thine  honored  g-rave: 
Day  of  joy  —  we  hail  the  nation. 

Thou  did'st  give  thy  life  to  save. 
Wliere  the  white  peaks  of  New  England 

Greet  the  morning's  dazzling-  light; 
Where  the  Golden  Gate  of  Sunset 

Bids  the  day  a  fond  "good-night," 
Half  the  world  shall  liear  our  bugles. 

Half  the  world  shall  bow  the  knee, 
Half  the  world  thall  swell  the  anthem. 

Soldier  —  that  we  raise  to  thee. 
In  the  beauteous  land  of  sunshine. 

Where  the  laurel  ever  blooms: 
Where  the  birds,  in  nature's  cliorus. 

Chant  a  requiem  o'er  their  tombs. 
There  our  "  Boys  in  Blue  "  are  sleeping 

In  the  sunshine  and  the  rain; 
While  the  murmuring  pine-tree  branches 

Wail  a  dirge  above  our  slain. 
Ours,  the  mission  of  remembrance, 

Tlieirs,  the  holier  one  to  die; 
Ours,  the  ransom  of  the  nation, 

Their's,  the  ransom  of  tlie  sky : 
Ours,  from  Beauty's  lovely  fingers 

Flowers  to  scatter  o'er  their  tombs: 
Their's  to  walk  the  liills  of  glory. 

Where  eternal  summer  blooms. 
Not  alone  earth's  fairy  fingers 

Scatter  flowers  upon  their  biers. 
Not  alone  earth's  sweetest  chorus. 

Not  alone  earth's  holiest  tears; 
Unseen  forms  are  hovering  o'er  us. 

Forms,  tliat  wear  the  martyr's  crown, 
All  unseen,  tlie  hands  of  angels 

Scatter  Eden's  roses  down. 
Teardrops  wrung  from  weary  bondsman, 

Teardrops  shed  above  our  slain, 
IJy  the  widow  and  the  orphan. 

Falling  like  the  summer's  rain; 


-ee 


gB- 


* 


614 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  ANNASARGENT  HUNT. 

Born:Fkankfort,  Me.,  June  13, 1850. 
After  completing-  lier  education,  this  lady 
taught  school  until  1873,  when  she  was  mar- 
ried to  Mr.  Charles  C.  Hunt,  of  Hallowell.  For 
five  years  Mrs.  Hunt  was  corresponding- secre- 
t;iry  of  t)ie  state  \V.  C.  T.  U.,  and  later  entered 
u|.oii  till'  dutii-s  of  st:ite  vici-pn-sidcnt  of  the 


MRS.  ANNA  SARGENT  HUNT. 

Woman's  American  Baptist  Home  Missionary 
Society,  also  serving  as  general  vice-president 
of  that  society.  In  1886  Mrs  Hunt  became  editor 
and  publislier  of  the  Home  Mission  Echo,  the 
organ  of  th}  Baptist  women  of  New  England, 
which  is  still  published  by  her  at  Augusta, 
Maine.  She  has  been  a  very  prolific  writer, 
and  her  contributions  of  both  pro.se  and  verse 
have  appeared  quite  extensively  in  the  leading 
periodcals  of  America. 


ALPINE  CALLS. 
Do  you  know  tlie  charming  custom. 
Of  tlie  snow-clad  Switzerland, 
Just  a  simple  ev'ning  habit. 
That  tlio  i)e()i)le  underslandV 
When,  upon  these;  snowy  summits. 
Gleams  the  sunset's  golden  light, 
When  the  valleys  sit  in  sliadow. 
Waiting  for  the  coming  niglit; 
Then  the  herdsman  wlio  is  dwelling 
In  the  highest  home  of  all, 


Takes  his  Alpine  horn,  and  loudly 
Gives  this  clearly  spoken  call,— 
"Praise-the-Lord-our-God,"  and  listen, 
How  it  cleaves  tlie  very  air. 
How  it  rouses  all  the  herdsmen. 
Watching  in  the  twilight  there! 

Quickly  on  their  horns  they  answer. 
O'er  and  o'er  the  words  repeat. 
Restless  night-winds  catch  tlie  greeting. 
Bear  it  on  with  wings  so  fleet; 
Till  from  mount  and  cliff  resounding,  • 
Kings  the  blessed  clarion  call. 
Then  it  dies  away,  and  silence 
Settles  gently  over  all. 

Now  with  heads  uncovered,  kneeling. 
All  the  herdsmen  softly  pray, 
While  the  darkness,  with  its  laantle, 
Hideth  all  the  light  of  day. 
Then,  at  last,  the  higliest  dweller 
Calls"  Good  night,"  and  answer  comes 
Frow  the  rocky  cliffs  and  mountains. 
From  the  horns  of  of  Switzer  homes. 

As  those  distant  mountain  shepherds. 
When  the  night  is  coming  down. 
Thank  the  Father  for  the  mercies. 
That  their  pathway  thickly  crown. 
So  should  we  in  humble  rev'rence 
Daily  look  to  Him  above. 
Who,  through  all  the  years,  has  given 
Priceless  tokens  of  His  love. 

Then,  dear-heart,  in  glad  thanksgiving, 
Sound  the  message  far  and  wide,— 
'iPraise-the-Lord  our-God,"  and  always 
In  His  love  securely  hide. 
Some  one  waiting- in  Life's  shadows. 
May  perhaps  your  keynote  hear. 
And,  unheeded  hlessing  counting. 
Send  abroad  some  note  of  cheer. 

Like  the  call  from  Alpine  summits. 
Our  "Good-nigiits"  will  soon  be  heard. 
Friends  with  bated  breath  will  listen 
For  the  parting,  whispered  word. 
Sometime  in  th'  eternal  dawning. 
When  Earth's  night  has  passed  away. 
Sometime  we  shall  .say  •■  Good  morning, 
In  the  never-ending  day. 


GRANDMA. 

Natight  it  matters  that  around  her. 

(iocs  the  world  its  rushing  wa,y.s, 
With  her  rocking  comes  the  meni'ry 

or  the  bygone  happy  days. 
.Mniost  lunety  years  she  counteth. 

With  their  changing  hopes  and  fears. 
Beam  her  eyes  with  old-time  brightness, 

Then  are  dimmed  with  sudden  tears. 


©■ 


«- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


Gi; 


^ 


MRS.  AUGUSTA  WORTHEN. 

Bokn:  Sutton,  N.  H.,  Sept.  27, 1823. 

After  receiving-  her  education  this  lady  be- 
came a  teacher  in  tlie  Andover  Academy.  In 
1855  she  became  the  wife  of  Mr.  Charles  F. 
Wurtheii,  but  is  now  a  widow.     Slie  is  the  au- 


MBS.  AUGUSTA  H.  WORTHEN. 

thor  of  a  history  of  her  native  town,  and  has 
contributed  quite  extensively  both  prose  and 
verse  to  numerous  newspapers  and  maga- 
zines. Mrs.  Worthen  is  a  daughter  of  Col. 
John  Harvey,  and  is  now  a  resident  of  Lynn, 
Mass. 


THE  LILY'S  STORY. 
Linger  not  within  the  shadow 

Of  the  lonely  forest  pines; 
See  on  yonder  liill  and  meadow, 

Briglit  October  sunliglit  shines! 
Come,  for  bright  must  fall  its  radiance, 

On  the  pond  wliere  liMes  grew. 
Still,  perchance  some  breath  of  fragrance 

Hovers  o'er  its  waters  blue. 
O'er  the  rocks  the  wild  vines  creeping, 

Fhished  with  autumn's  crimson  glow. 
Wondering,  see  the  clouds  lie  sleeping 

In  tlie  mirror  depths  below. 
We,  with  such  sweet  fancies  liaunted. 

Seek  tlie  spot  last  year  so  fair. 
Painfully  are  disenchanted. 

For  no  pretty  pond  is  there. 


Coarse  and  rank  the  weeds  are  growing 

O'er  its  dark  and  oozy  bed. 
But  no  murmuring  brook  is  flowing 

'Neath  the  alder-berries  red. 
Yet,  in  yon  low  quagmire  gleaming. 

Something  pure  and  white  I  see! 
But,  I'm  only  fondly  dreaming  — 

Can  the  flower  a  Lily  be? 
Yes,  all  fragrant,  fresh  and  smiling 

In  October's  mellow  light, 
Me  of  all  sad  thoughts  beguiling, 

'Twas  a  Lily  met  my  sight. 
None  can  tell  my  heart's  deep  pleasure. 

Half  the  foolish  things  it  said. 
As  ]  sought  the  precious  treasure  — 

Bent  me  o'er  its  beauteous  head. 
Had  my  loving  admiration 

Waked  some  sweet  responsive  thrill'/ 
Saw  I  not  a  faint  pulsation 

All  its  slender  stamens  fill? 
WHiy  did  every  petal  tremble 

'Neath  my  warm  admiring  gaze? 
Might  it  not  Its  joy  dissemble 

At  mj'  words  of  earnest  praise? 
Had  It,  like  the  human  spirit. 

Longed  for  recognition  too? 
Strong-  desires  did  it  inherit 

For  appreciation  true! 
Wilt  thou  credit  this  sweet  marvel 

That,  within  my  spirit's  ear. 
Words  of  hopeful,  earnest  counsel 

From  the  Lily  I  should  hear? 
Sweet  the  tale  of  joy  and  sorrow 

Which  the  Lily  told  to  me; 
Would  I  might  its  accents  borrow 

While  I  tell  it  unto  thee. 

Spring  was  young,  thus  ran  the  story. 

When  the  tiny  bud  had  birth; 
Came  and  went  the  summer's  glory 

Ere  she  bloomed  in  beauty  forth. 
Never,  on  the  clear  bright  billow, 

Lifted  from  her  lowly  bed. 
Never  on  a  wavelet  pillow 

Rested  she  her  gentle  head. 
Still,  the  torturing,  upward-yearnmg    , 

Instincts  of  her  dainty  race. 
Bade  her,  from  the  dull  earth  turning. 

Rise  in  purity  and  grace. 
"  Mockery  every  aspiration. 

Prone  and  helpless  liere  I  lie  I" 
This  in  hours  of  dark  temptation 

Was  her  spirit's  anguish  cry. 
. I  Vain  the  hopes,  the  longings  endless, 

For  a  freer,  brighter  life. 
Making  me  more  lone  and  friendless, 

Wearying  me  with  useless  strife. 
Let  my  better  nature  perish; 

Nevermore  will  I  aspire. 
Nevermore  will  seek  to  cherish 

Higher  instinct,  i>ure  desire; 


© 


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616 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF  AMERICA. 


-®^: 


«• 


On  these  weeds  will  g-aze  admiring-, 

Nodding-  in  tliis  earth-born  breeze, 
Coarse,  contented,  unaspiring-. 

Would  I  were  like  one  of  these." 
But  the  sunbeams  on  her  fulling-. 

Roused  from  that  despairing-  chill, 
And  the  voice  within  her  calling-, 

Bade  her  be  a  Lily  still. 
Wind-borne,  from  some  purer  region. 

Came  this  testimony  free : 
"  Fear  not,  for  their  name  is  Legion, 

Who  have  hoped  and  toiled  like  thee. 
Slowly,  painfully,  thou  learnest 

What  thy  desutiy  must  be: 
AH  thine  inner  promptings  earnest 

Are  but  glorious  prophecy. 
Faithful  to  thy  hig-hest  duty, 

Hope,  yet  work  with  heart  and  will. 
Thou  Shalt  yet  arise  in  beauty. 

Thou  Shalt  be  a  Lily  still." 

Then,  as  to  some  touch  mysterious. 

Every  inmost  heart-string-  thrilled. 
While  her  spirit,  thoughtful,  serious. 

With  a  wondrous  joy  was  filled. 
Blessed  hours  of  exaltation! 

Memories  of  sucli  rapture  rare. 
Saved  her  from  her  dark  temptation. 

Strengthened  lier  ag-ainst  despair. 
Tliougli  no  partial  friends  beholding 

Cheered  her  with  delicious  praise. 
All  unmarked  her  slow  unfolding- 

Through  the  long,  long-  summer  days; 
Though  half  doubtful  of  her  mission. 

Dreading- lest  her  power  mig-ht  fail. 
Musing  on  that  dream  Elysian, 

Hopeful  grew  the  Lily  pale. 
All  its  meaning  scarce  divining-. 

Still  new  efforts  she  put  forth; 
For  the  vital  moistures  pining 

Deeper  struck  her  roots  in  earth. 
Gratefully,  her  thirst  allaying. 

Every  dewdrop  gathered  up; 
Choice  perfumes  from  zephyrs  straying. 

Hoarded  in  her  pearly  cup. 
Once,  to  let  the  sunbeams  enter. 

Dared  to  ope  that  chalice  white: 
Instantly  her  heart's  deep  center 

Caught  their  golden  radiance  bright 
So  she  kept  her  pure  corolla 

Free  from  earthly  soil  or  stain. 
Till  the  autumn  winds  blew  hollow- 
Fell  the  welcome  autumn  rain. 
Then  a  little  pool  collected  — 

Raised  her  on  her  slender  stem. 
Then  a  Lily  was  perfected 

Fairer  than  the  fairest  gem. 
Toiler,  thinker,  dreaming  poet, 

Doubtful  of  yo\ir  highest  powers. 
Work  in  liope,  for,  ere  you  know  it. 

Help  shall  come  like  autumn  showers. 


JOHN  EVANS  SCUDDER. 

Born:  Brooklyn,  N.Y.,  Sept  5,  1846. 
The  poems  of  this  gentleman  have  appeared 
from  time  to  time  quite  extensively  in  the 
periodical  press.    Mr.  Scuddor  is  a  resident  of 


.JOHN  KVANS  scnnif^R. 
Walden,  N.Y..  where  iie  is  a  journalist  and 
printer.     Mr.  Scudder  was  married  in  1869  to 
Miss  Emma  G.  Armstrong. 


THE  PAST  AND  PRESENT. 

Sitting  in  the  blessed  twilight 

Of  a  summer's  day  that's  past. 
How  the  tears  that  dim  my  eyesight. 

Gather  thick,  and  gather  fast. 
As  the  thoughts  of  maiij'  a  wrong. 

Flash  through  tired  and  weary  brain, 
And  the  memories  of  many  song. 

Cause  me  to  live  life  o'er  again. 
Let  the  dead  past  be  dead  and  perished. 

No  more  to  haunt  my  wearied  brain; 
Yet  the  hoi)es  that  I  have  cherished 

All  spring-  back  to  life  again. 
Is  there  no  surcease  of  sorrow? 

Why  into  future  attempt  to  gaze. 
Why  live  T,  hoping  for  the  morrow,—     . 

All  of  life  seems  but  a,  maze. 
Yet  there's  one  tliat  still  keeps  luring. 

Her  to  whom  my  heart  goes  out. 
Ever  anon  my  hopes  assuring. 

Cheering  even  as  I  doubt. 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


G17 


« 


MRS.  M   ALEXANDER. 

Born:  Posey  Co.,  Ind.,  June  14 ,  184:i. 
Mrs.  Alexander  married  iu   186.3.  and  three 
years  later  she  was  left  a  widow  with    one 
child,  .since  that   time  she 


de\(>ted   her- 


MRS.    M.    ALEXANDER. 

self  mainly  to  the  education  of  lier  daughter, 
spending  a  part  of  her  time  in  writing  and 
pursuing-  a  course  of  historical  reading-.  She 
now  resides  in  Mount  Vernon,  Indiana. 


CALLING. 

CaUing  by  flood  and  by  fire,  the  voice 

Echoes  afar  in  its  desolate  woe; 
Calling  by  pestilence,  tempest  and  torrent. 

Calling  for  many  not  ready  to  go. 
In  the  dark  night  while    the    storm  king    is 
brooding. 
Fearful  in  might  and  awful  in  wrath, 
Down  from  the  mountain  the  torrent  comes 
flooding. 
Strewing  the  valley  with  death  in  its  path. 
Wild  shrieks  of  torture  and  sad   cries  come 
thrilling 
Souls  in  deep  agony  on  every  side. 
Fond  wife  and  husband;  loved   parents   and 
children. 
Parted  for  aye,  by  death's  rolling  tide. 
While  in  the  bright  sunny  land  of  .sweet  liv- 


* 


Falls  the  light  sorrow  we  scarce  understand. 


Compared  with  the  woes  which  arise  and  ap- 
paling. 
Scatter  destruction  abroad  in  our  land. 

Impotent  man  oft  his  reverence  concealeth. 
Seeking  alone  this  world  and  its  gain. 

Till  the  Omnipotent  i)ower  revealeth 
AH  of  his  weakness,  his  terror,  his  pain. 

Wasted  by  famine  and  stricken  by  fever ; 

Lashed  by  the  storms  of  disaster  and  woe, 
Cast  between  friends  the  deadline  sei)aration, 

Now  in  our  liearts  bitter  anguish  doth  flow. 

Yet  far  above  the  bright  stars  are  still  shi  n  i  ng 
Steadfast  and  true,  while  death  sweeps  our 
shore. 
And  lifting  our  hearts  above  grief  and  repin- 
ing 
We  follow  the  Father,  and  trust   evermore. 

While  down  through  the  darkness,  the  valley, 
the  shadow, 
Tlie  bright  ray  of  promise   illumines  our 
night ; 
Beyond  death  and  flood  and   earth's   awful 
sorrow 
There  gleams   in  its   radiance  a  heavenly 
light. 


WELCOME. 

Welcome,  yes  welcome,  to  our  shore, 

AU  ye,  who  have  a  freeman's  home, 
America  calls  out  for  more 

And  gladly  bids  the  stranger  come. 
But  ever  bear  within  your  minds, 

No  traitor  horde  or  vandal  mars 
The  civil  rights  our  country  gives. 

Beneath  its  floating  stripes  and  stars. 
School  house  and  church  and  college  rear 

Their  lofty  domes  unto  the  sky. 
And  humble  though  the  man  may  be, 

His  heart-throbs  beat  in  liberty. 
Our  land  is  broad,  our  mountains  high, 

But  height  and  breadth  can  measure  not 
The  love  of  freedom  in  ouv  hearts. 

Of  our  own  homes,  earth's  dearest  spot 
To  ci\'ilize  and  Christianize, 

We  ojKMi  wide  our  doors  to-da.\-. 
A  welcome  give  to  rich  and  poor. 

To  our  loved  land  America. 
Our  prisons  strong,  our  scafl'old  high, 

And  where  no  Christian  love  can  reach 
It  is  a  ti-aitor's  doom  to  die, 

Tho  statutes  of  our  law  doth  teach. 
And  twenty  thousand  glittering  swords. 

All  sheathed  and  shining  lie  to-day. 
Ready  to  defend  our  country's  rights 

From  anarchists'  unlawful  sway. 
No  crimson  horde  or  tyrant  throng 

Dare  desecrate  our  sacred  sod. 
But  liberty  its  peans  strong 

Lifts  up  its  anthem  to  our  God. 


-® 


©- 


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618 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


W.  T.  VANCE. 

Born  :  Canada,  July  12, 1826. 
When  eleven  years  of  age  the  sutoject  of  this 
sketch  removed  to  Sturgis,  Mich.  After  re- 
ceiving his  education  he  learned  the  wagon- 
maliers'  trade,  and  subsequently  as  a  journey- 
man meandered  over  the  then  railroadless  re- 


W.  T.   VANCE. 

gions  between  Canada  and  Mexico.  At  the  age 
of  thirty-two  Mr.  Vance  married  Miss  Julia 
Powers,  a  dear  and  kindred  spirit,  whom  in 
1885  he  was  deprived  of  by  death.  He  has 
written  numerous  poems,  some  of  wliieh  have 
appeared  in  the  Messenger  and  otlier  local  pa- 
pers of  South  Haven,  Michigan,  where  he  now 
resides. 


«- 


OUR  BEAUTIFUL   HAVEN. 

South  Haven,  the  fair,  soon  will  receive 
The  beautiful  robes  the  fates  did  weave. 
And  so  very  long  was  held  in  store 
For  the  loveliest  town  on  the  eastern  shore 

Of  that  inland  sea. 

Whose  pure  winds  free 
Fan  the  pallid  cheek  to  rosy  liealth. 
And  fill  the  sails  that  bring  the  wealth 
Of  freight  to  factory,  farm  and  stoi'O, 
For  the  loveliest  town  on  the  eastern  shore* 

Of  that  inland  sea, 

Wliose  pure  winds  free 
Toss  the  waves  on  the  pebbly  strand. 


Where  laden  with  trains,  the  steamers  land, 

Or,  swiftly  gliding  them  o'er  and  o'er 

To  the  loveliest  town  on  the  eastern  shore. 

Of  that  inland  sea; 

Whose  pure  winds  free. 
Scatter  the  blooms  from  myriad  trees. 
Whose  odors  exhaled,  perfumes  the  breeze, 
Tliat  bear  tlie  sea-birds'  song,  as  they  soar 
O'er  the  loveliest  town  on  the  eastern  shore, 

Of  that  inland  sea. 

Whose  pure  winds  free. 
All  rippling  witli  laughter  and  song. 
Rising  from  pleasure  boats  moving  along, 
As  soft  as  the  flight  of  tlie  raven. 
Gliding  into  our  beautiful  Haven. 


A    SIMPLE  PLAN. 
Deep  in  my  soul  a  feeling 
Comes  o'er  my  senses  stealing 

All  other  thoughts  away; 
Of  my  brothers  lowly  toiling  — 
All  their  aspuations  foiling. 

Because  of  scanty  pay. 
Employers  kind  and  just 
Grieve  because  they  must 

Cut  wages  in  self-defense. 
Now  here's  a  simple  plan 
Good  alike  to  every  man. 

And  appeals  to  common  sense. 
Let  employers  form  a  ring. 
And  large  enough  to  bring- 
All  trades  together  banded, 
To  raise  wages  fifty  per  cent,— 
Your  goods  to  that  extent 

Will  surely  be  demanded. 
Labor  millions  more  can  buy 
To  maks  the  wheels  of  commerce  fly, 

Then  happiness  becomes  the  style; 
Looms  dance  —  spindles  sing 
Amid  the  anvil  chorus  ring  — 

Sad-ejed  millions  smile. 


THE  I>AND  SHALL   NOT  BE  SOLD. 

Men  of  conscience,  men  of  brains. 
From  the  workshops  and  the  ti'ains; 
Men  from  Grangers'  rural  halls. 
On  you  the  sacred  duty  falls. 
To  say  the  land  shall  not  be  sold. 
Men  from  puli>its  and  the  bar. 
Hurl  Pi'oinetiiean  brands  afar. 
To  break  the  stu|)or  of  Ihe  ages. 
And  prove  yourselves  the  sages 
Wlio  say  the  land  shall  not  be  sold. 
Wake  ye  giants  of  the  mighty  press. 
Whose  world-wide  power  to  bless 
Is  crippled  by  the  stupid  lie. 
The  sordid  nabob's  right  to  buy 
Land  that  shall  not  be  sold. 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK  AMEKICA. 


* 


619 


EDGAR  POE  ARCHBOLD. 

Bohn:  Chillicothe,  Ohio,  Feb.  13,  185T. 
Mr.  Archbold  lias  been  employed  as  a  news- 
paper writer  upon  tlie  principal  dailies  of  the 
west.  In  1883  he  went  to  Leadville,  and  there 
became  a  gold  miner  and  prospector.  He  has 
contributed  (luite   extensively  to  the   niininti- 


© 


EDGAH  POE  AHCHBOLD. 

literature  of  Colorado,  in  which  state  he  now 
resides  at  Pueblo,  although  he  expects  to 
make  Kansas  his  permanent  abode.  The 
poems  of  Mr.  Archbold  have  appeared  quite 
extensively  in  the  local  press. 

MASONRY. 
The  mystic  lig-hts  that  wrap  thy  shrine 

In  antique  vestments  of  the  past. 
Within  our  modern  temple  shine. 

As  rays  from  vanished  ages  cast. 
The  minds  that  gave  thy  mysteries  birth. 

With  all  that  marked  thy  days  of  youth, 
Have  slowly  withered  from  the  earth. 

And  naught  remains  but  light  and  truth. 
The  centuries  which  have  o'er  thee  flown. 

Have  left  us  these  to  guide  our  way. 
Through  paths  which  masons  tread  alone. 

To  reach  the  light  of  perfect  day. 
And  he  who  takes  thy  vows  sublime. 

And  at  thy  modern  altar  kneels. 
In  whatsoever  land  or  clime. 

But  seeks  the  light  that  truth  reveals. 


A   BUOKEN   COLUMN   AND   A   SPKIG   OF 
ACACIA. 

IN  MEMORY    OF    ROB.   .MORRIS. 

By  imagination's  aid,  we  .stand  ttKlay  at  the 

grave  of  our  most  distinguished  brother. 
Upon  his  lips  there  rests  a  silence  born  of 

death,  and  on  his  forehead  lies  the  jeweled 

crown  of  Fate. 
For  him,  the  acacia  blooms  no  more. 
For  him,  the  dawn  has  faded  from  the  sky. 
From  the  weeping  stars  of  Palestine,  to  the 

moonlight  of  the  Nile,  the  broken  column 

mutely  mourns  the  dead. 
Eternal  night  has  come;  and  .somewhere  on 

its  shoreless  tide,  Rob.  Morris  is  at  rest. 
The  purple  of  the  twilight,  and  the  beautj'  of 

the  stars,  softly  blending,  touch  the  face 

of  him  that's  dead.    Touch  and  kiss  the 

pallid  lips  of  him  that's  dead. 
Across  the  midnight  of  the  ages,  he  flashed  a 

a  torch  of  Light,  and  in  the  sands  of  Egypt 

sought  for  Truth. 
At  the  cradle  of  the  craft  he  bowed  his  head, 

and  in  tradition's  wondrous  web  he  traced 

our  way. 
In  the  dreamless  sleep  that  wraps  him  now,  we 

consign  him  to  the  kind  embrace  of  earth. 
On  the  cofiin  place  the  emblems  of  hiscraf*, 

and  in  silence  let  him  sleep  among  the 

hills. 


HYMN  TO  THE  CREATOR. 
The  winds  that  career  o'er  the  bosom  of  ocean. 
The  shadows  that  curtain  the  face  of  the 
sky,  [motion. 

The  stars  in  their  beauty,  the  worlds  in  their 
Proclaim    their   Creator  —  our   Father   on 
high. 
The  mountains  are  Tliine  in   their  mystical 
splendor.  [Thy  hand. 

The  dawn  of  the  morning  springs  fresh  from 
The  night  follows  on,  ever  eager  to  render 

Devotion  and  praise,  at  Thy  holy  command. 
The  lance  of  the  storm,  at  Thy  order  is  broken. 
The  lightnings  are  chained  to  their  home  in 
the  clouds,  [token. 

The  phantoms  of  air,  with  the  ills  they  be- 
Return,   at  Thy  word,  to  the  mist  of  their 
shrouds. 
Tlie  evening's  soft  beam,  and  ihe  midnight's 
deep  beauty. 
Awaken  the  soul  from  its  slumber  of  death  ; 
All  doubts  disaiiijcar;  I  remembt'r  but  duty: 
Conviction  sweeps  on  like  the  hurricane's 
breath. 

O  let  me  adore  Thee,  thou  Gcxl  of  cre;ition  I 
Let  me  turn  to  Thy  love  like  a  star  to  the 
sea, 

O  let  me  declare  my  eternal  salvation  I 
And  bow  in  devotion  and  homage  to  Thee. 


-m 


s- 


620 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL,  POETS   OK  AMERICA. 


-® 


A   PRAYER. 

Bowdowu  thine  ear,  O  Lord,  and  hear; 

For  I  am  poor,  and  need  Thee. 
Preserv^e  my  soul  from  earthly  dole. 

And  toward  Thy  mercy  lead  me. 
And  let  my  voice  in  praise  rejoice, 

Unite  my  heart  to  fear  Thee; 
Teach  me  Thy  way,  that  night  and  day, 

Thy  mercy  may  be  near  me. 


MRS.  L.A.  FOLSOM. 

Born  :  Milford,  Me.,  July  23,  1844 

This  lady  is  engaged  as  a  local  reporter  for 
various  newspapers.  But  she  loves  to  write 
verse,  and  contrilmtes   poems   from   time  to 

r 


MliS.  L.  A.  F()I.S()^r. 

time  to  the  Portland  Transcript  a!id  other 
publications.  She  was  married  in  1864  to 
Frank  W.  Folsom,  and  still  resides  in  her  na- 
tive state  at  Old  Town. 


51- 


NATURE'S  WARDROBE. 
The  loveliest  vesture  of  exquisite  hue, 
Dainty  of  pattern  and  texture,  too, 

Dame  Nature  dons  at  will;' 
Her  garments  are  many,  surpassingly  fair; 
And  which  most  enhances  her  beauty  rai'e, 

I'm  at  a  loss  to  tell. 
Her  robe  of  the  springtime  is  delicate  green, 
'Broidered  with  dewdrops'  silvery  sheen. 

And  flecked  witli  violets  blue; 


Crocuses  golden  and  snowdrops  white. 
Are   caught   in    its    folds,  where    primroses 
bright 

And  sweet  birds  nestle,  too. 
Gorgeous  and  gay  is  her  summer  dress. 
Replete  in  its  own  fair  loveliness; 

And  heavy  with  odors  sweet; 
Roses  whose  petals  blush  crimson  and  red, 
Lie  on  lier  bosom  and  circle  her  head, 

While  blossoms  spring  up  'neath  her  feet. 
Vividly  bright  her  autumnal  attire. 
Flashing  with  color  like  tongues  of  fire. 

Richer  than  princess  e'er  knew; 
Her  robes  trail  along  with  a  rustling  sound. 
And  bright  is  her  pathwaj%  scattered  around 

With  leaves  of  rainbow  hue. 
Her  dress  of  winter  is  purest  white, 
Bridal  emblem,  no  colors  bright 

E'er  mar  its  chastity  rare; 
'Tis  wrought  with  filmy  frost-lace  white, 
Intermingled  with  crystals  that  quiver  with 
light. 

And  diamonds  gleam  in  her  hair. 


TWO  HANDS. 

One  was  rough,  and  scarred  with  toiling. 

Brown  and  seared  as  with  fierce  heat; 
Yet,  the  memory  of  its  clasping. 

Lingers  like  a  perfume  sweet. 
Fair  as  rose-leaf  tints,  the  other  — 

Or  as  sea-shells  by  the  sea. 
And  its  tender  touch  like  snowflakes. 

Comes  In  sweetness  back  to  me. 
One  in  helpfulness  was  mighty. 

Shielding  me  from  tempests  wild; 
But  the  other,  in  its  weakness. 

Nestled  like  a  trusting  child. 
Which  I  loved  the  best,  I  know  not; 

But,  through  all  life's  ebb  and  flow, 
One  gave  strength  and  hope  — the  other. 

Sweetest  comfort  here  below. 


HEART  REST. 
Oh,  heart,  that  since  my  natal  day 

Has  ceaseless  throbbed  for  long,  long  years, 
Sometimes  tumultuous  with  thy  joy. 

Then,  keeping  time  to  failing  tears. 
Ever  in  rhythmic  measures  fall 

Thy  tirni  pulsations  night  and  day. 
And  e'en  when  sleep  my  eyelids  close, 

Still  thou  dost  hold  thy  gentle  sway. 
All  things  in  nature  find  repose; 

The  birds  fly  home  at  set  of  sun. 
All  seek  sweet  rest  wlien  night  comes  on. 

But,  heart,  thy  work  seems  never  done. 
Sometime,  somewhere,  thou,  too,  shalt  rest, 

Yet  not  while  life  enthralls  you  fast; 
Wait,  heart,  full  soon  'neath  daisies  white 

Thou  shalt  find  sweetest  rest  —  at  last. 


*- 


LOGAL,   AN1>   NATIONAL   TOBTS  OF  AMERICA. 


G21 


-® 


JOSEPH  PEEPLES  HART. 

Bokn:  Aukadelphia,  Ark.,  May  9, 1847. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Hart  have  been  publislied 
extensively  from  time  to  time  in  the  periodical 
press.    He  was  married  to  Miss  Lizzie  Bell, 

and  is  still  a  resident  of  the  place  of  his  nativ- 
ity.    P(M'snn:iIlv  Mr.  Ihtrt  i^^  a  little  liclow  tlii> 


*- 


'  JdMU'Il    l'EF,rij;S  HAHT. 

average  heiglit,  robust,  with  hair  a  deep  black 
and  graj'  eyes.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in 
"1872.  As  a  journalist  he  lias  had  much  ex- 
perience, having  established  the  Arkadelphia 
News,  and  edited  the  same  prior  to  its  sale 
and  change  of  name  to  the  Herald,  which  is 
still  being  successfully  published. 

THUS  LIVE. 
So  live,  that  when  the  strife 
Of  this  tempestuous  life, 
Like  battle  smoke  has  passed  away  — 
When  bugle  call 
Shall  summon  all 
To  the  God  of  battle's  reveille,— 
Tiiou  go  not  hence  undone 
As  some  dastard  —  craven  one 
Who.  when  the  shock  of  battle  came 
Of  standing  firm,  instead, 
Recoik>d.  ignobly  fled 
With  infamy  covered,  and  shame! 
But  go  tliou  then  with  tread 
Of  lofty  heart  and  head. 
All  full  of  expectation. 


As  one  who  inly  knows, 
He  to  the  general  goes 
To  reap  a  decoration. 


THE  STAR  OF  MASONKY. 
When  first  the  gloomy  monarcli,  Niglit, 

Put  on  his  crown  of  sparkling  liglit, 
Before  ••  the  star  of  Bethlehem" 

Enriched  his  lustrous  diadem. 
Which  jewel  flashed  most  brilliantly! 

It  was  the  star  of  Masonry ! 
What  gem  then  sent  its  flery  ray 

To  lighten  up  the  dark  highway 
That  leads  from  earth  to  Heaven? 

What  gem  wiis  then  in  mercy  given 
To  slnne  on  till  eternity? 

It  was  the  star  of  Masonry ! 
Whilst  groping  on  in  night  profound. 

In  selfish  lolly's  irksome  round. 
What  beacon  did  I  seek  and  find. 

That  ever  after  called  to  mind 
Its  grandeur  and  sublimity? 

It  was  the  star  of  Masonry ! 
What  sought  I  when  departed  day 

Before  me  left  a  rugged  way: 
And  when  my  heart  did  quake  with  fear; 

And  when  the  scythe   of  Death    flashed 
near; 
And  when  I  called  on  Deity? 

It  was  the  star  of  Masonry ! 
What  since  the  daj^s  of  Solomon, 

Have  been  the  good  man's  mighty  sun, 
Dispensing  in  his  pathway  light 

That  showed  him  how  to  walk  aright. 
And  live  in  peace  and  harmony? 

It  was  the  star  of  Masonry  ! 
As  it  has  beamed  from  Time's  gray  morn, 

On  all  the  nations  yet  unborn, 
W'hat  is  it  than  shall  ceaseless  shine, 

And  shed  on  these  its  light  divine. 
Until  appears  eternity? 

The  star,  the  star  of  Masonry ! 


ALL  HAIL  TO  THE   FLAG. 

In  great  Columbia's  name 

Thou  flag  of  deathless  fame  — 

Ensign  of  liberty. 

And  of  the  valiant  free, 

AUliail,  all  hail  to  thee! 

The  red,  the  white  and  blue,— 

These  blended  and  there  grew 

On  clouded  horizon. 

At  rising  of  his  sun. 

Freedom's  bow,  brightest  one! 

On  this  our  own  ••  new  world" 

To  breezes  first  unf  url'd  — 

Cynosure  of  all  eyes  — 

That  banner  flaunts  and  flies, 

A  mistress  in  all  skies! 


-m 


®- 


622 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   FOETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


-5 


Flag- of  our  Washington  — 
And  of  our  Jefferson  — 
Fliig-  that  our  fatliers  gave: 
Eternal  may  it  wave 
O'er  earth's  last  tyrant's  grave. 
Lord  hear  our  fervid  prayer! 
Oh,  may  our  fJag  in  air 
Float  till  its  home  shall  be 
In  ev'ry  land  and  sea! 
Sweet  flag',  all  hail  to  thee! 


JOHN  WESLEY  EVANS. 

BoKN :  England,  May  8, 1848. 
Emigrating  to  America  in   1880  Mr.  Evans 
has  since  lived  in  many  of  the  states,  and  flu- 
ally  in  1871  sfttlt'd  down  in  Lonaconmg-,  Md. 


)11N    \vi:si,K^ 


Since  1879  he  has  contributed  both  prose  and 
verse  to  local  and  national  papers,  which 
have  been  well  received.  He  was  married  in 
1874  to  Miss  M.  A.  .lohnson,  and  now  follows 
the  occupation  of  an  agent. 


SB- 


TIME. 
As  fond  remembrances  fade, 

Keeping  pace  with  Time, 
So  will  the  cloudy  shade 

Hover  o'er  each  sunny  clime. 
Years  may  swiftly  pass  away, 

And  cherished  hope  forgot, 


Erasing'  many  a  happy  daj' 
Which  is  now  remembered  not. 

By  some  of  our  kindred  dear. 
Who  perchance  have  g'pne  before, 

Leaving  us  in  dread  and  fear, 
As  their  forms  are  now  no  more. 

Then  memory  sweet  forget  me  not. 
Or  cast  thy  mantle  o'er  my  face, 

And  many  fond  remembrance  blot, 
Wandering  from  place  to  place. 

The  darkest  day  may  yet  unfurl 

A  banner  of  true  light. 
And  not  a  sad  remembrance  hurl 

As  fond  Time  makes  its  flight. 


LIFE. 
Life  is  but  a  season 

Fading  with  the  Time, 
Losing  all  its  reason 

In  every  land  and  clime. 

Could  we  grasp  it  longer. 
Or  stay  its  onward  march. 

Ambition  would  be  stronger 
To  soothe  the  lips  of  parch. 

Its  well  that  life's  limited 
By  one  who  wields  a  power. 

As  rich  and  poor  are  benefited 
In  many  a  trying  hour. 

Then  raise  your  hands  heavenward. 
And  let  your  voice  exclaim: 

May  God  continue  onward 
His  present  course  to  aim. 


A  FASTIDIOUS  SWELL. 
The  other  day  I  chanced  to  meet 

A  feminine  of  slender  form; 
Whilst  gazing  at  her  tiny  feet 

She  eyed  me  with  a  look  of  scorn. 

Why  should  the  f:iir  sex  man  disdain, 
Wlien  a  helpmate  he  sliall  be. 

In  sunshine  or  in  rain. 
In  sorrow  or  in  glee. 

I  trust  the  day  is  not  far  hence 
When  nothing  in  your  mind  will  be, 

But  courtesy  and  common  sense. 
Instead  of  pride  and  vanity. 

And  now,  young  girl,  take  my  advice: 
Let  politeness  be  your  aim, 

Let  not  liarsh  words  or  vice 
Disturb  your  feeble  brain. 


—  < 


ffi 


LOCAL,   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


H23 


-« 


MRS.  M.  S.  CURTISS. 

Bokn:  Oswego,  N.Y.,  May27,  1823. 
The  poems  of  this  lady  luive  received  publica- 
tion in   some    of  the  leadinjr  periodicals  of 


MK.S.  M.  S.  LLKTISS. 

America.  Mrs.Curiiss  now  resides  in  the  pleas- 
ant home  of  her  son,  E.  A.  Curtiss,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Passaic  river,  at  Woodside,  New- 
ark, N.  J. 


* 


THE  LADY  OF  ELGIN. 
Just  yestormorn  some  strangers  fair. 

Came  to  me;  how  tliey  knew  my  name 
Or  place,  I  know  not  — yet  they're  here. 

These  harbingers  of  western  fame: 
And  such  as  I  have  now  I  g-ive. 

Of  greeting-,  warm  to  those  who  tell. 
In  many  a  column  crowded  full. 

Of  truths  I  love  —  oh,  passing  well '. 
Who  would  not?  wealth  of  shining  ore. 

Delved  for  in  many  deeps  of  mind. 
And  earnest  thoughts,  each  one  as  pearls, 

In  goodly  .setting,  safe  enshrined; 
Hail!  ..  Lady  Elgin:"  do  you  know 

I  deem  you  fortun.-ite  as  fair. 
Uniting  wealth  of  metal  gold 

Witli  all  the  years  that  time  may  wear? 
Life's  sands  are  not  for  all,  always. 

Ticked  off  to  any  measured  rhyme 
Of  watch  or  verse,  and  so  I  deem 

This  ..  Lady  Elgin,"  in  good  time. 


And  favored  well  by  those  who  hold 
In  charge  the  counting  of  life's  sands: 

May  tliese  bring  long  j  ears  and  succe.ss 
To  crown  her  earnest  heart  and  liands. 


WHAT  IS  A  POEM? 

Is  it  a  richly  wro't  musical  rhyme. 
Wreathed  with  garlands  from  niauy  a  clime; 
Woven  in  tissues  of  fairest  dyes. 
And  bright  as  are  cerulean  skies? 
Is  it  only  an  airy  carol  of  song. 
That  like  the  rivulet  dances  along? 
Time  and  step  keeping  witli  breezes  gay 
Thro'  the  long  hours  of  the  bright  summer 
day? 

Ever   blessed  and    bright  be   the   beautiful 

wings. 
That  preside  o'er  all  these  beautiful  things; 
And  long  may  rich  madrigals  from  them  all. 
Enliven  the  heart  homes  of  palace  and  hall. 
But  a  real  poem  who  shall  define 
In  any  song  rhythm  or  measured  line? 
While  all  the  earth,  and  the  air  and  the  skies. 
Are  abundant  in  poems  of  richest  dyes. 
Poems  ever  unwritten  and  unsung. 
Are  by  life's  wayside  plenteous  flung; 
All  beautiful  too,  and  rich  and  grand, 
As  are  pearl-freighted  sea  waves  near   the 

strand. 
The  deep,  dense  wood  is  a  poem  divine 
Bounded  and  full  in  its  every  line; 
And  all  undulations  of  flowery  fields. 
Vast  realms  and  whole  realms  of  poems  yield. 
There  are  life  aims  reaching  out  far  away. 
As  the  seareling  fires  of  summer's  sunray; 
Thence  lives  are  enriched  with  poems  divine. 
Symmetrically  woven  —  every  line. 
There  are  ripening  harvests  from  the  seeds 
Of  noble  charities  and  kindlie.st  deeds; 
These  in  Heaven's  own  good  way  and  time, 
Will  be  fashioned  in  living  poems  sublime. 


THOUGHTS  OF  SPRING  AT  EVENING. 
Pale,  pensive  night  with  starry  wing 

And  dewy  robe  again  is  near! 
Sweet  influence  o'er  the  heart  to  fling 

Weary  and  way-worn  ones  to  cheer; 
And  yet  night's  shady,  sable  wing 

Can  scarcely  hide  the  glow  on  high; 
For  'tis  the  time  of  early  spring. 

When  gorgeous  colors  drape  the  sky. 
The  he.'ivens  now  wear  their  loveliest  tinge. 

And  clearer  is  their  deep,  deep  blue. 
And  richi'r  seems  their  golden  fringe. 

As  iKiture's  hand  li;i(l  rolled  them  near, 
And  burnished  briglit  those  gems  of  night 

That  thus  so  brilliantly  they  glow; 
While  gladsome  spring  with  tardy  wing 

And  timid  step,  comes  faltering  slow. 


-* 


©■ 


624 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


Now  hardy  flowers,  iu  woodland  bowers, 

Awaken  from  their  wintry  dreams ; 
And  haste  to  greet  that  form  so  sweet. 

For  while  the  stars  so  brightly  gleam. 
Soon  lengthening  days  with  milder  rays. 

Will  waken  all  the  wildwood  flowers 
To  usher  in  the  reign  of  spring. 

And  beautify  the  balmy  hours. 
Soon  may  be  seen  the  velvet  green, 

Earth's  soft  attire  for  lovely  May, 
With  here  and  there  sweet  violets  rare 

Of  rich  perfume  and  colors  gay. 
Then  lovely  spring,  with  roseate  wing 

Will  pause  awhile  and  with  us  stay, 
Sadness  and  gloom  make  ample  room. 

For  one  so  beauteous,  bright  and  gay. 
The  evening's  light,  so  placid,  bright. 

As  from  celestial  worlds  it  shone. 
Where  spring  supernal,  ever  vernal. 

Blooms  and  glows  around  the  Throne! 
t~t^*~t 

MRS.  OPHELIA  COOK  JONES. 

Born  :  Brownsville,  Miss.,  Feb.  5, 1849. 
This   lady    now    follows   the  occupation   of 
teaching  at  Abbeville,  Louisana.    Her  poems 
have  appeared  in  Godey's  Lady's  Book  and 


«- 


MRS.  OPHELIA  Cf)<)K  JONES. 

the  periodical  press  generally.  Tlio  poem. 
What  My  Lover  Said ,  has  been  attributed  to 
several  poets  of  high  standing,  but  Mrs.  Jones 
is  without  doubt  the  autlior  of  it.  She  has 
written  some  beautiful  poems. 


WHAT  MY  LOVER  SAID. 
By  tlie  merest  chance,  in  the  twilight  gloom. 

In  the  orchard  path  he  met  me; 
In  the  tall,  wet  grass,  with  its  faint  perfume. 
And  I  tried  to  pass,  but  be  made  no  room. 

Oh  I  tried,  but  he  would  not  let  me. 
So  I  stood  and  blushed  till  the  grass  grew  red, 

Witli  my  face  bent  down  above  it. 
While  lie  took  my  hand    as   he   whistiering 
said  —  [liead 

(How    the  clover    lifted  each  pink,  sweet 
To  listen  to  all  tliat  my  lover  said; 

Oh,  the  clover  in  bloom,  I  love  it!) 
In  the  high,  wet  grass  went  the  path  to  hide. 

And  the  low,  wet  leaves  hung  over; 
But  I  could  not  pass  upon  either  side. 
For  I  found  myself,  when  I  vainly  tried. 

In  the  arms  of  my  steadfast  lover. 
And  he  held  me  there  and  he  raised  my  head, 

Wliile  he  closed  the  path  before  me. 
And  he  looked  down  into  my  eyes  and  said  — 
(How  tlie  leaves  bent  down  from  the  boughs 
To  listen  to  all  that  my  lover  said,  [o'er  head. 

Oh,  the  leaves  hanging  lowly  o'er  me!) 
Had  lie  moved  aside  but  a  little  way, 

I  could  surely  then  have  passed  him; 
And  he  knew  I  never  could  wish  to  stay. 
And  would  not  have  heard  what  he  bad  to  say, 

Could  I  only  aside  have  cast  him. 
It  was  almost  dark,  and  the  moments  sped,     ; 

And  the  searching  night-wind  found  us. 
But  lie  drew  me  nearer  and  softly  said  — 
(How  the  pure,  sweet  wind  grew  still,  instead 
To  li>,ten  to  all  that  my  lover  said; 

Oh,  the  whispering  wind  around  us!) 
I  am  sure  he  knew  when  he  held  me  fast. 

That  I  must  be  all  unwilling; 
For  I  tried  to  go,  and  I  would  liave  passed. 
As  the  night  was  come  witli  its  dew,  at  last. 

And  tlie  sky  with  its  stars  was  fllHiig.   [flett 
But  he  clasped  me  close  wlien  I  would  hav.j 
And  lie  made  me  hear  his  story,  ; 

And  his  soul  came  out  from  liis  lips  and  said -^ 
(How  the  stars  crept  out  where    the   whit 
To  listen  to  all  that  my  lover  said ;    [moon  \v 

Oh,  the  moon  and  the  stars  in  glory!) 
I  know  that  the  grass  and  the  leaves  will  in. 
tell. 
And  I'm  sure  that  the  wind,  precious  rove 
Will  carry  my  secrets  so  safely  and  well 

Tliat  no  being  sliall  ever  discover 
One  word  of  the  many  that  rapidly  fell 
From  the  .«oiil-speaking  lips  of  my  lover; 
And  the  moon  ami  the  stars  that  looked  cv. 
Shall  never  reveal  wliat,  a  fairy-like  <pelUdi' 
They  wove  'round  abont  us  th:it  night  in  tl 
In  the  path  tlirough  the  dew-laden  clover. 
Nor  echo  the  wiiispers  that  made  my  !«'» 
swell 
As  they  fell  from  the  lips  of  my  lover. 


m 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


625 


-m 


MRS.  MARGARET  J.  SWEAT. 

Born:  Poktland,  Me.,  Nov.:i8, 182:3. 
Commencing  to  write  poetry  at  an  early  age 
the  productious  of  this  lady  have  appeared  in 
the  Galaxy,  New  Orleans  Picayune  aud  other 
publications  of  note.  She  is  also  represented 
in  Poets  of  Maine.  In  1849  this  lady  was  mar- 
ried to  the  Hon.  L.  D.  M.  Sweat.    She  visited 


MRS.  MARGARET  J.  M.  SWEAT. 


Europe  in  18.J9  and  wrote  letters  to  the  Chris, 
tian  Register.  In  18.59  she  published  her  first 
book,  Etliel's  Love  Life,  and  a  few  months 
later  appeared  Higrhways  of  Travel  or  a  Sum- 
mer in  Europe.  Mrs.  Sweat  traveled  exten- 
sively in  Europe  in  18734  and  ag-ain  in  1887. 
Her  writings  include  poems,  essays,  criticisms 
and  sketches  of  travel  in  Egypt,  Europe  and 
America. 


LOVE'S  CALENDAR. 
If  time  is  measured  by  sensations. 

And  passions  make  us  centuries  old; 
If  sympathy  creates  relations, 

To  wliich  the  ties  of  blood  are  cold; 
Then  tliou  and  I,  though  lately  meeting 

Have  made  the  moments  fly  so  fast, 
Tliat  our  two  hearts,  together  beating. 

Through  years  of  love  and  life  have  passed. 
Then  do  not  wonder  that  I  woo  thee 

With  strangely  rapid  words  and  ways. 
But  let  me,  as  a  lover,  sue  thee 

To  count  as  years  tliese  few  sweet  days. 
Each  hour  has  proved  a  month  of  pleasure. 

So,  dearest,  I  have  loved  thee  long; 


Cease  then  by  minutes  life  to  measure. 
Love's  calendar  will  prove  thee  wrong. 

SWEETS  TO  THE  SWEET. 
When  blue  eyes  melt  in  liquid  light 

My  bosom  swells  with  languid  pleasure; 
When  black  eyes  gleam  like  stars  at  night 

My  pulses  throb  with  quickened  measure; 
And  then,  when  gray  ones  flash  and  glow. 

And  shed  their  radiant  beams  upon  me. 
Why  —  on  my  word !—  I  scarcely  know 

Which  of  these  lovely  orbs  have  won  me. 

Redundant  locks  of  raven  hair 

Befit  a  heroine  of  storj-; 
While  auburn  tre.sses  floating  fair 

Bewilder  with  their  golden  glory; 
And  simple  bands  of  shining  brown 

Suggest  a  Raffaelle's  Madonna; 
Which  of  these  heads  should  wear  a  crown 

I  cannot  tell,  upon  my  honor! 

That  sylphlike  girl  with  fragile  form 

Seems  like  an  artist's  fairest  dreaming; 
This  tropic  beauty  takes  by  storm. 

And  charms  by  being  — not  by  seeming; 
Etheral  saints  to  rapture  wake  me. 

And  lift  me  to  the  upper  regions; 
But  earthly  hours  quickly  take  me 

Back  to  their  own  unholy  legions. 
One  day  I  kneel  before  a  shrine 

And  offer  up  a  reverent  duty; 
The  next  —  if  all  the  world  were  mine 

I'd  give  it  to  some  naughty  beauty. 
And  till  one  woman  shall  combine 

The  varying  charms  of  all  the  others, 
This  changing  fate  must  still  be  mine. 

To  be  first  yours  and  then  another's. 

MRS.  SARAH  S.  W.  BENNETT. 

Born:  Wilson's  Mills,  Me.,  July  12, 18.38. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  Bennett  have  occasionally 
appeared  in  the  Gorham  Mountaineer,  Ox- 
ford Democrat  and  the  local  press  generally. 
She  was  married  in  1869  and  still  resides  in  her 
native  plac& 

HALCYON  DAYS. 

Oh !  halcyon  days !  how  brief  in  your  bright- 
ness. 
That  lights  the  departing  year  to  its  tomb. 
The  gleam  of  the  snow-covered  earth  in  its 
whiteness. 
Is  a  symbol  of  the  glory  beyond  its  gloom. 
So  ought  the  life  that  is  rich  in  well  doing, 
Whose  days  of  strength  in  labor  were  pass- 
ed. 
With  toil-hardened   hands  its  duties   pursu- 
ing. 
Rest  in  sweet  sunshine  and  peace  at  the 
last. 


-© 


« 


626 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


JAMES  DAVIS. 


Born  :  Gloucester,  Mass.,  Jan.  29, 1815. 
FOR  about  five  years  Mr.  Davis  taught  school. 
Afterward  he  engaged  iu  building  schooners 
for  the  fishing  fleet,  and  subsequently  was 
employed  in  clerical  business.  He  has  held 
num.-rous    positions    of    trust,  and   was  ap- 


JAMES  DAVIS. 

pointed  judge  of  the  police  court  of  Glou- 
cester in  1863.  which  position  he  lias  ever 
since  held.  His  poems  have  appeared  quite 
extensively  in  the  periodieal  press,  and  in  18. . 
he  published  a  neat  volume  in  verse,  entitled 
Pleasant  Water,  a  song  of  the  sea  and  shore. 

A  GOLDEN  WEDDING  SONG. 
We  sing  a  golden  wedding  song, 

A  song  that  should  be  sung. 
When  hand  to  hand  and  lieart  to  heart 

For  fifty  years  have  clung. 
We  blame  no  single  man  cr  maid 

Who  ne'er  a  mate  could  find. 
But  bless  the  happier  lot  of  those 

Whom  Hymen's  chain  doth  bind. 
O  Love!  that  half  a  hundred  years 

Has  bound  this  worthy  pair. 
And  helped  them  help  each  other  well 

Life's  burdens  all  to  bear! 
An  angel  tliou,  sent  from  above. 

On  errand  blest  to  run. 
And  bring  to  souls  their  best  estate 
I  By  joining  two  in  one. 

m ■ 


Sweet    Wedded    Love!     Dear   Household 
Forbidding  hearts  to  roam,  [Queen! 

And  rearing  as  earth's  fairest  fane 

The  sanctuary  home ! 
These  two  that  in  the  bond  of  bliss 

Thy  golden  chain  has  bound, 
Have  in  the  chosen,  sweet  constraint 

Their  truest  freedom  found. 
Indulgent  Heaven,  with  kindly  care. 

Hath  guarded  well  their  ways. 
And  to  a  happy,  green  old  age 

Hath  lengthened  out  their  days. 
For  that  of  those  He  gave  so  dear 

His  love  has  left  them  one. 
For  that  His  love  the  others  took, 
They  say:  "Thy  will  be  done." 
And  if  their  hearts  could  have  a  wish 

For  so  much  life  below. 
And  he  who  metes  might  think  it  good 

Such  measure  to  bestow. 
We  would  the  Gracious  Father  pray 

Their  union  to  prolong. 
Till  other  friends  should  meet  to  sing 
Their  diamond  wedding  song. 

PLEASANT  WATER. 

EXTRACT. 

TTnon  a  gently  rising  ground, 
Bvgrass-grown.windingroadwaysrcach'd 

That  lead  from  quiet  hamlets    round 
Stands   the   old    fane    where   Bradstreet 
preached 
The  sacred  word,  and  Leonard  now. 

Weekly,  with  Heavenly  manna  feeds 
The  souls  that  at  its  altar  bow. 

Till  hearts  grow  strong    for  noble  deeds.  • 
•Tis  a  rude  structure,  gray  with  Time, 

Nor  hath  it   show  of  art  in  aug-lit. 
Save  that  which  make,  all  art  ^^' 

When  outward  forms  express  the  thougli 
To  highest  sense  of  duty  leal; 

Built  of  the  fathers'  scanty  store 
It  shows  that  Heaven  commended  zeal 

Which  makes  the  less  appear  the  more. 
Above  it  stands  nor  spire,  nor  tower. 
Nor  belfry  with  its  brazen  tongue. 

Tt>  tell  the  villagers  the  hour 
When  prayer  is  made  and  praises  sung. 

No  soft  upholstery  within 
Invites  the  drowsy  head  to  sleep 

When  plain,  but  -l-'"";-'^-'^%"^;''''7 
Their  feet  the  Heavenly  way  t«  keep. 
Yet  not  without  a  pleasing  grace. 

And  fitness  reverent  minds  would  use. 
Is  the  arrangement  of  the  place; 

The  neatly  paneled,  ^auare-bu.     P^^^ 
The  galleries  stretching  three  sides  loum 
"^The  deacons' seats,  the  ,ullplt^.^J^. 
W  it  1>  the  quaint  sounding-board  hmh  cro^^ 

Might  not  offend  a  cultured  c>e. 


m- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   I'OKTS   OF  AMEIIICA. 


()27 


* 


WALTER  ISIDORO  DAVIS. 

Born:  Gorham,  N.  H.,  Aug.  7, 1848. 
Mr.  Davis  secured  liis  education  at  the  Colby 

imi\ri'-it3',  and  he  iimv  follow; the  profession 

.it  :i  -fli.  lol  traclifr,   IK' was  iiiarrit-il  ill  188(1  to 


WALTER  I.  DAVIS,  A.  M. 

Miss  Leona  M.  Spencer,  who  died  in  1888.  In 
1890  he  married  Ada  M.  Holbrook,  :ind  still  re- 
sides at  Berlin,  N.  H.  The  poems  of  Mr.  Davis 
have  appeared  in  the  Waterville  Mail,  Zion's 
Advocate,  Berlin  Independent  and  the  local 
press  generally. 

THREE  LEGENDS. 
Tlie  learned  Mohammedans  relate, 
That  a  mallow  reared  its  head. 
Where  the  prophet's  journey  led. 
Close  beside  a  brazen  gate, 

Jusc.  a  common  mallow. 

His  robe  but  touched  it  as  he  neared. 

When,  instead  of  mallow  base. 

Standing  in  the  self-same  place, 

A  geranium  appeared,— 

At  his  garment's  touch  appeared. 
Have  you  read  the  wondrous  tale 
Of  a  passing  Nazarene, 
When  a  woman  there  is  seen 
To  touch  his  robe?—  a  woman  pale,— 

Only  just  his  garment's  hem. 
But,  oil!  wondrous  healing  power! 
As  tlie  woman  in  tlie  press, 
Touciied  tliis  lowly  peasant's  dress, 
Slie  was  healed  the  very  liour,— 
Cured  of  her  infirmity. 


But  a  legend,  stranger  still. 

Is  related  everywhere. 

That  a  form  divinely  fair 
Passeth  wheresoe'r  it  will. 

Clad  In  robes  of  dazzling  white. 
And  while  earth  shall  onward  roll. 

Whosoever  drawetli  nigh. 

When  the  presence  passeth  by. 
Is  of  Sin's  disease  made  wliole. 

If  he  toucli  tlie  garment's  hem. 

MY  PEARL. 

Only  a  darling 

Sweet  little  girl. 

Yet,  what  a  treasure! 

Ina,  my  Pearl. 

Like  antumn  foliage, 

All  in  a  whirl. 

Skipping  and  twirling, 

Ina,  my  Pearl. 

Hair  blown  in  frizzles, 

Beady  to  curl. 

Color  of  amber, 

Ina,  my  Pearl. 

Cheeks  like  moss-rose  buds 

Ere  they  unfurl, 

Cunnlngest  dimples, 

Ina,  my  Pearl. 

Eyes  like  a  gentian, 

Voice  like  a  merl. 

Ready  to  chatter, 

Ina,  my  Pearl. 

Happy  as  su  tishine. 

Rich  as  an  earl. 

That  is  my  baby, 

Ina,  my  Pearl. 


DR.  GEORGE  W.  FUREY. 

The  poems  of  this  gentleman  have  appeared 
in  some  of  the  leading  publications  of  Amer- 
ica, from  which  they  have  been  extensively 
copied  by  the  local  press.  Dr.  Furey  prac- 
tices his  profession  at  Sunbury,  Pennsyl- 
vania, where  he  is  well  known  and  highly 
respected  both  as  a  scholar  and  gentleman. 

SPARROWS. 
You  may  sing  of  the  glad  happy  springtime. 
Its  flowers,  its  fast  budding  trees  I 
Of  the  joy  it  brings  to  our  north  clime. 
And  of  all  its  efforts  to  please; 
Of  the  gambols  of  lambs  on  the  hillside. 
The  rippling  of  brooks  through  the  plain; 
But  a  dirge  I'll  chant  this  eventide 
For  music  we'll  hear  not  again. 
You  may  sit  at  your  home  in  the  city. 
Or  ride  through  the  country's  soft  breeze. 
And  you'll  notice  the  absence,  with  pity. 
Of  song  birds  among  the  old  trees. 


© 


© 


® 


628 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


Where  tliere  once  was  a  medley — enchanting'. 
From  robin,  and  blue-bird,  and  thrush. 
You  will  hear  nothing  now  but  a  canting 
From  meadow,  and  woodland,  and  brush. 

"  Not  a  sparrow  shall  fall "  saith  the  good  book 
Which  spares  them  from  carnal  comment; 
But,  I  modestly  offer  this  outlook: 
Was  the  English  sparrow  then  meant? 
With  their  numbers  and  mien-overbearing. 
They've  crowded  our  song-birds  away; 
And  they're  not  even  willing  of  sharing 
A  nest-rlght  on  eves,  branch,  or  spiay. 

What  a  type  of  heredity  are  they ! 
What  emblems  of  England,  alone! 
How  they  "press-g'ang-  "  our  chippy,  and  blue 

jay. 
With  their  harsh  rasping-  rhythm  and  tone. 
I  opine,  when  the  great  book  is  shown  us. 
Of  matters  domestic  and  state, 
'Twill  appear  they  were  sent  here  to  tone  us 
For  the  Alabama's  sad  fate. 


© 


OLD  SHOES. 
Up  in  the  garret,  sprinkled  and  gray 
With  dust  of  the  past  and  mold  of  to-day, 
Cobwebs  in  plenty,  rubbage  supreme 
Clinging  about  and  everywhere  seem 
Straps  of  old  harness,  broken-down  chairs. 
Grandmother's  spindle  set  free  from  its  cares 
Seed-corn  and  onions,  flax,  thyme  and  sage 
Hang  from  the  rafters  beside  an  old  cage. 

Coiled  round  a  stringer,  up  from  the  mice. 
Serpentine  sausages  dappled  and  nice. 
Bottoms  of  wash-tubs,  hoops  of  old  pails, 
Grandfather's    clock    and   quaint    thrashing 

flails, 
Brass-headed    "dogs,"    "dutch    oven"    and 

"  crane," 
All  tarnished  and  rusty,  long  there  have  lain, 
Back  in  a  corner,  musty,  profuse, 
ReUct  of  the  past  —  a  pile  of  old  shoes. 

Gaiters  and  brogans,  rubbers  and  kips, 
Gumboots  and  stoggies,  and  wee  copper  tips, 
Grandfather's  sandals  long  been  forgot, 
Mother's  old  slippers  —  best  known  of  the  lot; 
Once  they  were  useful,  once  they  were  new, 
Some  were  admired  before  they  wore  through; 
All  of  them  gave  us  naught  to  abuse, 
Now  they're  forgotten  a  pile  of  old  shoes. 

How  like  the  friendships  back  in  our  past 
That  fitted  the  form  and  length  of  our  last. 
Bent  with  our  instep,  wrinked  at  each  corn. 
Hid  our  torn  stockings,  faded  and  worn. 
Kept  off  the  dust  and  mud  of  the  street. 
Cold  of  the  winter,  or  summer's  great  heat, 
Wlien  inconvenient  for  us  to  use 
Up  in  the  garret  we  sent  the  old  shoes. 


Where  are  ambitions  of  school-days  gone. 
What  of  the  plans  and  our  hopes  pro  and  con? 

Most  of  the  precepts  urging  to  strive 
Promising  riches  or  wherewith  to  thrive? 
Back  in  the  bygone  —  ghosts  we  revere. 
Covered  with  cobwebs  and  dust,  now,  we  fear 
Once  they  betrayed  us  once  did  they  loose, 
And  up  the  garret  we  sent  the  old  shoes. 

Our  good  intentions* and  worthy  pains 
Must  accrue  unto  us  m  present  gains 
Or  we'll  take  them  back,  lament  their  fate 
As  a  foregone  bid  on  luck's  made-up  slate. 
Yet,  stand  for  the  right,  do  what  we  can. 
Aim  not  too  high,  nor  too  far  to  span, 
Suflice  with  enough  —  wish  what  we  choose 
And  life's  best  results  will  not  be  old  shoes. 


HARRIET   S.  BAKER. 

Born:  Norkidgewock,  Me.,  Sept.  11, 1829. 
For  manj'  years  Miss  Baker  has  been  an  in- 
valid. The  thoughts  of  this  poet  have  gen- 
erally been  given  on  religious  themes.  Miss 
Harriet  Baker  received  representation  in 
Woman  Workers  and  also  in  Poets  of  Maine. 
She  has  also  had  great  success  in  writing 
prose.  Miss  Baker  is  still  a  resident  of  her 
native  town,  where  she  is  well  known  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  host  of  friends. 


WALKING  BY  FAITH. 

The  sunshine  kisseth  the  tall  tree  tops, 

In  the  early  morning  light, 
While  the  dew  on  the  lofty  mountain's  peak, 

Sparkles  like  diamonds  bright. 

But  over  the  lowly  valley.s. 

Or  down  the  mountains  steep ; 
Dark  and  gloamy  shadows. 

Continually  creep. 

As  the  king  of  day  ariseth, 

He  sheds  o'er  all  the  earth 
A  sea  of  wondrous  glory. 

As  at  creation's  birth ! 

The  rivulets  right  cheerily. 

Go  laughingly  along; 
While  glad  birds  fill  the  perfumed  air, 

With  sweetest  praise  and  song. 

Tho'  clouds  within  us  hide  God's  face. 

He  ever  loves  us  still; 
And  sweet  the  peace  when  we  can  bow. 

Submissive  to  his  will! 

His  love  shall  turn  to  golden  day 

The  spirit's  darkest  night:— 
Triumphant  then  we  rise  to  walk. 

By  faith  —  and  not  bj-  sight. 


© 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEIIICA. 


-* 


629 


ELIAS  \VERDEN. 

Born:  New  Marlbro,  Mass.,  April  26, 1816. 
A  LITTLE  volume  entitled  Sketclies  iu  Prose 
and  Verse  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Elias  Wcrden 
has  ret't'ivi'd   hiy'i 


iiiint'nil:iti(iii 


ELIAS  WEHDEN. 

press  and  many  literary  people  of  prominence. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Werden  occasionally  ap- 
pear in  the  periodical  press.  He  still  resides 
in  his  native  state  at  Pittsfield,  where  he 
passes  the  time  in  reading  and  literary  work. 


SILVER  LAKE. 
On  the  borders  of  Pittsfield,  Mass., 

There  is  a  treasure  called  Silver  Lake: 
It  should  be  more  admired. 

And  devoutly  loved  for  conscience  sake. 

The  precious  gift,  from  Nature's  hand. 

At  your  door  is  freely  laid: 
The  charm  in  patience  waiting  still, 

A  place  of  beauty  it  should  be  made. 

The  gem  itself  is  bright  and  fair. 

All  it  needs  is  proper  care; 
The  time  is  not  so  far  away 

When  you'll  wonder  at  such  delay. 

When  on  my  bosom  you  swiftly  glide. 
You'll  sing  my  praise  with  joy  and  pride, 

Then  on  my  shore  can  walk  or  ride; 
You'll  have  these  things  when  you  decide. 


BEAUTIFUL  GRASS. 
I  love  the  tiny  bits  of  grass. 

Bedecked  with  pearls  of  dew. 
What  a  charm  it  would  inspire 

If  'twas  only  something  new. 

How  can  it  be  we  fail  to  see 

The  precious  gift  from  Nature's  hand  — 
The  lovely  grass  in  colors  bright. 

And  how  it  grows  at  God's  command"? 

The  Lord  he  knows  how  many  spires, 
But  we  of  this  have  little  tliought. 

Behold  tiie  field  in  bright  array 
And  don't  forget  what  God  bath  wrought. 

Tlie  grass  at  first  is  short  and  fine. 

But  later  on  it  goes  to  seed. 
The  sons  of  toil  secure  the  gift. 

The  useful  grass  we  so  much  need. 

The  lawn,  the  lawn,  oh  what  a  charm! 

The  sight  of  which  we  never  tire. 
Nature's  carpet,  soft  and  bright. 

Of  all  things  else  we  most  admire. 

One  lone  spire  would  not  be  much, 
Tho'  far  beyond  the  skill  of  man; 

How  great,  how  small,  the  ways  of  him. 
Reflect  and  ponder  all  you  can. 


THE  BICYCLE. 
What  on  earth  is  that  I  see? 

Something  sailing  near  the  ground. 
It  shines  and  glistens  on  the  w;ij-. 

In  silence  whirling  round  and  round. 

My  motion  is  pleasant  to  the  sight. 

My  tread  is  soft  and  light, 
I  have  no  wings,  I  cannot  fly. 

But  like  a  phantom  pass  you  bj'. 

My  main  support  is  made  of  wire, 
Then  the  rim  and  rubber  tire; 

I  make  no  fuss,  but  some  display, 
I  sail,  and  roll,  and  whirl  away. 

Was  long  in  coming,  as  you  see. 
The  world  has  waited  long  for  me. 

The  boys  rejoice  that  I  am  here. 
All  hail  the  day  I  did  appear. 

My  way  is  straight  or  on  the  curve," 
My  riders  have  a  steadj-  nerve, 

I  never  tire  or  stop  to  eat. 
But  whirl  away  a  friend  to  meet. 

I  might  be  called  a  rolling  horse. 
But  take  no  pride  in  such  a  name, 

I  only  ask  an  even  chance. 
Can  plainly  see  I'm  sure  of  fame. 

Can  neither  canter,  trot,  or  pace. 
But  whirl  awaj'  with  speed  and  grace; 

I  never  balk  nor  run  away. 
But  where  you  leave  me  I  will  stay. 


-« 


®- 


630 


9 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMKUICA. 


HENRY  W.HOLLEY. 

Born  :  Pierrepont  Manor,  N. Y.,  May  5, 1828. 

From  an  early  ag-e  Henry  W.  HoUey  has  con- 
tributed extensively  to  periodical  literature. 
He  has  published  three  works  in  rhyme  en- 
titled Moods  and  Emotions  in  Khyme,  The 
Politicians  and  Other  Poems,  and  What  I 
Thinlj,  a  satire.    Two  works  in  prose  have  ap- 


HENRY  W.   HOLLEY. 

peared  from  the  pen  of  this  writer,  entitled 
the  Hegg-ensvi lie's  Papers,  and  Random  Shots 
at  Living-  Targets.  As  an  autlior  Mr.  Holley 
has  achieved  great  success,  and  the  press 
speaks  in  glowing  terms  of  both  liis  prose  and 
verse.  He  was  married  in  1855  to  Miss  Eliza 
J.  Christie,  and  is  a  r'Bsident  of  Winnebago 
City,  Minn. 


«- 


DREAMLAND. 
Into  the  summer  sky  listlessly  gazing: 

Dreaming  by  daylight  a  beautiful  dream; 
Turreted  castles  from  fleecy  clouds  raising. 

Where  I  betake  me,  a  monarch  supreme; 

On  the  rapt  soul  no  trace  of  a  sorrow- 
Over  the  vision  no  shadows  are  flung;  — 

No  gloomy  fears  of  disaster  to-morrow. 
Linger  these  glories  of  dreamland  among! 

Hushed  is  tlie  wild  din  of  life's  busy  clan- 
gor; — 


Quiet  is  brooding  o'er  earth,  air  and  sea;  — 
Life's  dreary  routine,  work,  restlessness,  an- 
ger, 
Comes  not  to  harass  or  disquiet  me ; 

Glorious  to  breathe  the  sweet  breath  of  im- 
mortals. 

Freed  of  life's  attributes,  sorrow  and  pain; 
Ah !  they  who  enter  these  ideal  portals. 

Never  come  back  to  the  real  again ! 

Oh !  the  great  world  in  its  wonderful  splendor, 
With  these  bright  day  dreams  has  naught  to 
compare; 

Nothing  to  give  like  the  ecstasy  tender. 
Which  the  rapt  dreamers  in  fairyland  share; 

Fie!  on  the  hunt  for  a  name  and  its  glory; 

Fie!  on  success  and  its  answering  bliss; 
You  take  the  years  which  shape  heroic  story, 

Give  me  the  rapture  of  moments  like  this! 

Here  'mong  the  clouds  if  you  choose  to  deride 
me, 

Fool  like  I  may  be.  but  happy  I  sit; 
Angels  above  me,  below  me,  beside  me. 

In  the  warm  love-light  of  memory  flit; 

Scoff  if  you  choose,  me  thus  listlessly  dream- 
ing. 
Riding  the  sky  in  my  chariot  of  gold ;  — 
To   your   lieart   seared   by  life's   every  day 
scheming. 
Never  has  been  such  enchantment  unroll- 
ed! 

Scoffer,  forsooth!  your  sneer  of  derision, 
Proudly  accepted.  I  wear  as  a  crown; 

Scoffer,  forsooth!  when  the  joys  of  Elysian, 
Lavishly  on  my  day-dreamings  come  down; 

Scorn,  if  you  choose,  me,  with  glance,  lip  and 
finger, 

Yet  I  must  float  down  the  beautiful  stream; 
Still  'mong  its  castles  enchanted  Minger, 

Still,  'neath  the  blue  sky  delighted  I  dream! 

Fie !  on  the  race  for  the  gold-bearing  moun- 
tains; 
The  years  of  unrest  for  the  glittering  spoil: 
The   head's   cruel    schemes   and   the  heart's 
dried-up  fountains. 
The  nights  of   unrest,  and  the  long  days  of 
toil; 
The  conscience  all  seared  to  the  sweet  call  of 
duty, 
The     usurers     coffers,  —  the    conqueror'.* 
crown;  — 
Oh  !  dreamland,  one  glimpse  of  thy  wonderful 
beauty. 
Hath  torn  f loni  my  altars  these  base  idols  , 
down! 


SB- 


« 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


631 


9 


REV.  ISAAC  K.  BROWNSON. 

Born:  Smithfield,  N.Y.,  July  6, 1810. 
This  g-entlem:iii  is  a  giaduate  of  Hamilton 
Literary  and  Tlieolog-ieal   Seminary.    He  still 
follows  the  calliiijr  of  a   Haptist  iiunister  in 


REV.  ISAAC  K.  BROWNSON. 

his  native  st:ite  at  Fayetteville.  Commencing- 
towritever.se  in  his  youth,  the  poems  of  the 
Rev.  Brownson  have  appeared  more  or  less 
for  the  past  half  century  in  the  periodical 
press. 


SHADOWS. 
The  reddening  rays  along  the  western  sky, 
And  deepening- shadows  tell  the  night  draws 

on, 
Disporting-  swallows  to  their  chimneys  fly 
And  home-bound  laborers  tell  their  work  is 

done. 
If  opening  day  is  joyous,  so  its  close 
When  weary  toilers  seek  their  sweet  repose. 
But  brightest  summer   days   and    blooming 

flowers 
Can  scarce  allure  me  from  my  care  and  pnin, 
Through   starht   night   serene    I    count   the 

hours 
And  morning's  blushing  smiles  seem  almost 

vain. 
Ungrateful  and  profane  were  yet  the  sigh, 
My  waning  days  of  life  should  thus  go  by. 
A  sentinel  before  death's  iron  gate. 


In  anxious  vigils  and  uplifted  prayer, 
With  weary  partner  of  my  life  I  wait 
Seeking  to  stay  while  her  entrance  there; 
I  tread  but  softly  as  on  holy  ground 
While  unseen  spirits  seem  to  wait  around. 
We  know  not  scenes  which  time  may  yet  re- 
veal, 
Yet  this  we  know,—  that  Providence  is  kind; 
With  steadfast  hearts  till  Heaven  shall  break 

the  seal 
We  know  'tis  merciful  that  we  are  blind; 
We're  nearing  harbor  of  the  unknown  coast 
With  guiding  pilot  who  cannot  be  lost. 
It  shall  be  well,—  no  ill  can  us  betide; 
He  who  led  Israel's  host  in  shining  cloud 
Appoints  our   way,— and  walks  with  us  be- 
side. 
To  gain  a  heritage  not  here  allowed; 
Princes  to  be,— ours  be  the  princely  part 
To  know  no  doubt  or  feebleness  of  heart. 

The  day  is  mightier  than  the  darksome  night. 
The  summer's    sun    subdues    cold    winter's 

reign. 
So  life  shall  conquer  death,—  and  put  to  flight 
Its  kindred  elements  of  ill  and  pain ; 
We  lift  our   heads  in  weakness  thus  bowed 

down 
And  wait  for  healing  and  a  fadeless  crown. 


WOMAN'S  SMILES. 
Before  a  maiden  group  I  stood. 
Whose  varied  features,  dress  and  mien 
■Revealed  the  forms  where  graces  brood 
And  only  blush  when  they  are  seen. 
Where  all  are  lovely  who  of  all 
Attract  and  fix  our  restful  eyes? 
Not  form  symmetric,— short  or  tall 
Nor  dress,  complexion  quite  suffice. 
True,— well-formed  lineaments  of  face 
With  speaking  eyes  and  tasteful  dress, 
Where  culture  adds  its  magic  grace. 
Are  powers  to  hold  love's  fond  caress. 
Yet  smiles  which  from  kind  nature  spring 
Yield  charms  that  else  had  been  denied. 
And  like  the  sunbeams  o'er  us  fling 
A  sweetness  to  the  heart  allied. 
More  winsome  than  adorning  gold 
Or  gems  that  fancj'oft  beguile,— 
Subduing  hearts  to  gentler  mold 
Is  woman's  native  artless  smile. 
The  lily's  breath  or  dewy  rose  -- 
The  azure  of  the  sky  above. 
Not  more  of  pleasing  beauty  shows 
Or  more  attracts  the  heart  to  love. 
Who  can  its  mystic  power  explahi? 
Or  sever  'twixt  the  false  and  true? 
A  smirk  is  false,— a  giggle  vain,— 
Yet  the  heart  smile  like  morning  dew. 


ee 


©■ 


632 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMERICA. 


-© 


Smiles  are  love's  garb  in  dress  parade. 
And  much  adorn  a  soul  sincere; 
When  forced,  as  oft  to  masquerade, 
Their  fond  encliantraents  disappear. 


®- 


LOOKING  TOWARD  SUNSET. 
I  see  the  evening-  shadows  lengthen  fast 
And  dariiness  will  succeed  with  chill  and 
cold. 
Yet  day  seems  mightier  when  its  strength  is 
past. 
It  paints  the  heavens  with  sheets  of  burn- 
ished gold. 
As   one  with  friends  reluctant,   must  needs 
part. 
Yet  with  his  ardent  blessing  would  dismiss. 
The  golden  sun  earth  presses  to  his  heart, 
And  like  a  lover  leaves  with  all  —  a  kiss. 
If  day  be  parable  of  man's  estate, 
Mark— it  begins  with  eve  and  ends  with 
morn, 
The  night  between  is  much  annihilate. 

Then  we  awake  and  rise  as  if  new-born. 
The  primal  day  was  from  the  twilight  hour: 
The  night  was  tempered  with  some  lesser 
light; 
Day  shall  he  victor  in  exalted  power 
Wlien  resurrection  splendors  bauisli  night. 
The  sunset  now  is  day's  triumphant  hour. 
When  down  the  vault  of  heaven  his  chariot 
goes ; 
Calling  earth's  weary  toilers  to  his  bower 
He  banquets  all  in  slumbrous  repose. 

Tliis  is  indeed  the  King's  prepared  highway 

Where  myriad  pilgrims  ages  past  have  trod, 
Those  golden  tints  suffusing  closing  daj' 

Are  but  i-eflections  from  the  gates  of  God. 
Yet  o'er  the  hills  there  lies  a  darksome  vale. 

Passing  through    which  we  reach  a  river 
stream 
Where  sight,  and  sense  and  human  vigor  fail. 

And  glorious  life  subsides  as  if  a  dream. 
This  is  but  sense;—  that  vale  has  angel  bands 

Whose    radiance     seem     reflections    from 
above ; 
And  through  that  tide,  dispersed  by  cherub 
hands. 

Conduct  tho  pilgrims  to  the  realm  of  love. 
Why  so  reluctant  quit  our  earthly  state. 

With  Christ  to  tread  sepulchral  shadows  dim? 
From  out  tliose  depths  eternal  honors  wait  — 

In  both  alike  we  must  be  joined  with  him. 
I  dread  not  parting  with  what  sense  is  fond. 

Nor  fear    that  slumber   which  my  Savior 
blest, 
Since  hope  embraces  life  that  lies  beyond. 

That  life  triumphant  by  the  saints  possessed. 
There  comes  a  loneliness  with  added  years. 


Through  junior  throngs   are  pressing  hard 
behind: 
A  buried  world  of  friends,  deeds,  smiles  and 
tears, 
Wiiere  our  hearts  live,  while  those  to  these 
are  blind. 
With  love  and  pity  toward  all  human  born 

I  soon  shall  pass,  alike  to  all  unknown; 
My  day  is  blest  both  bj^  the  flower  and  thorn ; 
What  if  still  more,  I  gain  a  fadeless  crown. 
Should  fiery  trials  come  ere  life  be  past. 
Lord,  be  my  help,    nor  yet  my  prayer  up- 
braid — 
My  strength,  a  sparrow's  wing  amidst  the  blast 

Be  thou.  Omnipotent!  my  present  aid. 
Lord,  I  have  purposed  keeping  to  the  right. 

Pardon  wherein  my  feet  have  gone  astray; 

I  yield  to  the  my  powers,—  trusting  thy  might 

Will  safely  lead  beyond  where  shadows  play. 


IVER  CLIFGARD. 

Born:  Blue  Mounds,  Wis.,  Oct.  20, 1869. 
Mr.Clifgard  follows  the  profession  of  school 
teaching,  aspires  to  become  a  lecturer,and  has 
already  appeared  on  the  platform.  His  poems 
have  appeared  in  the  Mount  Horeb  Sun  and 
the  local  press  generally. 


THE  STAIN. 
There  never  was  a  man  so  great. 

There  never  was  a  scene  so  grand; 
But  'neath  its  garb  of  splendor  laid 

That  which  its  face  witli  shame  could  brand. 
There  never  was  a  youth  so  gay. 

Nor  ever  a  maiden  so  fair; 
But  upon  their  life's  pathway  lay 

Of  grief,  and  of  sorrow  their  share. 
There  never  was  a  state  so  strong. 

Nor  enlightened,  wealthy  or  vain; 
But  witliin  its  dominion  a  wrong 

Was  found  that  brought  it  grief  and  shame. 

So  our  union  though  strong  and  great. 

Though  full  of  freedom,  wealth  and  fun; 
The  greatest  curse  of  any  state 

In  its  very  midst  is  found  —  rum. 
Ought  not  the  cries  of  bitter  grief. 

Ought  not  the  oozing  blood  that  calls 
To  God  for  revenge,  mtike  at  least 

Uncle  Sam  shiver  behind  his  walls. 
Ought  not  the  agonizing  shrieks, 

Or  the  assassin's  bloody  deed 
Persuade  those  who  ruin's  mansion  seeks. 

Never  its  attentions  to  heed. 
Cease  not  to  the  world  to  proclaim. 

That  rum  is  its  mightiest  foe. 
Blow  the  trumpet  unceasingly 

As  onward  to  victory  we  go. 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POKTS    OF  AMEllICA. 


G33 


« 


JAMES  M.  KERR. 

Foil  tlie  past  decade  Mr.  Kerr  has  been  a  law 
editor  and  writer.  Jones'  Index  of  Legal  Per- 
iodicals g-ives  Mr.  Kerr  credit   witli  Imving- 

wiiilcii    iiiorr  ailiclcs    for     tliu    \arious   law 


JAMES  M.  KERR. 

magazines  of  tlie  country,  wiiicli  were  worthy 
of  preservation,  than  anj'  living'  writer,  ex- 
cept Irving  Brown,  editor  of  the  Albany  Law 
Journal.  He  is  a  raeml)er  of  the  law  firm  of 
Chamberlain  and  Kerr,  of  Rocliester,  N.Y., 
where  he  stands  high  as  an  attorney  and 
journalist. 


m 


THE  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

A  PARODY. 

Tell  us  not  in  idle  jingle, 
"Life  is  but  an  empty  dream," 

For  the  girl  is  dead  that's  single. 
And  things  are  not  wliat  they  seem. 

Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest. 
Single-blessedness  a  fib; 

Man  thou  art,  to  man  returneth. 
Has  been  spoken  of  the  rib. 

Not  enjoyment  and  not  sorrow 
Is  our  destined  end  or  way; 

But  act  that  each  to-morrow 
Finds  ns  nearer  marriage-day. 

Life  is  long  and  youth  is  fleeting-. 
And  our  hearts  though  light  and  gay, 

Still  like  pleasant  drums  are  beating 
Wedding-marches  all  the  day. 


In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle. 
In  the  l)ivouac  of  life. 

Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  — 
Be  a  heroine  —  a  wife ! 

Trust  no  future,  howe'er  pleasant; 
Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead; 

Act  —  act  in  the  living  present, 
Hoping  lor  a  spouse  aliead. 

Lives  of  married  folks  remind  us 
We  can  live  our  lives  as  well. 

And  departing  leave  behind  us 
Such  examples  as  will  tell  — 

Such  example  that  another. 
Wasting-  time  in  idle  sport. 

A  forlorn,  uniiiarried  brother 
Seeing  shall  take  heart  and  court. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  on  triumph  set; 

Still  contriving,  still  pursuing. 
And  each  one  a  husband  get. 


JAMES  W.  JOHNSON. 

Born:  Muskingum  Co.,  Ohio,  June  31, 1849. 
For  several  years  Mr.  Johnson  was  prominent 
in  public  school  work,  and  is  now  the  well- 
known  editor  of  the  Saturday  Weekly  Globe 
of  O.skaloosa,  Iowa.  As  grade  teaclier,  high 
school  principal  and  city  superintendent  he 
was  alwaj's  popular  and  successful.  He  was 
married  in  1873  to  Delia  Wilson.  The  poems 
of  Mr.    Johnson  have  been  widely  published. 

MY  MOTHER. 
In  a  quaint,  old  prairie  town. 
Where  the  road  goes  winding- down 
'Mid  woodlands  and  rich  farms. 
Where  the  school  o'erlooks  the  hill. 
And  the  folks  two  churches  fill 
Every  Sunday  morning. 
Where  busy  people  work  or  rest, 
And  wliatsoever  is,  is  best. 
To  them  there  lives  my  mother. 
Tlireads  of  gray  are  in  her  hair. 
Flying  years  have  brought  her  care. 
And  oft  times  false  alarms. 
Friends  have  gone  to  other  lands. 
Or  have  crossed  the  golden  sands. 
Some  home  there  adorning. 
Her  own  have  sought  new  homes  afar. 
But  that  old  gate  stands  yet  ajar, 
For  us  where  lives  my  mother. 
O  do  not  "  teach  me  to  forget" 
Her  life  and  love,  I  cherisli  yet, 
Her  goodness  and  her  charms. 
Sin  and  grief  may  thouglit  dethrone. 
Fortune  flee  and  friends  disown, 
E'en  my  memory  scorning-. 
But  not  she,  -n-hose  love  sublime 
Follows  me  in  every  clime. 
Not  she,  my  angel  mother. 


-® 


*- 


634 


LOCAL.   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  KATE  S.  KISNER. 

Born:  Whiteside  Co.,  III,.,  April  26, 1858. 
At  the  age  of  sixteen  this  hidy  removed  to 
Pennsylvania,  and  four  years  later  was  mar- 
ried to  Yetman  E.  Kisner,  with  whom  she  now 
resides  at  Hazleton.  As  an  authoress  and 
newspaper    correspondent    she  has  gained 


I\IKS.  KATE  S.  KISNEIi. 

quite  a  reputation,  and  lier  poems  have  ap- 
peared in  some  of  the  leading-  publications. 
Mrs.  Kisner  is  the  author  of  several  novels: 
Eve,  or  Lights  and  Shadows  of  a  Girl's  Life; 
Me  and  Bijah,  a  humorous  story,  and  Except 
These  Bonds.  Her  poems  would  fill  a  volume. 

EIGHT  STAGES  OF  A  WOMAN'S  LIFE. 
At  the  caseinent  plays  a  baby. 

Laughing-,  cooing-  with  delig:ht. 
While  dimples  play  at  hide-and-seek 

On  lier  flesh  all  pink  and  white. 
At  the  casement  sits  a  young-  girl 

With  a  sweet  and  modest  air. 
Weaving-  g-arlands  of  wliite  daisies 

For  her  wealth  of  waving  liair. 
At  the  casement  sits  a  maiden 

Wondrous  fair  and  wondrous  wise; 
A  golden  circlet  on  her  finger 

And  a  love-lig-ht  in  lier  eyes. 
At  the  casement  sits  a  lady,— 

She,  the  bride  of  yesterday; 
Thinking  of  the  vows  she  uttered 

Which  bound  both  heart  and  hand  away. 


®- 


At  the  casement  sits  a  matron 

With  a  babe  upon  her  breast. 
Which  she,  with  tenderest  loves  caresses, 

And  proves  herself  a  mother  blest. 
At  the  casement  sits  a  mother, 

Wliile  a  youth  beside  her  stands, 
Wliom  she  has  nestled  in  her  bosom  — 

Now  he  will  shield  her  with  his  hands. 
At  the  casement  sits  a  woman 

Ag-ed  —  feeble  —  wrinkled  —  bent. 
With  a  hoar  frost  on  her  tresses 

Waiting  her  last  summons  to  be  sent. 
At  the  casement  rests  a  casket  — 

A  woman's  cold  clay  rests  within; 
Her  waiting-  soul  has  fled  its  portals 

And  joined  a  throng  all  free  from  sin 


THE  MAN  I  LOVE. 
The  man  of  my  heart's  own  choice. 
Doth  make  my  soul  rejoice; 
He  is  wondrous  fair, 
With  gold-burnished  hair. 
And  a  kind  and  winsome  voice. 
He  has  the  classic  brow  of  a  sage. 
And  his  life  is  a  clean,  white  page; 
And  naug-ht  will  he  do, 
To  make  him  blush  to 
Keflecton  it  in  old  age. 
His  eyes  are  like  Heaven's  own  blue, 
And  his  heart  is  just  as  true; 
And  he  loves  me,  oh, 
And  his  children,  so! 
There  is  naught  for  us  he  would  not  do. 
He  is  not  very  great  in  size. 
But  he  is,  oh,  so  very  wise; 
And  there  is  naught  to  compare 
Witli  the  light  that  shines  there. 
In  those  luminous  soul-lit  eyes. 

PEN  PICTURE  OF  THE  GIRL  I  LOVE. 
The  girl  I  love  has  lips  like  cherries,— 
Eyes  as  black  as  the  blackest  berries ; 
Cheeks  as  red  as  the  dewy  rose. 
And,  oh,  the  sweetest,  prettiest  nose! 
Ears  like  the  shells  of  the  ocean's  hue. 
And  just  as  pink  and  as  dainty,  too; 
A  brow  as  fair  as  the  white  swan's  breast, 
Hair  as  black  as  the  raven's  crest. 
Neck  like  a  marble  column  grand. 
Encircled  about  by  a  golden  strand. 
With  a  bust  as  round  as  Venis  of  old. 
And  a  heart  beneath  it  as  pure  as  gold; 
Arms  and  limbs  so  taper  and  fair. 
As  to  rival  the  goddess  of  beauty  there; 
Hands  so  strong,  and  shiipely,  too, 
Which  many  an  act  of  kindness  do; 
Feet  that  a  sculptor  mightenvy  in  vain,[rani 
Which  carries  my  darling  tlirough  sun  :iii« 
A  soul  free  from  stain  as  the  angels  above, 
And  this  is  the  picture  of  the  girl  I  love. 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   I'OETS   OF  AMERICA. 


635 


-« 


MRS.  EMMA  M.  ANDERSON. 

Born:  Ashe  Co.,N.  C,  Oct.  U,  1855. 

When  she  was  three  years  of  ag-e  her  parents 
removed  to  Beaufort,  where  she  lived  until 
her  father's  death  iu  1865.  After  receiving-  her 
education  Emm;i  was  employed  as  govei-ness 
until  her  marriage  in  1881  to  Mr.  S.  C.Anderson 


MRS.  EMMA  MARY  ANDERSON. 

of  Durliam,  where  she  lias  since  resided  with 
her  husband  and  children.  From  her  g-irlhood 
this  lady  has  shown  a  decided  fondness  for 
poetry,  and  many  of  her  pieces  have  appeared 
in  the  papers  of  her  state.  Mrs.  Anderson  has 
for  some  time  contemplated  the  publication  of 
her  poems  in  booli-form. 


91 


THE  FLOWER  GARDEN. 
"Once  upon  a  time,"  little  cliildren, 

(For  that's  the  way  stories  begin,) 
There  was  a  beautiful  garden 

With  many  flowers  tlierein. 
Rich  and  radiant  blossoms. 

Crimson  colored  and  rare, 
Blusliing  roses,  and  lilies, 

Tall,  stately,  and  fair. 
Beds  of  velvety  pansies. 

Purple  and  black,  and  gold; 
Queenly  tulips,  bright  and  gay. 

Too  many  to  be  told. 


Vines  of  honeysuckles. 

Making  sweet  tlie  air. 
And  tlie  pure  white  jasmine. 

Fragrant  and  so  fair. 

Flaunting  scarlet  poppies. 

Holding  higli  their  heads. 
Dainty  little  crocuses 

Peeping  from  their  beds. 

I  cati't  begin  to  tell  you. 

Of  all  the  flowers  there. 
But  the  sweetest  little  blossom 

In  all  that  garden  fair, 

Was  a  little  bhie-cyed  violet 

Nestling  in  its  bed, 
While  on  all  around 

A  sweet  perfume  it  shed. 

'Tis  said  one  day  a  meeting 

Of  all  the  flowers  was  called. 
And  a  prize  was  to  be  given 

To  the  fairest  of  them  all. 

And  then  the  flaunting  poppies, 

The  lily  fair  and  tall, 
Tlie  proud  rose  and  the  tulip, 

Set  forth,  one  and  all. 

Each  thinking  vainly  to  herself, 
"  The  prize  is  mine,  I'm  sure;" 

But  alas !  for  their  silly  pride. 
It  did  not  long  endure. 

For  as  they  passed  along  their  waj% 

Close  bj'  the  violet's  bed. 
That  little  flower,  to  see  them  pass. 

Held  up  its  tiny  head. 

And  then  the  judge  espied  it, 
'Mid  leaves  and  grasses  green. 

And  cried, "The  ])rize  is  yours,"  for  ne'er 
Such  beauty  had  lie  seen. 

So  lovely  and  and  so  modest, 
'Tis  that  that  makes  you  fair, 

And  makes  you  lovelier  far  than  these. 
Though  they  be  rich  and  rare. 

Do  you  know  little  children. 

This  world's  a  garden  fair? 
And  you  are  little  blossoms. 

Blooming  everywhere? 

And  do  you  know  some  day 

A  blessed  Judge  will  come. 
To  take  the  fairest  blos.soms 

Up  to  a  brighter  lionie? 

And  as  the  little  violet. 

Fulfilled  its  mission  here. 
And  murmured  not  in  sun  or  rain. 

But  counted  both  so  dear. 

So  every  flower  that  blooms  aright 

Then  will  receive  a  prize, 
A  home  and  be  transplanted  there 

To  bloom  in  Paradise. 


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®- 


© 


636 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


CLARA  BELLE  SOUTHWELL. 

Bokn:  Lima,N.Y.,  April 9,  1868. 
From  1884  to  1888   Miss   Southwell  attended 
Albion  College.    She  takes  a  great  interest  in 
literiturc,  and  now  dt>votes  niueh  of  her  time 


ri.ARA  BKI.LE  SOUTHWKM-. 

to  composition.  Her  poems  have  api'eared  in 
the  Michigan  Farmer,  Marshall  Statesman 
and  numerous  other  papers.  She  is  now  a 
resident  of  Marshall,  Michigan. 

MY  FOUR  SHIPS. 
T  stood  on  the  shore  of  a  Iwundless  main. 

Which  no  seaman  with  com])ass  and  chart 
Could  ever  explore,  for  so  broad  is  the  sea 

Of  desires  of  tlie  human  heart. 
Many  and  long  were  the  hours  I  spent 
In  gazing  across  the  breast 
1    Of  this  wildly  sobbing-  and  throbbing  main, 
Which  never  has  found  its  rest. 
I  waited  to  see  four  tall,  gallant  ships 

Come  sailing  across  the  blue  — 
Four  beautiful  ships  that  were  all  my  own, 

So  handsome,  and  gay  and  new. 
One  was  wealth,  who  would  bring  me  gold. 

And  satins  and  jewels  fine; 
,0!  a  happy  mortal  would  I  be 
When  this  brave  ship  was  mine. 
The  next  was  fame  — who  was  laden  with 

Great  bales  of  praise,  and  I 
Watched  anxiously  for  fame,  who'd  sail 
E'en  after  T  should  die. 

m 


Another,  love,  whose  chief  est  load 

Was  happiness  divine. 
But  love  was  frail,  I  almost  feared 

To  make  her  wholly  mine. 
The  last  was  hope,  a  gallant  ship 

On  goodly  mission  sent, 
Wliose  freight  was  faith  in  that  which  lies 

Beyond,  and  true  content. 
Many  winds  arose  one  day 

And  made  a  white-capped  wave 
Dash  over  wealth,  and  now  she  lies 

Deep  in  a  watery  grave. 
Fame  was  sailing  bravely  on  — 

Eager  for  home  and  me. 
When  winds  of  fate  blew  from  the  north 

And  she  was  lost  at  sea. 
Suspicious  cloud  once  came  low  down. 

And  love  was  frail,  you  know; 
She  struggled,  but  suspicious  wind 
Drove  her  to  depths  below. 
!    One  day  the  clouds  of  sorrow  came 
Low  down  upon  the  shore; 
I  gazed  across  the  waves  and  thought 

My  ships  sailed  there  no  more. 
When  lo!  a  tall,  white  sail  is  seen 

Far  out  upon  the  sea. 
And  there  amidst  the  clouds  and  fog 

My  hope  sailed  back  to  me. 
Tho'  love,  and  fame  and  wealth  were  lost. 

I  look  beyond  and  see 
Visions  of  happiness  and  rest. 
Which  hope  has  brought  to  me. 


ROSE  MAXIM. 


born:  BUCKFIELD.ME.,  AUG.  30. 1850 
AS  a  writer  of  both  prose  and  verse  this  lady 
hrblen  quite  successful.  Her  health  is  geo^ 
er:ily  ver'y  poor,  which  has  int-fe-l  -mj 
what  with  her  literary  pursuits.  She  is  now 
a  resident  of  North  Cambridge,  Mass. 

BENEATH  THE  OAK. 

How  sweet  it  is  in  solitude  to  be 

A  little  while  away  from  ^vorklly  caic. 
Kcc-lining  calmly  'neath  the  spreading  tree 
^Vhere  odors  sweet  are  wafted  on  the  lUr. 
Now  gentle  breezes  fan  the  glowing  cluck. 
"^  Anf  stir  the  leaves  that  rustle  ='"^ ' '   ; 

The  softly  swaying  ^-^"'^••f  f^T"'*  .  ee 
..Herelwineverrestandshe.il     e^^^ 

No  sound    is  heard    save  tlu^   l-nv. 
The  criclS'chirp,  the  song  of  whip-poo.- 

Within  this'beauteous,  sequestered  r.«>J 
Wlu-re  life  is  sweetest,  let  me  \^^>^^ 

Where  Nature  and  the  soul  can  he  u.  tune. 
The  creature  and  Creator  still  commune. 


®- 


LOCAT.   AND   NATIONAL    FOETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


g:j: 


MRS.  MARTHA  P.  SMITH. 

Born:  North  Conway,  N.  H.,  Sept.  29,  1KV>. 
This  lady  is  a  stanch  advocate  of  temperance, 
and  some  of  her  productions  are  found  iu  the 
temperance  department  of  Woman  in  Sacred 
Sonfj-.  She  lias  written  extensively  furPotti'r's 


« 


MRS.  MARTHA  P,  SMITH. 

Monthly,  Peterson's  Magazine  and  tlie  peri- 
odical press  generally.  Slie  was  m;irried  in 
1859toEds()n  Hollin  Smith,  and  resides  with 
her  family  in  Le  Seuer,  Minn.  Both  the  prose 
and  verse  from  the  pen  of  this  lady  have  been 
well  received,  and  she  has  already  gained  a 
national  reputation  in  the  world  of  literature. 

MINNEHAHA. 
Cease  from  laughter,  Minnehalia, 

Hold  in  check  your  gleeful  flood. 
Hear  you  not  that  bitter  wailing? 

Lo,  the  laud  is  soaked  with  blood. 
Where  is  pretty  little  Jenny? 

Laughing-eyed  and  sweet  was  she; 
Like  a  robin,  she  was  merry. 

As  the  breeze,  from  care  was  free. 
Where  is  little  whistling  Tommy? 

Where  is  Freddy  with  his  song? 
0,  they  kept  tlie  prairies  ringing 

All  the  pleasant  summer  long. 
Where  is  precious  baby  Lily 

With  lier  smiles  and  dimples  sweet? 
Why  so  empty  stands  her  cradle 

In  the  cottage  once  so  neat. 


Wring  your  hands,  O,  Minnehaha! 

Weep,  and  wail  their  dreadful  fate; 
Tiie  land  but  yesterday  so  smiling 

Lieth  black  and  desolate. 
Stand  aghast  in  speechless  sorrow 

For  your  little  playmates  slain; 
Lo,  the  children's  tangled  ringlets 

Lie  neglected  on  the  i^lain. 


STILL  THE  BIKDS  SING. 
Stout  hearts  break,  are  crushed  and  die, 

Still,  the  birds  sing; 
On  the  sea  rocks  sad  sliipwreeks  lie. 

Still,  tlie  birds  sing. 
Storms  roll  over  the  frothing  main, 
Hope's  star  fadeth  in  mist  and  rain. 
Love  goes  seeking  her  own  in  vain; 

Still,  the  birds  sing. 
Spring's  sweet  blossoms  will  fade  away. 

Still,  the  birds  sing; 
Surely  night  will  follow  the  d.iy. 

Still,  the  birds  sing. 
Birds  liave  troubles  as  well  as  I, 
Wind  and  tempest  their  small  hearts  try. 
Nests  are  scattered,  and  birdlings  die; 

Still,  the  birds  sing. 
To-morrow  will  bring  both  work  and  care. 

Still,  the  birds  sing; 
To-morrow  will  bring  each  bird  its  share. 

Still,  the  birds  sing. 
Days  once  vanished  come  not  again. 
Heaven  may  count  my  loss  as  gain, 
O,  to  be  cheerful  even  in  pain. 

And,  as  the  birds,  sing. 

A  CONVICTION. 
The  blood  of  kings  flows  in  my  veins, 
I  feel  it  coui'sing  warm ; 

'Tis  pure  and  blue; 
Who  dares  to  doubt  ii  —  oh  blind  dolt 
Shall  live  to  j'ield  it  homage  due. 
A  throne  awaits  me— this  I  know 
By  signs  unfailing,  sure: 

This  inward  sense 
Of  power  is  not  a  myth  to  cheat, 
It  is  a  living  truth  intetise. 


A  BOUQUET. 
Violets  blue,— blue  as  June's  soft  skies,— 
Blue —  just  the  blue  of  Ethel's  eyes. 
Roses  red, —  red  with  summer  sunsets'  bliss,- 
Bed  as  the  lips  and  cheeks  I  kiss. 
Lilies  white.— white  as  an  angel's  wing,— 
White  as  the  soul  of  Ethel  King, 
This  beauteous  trinity  I  wear 
On  my  heart  with  this  one  prayer,— 
'Though  time  will  rose  and  violet  Vilight, 
God  keep  the  lily  always  white.' 


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638 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


-® 


MRS.  ANNA   E.  MCFALL. 

Born:  Kentucky,  Oct.  19, 1839. 

Under  the  uom  de  plume  of  Rose  Heath  this 
lady  has  written  quite  extensively  for  the 
periodical  press.    She  is  a  first-class  musician, 


MHS.    ANNA    E.    M  FALL. 

and  has  for  the  greater  part  of  her  life  taught 
music.  She  is  now  a  resident  of  Mayfleld, 
Ky.,  where  she  is  surrounded  by  a  host  of 
friends.  She  was  married  to  her  present 
husband  in  1875. 


FAITH. 


® 


The  sky  with  clouds  was  overcast. 

No  gleam  of  sunlight  there, 
The  wind  sighed  mournfully  among 

The  leaves  so  brown  and  sere. 
Long  had  the  song  of  birds  been  hushed. 

And  pendant  from  the  trees. 
Congealed,  the  raindrops  hung  and  swayed 

To  every  passing  breeze. 

I  saw  tlie  while  a  gentle  child, 

In  sad  and  thoughtful  mood. 
Gaze  earnestly  above,  around. 

The  prospect  calmly  viewed. 
'I'hen  sighing  deeply,  softly  wept, 

And  sadly  turned  away. 
Murmuring  low,  and  soft,  the  while, 

"  I  cannot  play  to-day." 


I  took  the  little  hand  in  mine. 

And  bade  her  tell  me  all; 
She  asked,    "Where   are   the   flowers  that 
bloomed 

Beside  the  gai-den  wall. 
And  where  the  leaves  that  grew  upon 

The  chestnut  tree,  so  bare  — 
And  where  the  sun  that  yesterday 

Shone  brilliantly  up  there? 
And  where  the  pretty  birds  that  sung 

So  sweetly  all  the  day? 
If  all  are  gone,  I'm  lonely  now 

And  cannot,  cannot  play." 
So  beautiful,  and  yet  so  sad. 

Thoughtful  beyond  her  years, 
Seldom  had  I  gazed  upon 

A  face  so  fair  as  her's. 
I  bade  her  wait,  and  hope,  for  soon 

The  winter  would  be  o'er. 
And  trees,  and  flowers  bloom  again, 

And  from  the  far-off  shore 
The  robin  would  return,  and  sing 

Again  as  cheerily. 
And  build  a  tiny  nest  among 

The  leaves  that  greenest  be. 
Behind  the  clouds  the  sun  still  shines. 

And  other  eyes  can  see 
His  glorious  beams  — in  other  lands 

The  birds  sing  merrily. 
I'll  wait,  the  little  one  replied, 

I'm  sure  they'll  come  some  day. 
And  from  the  roseate  cheek  she  brushed 

The  pearly  tears  away. 
I'll  sing  until  I  hear  the  birds. 

Among  my  curls  I'll  twine 
The  evergreen,  the  clouds  will  break, 

And  soon  the  sun  will  shine. 
Could  we  as  meekly  thus  submit 

Unto  decrees  of  fate. 
Contented  be,  with  that  we  have 

For  blessings  patient  wait. 
And  feel  that  soon  the  glorious  light 

Of  better  days  would  gleam 
Through  sombre  clouds,  and  unseen  hands 

Adowu  life's  troubled  stream— 
Our  frail  barks  guide  —  and  wipe  away 

Rebellious  tears  that  fill 
Our  blinded  eyes,  and  hopefully 

Await  til'  All  Father's  will. 


EXTRACT. 


Oh  home  of  my  childhood,  I  love  thee. 

The  remembrance  of  thee  is  as  dear 
As  when  1  first  wandered  afar 

From  the  roof-tree,  to  find  a  liome  here. 
The  meadow,  the  sweet-scented  orchard, 

The  stream,  and  the  wild  woodland  flowers 
I  live  in  the  sweet  recollection 

Of  childhood's  happiest  hours. 


^ 


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LOCAT.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


639 


-m 


RYAL  J.  PHILLIPS. 

Bokn:  Georgia,  18(52. 
At  the  age  of  twenty  Kyal  took  up  the  study 
of  hiw.    He  then  traveled  several  years,  and 
has  been  correspondent  lor  several  newspa- 
pers and  magazines.    From   an  early  age  he 


RYAL  J.  PHILLIPS. 

began  writing  verse,  which  easily  found  their 
way  in  print.  Although  actively  engaged  in 
the  practice  of  law,  he  devotes  his  spare  time 
to  literature,  and  will  in  all  probability  pub- 
lish a  volume  of  his  works  in  the  near  future. 


THE  GRAND  OLD  PINE  OF  GEORGIA. 

The  grim  old  pines  of  Georgia, 

So  tall,  and  strong  and  grand. 
Their  beauty  shades  our  pathway 

As  we  march  through  the  land. 
Their  only  robe  of  verdure 

Is  never  stripped  from  them  at  fall; 
And  yet  of  all  our  native  trees 

We  love  them  best  of  all. 
Upon  her  hills  and  in  her  vales 

The  pines  were  ever  seen, 
Till  felled  by  some  rough  pioneer 

Who  wealth  had  come  to  glean. 
Oh,  cruel  deed  I  oh,  heartless  man. 

That  comes  for  wealth  alone. 
Regardless  of  a  country's  pride. 

Or  her  beauty  thus  adorned. 


We  love  the  pines  still  living 

So  noble,  grand  and  gay ; 
We  also  love  the  dead  that  are  decaying. 

On  their  cold  and  silent  beds  of  clay. 
We  love  them  for  the  warmth  they  give  us, 

Which  cheer  our  social  hearth. 
For  their  crimson  flame  make  our  girls  the 
fairest 

Of  any  on  the  earth. 

The  grand  old  pine  of  Georgia  — 

The  monarch  of  our  land; 
No  one  has  ever  gone  unsheltered 

Beneath  thy  outstretched  hand. 
Longfellow  tried  to  sing  thy  praise 

With  Anderson,  Pope  and  Gray, 
And  still  you  stand  in  all  your  splendor. 

While  they  are  sleeping  in  their  beds  of 
clay. 

Thou  true  and  noble  pine. 

Thou  art  the  poor  man's  dearest  friend; 
When  others  one  by  one  have  left  him. 

You  a  helping  hand  will  lend. 
The  rich,  too,  will  ne'er  forget  you. 

And  o'er  their  heads  your  watching  eyes 
will  gaze  ^ 

When  in  their  palace  homes  they  gather  — 

In  December's  morn, you'll  bless  them  with 
your  blaze. 

Ah,  stretch  your  arms,  oh,  noble  pine. 

All  o'er  our  southern  land. 
And  when  my  soul  has  left  this  sphere. 

Come,  1  implore  thee,  and  o'er  my  body 
stand. 
Again,  majestic  friend,  this  boon  I  only  ask. 

Show  to  the  world  where  I  may  be. 
My  name  inscribe  on  a  wooden  slab, — 

The  name  of  R.  J.  P. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

I  once  was  young  and  happy,  mother. 

So  true,  so  gay  and  bright. 
That  you  thought  that  I  would  never  do  no 
other 

But  that  which  was  always  right. 
That  was  when  you  nursed  me,  mother. 

And  my  feverish  brow  did  kiss; 
When  I  was  young  and  tender,  mother, 

My  lips  you  would  so  lovingly  caress. 

You  would  then,  dear  mother. 

Step  softly  by  my  little  bed, 
I,  kneeling  down  at  your  command. 

My  prayers  I  always  said. 
I  said  them  slow  and  easy,  mother. 

All  in  my  childish  glee. 
Not  dreaming  then  I  would  ever  live  — 

Alone  and  far  from  thee. 

Time  has  come  on,  dear  mother, 
And  I  to  manhood  now  have  grown. 


-« 


©■ 


-* 


640 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


While  all  the  thoughts  of  childhood, 

Like  birds  from  me  have  flown ; 
They  have  gone  and  left  me,  mother. 

All  in  their  onward  flight. 
And  I,  lilie  them,  have  wandered 

Far  from  thy  careworn  sight. 
1  am  away  from  thee,  dear  mother. 

Far  from  thy  tender  hand. 
But  T  have  never  betrayed  thy  love  — 

In  this  strange,  sinful  land. 
I  meet  with  those  that  want  me,  mother. 

To  "  take  in  "  all  that's  bad, 
Yet  I  well  remember  when  you  said, 

"Never  make  dear  mother  sad." 
If  I  was  to  be  seen,  dear  mother. 

Bowing  down  in  deepest  sin. 
Would  you,  when  I  returned,  dear  mother. 

Refuse  to  take  me  in? 
I  know  you  would  not  chide  me,  mother 

Or  give  me  any  blame. 
But  still  it  would  be  shameful,  cruel. 

To  give  your  heart  such  pain. 
You  need  not  have  a  fear,  dear  mother. 

That  I  will  lose  ray  love, 
For  one  so  good  and  careful. 

Even  though  she  had  gone  above. 
I  feel  your  words,  dear  mother. 

As  when  we  last  did  part ; 
They  are  precious  now,  dear  mother. 

I'll  keep  them  ever  in  my  heart. 


GRIM  DEATH. 

Grim  death 
Depopulates  the  nation ;  thousands  fall 
His  victims;  youths,  and  virgins,  in  their  flow- 
er. 
Reluctant  die,  and  sighing  leave  their  loves 
Unfinished,  by  infectious  Heaven  destroyed. 


EXTRACT. 

When  one  has  neither  wealth  nor  wit, 
Or  beauty  to  improve  them. 

If  they  be  good  I'll  show  you  yet 
Good  reason  why  I  love  them. 


^- 


GEORGE  W.  SWARTHOUT. 

Born:  Laingsburg,  Mich.,  1850. 
After  leaving  school  Mr.  Swarthout  taught 
for  a  number  of  terms,  and  has  been  superin- 
tendent of  schools.  He  now  owns  a  farm,  but 
is  engaged  in  the  hardware  business  in  his  na- 
tive town,  where  he  also  holds  the  olfice  of 
justice  of  the  peace.  Mr.  Swarthout  com- 
menced to  write  for  the  local  press  at  an  early 
age,  and  has  been  regular  correspondent  for 
numerous  newspapers.  He  has  enough  poems 
to  make  a  neat  volume,  which  have  generally 
been  published  under  the  nom  de  plume  of 


Zisca.    Mr.  Swarthout  was  married  in  187"  to 
Miss  Mary  A.  Slocum. 

THE  THREE  FROGS. 
Three  frogs,  one  time,  lived  in  a  pond. 

Which  thought  themselves  quite  wise; 
They  wore  green  coats  and  vests  of  white; 

Each  blinked  two  shiny  eyes. 
They  sat  upon  a  mossy  log 

Down  in  a  damp,  cool  place. 
And  gave  a  concert  free  to  all. 

Of  tenor,  alto  and  the  bass. 
A  sly  old  turtle  chanced  that  way  — 

He  heard  the  singing  gay; 
And  now,  said  he,  I'll  have  a  meal 

Before  the  close  of  day. 
This  turtle  he  was  fond  of  frogs  — 

Ah,  very  fond  was  he ; 
And  these  three  frogs  were  sleek  and  fat 

As  he  could  wish  to  see. 
Said  one  frog,  ••  Listen  to  my  voice 

With  every  note  complete; 
I  think  you  fellows  must  agree 

That  none  slug  hd,lf  so  sweet." 
«  Oh,  flel"  the  other  two  frogs  said, 

4. How  foolish  you  must  be; 
Your  voice  is  harsh  —  you  can  not  sing 

One  half  so  sweet  as  we." 
The  singing  ceased  and  in  dispute 

Each  frowned  upon  the  rest; 
For  each  was  very  sure,  you  know. 

That  he  could  sing  the  best. 
And  each  had  told  the  other. 

In  frog  language,  that  he  lied. 
When  the  turtle  showed  his  old  brown  nose 

And  said:  "I  will  decide." 
..  But  I  am  very  deaf,  my  friends 

You  needs  must  come  quite  near. 
You  know  I  cannot  well  mistake 

When  I  can  plainly  hear." 
And  so  they  all  sat  very  near. 

And  sang  with  all  their  might; 
The  turtle  laughed;  he  never  saw. 

Three  frogs  in  such  a  plight. 
"  A  little  nearer,  if  you  please, 

Then  I  shall  hear  each  note. 
And  know  which  soft  sweet  strains 

Are  uttered  by  each  throat." 
Just  then  old  turtle  made  a  grab 
And  caught  those  foolisli  frogs. 
And  swam  away  with  all  his  might 

Among  the  weeds  and  bogs. 
Some  foolish  men,  like  these  three  frogs, 

Invent  some  strange  dispute. 
And  call  a  lawyer  on  each  side 

To  carry  on  the  suit; 
But  soon,  alas!  wiien  all  too  late. 

They  plainly  see  and  feel 
That  while  they  lost  their  dinners. 
The  lawyers  made  a  meal. 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


(i41 


m 


MARGARET  J.  PRESTOX. 

Bokn:  Phil,\delphia,  Pa.,  about  1825. 
In  1M9-50  Miss  Preston's  first  contributions 
appeared  in  Sartain's  Magazine.  She  subse- 
quently published  a  novel,  entitled  Silverwood, 
but  has  since  devoted  herself  to  poetical  com- 
position. She  was  an  ardent  sympathizer  with 
the  south,  and  her  most  sustained  volume  of 
verse,  Beechenbrook,  a  poem  of  the  civil  war, 
enjoyed  a  wide  popularity.  Her  other  works 
include  many  fug'itive  poems.  Old  Songs  and 
New,  and  For  Love's  Sake,  which  latter  work 
appeared  in  1887.  Her  writing's  are  vigorous, 
suggestive,  and  full  of  religious  feeling. 


WE  TWO. 


Ah,  painful-sweet!  how  can  I  take  it  in! 
That  somewhere  in  the  illimitable  blue 
Of  God's  pure  space,  which  men  call  Heaven, 
—  we  two 

Again  shall  find  each  other,  and  begin 

The  infinite  life  of  love,  a  life  akin 
To  angels',— only  angels  never  knew 
The  ecstasy  of  blessedness  that  drew 

Us  each  to  each,  even  in  this  wci'ld  of  sin. 

—Yea,  find  each  other!    The  remotest  star 
Of  all  the  galaxies  would  hold  in  vain 

Our  souls  apart,  that  have  been  heretofore 

As  closely  interchangeable  as  are 
One  mind  and  spirit :  Oh,  joy  that  aches  to 
pain. 

To  be  together—  we  two  —  forever  more! 


ALPENGLOW. 

—Yes,  that's  what  I  said; 
The  grass  has  been  greening  above  his  head 
Two  summers  and  more,  yet  —  I  scarce  know 

why  — 
There  was  that  in  his  smile  that  could  not  die. 
For  it  has  not  died.    In  this  autumn  ray, 
Ah  me!  the  third  since  he  went  away! 
'Tis  palpable  as  the  Alpenglow 
That  clings  to  the  footless  slopes  of  snow, 
As  if  to  lighten,  through  evengloam, 
Some  loitering  mountain-climber  home; 
Or  rather,— turn  to  the  sunset  hills 
Yonder,  and  mark  how  the  shadow  fills 
All  of  their  sadden'd  faces:  one,— 
The  amber'd  peak  that  is  next  to  the  sun. 
Holds  yet  to  its  bi-east,  as  I  to  mine, 
A  glint  of  the  still-remembered  shine : 

—Well,  that  is  the  way 
With  the  smile  I  was  telling  you  of  to-day. 

Have  you  watched  a  bird 
1  Ever  poise  itself  when  something  stirred 
Its  spirit  to  song'?    A  quiver  of  throat. 


The  croon  of  a  tremulous,  trial  note, 

The  catch  with  a  crowding  rapture  crowned. 

Then,—  floods,  where  the  swooning  soul  was 

drowned ! 
Even  so,  I  have  often  sat  apart 
And  marked  the  flutter  about  his  heart 
Thrill  to  his  lips,  as  with  a  hum 
Of  voiceless  music  it  seemed  to  come 
And  ripple  around  his  mouth,  with  shy, 
Impassionate  answer  of  the  eye. 
While  an  overflush  of  marvelous  grace 
Would  master,  a-sudden,  all  his  face. 
Till  the  delicate  nostril  curved  and  swelled. 
And  the  glance  an  eloquent  sparkle  held. 
And  a  sense  of  song  would  come  and  go, 
Such  as  dreamers  watched  by  Ariel  know; 

—Well,  that  was  the  way 
With  the  smile  I  was  telling  you  of  to-day. 

And  because  I  said 
The  grass  has  been  greening  above  his  head 
Two  summers  and  o'er,  shall  I  think,  therefore 
That  smile  can  ne'er  be  kindled  more? 

—  That  the  grave  could  hold  it,  that  cannot 

hold 
Captive  one  straggling  gleam  of  gold? 

—  That  it's  prisoned  away  in  ashen'd  clay, 
As  centuried  sunbeams  are  to-day 
'Neath  fathoms  of  blacken'd  strata?    No! 
Can  essence  immortal  perish  so? 

When  clouds  have  gathered  betwixt  the  star 
And  the  vision  that  watches  it  blazing  far 
In  limitless  ether,  shall  the  eye 
Drop  earthward,  and  lips  that  are  faithless, 

sigh, 
— »  Ah  me!  for  the  mist,  the  murk,  the  rain! 
I  never  shall  find  my  star  again :" 
While  to  spirits  that  come  and  go  its  shine 
Has  never  before  seemed  so  divine? 

—Well,  that  is  the  way 
With  the  smile  I  was  telling  you  of  to-day. 


..SIT,  JESSICA." 
As   there   she   stood  —that   sweet   "S'enetian 
night  — 
Her  pure  face  lifted  to  the  skies  a-swim 
With  stars  from  zenith  to  horizon's  rim— 
I  think  Lorenzo  scarcely  saw  the  light 
Asleep  upon  the  bank,  or  felt  how  bright 
The  patines  were :  She  filled  the  heavens  for 

him; 
And  in  her  low  replies,  the  cherubim 
Seemed  softly  quiring  from  some  holy  height. 
And  when  he  drew  her  down,  and  soothed  her 
tears 
Stirred   by  the  minstrelsy,  with  passionate 
kiss, 
Whose  long,  sweet  iterations  left  her  lips 
Trembling,  as  roses  tremble  after  sips 
Of  eager  bees,  the  music  of  the  spheres 
Held  not  one  rhythmic  rapture  like  to  this! 


« 


©- 


642 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


-® 


ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS 

Born:  Akdover,  Mass.,  Aug.  13, 1844. 

This  well-knowu  author  began  to  write  for  the 
press  at  the  age  of  thirteen.  Her  life  has  been 
devoted  to  benevolent  work  and  advancement 
of  women,  temperance  and  kindred  reforms. 
She  also  delivered  a  course  of  lectures  before 
the  students  of  Boston  university  in  1876.  She 
has  written  a  score  of  novels.  In  1875  she  pub- 
Ushed  Poetic  Studies,  a  volume  of  poems,  which 
has  received  a  fair  circulation.  She  has  writ- 
ten numerous  poems  and  contributed  largely 
both  prose  and  verse  to  the  press. 


EXTRACT. 


Oh,  to  be  sound  to  such  an  ear! 
Songr,  carol,  vesper,  comfort  near. 
Sweet  words,  at  sweetest,  whispered  low. 
Or  dearer  silence,  happiest  so. 

By  little  languag-es  of  love 
Her  finer  aiidience  to  prove; 
A  tenderness  untried,  to  fit 
To  soul  and  sense  so  exquisite; 

The  blessed  Orpheus  to  be 
At  last,  to  such  Eurydice! 


GALATEA. 


©- 


A  moment's  grace,  Pygmalion !    Let  me  be 
A  breath's  space  longer  on  this  hither  hand 
Of  fate  too  sweet,  too  sad,  too  mad  to  meet. 
Whether  to  be  thy  statue  or  thy  bride  — 
An  instant  spare  me !    Terrible  the  choice, 
As  no  man  knoweth,  being  only  man; 
Nor  any,  saving  her  who  hath  been  stone 
And  loved  her  sculptor.  Shall  I  dare  exchange 
Veins  of  the  quarry  for  the  throbbing  pulse? 
Insensate  calm  for  a  sure-aching  heart  1 
Repose  eternal  for  a  woman's  lot? 

Forego  God's  quiet  for  the  love  of  man? 
To  float  on  his  uncertain  tenderness, 
A  wave  tossed  up  the  sea  of  his  desire. 
To  ebb  and  flow  whene'er  it  pleaseth  him ; 
Eemombei-ed  at  his  leisure,  and  forgot. 
Worshipped  and  worried,  clasped  and  dropped 

at  mood. 
Or  soothed  or  gashed  at  mercy  of  his  will. 
Now  Paradise  my  portion,  and  now  Hell; 
And  every  single,  several  nerve  that  beats 
In  soul  or  body,  like  some  rare  vase,  thrust 
In  Arc  at  first,  and  then  in  frost,  until 
The  fine,  protesting  flbra  snaps? 

Oh,  who 
Foreknowing,  ever  chose  a  fate  like  this? 
What  woman  out  of  all  the  breathing  world 


Would  be  a  woman,  could  her  heart  select, 
Or  love  her  lover,  could  her  life  prevent? 
Then  let  me  be  that  oaly,  only  one; 
Thus  let  me  make  that  sacrifice  supreme. 
No  other  ever  made,  or  can,  or  shall. 
Behold,  the  future  shall  stand  still  to  ask, 
What  man  was  worth  a  price  so  isolate? 
And  rate  thee  at  its  value  for  all  time. 

For  I  am  driven  by  an  awful  law. 
See !  while  I  hesitate,  it  mouldeth  me. 
And  carves  me  like  a  chisel  at  my  heart, 
'Tis  stronger  than  the  woman  or  the  man: 
'Tis  greater  than  all  torment  or  delight : 
'Tis  mightier  than  the  marble  or  the  flesh. 
Obedient  be  the  sculptor  and  the  stone! 
Thine  am  I,  thine  at  all  the  cost  of  all 
The  pangs  that  woman  ever  bore  for  man; 
Thine  I  elect  to  be,  denying  them; 
Thine  I  elect  to  be,  defying  them ; 
Thine,  thine  I  dare  to  be,  in  scorn  of  them: 
And  being  thine  forever,  bless  I  them ! 

Pygmalion !  take  me  from  my  pedestal. 
And  set  me  lower—  lower.  Love'— that  I 
Maybe  a  woman,  and  look  up  to  thee: 
And  looking,  longing,  losing,  give  and  take 
The  human  kisses  worth  the  worst  than  thou 
By  thine  own  nature  shalt  inflict  on  me. 


ELAINE  AND  ELAINE. 

Dead,  she  drifted  to  his  feet; 
Tell  us.  Love,  is  Death  so  sweet? 

Oh !  the  river  floweth  deep; 
Fathoms  deeper  is  her  sleep. 

Oh !  the  current  driveth  strong: 
Wilder  tides  drive  souls  along. 

Drifting,  though  he  loved  her  not. 
To  the  heart  of  Launcelot. 

Let  her  pass ;  it  is  her  place. 
Death  hath  given  her  this  grace. 

Let  her  pass ;  she  resteth  well. 
What  her  dreams  are,  who  can  tell? 

Mute  the  steersman;  why,  if  he 
Speakcth  nor  a  word,  should  we? 

Dead,  she  driftcth  to  his  feet. 
Close,  her  eyes  keep  secrets  sweet. 

Li\nng,  he  had  loved  her  well. 
High  as  Heaven  and  deep  as  Hell. 

Yet  that  voyage  she  staycth  not. 
Wait  you  for  her,  Launcelot? 

Oh  I  the  river  floweth  fast. 
Who  is  justified  at  last? 

Locked  her  lips  are.    Hush !  if  she 
Sayeth  nothing,  how  should  wc? 


m 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


(543 


-® 


MILTON  TAILOR  KENDALL. 

Born:  Meadow  Run,  Pa.,  1851. 
Gr.ujuating  from  tlie   Monongahela  college, 
Jefferson,  Pa.,  in  1877,  he  has  since  written 
many  poems  of  merit  that  have  received  pub- 


MILTON  tailor  KENDALL. 

lication  in  the  Toledo  Blade  and  other  papers. 
Mr.  Kendall  hopes  to  publish  his  poems  in 
book-form  in  the  near  future. 


THE  NEW  SOUTH. 

Come  erring  brother  of  the  sunny  land. 
Fair  land  where  icy  storm  winds  rarely  blow, 
Let's  bridge  the  gulf,  once  more  united  stand, 
Forgetting  all  that  made  a  northern  foe. 
Of  horrid  war  and  battles  dream  no  more. 
Let  discontent,  ill-will  and  hatred  cease. 
With  one  proud  starry  ensign  waving  o'er 
Let's  hail  with  joy  the  universal  peace. 
Beneath  whose  fostering  care  our  common- 
wealths increase. 
Not  as  the  humbled  nation  in  whose  breast 
Tiiere  dwells  the  memory  of  burning  wrong, 
Wiiosetale,  as  from  a  suffering  land  oppressed 
Is  heard  in  story  and  proclaimed  in  song, 
Could'stthou  the  dread  revenger's  spirit  liold. 
At  some  far  time  to  strike  the  fatal  blow. 
Like  some  fierce  chieftain's  warrior  tribe  of 

old; 
Thus  heaven  frowns  and  God  doth  will  it  so, 


When  he  from  chains   would   have    His  He- 
brew children  go. 

Back  tlirough  tlie  years,  a  dreamy  century 

gone. 
Beheld,  on  sterile  shores  a  loyal  band 
Long  from  the  tragic  scenes  of  life  withdrawn 
For  freedom,  fleeing  from  a  tyrant's  hand; 
Here  sought  amid  this  wilderness  a  home. 
Here  planned  its  laws  for  loyal  hearts  and 

just, 
A  Union  for  its  miUions  yet  to  come; 
With  us  our  sires  have  left  the  sacred  trust; 
That  flag,  tlieir  joy  and  pride,  ye  trampled  in 

the  dust. 

Long-  years  ago,  from  ocean's  farther  side 
Into  tlie  currents  of  thy  gay  young  life. 
There  flowed  a  dusky  stream,  a  dark  still  tide 
From  whence  is  born  that  dread,  that  fatal 

strife. 
Engendered  in  each  proud  and  listless  race. 
Where  man,  like  brutes,  is  fettered  to  the  soil, 
And  all  its  varied  actions  kept  apace 
Supplied  and  nurtured  by  another's  toil; 
In  Sumter's  fall  ye  dealt  its  proudest  blow. 
In  Appomattox  felt  its  deepest,  darkest  woe. 

And  now  since  war's  destructive  dreaded  art. 
In  battle's  fiercest  strife  and  blighting  wave 
Of  death  has  swept  our  land,  and  many  a 

heart 
Lies  moldering  in  a  far  and  lonely  grave; 
One  common  sorrow  in  our  bosoms  burn. 
As  back  we  call  the  tearful  raem'ry  o'er 
Of  those  brave  sons  who  never  will  return ; 
This  grief  alike  we  bear,  but  ye  have  more; 
The  presence  of  those  dusky  millions  to  de- 
plore. 

But  while  'tis  yours  the  bitter  fruits  to  bare 
O'er  all  that  bloody  field  of  ended  strife. 
Kind   heaven's   blessing  smiles   and   every- 
where 
Is  heard  the  busy  sounds  of  thrift  and  life; 
A  glorious  era  dawns;  with  joy  for  thee 
We    see    thy    shattered    nation     gathering 

power; 
From  bonds  released  with  equal  rights  and 

free. 
Now  heavenward  thy  people's  strength  shall 

tower. 
And  onward  ever  be  the  watchword  of  the 
hour. 

Oh !  Southland,  these  thy  great  reverses  met 
Shall  not  despel  thy  heroes'  early  dreams; 
Thy  sun  of  glory  is  but  dimmed,  not  set. 
Before  thy  view  hope's  radiant  glory  beams; 
With  Him  who  rules  sometimes  it  seemeth 

best. 
His  erring  children  shall  bewail  in  tears, 
'Tmay  be  with  thee,  the  blessing  yet  may 

rest. 


-© 


©: 


644 


-* 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEHCIA. 


MRS.  HARRIET  M.CONVERSE. 

Born:  Elmika,  N.Y. 
Left  motherless  wheu  a  child  she  was  put  to 
school  at  Marion,  Ohio.  She  has  traveled  ex- 
tensively in  Europe  and  the  United  States. 
In  1883  Mrs.  Converse  published  her  first 
volume  of  poems  entitled  Slieaves,  which  has 
since  passed  through  several  editions.    Mrs. 


MltS.    UARKIET    M.   CONVERSE. 

Converse  has  been  complimented  on  the 
beauty  of  her  verses  by  John  G.  Whittier, 
Alfred  Tennyson,  and  other  eminent  poets. 
This  beautiful  writer  possesses  true  poetic 
genius  — her  poems  are  really  exquisite  in 
thought,  tone,  and  treatment;  and  hername 
is  already  well  and  widely  known. 


©- 


THOU  OR  T. 

Some  day,  dear,  one  of  us— we  twain 

Will  watch  alone  in  tears, 
And  call  the  other  one  in  vain. 

In  voice  of  hovieless  fears. 
As  in  death's  silence  one  of  us  shall  lie; 
Which  will  it  be,  dear,  thou  or  I? 
Were  one  of  us  by  death  bereft 

So  of  love's  thought  and  speech. 
What  other  word  of  hope  is  left 

To  utter  each  to  each? 
So  one  shall  watch  and  one  in  death  shall  lie! 
Which  will  it  be,  dear,  thou  or  I? 
Beside  life's  pathway  as  we  go 

One  Avill  grow  faint  and  fail, 


And  seek  another  waj^  to  know 

Where  death  shall  not  prevail; 
And  one  will  wait  alone  as  days  go  by 

For  yet  a  longer  space, 

God's  pitying  grace; 
Which  will  it  be,  dear,  thou  or  I? 
1  may  be  first  to  understand 

The  life  so  far  from  thine; 
Mine  may  be  woe  to  fold  thy  hand  — 

Grown  still  and  cold  in  mine  — 
As  sign  of  death  across  thy  breast  to  lie. 

God  chastens  others  so. 

Thank  him,  we  do  not  know 
Which  it  will  be,  dear,  thou  or  I! 


TO  A  ROSE. 
Faire,  fragrant  rose,  to  one  I  know 
I  bid  ye  on  love's  errand  goe. 
Though  fearlesslie,  be  on  thy  guard, 
Do  not  disclose  the  sweet  reward 

For  which  T  sigh  and  die! 
If  in  the  daring  of  thy  glee, 
Within  the  blush  and  revelrie 
Of  her  deare  face,  ye  linger  long, 
Thou'lt  heare  the  whisper  of  Love's  song 

For  which  I  sigh  and  die! 
Close  to  her  breath,  when  ye  shall  be 
The  fairest  of  thy  rosarie. 
With  all  thy  grace,  rose,  doe  but  this  — 
From  her  sweet  lips  snatch  but  one  kisse 

For  which  I  sigh  and  die! 
And  should  thy  luscious  floure  be  blest 
To  lie  upon  her  downie  breast. 
Thy  pouting  leaves  will  swift  unclose. 
Thrilled  with  the  secret  love,  sweet  rose, 

For  which  I  sigh  and  die! 
Faire  fragrant  rose,  to  one  I  know. 
On  Love's  sweet  errand  faultless  goe, 
And  be  in  haste,  with  feareless  bliss  — 
Thou  happy  rose  — to  win  the  kisse 

For  which  I  sigh  and  die ! 

MAY  PEACE  WITH  THEE  ABIDE. 

May  peace  with  thee  abide  I 

Though  dreary  seems  the  way. 
No  staff,  no  scrip,  no  guide. 

And  all  thy  heart  astray. 
May  peace  with  thee  abide! 

And  when  thy  burdens  grow. 
Fear  not,  faint  not;  beside 

The  rock  the  waters  flow! 
May  peace  with  thee  abide! 

With  care  and  toil  oppressed. 
Submit;  He  will  provide 

For  thee  his  grace  and  rest. 
May  peace  with  thee  abide! 

On  thee  may  God's  light  glow! 
His  peace  is  not  denied. 

Although  thou  falter  so. 


m- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


645 


-« 


MRS.ZILPHA  C.RICHTMYER. 

Born:  Broome,  N.Y.,  Nov.  12, 1841. 

As  correspoiifleiit  Mrs.  Richtmyer  has  written 

steadily  since  ISSt  for  several    newspapers,  in 


MRS.  ZILI'HA   COUCH.MAN    KlCllXMYEU. 

which  her  poems  have  also  received  insertion 
She  is  now  organist  of  the  Conesville  M.  E. 
church  for  tlie  sixth  year. 


51 


MY  DOLLS. 
My  first  was  a  liorne-spun  apron  rolled; 

And  'round  a  briglit-liued  rilibon  twined, 
Wortli  more  to  me  than  chain  of  g-old 

From  olden  Opliir's  precious  mine. 
And  thougrh  the  cloth  was  patched  and  old, 

I  for  awhile  my  prize  did  iiold. 
From  other  liands  a  while  'twas  held, 

Safe  as  the  miser  holds  his  gold. 

Sometimes  I  gave  it  wondrous  care; 

Sometimes  — alas!  my  charge  forg-ot; 
And  thougli  I  thought  it  'yond  compare, 

I  one  day  sought  —  but  found  it  uot. 
Had  I  that  worn-out  apron  yet. 

How  far  more  dear  its  every  fold! 
For  she  whose  hands  each  thread  had  met. 

Lies  slumbering  in  the  valley  s  mold. 

-•Vtiother  doll,    those  same  dear  hands, 
Of  muslin,  cotton,  hair  and  dye. 

Then  fasliioned;  and  in  all  the  land 
Was  there  no  happier  cliild  thau  I. 


But  soon  —ah  mc,  such  liavoc  made 

A  dirty,  ill-conducting  dog, 
Tliat  sadly  my  doll's  tomb  I  madt? 

Of  a  bare  and  iiollow,  old  pine  log. 

Then  I,  in  chiidisli  woe  did  send 

A  message,  wliich  was  swift  conveyed 
To  Santa  Claus,  the  children's  friend. 

And  he  my  earnest  grief  allayed. 
To  him  my  grave;  request  was  told: 

"  Send  me  a  lovely  doll  :ind  new; 
And  wlietlier  tlie  liair  be  jet,  or  gold 

O,  let  the  eyes  be     bonuie  blue!,, 

It  came.    I  loved  it  long  and  well. 

And  tiiat  'twas  strange,  I'll  not  deny — 
Not  one  mishap  tliatdoll  befell! 

And  thus  my  cliiklliood  fleeted  I)y. 
Now  I  have  found  anotlier  home; 

And  Santa  Claus  (the  generous  one,) 
To  my  new  home  has  learned  to  come. 

With  gifts  to  liglit  lilie  life's  rays  of  sun. 

Dear,  good  old  saint !  he's  forgotten  not 

My  message,  through  the  years  since  rolled. 
And  to  my  welcoming  arms  has  brought 

A  sweeter  doll,  with  a  living  soul ! 
To  others  it  may  not  be  fair; 

But  O!—  so  beauteous  to  my  view. 
That  sparkling  gems  cannot  compare 

With  those  loved  eyes  of  '  bonuie  blue.' 

But  fear  doth  every  bliss  attend. 

Along  this  darkened,  earthly  way; 
My  spirit  quails  — O  Father  I—  Friend! 

Grant  me  Tliy  light—  Tliy  heavenly  rays; 
Help  me  to  guide  those  tiny  feet 

In  wisdom's  patiis,  all  fair  and  bright. 
That  lead  at  last  to  golden  streets. 

Where 'tis  e'er  day  — where  is  no  night! 


LAMENT  OF  KRISS  KRINGLE. 
Kriss  Kringle  leaned  back  in  his  wide  arm- 
chair, 
Witli  missives  around  him  piled  liigli; 
The  fire-liglit  was  rosy,  the  day  was  fair. 

But  gloom  o'ersliiidowed  his  eye. 
He'd  read  all  the  letters,  both  short  and  long; 

He'd  studied  some  characters  quaint; 
But  in  eacli  message  he'd    found  something 
wrong; 
And  tlius  he  makes  ku(jwn  Ids  complaint. 

"  Now  I'm  away  on  my  mission  with  speed; 

I  give  to  tlie  pamper'd  and  vain;— 
Both  blind  and  deaf  to  tho.se  sadly  in  need, 

Nor  lieed  I  those  moaning  in  pain' 
Yes!—  this  inscrutable  law  1  obey: 

Nor  grieve  at  these  strange  behests; 
I've  learned  by  the  liglit  of  lieavenlj'  rays, 

'Tis  ordered  by  Him  wlio  knows  best." 


© 


®- 


646 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-* 


HIRAM  THAYER. 

Born  :  Cayuga  Co.,  N.Y.,  Dec.  23, 1818. 
Locating  in  Briidford,  la.,  in  1860,  Mr.  Thayer 
er  was  elected  justice  of  the  peace  the  follow- 
ing- year,  which  office  he  has  held  continuous 


UlliA.M    THAVEJt. 

until  the  present  time.  He  was  also  postmas- 
ter for  over  twenty-two  years.  His  songs 
have  been  chiefly  on  political,  patriotic  and 
temperance  subjects. 


BONNIE  ANNIE. 
Awake,  O  muse,   inspire  my  lay,  a  truthful 

tale  I'll  tell. 
Upon  the  Turkey's  bonnio    banks    a    lovely 

maid  doth  dwell, 
Wlio  trips  as  lightsome  as  the   fawn  uiioii   its 

native  trail; 
They  call  her  Gentle  Annie,  Gentle  Annie  of 

the  vale. 
Cho.— Bonnie  Annie,  Gentle  Annie, 

Lovelj'  to  behold. 

Her  liair  so  fair  in  ringlets  rare. 

Hangs  down  in  chains  of  gold. 

I  loved  lier  for  that  gentle  grace, 

A  charm  that  doth  not  fail ; 

O,  happy  day,  wlien  first  I  met 

Sweet  Annie  of  tlie  vale. 
Her  eyes  are  briglit  as  stars  at  night  aliove 

the  summer  sea, 
Her  voice  so  sweet  and  gentle,  is  like  music 

unto  me; 


The  birds  sing  sweet  in  sylvian  grove,  and 
down  the  floral  dale. 

But  the  sweetest  bird  in  all  the  bower  is  An- 
nie of  the  vale. 

Her  breath  is  like  the  morning,  when  wild 
flowers  deck  the  lea; 

Her  very  thoughts  are  sweet  and  pure  as  gen- 
tle zepliyrs  be;  [the  passing  gale. 

The  roses  bloom  in  beauty  bright,  and  scent 

But  the  fairest  flower  in  all  tlie  glen,  is  An- 
nie of  the  vale. 


TO  MARCIA. 
Amid  the  green  bowers 
And  sweet-scented  flowers. 
She  floats  like  a  fan-y 
To  spend  the  gay  houis. 
While  dewdrops are  shining, 
A  rosy  wreath  twining. 
And  now  with  her  singing 
The  wild  wood  is  ringing, 
As  with  a  light  heart 
Quickly  homeward  she's  springing, 
Her  rich  treasures  bringing 
And  jetty  locks  flinging. 
With  cheeks  like  the  roses 
She  came  to  me  smiling  — 
And  gave  me  a  garland 
The  moments  beguiling. 
And  I  loved  the  swe^t  maiden 
With  rosy  wreaths  laden. 


m- 


ZTMENIA. 

There's  a  wail  upon  the  waters,  on  the  gentle 
breezes  dying,  [w'^'e- 

For  the  beautiful  Zinienia.sweet  Zimcniaisno 
From  the  hills  the  zepliyrs  sighing 
Echo  back  the  plaint  replying 
To  the  vale  where  she  is  lying, 
On  the  bright  Jadagna  shore. 
Cho.— Oil  Zimenia,  dear  Zimenia,  thou  hast 
left  us  for  a  time. 
But  we  hope  ere  long  to  meet  thee  in 
that  brighter,  fairer  clime. 
In  thy  youth's  enchanted  morning,  and  when 

sweet  wild  flowers  were  springing. 
And  the  lilies  spread  a  carpet  of  bright  blos- 
soms o'er  the  bay; 
While  the  choral  songs  were  singing. 
Heavenly  joy  to  mortals  bringing, 
Tliou  hast  left  us  and  forever 
For  the  islands  far  away. 
Oh,  Zimenia,  dear  Ziiiunia,  may  thy  soiig  l" 

ever  sweeter. 
In  that  land  of  light  and  gladness,  wheic  th.v 
tears  are  ever  dry. 
Where  we  hojic  again  to  meet  thee. 
And  witli  joy  again  to  greet  thee 
On  the  Elysian  Fields  o'er  yonder 
We  will  meet  thee  by  and  by. 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMBUICA. 


© 


B4'; 


MARTHA  OWEN  COLCORD. 

Born:  Hancock,  N.H.,  Dec.  5,  1845. 
The  poems  af  this  lady  have  appeared  in  the 
Boston    Pilot,     Zion's     Advocate,     Christijin 
Mirror  and  otliei-  publications.     She  is  also 


M  \lf  I  II  V   c  )\\  I   N    COLI  'OHII. 

rcpresentL-d  in  thu  To'^ts  of  Maine.  Ouu  of 
her  poems.  My  Sailor  Boy,  has  been  set  to 
music  and  has  become  very  popular. 


MY  GARDEN. 
I  goto  my  garden  at  night 

When  the  dew  is  on  the  flowers, 
And  I  liear,  far  ofif  in  the  village 

The  church  clock  striking  the  hours. 
Pale  chamomile  flowers  are  there. 

White  lilies  scent  the  air. 
And  I  offer  up  a  prayer 

For  the  loved  ones  dead  and  gone. 
When  I    waken  in  the  morning. 

And  the  gray  mists  fill  the  skies, 
Again  I  go  down  to  my  garden 

To  see  the  red  sun  arise 
From  his  bed  on  ocean's  breast; 

But  sea-gulls  seek  their  nest, 
For  a  cloud  is  in  the  West, 

Which  shadows  the  coming  dawn. 
Yet  again,  and  the  niglit  is  here. 

And  far  away  o'er  the  sea 
The  moonbeams  glisten  and  glow 

Where  the  waves  roll  peacefully. 


Thus,  weary  and  tempted  soul, 
Shunning  each  rock  and  shoal, 

In  peace  thou  siialt  reach  the  goal 
When  the  night  of  death  comes  on. 

MY  LOVE. 

Long  ago  under  distant  pines, 

I  met  my  love  in  the  sultry  noon ; 
But  she,  like  summer's  fairest  flowers. 

Has  faded  all  too  soon. 
Sunlight  played  in  her  golden  hair. 

The  cardinal  flowers  at  her  feet 
Lit  the  weird  place  witli  dusky  gleams,- 

My  love  was  fair  and  sweet. 
Stooping  she  plucked  a  dainty  spray, 

Glowing  so  redly  beside  the  brook.— 
But  in  the  fragile,  saintly  face, 

I  hardly  dared  to  look. 
Just  a  year  and  a  day  had  passed 

Ere  I  had  won  her  to  be  my  bride; 
Now,  the  cardinal  flowers  she  loved 

Are  growing  by  her  side. 
So,  long  ago,  beneath  the  pines 

I  met  my  love;  but  1  he  dreary  knell 
Of  cherished  hopes  I  seem  to  hear. 

And  never  the  wedding  bell. 


BENJAMIN  SMITH  RUSSELL. 

Born:  Bridgeport,  N.  J.,  Nov.  9, 18*1. 
This  gentleman  is  now  a  teacher  in  the  high 
school,  and  is  still  a  resident  of  his  native 
town.    He  was  married  in  1868  to  Miss  Mell 
Layton. 


PEGGY  AND   PAT. 
Peggy  was  up  in  the  early  morn 
With  hair  disturbed  and  a  look  forlorn; 
She  scolded  Pat  till  his  wrathful  ire 
No  longer  had  vent  by  poking  the  Arc. 
Peggy,  said  he,  it  is  strange  that  ye 
Are  always  at  variance  with  me. 
While  the  cat  and  dog  in  the  corner  lay. 
And  no  strife  between  day  by  day. 
Ah !  said  she,  ye  hateful  Pat, 
We  used  to  be  better  friends  nor  tliat; 
Tie  them  together  and  you  will  see 
By  jabers  a  scratch  there'll  be. 
Now  girls  remember  Peggy  and  Pat 
When  you  arc  about  to  tie  the  fatal  knot 
With  your  darling  beau,  whose  purse  is  free. 
You  after  marriage  may  never  agree. 
And  boys  when  you're  about  to    pass  that 

bourne 
Whore  no  bachelor  ever  returns; 
You're  sweetest  girl  like  T'oggy's  cat  — 
Instead  of  kiss  will  give  you  a  spat. 


-m 


m- 


648 


-^ 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL    I'OETS   OF  AMERICA. 


LEWIS  ELLSWORTH  RADER. 

Born:  Hazel  Dell,  111.,  March  16,  1864. 

In  his  youth  Mr.  Rader  taught  school,  and 
graduated  from  the  Kansas  uoi-mal  college  at. 
Fort  Scott  in  1888.  He  is  very  devoted  to 
literature  and  i>olities,  and  has  written  num- 


LEWIS    EI.I.SWOliTII    IfADEK. 

erous  political  articles  for  the  Chicago  press 
and  other  publications. 

Mr.  R;ider  is  the  proprietor  of  the  Washing- 
ton Democrat,  published  a^  Montesano.  Since 
188.5  his  poems  have  appeared  constantly  in 
tlie  periodical  press. 


m- 


SOLITUDE. 

When  the  heart  is  weary  and  sad  with  the 
toils  and  cares  of  the  daj'. 

And  life  seems  a  burden; 

When  all  that  the  world  can  bring  of  confi- 
dence, joy,  or  dismay 

Is  no  longer  a  guerdon ; 

When  sorrow's  surcease 

Brings  no  longod-for  peace 

To  the  heart  s(m>-triod  with  affliction; 

Its  streiiKth  is  renewed 

By  .sweet  solitude, 

Whicli  acts  like  a  fresh  benediction. 

The  angels  gatlier  in  throngs,  they  say,  in 
the  l)oantiful  realms  above. 


When  they  glorify  God; 

Their     voices,     attuned    to    the     harmonic 

spheres,  sing  songs  of  love 
As  the  golden  streets  they  plod; 
So  we  on  earth, 
In  spiritual  dearth. 
Collect,  praying,  confessing; 
But  the  soul's  renewed 
In  sweet  solitude 
Which  acts  like  a  heavenly  blessing. 

The  lonely  garret,  the  trackless  wood  are  the 

great  man's  truest  friends 
When  he  seeks  to  know: 
Great  thoughts  come  to  him  who  retires  from 

the  world's  busy  aims  and  ends 
And  what  it  can  bestow ; 
Then  he  rivets  his  view. 
In  his  search  for  the  new. 
Upon  what  he  seeks  to  prepare; 
Thus  the  mind  is  renewed 
By  sweet  solitude 
Which  acts  likes  a  soul-stirring  prayer. 

As  the  mighty  river  in  its  onward  sweep 
through  the  valleys  and  plains  of  earth  j 

Must  have  a  source; 

So  each  stream  of  thought  in  a  mental  fount  | 
must  have  its  first  true  birth, 

Ere  it  starts  in  its  course; 

Tlie  best  to  secure 

Tliat  birth  must  be  pure, 

Untainted  by  Policy's  denizen; 

Then  the  thought  is  renewed 

In  sweet  solitude. 

Which  acts  like  an  uplifting  benison. 


IT  GOES  AGAINST  THE    GKAIN. 
You  maj'  search  the  world  over  from  here  t 

Cathay, 
You  may  ranseack  the  records  of  time. 
You    may  carrj'  your  efl'orts  wherever  yo 

may, 
From  the  filthiest  hut  to  the  palace  subliim' ; 

Wherever  you  find  a  human  heart  bent, 
Tiiough  in  words  it  does  not  complain. 
Whatever  the  efforts  to  keep  it  from  sight, 
There  is  something  which  goes    'gainst  tl 
grain. 

The  humblest  resolve  oft  meets  its  reproof 
In  ambition's  discordant  desire. 
And  envy  enthrones  a  spirit  of  sin 
In  its  mad  attempt  to  rise  higher; 

But  effort  and    truth    are    the   aids   in  tl 

work 
Of  seeking  for  goodness,  and  gain, 
The  good  do  evil,  and  t  lie  evil  do  good. 
But  it  goes  terribly  'gainst  the  grain. 


®- 


LOCAt,   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


C49 


« 


NATHAN  A.WOODWARD. 

Born:  Fairfax,  Vt.,  March  9,  1818. 
The  piienis  of  this  gentleman   liiive  received 
publication  in  the  Rochester  Daily  Democrat 
Cincinnati  Gazette,  Buffalo  Express  and  var- 
ious other  publications.    In  1888  he  published 


NATHAN   ARMSY  WOODWARD. 

King  Cotton,  a  poem.whieh  was  well  received. 
Mr.  Woodward  is  a  graduate  of  Union  CoIIeg-e 
andamcmberof  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  society. 
For  some  years  he  taught  in  Union  Schools 
and  Academies,  when  he  became  a  member 
of  the  bar,  which  i)r()fession  he  has  practised 
for  forty  years.  Mr.  Nathan  A.Woodward  is  a 
polished  scholar  and  gentleman;  he  resides 
in  Batavia,  N.  Y.,  where  he  is  very  popular 
and  highly  esteemed. 


MONEr  IS  KING. 
Money  is  King  —  despotic  its  power  — 
It  ruleth  the  world.    Men  tremblg  and  cower 
At  the  beck  of  its  nod 
As  if  it  were  God ; 
And  many  would  rather  lie  under  the  sod 
Than  feel  the  displeasure,  or  meet  with  the 

frown. 
Of  this  terrible  king  men  honor  and  crown. 
It  buildeth  the  palace,  the  temple  and  tower. 
And  fills  them  with  pride    and  pomp   by  its 
power; 
It  erecteth  the  fort 
To  guard  a  king's  court. 
And  all  the    rich    commerce   that  sails  into 

port; 
It  fashions  the  war-ships  with  armor  of  steel. 
Their  thunders  cause  rock-built  cities  to  reel. 
^- 


It  bridgeth  the  river,    though    wide    be   its 

stream. 
It  buildetli  of  iron  a  highway  for  steam 
To  draw  fioni  afar. 
On  tlie  rumbling-  car. 
The  products  of  peace,  or  sinews  of  war; 
It   casteth  the  cannon,  makes  powder  and 

ball. 
And  armeth  the  legions  that  come  at  its  call. 

It  luieth  the  robber  —  burglar  and  thief. 
As  pirates,  by  false  liglits,  lure  ships  to  the 
reef; 
It  buildeth  the  jail. 
Then  furnislicth  bail. 
For   culprits  whose  crimes  are  on  a   large 

scale ; 
It  promptcth  the  traitor  his  country  to  sell. 
Then  payeih  the  sexton  for  tolling  his  knell. 

It  hireth  the  parson  to  herald  reform. 
Then    payeth    the  skeptic  to  teach  men  to 
scorn 

What  the  parson  may  preach 

And  the  gospel  doth  teacli. 
As  if  it  had  equal  regard  for  each; 
Not  caring  if  wheat,  or  if  tares  be  sown. 
Provided  men  bow  at  its  kingly  throne. 

What  form  hath  this  king  men  serve   and 

obey. 
And  how  doth  it  look,  and  dress,  day  by  day? 

Can  any  one  tell 

By  what  magic  spell 
It  ruleth  mankind  wherever  they  dwell, 
Regardless  if  peace,  or  war  maj'  prevail. 
If  widows  do  weep,  or  orphans  may  waill 

Its  body  and  head  are  finest  of  gold; 

Two  glittering  diamonds  its  eye-sockets  hold; 

They  glisten  and  shine 

Like  the  sparkle  of  wine. 
Or  eyes  of  an  adder  — with  light  serpentine; 
The  rest  of  the  form  of  silver  is  made. 
And  the  king  in  bills  and  bonds  is  arrayed. 

The  form  of  the  king  no  mortal  doth  know. 
Whether  angel  above,  or  demon  below; 

But  judged  by  its  deeds. 

And  the  people  it  leads. 
An    angel    of    liglit    when    relieving   men's 

needs; 
A  demon  of  hell  when  leading  astray. 
And  luring  to  vice  frail  creatures  of  clay. 

Men  worship  this  king  as  they  did  of  old. 
The  calf  once  molded,  by  Aaron  of  gold; 

And  some  have  tlieir  price. 

Like  cotton  or  rice. 
Or  goods  that  are  woven  with  cunning  de- 
vice; 
They  eagerlj-  strive  for  increase  of  gain. 
And  barter  for  pelf,  soul,  body  and  brain. 


-© 


© 


650 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


© 


For  few  can  resist  this  king  of  the  mine, 
Who  holdeth  the  world  in  coils  serpentine, 
This  demon  of  night. 
Or  angel  of  light. 
Who  speedeth  the  wrong  — or   enforceth    a 

right; 
This  Janus- faced  king  — despotic  in  power, 
At  the  beck  of  whose  nod  men  tremble  and 
cower. 


©- 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD. 

What  careth  the  world  for  a  man  when  dead, 
When    his    breath    is  gone  — his  spirit  hath 

fled? 
Though   his  form,  before,  was   comely    and 

fair, 
'Tis  hurried  away  —  lest  it  taint  the  air; 
The  vacancy  left,  another  can  fill, 
And  the  world  moves  on  —  at  the  same  pace 

still. 

The  restless  mass  g'oes  dashing- along. 
And  — who  will  miss  him  amid  such  a  throng? 
Though  once  the  foremost  of  all  in  the  race, 
He  had  won  for  himself  the  loftiest  place  — 
Though  noble  and  grand  was  the  work  of  his 

hand, 
Performed  for  his  own  or  a  foreign  land; 

Though  his  fame  spread  wide  and  his  name 

be  great. 
From  ruling  a  realm  or  forming-  a  state  — 
What  careth  the  crowd  for  his  senseless  clay? 
The  lion  is  dead ;- he  hath  had  his  day. 
So  they  hasten  to  lay  his  corse  away 
From  the  sight  of  men  —  and  the  world  is  gay. 

What  careth  his  kinsman  —daughter  or  son, 
Provided  they  clutch  the  gold  he  hath  won 
From  trade,  or  by  toil,  hath  wrung  from  the 

soil; 
Which  —  since  he  is  dead  —  is  legitimate  spoil 
To  be  seized  by  his  heirs,  as  their  legal  right 
The  moment  the  clods  conceal  him  from  sight. 

Their  grief  at  his  loss  — aside  from  pretense. 
Can  mainly  be  reckoned  by  dollars  and  cents; 
They  deeply  regret  he  did  not  have  more 
Of  silver  and  gold  —  for  them  laid  in  store. 
Though  mourners,  they  drape  — in  costliest 

crape  — 
Have  burial  service  — with  plenty  of  tape  — 

Though  h's  fame  spread  wide  — and  his  name 

be  great 
From  ruling-  a  realm  —  or  founding  a  state  — 
Yet  little  care  they  for  his  worthless  clay ! 
The  lion  is  dead;-  lie  hath  had  his  day. 
So  they  hasten  to  lay  his  corse  away 
From  the  sight  of   men  —  then  laugh  —  and 

are  gaj-. 
Yet  men  of  the  world  will  labor  to  win 
Greast  wealth  for  their  heirs,  and  next  of  kin ; 


From  the  dawn  of  day,  to  the  set  of  sun. 
And  oft  till  the  noon  of  night  comes  on  — 
They   will   toil,  and  drudge,  and  traffic   and 

trade. 
Will  blast  in  the  mines,  or  delve   with  the 

spade. 
Will  peril  their  health  and  lavish  their  time. 
And  worry  and  pinch   -  for  a  dollar,  or  dime. 
And  deem  they  have  rendered  their  lives  sub- 
lime 
By    hoarding-    up   gold  — if -when    they  are 

old  — 
And  their  funeral  knell  is  about  being-  tolled. 
They  have  stocks  and  lands  —  by  heirs  to  be 
sold. 

They  will  strive  for  place  —  and  struggle  for 
fame. 

That  —  when  they  are  dead  — they  may  leave 
a  name 

Ennobling-  their  kinsmen  —  making  them 
great  — 

Fit  persons  to  found  —  or  govern  a  state. 

But  their  kinsmen  —they  —  are  doomed  to  de- 
cay;— 

They  soon  pass  away.  Men  laugh  and  are  gay. 


MRS.CAROLINEF.DOLE. 

Born:  Norridgewock,  Me.,  July 22, 1817. 

This  lady  -was  married  in  1842  to  Rev.  Nathan 
Dole,  who  died  in  1855.  She  then  returned  to 
her  early  home,  where  she  has  since  resided. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

Are  angels  hovering  in  the  air 

Each  Christmas  night; 
And  do  they  sing  the  wondrous  song 

Of  our  delight? 

"Peace  on  the  earth,  good  will  to  men!" 

What  music  sweet! 
"  To  you  this  day  a  Savi(n-'s  born  " 

All  needs  to  meet. 

Oh  listen  'mid  the  ringing;-  Ijells, 

And  children's  choirs; 
Oh  hear  it  loud!  oh  hear  it  low, 

By  Ch  list  mas  tires! 

See  in  the  k)wly  niiin.m'r  rude 

The  Holy  Child! 
Who  iievi-r  !)>■  ;i  unu-h  ol'  sin 

Shall  hiMlefiicd. 

To  God  be  highest  glory  given. 

For  this  dear  love; 
Let  every  voice  the  angels'  join 

Here  and  above. 


8B- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


-s 


651 


STEPHEN  MARION  WATSON. 

Born:  Saco,  Me,  Jan.  22,  l>m. 
Engaging  iti  business  at  Boston  for  several 
years,  Mr.  Watson  returned  to  his  native 
town  in  1872.  He  was  elected  superintendent 
and  librarian  at  the  York  Institute  of  Saco, 
which  position  he  resigned  in  order  to  accept 


STEPHEN    MAIUON  WATSON. 

a  similar  one  in  the  public  library  of  Port- 
land, which  position  he  still  holds.  Mr.  Wat- 
son is  the  editor  and  publisher  of  the  Maine 
Historical  and  Genealogical  Recorder.  The 
ptieras  of  this  writer  have  appeared  in  the 
leading  publications  of  Maine  and  Mass.,  and 
he  is  represented  in  the  Poets  of  Maine. 


GROWING  GRAY. 
Ah,  silver  threads  are  in  my  hair. 
What  business  have  they  growing  there. 

It  cannot  yet  l)e  time 
I  tliought  myself  quite  young  and  fair, 
Do  I  not  yet  quite  well  compare 

With  others  in  their  prime? 
••  Ah,  no!-  says  wife,  •>  T  lately  see 
You  stoop  a  little  just  like  mo; 

We  must  be  growing  old. 
Our  youthful  days,  how  quick  they  flee, 
I  am  surprised  that  I  can  be 

The  age  that  1  am  told. 
"  Crows  feet,  too,  are  on  your  face, 
I  can  the  crooked  wrinkles  trace,— 

There's  one  for  every  care. 


But  husband,  age  is  no  disgrace, 
I  think  1  like  the  honored  place, 

And  silver  in  my  hair." 
But  see,  dear  wife,  I  don't  expect 
My  youth  prolonged,  but  I  reflect 

On  time  that  I've  misspent; 
I've  not  much  .saved  through  my  neglect, 
To  us  in  our  old  age  protect 

'Gainst  want  of  meat  and  rent. 
And  this  is  why  I  cannot  bear 
To  see  the  silver  in  my  hair. 

Till  I've  made  a  fortune; 
The  time's  so  short  I  most  despair 
Of  saving  much  I  do  declare. 

Since  we  get  old  so  soon. 
It  takes  one  life  to  learn  to  live. 
How  we  should  save,  and  when  to  give 

To  balance  our  account; 
To  start  anew  I  do  believe, 
Two-fold  in  value  I'd  receive 

For  one  in  paying  out. 
"  Oh,  selfish  you  would  be,"  says  wife, 
"  To  live  so  miserly  a  life. 

And  cheat  your  neighbors  so; 
Keep  clear  your  mind  from  evil  strife- 
Let  good  works  in  your  heart  be  rife. 

Then  let  the  silver  show." 


PERSEVERANCE. 
Though  the  spider  breaks  her  tiny  web 

A  dozen  times  a  day. 
How  patiently  she  repairs  each  thre.id 

And  waits  again  for  prey; 
The  thoughtless  wind  that  around  iier  blew 

Has  torn  the  wliole  away; 
Again  she  constructs  it  all  anew. 

Resolved  to  make  it  stay. 

WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM. 
That  good  angels  for  yon  may  twine 
Beautiful  wreaths  of  love  divine. 
From  which,  as  sparkling  gems  ma.v  shine, 
All  the  good  deeds  on  earth  of  thine. 
Is  the  sincerest  wish  of  mine. 


ROSE  ETTA  VIOLA  CURTISS. 

Born:  H.\mpton,  Va.,  March  25, 1870. 
The  poems  of  Miss  Rose  have  appeared  from 
time  to  time  in  several  of  the  local  papers. 

FAREWELL. 

Farewell,  "tis  hard  to  part, 
Whate'er  fate,  to  thee  befall. 
Go  where  you  will,  you  take  my  lieart 
Farewell,  my  love,  mj'  all. 
'Tis  hard,  to  be  torn  asunder. 
When  again  we  retrace  our  feet. 
Will  our  hearts  be  changed  I  wonder. 
Will  our  .souls  be  glad  again  to  meet. 


-® 


SB- 


652 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


CHARLES  W.LOUX. 

Bokn:  Aluta,  Penn  Dec.  4, 1868. 
Charles  has  received  a  good  education,   in 
tlie  meantime  teaching  school.      His   poems 


WILLIAM  Lorx. 


have  received  extensive  publicalioii  in    the 
periodical  press. 


FALLING  IN  LOVE  BY  MOONLIGHT. 

WVien  first  tliey  met,  the  lig-lit 
Of  bow-shaped  Luna  bright 

Shone  forth,  and  lo! 
Eacli  gleaming  ray  departs 
Upon  two  beating  hearts, 
Like  silver-pointed  darts 

From  Cupid's  bow. 
Through  eacli  deceptive  beam 
Beauty  alone  would  gleam 

Upon  her  face; 
What  moonlight  dim  could  hide 
Fond  fancy  soon  supplied; 
And  tlius  he  l)ut  espied 

A  form  of  grace. 

But  light  of  sun  revealed 
The  blemislies  concealed 

In  moon-lit  smiles; 
So,  lovers  then  beware 
Of  forms  by  moon-ligiit  fair,— 
But  only,  only  there,— 

And  shun  their  wiles. 


AN  INTRODUCTION. 

"  Thou  art  so  near  and  yet  so  far," 

Tlius  he  was  sadly  musing. 
While  calmly  in  the  palace  car 

Her  book  she  was  perusing. 
Through  opened  window  zephyrs  stole 

And  tossed  her  beauteous  tresses. 
While  he  beneath  love's  strong  control. 

Scarce  all  his  sighs  suppresses. 
The  train  still  swiftly  moves  along 

And  brings  him  to  his  station; 
Her  heart  remains  as  full  of  song. 

His  full  of  desolation. 

Why  thus  within  his  bosom's  core 
Was  he  his  love  concealing? 

Why  did  he  not,  as  oft  before, 
Give  utterance  to  his  feeling? 

O  barrier  huge  as  Alpine  cliffs!   ■ 

His  was  a  strong  obstruction; 
His  was  the  worst  of  lover's  >>  if's  " — 

He  had  no  introduction. 
O,  ill  device  I  why  give  such  pain 

To  some  that  should  have  mated. 
By  ever  making  them  remain 

Thus  widelj'  separated? 
O,  that  we  always  have  to  list 

To  custom's  stern  instruction  — 
That  half  life's  joys  must  oft  be  missed 

For  want  of  an  introduction. 


DIFFERENCE  IN  POLITICS. 

0  ye  melancholy 
Memories  of  folly. 

Why  torment  my  soul  once  more? 

Gladly  would  I  bury 

All  imaginary 

Thoughts  of  grief  and  worry. 
But  the  real  I  deplore. 

In  the  happy  hours 

When  youth's  dewy  flowers 

Freshly  bloomed  beside  my  way, 
Life,  as  in  some  Aden, 
With  no  grief  was  laden. 
For  I  loved  a  maiden  — 

Yes,  a  maiden  fair  as  day. 
Let  me  but  remember 
Till  my  life's  December, 

Those  blu(>  eyes  and  flowing  liair. 
But,  oh  !  why  did  you  sever 
Her  from  me  forever  — 
Yes,  ah  I  yes,  forever? 

'Twas  her  father,  I  declare. 

1  can  not  be  to  her 
A  delighted  wooer 

While  he  has  me  in  this  fix. 
Dim  became  my  vision 
When  that  politician 
Made  the  great  condition, 

"  You  must  change  your  politics!" 


-^J 


^• 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEUIOA. 


653 


-© 


JAMES  S.  KENNEFICK. 

Bokn:  Ikkland,  Dec.  25, 1829. 
The  sul)jeutof  this  sketch  is  the  brother  of 
the  late  Rev.  Maurice  Keiiiieflek,  P.  P.,  of  the 
united  parishes  of  Raeormac  Gortroe  and  St. 
Bartliohnew,  county  Cork,  Ireland.  James  S. 
Kenneflck  was  a  class-fellow  of  the  late  Rev. 
John  Qiiiiilan,  R.  C,  bishop  of  Mobile,  Ala- 
bama, and  other  men  of  mark.  Born  within 
birdseye  view  of  the  beautiful  harbor  of 
QueenstowM,  no  wonder  that  James  S.  Kenne- 
tirk  WMs;  insiiin^d  to  wi'ite  liis  beautiful  poem 


JAMES  S.   KENNEFICK. 

of  Recollections  of  Queenstown.  At  the  age 
of  nineteen  Mr.  Kenneflck  studied  the  hig-her 
branches  of  geometry,  trig:onometry,  men- 
suration, conic  sections,  land,  lake  and  water 
surveying-,  mapping-,  prospective  and  land- 
scape drawing-,  in  whicli  he  g-raduated  in  1847. 
He  then  went  to  Scotland,  and  in  1851  he 
crossed  the  Atlantic  to  Canada,  where  he  en- 
g-uffed  in  learning  the  practical  part  of  civil 
engineering  on  the  Great  Western  and  Grand 
Trunk  railroad,  connnencing  as  tapeman, 
then  rodman,  copying  draftsman,  etc.,  finally 
reacliing  tlie  position  of  division  engineering. 
Since  tliat  time  lie  has  filled  important  posi- 
tions of  draftsman  and  civil  engineer  in  the 
construction  of  public  works.  The  ne-vt  posi- 
tion James  S.  Kennefick  filled  was  as  editor  of 
a  liberal  conservative  paper,  which  lie  filled 
for  four  years.    In  1864  we  next  find  this  great 


engineer  at  Green  Bay,  Wisconsin,  engaged  in 
topograpliical  work.  In  1864  Mr.  Kennefick 
■was  deputy  county  surveyor  of  St.  Clair  Co; 
elected  county  surveyor  the  following  year; 
and  was  city  engineer  of  Port  Huron  in  187.5. 
In  1882  he  removed  to  Sanilac  county,  Mich., 
with  headquarters  at  Sandusky,  where  he  has 
since  pursued  the  avocation  of  survej'or  of 
state,  county  and  township  public  drainage, 
at  which  business  he  is  now  engaged. 

INAUGURATION  OF  PRES.  HARRISON. 
Hail  cliief tain,  hail!  Oh!  freedom's  son, 

Thy  hour  of  triumph  came. 
Hallowed  and  sweetly  divine, 

From  out  the  vault  of  fame; 
Steady  and  firm,  with  nature's  gifts, 

Thy  powerful  genius  sway'd 
A  mighty  nation's  sufferage. 

In  brilliant  train  array'd. 

Prom  out  tlie  bright  valhalla, 

Of  a  nation's  greatest  choice. 
Thy  soaring  flight  to  eminence. 

Sealed  by  a  nation's  voice. 
Soared  high  aloft  serenely  mild. 

As  Avith  one  loud  acclaim. 
Declared  thee  ruler  of  this  land. 

With  a  place  on  the  scroll  of  fame. 
Long  years  have  passed  with  Ughtning  speed 

Through  time's  relentless  space. 
Since  thou  wert  by  nature's  God  destined 

To  fill  this  glorious  space;— 
This  great  Republic  of  the  west, 

And  a  mighty  people  free. 
Proclaimed  thee  President  of  this  land  — 

This  land  of  liberty. 
There  stands  the  bloodless  champion, 

Unique  in  all  that's  great, 
Before  the  nation's  greatest  men  — 

In  the  arms  of  power  and  state, 
And  'neath  the  sacred  canopy 

Of  heaven's  supernal  arcli. 
He's  crowned  with,  a  nation's  purest  wreath 

On  the  glorious  fourth  of  March. 
O,  wear  it.  chieftain  wear  it. 

Forever  be  its  guard  and  guide. 
Our  father's  blood  lias  bought  it, 

'Tis  the  nation's  boast  and  pride; 
Let  traitors  hang  their  heads  for  shame. 

Let  free  men  boldly  stand 
Througli  life  and  death  for  liberty. 

And  for  freedom's  hallow'd  land. 
Tlien  hail  our  nation's  President, 

Ohl  may  his  rule  be  bright. 
As  Aurora's  balmy,  soft  blue  dawn, 

'Neath  heaven's  blue  vault  of  light ; 
Long  may  his  shield  and  .^Egis  wave 

O'er  all  this  favor'd  Land, 
Where  Lincoln  ruled  supremely  wise. 

And  Grant  held  liigh  command. 


-© 


80- 


654 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


©- 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  QUEENSTOWN. 
By  the  Lee's  winding  river  when  daylight  was 
fading. 
And  the  bright  pohir  star  set  a  watcli  o'er 
tlie  night, 
I  stay 'd  by  the  banlis  of  its  blue  waters  leading 
To  fair  Queenstown  harbor  in  their  quick 
rushing  flight. 
I  sought  not  my  liome  'till  the  cannon's  loud 
token. 
From  Camden's  high  turrets  gave  the  signal 
of  day. 
And  the  watchman's  hallo!  from  the  guard- 
ship  luibroken 
Came  rumbling  along  o'er  the  water's  blue 
spray. 
Calm  was  the  night  and  the  scene  sweetly 
charming 
Along  the  green  margin  of  the  loud  weep- 
ing tide. 
And  heard  softly  echo'd  the  fisherman's  warn- 
ing', 
As  lightly  his  swift  craft  o'er  the  waters  did 
glide. 
The  streamers  full  flaunting  fi'om  rampart 
and  penant. 
And   hyperian    leaving   his   throne  in  the 
east. 
Gave  lustre  and  grandeur  and  beauty  resplen- 
dant 
All  o'er  the  gay  harbor  with  his  bright  gold- 
en crest. 
O,  gay,    lovely   Queenstown   with    thy   high 
streets  mean'dring. 
Reflecting  great  splendor  on  the  Lee's  flow- 
ing stream; 
And   thy  broad  matchless  Beach  where  the 
elite's  ever  wandering, 
Is  mirror'd  most  sweetly  by  the  sun's  gold- 
en beam. 
High   soars  the  gray   turrets   on    RosteUan 
great  mansion. 
And  boldly  each    cannon  sets  on  Carlisle 
Fort, 
With  broad  stately  island  in  the  water's  ex- 
pansion. 
To  shelter  the  harbor  from  the  winds  of  the 
north. 
'Tis  there  you  would  see  native  genius  ex- 
X)and'd, 
And  ships  of  alt  countries  with  their  flags 
flaunting  free, 
'Tis  there  that  the  fair  nymph  of  l)eauty  first 
land'd 
And  deck'd  the  sweet  harbor  with  rare  scen- 
ery; 
Yes,  bless'd  the  sweet  harbor,  but  crush'd  the 
brave  people. 
That  languish  and  pine  'neath  the  usurper's 
rod. 


O,  heaven  look  down  from  thy  abode  in  the  ' 
highest,  [nature  and  God. 

With  one  ray  of  fair  freedom   bless'd  by  \ 
I  have  been  in  many  a  city  of  splendor. 
Where   mirror'd   a   thousand  phantomime  ! 
forms,  ( 

On  the  Ohio's  sweet  and  fast-winding  river,       I 
And  down  the  Mississippi  in  wild   raging  ; 
storms ; 
I  have  seen  the  Niagara's  Catarac  foaming,       , 

Belching  forth  in  its  frenzi'd  silverysheen, 

But  oh !  thou  sweet  Cove  where  in  dreams  I'm 

oft  roaming, 

Its  fairest  and  dearest  of  ekch  lovely  scene. 

Farewell,  O  Queenstown,   near   the  home  of 

my  childhood. 

Farewell  to  sweet  Cloyne,  the  dear  haunts  of 

my  youth,  [green  wood. 

Farewell   to   Aghada,  each  grot  and  each 

And  Monkstown  and  Passage  on  the  Lee's 

sunny  south;  [grand  knell. 

The  loud  Bells  of  Shandon  that  ring  out  each 

Or  funeral  note  with  a  sad  mournful  toll. 
And  each  scene  of  my  youth  I  now  bid  thee  a 
farewell,  [in  my  soul. 

O,  long  shall  these  recollections  live  green 


DEATH  OF  PRESIDENT  GARFIELD. 
The  bells  are  loudly  tolling, 

A  requiem  from  shore  to  shore. 
For  our  nation's  greatest  President, 

That  alas !  is  now  no  more. 
There's  a  wail  of  deepest  anguish. 

Throughout  the  stricken  land. 
For  the  soldier,  statesman,  scholar. 

That  fell  by  the  assassin's  hand. 
Ah !  me  what  patient  yearnings, 

Had  flll'd  the  world  with  joy. 
When  the  bulletins  each  day  announced, 

A  hope  for  the  •>  canal  boy." 
But  fate  decreed,  reluctantly. 

That  death  would  have  full  sway. 
And  blanch'd  the  nation's  brightest  hopes,; 

In  death's  dark,  dismal  way. 
Through  years  of  toil  and  labor,— 

Through  the  ups  and  downs  of  life. 
This  brilliant  child  of  nature, 

Has  breasfd  tiiis  world's  false  strife. 
Through  the  fiery  ordeal  unflattering. 

He  braved  the  storms  of  time. 
And  trod  t  lie  flowery  paths  of  fame, 

Pure,  holy  and  sublime. 
Born  not  in  the  lap  of  luxury. 

Nor  'neath  the  gaudy  roof  of  wealth. 
This  brilliiint  son  of  Columbia  — 

Of  stately  mien  and  health; 
March'd  forth  into  the  world's  domain, 

Ontraniniel'd,  gay,  serene. 
To  rule  the  greatest  nation. 

The  world  has  e'er  yet  seen. 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OK  AMElilCA. 


* 


600 


EDWARD   P.  WOODWARD. 

Boun:  VVarsaw.N.Y., Junes,  1840. 
At  twenty  Mr.  Wood  ward  went  to  Providence, 
R.  I.,  ;uid  Boston,  Mass.,  where  he  remain- 
ed twenty-four  years,  reporting-,  and  eoiiuect- 
ed  with  newspaper,  publishing- and  otiier  in- 
terests. In  1880  lie  was  ordained  as  a  minister 
of  the  Christian  connection,  having-  preached 


REV.  EDWARD  P.  WOODWARD. 

Since  J;ui.  1,  1878;  and  was  pastor  of  a  chureli 
in  the  city  of  Maiden  several  years.  In  1884 
I.e  removed  to  Harrison,  Maine,  and  became 
connected  with  the  Advent  Christian  denomi- 
nation; and  since  1888  has  been  pastor  of  the 
second  Advent  church  of  Portland,  Maine 
Where  he  is  now  vice-president  of  the  Maine 
Mate  Advent  Christian  Conference,  and  pres- 
ident of  theVoung  Ministers-Christian  Union. 
The  poems  of  the  Rev.  Woodward  have  ap- 
P'-ared  in  the  leading  religious  and  secular 
l>uohcations. 


THE  BELLES. 
I. 

See  the  sledges  with  the  belles,- 

Laughiiifj- belles! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  merriment 
foretells! 
How  their  beaming,  black  eyes  twinkle 
in  the  frosty  air  of  niglit! 


While  th.'  sleigh  Ijells  tinkle,  tinkle 
And  thv  Hakes  tlieir  heads  besprinkle. 
Filling  with  a  strange  deliglit; 
Keeping  time,  merry  time. 
In  the  most  unfettered  rliyme. 
To  the  merry,  joyous  laughter  that  so  sweetly 
richly  swells 
From  tlie  wildly-tlirobbing  bosoms  of  the 
belles: 

Belles,  belles,  belles,-  rbelles 

From    the    happy,  careless,  laughter -loving 

II. 

See  the  stately,  queenly  belles,— 
Wedded  belles! 
What  a   wealth   of   mother-love   their  quiet 
manner  tells! 
In  the  silent  hours  of  niglit, 
To  the  little  one's  delight. 
From  the  trembling,  swan-like  throats - 

In  broken  tune  — 
What  sweet,  low,  soothing  music  floats 
To  the  little  dove  that  nestles,  gently  borne 
Around  the  room. 
Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells. 
What  peaceful  harmony  continuously   wells 
Now  it  swells  — 
Anon  it  dwells 
On  the  Past;  then  it  tells 
Of  the  Future  that  impels 
To  the  toiling  and  the  praying 

Of  the  belles,- 
Of  the  earnest-hearted  belles: 

Belles,  belles,  belles,— 
To  the  watching  and  the  waiting  of  the  belles 


See  the  anguish-stricken  belles,— 
Weeping  belles  I 
What  days  of  wasting  sorrow  their  terror  now 
foretells! 
And  the  gentle  eye  of  Night 
Looks  upon  them  in  their  fright. 
Crushed  beyond  the  power  to  speak:— 
Only  now  and  then  a  sliriek  — 
Discords  tune  — 
With  despairing  heart  appealing  to  the  mercy 

of  the  Are,- 
Struggling  helplessly  witii  Rjipine's  wither- 
ing, wa.stiiig  fire,— 
Rising  stronger,  fiercer,  higher. 
With  insatiable  desire 
Now  to  seize  and  blast  forever 
Virtue's  bower  and  Beauty's  l)loom ! 
Oh.  deceived  and  ruined  belles! 
With  a  wail  their  horror    wells 

From  despair! 
How  they  groan,  and  writhe,  and  pour 
Sighs  and  tears  so  vainly  o'er 
LTnpitying  earth,  and  trembling  air! 
And  the  car  too  plainly  knows 


-* 


© 


656 


-SB 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OF  A3IBRICA. 


By  the  sighing, 
Aud  the  cryinp". 
How  their  anguish  ebbs  and  flows: 
And  to  the  ear  it  plainly  tells 
I u  the  groaning, 
And  the  moaning', 
How  this  nameless  Horror  swells, 
By  the  mad,  despairing  accents  of  those  hope- 
less, helpless  belles; 
Of  tlie  belles,— 
Of  the  belles,  the  weeping,  sorrowing  belles: 
Belles,  belles,  belles,— 
Of  the  broken-hearted,   crushed,  despairing 
belles! 

IV. 

Sad  procession  of  the  belles,— 
Falleu  belles! 
What  weird,  solemn,   awful    thought    their 
passing  by  compels! 
"Neath  the  flickering  gaslight. 
How  the  soul  is  filled  with  fright 
At  the  hollow,  ringing  mockery  of  their  tone! 
Aud  each  sound  and  word  that  floats 
From  their  brazen  lips  and  throats, 

Seems  a  groan ! 
But  the  people!—  they  who  dwell 
On  the  dark  confines  of  hell, 

All  alone. 
Planning,  plotting,  darkly  working, 

Hating  all,  beloved  by  none,— 
And  who  revel  thus  in  turning 
Tender,  loving  hearts  to  stone! 
Are  they  eitlier  man  or  woman? 
Are  they  eitlier  brute  or  human? 
Unpityingghouls ! 
And  their  King  it  is  who  rolls 
Agony  on  human  souls  — 
Tolls 
The  knell  of  fallen  belles! 
And  his  fiendish  bosom  swells 
As  he  counts  the  ruined  belles! 

And  in  mad  delight  he  yells. 
Dances,  wildly  keeping  time 
(Paying  little  lieed  to  rliyniC) 
To  the  sighing  of  the  belles,— 
Of  the  belles: 
Keeping  swift,  unmeasured  time 
To  the  groaning-  of  the  belles, 

Of  the  bells,  belles,— 
To  the  sobbing  of  the  belles:— 
Keeping  time  — glad  time  — 
As  he  knells,  madly  knells 
In  a  proud,  triunipliant  rhyme. 
To  the  curses  of  the  belles; 
Of  the  belles,  shameless  belles, — 

To  the  wailing  of  the  belles, 
Of  the  belles,  fallen,  dying  belles,— 
Belles,  belles,  belles,— 
To   the    silence   and    the    darkness  of  Lost 
Belles  ! 


gB- 


VERE  D.  PALMER. 

Born;  North  Star,  Mich.,  June  8, 1867. 

The  poems  of  the  subject  of  this  sketch  have 
appeared  quite  extensively  in  the  local  press. 
Mr.  Palmer  was  married  in  1885  to  Miss  Mina 
Belding.  He  has  generally  followed  the  occu- 
pation of  school  teacher,  but  is  now  engaged 
in  agriculture  in  his  native  place,  and  is  cor- 
respondent for  several  local  papers.  The 
poems  of  Mr.  Vere  D.  Palmer  liave  always 
been  well  and  favorably  received  by  both 
press  and  public,  and  he  has  become  quite 
popular  in  liis  native  county. 


COMME  IL  TAUT. 

We  were  standing  in  the  twilight, 

As  the  golden  sunbeams  fled. 
On  my  shoulder,  gently  pillowed, 

Lay  her  charming  little  head. 

And  her  loving  eyes  uplifted. 
Beamed  on  me  their  warmest  light, 

As  the  distant  shadows  lengthening. 
Warned  us  of  approaching  night.. 

On  lier  face  upturned  there  lingered 

Not  one  trace  of  pain  or  care. 
For  of  sorrow  she  had  known  not. 

But  of  pleasures  had  to  spare. 

For  above  us  were  the  heavens, 
'Neath  our  feet  the  grasses  grew. 

And  her  eyes  like  diamonds  sparkled, 
Soft  as  brightest  morning  dew. 

I  was  thinking  of  that  evening. 

When  I  met  her,  long  ago. 
As  she  wandered  on  the  hillside. 

Where  the  mountain  daisies  grow. 

She  one  moment  gazed  ii|)<)ii  me. 
Then  as  though  bj-  iusliuet  led. 

Turned  and  downward  through  tlie  valley, 
'Long  the  murmuring  brooklet  fled. 

Not  so  now ;  she  loves  to  linger 

By  my  side  at  set  of  sun. 
When  the  day  of  toil  is  over 

And  the  busy  labors  done. 

But  alas!  the  spell  is  broken: 
Down  the  lane  the  nnlkman  comes, 

And  from  reverie  I'm  awakened, 
By  the  noisy  tune  he  hums. 

My  companion,  too,  is  startled 
liy  the  milkman's  nois\-  laugh; 

With  a  bawl  she  rushes  from  me, 
That  confounded—  Jersey  calf. 


88- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK  AMEllICA. 


657 


® 


TRAVERSE  EUGENE  STOUT. 

Born:  PutnAiM  Co.,  Ohio,  April  12, 1858. 
Mil.  Stout  has  received  a  thorougli  educa- 
tion, and  graduated  in  1882  from  tlie  state  un- 
iversity of  Wisconsni,  and  subsequently  wrote 
an  elementary  treati.se  on  evidence,  desig:ned 
for  tiie  use  of  students,  wliicli  lias  had  a  large 
sale.    Mr.  Stout  has  written   Iwtli   prose  and 


TltAVEUSE  EUGENE  STOUT. 

poetry,  which  has  been  published  at  different 
times  in  the  Cincinnati  Commercial  Gazette, 
The  Army  Herald  of  Des  Moines,  The  Budget 
of  Knoxville,  Des  Moines  Register,  Wavcrly 
Magazine,  and  the  periodical  press  generally. 
Mr.  Stout  is  unmarried,  and  resides  at  Hunt- 
ington, W.Va.,  where  he  is  engaged  in  law. 


© 


DRIFTING. 
Surely  apart  on  Life's  great  sea. 
Drift  I  from  you  — and  you  from  me. 

Though  wind  and  sea  are  fnir, 
I  press  my  hand  against  my  breast, 
Alas !  for  me  there  is  no  rest. 

For  oh !  my  heart's  not  there. 
But  'tis  with  you  —  sailing  away. 
Surely  drifting—  taking  the  day, 

Leaving  the  night  for  mine: 
Once  side  by  side  we  sailed  together. 
Sailed  through  fair  and  stormy  weather. 

Over  the  mystic  brine. 
A  jealous  hand  in  the  calm,  blue  sea. 
Then  turned  your  boat  apart  from  me; 


I  struggled  'gainst  its  will, 
Rut  all  in  vain —  a  glimp.se  of  white; 
You  are  drifting  yet  —  just  in  sight; 

Yes,  drifting  — drifting  still. 
To  hope  farewell  —  farewell  to  you. 
Vanished  yourself  and  boat  from  view. 

Out  on  the  distant  bay. 
In  thoughtful  hours,  on  meni'ry's  sight. 
Will  often  break  your  boat  of  white 

Still  drifting  — drifting  away. 

MARY. 
Brown-haired  graceful  Mary, 
Blue-eyed  little  fairy. 

When  the  dawn  appears 
Your  words  fall  on  my  ears; 

When  the  sun  goes  down 
Unchecked  your  talk  flows  on, — 
Now  of  this  and  then  of  that. 
Of  the  grove,  the  bee,  the  bat, 
Mocking  now  tlie  river's  song. 
Wandering  all  the  woods  among. 
Chirping  like  the  sweet  ground  bird; 
Was  there  like  ihee  ever  heard, 
Swain,  or  maid  or  flowing  stream. 
Talking,  singing  from  the  gleam 
Of  the  dawn  till  far  in  night. 
With  such  vim  and  such  delight? 
Pearl-toothed,  graceful  Mary, 
Blithesome  little  fairy. 

Dimpled  cheeks  are  yours; 
Your  breath  more  sweet  than  flowers, 

Tempting  lips  so  red. 
Bewitching  molded  head, 
A  thousand  chai-ms  to  win. 
The  fair  God  Love  within; 
But  when  he'd  kiss  your  cheeks. 
Or  dare  approach  your  lips. 
Before  his  love  he  speaks. 
Your  restless  tongue  outslips. 
In  its  long  accustomed  way. 
And  so  imicli  'twould  have  to  say. 
That  your  lover  weary  grown. 
With  his  message  all  unknown. 
From  your  side  would  haste  away. 
Neither  come  another  day  1 
Ever-talking  Mary. 
Self-will'd  little  fairy, 

I'll  a  sermon  preach; 
When  the  dawn  appears. 
When  fair  love  would  woo. 
When  the  evening  nears. 
This  of  all  things  dare  to  do. 
Bridle  you  your  speech. 
O  what  a  storm  T  brought 
On  me  thus  before  I  thought; 

All  her  words  ran  riot 
AA'hen  1  bade  her  tongue  be  quiet! 

I'll  remember  all  m.v  days 
Tlie  dire  tempest  I  did  raise; 


■51 


g^- 


'658 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMERICA. 


But  the  storm  at  last  went  by, 
Teardrops  trembled  in  lier  eye. 
Yet  she  would  not  deign  to  cry, 
Queen-lilie  there  she  passed  me  by. 
Brown-haired  graceful  Mary, 
Blue-eyed  little  fairj% 

Humbly  I  entreat. 

You  will  mercy  mete 

To  my  broken  heart. 

That  to  love  did  start. 
When  the  tempest  I  awoke. 
When  your  heart  so  freely  spoke. 
Then  I  knew  I  loved  thee,  Mary, 
Brown-haired,  blue-eyed,  talking  fairy! 


MRS.  HATTIE  E.  FURMAN. 

Born:  Delhi,  Iowa,  Feb.  8,  1853. 
Since  1871  the  poems  of  this  lady  have  appear 
cd  in  the  Dubuque  newspapers,  the  House- 


MH.S.    HAT'iiE    ELIZABETH  FUHMAN. 

keeper,  and  the  local  press  generally.  She 
was  married  in  1883  to  Charles  H.  Furnian,  and 
still  resides  in  her  native  place. 


S- 


TWO  DREAMS. 

Asleep  in  a  sunny  meadow. 

When  tlie  J\ine  winds  soft  and  low. 
Are  swaying',  swaying,  swaying. 

The  tall  grass  to  and  fro. 
He  dreams  a  dream  of  the  future. 

With  boyish  abandon  — sweet — 


That  a  world  of  pomp  and  treasure 
Is  lying  at  his  feet. 

The  ragged  boy  in  the  meadow, 

'Neath  the  June  skies  soft  ane  blue, 
Awakes  from  his  care-free  dreaming. 

To  find  it  all  —  untrue. 
Asleep  in  his  splendid  chamber. 

He  dreams  of  the  long  ago. 
Of  winds  in  a  meadow  swaying 

The  tall  grass  to  and  fro. 
The  man  of  the  world  is  dreaming; 

Oh  illusion  fond  and  sweet  — 
That  his  life  untried  before  him, 

Lies  at  his  boyish  feet. 
He  'wakens  —  the  old,  old  story,— 

As  ever  earth's  dreamers  do, 
To  find,  outside  of  heaven. 

Their  brightest  dreams  —  untrue. 


SEEKING  A  SIGN. 
Oh  red,  red  rose!    The  warm  glow  in  youi 

heart 
Is  deep  and  rich  to-day ;  your  perfume  sweet 
As  when  on  Sharon's  plains  the  Asian  sun, 
VVooed   you    to   being   when  the  world   wa: 

young. 

« »h  royal  lilies!  you  are  with  us  now, 

Stainless  and  spotless  in  your  purity. 

As  when  you  grew  around  Jerusalem, 

An  then  in  your  pale  splendor  did  out  shin 

'I'he  glory  of  Judea's  proudest  king. 

nil   purple    heartsease,   with    your    bende 

heads. 
The  shadow,  resting  on  your  faces  sweet, 
1  las  never  once  been  lifted  since  the  day 
Tlie  gates  were  shut  on  Eden ;  for  you  wear  ; 
'I'he  patient  look  of  one  who  always  waits. 
And  though  you  never  see  the  Presence thi- 
Was  wont  to  walk  the  garden  at  the  hush      ' 
( »f  night-fall,  yet  I  know  you  always  watch 
The  dusky  silence— faithful,  fond  and  true. 

Oh  fair  and  fragile  flowers,  rvhose  fleetii 

bloom 
Dies  in  an  hour,  but  whose  sweet  history 
Reaches  behind  the  history  of  nations! 
You,  who  are  so  peerless  and  so  perfect, 
And,    who  are,    methinks,   the  only  earth 

thing 
On  which  no  curse  has  fallen,  do  you  know 
With  what  fond  love,  and  brooding  tend( 

ness, 
A  troubled  world  has  loved  you?    Let  us  l0( 
I  pray,  deep  in  your  tinted  chalices, 
Seeking  therein  a  i>ledge  divine,  that  when 
The  low,  green  grasses  grow  'tween  US  u ; 

you. 
We  shall  find  upon  the  unknown  heavenly ' 
Hills  tlie  deathless  bloom  of  immortelles. 
-5 


®- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK  AMEIilCA. 


C50 


^ 


MRS.  MARY  A.THOMAS. 

Bokn:  La  Vekgne,  Tenn.,  Jan.  10,  184L 

This  lady  w:is  inairiod  in  1872  to  Archie 
Tliomas,  and  now  residosiii  Springfleld,  Tcnii. 
She  received  a  good  education  and  has  a  fair 
knowledge  of  Latin,  Spanish  and  music.  From 
an  early  age  she  lias  wi-itten  quite  extensively 
for  the  periodical  press,  and  in  1871  was  elect- 
ed honorary  member  of  the  Tennessee  Press 
Association.  Mr.  Thomas  was  a  very  popular 
journalist,  a  free  mason  and  knight  of  honor, 
and  his  death  in  1888  was  deeply  lamented. 
Since  her  liusband's  death,  Mrs.  Thomas  has 
continued  the  publication  of  tlie  Springfield 
Kecord.in  wliich  sliehas  been  very  successful. 


fS- 


HEAL  THYSELF. 
•'  As  fickle  as  she's  fair,"  man  says 

Of  woman.    "  Sweet  words,  tender  smiles 
Arc  bestowed  on  all  men  alike; 

There's  no  end  to  her  flattering-  wiles. 
"  And  this  one,  that  one,  and  the  other- 
Poor,  blind  dupe,  thinks  he  is  loved  best; 
Tiiat,  should  he  but  please,  she  would  gladly 

Give  the  mitten  to  all  of  the  rest." 
Thus  he  looks,  criticises,  condemns; 

Swears  woman  serves  man  very  badly; 
Wliile  the  beam  is  in  his  own  eye 

He  has  judged.    And  then  reflects  sadly: 
"  U'liat  a  heaven  this  world  would  be 

If  women  were  sincere  and  true; 
\t  tliey  would  as  honestly  act 

lu  such  matters  as  we  men  do." 
His  elastic  conscience  ne'er  whispers 

Of  falsehood  the  least  suggestion. 
Attend  a  few  moments  —  I'll  show  you 

Tiie  opposite  side  of  the  question. 
To  her  friend  man  praises  one  woman. 

But  says,  ..  you  are  more  beautiful  far  "— 
Directly  murmurs  to  another, 

"You  are  bright  as  a  midnight  star." 
Sometimes  his  eyes  will  speak  tender; 

Ho  breiithes  fondly  in  one  maiden's  ear. 
"  1  knew  not  wliat  love  is  till  now," 

To  some  other  >.  My  heart  holds  you  dear." 
He  leans  over  a  trustful  young  girl 

And  ••  Sweet  Alice  with  hair  so  brown," 
Quotes  softly;  and  royal  she  feels 

As  if  wearing  a  golden  crown  — 

Though  whether  or  no  he  means  aught 

She  knows  not;  and  he  cares  much  less: 
What  is  it  to  him  if  tlie  words 

Are  destined  to  bane  or  to  bless? 
Again  he'll  clasp  warndy  both  hands 

Of  fair  friends  lie  chances  to  meet. 
And  all  think  ••  If  for  me  he  cares  naught 

Would  he  greet  me  with  glances  so  sweet':*" 


..  A  word  to  the  wise  is  sufficient;" 

I  shall  instance  no  otlier  cases  — 
Just  advise  a  rigiit  cultivation 

Of  three  most  rare  christian  graces. 
But  flirting  is  a  time-honored  custom. 

Likely  dates  back  to  tlie  fall 
From  Eden.    And  perhaps,  it  is  only 

"  Diamond  cut  diamond  "  after  all. 


A  POE.M. 

A  city  fair,  yet  in  her  beauteous  youth. 
Sitting     enthroned     within    her   sovereign 
State, 
Clad  in  the  royal  robes  of  justice,  truth. 

And  every  attribute  that  makes  lier  great, 
From  her  rejoicing  Commonwealth  receives. 

On  this  Centennial  of  natal  days. 
Rich  homage  shown  in  rare   and   countless 

sheaves 
Of  excellence,  that  all  true  men  appraise  — 
Industry,  Genius,  Talent,  and  whatever  tends 
To  grace  the  human  brow,  or  make  all  man- 
kind friends. 

One  hundred  years  ago  this  vernal  time 

The  sun  arose  upon  a  forest  wide. 

Where  wild    game   flourished  in  our  genial 

clime. 
And  basked  upon  our  sparkling  river's  side. 
The    savage     lurked    within    the   wild-wood 

shade. 
His  murd'rous  tomahawk  high  raised  in  air; 
But  sturdy  settlers,  firm  and  undismayed. 
Soon  forced  him  back  unto  his  green-wood 

lair. 
Where  erst  the  Indian's  wigwam  smoke  curl- 
ed toward  the  skies, 
He  saw  the  pale-face  habitations  surely  rise. 
Then  vengefully  the  vanquished  warrior  flew. 
The  sunset  rays  upon  his  dusky  face  — 
The  clustered  cabins  to  a  village  grew  — 
The  village  to  a  town  increased  apace. 
Her  citizens  in  virtues  oft  excelled; 
In  peace  and  war  alike  were  tliey  renowned. 
Dominion,  lionor,  in  her  precincts  dwelled  — 
She  regnant  city  of  the  State  was  crowned. 
And  stately,  towering  upward  to  the  clouds 

we  see 
The  dome  of  the  proud  Capitol  of  Tennes.see. 
Lawgivers,  Statesmen,  Generals  she  gave. 
Who  risked  their  all   in  danger's    whelming 

tide; 
Wise,  patriotic,  honest,  true  and  brave  — 
Well  worthy  of  a  nation's  loving  pride 
Twice  sent  she  fortli  one  of  her  sons  to  fill 
Our  glorious  country's  presidental  chair; 
A  man  of  energy  and  iron  will,  [there. 

Wlio  served  the  people  well  that  placed  him 
Let  Nashville's  cannon  loud  reverbenite  to 

tell  [ry  dwell. 

The  Hermitage  that  Jackson's  deeds  in  mem'- 


-® 


©- 


660 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMKUICA. 


-© 


Again  our  city,  at  tlie  nation's  call, 
Glad  yielded  one  of  her  most  able  men  — 
Whose  enemies  his  graces  held  in  thrall; 
His  praises  spread  afar  o'er  mount  and  glen. 
When  he  had  loyally  fulfilled  his  part 
He  sought  his  home  to  rest  beneath  her  sod  — 
For  aye  he  lives  within  his  country's  Iieart  — 
And  Nashville  loves  the  places  where  he  trod. 
And  her  Centurial  guns  boom  o'er  Polk's  hon- 
ored dust, 
And  speak  her  pride  of  him,  her  own,  her  no- 
ble, just. 
Suppose  the  deep-mouthed  cannon's  roar  has 

broke 
The  fetters  of  decaj%  which  long  have  bound 
The  crumbled  forms  of  those  red  men  who 

woke 
The  forest  with  their  savage  life,  and  found 
For  them  a  resurrection  brief,  that  they 
May  view  the    progress    the    pale    race   has 

wrought, 
The  while  they  in  their  rude  graves  quiet  lay 
A  hundred  years  with  mighty  events  fraught. 
Behold  them  rise  from  many  a  long  lost  In- 
dian mound,  ['round. 
Among  us  grimly  stalk,  and  gaze  bewildered 
They  note  tlie    tokens  of   the   white    man's 

might; 
The  sounds  of  busj',  joyous  life  they  hear; 
With  low-bowed  heads,  and  footsteps   spirit- 
light. 
They  from  our  presence  wond'ring  disappear. 
The  dark,  weird  woods  receive    the   ghostly 

throng  — 
Rekindle  they  their  long  extinguished  fires. 
Dance  their  death  dance,  and  chant  their  fun 

eral  song-, 
And   then  those    phantom    sons,    sepulchral 
sires,  [glide 

A   painted,  savage,  specter  crew,  all  silent 
Back  to  their  graves,  again  to  wait  a  cen- 
tury's tide. 

A  century's  tide!  What  wondrous  things  are 

hid 
Among  its  stealthy,  sure,  swift-rolling  waves? 
What  will  evolve  from  intellects  which  bid 
Defiance  to  deep  nature's  secrets  —  braves 
All  siicrifice  for  good  of  human  kind? 
What  mysteries  will  science  yet  reveal. 
Within  that  era,  to  still  closer  bind 
Our  race  in  deeper  woe,  or  brighter  weal? 
From  'mid  Time's  teeming,  hasting  billows 

shall  be  hurled  [world. 

Events  that   will    amaze   a   startled,  gazing 


8B- 


JOHN  HOTCHKISS. 

Bokn:  Derby,  Conn.,  November,  1830. 
For  three  years  the  subject  of  this  skelcli  was 
apprenticed  to  the  drug  business  at  Bridge- 
port.   In  1849  he  removed  to  New  York  state, 


where  he  learned  the  printing  business  at 
Randolph.    Mr.  Hotchkiss  served  in  the  civil 


JOHN   HOTCHKISS. 

war  from  the  beginning  until  its  close.  In 
1866  he  started,  in  Wisconsin,  the  Fox  Lake 
Representative,  in  which  city  he  still  resides 
with  his  wife,  by  whom  he  has  two  children 
living. 


GENEVEY  LAIK. 

Genevey  Laik  —  magestick  stream! 

Thy  buties  can't  be  told; 
They  far  surpass  the  poit's  dream, 

Or  farey  tails  of  old. 
Benealh  thy  waters  clear  and  brite, 

Do  eny  farey  murraades^well. 
Or  are  the  siskos  all  the  go, 

With  now  and  then  a  pickurel? 
Now  is  there  not  sum  calm  retreat, 

Sum  nook  of  mud  in  thy  waters  clear, 
Where  bullheds  fat  each  uther  greet 

Beyond  the  reeeh  of  hook  or  speer? 
And  tell  me,  O  murmerrin  waves. 

As  prowdly  you  role  on  in  glory. 
Have  j'ou  no  romanse  of  gone  by  dais, 

No  tail,  tradishun  or  storj? 
Did  the  red  men  of  yore  build  huts  on   thy 
sand. 

And  squas  and  pappooses  lay  around  1ih).«, 
Or  were  the  denizens  of  thy  forist  land 

Only  the  Gofur,  the  Elk  and  the  Moos? 
Go  it  little  billers  — bust  on  the  shore, 

And  all  kei'tlummu.x  and  brake; 
I  cood  ride  on  thy  waves  forevnr  more, 

And  hark  to  the  musiek  you  make. 
O,  laik  of  buty  —  vurdent  spot. 

The  puttiest  in  creasion  — 
I  mite  rite  more  if  twant  so  hot, 

And  the  rest  of  the  fellers  would  only  Jest 
quit  their  botherashuii.  I 
5 


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— 98 
661 


WILLIAM  V.  LAWRANCE. 

Born:  Greene  Co.,  O.,  Nov.  10, 18.34. 
Mr.  Lawrance  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in 
1860,  and  the  following-  year  enlisted  as  a 
private,  serving-  until  tlie  close  of  the  war, 
with  the  exception  of  a  short  period  in  1863 
when  he  was  obliged  to  return  home  to  re- 
gain his  shattered  healtli.  In  1865  Mr.  Law- 
rance began  the  practice  ol  his  profession  at 


WILLIAM  VICKARS  LAWRANCE. 

Waverly,  Ohio,  and  three  years  later  settled 
permanently  in  Chillicothe,  wliere  he  now  re- 
sides with  his  wife,  whom  he  married  in  1864. 
Mr.  Lawrance  has  written  verse  from  his 
youth,  and  in  1874  published  a  volume  of 
poems  entitled  EUina.  In  1889  appeared  The 
Story  of  Judith,  a  neat  volume  of  poems  that 
has  been  well  received.  Mr.  Lawrance  is 
well  known  as  a  successful  lawyer  and  gentle- 
man, and  now  occupies  the  position  of  assist- 
ant quartermaster  general  of  the  depart- 
ment of  the  Ohio  G.  A.  R. 


MUSIC  THAT  EVER  IS  NEW. 
I  have  listened  to-nigiit  to  music  so  sweet 

It  charmed  all  my  sadness  away. 
In  the  rhythmical  sound  of  merry  young  feet 

Of  children  in  innocent  play. 
Their  laughter  like  ripples  of  water,  flows 

Enchanting  upon  the  breeze; 
'"'hile  echo,  repeating  it,  conies  and  goes, 
©• 


Refining  the  notes  which  please. 
I  drink  of  the  music  as  one  does  wine, 

Athirst  for  the  cheer  it  brings; 
But  sweeter  to  me  this  draught  of  mine, 

Which  comforts  but  never  stings! 
The  voices  come  in  at  the  open  doors, 

And  float  through  each  vacant  room, 
Like  fragrance  blown  in  from  the  bursting 
flowers 

Which  under  mj'  windows  l)loom. 
And  yet  no  feet  o'er  the  threshold  come. 

And  under  my  roof-tree  rest; 
No  nestlings  at  eve  to  my  gates  fly  home 

To  shelter  upon  my  breast. 
Yet  a  hand  once  touched  the  open  door, 

A  foot  at  the  threshold  stayed; 
And  a  shadow  lies  there  forevermore, 

A  sorrow  that  will  not  fade! 


SONG. 
The  stars  are  glowing  in  the  skies. 

The  clouds  have  fled  awaj% 
The  mist  of  night  around  me  lies 

In  shadows  dull  andgraj". 

Come  stray  with  me,  dearest. 

While  stars  their  watchings  keep. 
Come  stray  with  me,  come  stray  with  me, 

Let  those  that  love  not  sleep. 
The  night  grows  deeper  on  the  plain. 

Our  steps  must  homeward  turn ; 
The  dew  reflects  from  earth  again 

The  heaveiilj-  lights  that  burn. 

Come,  come  with  me,  dearest. 

We  can  no  farther  rove. 
Come  play  for  me,  come  play  for  me 

Those  melting  notes  of  love. 
Ah !  sing  to  me,  for  in  my  breast 

AH  tuneless  are  those  strings 
That  vibrate  when  the  heart  is  blest. 

And  rapture  inly  springs; 

Yes,  sing  to  me,  dearest. 

Thy  voice  is  music  sweet;  , 
The  echoings,  the  echoings. 

My  lieart  shall  still  repeat. 
And  when  the  last  note  dies  away. 

New  strings  shall  catch  the  strain; 
A  viewless  hand  shall  sweetly  play 

The  song  of  love  again. 

Then  list  with  me,  dearest. 

Love  tunes  the  echoing  song; 
Within  my  breast,  within  my  breast. 

Those  notes  shall  eclio  long. 


WHO  KNOWS. 
The  liglits  flash  out  along  the  street. 
And  merry  feet  still  come  and  go. 
While  distant  music  soft  and  sweet 
Floats  up,  and  voices  from  below 
Ring  out  in  laughter;  distant  call 


* 


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662 


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And  answer  back  come  up  to  me ; 
And  yet  like  throbs  of  pain  tliey  fall, 
And  tlirill  my  heart  and  soul  and  all 

With  one  fierce  throe  of  misery. 
I  do  not  know  why  this  to-night; 

I  love  sweet  music,  and  I  love 
To  hear  the  merry  voice  and  light 

Which  floats  to  where  I  sit,  above 
The  crowd  which  hurries  to  and  fro; 

I  close  the  sash  and  shut  me  in, 
And  press  my  heart,  which  flutters  so— 

I  hear  the  muflBed  roll  within. 
It  may  be  that  one  voice  is  gone 

Whose  tones  would  harmonize  all  sound: 
One  footstep  falling-  on  the  stone 

Might  rhytlimic  make  each  step  around: 
A  touch  of  one  fair  hand  might  still 

The  tumult  of  tlie  heart  witiiin, 

To  joy  the  saddened  thought  yet  win. 
The  heart  with  hope  and  sunshine  flU, 

Who  knows?    The  secret  yet  unguessed 

Is  closed  and  locked  within  my  breast. 

THE  ITINERANT. 
He  tried  the  problem  of  this  life. 

And  found  it  hard  and  intricate. 
Not  in  its  toil  and  vexing-  strife. 

The  heritage  of  rich  and  great; 
Not  in  its  greed  for  fame  and  place, 

The  world's  chief  aim,  Ambitions's  goal,— 
But   in    that   work,    made    sweet   through 
grace, 

To  win  and  save  a  dying  soul. 
Few  were  his  needs,— an  humble  fare. 

His  bible  with  its  tear-stained  page; 
A  book  of  sacred  song  and  prayer, 

The  comfort  of  his  pilgrimage. 
He  had  no  home  save  with  his  flock. 

Which  took  him  in  its  fold  a  time,— 
A  refuge  in  that  Rifted  Rock 

Made  perfect  through  a  faith  sublime. 
A  wife  gave  comfort  in  those  days 

When  labors  pressed  and  sorrows  pained. 
And  followed  him  in  lowly  ways 

Where  duty  called  and  souls  were  gained. 
What  need  was  it  her  faith  to  prove? 

The  dullest  eye  her  heart  could  read; 
A  Ruth  was  she  in  trust  and  love. 

His  people  hers  in  faith  and  creed. 
A  year  of  sojourn  here  and  there. 

They  pitch  their  tents  and  call  it  home; 
The  fallow  for  the  seed  prepare;. 

And  so  for  reapers  yet  to  come. 
They  gather  sheaves  as  tliose  who  glean 

The  harvest  field ,  tlie  reaping  done. 
The  golden  store,  though  small  and  leiin, 

liy  thrift  despised,  they  make  their  own. 
His  life  is  one  of  ceasless  toil. 

With  frugal  board  and  humble  bed. 


And  gleanings  from  a  scanty  soil 

Repaying  grudgingly  in  bread. 
His  Master  gave  the  test  for  all. 

Though  clad  in  rags  or  purple  gown. 
By  it  adjudged  we  stand  or  fall; 

"'Tis  by  your  fruits  ye  shall  be  known." 
So  from  these  lowly  fields  of  grain 

His  eager  hands  their  trophies  bring. 
Well  pleased  if  he  at  last  may  gain 

The  smile  approving  from  his  King. 

His  master  taught,  he  followed  him 

In  faitli  and  patience  to  the  end; 
And  when  he  found  his  way  grown  dim 

He  counseled  with  him  as  a  friend. 
He  faltered  not,  but  went  his  way, 

Nor  questioned  where  the  duty  plain; 
Few  flowery  vales  inviting  lay 

Amid  those  steeps  of  toil  and  pain. 
His  seemed  a  lowly  life  to  those 

Who  journeyed  not  upon  his  road; 
And  yet  from  height  to  height  it  rose. 

And  scaled  th'  Eternal  Mount  of  God! 
For  him  no  grand  cathedral  rung 

With  organ-peal  and  chanting-  choir; 
No  glittering  throng-  ecstatic  hung-        [fire. 

On  his  chaste  lips,    though  touched  with 
Yet  his  the  broad  and  echoing  halls 

Of  Nature,  where  her  leafy  shrine 
She  reared  in  arches  vast,  and  walls 

Wrought  out  and  decked  by  hand  divine! 
There,  templed  in  the  fragrant  wood. 

Blue-arched  and  spanned  by  skies  above, 
Amid  a  weeping-  multitude 

He  preached  them  Christ's  redeeming  love. 

With  cause  so  great,  at  shrine  so  grand, 

God's  curtained  throne,  its  arch  and  dome, 
Proclaimed  his  love  on  every  hand, 

Made  perfect  in  a  life  to  come! 
His  name  a  household  word  becomes 

In  all  his  circuits,  far  and  near; 
A  benison  in  all  tlieir  homes 

His  face  familiar  grown  and  dear. 
The  grandsire,  father,  wife,  and  maid. 

The  babe  upon  its  mother's  knee. 
On  each  his  hand  in  blessing  laid, 

Baptized  them  in  their  infancy. 
He  liibors  till  life's  eventidi; 

Casts  silvery  gleams  on  locks  of  brown; 
And  she  who  journeyed  by  his  side. 

Aweary,  lays  life's  burdens  down. 
Dark  grows  the  way  without  lier  hand 

To  clasp  in  his  and  guide  his  feet; 
He  wistful  views  tlie  promised  land 

Where  tliey  across  the  flood  shall  meet. 
The  summons  comes.heowns  Death's  power 

Yet,  victor  crowned,  he  mounts  the  sky; 
He  lived  each  day  to  meet  this  liour. 

And,  living  thus,  learned  how  to  die 


« 


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GO  3 


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WILLIAM  M.GILLELAXD. 

At  the  age  of  seventeen  William  began  to 
write  verses.  Eemoving-  to  Austin,  Texas, 
when  a  young' man,  Mr.  Gilleland  i-emained 
there  over  a  quarter  of  a  centurj-,  during 
whicli  time  he  was  employed  in  the  state  de- 
partment, and  for  a  niimlier  of  years  was  a 


WILLIAM  .M.  GILLELAND. 

clerk  in  the  general  land  office;  also  was  the 
enrolling  clerk  of  tlie  senate  for  two  terms, 
and  librarian  of  the  supreme  court.  In  186-t 
Mr.  Gilleland  wrote  his  greatest  poem.  The 
Burial  March  ot  General  Tom  Green.  Of  late 
years  Mr.  Gilleland  has  suffered  greatly  from 
wounds  received  in  1860.  He  is  now  a  resident 
of  San  Antonia,  where  lie  has  a  large  family. 

THE  BACHELORS  NIGHT   BEFORE  THE 
WEDDING. 

I'm  sitting  all  alone  to-night. 

And  sad  November  'round  me  grieves. 
The  sky  is  misty,  dark  and  cold. 

And  sadly  sound  the  falling  leaves: 
The  cat  is  purring  on  tlie  rug  — 

Tlie  dog  is  dreaming  of  the  chase'. 
And  starts  and  snaps  at  Tabby's  tail. 

Forgetful  of  the  time  and  place. 
The  windows  rattle  to  the  blast. 

Which  moans  like  some  deep  heart  in  pain. 
And  like  the  strains  of  saddest  song 

Comes  down  tlie  cold  November  rain  I 
The  bells  their  funeral  chimes  have  hushed. 

Where  late  the  burial  rites  were  read. 

And  they  who  swelled  the  weeping  train, 

* 


To  music  of  tlie  hanquet  tread. 
It  is  a  night  for  rncm'ries  wild  — 

Of  golden  dreams  of  diamond  days,— 
A  night  when  ghosts  the  churchyards  walk. 
And  minstrels  con  their  tiagic  lays; 
.  The  fire  is  low  upon  the  hearth. 

My  midnight  lamp  is  burning  low; 
While  tranquil  sleep  on  couch  and  tomb, 

The  travelers  of  the  world  below; 
It  is  the  last  of  hjnely  nights. 

That  I  perchance  sliall  know  for  years. 
And  wine  of  joy  will  1111  the  cup. 

That  only  brimmed  before  with  tearsi 
My  books  around  me  scattered  lie. 

Old  tones  of  ancient  days  and  men. 
Where  I  have  followed  Ctesar's  hosts, 

Or  watched  the  march  of  Zenophen. 
But  what  to  me  is  now  romance, 

Orhisfry's  page,  or  burning  song. 
Since  they  but  cloud  the  glowing  hopes 

That  to  an  untried  life  belong. 
To-morrow  night  I  leave  the  shore, 

Mj'  barque  Is  waiting  on  the  tide. 
To  bear  me  from  this  single  state. 

To  scenes  that  I  have  never  tried. 
And  will  my  days  like  music  glide. 

No  clouds  obscure  my  being's  sky? 
Will  she  who  is  to  be  my  bride 

Still  love  till  the  day  1  die? 
And  will  s'lie  soothe  me  when  I'm  sad. 

And  roam  beside  me  hand  in  hand 
Till  one  or  both  have  passed  the  gate 

That  opens  to  the  spirit  land? 
All  pleasure  must  have  some  alloy. 

And  joy,  and  grief  a  kindred  born. 
There  is  no  rose  however  fair. 

That  still  does  not  conceal  its  thorn. 
Comparison  is  beauty's  test. 

And  love  is  measured  by  its  scale. 
For  he  who  Alpine  snows  have  felt. 

Will  best  enjoy  the  genial  vale. 
My  life  has  been  a  wild  romance. 

With  pain,  and  grief  and  .sorrow  rife. 
And  in  my  wintry  yeiirs  of  youth, 

I've  seen  few  pleasant  days  of  life! 
But  still  I  do  not  hate  the  world, 

For  many  faithful  friends  I've  known. 
While  'round  my  heart  their  names  are  set 

Like  jewels  in  a  kingly  crown! 
But  life  must  change  from  old  to  new. 

And  'tis  a  tale  that  soon  is  told; 
I'll  link  tliem  in  the  name  of  wife 

And  bind  them  with  a  ring  of  gold 
The  moon  is  rising  in  the  east  — 

My  taper  fades  in  light  of  day. 
So  in  the  beams  of  wedded  joy 

My  autumn  shall  be  changed  to  May. 
And  will  there  be  no  sad  regrets. 

For  human  nature's  ever  frail. 
Has  sentiment  and  real  life 

Been  weighed  within  a  separate  scale? 


-® 


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664 


S  I 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMElilCA. 


Will  she  to  whom  my  heart  is  pledg-ed 

Ne'er  murmur  at  her  wedded  choice, 
Aud  will  her  words  be  always  kind, 

And  uttered  with  a  gentle  voice? 
Then  will  we  banquet  all  our  days. 

And  life  will  be  a  song-  of  love, 
Harmonious  as  tlie  spheral  cbimes. 

Within  the  universe  above. 
Then  wedding  bells  ring  out  for  joy. 

And  haste  ye  sluggard,  weary  hours! 
Ye  are  the  steeds  tliat  bear  my  life 

From  barren  wastes  to  blooming  bowers. 


TREVOR  GWYX  BEVAN. 

Born:  Jefferson ville,  Ind.,  March  27,  '61. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Revan  have  appeared  in 
tlie  Chica^;o  Cui-reut  and  llie  local  press   gen- 


TKKVOK  ().  BKVAN. 

erally.  He  follows  tiie  profession  of  a  school 
teacher,  is  unmarried,  and  still  resides  in  his 
native  state  at  Martinsburg-. 


^- 


THE  PAST. 
As  T  stand  on  the  sand 

By  the  rolling  sea. 
Fanned  by  the  breeze's  gentle  flow, 

From  out  the  far-off  strand 
There  are  waft  to  me 

Sweet  mem'ries  of  long  iigo. 
Mem'ries  tliough  filled  with  lo\e 

For  that  pebbled  shore, 
Lilse  the  wave-washed  rock  seem  hidden, 

While  I  gaze  far  above 


/ 


'Mid  the  breakers'  roar, 

A  voice  seems  to  say  "  forbidden.' 
And  those  murmuring  waves. 

As  they  ripple  along. 
With  the  drifting  tide  are  sighing; 

And  weeping-  o'er  the  graves 
Where  the  great  and  strong 

In  watery  tombs  are  lying. 
The  place  where  I'm  standing 

Is  the  shore  of  Time, 
And  the  past  the  sea  that's  rolling; 

Thoughts  like  tides  —  commanding 
My  spirit  to  cliime. 

And  feelings  seem  past  controlling. 
But  those  mingling-  sounds 

A  lesson  repeat : 
'Tis  "  Future  Improvement,"— be  true; 

But  the  sea  now  surrounds 
Aud  warns  me  retreat. 

So  I  to  the  past  bid  adieu. 


FALLEN  STAES. 
Bring  out  the  flags,  unfurled  in  waves. 

And  let  the  drums  of  veterans  beat; 
Bring  on  the  flowers  to  deck  the  graves. 

And  crown  each  urn  with  roses  sweet. 
Tread  lightly  o'er  j'our  comrade's  bed. 

And  sadly  drop  a  tear 
For  one  who  lived,  but  now  is  dead. 

Lies  slumbering-  in  his  coffin  here. 
Let  not  your  acts  your  thoughts  beguile. 

Nor   weave   the    wreaths   with    careless 
hand; 
But  march  in  rank  of  funeral  file 

To  deck  the  low,  immortal  band. 
Perchance  the  one  a  year  ago 

Who  wove  a  wreath  for  a  comrade's  bier. 
Is  now  at  rest  and  lying  low. 

Waiting-  a  flower  or  orphan's  tear. 
Perhiips  there's  one  of  Shiloh's  band 

Who  marshals  now,  at  beat  of  di-nni. 
That  may  be  borne  by  comrade's  hand 

To  the  place  we  deck,  a  year  to  conic. 
Their  feeble  steps,  ;ind  tottering  ranks 

We  view;  and  lines  of  veterans  brave; 
Our  hearts  are  touched  to  grateful  thanks. 

But  still  they  nuirch  toward  the  grave. 
Let  each  one  act  an  humble  part 

To  keep  ilie  star  of  freedom  high; 
May  each  one  have  a  patriot's  heart, 

And  feel  he's  not  afraid  to  die. 
And  when  you're  laid  away  to  rest 

Within  the  dark  and  silent  tomb. 
May  each  one  in  his  turn  be  blest 

With  heavenly  flowers  and  endless  bloom. 
Then  rest  your  arms  and  furl  the  bars, 

And  leave  the  heroes  where  they  fell. 
And  doff  yoiir  cap  to  fallen  stars. 

And  say  to  all  a  last  farewell. 


£- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


665 


© 


MRS.  MARY   H.  FAWCETT. 

Bohn:  Ohio,  1843. 
This  lady  was  married  at  the  agre  of  twenty, 
and   now  Las  six  children    and  a  beautiful 
rural  home  three  miles  south  of  Chester  Hill, 
Oliio.    In  1880  appeared  a  neat  volume  of  her 


MRS.  MARY  HUESTIS    FAWCETT. 

poems;  she  hopes  to  publish  in  1890  Ernestine 
and  Other  Poems.  Mrs.  Fawcett  has  a  most 
clieerful  disposition,  and  is  well  beloved  by 
her  numerous  friends  and  acquaintances. 


* 


THE  DEATH  OF  A  DAY. 
Day  is  dying  —  slowly  djing-  — 

West  winds  murmur  soft  and  low, 
As  they'rs  sig-hina-— lig-htly  sig-hing 

Through  the  trees  and  vale  below. 
Sighing  — as  if  silent  sorrow 

Filled  with  mourning  all  the  air, 
And  its  freshness,  it  must  borrow 

From  the  wings  of  lone  despair. 
As  if  sadness  were  a  duty. 

When  the  shadows  gather  round. 
That  will  veil  the  evening's  beauty, 

Which  the  great  day-king  has  crowned. 
From  the  east  night's  somber  sable 

Will  o'er  twiliglit's  dreams  unroll 
Like  some  luring  time-worn  fable 

Shrouding  deep  in  doubt  the  soul. 
Thus  the  sunset's  lingering  glory 

Robes  the  earth  in  mystic  sheen. 


Tells  a  sweet,  bewitching  story. 
Then  grim  darkness  wraps  the  scene. 


OH!  DO  NOT  ASK  ME  WHY  I  WEEP. 

You  see  this  grand  old  mansion,  dear. 

Where  balmy  airs  are  playing 
Among  the  trees  and  roses  here. 

And  tlirough  its  boudoirs  straying. 
Tliey  lift  the  filmy  curtains  now 

In  waves  of  silken  splendor. 
And  fan  with  fragrant  breath  my  brow. 

Caressingly  and  tender. 
Tliat  gravel  walk  by  yon  retreat. 

Through  park  and  lawn  is  wending. 
Where  rare,  rich  flowers  are  blooming  sweet. 

Their  odors  softly  blending. 
You  think  me  very  happy  here, 

With  all  this  grandeur  round  me; 
You  almost  envy  me,  my  dear. 

The  pleasures  that  surround  me. 
But  ah  1  my  life  is  lone  and  sad. 

These  rooms  seem  dull  and  dreary: 
Their  richness  almost  drives  me  mad, 

And  makes  me  faint  and  weary. 
And,  oh,  I'd  gladly  give  them  all. 

For  smiles  and  fond  caresses 
From  him  who  treads  this  stately  hall. 

But  ne'er  his  love  confesses. 
With  cold,  dark  brow  he  stands  apart. 

My  tear-stained  face  unheeding; 
Nor  hears  the  sigh  that  rends  my  heart. 

Till  it  is  torn  and  bleeding. 
Then  do  not  ask  me  why  I  weep. 

Or  why  I'm  sad  and  lonely ; 
The  heart  will  starve,  if  we  must  reap 

The  grains  of  bright  gold  only. 


AFTER  THE  WEDDING. 
The  hopes  —  bright  hopes  —  of  other  years. 

To-night  are  slowly  dying; 
My  lips  must  chant  'mid  sighs  and  tears 

A  requiem  where  they're  lying. 
My  life  must  bid  farewell  to-night, 

To  fondest,  sweetest  pleasures. 
For  ere  shall  dawn  the  morning  light, 

I'll  bury  its  dearest  treasures. 
A  new-made  grave  must  hide  to-night, 

My  heart's  deep  grief  and  .sorrow. 
Hide  love,  that  made  tliis  world  so  bright. 

And  wreatliod  witti  joy  the  morrow. 
I  ne'er  again  must  lift  the  lid 

Of  this  dear,  moldering  coffin, 
In  which  my  early  love  lies  hid, 

Thougli  I  shall  long  to  — often. 
I  ne'er  again  must  speak  the  name 

Of  one  so  lo%'ed  and  cherished ; 
I  ne'er  must  breathe  one  thought  of  blame. 

Though  all  my  hopes  liave  perished. 
But  press  with  feverish  hands  my  brow. 


« 


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666 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


-® 


©- 


And  quit  this  weary  fretting-; 
For,  ah,  his  heart's  another's  now! 

And  mine  must  cease  regretting. 
If  in  youth's  fair  and  lovely  bloom, 

I  could  have  seen  him  dying; 
And  in  the  damp  and  lonel3-  tomb 

Beheld  his  dear  form  lying  — 
Yes,  if  beneath  the  cold,  cold  sod. 

His  clay  I'd  been  consigning. 
And  now  could  feel  he's  with  his  God, 

I  then  could  cease  repining. 
But  the  very  thought  —  another  now 

Receives  his  warm  caresses. 
And  that  another  fairer  brow 

His  lip  with  ardor  presses. 
Has  filled  with  anguish  wild  my  brain. 

Ne'er  penned  in  history's  ainials  — 
And  my  verj-  life-blood  feels  the  pain. 

To  course  its  feverish  channels. 
And  oh  the  world  seems  cold  and  lone ! 

And  I've  grown  so  sad  and  weary; 
My  pathway  through  the  dark  unknown 

Looks  gloomy,  dull  and  dreary. 
I  know  that  I  shall  sadly  miss 

Affection's  fond  caresses. 
And  oft  yearn  for  the  loving  kiss 

Devotion  softly  presses. 
Shall  long  for  all  past  joys  once  more. 

With  heart  now  sadly  beating. 
Shall  sigh  for  loving  smiles  of  yore. 

And  twilight's  wonted  greeting. 
I  must  go  through  the  world  alone  — 

Alone  and  broken-hearted. 
Nor  show  by  either  look  or  tone. 

Its  brightness  has  departed. 
Must  teach  my  brow  to  wear  a  smile. 

Must  speak  without  complaining. 
Though  from  my  being  all  the  while 

This  grief  my  hfe-blood's  draining. 
Must  gayly  smile  when  morning  dawns. 

And  birds  are  singing  o'er  me; 
Must  smile  at  eve  when  wood  and  lawns 

Spread  all  their  charms  before  me. 
Smile  when  the  gay  and  heartless  throng 

Around  my  path  is  pressing. 
As  if  my  life  were  one  glad  song. 

And  every  pang  a  blessing; 
Must  note  the  sweet  and  lovely  flowers 

Around  me  ever  blooming; 
Must  speak  as  if  the  lonely  liours 

From  golden  founts  were  looming. 
For,  ah,  the  world  must  never  know 

A  woman  has  been  weeping. 
Where  joy  and  love  are  buried  low. 

And  fondest  hopes  are  sleeping. 
A  scornful  smile  'twould  oidy  wear. 

To  see  her  vainly  kneeling. 
And  pouring  out  her  soul's  dee])  prayer 

O'er  love  that  was  unfeeling. 


MRS.  ANNA   M.  E.  CUMMINS. 

Born:  Benton,  Mich.,  1852. 

Mrs.  Cummins  is  a  great  advocate  of  temper^ 
ance,  and  many  poems  on  that  subject  have 


MRS.   ANNA     M.   E.   CUMMINS. 

appeared  from  her  pen  in  the  local  press.  She 
was  married  in  1872,  and  now  resides  in  Ge- 
neva, where  she  is  well  known  and  greatly  ad- 
mired by  her  numerous  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances. 


SPEAK  KINDLY. 

Do  not  save  your  loving  speeches 
For  your  friends,  till  they  are  dead; 

Do  not  write  them  on  their  tombstone, 
Speak  them  rather  now  instead. 

It  would  lighten  many  a  burden. 
It  would  chase  away  dull  care. 

If  the  kind  words  now  were  spoken 
To  the  friends  Avho  are  so  dear. 

Don't  keep  your  flowers  to  strew  their  cof- 
fins: 

Brighten  up  their  lives  to-day; 
Don't  save  your  love  to  lavish 

On  a  lifeless  lump  of  clay. 

When  we  see  our  friends  before  us. 

Lying  in  tlieir  narrow  bed. 
Will  our  memory  bi'ing  back  to  us. 

Words  we'll  wish  we  had  not  said. 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMKllICA. 


667 


-® 


ORLANDO  ROLLIX  BELLAMY. 

Bo  UN:  Vf.vav,  Ind.,  Aug.  10, 18r)6. 
Mk.  Bellamv  attended  Do  Pauw  universirj- 
of  Greencastle,  and  while  there  wrote  an  essay 
in  poetr.v.    As  a  student  he  won  the  honors 
of  his  class  and  received  a  "old  medal  as  !i 


ORLANDO  KOLLIN   BELLAMY. 

prize  in  mathematics,  t^ince  leaving- college 
Mr.  Bellamy  has  been  eng-aged  in  teaching-. 
His  poems  have  received  publication  from 
time  to  time  in  the  periodical  press.  Mr.  Bel- 
lamy expects  to  publish  a  volume  of  his  poems. 


OLD  SONGS. 
Sing  me  a  song,  my  darling, 

A  song  of  the  long  ago, 
I  am  so  tired  to-night,  dear. 

And  the  music  will  rest  me  so; 
A  song  that  we  sang  together. 

As  we  stood  in  life's  morning  gleam, 
When  sorrow  seemed  dim  and  distant 

Like  the  shadows  in  a  dream. 
Sing  of  the  rest  up  in  Heaven, 

As  you  sang  when  tlie  angels  come. 
And  tenderly  bore  our  darlings 

To  rest  in  that  stainless  home. 
There  are  no  songs  like  the  old  songs 

That  are  crowned  with  memory's  tears. 
There  are  no  friends  like  the  old  friends 

Who  have  loved  us  all  the  years. 
Dreaming  sweet  dreams  of  the  past,  dear. 

To  the  music's  ebb  and  flow. 


Once  more  I  shall  see  the  faces 

That  sleep  beneath  tiic  snow. 
And  the  voices  we  loved  the  dearest 

From  their  echoless  silence  will  come. 
And  float  with  our  own  up  to  heaven 

In  the  music  of  "  Home,  Sweet  Home." 
We'll  know  wliile  we  close  our  eyes,  dear. 

They're  standing  again  by  our  side. 
There'll  be  no  more  hopeless  longing. 

And  we  shall  be  satisfied. 
And  just  as  of  old,  my  darling. 

In  the  fitful  embers  shine. 
We'll  hear  the  footsteps  of  angels, 

And  clasp  the  Hand  Divine. 
And  never  again  into  silence 

Shall  our  heavenly  guests  depart. 
We  will  fold  them  away  forever. 

In  each  ciushed  and  bleeding  heart. 
To  sleep  'till  with  radiant  splendor. 

O'er  shining  blue  hills  in  the  west. 
We  pass  to  that  heavenly  portal 

And  enter  with  them  into  rest. 


GOLDEN  LILIES. 
I  gathered  lilies,  royal  golden  lilies, 
The  dewdrops  glittering  in  the  sweet  June 
light 
Within  each  chalice.  One  more  fair  and  state- 
ly 
Will  wear  your  bright  heads  o'er  her  heart 
to-night, 
I  whispered,  and  the  love  I  fain  would  tell 
her 
I'll  hide  with  kisses  in  your  hearts  of  gold. 
Oh!  bear  them  to  her.    On  her  lips  with  pas- 
sion 
Impart  the  message  that  your  sweet  depths 
hold. 
I  gathered  lilies.    Ah !  the  days  were  swifter 
Than  swallows  darting  through  tlie  summer 
rain. 
Or  young  fawns  pLiying  in  the  dim  old  forest. 
For  love  had  come  with  all  his  white-robed 
train 
Of  happy  hours,  their  sandals  shod  with  fleet- 
ness. 
Into  my  life,  for  on  her  heart  she  wore 
My  golden  lilies,  from  their  depths  escaping. 
Love  looked  from  out  her  brown  eyes  ever- 
more. 
I  gathered  lilies,  broken,  withered  lilies. 
The  dull  gray  skies  were   grayer   for  my 
pain. 
While  strains  of  music,  words  that  she  had 
spoken. 
Were   echoed   always  through   my   weary 
brain. 
Tlie  faded  petals  that  for  her  I  gathered 
Were  wet  with  other  raiu  than  autumn's 
cloud. 


•« 


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668 


LOCAL,   ANB   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


-® 


Oh!  dreamless  rest!  I  knelt  and  slowly,  gently 
Placed  her  dear  gxjlden  lilies  on  her  shroud. 

O  golden  lilies,  swaying  low  and  bending 
Above  a  grave  at  ev'ry  passing  breath, 

A  mound  so  low,  and  yet  it  shuts  out  heaven. 
So  shallow,  yet  it  reaches  unto  death. 

O  snowy  cloud  of  summer  swaying,  drifting. 
Bear  far  above  beyond  your  sea  of  blue, 

As  on  her  dead  heart  here  I  lay  these  lilies, 
Tlie  unforgotten  love  I  send  by  you. 


ISAAC  COBB. 

Born;  Gorham,  Me.,  April  28, 1825. 
In  1851  Mr.  Cobb  went  to  Boston,  where  he  at- 
tended a  commercial  institute  and  published 
Sylvan  Poems.    He   then   went   to   Hudson, 


ISAAC  COBB. 

wliere  he  learned  the  printing  business.  The 
same  year  he  went  to  New  York  City,  and  in 
18.")4  returned  to  his  native  state  and  settled  in 
Poi-tland.  Tlie  following  year  he  was  married 
to  Miss  Louisa  M.  Ricliardson.  Since  1865  he 
lias  been  connected  with  tlie  Portland  Tran- 
script. Mr.  Cobb  has  contributed  to  the 
leading  magazines  and  newspapers  of  Amer- 
ica, and  is  at  iircsent  engaged  in  compiling  a 
genealogy  of  the  Cobb  family.  He  has  attain- 
ed a  national  reputation  in  the  world  of  liter- 
ature. 


®- 


THE  BIRDS. 
There  came  to  live,  one  flowery  May, 

Outside  our  window-pane. 
Two  little  birds  with  plumage  gay 

And  voice  of  sweetest  strain. 

They  built  their  nest  without  a  fear 

That  we  could  do  them  harm, 
Or  that  there  ever  might  come  near 

Aught  to  create  alarm. 

Perhaps  the  reason  why  they  came. 

If  I  may  tell  it  thee. 
Our  garden  has  a  pleasant  name 

From  many  a  bird  and  bee. 

They  loved  the  flowers,  and  therefore  wove, 

As  near  them  as  thej'  could. 
Their  curious  nest,  and  fondly  strove 

To  rear  a  tuneful  brood. 

No  songsters  of  the  grove  or  plain 

More  sweetly  sang  than  they. 
Nor  ever  birds  beyond  the  main 

More  finely  trilled  their  lay. 

The  flowers  more  beautiful  appear. 

And  fonder  love's  control, 
Than  though  the  birds  ne'er  sought  to  cheer 

And  elevate  the  soul. 

O  northern  winds!  more  kindly  swell 

From  your  ethereal  dome. 
So  that  the  birds  may  longer  dwell 

About  our  happy  home. 


MY  NAME. 
If  in  the  sand  I  write  my  name. 

What  profit  shall  it  be  to  me? 
Shall  I  thereby  attain  to  fame. 

Or  gain  in  honor  one  degree? 
So  writes  the  warrior  when  he  strives 
For  glory  over  others'  lives. 

What  if  I  carve  my  name  in  wood. 
In  letters  drawn  with  utmost  care? 

Time  like  a  canker-worm  may  brood 
And  eat  my  autogiaph  fioin  there. 

So  writes  the  man  who  seeks  for  wealth, 

And  perils  happiness  and  health. 

No!  let  my  name  be  cut  in  stone. 
Each  character  inlaid  with  gold. 

That  I  ill  triumph,  all  alone. 
May  loudly  laugh  at  heroes  bold! 

Alas!  what  is  there  that  decay 

May  not  attack  and  wear  away? 

But  if  I  write  my  lowly  came. 
Or  bid  my  Savior  write  it  tliere. 

On  Heaven's  eternal  scroll  of  fame. 
Time  shall  not  mar  the  writing  fair. 

Nor  storms  lun-  revolutionary  strife 

Ettace  it  from  the  Book  of  Life. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


669 


© 


MAURICE  MCKENNA. 

Born:  Springfield,  IVIass.,  May  31,  1845. 
As  a  lawyer  Mr.  McKenna  has  gained  quite  a 
reputation,  and  is  well  and  prominently 
known.  He  was  married  in  1875  and  resides 
with  his  family  in  Fond  du  Lac,  Wis.  From 
18T0  to  1876  inclusive,  Mr.  McKenna  was 
elected  clerk  of  tlie  courts  of  record  in  Fond 


.MAL  KU  i:    .\1  Kt;.\.\A. 

idu  Lac  county,  and  he  has  served  three  terms 
jas  supervisor  of  tlie  first  ward  of  tlie  city  of 
jFond  du  Lac;  and  has  also  been  chairman 
pf  the  county  board  of  supervisors.  He  has 
neld  various  other  positions  of  trust.  During- 
he  war  Mr.  McKenna  was  a  member  of  Co.  I. 
!9th  Wis.  vol.  infantry.  In  1868  he  published 
ji  volume  of  poems,  and  a  second  volume  has 
jecently  been  issued  by  this  noted  author. 


•5 


THE  PRIVATE  SOLDIER. 
iy  Country!    Remember  thy  chieftains  who 

bore 
"he  brunt  of  thy  battles   that  thunder  no 

more; 
temember  the  leaders  and  blazon  each  name 
Ugh  on  tlie  towers  of  thy  limitless  fame, 
i'hey  deserve  that  thou  buildest  the  urn  and 
I  the  bust  [dust: 

Ibove  the  green  sheet    that  encloses  their 
ut  never,  fair  land,  till  thy  g-lory  decline, 
orget  the  brave  .soldier  who  fought  in  the 

line. 


While  the  high-titled  warrior  oxultingly  led, 
'Twas  the  plain  private  soldier  that  suffered 

and  bled; 
'Twas  he,  where  the  torrent  of  slaughter  was 

poured. 
That   leveled   the   musket   and   wielded    the 

sword ; 
That  stood  on  no  shallow    or  empty  pretense, 
But  bared  his  brave  breast  in  his  country's 

defense, 
That  the  silk-woven  stars  of  his  nation  might 

shine 
In  the  sky  of  the  private  that  shot  in  the  line. 
The  stout  private  soldier  pursued  his  stern 

trade. 
He  watched  on  the  picket  and  rode  on  the 

raid ; 
He  waded  through  streams  in  their  pitiless 

flow, 
And  he  slept  on  the  g^round  in  a  -blanket  of 

snow; 
Through   Illness   and   health  as  his  destiny 

carved, 
In  the  pestilent  prison  he  suffered  and  starved; 
He  stood  in  the  trenches,  he  delved  in  the 

mine. 
The  plain  private  soldier  that  marched  in  the 

line. 
It  was  he  that  confronted  the  frown  of  dis- 
ease. 
The  miasma  of  swamps,  and  the  surf  of  the 

seas. 
The   desolate    marches    o'er  mountain    and 

plain. 
In  the  red  sultry  sun  and  the  cold  sleety  rain; 
It  was  he  that  far  off  from  the  home  of  his 

pride, 
From  the  smile  of  his  sweetheart,  the  kiss  of 

his  bride, 
Who  could  hear  his  sad  comrade,  all  helpless 

repine. 
For  the  poor  bleeding  soldier  that  fell  in  the 

line. 
The  strife  and  the  shock  of  the  onset  he  bore. 
Far  out  on  the  ocean,  and  high  on  the  shore;' 
Where  dangers  descended  in  desolate  flocks. 
And  the  breakers  of  battle  dashed  liberty's 

rocks ; 
Where   the   black   iron   throats   of  artillery 

roared. 
Where  the  hot  leaden  tempest  of  carnage  was 

poured. 
Along  the  low  vale,  or  beside  the  dark  pine, 
'Twas  the  brave-hearted  private  that  charged 

in  the  line. 
Triumphant  Columbia!    Time  will  engage 
To  honor  thy  captains  on  history's  page: 
But  take  to  thy  bosom  that  child  of  thine 

own,—  [known. 

The  poor  private  soldier,  unnamed  and  un 


© 


m- 


-® 


670 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


'Neath  the  rainbow  of  peace  in  prosperity's 

liours 
O'ercircle  the  valleys  and  gather  the  flowers, 
The  loftiest  wreaths    of  thy  love  to  entwine 
For  thy  brave  private  soldier  that  died  in  the 

line. 


©- 


LAKE  DE  NEVEU. 

Sweet  lalie,  in  the  shade  of  thy  willow-edged 

shore, 
I  love  to  look  long  on  thy  beauty  once  more. 
For  thou  hast  been  dear  in  a  summer  of  yore. 

To  a  bosom  whose  fondness  I  knew. 
Let  me  look  on  thy  dimples,  thou  beautiful 

lake. 
Let  no  rash  intruder  my  ecstasy  break: 
I  would  muse  all  alone  for  the  memory's  sake 
Of  the  maid  I  have  loved  on  thy  banks,  De 
Neveu. 
Ye  gay  little  birds,  come  and  help  me  to  sing. 
Lend  me  a  plume  from  each  frolicsome  wing. 
That  I  may  soar  far  o'er  the  turrets  of  spring, 
In  j'our  sky-cinctured  playground  of  blue. 
I  would  gather  a  wreath  from  each  valley  and 

hill. 
My  heart  with  remembrances  fondly  to  fill. 
Of  one  whose  affection  was  saintlier  still 
Than  thy  silver  transparence,  dear  Lake  De 

Neveu. 
Spangle,  bright  water!   Say  do  thou  yet  know 
How  she  gazed  on  thy  waves  with  a  raptur- 
ous glow. 
As  she  nestled  beside  me  in  days  long  ago 
With  a  heart  that  was  only  too  true? 
Swinging  far  down  in  thy  liquid  embrace, 
I  saw  the  fond  sun  kiss  thy  silvery  face; 
I,  too,  slole  a  kiss  from  affectionate  grace 
That   smiled   at   my    side   by  thy  shore,  De 

Neveu. 
Kings  maj'  be  happy  in  castles  of  gold. 
Rhymers    be  glad  for  the  songs   they  have 

trolled. 
And  tyrants  rejoice  wlien  laudingly  told 
Of  those  fountains  that  manhood  renew. 
No  laurel  for  me  of  the  king,  or  the  bard; 
Give  me  the  green  palace  my  soul  can  regard 
Of  thy  soft  mossj'  shore  and  thy  flower-jewel- 
ed sward. 
And  the  lady  I  wooed  by  the  blue  De  Neveu. 
Ah!  the  spell  is  long  broken,   the  pleasure 

long  past; 
A  cloud  o'er  my  present  and  future  is  cast. 
All  alone  I  am  gazing  upon  thee  at  last 
Where  she  and  I  gazed  in  tlie  days  I  review. 
My  gauzy  romance  of  existence  is  o'er; 
I  wander  in  dreamland  and  rapture  no  more, 
As  once  I  could  roam  on  thy  forest^fringed 

shore. 
When  Heaven  was  so  near  thee,  sweet  Lake 
De  Neveu. 


MOLLIE  GRAHAM. 

BoKN :  Clav  Centek,  Neb.,  Nov.  30, 1873. 
Since  her  childhood   Miss  Graham  has  taken 
quite  an  interest  in  writing,  and  many  of  her 


-Moi^Lli.   C.UAU.-V-.M. 

poems  have  received  publication. 
with  her  parents  at  Chapman,  111 


She  resides 


MY  MOTHERS  RING. 

EXTRACT. 

'Tis  only  a  narrow  shrod  of  gold. 
But  the  pleasure  it  gives  nie  is  untold  — 
When  I  gaze  upon  ir  with  anxious  care- 
It's  the  ring  my  mother  used  to  wear: 
It  is  not  a  jewel  rich  and  rare. 
And  the  hand  that  wore  it  was  not  so  fair, 
But  in  that  treasure  is  a  simple  talc 
Which  I  shall  cherish  until  memory  fail. 

There  is  a  picture  In  that  ring, 
A  voice  in  nuisic  it  seems  to  bring  — 
A  form  that  is  ever  by  my  side  — 
In  years  now  gone  it  was  my  pride; 
And  as  I  view  that  narrow  band, 
I  seem  to  feel  tliat  gentle  hand. 
Which  now  lies  listless,  cold  and  still 
In  a  lonely  tomb  upon  the  liill. 

Yet  in  that  narrow  band  of  gold 
There  lie  the  secrets  yet  untold  — 
There  lies  tlie  present  and  the  past. 
Which  will  cling  with  memory  to  the  lust; 


©- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL  POETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


671 


* 


MRS.  ELIZABETH   SMITH. 

Born:  England,  Oct.  5,1853. 
For  the  past  twenty  years  this  lady  has  lived 
iu  the  western  states,  and  is  now  located  at 
Lead  City,  Dakota.    She  is  a  great  worker  in 


MHS.   ELIZABETH  SMITH. 

the  cause  of  temperance.  Site  was  married 
in  1879  to  S.  R.  Smith,  who  is  engaged  in  the 
furniture  business.  The  poems  of  Mrs.  Smith 
have  appeared  extensively  in  the  newspapers 
of  Dakota,  Minnesota,  and  Kansas. 


DISRAELI. 
[  Thou  art  g'one,  and  in  all  thy  greatness; 
I     Measures  thy  tomb  no  more  in  space 
!  Than  will  the  form  of  your  poor  churl, 
I     When  laid  in  its  last  resting  plaeeV 
I  Is  it  true  that  massive  brain 
j     That  wrought  such  power  and  will, 
I  Has  ceased  to  work,  and  never  again 
j    Shall  prove  its  master  skill? 

It  seems  hard  these  truths  to  feel. 

Well  may  we  mourn  thee,  noble  dead ! 
I    Not  England's  court  alone ; 
|But  wherever  the  Hebrew  foot  hath  trod, 
,    Will  be  heard  in  anguish  a  sigh,  a  moan ; 
For  as  they  watched,  with  kindred  pride, 
i   Thy  star  in  its  glory  ascend  — 
i?".  in  a  kindred  sorrow, 
I   They  weep  for  a  kindred  friend. 


Years  roll  on,  but  the  world  will  miss 

Thee  more,  as  one  by  one  we  see 
Men  who  may  aim  to  reach  thy  height. 

Sink  into  ob.scurity. 
And  from  the  stillness  of  the  tomb 

Shall  speak  thy  voice  in  tones  as  grand, 
A  hundred  years  hence, 

When  other  forms  shall  fill  this  land. 
Sweet  peace  be  thine,  D'Israeli, 

Thou  hast  nobly  earned  tliy  rest 
By  hard  won  battles  bravely  fouglit  — 

And  God  knoweth  what  is  best; 
The  grandest  tribute  earth  can  bear 

For  mortal  man  be  thine, 
And  for  thy  soul,  we  ask  in  prayer, 

A  glory  not  measured  by  time. 

MINNEHAHA. 
1  oft  had  heard,  but  never  dreamed 
That  half  was  true,  for  thus  it  seemed 
That  pictures  of  thj'  beauty  rare 
Were  over-drawn ;  and  so  it  were  [ed. 

With  thoughts  like  these,  my  steps  first  stray- 
To  Minnehaha's  quiet  g'lade. 

And  now  thy  silvery  laugh  I  hear, 

Thy  frost-like  foam  is  very  near; 

I  doubt  the  half  was  ever  told. 

For  tongue  could  scarce  the  half  unfold, 

Nor  pen,  nor  brain,  nor  artist's  eye 

Catch  all  thy  beaut j-  grand  and  high. 

And  now  I  walk  where  years  ago 

Dusky  forms  passed  to  and  fro. 

And  dusky  feet  were  wont  to  tread 

All  these  paths  around  me  spread 

Soft  and  cool,  thy  shade  to-day 

Greets  other  faces  —  bright  and  gay. 

Fear,  if  e'er  it  found  a  place 

Hath  vanished  leaving  not  a  trace 

Within  the  heart,  and  children  play 

Upon  thy  banks,  so  glad  to-day. 

In  thy  foam  I  seem  to  see 

Lives  of  living  purity. 

With  under-currents  strong  and  deep. 

That  never  tire,  yet  never  sleep. 

That  ruffled  by  some  added  stone, 

Flows  on  like  thee  with  whiter  foam. 

Again  thy  waters  dark  beneath. 

Like  troubled  lives  that  groan  and  seethe 

Flow  on  more  still,  and  naught  is  heard. 

Save  low  complaints  from  some  lone  bird. 

Minnehaha,  in  years  gone  by, 

Couldst  thou  speak  of  love  and  joy? 

Couldst  tell  of  gladness?  ere  the  day 

That  saw  tliy  first-loved  turned  away? 

I  marvel  not  that  tears  and  blood 

Were  shed  in  plenty,  ere  they  stood 

With  faces  turned  to  bid  adieu 

To  these  loved  haunts  but  most  to  you. 

For  iu  their  liearts  they  love  as  we, 

Tlie  scenes  of  their  nativity. 


-© 


©- 


672 


LOCAL,    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


ft 


MRS.  JANE    K.  GANONG. 

Born:  Carmel,  N.Y.,  Aug.  26, 1835. 
The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  iu  the 
local  press  of  her  native  state,  where  she  stiU 
resides  at  Crafts.    Mrs.  Jane  Gauong-  has  two 


S.   JANE   K.   GANONG. 


daughters  and  a  son,  and  now  resides  on  a 
farm  with  her  husband  and  son— her  two 
daughters  having  married  and  secured  homes 
of  their  own. 


©- 


TO  A  DAISY. 

Pretty  little  summer  flower. 
Growing  wild  by  cot  and  tower. 
Nestling,  too,  within  my  bower. 

Dotting  field  and  lane  and  way. 
From  early  morn  'til  evening  gray. 
Cheering  yon  traveler  on  his  way. 

Tall  and  slim  and  graceful,  too; 
With  petals  white  as  drifting  snow. 
You  bend  and  nod  when  winds  do  blow. 

You're  growing,  blooming  everywhere, 
Though  no  fragrance  fills  the  air. 
Like  blusliing  rose  or  lily  fair. 

Few  leaves  adorn  thy  slender  stem. 
Thy  head  of  gold  like  monarch's  gem. 
Or  royal  princess'  diadem. 

O,  thou'rt  fair  to  look  upon. 


Tljy  upturned  face  aye  greets  the  sun. 
Thy  beauty  man's  praise  oft  hath  won. 

For  weeks  and  months  thou'lt  blossom  now. 
And  nod  and  bend  when  winds  do  blow. 
With  hue  of  gold  and  drifting  snow. 

Oft  you're  plucked  and  worn  away 
By  handsome  youth  or  lady  gay; 
And  sometimes  on  a  grave  you  lay. 

Thus  your  mission  you  fulfill. 
And  grandly  do  your  Makers  wiU, 
Mortals  teaching  lessons  stiU. 

Men  in  passing  to  and  fro. 
Wondering,  ask  what  made  you  grow 
So  pretty,  this,  God  made  you  so. 


TO  MY  LITTLE  GRANDSON. 

ACROSTIC. 

Choicest  treasures  earth  can  give  be  laid  at 

thy  young  feet; 
Heaven  grant  thy  days  on  earth  to  be  with 

happiness  replete. 
All  along  life's  rugged  road  may  wisdom  lead 

the  way. 
Under  shadow  of  God's  wings  may  you  se- 
curely dwell  each  day ; 
No  evil  thing  thy  pathway  tread,  thy  mother's 

faith  be  thine. 
Contentment  spread  for  thee  her  board,  thy 

heart  to  good  incline; 
Earth's  fairest  flowers  be  plucked  by  thee, 

life's  rose  without  a  tliorn 
Yield  fragrance  sweet  to  cheer  thee  on,  till 

dewy  eve  from  morn. 

Cheery,  sunny  little  lad,  thy  blue  eyes  mildly 

beaming, 
O,  what  a  world  of  light  and  love  is  in  thy 

pathway  teeming. 
Bursting     manhood  waits  thy   coming  — let 

angels  bright  have  care. 
Until  you  reach  the  heavenly  portal,  no  sin 

can  enter  there  —  \ 

'Round  thee  evermore  be  thrown  thy  heavenly 

Father's  love. 
Naught  of  earth  or  earthly  joys  can  compare 

with  those  above. 

May  life's  day  for  thee  on  bright  joyful  wing 

pass. 
And  you  sing  with  the  angels  in  heaven  at 

last. 
Safely  may  your    barque    be  landed   on  tin 

bright  eternal  shore. 
Songs  of  triumpli  tliere  be  blended  — sorni" 

Cometh  nevermore  — 
E'en  a  scat  in  God's  own  kingdom,  by  you  ' ' 

sought  and  won. 
Yea,  in  tlie  many  mansioncd  heaven,  may  yci' 

rest  when  life  is  done. 
: > 


-® 


LOCAL.  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


(i73 


CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND. 

Born:  Philauelphia,  Pa.,  Aug.  15, 1834. 
Before  he  was  fifteen,  this  author  beg'an  to 
contribute  short  poems  to  newspapers.  His 
educatioa  has  been  complete,  having  been  a 
student  in  the  uni\'ersities  of  Heidelberg  and 
Munich.  Mr.  Lelaud  is  the  author  of  The 
Poetry  and  Mj'stery  of  Dreams.  Hans  Breit- 
mann  Ballads  is  from  his  pen.  He  has  also 
written  numerous  other  works  In  prose  and 
verse,  which  have  made  him  very  popular. 


A  SPARK  IN  THE  ASHES. 
I  went  to  a  gay  reception. 

Last  winter  in  the  West, 
As  the  beau  of  the  belle  of  the  season. 

Quite  out  of  the  season  dressed. 
For  they  told  her  no  queen  in  story 

Had  a  bust  so  blanche  and  fair; 
And,  like  Samson,  her  strength  and  glorj- 

Was  all  in  her  wondrous  hair. 
But  I  did  not  think  of  her  tresses. 

For  dii-ectly  vis-a-vis, 
A  dame  in  the  simplest  of  dresses 

Was  flashing  her  eyes  at  me. 
Eternal  eyes  of  wonder ! 

How  gloriously  they  rolled. 
Like  two  black  storm-lakes  under 

An  autumn  forest  of  gold. 
For  as  Lilith's  in  her  splendor 

Like  an  aureole  gleamed  her  head. 
And  a  magic,  strange  yet  tender. 

Seemed  winding  in  every  thread. 
Wavy  and  dreamy  in  motion 

I  felt  the  old  memory  flow ;  — 
We  had  met  by  the  sun-gold  ocean 

A  thousand  years  ago ! 
And  the  beaux  and  the  belles  wiih  their 
graces. 

Where  were  they  on  the  ancient  shore? 
Oh,  the  sea  had  blown  forth  in  our  faces 

A  thousand  years  before. 
Sea-foam  and  weeds  and  clam-shells 

Which  slid  in  the  waves'  long  rolls ! 
Gay  gentlemen  —  beautiful  damsels  I 

Why,  how  did  you  come  by  those  souls? 

A  THOUSAND    YEARS  AGO. 
Thou  and  I  in  spirit-land, 

A  thousand  years  ago. 
Watched  the  waves  beat  on  the  strand. 

Ceaseless  ebb  and  flow; 
Vowed  to  love  and  ever  love  — 

A  thousand  years  ago. 

Thou  and  I  in  greenwood  shade. 
Nine  hundred  years  ago. 


Heard  tht;  wild  dove  in  the  glade 

Murmuring  soft  and  low; 
Vowed  to  love  for  evermore, — 

Nine  hundred  years  ago. 
Thou  and  I  in  yonder  star. 

Eight  hundred  years  ago. 
Saw  strange  forms  of  light  afar 

In  wild  beauty  glow ; 
All  things  change,  but  love  endures 

Now  as  long  ago ! 
Thou  and  I  in  Norman  haUs, 

Seven  hundred  years  ago. 
Heard  the  warder  on  the  walls 

Loud  his  trumpet  bh)w,— 
"  Ton  amors  sera  tojors," 

Seven  hundred  years  ago! 
Thou  and  I  in  Germany, 

Six  hundred  years  ago  — 
Then  I  bound  the  red  cross  on; 

"  True  love,  I  must  go,— 
But  we  part  to  meet  again 

In  the  endless  flow! " 
Thou  and  I  in  Syrian  plains. 

Five  hundred  years  ago. 
Felt  the  wild  flre  in  our  veins 

To  a  fever  glow ! 
All  things  die,  but  love  lives  on 

Now  as  long  ago ! 
Thou  and  I  in  shadow-land. 

Four  hundred  years  ago. 
Saw  strange  flowers  bloom  on  the  strau  J, 

Heard  strange  breezes  blow : 
In  the  ideal  love  is  real. 

This  alone  I  know. 
Thou  and  I  in  Italy, 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 
Lived  in  faith  and  died  for  God, 

Felt  the  faggots  glow : 
Ever  new  and  ever  true. 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 
Thou  and  I  on  Southern  seas. 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 
Felt  the  perfumed  even-breeze. 
Spoke  in  Spanish  by  the  trees. 

Had  no  care  or  woe : 
Life  went  dreamily  in  song 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 
Thou  and  I  'mid  Northern  snows, 

One  hiuidred  years  ago. 
Led  an  iron,  silent  life. 

And  were  glad  to  flow 
Onwards  into  changing  death 

One  hundred  years  ago. 
Thou  and  I  but  yesterday 

Met  in  Fashion's  show. 
Love,  did  you  remember  mo. 

Love  of  long  ago? 
Yes;  we  keep  the  fond  oath  sworn 

A  thousand  years  ago ! 


« 


ffl- 


674 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


-® 


WILLIAM  WINTER. 

Born:  Gloucester,  Mass.,  July  15, 1836. 
Mr. Winter  graduated  at  the  Haivard  law 
school,  but  begau  his  career  as  journalist  and 
literary  aud  dramatic  reviewer.  In  1886,  in 
commemoration  of  the  death  of  his  son,  he 
founded  a  library  at  the  academy  in  Stapleton, 
Staten  Island,  N.  Y.  Mr.  Winter's  writings  in- 
clude The  Convent  and  Other  Poems,  The 
Queen's  Domain  and  Other  Poems,My  Witness— 
a  Book  of  Verse,  and  in  1881  appeared  a  Com- 
plete Edition  of  his  poems.  He  has  also  edited 
various  works. 


VICTORIA. 


Mldaig'ht  and  Moonlight  encircled   her  slum- 
bers. 

Pillowed  afar  on  the  wandering-  deep; 
Softly,  ah  softly,  with  tenderest  numbers. 

Echoes  of  Paradise,  lull  her  to  sleep ! 
Stars  in  your  lustre,  and  clouds  in  your  fleet- 
ness. 

Mix  round  the  gallant  ship,  breasting-  the 
gale! 
Shed  your  sweet  influence  over  her  sweetness! 

Guard  every  bulwark  and  bless  every  sail  I 
Billows,  roll  gently,  that  bear  on  your  bosom 

Treasure  more  precious  than  infinite  gold  — 
Beauty  in  spring-time  and  love  in  its  blossom, 

All  that  my  hungry  heart  longs  to  unfold. 
Ocean,  that  breaks  on  the  rocks  where  I  lan- 
guish. 

Blessings,  and  prayer  on  your  surges  to  pour, 
Like  in  your  might  to  my  passionate  anguish, 

Shield  her,  and  save  her,  and  waft  her  to 
shore ! 
Angels  that  float  in  the  heavenly  spaces, 

Ah,  while  you  guide  her  through  perils  un- 
known. 
Still  let  the  light  of  your  beautiful  faces 

Shine  on  her  face  that  is  fair  as  your  own ! 
Violets,  welcome  her!  roses,  adore  her — 

Blushing  with  rapture  from  mountain  to  sea ! 
Lilies,  flash  out  on  the  meadows  before  her. 

Sparkle  in  glory,  and  ripple  in  glee ! 

Scattered  o'er  mountain,  and  forest  and  river, 
Farthedark  phantomsof  trouble  are  hurled: 

She  will  illuminate,  she  will  deliver. 
She  will  redeem  and  transfigure  the  world ! 


8B- 


ORGIA. 

A  SONG  OF  RUIN. 

Who  cares  for  nothing  alone  is  free. 

Sit  down,  good  fellow,  and  drink  with  me  I 

With  a  careless  heart  and  a  merry  eye. 

He  will  laugh  at  the  world  as  the  world  goes  by. 


He  laughs  at  power  aud  wealth  and  fame; 
He  laughs  at  virtue,  he  laughs  at  shame: 

He  laughs  at  hope,  and  he  laughs  at  fear, 
And  at  memory's  dead  leaves  crisp  and  sere: 

He  laughs  at  the  future  cold  and  dim,— 
Nor  earth  nor  heaven  is  dear  to  him. 

0  that  is  the  comrade  fit  for  me: 

He  cares  for  nothing,  his  soul  is  free. 
Free  as  the  soul  of  the  fragrant  wine: 
Sit  down,  good  fellow  —  my  heart  is  thine. 
For  I  heed  not  custom,  creed,  nor  law; 

1  care  for  nothing  that  ever  I  saw. 
In  every  citj-  my  cup  I  quaff. 

And  over  my  liquor  1 1'iot  and  laugh. 
I  laugh  like  the  cruel  and  turbulent  wave: 
I  laugh  at  the  church  and  I  laugh  at  the  grave. 
I  laugh  at  joy,  and  well  I  know 
That  I  merrily,  merrily  laugh  at  woe. 
I  terribly  laugh,  with  an  oath  and  a  sneer. 
When  I  think  that  the  hour  of  death  draws 
near. 

For  I  know  that  Death  is  a  guest  divine. 
Who  shall  drink  my  blood  as  I  drink  this  wine. 
And  he  cares  for  nothing !    A  king  is  he! 
Come  on,  old  fellow,  and  drink  with  me! 
With  you  I  will  drink  to  the  solemn  Past, 
Though  the  cup  I  drain  should  be  my  last. 
I  will  drink  to  the  phantoms  of  love  and  truth; 
To  ruined  manhood  aud  wasted  youth. 
T  will  drink  to  the  woman  who  brought  my  woe. 
In  the  diamond  morning  of  Long  Ago: 
To  a  heavenly  face,  in  sweet  repose; 
To  the  lily's  snow  and  the  blood  of  the  rose; 
To  the  splendor,  caught  from  orient  skies. 
That  thrilled  in  the  dark  of  her  hazel  eyes,— 
Her  large  eyes  wild  with  the  fire  of  the  south, 
And  the  dewy  wine  of  her  warm  red  mouth. 
I  will  drink  to  the  thought  of  better  time; 
To  innocence,  gone  like  a  death-bell  chime. 
I  will  drink  to  the  shadow  of  coming  doom; 
To  the  phantoms  that  wait  in  my  lonely  tomb. 
I  will  drink  to  my  soul  in  its  terrible  mood, 
Dimly  aud  solemnly  und(U'sto(xl. 
And,  last  of  all,  to  the  Monarch  ot  Sin, 
Who  has  conquered  that  fortress  and  reigns 

within. 
My  sight  is  fading,—  it  dies  away,— 
I  cannot  tell,—  is  it  night  or  day? 
My  heart  is  biirnt  and  blackened  willi  pai". 
And  a  horrible  darkness  crushed  my  braiu. 

I  cannot  see  you.    The  end  is  nigh, 
But  — we'll  laugh  logether  before  1  die. 
Through  awful  chasm  I  plunge  aud  fall! 
Your  hand,  good  fellow !    I  die,—  that's  all 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


-© 


675 


MRS.  LIZZIE  L.  VAN  BURGH. 

Born:  Beknadotte,  III.,  Sept.  29,1859. 
Since  a  g'irl  tliis  lady  lias  written  verse.    She 

war^  maiTie<l  in  ISSt  to  A.  l'.A'iiiiIiin-.L:li,wliu  re- 


MRS.  LIZZIE  LILLIAN  VAN  BURGH. 

presents   the  Home  Insurance  Company  at 
Filley,  Nebraska. 


CHANGED. 

To-day  I'm  sitting  all  alone 

And  dreaming-  of  the  past; 
Those  bright  and  %unny  days  did  own 

Too  much  of  Heaven  in  them  to  last. 
I  will  not  say,  my  precious  friend. 

That  all  my  joy  has  fled ; 
While  there  is  life  there  still  is  hope. 

And  where  there's  hope,  joy  is  not  dead; 
Grief  often  is  a  blessing  in  disguise  — 

Tho'  we  cannot  see  it  with  our  human  ej'es. 
jGenie,  they  say  that  I  am  changed, 
I    Yet  how  they  scarcely  know ; 
jThe  features  surely  are  the  same. 

The  smiles  still  come,  but  quickly  go. 
iThey  say  the  merry,  joyous  laugh  — 

Once  came  so  glad  and  tree, 
Is  but  a  mockery  of  true  self. 

And  meant  a  blind  for  self  to  be; 
We  strive  to  hide  our  sorrow  in  our  heart, 

And  find  at  last  it  is  of  us  a  part. 
Sometimes  I  laugh  at  these  remarks: 

Sometimes  I  breathe  a  sigh. 


To  think  of  true  and  faithful  hearts 

Whose  very  lives  are  still  a  lie. 
If  we  could  see  the  inmost  soul 

For  just  a  time  laid  bare. 
How  strange  to  see  we  little  know 
The  secrets  deeply  hidden  there ; 
We'd  find  the  oneswe  thought  we  knew  the 
best 
The  very  ones  we  really  knew  the  least. 
We  could  not  say  they  were  untrue 

Because  they  are  not  what  we  thought; 
The  change,  the  scorn,  if  we  but  knew 

Our    very    selves,    into   that   heart   have 
brought. 
'Twas  not  their  fault;  we  could  not  see 

The  look  of  pain  and  care, 
That  'round  the  tender  mouth  would  cling 

And  seemed  to  nestle  there. 
The  sweetest  tones  that  ever  lips  did  part. 
Sprang  from  a  broken,  quivering  heart. 
Dear  girl,  if  you  were  only  here  to-day, 
I'd  lay  my  tired  head  upon  your  knee; 
Your  hand  upon  my  aching  brow  you'd  lay, 
And  I  should  know  one  true  friend  felt  for 
me. 
I  am  so  glad  you're  coming  soon; 

Yet  time  seems  long  to  me. 
When  memory  casts  its  saddening  gloom 

With  you  I  long  to  be;  [great 

Grander  than  the  jeweled  head  of  monarch 

The  heart  that  suffers  for  another's  sake. 
There  are  moments  in  our  changeful  lives 

When  passionate  tears  would  be  relief. 
When  we  can  only  moan  and  sigh 

In  our  bitter  pain  and  grief; 
When  such  dark  moments  come  to  you 

Seeming  greater  than  you  can  bear. 
Remember  one  who  tried,  loved  true, 

Then  smile  upon  your  care. 
"  Smiles  that  cover  a  majestic  woe. 
Sadder  are  than  wildest  tears  that  flow." 


MEMORY  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

Do  you  remember  the  happy  days 

When  you  and  I  were  young; 
How  we  went  fishing  in  the  brook. 

And  the  happy  songs  we  sung? 
Those  quiet  days  can  come  but  once. 

Enjoy  them  while  you  may; 
For  as  our  childhood  days  go  by. 

Mirth  does  not  always  staj'. 
Alas !  too  soon  that  singing  voice 

In  sadness  may  be  huslied; 
And  who  of  us  can  tell  how  soon 

Those  lips  may  mold  to  dust. 
We  cannot  tell  what  may  be  ours 

In  future  years  to  bear; 
But  let  our  childhood  happiness 

Cast  sunshine  every  where. 


-^ 


^ 


67G 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAli   POETS   OF  AMElllCA. 


■* 


WILLIAM  R.  JACOBS. 

Born:  Elizabeth,  Pa.,  Jan.  2, 1868. 
Mr.   Jacobs    follows   the   occupation   of   a 
printer,  and  is  connected  with  the  Observer 
publishing  house  of  Suffolk,  Va.    He  publish- 


WILLIAM   R.  JACOBS. 


ed  a  monthly  periodical,  The  Rosewood  Lib- 
rary, for  about  one  year.  The  poems  of  Mr. 
Jacobs  have  appeared  quite  extensively  in 
the  periodical  press  of  Virginia. 


THE  HUNTED  FAWN. 
O,  why  doth  th'  hunter  so  follow  my  trail 

With  liis  murderous  Beagle  and  gun; 
An  innocent  being  so  tender  and  frail 

That  I  cannot  but  stumble  when  run. 

I  have  th'  lone  wood  for  my  cumberless  lair. 
And  my  bed  —  it  is  cold  and  so  damp,— 
While    Nimrod   lias  homes   and   luxuriant 

fare. 
And  th'  Shawnee  a  fire  at  his  camp. 
They  slaughtered  my  mother  but  yestor'  at 
morn. 
And  have  loft  me  with  awe  and  no  aid. 
And  now  they  are  liunting  thro'  meadow  and 
corn 
To  lie-cripple  her  innocent  babe. 

The  sea-gull  has  homes  on  th'  fathomless  sea, 
And  th'  t!agle  its  nest  in  th'  pine;— 


The  fish  have  th' fount — theflow'rs  th' bee- 
Then  why  notth'  forest  be  mine? 


*- 


THE  JAMES!  THE  NOBLE  JAMES! 
Oh,  the  Hudson!  blue  and  bright. 
As  it  flows  with  great  delight. 
Yet  to  me  it  ne'er  could  seem 
Half  so  lovely  —  half  so  clean 
As  the  James !  the  noble  James ! 

It  has  its  foam  and  azure  wave. 
Its  coral  and  shells  the  waters  lave; 
Oh  can  ye  find  in  southern  land 
Another  rich  and  lovely  strand 
Like  the  James!  the  noble  James! 

See  the  gallant  barks  that  glide 
O'er  its  full  and  steady  tide; 
It's  a  stream  from  Cap.  to  sea. 
That  has  beauties  'uough  for  me  — 
The  James !  the  noble  James ! 

Its  shores  are  white  with  pearly  shells- 
Its  banks  are  rich  with  marly  cells, 
And  o'er  this  stream  of  liquid  light 
The  sea-gull  takes  his  morning  flight  — 
O'er  the  James!  the  noble  James! 

Many  an  army  o'er  her  waters  crossed  — 
Many  an  ironclad  or  ram  they've  tossed; 
The  blazing  guns  once  shook  her  main  — 
The  Monitor-Merrimac  fought  for  fame 
On  the  James!  the  noble  James! 


THE  SYLVAN  ALTAR. 
O  summer  winds  and  autumn  sighs  blow  here, 
And  fan  this  sacred  Oak,  so  meek  and  dear 
To  one  who  stood  beneath  its  sylvan  boughs, 
And  offered  up  to  Him  his  solemn  vows. 
O  heaven  'fresh  its  drooping  leaves  with  dew, 
And  give  the  guerdon  that  to  it  is  due: 
Full  twenty  centuries  of  sun  and  rain. 
With  birds  to  sing  unto  the  world  its  fame. 

Plant  pansies  at  its  roots,  and  vines. 
That  o'er  the  Altar  Oak  may  closely  wind. 
And  form  a  beauty  that,  tho'  mute  and  still, 
Will  make  the  yeoman  say,  '•  I'll  never  kill." 
And  give  the  runlet  that  so  swiftly  glides 
New    vigor,  that,  wliile    flowing   to'ards  th' 

tides, 
'Twill  sing  a  louder  song  —  much  sweeter  still, 
When  passing  by  this  rustic  altar  hill. 

This  Oak  hath  kept  th'  dew  from  off  the  brow 
Of  one    who  stood  full  many  a  morn,  I  trow, 
With  feet  l)t>wet  by  I'aiTi  and  dewy  sod. 
And  offer'd  ui>liis  daily  prayers  to  God. 
The  poet  hath  now  reniov'd  too  faraway 
To  i)ay  this  Oak  his  visits  day  by  day. 
But  let  the  chopper's  axe  go  past  with  awe, 
And  never  make  upon  this  tree  a  flaw. 


SB 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


677 


-* 


MRS.  ABBIE  H.  RICHARDS. 

Born:  East  Unity,  N.  H.,  Sept.  18, 1851. 
For  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  this  lady 
has  resided  in  south-eastern  Nebraska,  and 
while   there   she   has    been    connected   with 
newspaper  work.     She  is  a  .stitiiifi-  tfiiiperaiice 


MltS.  ABBIE  HURD   RICHARDS. 

woman,  and  has  done  quite  a  little  work  in 
the  lecture  field  in  the  state  of  her  adoption. 
She  was  married  in  1868  to  Thomas  Richards. 
The  poems  of  this  journalist  and  poet  have 
appeared  in  the  Woman's  Tribune.  Peterson's 
Magazine,  Godey's  Lady's  book,  and  the  peri- 
odical press  generally. 


TO  BE. 


We  say  to  ourselves,  "  it  might  have  been," 

When  all  eternity  is  •'  to  be,"— 
We  say  it  over  and  over  again. 

For  the  truth  is  hard  at  first  to  see. 

We  say  to  ourselves,  the  past  is  gone. 
Is  gone  forever  adown  life's  sea; 

But  the  "might  have  been"  that  haunt  sour 
hearts. 
Will  lose  itself  in  the  yet  "to  be." 

Ah,  many  hearts  that  are  crushed  and  sore, 
Beneath  the  blow  of  the  chast'ning  rod; 

Who  can  see  no  ray  of  shining  light. 
Beam  down  on  them  from  a  gracious  God. 


Who  feels  no  hope  for  what  yet  may  come. 
And  who  no  joys  in  the  present  see,— 

The  past  is  not  all  in  tlie  "  miglit  have  been. 
There  is  much  to  come  in  the  yet  "  to  be." 


MOTHER. 
I  am  weary,  weary,  mother. 

Of  this  ceaseless,  endless  strife. 
Of  the  bitter  disappointments 

I've  been  meeting  all  my  life; 
Yes,  I'm  weary  of  them,  motlier. 

So  I'll  give  my  fancy  fliglit. 
And  go  back  in  dreams,  to  childhood. 

And  be  happy  just  to-night. 

I'll  go  back  to  you,  dear  mother. 

To  the  dear  old  "  long  ago," 
Ere  I  had  one  thought  of  sorrow. 

Or  had  felt  tlie  weight  of  woe; 
I  will  dream  of  her,  who  loved  me. 

Ah  !  no  other  love  so  true. 
So  unselfish,  pure,  and  sacred. 

As  that  I  received  from  you. 

I  remember  once  you  told  me- 
lt was  just  at  twilight  close  — 

That  outside  a  mother's  dwelling. 
Lingered  all  the  children's  foes. 

I  have  learned  since  then,  dear  mother. 
Learned  that  all  you  said  was  true; 

Tho'  your  words  had  such  strange  import. 
Then,  I  scarce  their  meaning  knew. 

It  is  said  our  Heavenly  Father, 

Loveth  those  He  chasteneth,  best ! 
That  the  .sorrowing  ones  are  dearer 

Unto  him  than  all  the  rest. 
Oft  you  have  the  words  repeated 

Unto  me,  and  now  they  come  — 
Come  like  the  whisperings  from  Heaven, 

Come  like  words  of  love  from  home. 

Mother,  now  I'll  take  ray  Fancy, 

Fold  her  tired  wings  to  rest  — 
But  I'll  take  your  memory  with  me. 

Mother,  dearest,  truest,  best. 
And  whene'er  temptations  meet  me, 

God  will  keep  me  undeflled; 
For  your  love  will  keep  me  purer, 

And  your  prayers  protect  your  child. 


DREAM  VISIONS. 

To-day  my  mind  is  filled  with  recollections, 
I  thought  would  never  come  to  me  again; 
My  heart  is  throbbing  fast  with  the  old  sor- 
row. 
And  mocking  visions  seem  to  fill  my  brain. 
Full  well  I  know,  why  now  I  link  together 

The  dead  past,  and  the  shadowy  yet  to  be; 
Because  in  dreams  last  night,  you  came  back, 
darling. 


-^ 


678 


-5' 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  A3IEKICA. 


And  bridg-cd  the   gulf   that  separates  you 
and  me. 

Last  night  I  dreamed  you  came  and  stood  be- 
fore me, 

And  on  your  face  a  look  of  anxious  pain; 
The  words  you  said  to  me  are  not  forgotten. 

So  fraught  were  they  with  hopes  I  know 
are  vain. 
So  full  of  tender  hopes,  and  hopeless  longing. 

So  full  of  memories  of  days  long  past; 
Oh  darling,  did  you  think  I  had  forgotten 

One  single  blissful  moment  of  the  past? 

Last  night  I  dreamed  your  hand  clasped  mine 
as  warmly. 
As  ever  in  the  days  so  long  gone  by, 
Your   lips    pressed    mine    in   tender   loving 
kisses, 
Life  held  no  terrors  for  me  — you  were  nigh. 
I  felt  again  your  lingering  caresses. 
Saw  your  dear  face,  your  eyes  with  love- 
light  gleam ; 
Heard  your  dear  voice  whisper  fond  words  of 
loving, 
I  woke  to  find  all  vanished  —  'Twas  a  dream. 

A  dream!  oh  darling',  just  a  tender  vision 
Brought  to  me  on  the  wings  of  troubled 
sleep; 
A  season  with  lost  joys,  a  brief  illusion. 
That  brings  back    memories  o'er  which  I 
weep. 
For-bitter  tears  to-day  will  come  unbidden. 
And  dim  my  eyes,    as  memories  sad  but 
sweet 
Come  back  across  tlie  years  of  lonely  waiting. 
And  nearer  bring  tlie  day  when  we  shall 
meet. 

For  we  will  meet,  I  know  it,  in  the  future, 

I  know  not  how,  or  where,   or  when  'twill  be 
That  our  divided  paths  again,  my  darling. 

Will  cross,  and  we  each  other  then  shall  see. 
It  may  be  when  the  sun  of  life  is  setting. 

And  we  are  nearing  close,  the  other  shore; 
But  ere  the  summons  comes  to  call  me  over, 

I'll  see  your  face,  and  clasp  your  hand  once 
more. 

Though  morning  banished  all  my  fond  dreams, 
darling. 
And  visions  of  tlie  cherished  long  ago 
Must  give  their  place  again,  to  life's  stern 
duty, 
And  years  go  on  in  ceaseless  ebb  and  flow; 
And  though  the  days  are  filled  with  i)assion- 
ate  longings, 
The  night  of  mocking  dreams,  and  bitter 
tears ; 
I  wait  the  time   when  I  shall  meet  you,  darl- 
ling, 
And  live  again  tlie  love  of  buried  years. 


SB- 


CHARLES  N.  WOOD. 

Born:  Broome,  N.Y.,  July  1, 1839. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Wood  have  appeared  in  the 
Waverly  Magazine  and    other   publications. 


CHARLES   N.   WOOD. 

He  follows  the  profession  of  teaching,  and  is 
still  a  resident  of  his,  native  county. 


WHERE  WE  LIVE   MATTERS  LITTLE. 

Where  we  live  can  matter  little. 

While  sojourning  here  below; 
But  'tis  how  we  live  determines 

Our  eternal  weal  or  woe. 
If  we  search  the  lowly  valleys. 

Faithful  hearts  we  find  beat  there; 
But  alas!  the  oatiis  of  sinners 

Break  the  stillness  of  the  air. 
If  we  search  the  hills  or  mountains. 

Pleasant  vales  or  praiiies  wide, 
'Tis  the  same  in  every  nation  — 

Wheat  and  tares  grow  side  by  side. 
Faithful  millers  only  ask  us 

If  the  wheat  we  bring  is  good; 
Not  about  the  field  it  grew  on. 

Or  if  brouglit  by  public  road. 
Thus  'twill  be  at  God's  tribunal 

Wlien  we're  judged  at  the  Last  Day; 
Where  we've  lived  we'll  not  bequestioued, 

All  that  matters  is  the  way. 
If  we've  only  <lone  our  duty. 

All  with  us  will  then  he  well; 
We  sliall  live  in  that  briglit  country. 

Wliere  tlie  good  alone  can  dwell. 


9- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS    OK  AMERICA. 


CTf) 


-« 


ALLEN  R.  DARROW. 

Born:  New  London,  Conn.,  April  20,  1826. 
Allen  R.  Darrow,  the  author  of  Iphipenia 
and  Other  Poeuis  has  gained  quite  a  reputa- 
tion as  a  poet.  Although  now  and  for  many 
years  actively  engaged  iu  business  pursuits 


ALLEN  R.   DARROW. 

he  has,  nevertheless,  found  time  to  cultivate 
a  natural  taste  for  autliorship,  furnishing 
from  time  to  time  acceptable  contributions 
to  various  journals  and  magazines.  Mr. 
Darrow  is  now  a  resident  of  Buffalo. 


^ 


A  DECORATION  DAY  INCIDENT. 

Winter  had  gone  with  its  storms  and  cold, 

Again  it  was  smiling  May; 
And  the  sun  shone  fair  o'er  field  and  wold. 

On  the  Nation's  holiday. 

With  muffled  music,  with  speech  and  song. 
And  a  wealth  of  flowers  in  bloom; 

From  their  homes  went  forth    the  old  and 
young 
To  enwreath  each  hero's  tomb. 

With  solemn  mien  and  reverent  tread. 

And  memory  ail  aglow ; 
Garlands  were  strewn  o'er  the  graves  of  their 
dead 

Amid  voicings  soft  and  low. 

Not  only  for  brothers  and  noble  sons. 
Were  the  tributes  so  lovingly  paid ; 


But  over  the  graves  of  stranger  ones. 

The  wreaths  of  flowers  were  laid. 
A  little  child  came  wandering  there, 

And  saw  with  a  great  surprise. 
The  floral  offerings  everywhere. 

And  the  tears  iu  sorrowing  eyes. 
One  year  before  —  with  his  fond  caress  — 

She  sat  on  her  father's  knee; 
No  more  from  him  comes  a  kiss  to  bless. 

For  he  sleeps  beneath  the  sea. 
Within  this  little  one's  heart  there  came, 

Sweet  memories  of  his  love; 
At  that  shrine  anew  there  burned  a  flame 

Which  a  child's  sweet  faith  could  prove. 
For  with  busy  hands  she  labored  there  — 

And  a  purpose  pure  and  bra^e  — 
With  many  returning  steps  to  bear 

Earth  and  sod,  to  build  a  grave. 
And  then  she  gathered  from  lane  and  field. 

Dandelions  of  golden  hue; 
Until  her  apron  was  more  than  filled. 

And  with  starry  daisies  too. 
Her  flowers  so  bright  into  many  a  link 

She  wrought  with  many  a  tear; 
And  she  said,  "Maybe  tliat  God  will  think 

My  papa  is  buried  here." 


FEBRUARY  GEMS. 

To  wandering  children  in  the  ages  old, 
I've  often  heard  that  mystic  talcs  were  told 
Of  fairy  lands,  where  oft  on  trees  and  bow- 
ers 
There  fell  from  heaven  pure  crystal  gems  in 

showers. 
Well,  I  believe,  and  so  I  think  must  you 
That  myths  are  shadows  sometimes  of  the 

true; 
For  going  forth  upon  a  winter  morn 
A  wondrous  glory  did  the  day  adorn. 
On  every  tree  along  the  city  street. 
What  matchless  splendor  did  my  vision  greet. 
Pendant  from  silver-coated  branch  and  stem. 
In  argent  beauty  hung  a  brilliant  gem; 
Sparkling  in  candescent  glory  bright. 
Shone  myriad  diamonds  in  the  morning  light. 
Nature  from  its  exliaustless  wealth  and  store, 
Tiirough  every  street  and  by-way  o'er   and 

o'er. 
Prodigal  alike  to  all  the  rich  and  poor 
Had  scattered  rivals  to  the  Khoinoor. 


ENVOY. 
O  youth's  first  love,  fresh,  ardent,  pure. 
Whose  vows  must  e'en  all  time  endure. 
That  knows  no  shadowing  specter  fate 
Tiiat  can  fond  heart's  ere  separate  — 
But  ah  I  the  leaves  so  fresh  in  May, 
By  Autumn  winds  are  blown  away. 


■5B 


*- 


680 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


-8^ 


MRS.  EMMA  F.  CARPENTER. 

Born  :  Halifax,  Pa.,  Jan.  28, 1844. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  Carpenter  have  appeared 
in  the  Harrisburg'  Patriot,  Telegram  and  oth- 


MliS.  EMMA  F.  CAKPENTEK. 

er  pul)lications.    She  was  married  in  1862  to 
Thos.  B.  Carpenter,  and  resides  at  Benvenue. 


m- 


INVOCATION. 

Oil,  speak  unto  me  kindly, 

I'll  worship  ever  blindly. 
To  forget  is  vain  to  try; 

My  soul  will  hover  'round  thee 

Though  thou  art  far  beyond  me 
As  the  stars  in  the  azure  sky. 

I  long  to  draw  anear  thee. 

If  I  perhaps  might  cheer  thee, 
I  blest  indeed  would  be; 

Forever  thou  hast  blest  me, 

Thougli  distance  hath  oppressed  me, 
When  far  ajvay  from  thee. 

With  power  supreme  you  drew  me, 

Your  glances  piercing  through  me. 
Immersed  my  soul  in  joy; 

With  ecstacy  you  bound  me. 

You  threw  a  spell  around  me 
Untouched  by  earth's  alloy. 

When  niglit  so  gently  closes. 

And  all  in  sleep  reposes. 
Oh !  then  my  soul  is  free; 

In  fervent  prayer  to  heaven, 

In  the  dewy  liour  of  even, 


My  plea  ascends  for  thee. 
I  pray  the  darkness  'round  thee. 
That  like  a  pall  hath  bound  thee. 

May  rent  to  atoms  be. 
That  the  sweet  light  of  heaven 
To  guide  thee  may  be  given. 

And  I  thy  joy  may  see. 
God  bless  thee  now  and  ever. 
And  keep  thee  safe  forevei'. 

While  I  am  far  from  thee; 
May  all  thy  grief  and  sadness 
Be  soon  transformed  to  gladness, 

Then  I  will  happy  be. 


THE  DAWNING. 

One  more  beautiful  dream 
In  which  my  soul  doth  seem 

Very  near  to  heaven; 
My  heart  with  fevered  throbbing 
Its  life  away  is  sobbing. 

Amidst  earth's  dull  leaven; 
Peace  is  marred  by  passion's  gleam, 
Making  all  the  bright  earth  seem 

With  quick  lightning  riven. 
Yet  one  more  passionate  thrill 
Let  its  bright  fulfillment  still 

Temper  this  sad  yearning; 
Let  me  trace  upon  life's  sand. 
With  a  firm,  unwavering  hand. 

Thoughts  within  me  glowing; 
Beauteous  thoughts,  fair  and  sweet, 
From  my  pen  flow  full  and  fleet  — 

Shall  I  stop  their  flowing? 
Let  me  pour  my  soul  away. 
While  around  me  earth  is  gay 

And  the  sun  is  shinuig; 
True,  my  life  is  all  alone. 
And  I  oft  with  fevered  moan 

Seek  the  cloud's  bright  lining; 
Clouds  obscure  the  sunbeam's  play. 
Let  me  look  where'er  I  may. 

For  more  light  I'm  pining. 
Do  I  pine  witliout  a  hope. 
While  iu  darkness  thus  I  grope, 

Or  is  dayliglit  dawning  — 
Dawning  on  my  weary  brain. 
Bringing  balm  for  every  pain. 

With  the  cheer  of  morning? 
Thus  awaits  my  patient  heart. 
Acting  out  its  humble  jiart 

With  an  untold  yearning. 
When  earth's  pleasures  cease  to  draw, 
And  we  find  a  hopeless  flaw 

In  our  own  perfection; 
Tlien  we  weep  in  dire  dismay, 
O'er  our  idols  made  of  clay. 
Bowed  in  deep  dejection. 
God  can  wipe  our  tears  away. 
Sending  us  a  brighter  day, 
Kich  with  hope's  inflection. 


Si 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   I'DETS   OF  AMERICA. 


G81 


© 


NICHOLAS   LESTER. 

Born:  Canada,  March  29,  1842. 
During  the  civil  war  Mr. Lester  ser%ed  lu  tlie 
110th  N.Y.  volunteers   for  over  three  yeai-s. 
When  quite  youug-  Mr.  Lester  wrote  verse, 
and  hi^  iMit'ins  ha\'e   sltice  iipiifuicd   (luite  ex- 


NICHOLAS  LESTER. 

tensively  in  the  local  press  of  the  state  of 
New  York.  He  follows  the  occupation  of  a 
painter,  and  is  now  a  resident  of  Fulton.  He 
is  well  known  and  big-hly  respected  in  his 
native  state.  Mr.  Lester  was  married  in  1870 
to  Miss  Ellen  Fleming-. 


®- 


FIRST  OF  MAY. 
The  winter's  breath  of  snow  and  sleet 
No  long-er  on  our  faces  beat. 
And  loungers  have  resumed  the  street; 
To  work  the  house-wife  quick  will  g-o 
House  cleaning',  that  the  world  may  know 
She  is  to  dirt  a  deadly  foe. 
The   house    she'll    rummage    through 

through. 
The  bed-rooms  and  the  closets  too ; 
Mid-floor  their  contents  she  will  pile. 
And  greet  her  lord  with  winning  smile 
While  she  demands  a  carpet  new. 
Each  table,  bedstead,  stand  and  chair. 
Of  scrubbitig  gets  an  ample  share. 
And  soon  the  spouse  becomes  aware 
The  carpets  from  the  floors  are  ripped. 


and 


And  he  must  put  them  out  to  air; 
(Let  him  remonstrate  if  he  dare,) 
And  see  that  they  are  whipp'd. 
The  bureaus,  brackets,  stands  and  cases, 
Mustoccupj'  some  new-found  places 
For  the  ensuing  year; 
The  parlor  stove  removed  must  be. 
The  pipes  from  soot  be  .shaken  free; 
The  pictures  from  the  walls  be  taken; 
The  blankets,  rugs  and  bed-quilts  shaken; 
And  every  nook  with  suds  be  drenched. 
The  kitchen  Are  remaining  quench'd, 
For  dinner  he  in  vain  may  look. 
And  should  he  grumble  at  the  cook, 
A  flea  gets  in  his  ear. 

CAMP-FIRE   ADDRESS. 
We  bid  you  to-night  to  a  soldiers'  collation. 
The   hardtack   and  cofifee    before   you  are 
spread,— 
The  days   when  the  rooster,  aloft  from  his 

station. 
Sent  down  his  shrill  challenge  for  swift  con- 
fiscation 
Are  gone,  or  we'd  ofl'er  you  pot-pie  instead. 
Time  was  when  the  voice  of  the  chanticleer 
crowing. 
Was  sweet  to  the  soldier  whose  ears  now  are 
dull; 
The  turkey's  loud  gobble  would  set  his  lieart 

glowing; 
The  bleat  of  the  lampkin  to  him  was  a  show- 
ing 
That  mutton  was  free  —  tho'  thej"  tariff'd 
the  wool. 
The  squawk  of  the  goose  and  the  quack  of  the 
duckling 
Were  melody  sweeter  than  timbrel  or  lute; 
The  motherly  porker's  low  grutit  to  her  suck- 
ling. 
Whose  squeak  reach'd  his  wlieii  his  knapsack 
unbuckling 
Has  caused  every  gland  of  his  mouth  to  di- 
lute. 
But  gone  are  the  days  of  our  grub  confisca- 
tions; 
No  longer  to  forage  we  turn  from  the  track; 
Our  marches  have  brought  us  to  one  of  the 

stations 
Where  we  must  content  us  with  government 
rations. 
And  swallow  our  coffee  and  nibble  our  tack. 
Alas  for  those  days  — they  are  ever  reminding 
The  soldier  how  swift  from  the  mess-fire  he 
fled. 
When  the  cook  in  a  rage  from  the  smoke  that 

was  blinding, 
Stopp'd  stirring  his  beans  or  liis  bacon  un- 
winding. 
To  fling  Ijoth  an  oath  and  a  club  at  his  head. 


-® 


© 


682 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMEKICA. 


Our  army  experience  has  thoroughly  taught 
us 
That  no  opportunity  we  should  neglect 
To   dine   on    sucli    fodder   as    circumstance 

brought  us  — 
Not  wait    'till  some  feast  epicurean  sought 
us  — 
Lest  to  go  to  bed   hungry  should  be  the 
effect. 

Yet  we  miss  from  the  board  many  delicate 
dishes. 
The  epicure  soldier  was  wont  to  invent 
When   his   thoughts   wander'd    back   to  the 

loaves  and  the  fishes, 
Prepared  by  his  ma,  who  consulted  his  wish- 
es, 
In  all  that  to  tickle  the  palate  was  meant. 

For  hoe  cake  in  vain  we  have  rummaged  the 
grub-sack ; 
No  mush  nor  molasses  we  find  in  the  house; 
We  find  but  the  every-day  coffee  and  hard- 
tack, 
And  O  how  we  long  for  the  grease  diipping 
flap-jack. 
And  dainty  of  dainties  — we  miss  the  lob- 
scouse. 
We  miss  too  the  cubical  pieces  of  liver 

In  half  a  canteen  on  the  end  of  a  stick. 
Well  wash'd  by  the  water  from  ditch  or  from 

river. 
And  held  to  the  flre  with  persistent  endea- 
vor, 
'Til  cook'd  to  the  semblance  of  miniature 
bricks. 
Ah!  oft  in  the  light  of  the  camp-fire's  gleam- 
ing. 
Enwrapped  in  his  blanket,  a  log  for   his 
head. 
While    gray-backs    were    friskily   over  him 

streaming. 
In  blissful  oblivion  the  soldier  lay  dreaming 
Of  cookies  and  doughnuts  and  mother-made 
bread. 
But  his  dreamings  of  home  and  its  knick- 
nacks  are  ended, 
Realities  now  are  his  staple  in  life; 
No  longer  he  sleeps  in  the  fire-light  extend- 
ed, 
His  slumbei's,  instead  of  by  bad  dreams  at- 
tended — 
Are  seasoned  by  lectures  or  snores  from  liis 
wife. 


m- 


LINES  ON  HEARING  OF  THE  DEATH  OF 

A  SOLDIER  FRIEND. 
Friend  of  my  youthful  days! 
And  art  thou  passed  away. 
Is  that  bright  smile  that  cheer'd  me  with  its 
rays 


Now  dimn'd  for  aye? 
Is  that  warm  hand  whicli  erst 'twas  mine  to 

clasp 
Now  seized  by  death's  inexorable  grasp? 
Have  those  loved  lips  beenopcu'd  in  thy  gasp, 
Thou  grim  restorer  of  earth-borrow'd  clay? 

Comrade,  when  thoughtless  boys! 
And  is  thy  heart  now  cold? 

Are    death's    dark    waves,    submerging  all 
earth's  joys 
Now  o'er  thee  roU'd? 

Is  thy  great   soul   from  earthly  thralls  un- 
bound? 

Has  thy  freed   spirit   gone  where   joys   are 
found 

Of  holier  source— of  depths  still  more  pro- 
found 

Than  those  which  have  thy  mortal  life  con- 
troll'd? 

And  is  it  ours  to  weep? 
To  mourn  thee  gone  from  liere? 

To  murmui",  while  unrestf ullj'  we  sleep. 
Of  memories  dear? 

To  bathe  with  tears  the  hallow'd  shrine 

Where  we  our  cherish'd  hopes  resign; 

To  clasp  in  love  the  hand  divine 

Tliat  deals  the  blow  severe? 

Yes,  noble  soul,  thou'rt  gone; 

Thine  earthly  joys  are  past; 
The   dreaded  bound,  which  mortals  one  by 
one 

Step  o'er  while  earth  shall  last, 
Has  been  by  thee  in  confidence  o'er  stepped—  \ 

Well  may  thy  parents  weep—  i 

Their  hearts  with  anguish  torn,  ! 

As  word  of  thee,  in  tliine  unwaking  sleep. 
To  them  is  borne,  i 

When  I,  a  simple  friend  of  thine,  j 

Am  prompted,  on  receipt  of  mine, 

To  pour  my  grief  upon  the  shrine       [mourn. 

Where  all,  who  knowing  loved  thee,  come  to  | 

Author  of  life  — of  love!  \ 

In  justice  thou  dost  deal;—  i 

Direct  our  hopes  to  thy  bright  realms  above 

For  all  our  weal!  j 

Give  us  we  pray,  the  strength  to  bear  our  ' 

woes ; 
Mingle  with  love  the  terror  of  thy  blows! 
Teach    smitten    mortals,    wliile    in    atiguisli 

throes, 
Thy  spirit's  calm  to  feel!  | 

Each  burst  of  contrite  grief. 

Beneath  the  chastening  rod,  i 

Gives  to  the  soul  a  blest  relief,  i 

And  brings  it  nearer  God! 
Each  tearful  h(>ur  that  here  we  spend; 
Each  i)aiig  that  doth  the  heart-strings  rend;      . 
Eacli  anguisli  cry  to  Heaven  wc  send. 
Prepares  for  us  tlie  road ! 
-g 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


683 


-« 


HELEN  MARK  HURD. 

Born:  Harmony, Me. 
As  a  teacher  Miss  Hurd  has  been  very  suc- 
cessful.   When  a  mere    child    she  composed 
stanzas,  and  from  an  early  age  lier  beautiful 
poems  re;idily  found  tlieir  waj-    iulo  llie   prii- 


HELEN  MARR  HURD. 

odical  press.  In  188"  ai>peared  a  large  volume 
of  the  poems  of  this  lady  containing-  over  four 
hundred  pages,  which  has  had  a  large  circula- 
tion. Miss  Hurd  is  at  present  engaged  in  pre- 
paring for  the  press  a  second  volume  of 
poems  and  a  prose  story  entitled  The  Three 
Orators;  and  she  is  also  employed  in  tlie  com- 
pilation of  the  history  of  Hallowell,  Maine. 


SORROW. 

Little  brooklet,  in  tliy  song 

All  of  joy  partaking. 
Hush  thy  babbling  all  day  long. 

For  my  heart  is  breaking! 
Every  sound  in  earth  and  air. 

All  thy  shouted  surges. 
All  the  voices  everjwhere 

Seem  like  lonesome  dirges! 
Sad  as  waitings  o'er  the  grave. 

Is  thy  joyous  sweeping; 
Let  the  north  wind  still  thy  wave 

To  a  silent  weeping. 
Let  the  west  wind  from  his  sheath 

Fling  an  icy  quiver. 


Till  thy  waters  underneath 

Silent  meet  the  river. 
Little  brooklet,  clear  and  strong. 

Laughing,  tumbling,  siuikiug 
Hushed  to  silence  be  thy  song 

While  my  heart  is  breaking! 


SOMETHING  RARE. 

Low,  sweet  sounds  are  stealing,  stealing. 

Through  the  air. 
While  the  Christmas  bells  are  pealing. 

Something  rare; 
Is  It  echo  from  the  hillside 

Or  the  fen? 
Is  it  murmurs  from  tlie  brookside 

In  the  gleny 
Something  lovely,  something  bright, 

Something  rare 
Fills  my  vision  in  the  moonlight; 

Something  fair 
Hangs  rich  drapery  on  the  willows 

Over  me. 
Spreads  the  lawn  with  sheeny  billows 

Like  the  sea; 
Spread  with  delicate  white  netting 

Hedge  and  tree  — 
Sparkling  drops  in  silvery  setting. 

Hangs  o'er  me. 
Underneath  the  lamps  of  even 

Lit  anew 
And  hung  upon  the  arch  of  lieaven. 

Silver  dew 
Seems  to  fill  the  space  between  me 

And  the  sky ; 
And  rare  faces  which  have  seen  me. 

Seem  to  hie 
Forth  and  back  behind  the  curtain. 

Looking  through 
Oft;  until  my  heart  is  certain 

That  the  blue 
Far  beyond  these  silver  tissues. 

And  above. 
Is  the  heaven,  and  its  issues 

All  are  lo%e. 


FRAGMENTS. 
Within  the  hollow  tree  to-night 

In  silence  gra\ e  the  great  owl  sits, 
Wliich  yesterday  boded  a  storm 

With  its  ..tu-whoos  "  and  its  »  tu-hits!" 
Adown  the  mountain's  sloping  side 

The  brooklet  dashes!  frowns  the  sky! 
Darkness  is  dense!  clouds  crowd  the  west! 

Among  the  lichens  dead  shapes  lie! 
The  great  frame  of  the  giani  oak 

Rocks  madly  'iieath  the  hurricane! 
And  by  fm-ked  tongues  of  lurid  Hre 

Huge  rocks  arc  swift  smitten  in  twain! 
The  angry  billows,  mountain  high. 

Sullen,  and  dark,  and  capped  with  foam. 
Roll  upward,  until  sea  and  cloud 

Seem  to  be  surging  sea  alone! 


-m 


i3<- 


684 


LOCAL,    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


GRACE  HOLMES. 

Born:  Wayne,  Mich.,  July  18, 1866. 
THE  poems  of  Miss  Grace  Holmes  have  ap- 
peared in  Arthur's  Home  Magazine,  St.  Louis 
Mag-azine,  and  the  local  press  generally.    She 


O  brilliant  are  the  flowers    soon  to    feel  the 

touch  of  frost, 
And  glorious  the  sunset  sky    that  the  full 

noon-day  lost: 
And  beautiful  each  countenance  of  the  aged 

man  and  wife,  I 

Who  sit  within  the  doorway  near  the  tranquil  _ 

close  ot  life.  j 


GRACE  HOLMES, 


is  studying  shorthand  and  typewriting  at  St. 
Louis.  Miss  Holmes  is  very  fond  of  litera- 
ture, and  her  poems  have  already  received 
favorable  mention. 


A  SUNSET. 
The  fair  day  closes,  calm  and  still. 
The  red  sun  sinks  behind  the  hill; 
Above  the  hill,  in  varied  hue. 
The  red  cloud  quivers  through  the  blue. 
Through  fields  of  corn,  through    crowds  of 

trees. 
One  breeze  doth  chase  another  breeze; 
They  twirl  the  leaves  and  stir  the  grass. 
And  bend  the  flowers  as  they  pass; 
They  shake  the  vines  that  clamber  o'er 
And  round  about  a  farm  liouse  door. 
And  fan  the  cheeks  and  brush  the  hair. 
Of  an  old  couple  sitting  there. 
O,  ripened  arc  the  cornfields,  and  flaming  are 

the  leaves. 
And  the  breeze  that  stirs  the  mellow  land  is 
not  ii  languid  breeze; 


SUMMER. 
Summer,  crowned  with  skies  of  azure. 

Summer,  gracious  with  thy  music. 
Summer,  fresh  in  ripened  beauty 

Why  so  call  thee.  Queen  of  Season? 

For  thy  glorious  sky  at  sunset. 
For  the  nights  fair,  starlit  heavens, 

For  the  fresh  and  dewy  mornings. 
So  we  term  thee  Queen  of  Seasons. 

Summer,  robed  in  all  thy  glory. 
Summer,  wrapped  in  all  thy  splendor, 

Summer,  bathed  in  all  thy  brightness. 
Why  so  call  thee  Queen  of  Season? 

For  the  meadows  green  with  clover. 
For  the  hill  tops  touclied  with  sunshine 

For  the  woodlands  decked  with  blossoms, 
So  we  term  thee  Queen  of  Seasons. 


NATURE'S  SECRETS. 
There's  a  secret  with  tliese  rugged  hills,  whos. 

slender  tops  are  gray ; 
There's  a  secret  with  the  wild  flowers  thai 

bloom  along  the  way; 

There's  a  secret  with  the  roaming  clouds  tlia 

change  the  changeful  sky;  ■ 

A  secret  have  the  busy  winds,  that  chant  am  ^ 

moan  and  sigh.  : 

A  secret  has  the  moonlight,  that  touches  Im 

and  sea, 

A  secret  is  between  the  stars  that  blink  a^ 

you  and  me.  i 

Ah  the  secrets!  can  you  count  them?  so  nun ' 

erous  are  tliey !  ' 

Ah  the  secrets!  can  you  find  them  out?  ca 

you  find  them  out,  1  say? 
I  knew  that  some  sweet  secret  'twixt  my  ga; . 

den  flowers  grew. 
But  T  said,  "  I  know,  1  feel,  it  is  not  for  me,  c 

you." 
I  felt  there  was  a  secret  with  the  wond'rou 

cliarming  sea. 
But  again  I  shook  my  head  and  said,  "TUI 

secret's  not  for  me." 
Yea,  every  where  I  turn  my  eyes  on  nature 

living  show, 
1  feel  there  is  a  secret  that  'tis  not  for  me 
know. 


©■ 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMKHICA. 


685  I 


JOHN  C.  ROGERS,  M.  D. 

Bokn:  Perky,  Me.,  Makch  »'6,  18*5. 
Thi.s  gentleman  gracluated  at  Harvard  in 
18ti3-4,  receiving-  liis  liiploma  as  a  pliysician. 
Durinjr  the  civil  war  he  served  as  assistant 
surgeon  in  one  of  the  Massachusetts  regi- 
meuts.    At  the  close  of  the  war  he  commenced 


JOHN  C.   ROGERS.  M.  n. 

the  practice  of  medicine  in  Brooklyn,  !)ut  in 
1866  he  returned  to  Pembroke,  where  he  has 
since  resided  practicing  liis  profession.  Dr. 
Rogers  can  read  Latin,  Greek,  French  and 
German,  and  is  a  great  lover  of  poetry.  His 
poems  liave  appeared  quite  extensively  in  the 
periodical  press.  Dr.  Rogers  is  well  known 
and  very  popular  in  his  native  state. 


TWO  PICTURES. 

Direful  visions  crowd  my  soul! 

Darkness  slirovids  my  aching  sight! 
Horror  every  sense  control 

And  bar  me  out  from  hope  and  light. 
Bathed  in  an  unhallowed  Are, 

See  tlie  Prince  of  Darkness  stand; 
Routid  him  builds  the  funeral  pyre. 

That  by  sin  and  death  is  fanned. 
Lurid  lightning  jiieree  the  gloom. 

Awful  thunders  loudly  peal;— 
Demons  sound  the  general  doom,— 

From  my  soul  the  senses  steal. 
51 


Death,  the  tyrant,  reigns  supreme; 

Time,  the  avenger,  spurs  liis  steed 
To  reach  earth's  bounds,  the  most  extreme; 

And  harvests  life  with  mi.ser's  greed. 
Hope  and  life  afar  have  fled,— 

Dismal  cries  from  wn-cking  pain 
Come  tumultuous  from  the  dead. 

That  by  time  and  death  are  slain. 
Fear  with  horror's  crouching  form. 

Shrinks  in  awe  with  bated  breath; 
Whilst  the  elements  of  storm 

Rush  in  madness  o'er  the  earth. 
Sheets  of  lurid  lightnings  glow. 

Blast  the  shrinking,  cowering  form  1 
Thunders  peal;  whilst  fierce  winds  blow,— 

And  onward  sweeps  the  maddening  storm. 
All  is  darkness,  deep,  profound. 

Silence  reigns  through  every  sphere;— 
Life  is  dead;  no  mortal  sound 

Shall  wake  in  death  the  startled  ear. 
Lol  a  light  from  out  the  gloom 

Bursts  in  glorj-  on  my  sight; 
Thunders  in  the  distance  boom, — 

Morning  breaks  in  love  and  light. 
On  a  bright  ethereal  throne 

Borne  through  Heaven  on  angels'  wings, 
Stands  the  Prince  of  Light,  alone 

Save  the  choir  that  round  Him  sings. 
Death  appalled  before  Him  flies. 

Darkness  shrinks  in  utter  night; — 
And  the  dead  in  myriads  rise. 

Quickened  by  the  effulgent  light. 
Clothed  in  an  eternal  spring. 

Earth  all  radiant  now  appear; 
Through  the  groves  the  angels  sing. 

Music  soothes  the  raptured  ear. 
Sorrow,  care,  disease  and  pain. 

Wan  despair  and  sin  have  fled; 
They  o'er  earth  no  longi  r  reign, — 

They  have  perished,  death  is  deadl 
"God,  the  Omnipotent,  shall  reign," 

Floats  upon  the  ambient  air; 
•'  Here  His  kingdom  shall  remain. 

Eternal  as  the  ages  are." 
Honor,  adorat  ion,  praise, 

Sound  triumphant  through  tlie  skies; 
Cherubim  sweet  anthems  raise, — 
The  song  of  glory  never  dies. 


EXTRACT. 

I  still  enjoy  the  sounding  lyre, 
Althougli  my  youth  has  lost  its  fire; 
And  sometimes  tempt  a  simple  lay 
To  while  the  lonely  hours  away. 
.\nd  though  my  harp  has  not  the  skill 
Or  art  to  soar  away  at  will, 
T  can  compose  a  rhyme  with  ease. 
If  not  sublime,  at  least  will  please. 


■^ 


©- 


686 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


M.  I.  STEWART. 

Bohn:  July  14, 1858. 
Mr.  Stewart  is  a  printer  by  trade, —  a  jour- 
nalist and  lawjer  bj*  profession.     He  is  now 
one  of  the  proprietors  of  the  largest  printing 
house  in  western  North  Carolina,  at  Winston. 


ee- 


M.  I.    STEWART. 

Mr.  Stewart  has  written  extensively  under 
the  nom  de  plume  of  Jesse  Fry,  and  has  be- 
come well  known  as  the  laureate  of  West- 
haven.  In  1889  he  published  a  small  volume 
of  verse,  and  hopes  at  an  early  date  to  issue  a 
large  volume  of  his  selected  poems. 

CEDAR  HILLS  MINNIE. 

Dear  to  my  lieart,  old  rickety  mill. 

With  screaking-,  wet,  oversliot  wheel, 
As  of  yore,  adown  the  rough  hill. 

At  home  witli  loved  Minnie  I  feel. 
In  my  dreams  1  frequently  hear 

The  song  of  thy  clear,  limpid  brook; 
And  awake  to  find  that  a  tear 

Has  stolen  what  fancy  had  took ! 
No  house,  with  a  latch,  like  the  one 

Where  my  brown-eyed  Kinder  resides: 
And  no  sport  to  me  like  the  fun 

Indulged  in  our  mill-pond  rides! 
Tlio  days  seem  so  lonely  and  drear. 

Away  from  the  scenes  of  my  youth: 
When  shall  I  be  with  you,  my  dear. 

And  drink  from  thy  fountains  of  truth? 
I  know  you  will  never  forg-et 

The  heart  tliat  now  throbs  for  j-our  love; 


And  ere  the  suns  of  this  sum'r  have  set, 
I'll  meet  you,  my  darling,  my  dove. 

You'll  greet  me,  I  know,  as  of  old. 
When  adown  by  the  mill  you  stood. 

All  ready  my  arms  to  enfold 
Thy  beauty's  wild  ravishing  flood. 

WHERE  DID  YOU  COME  FROM? 

Where  did  you  come  from. 

Little  mountain  skipper? 
With  your  straight-cut  robe 

And  black  leather  slipper. 
How  did  you  get  here. 

You  fleeting  little  clipper? 
With  your  bright,  keen  ej'e. 

Sweet  sparrow  tripper. 
Your  neat  little  foot. 

Swift  as  any  topper; 
Witching  little  elf. 

Light  as  any  hopper. 
Why  are  you  so  straight. 

Little  arrow  cutter? 
Leaving  all  our  hearts 

Whirling-  in  a  flutter. 
Why  don't  you  stay  here. 

You  little  heart  tranper? 
For  a  home  in  our  lialls 

Would  suit  such  a  snapper. 
When  will  you  come  back, 

You  proud  little  raider? 
With  independent  look  — 

Snappish  thoug-ht  invader. 
For  tilting-  pleasure, 

You  trim  little  lancer. 
With  movement  so  easy, 

The  best  of  any  dancer. 
What  graceful  tipping! 

Light  as  any  spider  — 
Lips  that  seldom  speak  — 

Wavy  little  tider. 
Of  all  birds,  the  Jay 

Is  hard'st  for  the  gunner 
To  shoot  on  the  wing- 
Puzzling-  little  stunner. 


"  JODIE." 
Jodie's  a  sunflower, 

Jodie's  a  daisy ; 
Jodie's  a  dear,  good  boy, 

Jodie's  run  me  crazy. 
Jodie  seems  to  be  sad  — 

Jodie's  heart  is  broken; 
Jodie,  my  dearest  lad, 

Rena  thus  hath  spoken. 
I  will  love  you,  Jodie; 

I  will  be  your  charmer; 
And  with  me,  dear  Jodie, 

You  can  be  a  farmer. 


—i 


*- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OK  AMERICA. 


687 


-« 


FABIUS  M.  RAY. 

Born:  Windham,  Me.,  Makch  30, 1837. 
After  graduating  at  Bowdoiu  colleg-e  in  1861, 
Mr.  Ray  tlien  spent  a  j'ear  abroad,  studying- 
German  and  French  iauguag-es  at  Heidelberg 
and  Geneva,  under  private  instructors.  Re- 
turning home  he  read  law  in  Portland,  was 
soon  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  at  once  began 
to  practice  liis  profession  at  Saccarappa. 
where  lie  h;is  since  resid(v1:   ho  lias  ;ilso  inaiu- 


FABIUS  M.  RAY. 

tained  a  law  office  in  Portland  since  1871.  In 
1874  a  volume  of  poems  appeared  from  his 
pen.  Mr.  Ray  has  represented  the  town  of 
Westbroolc  two  terms  in  the  state  legislature, 
and  has  served  one  term  in  the  state  senate- 
declining  a  re-election.  As  a  lawyer  Mr.  Ray 
has  been  unusually  successful,  and  his  liter- 
ary work  has  been  a  matter  of  diversion.  Be- 
sides Ins  poetical  writings  this  gentleman  has 
accomplished  much  historical  work,  and  he  is 
connected  with  the  Maine  Genealogical  So- 
ciety, of  which  he  is  president  and  one  of  its 
founders. 


THE  SEA. 
0.  ceaseless,  surging  sea. 
Pathless,  impressionless,  type  of  eternity! 
Nor  time,  nor  change  has  left  a  trace, 
A  single  furrow  on  thy  face. 


The  solid  earth  is  seamed  with  scars. 
Deep-graven  records  of  her  wars; 
And  tells  in  fissured  rock  and  chasm 
How  many  a  f e:irful  shock  and  spasm 
The  ancient  sphere  has  shaken! 

But  thou,  oh  sea. 
When  awful  memories  waken. 
In  solemn  stillness  of  the  night, 
Canst  slumber  child-like  in  the  light 
Of  the  desolate  moon  and  silent  stars! 
Hadst  thou  a  brooding  soul,  oh  sea. 
Then  wert  thou  of  remorse  ne'er  free; 
Were  souls  remorseless  half,  as  thou  art, 
How  many  a  pang  were  saved  and  bleeding 
heart! 


EVENING  IN  THE  PAYS  DE  VAUD. 
O'er  Jura's  craggy  peaks  aglow. 

The  gorgeous  sunlight  lingers; 
In  deep  crevasse  'mid  Alpine  snow 

It  dips  its  rosy  fingers. 

Along  Lake  Leman's  vine-girt  shore 

Is  mild  and  balmy  weather. 
While  overhead  on  ledges  hoar 

Eternal  icebergs  gather. 

And  where  the  avalanches  creep 
From  00"  the  cloud-touch'd  mountains, 

The  azure  Rhone,  o'er  rock  and  steep. 
Comes  dashing  from  its  fountains. 

But  now  the  ebon  veil  descends. 
And  night  enshrouds  the  valley. 

Save  where  its  light  the  glow  worm  lends 
In  wall  or  trellised  alley. 

I  hear  the  plover's  plaintive  note. 

The  murmur  of  the  billows; 
And  Philomel's  sweet  ditties  float 

From  out  the  sighing  willows. 

Anon  sweet  music  fills  the  air 

From  many  a  garden  bower. 
Where  rustic  swains  and  maids  repair 

To  spend  this  charmed  hour. 

How  like  a  vision  all  things  seem 

Beyond  this  vale  of  sliadows; 
E'en  as  I  muse,  the  young  day's  beam 

Lights  up  my  native  meadows. 

And  thus,  alas,  it  is  with  all, 

'Tis  distant  and  uncertain 
If  once  or  time,  or  space  let  fall 

Twixt  us  and  it  the  curtain. 

The  home  that's  left,  the  life  that's  o'er. 
The  friend  that  death  has  taken. 

In  dreamy  hours  return  once  more. 
But  never  if  we  waken. 


-© 


SB 


688 


LOCAL,   AND    XATIONAIi  POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


FRANCIS  ANSON  EVANS. 

Born:  Gkandview,  Ind.,  Aug.  4, 1853. 
In  1884-5  Mr.  Evans  was  southern  editor  of  the 
St.  Louis  Medical  Journal;  and  he  has  been  a 
regular  contributor  to  several  other  medical 
journals.  He  was  offered  the  German  consu- 
Jiiti"  to  Colotine  by  Pivsidi-iit  Cai'tirld,  l)Ut  de- 


<s- 


FKANCIS  ANSON  EVANS. 

clined  it.  Mr.  Evans  has  contributed  to  the 
Waverly  Magazine,  Indianapolis  Sun  and  tlie 
periodical  press  generally,  and  has  written 
numerous  humorous  articles;  he  is  also  the 
author  of  several  musical  pieces.  By  pro- 
fession this  gentleman  is  a  physician,  and  was 
a  hospital  physician  during  the  yellow  fever 
epidemic  of  18T8,  having  gone  there  voluntar- 
ily to  aid  suffering  humanity.  Dr.  Evans  was 
married  in  1876  and  is  now  a  resident  of  his 
native  state  at  Tell  City. 

THE  MAID  OF  BELLVIDERE. 
O'er  the  distant  peaks  of  splendor 
Fell  the  twilight  soft  and  tender. 
And  the  gloaming  hung  In  purple  shadows  on 
tlie  hazy  mere. 
While  above  the  dim  blue  arches 
Stars  took  up  their  silent  marches, 
Lightly  shedding  rays  of  amber  on  the  walls 
of  Bellvidere. 
Down  the  valleys  half  surrounded 
Hy  wild  hazels  gayly  bounded. 
Myriad  streams  all  moss  embroider'd  singing 


soft  their  mystic  cheer, 
While  up  the  path  where  dangled  over 
Heads  of  pink  and  purple  clover. 
Homeward  driving  lowing  cattle  tript  the 
maid  of  Bellvidere. 
Eyes  —  ah  me,  how  bright  their  beaming  I 
Dew  on  grass  not  half  so  gleaming! 
Chloe's  not  darker,  hare's  not  shyer  than  to 
me  did  they  appear; 
And  her  cheeks  all  dimpled  over 
Sure  was  red  'most  as  the  clover 
That  toyed  and  kissed  the  pretty  ankles  ol 
this  maid  of  Bellvidere. 

O,  so  sweet  the  cowbells  jingled, 
With  the  maiden's  voice  commingled, 
Making  strains  of   music  grander  than  thi 
birds  in  brake  or  brere ; 
Keeping  time  to  her  sweet  singing. 
She  a  gipsy  hat  was  swinging 
From  a  hand  not  none  so  dimpled  in  thetowi 
of  Bellvidere. 
From  across  the  distant  mountain 
Like  some  tinkling  silvery  fountain       ! 
Come  the  low  melodious  winding  of  the  hunts , 
man's  horn  so  clear. 
Scarcely  stopt  we  for  a  greeting. 
Shy  and  coylike  was  our  meeting. 
But  I  left  my   heart  close  clinging  to  thos 
lips  at  Bellvidere. 
That  was  in  the  dim,  gray  distance 
Of  the  past  of  my  existence 
Ere  the  chilling  frosts   of  Time  had  left  mi 
leatietssear; 
Yet  among  my  memory's  pages 
Dimmed,  as  'twere,  by  dust  of  ages,    ^ 
I  find  a  deep,  fond  love  recorded  for  the  ma. 
of  Bellvidere. 


CUMBERLAND  GAP. 
O  I  will  tell  you  a  curious  story, 

A  curious  story  I'll  tell  to  you. 
If  you'll  agree  to  keep  perfectly  quiet. 

And  hold  your  tongue  till  I  get  through. 
'Twas  on  Easter-tide,  of  years  gone  many  - 

A  score  and  five,  or  nearly  so. 
And  red  war  smote  the  sloping  mountains, 

Tlie  rugged  steeps  and  valleys  low. 
Down  where  lingers  tlie  southern  breezes, 

Where  I  first  learned  the  sad  mishap, 
A  brown-eyed  mother  and  two  little  ehildre 

Lived  and  loved  at  Cumberland  Gap. 
Their  little  field,  tho'  che(>rf  ully  tended. 

Yielded  them  only  a  scanty  store. 
And  yet  they  lived  contented  and  happy, 

And  the  birds  sang  gayly  about  their  doo 
How  often  at  the  day's  declining 

They'd  heard  the  lowing  herds'  low  bell. 
As  down  the  mountain  home  returning  — 
They'd  stood  entranced, for  tlicy  loved  it  wc 


m- 


LOCAL.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK  AMERICA. 


G89 


^ 


MRS.  ELIZA   J.  \V.  TIRRILL. 

Born:  Huntington,  Mass.,  Oct.  6, 1836. 
Prior  to  her  niariiiige  tliis  l:idy  taugrln  scIrx)1. 
In  1860  slie  was  married  to  Kodiiey  W.  Tirrill. 
who  is  now  oiisjafjt'd  in  tlie  real  estate  business 


.MKS.    i:i>l/.A  .J.   W.   TIliKlLL. 

In  Manchester,  Iowa.  Tlie  poems  of  Mrs.Tirrill 
have  been  widely  published  in  tlie  Manchester 
press  and  other  prominent  papers  of  her 
adopted  state. 


'i 


THE  OLD  PARSONAGE. 

Where  sunbeams  seem  to   gild  the  roof  and 
wall. 

And  evening:  shadows  from  the  church  tower 
fall. 

There  midst  a  grassy  lawn,  marking-  the  spot. 

Is  seen  weather-staitied,  old-fasliioned  cot; 

The  shing-les  brown,    and  moss-grown  here 
and  there. 

The  slirunken  windows,  free  admit  the  air; 

The  blinds,  that  lielped  subdue   the  wintry- 
blast, 

Are  very  nearly  counted  with  the  past. 

The  tall  trees,  bordering  the  yard,  appear 

Like  sentinels,  forever  watching  near; 

And  in  their  shade  we  see  the  violet's  face. 

And  lilac  l)ush,  in  keeping  with  the  place. 

The  broken  walk,  the  steps  so  worn  away. 

Lead  to  the   porcii,  where  cliildren    used    to 
play, 


And  happy  mothei-s,  when    their   tasks  were 

made. 
Rested  at  eve,  and  held  the  smiling  babe. 
The  open  door,  admitting  friend  and  foe. 
Swings  on  its  creaking  hinges,  to  and  fro; 
The  empty  rooms,  so  desolate,  and  drear, 
Re-echo  now  no  greetings  of  good  ciieer. 
Yet  hero  all  came,  of  yore,  with  full  belief 
Here  could  they  tell  their  sorrows  and   their 

grief; 
Here  brouglit  their  disappointments,  wrong 

and  right. 
And  homeward   went   with    heart   and    step 

more  light. 

And  in  the  past,  when  twilight  lingered  near. 
Came  bashful  lover  and  tlie  maiden  dear; 
The  pastor  spake,  and  lo!  the  knot  was  lied  — 
Another  bridegroom  and  his  happy  bride. 

And  where  the  children  passed  the  gate,  slow- 
paced. 

To  get  a  glimpse  of  the  kind  pastor's  face. 

Or  his  dear  wife,  who  knew  each  one  by 
name 

And  cordially  made  welcome,  all  who  came. 

Now  silence  reigns:  no  step  upon  the  floor. 
Or  willing  hand  to  opeti  wide  the  door; 
From  window  looks  no  face  of  old  or  young, 
No  lullaby  —  no  evenmg  song  is  sung. 
Yet  here,  oh  Lord, was  read  the  book  of  thine, 
At  early  morning  and  day's  decline; 
Prayers  offered  while  all    bowed   before   Thy 

face,  ' 

And  benedictions  sanctified  the  place. 
Memory  will  picture  tliis  a  pleasant  spot. 
Where  stood  the  weather-stained  old-fashioned 

cot  — 
The  parsonage,  that  we  so  long  have  known. 
Now  tenantless,  deserted,  silent,  grown. 


W.P.ARNOLD. 

Mr.  Arnold  is  a  well-educated  man,  a  minister 
of  the  gospel,  and  also  principal  of  Grayson 
Seminary,  Litchfield,  Ky. 


A  WITHERED  ROSE. 

The  pleasures  of  our  friendship  p;ist 
Were  all  too  rose-bud-like  to  last: 
Theyope'd  as  soon,  and  full  as  well. 
Too  brightly  for  me  now  to  toll. 
Like  roses  in  the  sweet  of  May, 
They  blessed  a  better,  better  day; 
But  like  a  rose  in  winter's  strife. 
They  closed  their  little,  little  life. 
My  life  is  like  the  flower-stem 
Divested  of  its  rosy  gem ; 
And,  like  the  petals  on  tlie  ground. 
My  hopes  lie  with'ring  all  around. 


-m 


05; 


'690 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    POETS    OF  AMERICA. 


—8 


MRS.  L.  E.  BRANNOCK. 

Born:  England,  March  33, 1833. 
This  lady  was  married  in  1858  to  J.  P.  Bran- 
uock,     college  president  at  Marionsville,  Mo. 
Mrs.  Brauuock  is  a  teacher  of  music,  paint- 
lug-  and  elocution,  in   which  she  has  always 


MRS.  L,.  E.  BRANNOCK. 

met  with  great  success.  Her  poems  have  ap- 
peared in  the  Ladies'  Repository,  AVaverly 
Magazine,  and  the  periodical  press  generally. 
Mrs.  Brannock  is  the  mother  of  six  children, 
Ave  of  whom  have  grown  to  manhood  and 
womanhood. 


©- 


BE  NOT  WEARY. 
»'  Be  not  weary  in  well-doing," 

Words  of  toil  and  sorrow  horn 
In  the  sacred  pulpit  standing, 

Siiake  the  pastor  Sabbath  morn. 
And  he  gave  for  our  example, 

Christ  the  holy  we  adore. 
Weary,  toiling,  burdened,  fainting- 

'Neath  the  heavy  cross  he  bore. 
Then  he  spake  of  Paul,  enduring- 
Scourge  and  prison,  want  and  scorn. 
Still  not  wearied  in  well-doing, 

Tlunigh  his  flesh  concealed  a  thorn. 
.Tohii,  the  patient,  well  beloved; 

'Prisoned  on  lone  Patmos'  isle. 
Yet  what  wondrous  visions  thronging- 

Came  his  darkness  to  beguile. 


Tlien  of  holy  blessed  martyrs. 

Who  fell  bleeding-  bj-  the  way; 
Yet  their  path  illumined,  brightened 

With  the  light  of  g-lorj's  ray. 
What  are  we  that  we  should  tremble 

'Neath  the  ci-ush  of  fortune's  wheel? 
What  are  we  that  we  should  murmur 

At  the  crosses  all  must  feel? 
Are  we  faint  and  heavy  laden, 

Are  we  bui-dened  by  the  way — 
Seems  our  scourging-  past  enduring  — 

Do  deep  shadows  cloud  our  way? 
Are  we  weary  in  well-doing. 

Is  our  Patmos  dark  with  storm? 
Has  hope  left  our  gloomy  pi-ison  — 

Do  our  hearts  conceal  a  thorn? 
Glorious  visions  beaming  'round  us, 

Light  the  path  in  which  we  stray; 
Wearj-  wanderers,  all  life's  burdens 

Soon  forever  fall  away: 
Courage!  Christian  toller,  courage! 

Brave  endure,  nor  weaklj-  yield. 
Faithful,  hopeful  —  trusting  ever, 

God    your   strength    and   Clu-ist 
shield. 


your 


GOD  HELP  US. 

EXTRACT. 

We  bring  you  scentless,  'broidercd  flowers 

With  hues  more  grave  than  gay. 
Wrought  in  the  faneies  of  the  brain. 

For  these,  your  flowers  of  May. 
God  helping-  us  the  while  we  try. 

To  darn  this  well-worn  theme. 
With  threads  if  not  of  fltiest  g-old, 

Or  poet's  loftiest  dream. 
At  least  with  words  whose  strength  may  aid 

To  bear  the  tide  along. 
Till  all  shall  join  this  army  true 

And  swell  the  victor's  song. 
•  '  God  help  us"  is  our  battle  prayer; 

How  like  a  clarion  shrill 
Its  pleading  tones  seem  echoing  far 

O'er  every  vale  and  hill. 
The  words  resound  now  low,  now  loud. 

From  mountains  to  the  sea. 
In  east  and  west,  in  north  and  south, 

Bound  millions  to  free. 
And  hark!  the  strain  with  soft  refrain, 

Borne  on  the  wind's  low  sigh. 
Is  rising  from  our  grassy  plain 

And  pealing  through  the  sky. 
Till  angel  tongues  take  up,  renew 

The  pleading  sweet  refrain, 
And  send  it  through  the  vaults  of  heaven 

Down  to  the  earth  again. 
"  God  help  us,"  is  the  widow's  prayer 

For  humble  daily  bread. 
The  lonely  orphans,  'round  whose  steps 

Are  treacherous  pit-falls  spread.  • 


SB- 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    I'OETS   OF  AMERICA. 


691 


-* 


MRS.  MARY  L.  HALL. 

Born:  St.  Helena,  N.Y.,  May  26, 1839. 

Makhied  at  twenty,  this  lady  later  taught 
school,  and  for  many  j-ears  was  a  teacher  of 
penmanship.      Mrs.    Hall   lias  ■writlcn  niaiiy 


MRS.    MAHV    L 


stories.  Live  Coal,  a  book  of  poems,  appear- 
ed from  her  pen  in  18:9.  She  has  become 
quite  popular  in  her  native  state,  where  she 
now  resides  at  Attica,  although  Mrs.  Hall  has 
since  her  marriag-e  lived  in  various  parts  of 
the  Union. 


GOLD  OF  OPHIR. 

From  the  temple-time  of  David 
Comes  a  legend  —sweet  as  old. 

Matchless,  peerless,  sacred  ever. 
Treasured  tale  of  Ophir's  gold. 

Finest  of  the  yellow  metal. 
Fitted  where  the  gold  must  go 

Tn  the  niciies  of  the  palace. 
Arabesque  that  quaintly  show. 

Oh  if  in  the  soul  Immortal 
We  can  build  a  house  as  fair 

Not  for  man  but  for  the  Father 
And  can  place  our  treasures  there! 

Gold  of  Ophir,  Gold  of  Ophir! 

David  loved  thy  shimmering  glow. 
Shall  we  build  a  palace  for  thee. 

Build  a  palace,  white  as  snow? 


None  but  He  the  Master-builder  — 

He  wiio  gave  His  only  Son- 
Can  support  the  one  foundation 
That  is  safe  to  build  upon. 

Worldly  potenUites  may  flatter 
And  around  us  suavely  lay. 

Corner  stones  that  look  immobile 
And  imposing  every  way. 

They  are  only  fragile  structures, 

Thougli  substantial  they  may  seem- 
Quite  as  fleeting  and  uncertain 
As  the  castles  of  a  dream. 

Out  of  heaven  comes  the  succor 
Full  of  love  and  guidance  sweet 

That  can  always  mold  and  fashion 
Strongholds  never  incomplete. 

Not  for  wood,  or  hay,  or  stubble. 
Though  we  have  them  thrible-fold. 

Not  for  precious  stones  or  silver. 
But  for  Ophir's  finest  gold. 


AUNT  BETSY'S  OPINION. 
Mebbe  you  think  I'm  foolin', 

Mebbe  you  think  I  aint. 
But  I  don't  hold't  airy  human 

On  earth,  can  be  a  saint. 

There's  deacon  Andrew  Parsons, 
He  claims,  so  they  tell  me, 

Sanctiflcation,  bless  us! 
That  air's  hypocrisy. 

Why  he's  the  selflshest  critter 
Ther'  is  for  miles  around. 

He  can't  talk  nothin'  week  days 
But  all  about  his  ground. 

His  farm,  his  barn,  an  medder. 
His  trees,  that  he  set  out. 

His  huckleberry  bushes. 
An'  keepin'  introodersout. 

It  don't  work  that  way  naber, 

Ift  ever  works  at  all. 
His  talk  wu'd  be  'bout  heaven; 

This  world  dwindle  small. 

I  won't  say  notliin's  in  it, 
I'm  old  an'  poor  an'  weak. 

But  sanctiflcation's  sumpthin' 
I  heven't  faith  to  seek. 

I  hold,  we're  alius  faulty, 

Nothin'  like  the  Lord, 
Poor  weak,  failin'  critters 

A  seekin'  through  His  word. 

Mebbe  you  think  I'm  fool'n, 
Mebbe  you  think  I  ain't. 

But  I  don't  liold't  airy  human 
On  earth,  can  be  a  saini. 


-* 


® 


-s 


692 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


DAVID  PAUL  ZIEGLER. 

Born  :  Owensville,  Ind.,  Oct.  7, 1867. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Ziegler  have  appeared  in 


DAVID  PAUL  ZIEGLER. 

the  religious  press.  He  resides  in  Manchester, 
Kansas,  and  is  a  preaclier  of  the  gospel. 


MOTHER. 
Mother!  how  sweet  and  loving  the  name 

To  us  it's  a  joy  untold. 
Its  a  dear  name  divinely  given. 

Worth  more  than  the  purest  of  gold; 
It  is  frequently  heard  by  the  listening    ear 
In    tones  both  soft  and  mild. 
By  a  darling  infant  child. 

How  oft  it  comes  to  the  mother's  ear 

From  the  one  she  loves  the  best. 
While  she  holds  the  sweet  babe  on  her  knee, 

As  she  stops  a  moment  for  rest. 
While  weary  of  toiling  all  day 

With  naught  of  rest  in  view  ! 
She'll  stop  and  smile  on  her  child  as  it  says: 

Oh  Mother  can't  I  help  you, 
All  through  the  years  of  childhood  and  youth 

The  loving  mother  is  dear 
To  her  child  cast  down  with  sorrow  and  grief, 

As  it  tells  of  its  grief  in  tear.s. 
And  wlien  on  the  bed  of  affliction  — 

Though  otlier  kind  fiictids  are  near  — 
The  weary  and  fainting  one  speaks  forth : 
Where's  mother,    tell  her  to  come  here  I 


As  over  the  bed  she  bendeth 

That  loving,  trusting  one. 
You  behold  her  smiling  and  say: 

O  Mother,  I'm  glad  you  have  come. 
For  there's  no  other  dear  mother 

Can  soothe  this  pain  like  you;  [mother. 

When  my  heart   doth  ache  with  grief,  dear 

Thou  canst  quell  my  sorrow  too; 
When  the  holy  child,  our  Savior, 

Lisped  the  darling  Mother's  name. 
Don't  you  think  He  thought  it  sacred  — 

For  from  holy  lips  it  came? 

Had  it  not  been  just  and  holy 

Christ  would  not  that  word  have  said; 
Lol  his  darling  Mother, 

When  the  thorns  did  crown  his  head. 
Oh,  then  never  grow  weary,  mothers. 

Think  of  the  sacred  name  you  bear, 
'Tis  a  title  of  great  honor. 

Which  the  angels  cannot  wear. 


FRANCES  A.SHAW. 

Born:  Boston,  Mass. 
This  lady  commenced  her  literary  career 
translating  works  of  history,  biography  and 
fiction,  which  have  appeared  in  book-form 
from  Boston  and  New  York  publishing 
houses.  She  is  a  close  student  of  German 
poetry,  and  has  done  much  original  work  on 
magazines  and  newspapers.  Her  home  is 
now  with  her  family  in  Minneapolis,  where 
she  devotes  her  time  principally  to  literature. 


GOD'S  POEM. 
I  sat  and  read  one  summer  night, 

A  poem  grand  and  old. 
Whose  every  thought,  a  diamond  bright. 

Was  set  in  words  of  gold. 
My  lamp  went  out.  the  poet-page 

Grew  dim  before  my  eyes. 
But  lamps  that  know  no  change  nor  age. 

Shone  from  the  azure  skies. 
The  golden  stars,  the  silver  moon 

Flooded  the  world  with  light. 
And  Nature  stood  at  night's  high  noon. 

Transfigured  to  my  sight. 
Bird,  flower  and  bee  slept  'neath  the  spell 

Of  the  Great  River's  song, 
A  perfumed  breath  from  hill  and  dell 

Swept  tlie  hushed  air  along. 
How  poor,  thought  I,  my  lamp's  pale  shine 

To  Nature's  fadeless  rays; 
What  to  iier  harmonies  divine 

Are  loftiest  poet-lays? 
WIi:it  matt<>r  though  man's  finite  lore 

Is  hidden  from  my  sight? 
God's  book  stands  open  evermore. 

And  every  line  is  light. 


©- 


SB 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


G93 


S 


JOHN  W.  OVERALL. 

Born:  Shenandoah,  Va. 
At  an  early  age  John  W.  Overall  went  to  the 
southwest,  where  he  was  educated;  studied 
law  uuder  Governor  Tucker,  of  Mississippi; 
practiced  in  Mississippi,  Alabama  and  Louisi- 
ana,—part  of  the  time  being  engaged  in  jour- 
nalistic work.  He  became  editor  of  the  New 
Orleans  Daily  Creole,  Daily  Delta,  Daily  True 
Delta,  prior  to  the  war;  was  connected  as  a 
writer  with  the  Kichniond  Examiner,  and 
was  editor  of  thti  SoiitlK^ni  Punch  and  Army 


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IHN     W      ()\  l.li  \[A. 

Argus  ami  ('i-isis  (iuiiiig  a  part  of  the  war 
period;  editor  of  the  New  Orleans  South  after 
the  war;  editor  of  the  Galveston.  (Tex.)  Com- 
mercial, and  literary  editor  of  the  St.  Louis 
Globe-Democrat.  Going  to  New  York  he  be- 
came the  literary  editor  and  leading  writer, 
political  and  miscellaneous,  on  the  Sunday 
Mercury,  of  which  over  a  hundred  thousand 
copies  are  now  circulated  and  which  dates 
to  the  year  m39  as  tlie  commencement  of  its 
e.xisteuce.  He  has  held  tliis  position  for  over 
fourteen  years.  Mr.  Overall  is  a  typical  jour- 
nalist —  his  political  editorials  are  strong,  log- 
ical and  incisive,  and  on  other  subjects  he  be- 
comes brilliiuit.  tender  and  poetical.  The  best 
of  critics  give  him  the  palm  for  originality 
and  comprehensiveness.  His  first  poetic  effu- 
sions appeared  in  the  Mobile  Tribune,  Gra- 
ham's Magazine,  and  the  New  York  Home 
Journal,  and  met  with  marked  success. 


UNDER  THE  ELMS. 

Under  the  giant  elms  we  walked 

In  the  cool  of  each  summer  day, 
Under  the  breezy  elms  we  talked 

Of  a  grove  in  tlie  Far  Away. 
In  the  Far  Away  of  the  Glory  Land 

Where  the  love-wave  rolls  and  wliilms; 
Ah !  I  almost  see  a  beckoning  hand 

While  pausing  under  the  elms. 
Oh,  brother,  gone  to  the  world  adored. 

Yours  was  the  blood  of  France, 
Mine  of  the  clime  of  the  Douglas  sword 

And  the  Percy's  quivering  lance,    [yours. 
Your  soul  sought  mine  and    mine  sought 

Though  our  lineage  differed  so! 
You  of  the  land  of  the  Troubadours 

And  I  of  the  land  of  the  snow. 
'Tis  the  soothing  Iiands  that  come  and  go 

Through  the  tangled  skeins  of  hair; 
'Tis  the  tender  look  when  we  crave  it  so 

In  the  hours  of  grim  despair! 
'Tis  a  soul  we  need  as  a  fellow  soul. 

As  the  thirsty  earth  the  flood. 
That  makes  men  brotliers  from  pole  to  pole. 

And  not  their  birtli  or  blood! 
Brother  now  blest  with  the  glory  of  God, 

Forever  to  dwell  in  His  realms. 
All  of  your  mortal  is  under  the  sod 

And  I  am  still  under  the  elms! 
Under  the  grand  old  robust  trees 

Watching  the  splendor  of  light 
As  it  dies  away  with  the  autumn  breeze 

And  lights  the  lamps  of  the  night. 


THE  SPRING  DOWN  IN  THE  DELL. 
Though  years  have  glided  like  a  dream 

Since  I  stood  by  thy  side, 
Yet  still,  thou  little  rippling  stream, 

I've  thought  of  thee  with  pride. 
And  bless  thee,  as  I  bless  thee  now  — 

Oh !  I  remember  well 
How  thou  didst  cool  my  fevered  brow. 

Dear  spring  down  in  the  dell ! 
On  many  a  golden  summer  hour 

I  laid  me  down  to  rest. 
Where  everj-  wind  would  throw  a  shower 

Of  blossoms  on  my  breast. 
The  spangled  flowers  grew  around  — 

Oh !  I  remember  well 
The  mossy  rocks,  tlje  velvet  ground. 

The  spring  down  in  the  dell  I 
Thy  waters  sparkled  in  my  cup. 

And  flashed  along  the  ritii, 
And  when  I  raised  it  gl.ully  up. 

And  broke  its  dimiiled  brim. 
Far  sweeter  than  tlie  Sainian  wine  — 

Oh!  I  remember  well! 
Was  that  bright  crystal  wave  of  thine. 

Dear  spring  down  in  the  dell! 


-© 


©- 


69J: 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    POETS    OF  A31EU1CA. 


* 


And,  mirrored  in  thy  mimic  glass, 

I've  watclied  tlie  artless  grace 
Of  many  a  dark-eyed  village  lass. 

As  she  did  kiss  thy  face; 
And  I  have  envied  thee- thy  lot  — 

Oh !  I  remember  well ! 
Thou  wilt  not,  canst  not,  be  forgot. 

Sweet  spring  down  in  the  dell ! 


GONE  TO  THE  SUMMERLAND. 
A  bird  is  but  a  beauteous  thought 

Outflowing  from  supernal  love, 
A  wing'd  affection,  bright  and  warm, 

That  flies  down  from  above; 
And  reaching  here  its  mural  goal, 

A  world  of  sunshine  and  of  storm. 
The  thought  of  God  becomes  encased 

And  fixed  in  lovely  form. 
Ah !  yes;  it  dwells  in  flesh  and  blood 

That  we  may  hear  its  sugary  song-. 
And  learn  by  all  its  innocence 

To  hate  the  human  wrong; 
And  guardian  to  this  tiny  thing 

Is  One  the  angels  love  to  name  — 
He  hung  the  planets  in  yon  space 

And  set  the  suns  aflame. 
One  day  its  brilliant  plumage  paled, 

Its  wings  no  more  did  flow  and  float. 
An  orchestra  of  opera  songs 

Died  ill  its  little  throat. 
Tlie  cage  was  empty,  lone  and  still. 

The  nest  was  there,  the  nestling  fled. 
And  all  the  mourning  household  said: 

"  Birdie,  our  pet  is  dead!" 
The  bird  had  only  flown  away, 

And  left  for  aye  its  prison  bars. 
And  winged  its  flight  through  amber  light. 

Beyond  the  farthest  stars! 
To-day,  within  the  glorious  bowers 

That  angels  see  with  dreamful  eyes, 
A  rapture-song  trills  strong  and  sweet 

From  a  bird  of  paradise! 


BALLAD  OF  THE  PRESS. 
In  other  days  witli  flery  hands, 

The  Troubadours  of  story 
O'er  the  Lyre's  wild  throbliing  bosom 

Poured  lieroic  strains  of  glor.v; 
They  tell  us  how  the  knights  of  old 

Braved  tempest,  sea  and  breaker. 
And  met  the  scoffing  Saracen 

At  Ascalon  and  Acre. 
How  the  Stuart  fought  at  Flodden, 

How  the  Douglas  rode  away 
With  Harry  Percy's  pennon 

From  the  English  border  fray; 
How  Roland's  paladins  and  peers, 

Before  Iberian  sallies. 
Fell  like  the  leaves  of  Pyrenees, 

At  fatal  Roncesvalles. 


There's  music  in  the  olden  song 

That  tells  the  tale  of  duty. 
Of  lances  poised  for  glorious  eyes 

And  crimson  lips  of  beauty; 
And  romance  for  the  belted  knights 

That  feared  the  face  of  no  man. 
Who  on  the  field  of  Crecy  fell 

With  faces  to  the  foeman. 

We  sing  a  song  of  modern  days  — 

Of  something  far  diviner, 
The  Ballad  of  the  giant  Press, 

Creator  and  refiner! 
We  toast  old  Guttenburg  and  Faust, 

In  champagne,  port  and  sherry, 
And  in  the  goblet  see  the  smile 

On  Franklin's  face  grow  merry. 

vVMthin  its  dungeon  palace  works. 

As  some  gigantic  beaver, 
The  very  thing  Archimedes 

AVould  call  the  long-sought  lever, 
Obedient  to  the  will  of  Thought 

It  moves  its  steel  phalanges. 
And  nations  bend  to  catch  its  breath 

From  Golden  Gate  to  Ganges. 

It  orders  war  and  forces  peace, 

And  drowns  the  voice  of  faction, 
And  moves  the  men  the  world  calls  great 

To  automatic  action! 
It  proves,  when  wills  its  Titan  soul 

To  philosopliic  tinkers. 
That  on  this  planet  there  are  kings  — 

And  these  the  silent  thinkers! 

It  calls  from  chaos  into  life 

New  nations  as  men  need  'em, 
And  wraps  around  their  infant  forms 

The  sacred  robes  of  freedom ! 
It  flays  the  shrinking  back  of  Crime, 

Tlie  Tarquins  who  pollute  us. 
And  tells  the  tyrants  everywhere 

That  tiiey  have  still  a  Brutus! 

It  woos  the  lightning  from  the  sky 

In  all  its  moods  and  tenses, 
And  the  monarch    of  the    clouds  stoops 
down 

And  plays  amanuensis! 
Since  it  controls  the  bolts  of  Jove, 

Prepare  for  any  antic  — 
Build  rapid  transit  to  the  moon! 

And  tunnel  tlic  Atlantic! 

Room  for  the  coiKiucior  of  tlie  world! 

The  steel-clad  .Alexander! 
Room  for  the  Pen,  the  Sword  of  mind 

Which  sweeps  from  grand  to  grander! 
Room  for  the  Teachers  of  their  kind. 

Who  scorn  the  Wrong's  defiance, 
And  proudly  bear  upon  their  crest 

The  motto:  ..  Self-Reliance!" 


^ 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


69.5 


-® 


IDA  FRIES. 

Born:  Brooklyn,  N.Y.,  April  21,  1867. 
At  the  age  of  fifteen  stories  appeared  from  the 
pen  of  this  young  writer,   and  since  that  time 
she  has  hrnn  a  regular    contrihntor   to  the 


IDA  FRIES. 

papers  of  lier  native  state.  Although  she 
occasionally  writes  poems  she  is  at  her  best 
in  prose.  Miss  Fries  resides  with  her  father 
in  St.  Nicholas,  a  beautiful  suburb  of  Jack- 
sonville, Florida. 


BABY  ASTRAY. 
Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear. 
With  your  laughing  eyes  and  sunny  hair? 
What  brought  you  in  this  world  of  pain? 
Perhaps  j-ou  come  on  the  fast  mail  train. 

And  why  did  mother  leave  the  child. 
To  wander  in  the  woods  so  wild? 
Where's  mother,  sweet,  is  she  not  here? 
Surely  she  must  be  somewhere  near. 

There  — do  not  cry  my  little  love. 
Mamma  will  come  to  her  little  dove; 
Lay  your  liead  on  my  shoulder,  sweet; 
There  — the  darling  is  fast  asleep. 

Sleep,  little  angel,  seraphs  draw  near. 

In  garments  so  filmy,  and  airy  and  cheer; 

They  invoke  the  sweet  blessings,  then  flutter 

away. 
And  leave  baby  sleeping  the  livelong  dav. 

s : — 


A  REQUIEM. 
The  hand  that  swept  the  sounding  Lyre, 

With  more  than  mortal  skill; 
The  tender  eyes,  the  heart  of  fire. 

The  gentle  lips  are  still. 
For  her  no  more  the  flowers  bloom 

With  beauty  sweet  and  rare; 
They  fade  in  yonder  moss-grown  tomb. 

Upon  her  form  so  fair. 
The  birds  that  sang  in  yonder  lane, 

In  sweet  and  gentle  tones; 
Now  sing  —  alas !  a  requiem  hymn. 

Their  faithful  friend  is  gone. 


AN  AUTUMN  REVERIE. 
The  shadows  stole  across  the  wall. 

The  sun  was  sinking  low; 
And  in  the  lurid  western  sky. 

The  world  was  all  aglow. 
The  roses  grew  along  the  ledge, 

The  purple  pansies  nodded  there. 
And  Thyme  and  fragrant  summer  sage, 

Made  sweet  the  evening  air. 

The  Golden-Rod  lier  banner  furled. 

Of  vivid  gold  so  bright; 
In  sandy  loam  and  richest  soil. 

She  doth  our  heart  delight. 

My  noble  Lion,  at  my  feet. 

Lay  snoozing  in  the  grass, 
I  wandered  to  my  cool  retreat 

And  watched  the  vessels  pass. 
They  speed  across  the  shining  sea. 

Their  white  sails  fluttering  wide; 
The  breezes  stir  the  verdant  trees  — 

And  calm  the  flowing  tide. 
And  all  is  sweet  and  calm. 

This  perfect  day  of  days. 
No  strife  nor  fear  of  harm. 

Doth  mar  its  smiling  ways. 
So  ought  this  life  to  be. 

Calm,  undeflled  ;ind  pure; 
Our  faith  in  God  its  fee. 

Our  merits  slow  but  sure. 
Then  what  a  world  of  bliss. 

This  realm  below  would  be; 
Tlio  tears  and  trials  we'd  miss. 

And  all  be  joy  and  glee. 
Hut  hark!  there  goes  the  bell  I 

("oini",  Lion,  we  nnist  go: 
Return  to  Mother  Earth  as  well. 

And  fancy  it  was  so. 


EXTRACT. 
The  gallant  ship  is  leaving  port. 

Her  sails  are  flying  wide; 
People  of  every  kind  and  sort. 

Are  leaning  o'er  her  side. 


-© 


©- 


696 


LOCAL,    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  INEZ  M.  POLLARD. 

Born:  Hodgdon,  Me.,  Dec.  33, 1866. 
At  the  age  of  twelve  two  of  the  poems  of  this 
lady  appeared  in  the  Yankee  Blade.    Since 
that  time  her  poems  have  appeared  from  time 


to  time  in  the  Aroostook  Times  and  other 
publications.  She  was  married  in  1889  to 
George  Pollard,  with  whom  she  resides  in  her 
native  place.  In  person  Mrs.  Pollard  is  very 
petite,  with  light-brown  hair  and  blue  eyes. 

UNDER  THE  STARS. 
Under  the  stars  of  heaven 

We  stood,  long  years  ago, 
The  dreamland  stars  so  tender. 

That  smile  upon  life's  woe. 

Only  one  happy  moment 

Under  the  star-lit  skies. 
The  night-bird  flying  heavenward, 

Tlie  love-light  in  her  eyes. 

Under  the  stars  of  heaven, 

The  sky  a  desert  seems ; 
What  is  a  world  of  beauty 

To  one  who  lives  in  dreams! 

Gone  is  the  radiant  glory. 

Lost  is  the  hallowed  liglit; 
My  star  went  out  in  darkness 

Oiu'(>  on  a  summer's  night. 


MY  SISTER. 
She  went  away  to  the  heavenly  land 

Many  long  years  ago. 
She  went  to  dwell  with  the  holy  band 

Beyond  the  reach  of  woe. 
We  used  to  wander  beside  the  rills 

Once  in  the  happy  days. 
Now  she  has  gained  the  sunset  hills 

And  walks  in  heaven's  waj's. 
By  the  fireside  there's  a  vacant  place, 

A  brightness  lost  to  earth. 
And  I  miss  a  form  of  youth  and  grace 

Amid  the  world's  glad  mirth. 
Many  a  summer  has  come  and  fled, 

Roses  have  bloomed  and  died. 
Friends  have  stood  weeping  around  their  dead, 

Since  she  went  from  my  side. 
Would  1  call  her  back  from  heaven's  bliss, 

I,  who  have  known  life's  pain? 
When  I  think  of  home  and  happiness 

Where  the  dear  Savior  reigns? 
No,  in  the  beautiful  Eden  above 

She  is  so  safe  from  care^ 
And  I  shall  go  to  those  realms  of  love 
Some  day  and  meet  her  there. 


LOVE'S  BURIAL. 
Here  is  the  beautiful  casket,     • 

So  frail,  so  wondrously  fair. 
Where  love  lies  quietly  sleeping. 

Enshrouded  in  blossoms  rare. 
Here  are  the  beauteous  snowdrops 

To  clasp  in  the  cold  white  hand; 
Here  are  the  first  spring  violets. 

Emblems  of  love's  fair  land. 
Afar  are  memory's  angels. 

They  are  coming  swiftly  now. 
To  press  one  kiss  of  remembrance 

On  lips,  and  cheek,  and  brow. 
Dear  angels,  touch  very  gently 

The  silken  cords  that  you  hold. 
As  you  lower  your  precious  burden 

Far  down  in  the  grassy  mold. 
At  last  we  have  seen  love  buried. 

And  some  one  is  left  alone, 
But  up  in  the  heavenly  city. 
We  shall  know,  as  we  are  known. 


EXTRACT. 
Listen ;  do  1  hear  a  footstep? 

Ah !  a  face  with  beauty  rare 
Bends  above  me,  lightly  touching 

Flower  wreathes  amid  my  hair. 
All  the  weary  years  are  gone,  now 

Can  it  be  my  hair  is  white? 
1  am  free  a  while  from  sorrow, 

1  am  young  again  to-night. 


©- 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


G!>7 


© 


LIZZIE  MAY  TURK. 

Born:  Allamakee  Co.,  Iowa,  Nov.  11, 1873. 
The  pooni';  of   Mis^^  Turk   have   oe-L-asioiially 


LIZZIE  MAY  TURK. 

appeared  in  the  local  press.     She  resides  in 
Burr  Oak,  Iowa, where  slie  is  attending  school. 


YESTERDAY. 

An  infant  tenderly  cradled  beside  its  mother's 
knee. 

Loved,  fondled,  caressed  and  petted  to  its  in- 
nocent baby  glee. 

A  father  proud  of  his  treasure  'twas  all  that 
it  could  be; 

A  mother's  joy  and  pleasure  to  care  it  beside 
her  knee. 


TO-DAY. 
A.  fair  young  girl  in  orange-flowers  and  bridal 

suit  arrayed. 
Led  to  the  altar  has  promised  her  lord  from 

henceforth 
To  love,  honor  and  obey. 
She  has  done  her  duty  faitlifull.v. 
Been  loved  and  honored  in  return. 
But  the  best  of  oil  in  the  costliest  lamp 
Has  but  one  short  hour  to  burn. 


©- 


TO-MORRONY. 
We  never  knew  her,  she  belonged  to  the  dis- 
tant past. 


The  world  of  her  grew  weary  and  tired  of  her 
at  last; 

Others  as  bright  and  merry  will  her  task  re- 
sume. 

The  world  of  her  grew  weary,  so  we  leave  her 
In  the  tomb. 


THE  WORLD. 

This  world  is  a  tremendous  ocean. 

Filled  with  fairy-floating  isles; 

Its  isles  are  thronged  with  people 

Ot  all  the  various  stj'les. 

Some  live  in  lofty  palaces  and  in  the  balls  of 
mirth. 

And  some  in  rude  cabins  built  of  nothing  but 
the  earth. 

And  some  o:  the  great  people  class  them- 
selves as  next  to  God, 

And  some  are  classed  as  equal  to  the  poorest 
of  the  sod. 

And  if  the  meek  people  of  this  nauseous  vice- 
ful  world, 

Should  cross  the  path  of  the  palace  bird. 

Into  the  street  they  are  hurled. 

So  let  us  all  consider  which  path  we  should 
take. 

Before  we  have  to  reconsider 

That  our  choosing  is  too  late. 


SALLIE  EFFIE  TERRY. 

BORX:  White  Mills,  Kv.,  Oct.  19,  186-3. 
The  poems  of  Miss  Terry  have  appeared  in  the 
local  press  from  time  to  time.    She  follows 
the  occupation  of  school  teaching,  and  resides 
in  her  native  state  at  Big  Clifty. 


BE   UNDERSTOOD. 
If  but  one  single  thought  of  good 

I'd  have  to  give  my  friend.s. 
It  would  be  this  —  be  understood. 

Or  else  you'll  have  to  make  amends. 
Our  sad  and  bloody  civil  war. 

Which  scattered  grief  o'er  all  the  land. 
Had  causes  great,  but  greater  far. 

Than  any  other  on  the  strand. 
Was  this  the  people  north  and  south. 

Each  other's  plans  with  envy  viewed, 
They  could  not  learn  their  separate  worth. 

And  so  were  thus  misunderstood. 
There,  too,  is  war  in  social  life. 

By  friends  and  kindred  near  by  blood. 
Who  yield  to  passion,  yield  to  strife. 

Who  can  not  be  undei-stood. 
How  oft  a  laugh,  a  sigh,  a  tear. 

Or  e'en  a  movement  of  the  hanrl. 
Brings  sorrow  to  some  friend  tliat's  dear. 

Because  they  do  not  understand. 
^ 


Sf 


698 


LOCAL,   AND    NATIONAL   POKTS   OF  AMEKICA. 


EZRA  BOWERS. 

Born  :  Bowersville,  Ga.,  Sept.  20, 1863. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Bowers  have  appeared  in 

tlie  Ideal    prt's;-;  of    his  state      At   the   afie    of 


-H.,. 


EZRA   BOWERS. 

twenty-two  lie  commenced  the  publication  of 
the  American  Union,  a  Aveekly  paper  which 
has  become  very  popular  in  the  south.  Mr. 
Bowers  is  engaged  in  the  railway  mail  ser- 
vice, and  is  also  interested  in  the  publishing 
business. 


OUR  FADED  FLOWER. 

Lovely  hands  once  fair  and  tender. 

Now  lie  folded  in  the  tomb; 
And  thy  cradle  by  the  window 

Stands  forsaken  mid  the  gloom. 

Bright,  sparkling  eyes  once  so  charming. 
Now  lie  closed  within  the  ground: 

And  thy  tender  body's  lying 
All  beneath  a  little  mound. 

Here  no  longer  we  behold  thee, — 
Our  hearts  in  sadness  mourn; 

But  again  we  hope  to  meet  thee 
In  the  resurrection  morn! 


EXTRACT. 
The  glor'ous  Fourth  is  here  again; 

We  hail  it  with  gladsome  glee,— 
The  day  on  which  our  fathers  said: 

No  more  bound  are  we  —  but  free! 


YOUTH. 

My  days  and  years  pass  sweetly  on 
When  I  can  think  of  thee  alone;— 
But  seems  more  lov^ely  they  would  be, 
If  I  could  ever  be  with  thee. 

In  times  gone  by,  what  happy  days! 
We've  seen  in  childhood's  lovely  ways;— 
In  memory  they  return  as  dreams, 
And  melt  my  heart  with  love's  bright  beams 

Those  days  and  mem'ries  — Oh!  how  sweet 
They  come  again,  new  thoughts  to  meet,— 
All  serve  to  bind  my  soul  with  thine 
As  in  a  bond  of  love  divine. 

But  the  future!  What  will  it  bring? 
Will  it  still  be  as  lovely  Spring? 
Ah !  a  mystery  it  seems  to  be. 
And  we  can  only  wait  and  see! 


«■ 


F.  W.  LIVINGSTON. 

Born:  Jericho,  Vt.,  Sept.  12, 1833. 
The  poems  of  this  gentleman  have  appeal 
quite  extensively  in  the  periodical  press. 
was  married  in  1869  to  Miss  Mary  E.  Eva 
and  now  resides  in  San  Jacinto,  Cal.,  wht 
he  follows  the  profession  of  teaching.  B 
Livingston  served  three  years  in  the  ci 
war.  and  for  four  years  was  superintendt 
of  schools  in  Mercer  County.  111.  The  poe 
of  this  writer  have  been  well  received  by  t 
press  and  public,  and  he  has  been  the  rec 
lent  of  many  congratulatory  letters. 


WHAT  IS  FRIENDSHIP. 
Is  Friendship's  band  a  rope  of  sand, 

That  breaks  as  soon  as  felt? 
Or,  if  not  so,  a  wreath  of  snow, 

A  ray  of  warmth  may  melt? 

Oh,  who  could  think,  so  weak  a  link 
In  friendship's  chain  existed? 

As  to  be  broke,  with  feather  stroke, 
By  nothing  else  assisted? 

Must  friendship  live  and  never  give 

By  word  or  deed  a  token? 
Lest  it  ott'end  our  dearest  friend. 

And  thus  be  wholly  broken? 

Must  it  lie  cold,  and  ne'er  unfold 
Its  blossoms  to  tlie  heart? 

The  soul  says.  No!  that  it  shall  grow, 
And  beauty  e'er  impai't. 

Tlius  may  it  be  'twixt  nie  and  thee. 
As  long  as  life  shall  last,— 

May  friends  be  true  tho'  ever  so  few. 
Where'er  our  lots  be  cast. 


* 


©- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL    I'OETS   OK  AMEUICA. 


Ultlt 


* 


PATRICK  S.  CASSIDY. 

BOHN :  Ireland,  Oct.  31, 1850. 
Mr.  C.\Ssidy  came  to  New  York  in  1868,  and 
bi'Ciime  coiiiici'U'd  with  the  Associated  Press, 
reuiaininjj:  witli  that  Association  for  about 
ten  years.  He  successively  edited  the  New 
York  Sunday  Democrat,  Illustrated  Times 
and  the  Celtic  Magazine,  of  whicli  latter  per- 
iodical he  was  part  owner.  Independent  of 
his  editorial  work,  Mr.  Cassidj-  has  written 
both  pro.«e  and  verse  for  various  leading- 
AintTicaii  liti'r;iry  jonrnals.      When   but  six- 


P.\TRICK    S.  CASSIDY. 

I'-iu  years  of  age  he  began  to  court  the  muse, 
and  his  first  productions  were  published  in  the 
Ixmdonderry  Journal  and  the  Dublin  Irish 
Clironicle.  At  the  ag-e  of  eighteen  he  wrote 
Glenough  or  the  Victims  of  Vengeance,  a 
scrialstory  of  Irish  life,  which  appeared  in 
tlie  Boston  Pilot,  and  was  subsequently  pub- 
lished in  book-form  and  dramatized.  Since 
1H81  he  has  been  regrularly  conticcted  with  the 
Sunday  Mercury.  Mr.  Cassidy  has  written 
nieliKlious  song  verse,  but  usually  his  poems 
have  a  heroic  ring  and  metal,  and  show 
strength,  individuality  and  boldness,  which 
features  are  characteristic  of  the  man  him- 
self.   Mr.  Cassidy  still  remains  unmarried. 

A  LONGING. 
How  throbs  the  city's  iron  lieart! 
What  noise  its  beating-  tells. 


As  through  the  surging-  thoroughfares 

The  roar  of  commerce  swells! 
This  ceaseless  noise,  these  grinding  throbs, 

They  strike  the  very  core. 
As  through  its  thousand  arteries 

Trade's  feverish  life-streams  jtour. 
How  longs  the  heart  lor  quiet's  balm! 

How  weary  grows  the  ear! 
At  all  this  tumult-war  for  gain 

Tliat  fills  the  atmosphere. 
And  speaks  of  man's  ambitious  mind; 

'Tis  death  or  in  the  van. 
For  each  has  entered  in  the  lists 

To  head  his  fellow  man. 
How  sick  the  soul  will  sometimes  grow 

At  all  this  endless  strife. 
Where  Mammon  is  the  woi-shiped  god. 

And  gold  is  more  than  life; 
Where  in  the  flint  treadmill  of  trade 

Men  fall  before  their  years. 
And  in  the  contest  o'er  the  will 

Is  centered  all  the  tears ! 
Dear  mellow  sounds  of  rural  life, 

How  soft  your  memory  fltiats 
In  on  me  here  and  soothes  my  soul 

Like  weird  .(Eolian  notes! 
How  like  the  wind-harp's  viewless  chords. 

The  chords  of  memory  be! 
They  thrill  but  to  a  spirit's  song. 

From  all  earth's  discord  free. 
In  hour  like  this  how  sweetly  rise 

Dear  scenes  of  peaceful  days. 
And  thoughts  of  men  —  the  truly  great  — 

Who  walked  in  simple  ways; 
Who  shunned  the  roar  of  selfish  strife 

And  .sought  the  songs  of  birds: 
Who  listetied  in  the  breathing  groves 

For  wi.sdom's  whispered  words! 
Oh,  solitude— divine  retreat! 

What  bliss  you  round  us  cast. 
Where  we  can  chose  for  company 

The  great  ones  of  the  past ; 
Far  from  the  jabbering  rabble  crowd. 

As  Moses—  Chris.t—  retired 
To  groves  for  wisdom,  prayer  and  thought. 

By  spirit  tongues  inspire<l. 
Oh,  Druid  sage,  I'll  take  your  hand 

And  wander  where  you  lead. 
By  singing  streams,  o'er  plain  and  hill. 

And  vale  and  Howerj-  mead. 
And  in  the  groves  —  God's  temples  they  — 

I'll  cast  me  at  thy  feet. 
And  soothe  my  wearied  soul  in  thine 

And  nature's  converse  sweet. 


SONG  OF  LAUGHTER. 
The  ringing  laugh,  in  sonorous  note. 

Is  a  cheering  sound  to  hear,  [throat 

When  it  bubbles  up  from  the  heart   to   the 

Like  a  stream  from  a  fountain  clear. 


© 


*^ 


00 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POKTS    OF  A3IE1UCA. 


I'll  trust  the  man  with  a  whole-souled  laugh 

And  count  him  among-  my  friends, 
And  the  social  class  I'll  clink  and  quaff 
With  him  till  the  evening  ends. 
For  the  full  free  laugh, 
As  our  wine  we  quaff, 
Is  a  good  heart's  jubilant  prayer. 
To  the  heart  I'll  say 
That  can  laugh  that  way. 
There  is  something-  good  in  there! 
O,  the  generous    laugh,     unreserved    and 
whole. 
Is  the  music  of  the  heart  — 
'Tis  the  anthem  grand  of  a  good  big-  soul,   . 

And  of  heavenly  choirs  a  part. 
I'll  g-rasp  the  hand  of  the  man  or  maid. 

Who  with  laughter  Alls  my  ears; 
'Tis  the  only  sound  that  can  never  fade 
In  the  valley  of  vanished  years. 
O,  the  thrilling  shout 
As  the  laugh  rings  out 
From  a  stout  heart  firm  and  true, 
'Tis  the  robust  sound 
The  wide  world  round 
As  it  thrills  you  through  and  through ! 
A  pitiful  pipe  is  the  hollow  laugh. 
Or  the  simper  or  snicker  so  cold; 
They  tell  of  a  friendship  as  light  as  chaff, 

And  a  heart  of  the  selfish  mold. 
Deceit  and  cunning-  are  written  thereon 

With  "  stratagems,  treasons  and  spoils,"— 
That  man's  greatest  triumph  in  life  is  won 
By  getting  men  in  his  toils. 
A  traitor  to  truth. 
To  all  love  and  ruth, 
Is  he  of  the  simper  and  sneer. 
And  we'll  trust  him  not 
With  our  comfort's  lot. 
Nor  invite  him  to  share  our  cheer! 
Then  ha!  ha!  ha!  let  us  laugh  our  fill  — 

'Tis  good  for  the  heart  and  health ; 
The  generous  laugh  is  the  fountain  rill 

Of  the  river  of  life's  best  wealth ! 
Sympathy,  loyalty,  friendsliip  and  love. 
And  a  hand  for  the  man  oppressed,— 
Such  motto  as  this  gives  a  credit  above 
When  we  drop  to  our  last  long  rest. 
Then  let  us  laugh 
Till  our  spirits  quaff 
Of  the  nectar  distilled  by  mirth; 
'Tis  the  token  of  men 
Vouchsafed  to  them  when 
The  Creator  launched  forth  the  earth! 


©- 


WOMAN'S  HAND. 
Peering  'mid  the  flower  pots 

Upon  the  window  sill. 
In  and  out  and  round  about, 

Hanging  round  at  will. 
Gleaming  white  and  small  and  swift 


And  timid  as  a  mouse; 
A  woman's  liand  among-  the  plants  — 

The  mistress  of  the  house! 
No  flashing-  jewels  deck  that  hand. 

And  yet  it  is  not  bare: 
A  golden  circlet  shows  thereon 

Which  only  wives  may  wear  — 
The  honored  crown  of  womanhood 

No  true  man  will  assail. 
That  giveth  more  protection  far 

Than  baron's  coat  of  mail. 
A  hand  that  pets  the  flowei-s  must  be 

A  hand  of  tender  touch, 
A  hand  to  cool  the  fevered  brow 

And  throw  away  a  crutch. 
A  hand  to  cheer  the  husband  on 

And  beautify  the  home  — 
Ah,  did  all  the  husbands  have  such  -wives 

How  much  less  would  they  roam! 

A  hand  to  lead  with  silken  thread. 

More  strong-  because  unseen. 
And  she,  so  modest  in  her  love. 

Yet  all  the  more  his  queen  — 
A  queen  that  reigns  within  his  heart 

With  despot  power  unfelt. 
Because  her  hand  keeps  fresh  the  shrine 

Where  courtship's  love  hath  knelt. 
But  see !  there  passeth  forth  a  face, 

A  vision  fresh  and  fair, 
A  look  of  brightness  and  of  cheer 

That  daily  conquers  care; 
And  though  the  flush  of  exercise 

Upon  her  red  cheek  glows, 
'Tis  the  staining-  of  the  lily 

With  the  crimson  of  the  rose. 
Such  women  are  the  links  that  bind 

Men  to  the  pure  and  good, 
Bright  rainbow  arches  lig-hting  up 

From  earthly  things  and  rude. 
Around  her  breathes  an  atmosphere 

Fresh  born  of  heaven's  own  skies; 
She  walks  the  earth  to  purify  — 

An  angel  in  disguise ! 
If  man  hath  love  within  his  heart 

And  goodness  in  his  soul. 
Her  influence  will  lead  him  on 

To  life's  most  perfect  goal, 
Tliough  delicate  that  hand  may  bo 

It  shields  from  roughest  storms. 
It-  routs  tlie  legions  of  despair 

And  evil  fates  transforms. 
Nor  nature's  forge  has  ever  shaped 

Anotlier  force  so  strong 
As  it  in  lifting  up  the  good 

And  crusliing  out  the  wrong. 
Talk  not  of  marshaled  armies  vast. 

Nor  of  magician's  wand,— 
The  greatest  power  tiiat  earth  can  know 

Ts  woman's  little  hand ! 


«■ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    I'OETS   OF  AMERICA. 


701 


m 


AUGUSTUS  CURRF.Y. 

Born:  Detroit,  Mich.,  Dec.  17, 1836. 
Since  the  age  of  twelve  Mr.  Currey  has  writ- 
ten verses  as  a  means  of  recreation  and  for 
the  pleasure  of  liis  friends  on  .special  occa- 
sions. Ills  poems  liave  appeared  mainly 
tliroug:h  tlie  columns  of  the  Chicago  Tribune, 
Detroit  Free  Press  and  the  Living-  Cliurch, 
from  which  they  have  been  extensively  copied 
by  the  periodical  press.     In    isK4  Mr.  Ciiiicx 


SB- 


AUGUSTUS    CURREV. 

published  The  Sower,  an  illustrated  book  of 
poems  that  received  a  large  sale  and  met  with 
the  highest  praise  from  both  press  and  pub- 
lic. Mr.  Currey  was  married  in  1860  to  Eliza- 
beth Clark;  two  children  were  born  to  them, 
but  he  had  the  double  misfortune  of  their 
loss  — one  died  when  but  fifteen  months  old, 
and  the  other  at  tlie  age  of  eight  years.  Mr. 
Currey  moved  from  Detroit  to  Chicago  in  the 
year  1863,  and  remained  in  that  city  nearly 
twenty  years,  being  connected  with  the  Wes- 
tern Union  Telegraph  Company  and  with  tlie 
Chicago,  Burlington  and  Quincy  railroad,  un- 
til compelled  by  Illness  to  resign  his  position; 
and  lie  tlien  returned  to  Detroit,  and  still  re- 
sides tliere.  Having  regained  his  liealth,  Mr. 
Currey  is  again  actively  engaged  in  business, 
and  is  manager  of  the  Detroit  Car  Service 
Association.  In  the  near  future  a  volume  of 
the  collected  poems  of  Mr.  Currey  will  be  is- 
sued from  the  press. 


TOIL  ON  AND  WAIT. 
Toil  on  and  wait. 
Oh  soul  insatiate  1 
God's  time-locks  on  his  gate 
Fulfill  your  hour  of  fate; 
Be  not  disconsolate. 
Toil  on  and  wait. 
Toil  on  and  wait. 
Nor  let  your  zeal  abate; 
You  do  not  know 
If  they  be  fast  or  slow. 
There  is  no  point  to  show 
The  hour  for  you  to  go 
Through,  and  beyond,  the  gate: 
Toil  ou  and  wait. 

Toil  on  and  wait. 

You  can  not  delegate 

Your  task  to  any  mate. 

And  he  alone  is  great 

Who  plows  his  furrows  straight 

Himself,  to  Heaven's  gate: 

Toil  on  and  wait. 

Toil  on  and  wait 

With  God  most  Intimate, 

Your  years  are  few. 

Do  what  you  have  to  do 

Well,  and  when  conies  to  you 

Summons,  and  life  is  through. 

Then  it  will  not  be  late: 

Toil  on  and  wait. 


WHICH  WILL  IT  BE. 

Which  will  it  be?  As  the  day  declines. 

And  two  souls  walk  together. 
And    look  at   the  spot  where  the  sun   still 
shines. 

In  the  beautiful  autumn  weather. 
They  talk  of  their  lives  since  love  began, 

And  the  two  walk  on  together: 
A  tender  woman;  a  robust  man; 

In  the  beautiful  autumn  weather. 
Alone  they  wander  as  night  shuts  down. 

And  held  by  a  mystic  tether; 
One  path  they  walk,  as  they  leave  the  town. 

In  the  beautiful  autumn  weather. 
And   the    morning  dawns  on  a  new  grave, 
cleft 

In  the  sand,  on  the  witlicred  heather. 
And  one  is  away  and  one  is  bereft ; 

In  the  beautiful  autumn  weather. 
And  the  bright  sun  glows,  as  his  face  looks 
down. 

And  the  cold  world  cares  not  wliether 
It  be  two,  or  one,  that  returns  to  town. 

In  the  beautiful  autumn  weather. 
But  the  lonely  soul  that  is  left,  well  knows. 

Of  the  unseen  mystic  tether. 
That  holds  its  gaze  where  the  love-light  glows. 

In  the  beautiful  autumn  weather. 


-® 


©- 


702 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL,    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


5!- 


SUBMISSION. 

Two  lonesome  souls,  at  set  of  sun. 
Sit  where  life's  turbid  waters  run. 

And,  looking  west, 
Saj',  as  they  see  the  sun  go  down 
Behind  two  graves  beyond  the  town, 

.1  What  is,  is  best." 
About  them  liordes  of  children  play 
Beneath  the  sun's  departing  ray. 

Yet  do  not  bear 
To  these  two  lonesome  souls  a  tone 
Of  comfort,  for  they  sit  and  moan: 

"  Ours  are  not  there." 
They  were,  but  now  their  noiseless  feet, 
Tread,  in  their  play,  some  far  retreat  — 

Yet  one  so  pure 
There  is  no  need  to  call  them  in 
Each  night,  through  fears  of  liurt  or  sin 

And  keep  secure. 
For  where  they  wander  brightest  eyes 
Keep  watch  and  ward,  while  love  supplies 

All  wants,  and  yet. 
If  they  be  ours,  in  spite  of  faith, 
These  hearts,  rememb'ring  it  Is  death 

Cannot  forget. 
We  are  two  lonesome  souls,  decreed 
To  lonesome  lives,  with  liearts  that  bleed. 

Though  Woodmere's  crest 
Holds  only  underneath  its  sod 
The  casket,  and  the  children's  God 

Knew  what  was  best. 
And  we  say  not,  "They  are  no  more;" 
But.  "Only  living  gone  before:" 

And  calmly  wait 
The  time  when  we  shall,  one  by  one, 
Go  down  some  evening  with  the  sun 

Through  Woodmere's  gate. 
And  feel  we  are  not  going  where 
There  are  no  loving  ones  to  care, 

No  lips  to  press. 
Since,  long. ago,  our  children  went 
Beyond  this  world  of  discontent 

And  this  distress. 
That  leads  two  lonesome,  tearful  souls, 
To  sit  where  life's  dull  river  rolls. 

And,  looking  west. 
Say,  as  they  see  the  sun  go  down 
Behind  two  graves  beyond  the  town, 
"What  is,  is  best." 

WHO  DOES  NOT  SERVE. 
Who  does  not  serve?    Who  stands  aloof. 
Strong-willed  and  free  and  fashion  proof? 
In  a  degree,  I  think  we  all 
Are  held  to  answer  some  one's  call. 
The  richest  bends  his  lordly  neck. 
And  interests  holds  his  will  in  check; 
If  none  there  were  his  gold  to  use. 
He  died  amid  his  wealth  profuse. 


The  vilest  beggar  could  no  more 
Than  he,  who  rich,  must  still  implore 
The  willing  hand  to  help  him  through 
The  thousand  deeds  he  wills  to  do. 
There  are  some  evils,  it  is  true, 
I  wish  were  bettered  —  so  do  you; 
But  is  it  not  often,  honest  friend. 
Our  hopes  but  for  some  selfish  end? 
If  you  were  rich,  as  you  are  poor. 
Would  you  feel  called  to  give  or  cure. 
Or  would  you  serve  your  altered  lot 
As  now,  by  keeping  all  you  got? 
Is  not  full  half  our  hue  and  cry 
The  selfishness  of  you  and  I? 
If  all  men  on  a  level  stood 
Who  then  would  gain  the  utmost  good? 
Why  he  who  worked  while  others  slept, 
Lived  frugal,  saved  and  closely  kept. 
Until  at  last  — you  must  allow. 
The  world  stood  then  as  it  does  now. 
Who  does  not  serve?    Why  he  who  best 
Has  saved  and  served  above  the  rest. 
Finds  with  his  gains  as  cares  appall. 
The  wealthj'  serves  the  most  of  all. 
Who  does  not  serve?    My  serving  friend. 
Take  heart  and  learn  that  labors  lend 
Great  peace  in  this  laborious  lot  — 
To  those  who  serve  and  murmur  not. 
For  envy  makes  this  life  a  hell 
Beyond  the  power  of  tongue  to  tell, 
And  he  who  serves  and  envies,  he 
It  is  that  sups  with  misery. 


WHAT  IS  FOURTH  OF  JULY? 

EXTRACT. 

What  is  the  fourth  of  July  I  wonder? 
When    the   crackers   pop    and   the   cannon: 

thunder; 
When  fair-faced  girls  and  rollicking  boys 
Unite  in  making  such  terrible  noise; 
And    old  and    young,  in   their  best  clothe  ] 

dressed. 
Go  out  to  celebrate  with  such  zest. 
When  grandma  smiles  as  grandpa  says: 
"It  was  just  the  same  in  our  youthful  days, 
And  there  seems  no  change  in  the  good  ol 

way. 
Of  holding  in  lienor  our  natal  day." 
And  yet  to  a  young  child  looking  down 
On  the  crazy  crowd  and  the  noisy  town, 
A  wee  little  wonder  comes  peeping  in. 
As  to  what  folks  mean  by  the  deafening  din 
And  so  I  have  read  of  tlic  reason  why 
We  all  are  so  glad  on  tlie  fourth  of  July; 
And  I  speak  of  the  time  in  the  far-off  past. 
When  out  of  tlie  darkness,  overcast. 
Came  creeping  a  spirit  which  made  men  lre< 
With  the  toiicli  she  gave  them  of  liberty. 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


* 


7o:{ 


JACOB  SMITH  BARXHART. 

Bokn:  Bellefonte,  Pa.,  Jan.  in,  1H28. 

In  1849  the  subject  of  this  skt'teh  became  a 
dafruerreari  artist,  and  subseiiiieiitly  a  photo- 
grapher. Ten  years  later  he  piircliased  an  in- 
terest in  the  Democratic  Watelinian  of  Penn- 
sylvania, which  paper  lie  sul)se<iuently  pur- 
chased and  became  sole  editor  and  ])roprielor. 


JACOB  SMITH    BARNHART. 

Mr.  Barnhart  was  married  m  1860  to  Miss 
Margery  G.  Durst,  and  they  have  three  inter- 
esting- daughters.  Mr.  Barnhart  was  admit- 
ted to  the  bar  in  1871,  and  soon  after  opened 
an  oflBce;  and  in  18i7  removed  with  his  family 
to  Charles  City,  Iowa,  where  he  has  ever  since 
resided,  eng:aged  in  the  practice  of  law.  Mr. 
Barnhart  is  a  stenographer  and  a  teacher  of 
that  art;  he  is  also  a  natural  musician,  and  is 
a  lively  performer  on  the  tlute  and  violin. 
The  poems  of  this  g-enileman  have  appeared 
quite  extensively  in  the  leading  periodicals. 


PETER  FUNK,  THE  BANKER. 
I. 
Down  east  within  a  valley 
Where  the  sky  was  very  blue. 
The  people  iiave  a  story 
Which  1  will  relate  to  you. 
Of  Peter  Funk,  a  peddler, 
Who  had  come,  he  said,  to  stay. 


And  did  an  active  business 
Largely  in  a  business  way. 

He  borrowed  lots  of  money 
And  the  traders  had  no  doubt. 
His  wealtii  would  reach  a  million, 
Till  he  broke  and  scampered  out. 
Now,  Peter  Funk,  the  peddler. 
Is  a  banker  in  the  west; 
In  slirewdness  of  his  measures 
He  is  one  among  tlie  best. 


"Come  walk  into  my  bank,  Jolm," 
As  Peter  Funk  would  say, 
"And  see  us  loan  our  money 
Out,  at  ten  i)er  cent  to-day. 
We  sell  exchange  and  discount, 
W'e  buy  mortgages  for  cash. 
And  other  things  we  see  clieap 
When  tilings  break  all  to  smash. 

"  Now  don't  you  want  a  loan,  John? 
Exercise  your  mind  in  tliouglit. 
And  borrow  twenty  thousand 
On  the  treasures  you  have  got. 
Tliink  well  the  subject  over. 
You  have  credit  good  in  banks, 
I  will  give  you  all  I  have 
For  two  hundred  thousand  francs. 

And  j-ou  have  got  a  farm,  John, 
Tliat  is  very  large  and  good  — 
Sell  it  for  twenty  thousand  — 
I  surely  think  you  could; 
Then  j-ou  have  got  a  grist  mill. 
Grinding  wheat  and  corn  to  meal, 
And  making  dollais  dailj' 
By  the  turning  of  the  wiieel. 

And  you  have  got  some  lots,  .John, 
Lying  all  around  the  town. 
And  they  will  bring  the  cash,  too. 
Quick  and  ready  money  down; 
I  know  j'ou  want  a  large  loan. 
And  I  know  you  slu)uld  liegin. 
So  borrow  twenty  thousand. 
Do  your  very  best  to  win." 

III. 
"I  kindly  thank  you,  Peter, 
That  you  will  so  much  advance; 
I  want  that  sum  of  money 
As  I  see  a  goodly  chance. 
Some  others  made  their  fortunes, 
Wliat  I  surely  want  to  do. 
So  you  may  write  the  papers, 
I  will  mortgage  unto  you." 


"  Your  thoughts  are  very  wise.  John, 
There  are  farm,  and  lots  and  mill 


-^ 


a<- 


704 


LOCAL,   AND    NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


«- 


Worth  full  a  hundred  thousaud, 
And  I  rather  guess  I  will. 
To  loan  you  twenty  thousand. 
Get  an  abstract  strictly  true, 
This  loan  must  be  first  mortgage. 
Or  I  wont  loan  out  to  you. 

The  interest  to  me,  John, 
When  accrued  and  overdue 
Will  bear  per  cent  no  greater 
Than  the  mortgage  made  by  you : 
And  then  I  want  commission. 
You  must  pay  the  lawyer's  fee. 
And  when  to  sue  the  mortgage 
All  that  right  belongs  to  me. 

And  you  must  pay  the  tax,  John, 
Take  your  money  from  the  till 
And  pay  them  up  quite  promptly. 
To  do  that  we  think  you  will; 
Now  here  1  have  the  mortgage. 
You  may  take  it  to  your  wife. 
And  sign  me  all  the  homestead, 
That  is  strictly  business  life. 

And,  after  that,  come  back,  John, 
I  will  meet  you  here  to-night 
And  will  pay  you  all  the  cash 
Down  to  which  you  have  a  right; 
At  ten  per  cent,  for  discount. 
The  recorder's  fee  to  pay. 
Is  not  so  bad  a  job  I 
Think,  for  Peter  Funk  to-day." 

"Truly,  you  are  back,  John."— 
Now  the  gold  and  silver  rings. 
Nothing  greater  in  the  world 
Than  the  great  of  money  kings  — 
"  And  as  you  liave  the  loan  made. 
Years  of  interest  to  pay. 
Watch  the  coupons  on  the  note, 
•  Due  to  Peter  Funk  in  May.'  " 


John  took  away  the  money. 
Went  to  farming  as  he  ought. 
And  kept  the  mill  a  running. 
And  improved  upon  his  lots. 
Sly  Peter  kept  a  watching 
With  his  mind  on  knavish  tricks. 
To  find  a  chance  to  break  John, 
When  things  were  rightly  fixed. 

As  John  had  spent  some  money 
In  improving  lots  and  lands. 
All  things  were  moving  smoothly. 
He  laid  up  some  golden  sand. 
He  saw  the  scheme  quite  early. 
By  the  twinkle  of  his  oyu 
Bead  Peter  Funk  so  slyly 
That  his  arts  he  could  defy. 


Times  got  a  little  pressing, 
Peter  thought  just  now  and  then. 
It  only  was  a  question 
As  to  how,  and  why  and  when. 
The  money  was  so  surely 
All  put  out  upon  the  land 
That  the  glitter  of  the  diamonds 
Shone  upon  the  golden  sand. 

The  financiering  banker 

Watched  the  money  flow  of  tides. 

The  time  to  get  his  treasures  back 

And  all  the  land  beside. 

But  John  forgot  the  tax  trick. 

And  when  nothing  else  was  due, 

Skinflint,  a  buzzard  lawyer, 

Tried  to  press  the  mortgage  through. 

Peter  smiled  -he  often  would  — 
And  a  smile  would  always  play 
Like  gentle  beams  of  summer. 
When  the  dollars  came  his  way. 
The  lawyer  and  the  demon 
Were  at  work  with  equal  vim. 
The  lawyer's  thieving  fee  bill 
Made  the  Devil  fancy  him. 

The  demon  thought  of  Skinflint, 

That  in  works  of  hellish  sin. 

Of  all  infernal  spirits, 

There  was  not  one  up  to  him; 

So  he  overlooked  the  record 

For  the  power  to  overwhelm, 

And  gave  at  once  the  order 

That  Skinflint  should  boss  the  realm. 

VII. 

They  sued  for  twenty  thousand 
And  with  interest  from  date. 
Attorney's  fees  and  taxes. 
Both  of  which  were  Aery  great. 
John  read  the  claim  demurely 
And  he  filed  a  counter  plea 
That  "Peter  Funk,  the  banker. 
Is  now  largely  owing  me." 

Good,  honest  John,  the  farmer. 
Had  once  lived  away  down  east. 
Where  Peter  Funk,  insolvent, 
Had  the  people  badly  fleeced; 
John  bought  old  claims  against  him, 
Very  low,  but  large  to  win. 
And  he  got  by  twenty  thousand 
More  than  balanced  up  with  him. 

The  crafty  buzzard  lawyer 
And  the  demon,  I  declare. 
Felt  keenly  John's  adventure 
For  the  best  of  this  affair. 
So  now  the  artful  schemers 
See  a  trick  the  other  way, 
And  Peter  Funk,  the  banker, 
Says,  "  The  devil  is  to  pay." 


^- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


705 


* 


MINNIE  ADELLA  HAUSEN, 

Born:  Franklin  Grove,  III.,  April  3418t)7 
>fiNNiE  Hausen  has  written  poetry  from  an 
early  agr,  aiul  tlii'  press  has  extonded  to  her 
many  marks  of  appreciation.  Her  poems  are 
sympathetic,  tiue  and  earnest.  She  has  is- 
sued her  longest  poem  in  pamphlet  form,  and 


MINNIE  ADELLA  HAUSEN. 

hopes  to  have  a  volume  of  poems  ready  for 
I'ublication  iu  1890.  In  person  she  is  tall  and 
interesting,  with  brown  hair  and  eyes. 
Throug-h  the  kindness  of  friends  she  has  laid 
a  foundation  of  a  g-eolog-ical  collection. 


AT  CANDLE-LIGHT. 
A  mellow  glint  of  golden  liglit 

Pales  in  the  westeiii  sky; 
The  banners  of  the  gentle  niglit 
O'erwave  each  distant,  purple  heiglit 

Lone  where  the  wild  winds  sigh 
As  sweeping  o'er  the  winter  white 

Echoing  long  they  die. 
Witlnn  the  depths  of  ambered  blue 

Bright  is  tl>e  ev'ning  star; 
A  ladder  lit  with  love's  sweet  hue 
To  tender  tlinuglits  of  myrtled  rue 

Dear  from  the  years  afar; 
And,  Jacob-like,  I  looking,  too, 

Fathom  the  mortal  bar. 
And  on  the  distant,  reacliiiig  rounds 

Angels  of  liglit  and  fair 
Are  bringing  back  old  sights  and  .sounds 


From  childhood's  rosied, vanished  bounds 

Robed  ill  their  vesture  fair: 
Wliile,  shining  gems  and  cypress  mounds 

Wliispers  of  love  and  pi'ai'er. 
The  long,  dead  yea  is,  tlie  silent  years. 

White  witli  tlie  buds  of  May, 
Empeark'd  in  sih'ry  Hoods  of  leais. 
Knsliiined  in  love  tliat  long  endears 

Seem  in  their  old  array. 
And  voices  tliat  once  scarcely  hears 

Speak  in  the  fading  day. 
The  twiligiit  comes  with  silence  sweet. 

Gray  are  tlie  liillsand  cold; 
My  dreamy  tiiouglits  in  concord  meet 
And  tender  tales  of  love  repeat, 

Talesthat  are  nevei-  old. 
And  candle-light  with  elfln  feet 

Flits  from  the  clouds  of  gold. 


THK  ISLES  OF  SHOALS. 

TO  CELIA  THAXTER. 

A  grey-tinged  sky  above  the  mist  and  sea : 
Bare,  shoreward  rocks  and  tangled  weeds  in 

drifts; 
Lone,  sea-lost  shells  repeating  on  the  clifts 
The  ceaseless  sound  of  ocean's  euphony: 
A  fresli  sea-breeze;  low  voices  calling  me; 
The  long,  dim  light,  in  sli-ange  and  shifts 
'Twixt  dark  and  light,  which  altei'ii   i)ales 
and  lifts  « 

And  shades  the  sea  in  half-felt  mystery; 
So  close  thy  songs  to  chords  of  sea  and  sky 
I  can  not  part  the  wild,  sweet  place  from 

thee 
Nor  tear  the  tendrils  from  thy  casement 
panes. 
The  loons  send  fortli  their  almost  human  crj-, 
Tlie  lamps  shine  out  on  waters  far  from  me. 
The  winds  are  low— I  liear  them  In  thy 
strains. 


MUNICH. 
Afar  thrcnigh  airj-  vails  of  ametliyst 
The  Alps  of  Tyrol  weai'  their  lioods  of  snoTr, 
Above  tlie  plain  where  Isar's  waters  flow 
And  vanished  in  the  cloud-white  waves  of 

mist. 
There  where  the  rays  of  sunliglit  gleam  and 
glist 
The  German  music  wakes  its  weal  and  woe 
In  chords  of  grandeur  that  .so  thrill  and  glow 
Methinks  the  mountains  almo.st  stoop  to  list. 
From  out  the  west  where  golden  sunsets 
burn 
Their  lighted  candles  at  the  death  of  day 
The  breaths  of  forest  scent  the  breeze 
and  gale. 
And  far  away  the  eye  can  clear  discern 
The  towers  and  spires  of  FrauenKirche  gray 
Aloft  o'er  Munich,  Munifli  of  the  \:ile. 


-31 


^ 


706 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


JOHN  BLAKEMORE  TULLIS. 

Born:  Marshall,  Texas,  Dec.  31. 1866. 
Since   1883  the   poems    of  Mr.   TuUis  have 
appeared    in    tlie    loeal    ]y.i\n'v: 


Geori 


JOHN  BLAKEMORE  TULLIS. 

Texas  and  Louisiana.    Ho  follows  the  occupa- 
tion of  a  dr  uggist  at  the  place  of  his  birth. 

FOND  OF  MUSIC. 
Fond  of  music,  fond  of  singing. 

Music,  music,  everywhere. 
Time's  on  moment  pinions  winging. 

Downy  music  all  the  year. 
Trees  are  preachers,  leaves  are  sermons, 

Buds  are  texts  of  richest  kind; 
Dew  is  dropping-  sweet  as  Hermon's, 

From  them  to  enrich  the  mind. 
Plants  can  sing,  and  sing  so  sweetly. 

Half  a  mimic  1  can  stand; 
Listen,  listen  —  won  completely. 
With  the  music  of  the  strand. 
Ocean  lifts  its  hollow  thunder. 

Diapasons  swell  and  die; 
I  can  liearken,  pause,  and  wonder. 

Music's  loving  child  am  I. 
Islands  sing,— on  coral  seated, 

Continents  accompany;— 
Harmony  is  thus  completed. 

Swelling,  thrilling  totlie  sky. 
Brooklets  sing  to  rivers  chanting. 
Bounding  to  them  night  and  day; 

B — 


Blest  in  blessing  — both  are  panting 

For  the  ocean  far  away. 
Rest  and  cadence  — journey  ended, 

(For  hereafter  is  their  aim;) 
Anxious  ever  to  be  blended. 

With  the  source  from  whence  they  came. 

Plants  are  musicians  nightly. 

Requiems  they  sing  of  day ; 
Time  and  tune  they  picture  brightly. 

Cue  incessant  sparkling  lay. 

Seasons  warble  in  their  courses. 

Dissonance  they  never  try; 
Light  and  air  and  heat  their  forces 

Which  on  passive  earth  they  ply. 
Air  is  music  —  made  of  gasses, 

Dreadful,  separate  in  lay: 
Blended,  though  of  diverse  classes, 

Life-inspiring  is  their  sway. 

Providence  is  music  ever. 
Intervals  are  incidents; 
Chords  and  conchords  —  erring  -  never, 

Well  resolv'd  are  all  events. 
Nature  is  a  school  of  singing, 

Creatures  are  impell'd  with  joy; 
Walking,  swimming,  creeping,  winging. 

Harmony  is  their  employ. 


TO  A  ROSE. 
Pair  emblem  of  beauty  and  health. 

Alluring  and  pleasing  the  eye; 
Deceptive,  like  riches  and  wealth , 

That  makes  themselves  pinions  to  fly. 
To-day,  thou  art  luxury's  self; 

To-morrow,  the  hand  of  decay. 
As  ruthless  robber  of  self. 

Will  spoil  thee  or  snatch  thee  away. 
I  yesterday,  saw  thee  peep  out 

Thy  prison-bud,  bristled  with  green; 
I  answered,  a  rose,  witliout  doubt. 

The  color  of  those  I  have  seen. 
Then  thou  was  promise  display'd, 

With  sweetness  commingl'd  and  blent , 
Did'st  glisten  with  hope  in  thesliade, 

Witliout  either  blemish  or  rent. 
But  thou  hast  a  thorn  I  discover. 

Wlioever  dare  touch  thee,  beware; 
Or  friend  or  acquaintance  or  lover, 

•Neaih  beauty  and  sweetness  a  snare. 
Fair  emblem  of  beauty  and  health, 
So  blooming  and  dulcet  and  gay. 
The  spoiler  will  take  thee  by  stealth. 

Life's  luxury  is  but  a  day. 
Man's  life  is  in  flowers  portrayed. 

For  vouth  is  the  bud,  full  of  scent; 
And  manhood  the  flower  display  d. 
With  thorns  and  with  sorrows  all  rent 


® 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   I'OETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


® 


707 


EDWARD  JOHN  COLCORD. 

Born:  Paksonsfield,  Me.,  July  28, 1849. 
For  three  years  Mr.  Colcord  taught  scliool. 
He  Ki'iiduated  in  1881  at  the  Newton  theologi- 
cal somin:iry,  and    for  two  years  preaehed in 
Amherst,  X.  H.     In  1SS5  the  Kev.  Kdwanl  Col- 


KIMV  \l!ri    .I(  III  ,\    l-(  )I,C()KI). 

cord  bei-anie  a  teacher  of  ancient  lang'uag'es 
and  general  history  in  Vermont  academy. 
Since  1889  Mr.  Colcord  has  been  professor  in  a 
college  at  Columbia,  Sf.  C.  The  poems  and 
other  productions  of  tliis  writer  have  appear- 
ed quite  extensively  in  the  periodical  press, 
and  his  name  appears  in  the  Poets  of  Maine. 


®- 


PRINCES  DREAM  SONG. 
Far  o'er  the  crystal  sea 
Shadows  float  dreamily, 

Dayliglit  is  ending; 
Launched  on  tlie  azure  tide 
Slowly  the  pale  stars  glide. 

Night  is  descending. 
Fair  as  the  day  that   flies  beauty  bends  o'er 

thee,  [thee; 

Radiant   as    stars    that  rise  soft  eyes  adore 
Prince  of  the  peerless  line. 
Hither  from  worlds  divine 

Love  is  before  thee. 
Fleetly  from  realms  afar. 
Wafted  through  sun  and  star 

Dayliglit  is  glowing; 


Billowing  o'er  ether  waves 

All  the  blue  arch  it    laves 
Night  overflowing. 
Light  as  the  sunbeam  lies  fond  arms  shall 

hold  thee; 
Deep  as  the  night  that  dies  love  bath  controll- 
ed thee; 

Hither  from  viewless  lands. 

Gift  of  inunt)rtal  hands 
Love  shall  enfold  thee. 

Ever  while  morns  arise 

Glorious  o'er  all  the  skies 
Daj-light  is  streaming; 

Ever  as  twilight  wanes 

Strewn  o'er  the  violet  plains 
Night  stars  are  dreaming. 
Wide  as  the  morning  gleams  swells  life's  en- 
deavor; 
Dear  as  a  night  of  dreams  Hope  fadeth  never; 

Prince  of  a  royal  line. 

Sweeter  than  life  of  thine 
Love  is  forever. 


JENNIE  SAYRE. 

The  poems  of  Mi.ss  Sayre  have  appeared  ex- 
tensively in  the  newspapers  of  Nebraska, 
In  which  state  she  now  resides  at  Waco. 


of 


THE  DODGING  CHURCHMAN. 
I'm  a  temperance  man.  1  will  do  what  T  can ; 

I  will  earnestly  talk  and  pray  ; 
I  will    labor  with  might    for   the    cause 
right. 

But  1  cannot  vote  that  way. 
With  eloquence  warm  I  will  urge  reform. 

Let  all  the  world  take  note, 
I  never  shirk  from  temperance  work 

Excepting  when  1  vote. 
I  will  labor  so  tluit  the  world  may  know 

I'm  a  zealous  temperance  man; 
I  will  talk  of  laws  that  will  aid  the  cause. 

But  1  cannot  vote  the  plan. 
>ry  tongue  .shall  delight  to  talk  of  right, 

I  will  speak  its  pi'aise  each  d;iy; 
I  will  urge  it  strong  on  the  listening  throng. 

But  I  cannot  vote  that  way. 
A  vote  for  the  right  is  lost  from  sight. 

For  the  cause  is  weak  ttxlay ; 
It  might  grow  strong  if  helped  along. 

But  1  cannot  vote  tliat  way. 
With  the  party  strong,  though  the  cause  be 
wrong. 

My  vote  will  still  be  Ciist. 
TlK)ugh  want  and  woe  in  streams  may  How 

And  whisky  rule  at  last. 
The  widow's  groan,  the  orphan's  moan. 

Shall  not  etiect  my  will, 
I  will  pity  them  though  and  tell  them  so. 

lint  vote  for  whisky  still. 


•© 


*- 


70S 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


COL.  SAM  P.  THOMAS. 

Born  :  Hawesville,  Ky.,  Dec.  3, 1856. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Thomas  have  appeared  in 
the  Louisville  Post,  and  numerous  Kentucky 
publications.  In  person  Col.  Thomas  is  of  the 
average  height,  with  black  hair  and  brown 
eyes,  is  unmarried  and  still  resides  in  his  na- 
tive town. 

A  CONVICT'S  SLEEPLESS  NIGHT. 
As  I  Jay  me  down  on  this  rough,  rude  bed 

To  rest  my  limbs  so  weary. 
Not  a  ray  of  hope  is  shed 

Within  these  walls  so  dreary. 
I  think  of  days  long  since  past 

When  1  breathed  God's  pure  air. 
Ere  my  reckless  steps  were  fast 

Toward  Fate's  cruel  snare. 
Just  twenty  years  ago  to-night 

The  huge  door  closed  behind  me  — 
And  ere  another  takes  its  flight 

May  God's  Death-Angel  find  me. 
Twenty  weary  years  have  llown 

Upon  Time's  current  rife. 
Since  I  heard  my  mother's  piteous  moan 

As  my  sentence  read  "  for  life." 
'Twas  then  her  hair  in  silvery  strands 

Was  pillowed  on  my  breast, 
'Twas  then  I  clasped  her  wrinkled  hands. 

And  her  lips  to  mine  were  pressed. 
I  bid  her  there  a  sad  farewell 

The  piercing  pain  of  pains  — 
I  left  her  for  this  gloomy  cell 

Bound  in  my  clanking  chains. 
How  fondly  does  my  memory  roam 

Beyond  this  lock  and  guard. 
To  linger  in  my  dear  old  home 

Within  the  flower-strewn  yard. 
Who  dwells  to-night  beneath  that  roof? 

Ah !  stranger's  form  and  face  — 
My  mother  has  been  born  aloof 

In  Angel's  fond  embrace. 
Long  ago  the  warden  called  me 

To  the  latticed  iron  door. 
The  words  he  uttered  there  appalled  me  — 

'.  Your  mother  is  no  more!  " 
I  know  she's  gone  where  all  is  well, 

O!  God,  thy  will  be  done- 
She's  looking  down  within  this  cell 

Upon  her  convict  son. 
Now  memories  float  to  the  mansion  grand 

In  the  city  far  away. 
Where  gentle  zephyrs  oft  have  fanned 

Tlie  brow  of  Clotille  Gray. 
Methinks  I  see  the  parlor  bright. 

Its  richly  garnished  walls, 
The  gilded  chandelier's  light  — 
Within  the  gorgeous  halls. 
* 


Away,  away  has  memory  sped 
'Till  I  hear  the  silken  rustle, 
I  see  her  there  in  noiseless  tread 

Upon  the  costly  brussel. 
The  snowy  throat,  the  dimpled  chin. 

The  waving  raven  hair, 
A  brigand  chief's  brave  heart  would  win  — 

He'd  fall  and  worship  there. 
'Neath  the  exquisite  arching  brows, 

Which  artistic  skill  defies, 
I  see  the  orbs  which  my  soul  arouse  — 

Her  soft  and  dreamy  eyes. 
I've  often  watched  the  lily  fingers 

Glide  o'er  ivory  keys, 
And  that  voice  still  with  me  lingers  — 

It  lives  upon  the  breeze. 
'Twas  that  fair  hand  that  once  did  clasp 

A  flowing  cup  of  wine,  ] 

She  tendered  me  the  stinging  asp  —  I 

I  delicately  declined.  | 

She  threw  erect  her  stately  form. 

And  fixed  a  startled  gaze. 
Her  cheeks  were  mantled  in  blushing  warm 

Like  sun  in  autumn  haze. 
From  the  beauty  I  moved  apace  — 
My  heart  ne'er  ceased  its  beating. 
Then  a  sweet  smile  leaped  her  face  — 

The  smile  was  half  entreating. 
Then  my  resolution  fled, 

The  future  all  unheeding. 
My  vows  had  snapped  their  tender  thread, 

I  yielded  to  her  pleading. 
It  was  my  first  but  not  my  last. 

And  at  a  single  quaft 
My  moistened  lips  the  liquid  passed  - 

It  was  a  fatal  draught. 
That  glass  was  my  young  life's  blight, 

It  was  indeed  my  curse; 
From  that  starry  summer  night 

I  stepped  to  bad  —  to  worse. 
The  key  that  locks  this  dungeon  door 

Where  I  lor  life  must  stay, 
Is  the  glass  I  took  in  days  of  yore 
From  the  hand  of  Clotille  Gray. 

Sunbeams  fall  through  leafy  boughs 

And  kiss  the  marble  shaft: 
They  bring  to  mind  the  broken  vows  - 
Tlie  curs'd  and  fatal  draught. 
Hark!  I  hoar  the  prison  bell  — 

The  night  has  passed  away; 
Now  I  leave  this  narrow  cell 

For  my  labors  of  the  day. 
Would  to  God  that  life  was  done  - 

In  Death's  dark  river  sunk; 
I  long  to  take  the  place  of  one 

1  killed  while  I  was  drunk. 


©^ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA, 


709 


-® 


T.  G.  C.  DAVIS. 

The  poems  i)f  Mr.  D:i\-is  havo  rocfixt-d  cxton 
sivepiibliciitiou  iusome  of  the  k-ailiiig  perio- 
dicals of  Americ-a,  from  wliieh  tliey  liave  been 
extensively  copied  by  the  loeal  press.  Mr. 
Davis    is   :i    man  of    cxteiisiNc   Icai'iiinf;',  and 


T.    G.   C.    I)AVI.S. 

while  practicing-  liis  profession  of  tlie  law  in 
former  years,  was  well  known  both  in  Missou- 
ri and  Illinois.  The  productions  of  Mr.  Davis 
have  always  been  favorably  received  by  press 
and  public, and  they  certainly  are  meritorious. 

A  NEW  LINE  OF  THOUGHT. 

"  The  spirit  of  man  has  perpetual  youtii  I  " 
Some  might  be  cited  to  prove  tliis  gre;it  truth. 
The  body  decays  and  weakens  each  limb, 
The  teetli  fall  out  and  e.vesig-ht  grows  dim, 
Yet  tiie  mind  or  the  spirit  blazes  within. 
Would  any  know  why?  to  God  'tis  akin, 
1  would  strike  out  a  new  vein  of  tliouglit, 
A  very  rich  mine  in  wliieh  few  have  wroup-ht. 
Old  men  in  thoug-ht  soar  hig:her  and  higher. 
Until  they  mingle  with  God"s  chosen  choir. 
There  they  may  pause  to  sing  the  sweetest 

song. 
With  the  celestial  pure  angelic  tlu'ong. 
Then  <lcsc-cnd  to  eartli  in  fleshly  geai- 
And  shuffle  it  off  it  may  be  with  fear: 
Wiien  all  clogs  are  removed  —  no  weight  to 

carry. 
The  mind  is  sure  it  cannot  miscarry. 
So  mounting  at  once  on  God-given  wings. 
The  soul  in  her  flight  soars  upward  and  sings; 
® 


In  sorrow  she  looks  back  on  the  flesh  dead. 
Lying  below  her  on  its  cartliy  bed. 
The  day  for  rising,  O,  wlien  sh:ill  it  couieV 
How  long  sliall  the  body  lie  cold  and  dumb? 
O,  God  shall  it  soon  arise  and  stand  up? 
And  must  all  men  drink  of  this  slumb'rous 

cup? 
Will  long  ages  of  the  quietest  rest. 
Prove  at  the  last  for  mankind  the  best? 
Have  some  men  been  Ijurned  and  their  ashes 

thrown  out. 
And  trampled  upon  by  the  vulgar  rout? 
And  shall  one  stand  erect  in  the  last  day 
To  questions  then  propounded  answer  and 

say: 
Yes,  I  am  the  Herod  who  took  ofl'  Joiin's  head, 
And  I  wish  I  were  a  million  times  dead. 


A  WHISPEK  FKOM  THE  GKAVE. 
A  soldier  gazed  and  wept  — 

No  tears  ran  down  his  cheek. 
There  where  his  angel  slept 

His  heart  was  sad  but  meek; 
His  soul  her  whiteness  kept 

Although  he  could  not  speak. 
The  soldier  gazed  and  wept. 

No  tears  ran  down  his  cheek. 
The  soul  a  language  knows; 

In  silence  only  speaks. 
And  slow  the  volume  grows. 

Yet  ne'er  by  starts  and  freaks. 
Still  truly  happy  glows. 

Through  years  and  months  and  weeks. 
At  last  the  soldier  knows. 

Then  like  a  hero  speaks. 
There  in  the  grave  she  lay: 

He  stood  and  gazed  on  it. 
And  Whisper  seemed  to  sa.v: 

I.  Weep  not  thou  o'er  this  pit, 
For  here  is  naught  but  clay; 

The  spirit  gone  from  it. 
My  body  here  must  stay 

Till  the  spirit  come  for  it." 


TO  THE  REV.  FELSTNG. 

OF  DENTON,  TEX.\S. 

No  man  should  lose  himself  in  a  world  of  light. 

No  one  without  care  should  his  own  thoughts 
indite: 

Small  things  grow  fast  in  Nature's  great  ex- 
pansive realm; 

The  large  require  time  and  space;  made  for 
the  helm. 

They  rise  by  slow  degrees,  until  they  reach 
the  i-ound; 

The  last  degree  of  the  sublime;  the  profound. 

Lies  far  below  the  depth  of  the  deepest  hill. 

And  the  foulest  brimstone's  suffocating  smell. 

The  wise  nevergmpe  and  stagger  in  the  night. 

Never  lose  themselves  in  a  pure  world  of 
light. 


® 


©- 


-® 


710 


LOCAL,    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMElllCA. 


MRS.  EMELINE  A.  WILSON. 

Born  :  Babylon,  L.  I.,  Nov  35,  1835. 
This  lady  received  lier  education  at  a  public 
school   in   Brooklyn.     81ie  has  written  occa- 


MKS.   EMEHNE  A.   WILSON. 

sionally  since  1881,  and  her  poems  have  been 
very  favorably  received.  Mrs.  Wilson  at  pres- 
ent resides  in  Norwich,  Conn. 


WITHIN  OURSELVES. 

Hope  is  the  eye  through  which  we  look, 

Faith  is  the  sight  by  which  we  see, 
And  life,  the  running-  rippling-  brook 

That  flows  into  eternity. 
In  youth  our  eyes  are  opened  wide. 

The  pupils  rounded,  large  and  full; 
We  throw  our.selves  upon  life's  tide. 

Our  barques  with  eagerness  we  pull. 
When  age  and  time  come  on  apace. 

Our  barques,  we  slowly  let  them  drift; 
With  sight  contraction's  taken  place. 

Our  weary  lids  we  scarcely  lift. 
And  verging  on  the  great  broad  .sea. 

We  hold  our  battered  barques  aback, 
Our  eyes  have  dimmed  most  feaifully. 

Out  sight  doth  something  surely  lack. 

O  WHKKE  HAVE  THEY  GONE? 

O,  where  have  t  he  zephyi-s  gone'^   Ah,  me  I 
I  watched  for  them  far  o'er  the  lea, 
And  at  the  side  of  waters  deej). 
Where  murmurs  lull  one  unto  sleep. 


I've  wandered  through  the  woods  in  vain. 
And  called  for  them  far  o'er  the  plain; 
But  yet  no  answering  voice  I  hear. 
Can  they  be  far?  or  are  they  near? 

I  pant,  I  languish  and  I  pine 
For  breezes  soft  that  do  incline, 
To  hold  the  leaves  in  dalliance  sweet, 
And  not  forever  seek  retreat. 

0  if  ^olus  I  could  reach, 

1  readily  would  him  beseech 
To  let  the  gentle  west  wind  out. 
To  roam  the  fields  with  us  about; 

And  fan  our  cheeks,  while  sweet  perfumes 
Are  wafted  from  the  fragrant  blooms 
That  now  with  drooping  heads  do  stand 
Within  their  beds,  on  every  hand. 


AT  THE  TOP  OF  THE  MAST. 

Go  at  the  top  of  the  mast,  my  boy. 

Go  at  the  top  of  the  mast; 
If  you  would  have  the  bright  sunshine. 

Go  where  the  glow  is  cast. 

Go  at  the  top  of  the  mast,  my  boy, 

.    Above  the  misty  cloud: 

There  you  may  see  the  beaming  morn. 

Without  a  dismal  shroud. 
Though  rope,  by  rope,  one  must  ascend. 

The  top  will  soon  be  gained. 
And  then  above  the  sea  of  mist, 

Bright  views  will  be  obtained. 

Thus  step  by  step,  through  life  my  boy. 

If  you  would  overcome 
The  sea  of  trials  that  arise 

And  would  have  victory  won. 

You  must,  as  years  roll  ever  on. 

So  take,  and  upward  climb; 
Ah,  then,  you'll  see  joy's  hai)py  day. 

And  light  for  you  will  shine. 


SONG. 

O,  come,  O  come,  to-night,  love. 

Upon  the  lake  so  fair. 
While  fragrance  of  the  rose,  love. 

Doth  pei-meate  the  air. 
While  Luna's  beaming  face,  love, 

At  zenith's  height  looks  down, 
And  planetary  gems,  love, 

Night's  noble  brow  doth  crown. 
O  come,  where  dipping  oars,  love. 

Shall  Sliced  a  bonnie  boat. 
Upon  the  ripi)ling  sea,  love. 

Where  sparking  rays  do  float ; 
And  where  the  murm'ring  sea,  love, 

In  rhythms  soft  shall  sing, 
A  lullal)y  to  cai-e,  love. 

As  wo  the  deft  oars  fling.    •    •    • 


g&- 


-» 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


711 


■« 


HERBERT  M.  SYLVESTER. 

Boun:  Lowell,  Mass.,  Feb.  20, 1840. 
After  practicing  successfully  the  legal  pro- 
fession for  thirteen  years  in  Portland,  Mr. 
Sylvester  then  removed  his  office  to  Boston. 
It  was  here  he  wrote  his  Prose  Pastorals, 
which  have  been  called  by  competent  critics 
poems  in  prose.  Although  Mr.  Sylvester  has 
written  numerous  poems  of  beauty,  he  is  best 
known  as  a  prose  writer. 


RAIN  MUSIC. 
Hear  the  welcome  of  the  rain ! 

Patter,  patter. 

Tuneful  chatter, 
On  the  flashing  fire-lit  pane. 
Hear  the  lioneysuckle  creak 
As  the  winds  its  secrets  seek. 

Twisting  through  its  matted  vines. 
And  tlie  windows  how  they  rattle,  bang,  and 
batter! 

Pitter,  patter. 

Dripping  chatter. 
Tripping  down  the  shingled  roof. 
Filling  up  its  liquid  woof; 
How  the  notes  each  other  throng. 
Making  up  their  slumber-soiig. 

Full  of  .softly  drowsy  lines. 
With  their  drip,  and  rusli,  and  gush  and  clat- 
ter! 

Pitter,  patter. 

Dripping  chatter. 
Hear  the  niglit-tide  of  the  rain ! 


A  LARK  SONG. 
A  monkish  group  in  sober  garb. 

The  pasture  maples  stand 

Against  the  soft,  gray  sky. 
The  weatlier-cock  wakes  with  the  wind; 

The  meadow  mists,  like  fleets 

Of  ghostly  ships  sail  by. 
Seaward,  the  ripples  grow  apace; 

Morn,  blushing  like  a  girl. 

Betrays  with  rosy  grace 
Her  sun-god  lover  by  her  face. 
From  dewy  nest  and  meadow  bloom, 

Tlie  brown  lark  upward  soars; 

His  dusky-tliroated  song 
Falls,  sparkling  down,  now  faint,  now  clear- 

A  shower  of  liquid  tones. 

Strewn  wood  and  field  along. 
Like  drops  of  .slanting,  sunlit  rain  — 

And  breathless  lies  the  earth 

To  catcli  the  wondrous  strain, 
Tliat  woos  the  bieaking  day  again. 

A  MUTE  PROPHECY. 
Aslant  the  threshold  of  the  West 
Stretclies  a  sombre  reef 


Of  gray;  its  low,  uneven  scarp. 

Outlined  in  sharp  relief 
Against  the  sky,  is  roughly  set 

With  pinnacles  that  glow 
Like  Norombega's  mystery 

Of  centuries  ago. 
The  hills,  with  ragged,  rock-set  domes. 

Wind-blown  and  bare,  uprear 
Their  brightly  polished  topaz  walls. 

In  the  clear  atmosphere; 
While  o'er  the  cloud's  thin,  ragged  rift 

Burst  the  deep  golden  floods 
Of  Nature's  alcliemy,  that  sift 

Their  glory  through  the  woods. 
Night  comes;  the  Spirit  of  the  Frost 

His  shuttle  swifter  plies 
'Twixt  Nature's  warp,  and  swifter  weaves 

For  Earth  Its  subtle  guise; 
And  down  the  river-path  the  pines 

Echo  the  dreary  cry 
Of  winds  whose  dying  cadences 

Are  Nature's  lullaby. 
In  the  crisp  air  of  growing  dusk 

Night  sets  her  cordon-line 
Thick  with  groups  of  glittering  stars, 

That  weirdly  burn  and  shine. 
And  come  and  go,  as  silently 

As  lights  that  far  at  sea 
Are  sailed  o'er  restless  tides,  by  hands 

We  cannot  know  or  see. 


THE  GREAT  SCHOOL-ROOM. 
Life  fluds  its  meaning  in  its  scope. 
As  broad  or  na  rrow  as  its  aim, — 
A  poor,  frail  jest,  if  only  hope 

Or  untaught  hand  may  feed  its  flame. 
Dame  Nature's  school  keeps  open  door,— 
Her  novice  needs  no  less,  no  more,— 
Where  long  apprenticeship  of  thought  is  gain 
Of  stouter  brawn  and  larger  thrift  of  brain. 


MRS.  MARY  C.  KELSEY 

Born:  Logansport, Ind. 
This  lady  is  the  wife  of  J.  S.  Kelsey,  M.  D., 
and  resides  in  Xenia,  Ind.  Mrs.  Kelsey  has 
a  poetic  style  of  her  own.  and  has  written 
poems  occasionally  from  liergirlliood.  wiiich 
have  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the  local 
press.  Mrs.  Kelsey  is  the  oldest  daughter  of 
Mrs.  Julia  M.  Kautz  of  Cutler,  Ind.,  who  is  re- 
presented elsewhere  in  this  work. 


CHILDHOOD. 

EXTRACT. 

In  the  sunny  days  of  childhood. 
In  the  years  that  are  gone  by. 

Swiftly  sped  the  golden  hours 
'Neath  the  blue  and  laughing  sky. 


* 


©- 


712 


LOCAL   AXD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


MRS.  EMMA  H.  NASON. 

Born:  Hallowell,  Me.,  Aug.  6,  1845. 
When  a  school  g-irl  Emma  was  class  poet  at 
graduation.  She  gave  the  commencemeut 
poem  before  the  literary  societies  of  Maine 
Wesleyan  seminary  in  1875,  and  also  read  an 
original  poem  at  the  dedication  of  Hallowell 
library  in  1880.  She  was  married  in  1870  to 
Charles  H.  Nasou,  and  now  resides  in  Augusta. 
Since  her  marriage  Mrs.  Nasou  has  devoted 
much  of  her  time  to  writing,  study  of  art  and 
German  literature.  She  has  published  several 
works,  chiefly  of  poems,  short  stories,  art  pa- 
pers and  household  sketches;  and  also  White- 
Sails,  a  book  of  verses  and  ballads  for  young 
people,  beautifully  illustrated. 


88 


OFF  FOR  BOY-LAND. 

Ho !  All  aboard !  A  traveler, 

Sets  sail  from  Babyland ! 
Before  my  eyes  tliere  comes  a  blur; 

But  still  I  kiss  my  hand. 
And  try  to  smile  as  off  he  goes. 

My  bonny,  winsome  boy ! 
Yes,  bon  voyage!  God  only  knows 

How  much  I  wish  thee  joy. 
Oh,  tell  me,  have  you  heard  of  him? 

He  wore  a  sailor's  hat 
All  silver-corded  'round  the  brim. 

And  —stranger  e'en  than  that  — 
A  wondrous  suit  of  navy  blue. 

With  pockets  deep  and  wide; 
Oil,  tell  me,  sailors,  tell  me  true. 

How  fares  he  on  the  tide? 

We've  now  no  babj'  in  the  house; 

'Twas  but  this  very  morn 
He  doffed  his  dainty,  'broidered  blouse, 

With  skirts  of  snowy  lawn ; 
And  shook  a  mass  of  silken  curls 

From  off  his  sunny  brow. 
They  fretted  liim  —  so  like  a  girl's. 

Mamma  can  have  them  now. 
He  owned  a  bran-new  pocket-book. 

But  tliat  he  could  hot  find; 
A  knife  and  string  was  all  he  took. 

What  did  he  leave  behind? 
A  heap  of  blocks,  with  letters  gay. 

And  here  and  there  a  toy; 
I  cannot  pick  them  up  to-day. 

My  heart  is  with  my  boy. 
Ho!    Ship  ahoy!    At  boyhood's  town 

Cast  anchor  .strong  and  deep. 
What !    Tears  upon  his  little  gown. 

Left  for  mamma  to  keep? 
Weei>  not,  but  smile;  for  through  the  air 

A  merry  message  rings  — 
"Just  sell  it  to  tlie  rag  man  tiiere; 

I've  done  with  baby  things!  " 


FRANK  E.  HERN. 

Born:  Highland  Co.,  Va.,  Jan.  :3, 1859. 
After  receiving  his  education  Mr.  Hern 
followed  school  teaching  for  several  years.  He 
then  went  to  Texas  in  1877,  then  to  Indiana, 
and  finally  located  in  his  native  state  at 
Huntington,  where  he  is  now  engaged  in  the 
hotel  business.  The  poems  of  Mr.  Hern  have 
been  published  in  the  Waverly  Magazine, 
New  York  News  and  other  papers.  He  is  now 
engaged  on  a  novel. 

A  MERCENARY  MARRIAGE. 
Am  I  married,  Ned?  Yes,  'tis  all  over. 

The  gay  guests  have  all  gone  away, 
And  Neddie,  old  boy,  I'm  in  clover  — 

My  fortune  has  changed  in  a  day. 
For  her  wealth,  did  you  say?  Well,  'tis  funny 

That  the  gossips  all  have  it  that  way, 
But  if  a  fellow  has  plenty  of  money. 

What  matters  what  people  may  say? 
Were  j'ou  speaking  of  Nell?  Ah,  that's  over, 

It  was  only  a  silly  boy's  passion; 
I  was  then  but  a  jolly  young  rover- 

Such  things  are  now  quite  out  of  fashion. 
'Tis  true,  when  the  evenings  were  mellow 

We  sometimes  strolled  down  by  the  sea; 
And  no  doubt  now,  with  some  other  fellow 

She  is  talking  the  same  as  with  me. 
But  don't  fail  to  be  with  us  next  season  — 

I  will  then  show  you  something  of  life; 
And  perhaps  you  will  then  know  the  reason 

Why  I  made  such  a  choice  of  a  wife. 
With  her  friend  in  our  mansion  so  ton}-, 

You  see  mine's  an  innocent  game  — 
We  can  leave  her  and  run  down  to  Coney, 

And  flirt  with  the  girls  just  the  same. 


IF  THOU  WERT  HERE. 

If  thou  wert  here  to-night. 
The  deep,  funereal  gloom, 
Which  makes  tliis  narrow  room 
Seem  like  a  living  tomb. 

Would  turn  to  light. 

If  thou  wert  only  near. 
The  moaning  of  this  sea. 
Which  sounds  so  sad  to  me. 
Would  seem  sweet  melody 

Unto  my  ear. 

If  thou  wert  only  here  to-night 
I  know  thy  presence  dear 
Would  dry  each  bitter  tear. 
And  ev'ry  foolish  fear 

Would  put  to  flight. 

If  thou  wert  only  nigh. 
As  in  the  days  of  yore. 
This  heart,  now  faint  and  sore. 
Would  beat  forevermore 

Without  a  sigh. 


SB- 


LOCAL   AXD    >fATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


713 


-^ 


W.  BEAUMONT  COXE. 

Born:  Philadelphia,  Pa., Feb.  9, 185.5. 
Since  1877  ilie  poems  of  Mr.  Coxe   have  ap- 

peareil  ill    many  i«l'   ihr  li^ailiiiu-    piililicat  i<iiis 


W.    BEAUMONT   COXE. 

of  America.  He  was  married  in  1878  to  Miss 
Lillie  Daniels,  and  is  now  eng-aged  in  tiie  pro- 
fession of  pharmacist  at  San  Francisco,  Cal. 


m~ 


A  DREAM. 
Hark!  They  wliisper  to  me  now; 

Who?  The  angels  from  above, 
Asmj'  mind  in  fancy  roams, 

Onward  to  the  maid  I  love. 
I  picture  her  in  elfin  home 

Close  beside  a  shady  brook. 
The  glow  above,  the  radiance  around. 

The  form  on  which  I  love  to  look. 
How  sweet  the  vision  to  my  sight 

Of  rounded  form  and  face  so  fair. 
Eyes  so  blue,  so  Heavenly  blue. 

Shaded  by  her  golden  hair. 
Robed  in  white,  in  spotless  white. 

Fleecy  as  the  northern  snow; 
As  she  reclines  in  elflu  nook. 

Chanting-  to  me,  so  sweet  and  low. 
As  she  chants,  the  birds  above 

Join  in  one  melodious  strain; 
And  all  the  virgin  flowers  around 

Their  sweetness  to  my  Goddess  drain. 
The  beams  of  Sol  in  prism.atic  ray. 

Are  filter'd  through  the  loliag-e  green ; 


Like  beads  of  dew  upon  the  brow. 

To  lend  enchantment  to  the  scene. 
O  heart  of  hearts !— joy  of  joys ! 

Let  us  love  and  ling-er  on 
In  love's  embrace,  with  plighted  hearts 

That  knows  no  breaking-  duwu. 
But  no!— life  is  one  g-rand  dream 

Of  love,  with  sweetness  rife; 
Until  we  awake  by  the  fairy  hand; 

Then  —'tis  bitterness  and  strife. 


BLIGHTED  LOVE. 

Let  us  take  a  mystic  journey. 

With  fond  memory,  hand  in  hand. 
And  g-o  back  a  sea.son  only. 

To  the  grand  poetic  land. 
Ah!  'twas  there  you  loved  me  dearly, 

Lov'd  to  read  ray  thoug-hts  so  true, 
That  my  life's  eternal  sunshine. 

Always  rose  and  set  in  you. 
Yes,  you  lov'd  then,  as  you  told  me. 

And  your  life  'twas  of  mine  a  part, 
That  the  chord  of  intense  affection, 
Link'd,  cover'd  my  soul,  thy  heart. 
Who  can  tell  the  joyous  raptures. 

The  heaven  that  was  beneath  the  sky? 
Who  can  tell  that  love  is  lasting-, 

Althoug-h  the  vows  are  l5orn  on  high? 
Ah !  'twas  true  love,  not  of  passion, 

But  the  thrilling-  love  from  me. 
As  the  angel  might  have  given 

In  my  thoughts  to  only  thee. 
All  day  long-  in  tones  so  dulcent. 

All  the  night  in  visions  so  sweet. 
Until  the  roseate  hues  of  morning-, 

Glow'd  upon  us  as  we'd  g-reet. 
'Twas  summer  then,  'tis  over  now, 

Blanch "d  bj'  the  wintery  frost. 
The  season  and  the  love  were  born 

To  be  gay,  joyous,  and  then  lost. 
Blighted  by  the  shadow  feared  by  man 

Must  all  things  earthly  be. 
It  has  taken  before,  it  has  taken  now. 
The  lo%'e,  love  that  was  dear  to  me. 


YAVAPAI    NAIADS. 

EXTRACT. 

'Twas  the  blending-  of  the  graces. 

In  a  purity  divine: 
'Mid  the  showering- of  g-lances 

Where  the  branches  iuterwine; 
While  the  daintiest  of  blushes 

On  the  snowiest  of  cheeks. 
Gave  no  whisperings  of  warninp 

To  the  merriest  of  freaks. 
As  the  beaming-  and  the  g-leaming 

Of  these  "  tiny  things  "  of  white, 
LTshered  into  vision  plainly 

Fancies  of  an  endless  light. 


-* 


*- 


714 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


MRS.  ELLEN  F.PRATT. 

Born  :  Zanesville,  Ohio,  1842. 
This  lady  was  married  in  1865  to  G.  N.  Pratt. 
Her  poems  have  appeared  in  the  Chicago  Cur- 
rent, Union  Signal  and  the  periodical  press 
g'enerally.  She  is  tlie  author  of  a  volume  en- 
titled Jerry.  Mrs.  Pratt  is  at  present  engaged 
in  literary  pursuits  and  is  at  work  on  a  novel. 


MOTHERHOOD. 
I  hold  within  my  arms  to-day 
A  priceless  bit  of  mortal  clay: 
Divinely  fashioned,  and  so  fair 
The  angels  well  may  kinship  share. 
My  soul  with  gratitude  is  filled; 
My  heart  with  mother-love  is  thrilled; 
My  eyes  brim  o'er  with  new-born  joy, 
Wliile  gazing  on  my  cherub  boy. 
O,  precious  one!  through  tears  I  see 
A  mighty  tusk  awaiting  me; 
My  happy  sky  grows  overcast- 
Life's  duties  loom  so  grand,  so  vast. 
To  shield  from  wrong,  to  right  incline 
This  little  life  now  linked  to  mine. 
Divine  the  gift.    Oh,  may  the  mold 
A  heart  of  truth  and  honor  hold. 
Help  me,  kind  Heaven,  to  know  the  way 
From  out  the  tangles  of  each  day, 
To  guide  him  safe  to  manhood's  prime, 
And  all  the  glory  shall  be  Thine. 

HEART  ECHOES. 
Out  from  his  home,  to  the  arrogant  world. 
Its   dazzling-  allurements,    vice  banners  un- 
furled, 
To  wreck,  or  exalt  his  own  life  and  mine. 
To  level  with  brutes,  or  manfully  shine, 

My  boy  has  gone. 
Closer   our  hearts    have  been   knitting    for 

years. 
My  baby,  my  boy.  now  my  man  —  O,  ye  tears; 
No  wonder  ye  fall,  for  in  tlie  wide  earth 
So  cruel  and  cold,  where  all  evil  has  birth. 

My  boy  is  alone. 
My  laddie!  so  lielpful, warm-hearted  and  true; 
O,  men  of  the  world,  I  am  pleading  with  you. 
My  sapplingr  will  readily  mold  to  your  will. 
Remember  your  sons,  and  treat  him  not  ill. 

My  innocent  boy. 
Help  him  to  shun  the  base  and  impure. 
Lead  him  away  when  temptations  allure, 
O,  teach   him   this  truth,  wlio  will  and  who 

can. 
That  justice  and  purity  make  the  true  man. 

Be  a  friend  to  my  boy. 
Ye  who  the  semblance  of  womanhood  bear, 
Who  once  were  as  pure  as  the  angels,  be- 
ware ! 


Lest  ye  dash  your  foot  against  a  stone. 
A  righteous  God  hears  a  mother's  moan  — 

For  her  boy  betrayed. 
Some  day  a  fair  maiden,  with  heart  pure  and 

free. 
Will  wait  for  the  coming  of  him  who  shall  be 
Friend,  lover  and    husband.    May  she  yield 

her  name 
To  him  who  has  lived  a  life  without  stain  — 

My  unsullied  boy. 
My  counsels,  my  prayers,  O,  will  they  avail? 
Will  he  learn  to  say  no,  and  flinch  not,  nor 

quail? 
Will  he  remember  my  love  and  my  care? 
O,  Father  of  mercy !  give  ear  to  this  prayer, 
"  Save,  save  my  boy!" 


PEBBLES. 

'Tis  little  things  that  fret  us 

And  make  us  quail 
Before  life's  every  dayness, 

We  are  so  frail. 
The  word  that's  fitly  spoken, 

Alas !  is  rare ; 
For  soft  reply  to  anger 

Make  daily  prayer. 
Not  vain  will  be  the  efifort. 

For  peace  will  come. 
And  happiness  await  us 

Abroad  and  home. 


PROF.E.L.  PATTON. 

This  gentleman  is  prof essor  of  Greek  at  the 
University  of  South  Carolina  at  Columbia. 
His  poems  have  appeared  quite  extensively 
in  the  newspapers  and  literary  magazines  of 
the  south. 

SONNET. 

Mary,  my  own,  1  bless  the  guiding  hand  j 

That  led  the  wanderer  to  thy  father's  door,  i 

And  fixed  his  choice;  the  same  that  led  of^ 

yore  ' 

The  Hebrew  exile  to  the  distant  land 

Of  Padan  Aram,  where  th'  Assyrian  maid, 
In  virgin  beauty  with   her  fleecy  c;nr. 
Met  his  enraptured  gaze,  a  vision  fair. 

And  to  the  stranger  modest  welcome  bade  , 
Yet  not  so  fair  as  thou,  I  fondly  deem. 
That    summer  eve,  when,   ch.d  m   ."^inipl' 
white. 
Thy  timid  beauty  blushed  upon  my  signt. 
And  thrilled  me  like  the  magic  of  a  dream, 
When  fancy  to  the  ravished  sen.se  P<^';*f  5' 
Some  bright  ethereal    form,  too  bright 
mortal  gaze ! 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OK  AMEKICA. 


"15 


EMILY  W.  PEAKES. 

Born:  harmony.  Me.,  Dec.  1, 1847. 
This  lady  graduated  in  1874  from  Westbrook 
seminary.      Slie     follows    the    prol'essiou   of 
icliool  teaeliinfr,  in  wliieli  slie  has  always  been 


KMIF.V    W.    I'K.\KE8 


ry  successful.  Personally  Miss  Peakes  is 
f  a  verj'  amiable  and  pleasing  disposition, 
lie  is  now  a  teacher  of  literature  in  the  high 
^hools  of  Terre  Haute. 


« 


IN  SCHOOL  —  A  PERFUME, 
close  my  eyes,  and  the  lilac's  perfume 
las  borne  me  away  from  this  crowded  room. 
Tiider  northern  skies  where  the  flowers  are 

late 
nd  this  plumy  branch   for  the  June  must 

wait. 

I  farm-house  stands  from  the  road  aloof, 
^ith  themountaiti-ash  against  its  roof, 
here's  bridge  in  front  tliat  crosses  a  brook 
'^here  tlie  spotted  trout  hides  awa>  from  the 
hook ; 

nd  a  winding  road,  with  a  double  ridge 
fgniss,  comes  down  the  liill  to  the  bridge, 
ose  by  the  door  twine  lilac-trees 
reathea  sweet  good-niorningto  every  breeze, 
group  of  children  with  happy  look 
re  lingering  here  with  basket  and  book. 


Why  do  they  wait?   There's  one  little  creature 
Wants  a  lilac-flower  to  give  to  the  teacher; 
She  must  have  the  very  highest  one 
That  no  one  can    reach  — and    what's  to  be 

done'? 
For  the  longest  arm  comes  short  of  the  prize 
That  bends  and  beckons  before  lier  eyes; 
But  she  saw  papa  coming    up  through  the 

clover, 
A  strong,  tall  man;  see!  he  lifts  her  over 
The  heads  of  the  group  that  round  him  .stand 
And  she  breaks  the  branch  with  her  chubby 

hand. 

What  was  I  saying?—  I  open  my  eyes; 
Why,  I  am  the  teacher  supposed  to  be  wise; 
One  instant  ago  'twas  a  six-year-old 
Who  smelled  of  the  lilac,  and   my  father's 
hold 

Was  strong  around  me;  the  years  and  death 
Were  swept  away  by  the  lilac's  breath. 


MRS.N.  ELVIRA  KELSON. 

Born  about  1848. 
In  1883  Mrs.  Nelson  published  in  conjunction 
with  her  sister,  Mrs.  Sarah  King-Marine,  The 
Garland,  a  little  volume  of  poems  of  superior 
merit  and  talent.  At  the  age  of  twenty-f)ne 
this  lady  was  married  to  George  Nelson, 
who  served  in  the  un'oii  army;  and  with 
whom  she  now  resides,  with  a  splendid  family 
of  two  sons  and  one  daughter. 


AFTER  THE  WEDDING  —A  REPLY. 

Be  still  my  heart  —  be  still  and  think. 

And  hush  this  fruitless  sighing; 
While  from  the  past  of  life  I  drink. 

The  present  is  replying; 
Ten  weary  \  ears  have  swept  away 

Since  on  thai  fatal  morning 
The  sunshine  seemed  to  pause  and  play. 

Without  a  shade  of  warning. 
Ten  years!  alas,  those  weary  years 

Were  full  of  love's  repining! 
Full  of  the  anguish  and  the  tears 

That  through  my  heart  are  twining. 
What  w^ere  the  orange  blossoms  sweet 

Around  tlie  bridal  altar? 
What  the  gay  tiappings  all  replete, 

That  bade  my  spirit  falter? 
Then  the  tall  and  handsome  man  — 

My  graceful,  grand  ideal  — 
My  hero  could  my  heart  command. 

But  now  the  sad,  sad  real ! 
Alas!  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Despite  their  golden  glimmer; 
All  my  fancies  were  a  dre.am, 

I've  seen  their  dying  shimmer. 


-* 


©- 


716 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL    TOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  MARY  ERWIN  HOBBS. 

Born:  Bethany,  N.Y.,  June  21,  1841. 
For  sometime  this  lady  was  :t  meniber  of  the 
editorial  stafif  of  Wood's  Household  Magaziue, 
published  at  Newburg-,  N.  Y.  In  1878  she  was 
married  to  Josiab  Howard  Hobbs,  a  lawyer 
of  Mndis;on.   N.   H,.   wlifTi^   she  still   i-osides. 


.MltS.   .MAKV   E.    KKW  1  .N    lllljill^. 

Few  writers  so  exquisitely  realizes  the  wealth 
and  worth  there  is  in  wordsliading,  as  does 
this  lady.  Altliough  her  late  poems  have 
been  penned  amid  the  pressure  of  liousehold 
duties,  they  exhibit  a  carefulness  of  expres- 
sion and  a  daitity  choice  of  language,  indeed, 
as  the  most  artistic  taste  could  asli. 


5(- 


DOLORES. 

No  arms  are  stretclied  to  me  from  out  the  dark 

No  pitying  palms  enfold  my  fevered  own. 
My  sea-sent  dove  has  never  found  its  arlt  — 

From  life's    bleak  out-look  all  the  way  is 
One  is  no  more  than  all  the  rest  to  me,    [lone. 

My  ear  knows  not  the  magic  of  a  name, 
I  hear  no  voice  tliat  holds  me  thrillingly, 

I  pass  each  face  as  calmly  as  I  came. 
At  first  T  looked  upon  eacli  lifted  brow, 

Into  each  life,  into  each  lofty  soul 
For  recognition,  but  am  learning  now 

To  curb  the  quest  I  cannot  quite  control. 
I  liave  no  past  particularly  sweet, 

No  buried  hopes  enshrined  in  memory; 
No  fiir-ofl'  Mecca  to  wliicli  V)hH>ding  feet 

Go  back  tt)  tind  some  heait-held  yesterday. 


I  know  not  what  it  is  for  which  I  yearn,  [yea 

For  which  I've  liungered  all  these  heaii 
When  from  the  outlook,  to  the  in  —  I  turu. 

I  find  mj'  spirit  drenched  with  unshed  tear 
I  find  a  hearthstone  white  with  ashes  cold,    ' 

A  taper  sunken  in  a  socket  low,  j 

An  open  volume,  prey  to  moth  and  mold  — 

A  dusty  chain,  deserted  long  ago.  i 

I  miss  a  something  I  have  never  known:      i 

Too  vague,  too  undeflnable  to  name;         i 
A  something  seeming  to  have  been  my  owi  i 

In  climes  from  which  I  uncompanied  eamt ; 
I  miss,  yet  find  it  seeming  everywhere,         ; 

In  opening  flower,  or  in  falling  leaf. 
Amid  the  whispers  of  the  autumn  air 

The  thunders  of  the  distant  ocean  reef.     ■ 
I  liave  a  hint  of  it  in  jonder  blue,  I 

The  glint  of  morning,  and  the  gold  of  noc 
I  tind  its  fervor  in  the  falling  dew,        [dkk  : 

I   feel    its    presence    'neath   the   midni^i 
I  drink  its  spirit  from  a  gush  ot  song,       [t: ! 

I  breatlie  its  breath  when  music's  wildccj 
Creeps  quiveringly  my  raptured  chords alo 

And  breaks  in  glory  round  my  sobbing  so 
Oh,  it  is  mine,  by  rock,  and  brook,  and  treej 

At  wayside  wells  my  palms  to  dip  and  dm: 
My  fevered  spirit  craves  an  open  sea,  ; 

But  finds  a  stint  of  everything  but  pain. 
My  life  has  crept  so  long  on  broken  wing, 

So  long  has  fluttered,  faltered  on  alone, 
I  marvel  much  if  it  could  soar  and  sing. 

Poor  birdling,  should  it  ever  find  its  own. 


GRACE  E.  PICKERING. 

Born  near  Portsmouth,  N.  H. 
The  poems  of  this  lady  have  occasionally 
peared  in  the  periodical  press.    She  still  i 
sides  in  her  native  place,  where  she  hasm»| 
friends  and  ardent  admirers.  ] 


A  SKY  PICTURE.  ; 

"  Come  quick,"  said  they,  and  into  the  si 

light  led  the  way; 
In  the  quiet  skies  stretching  overhead 
A  banner  of  snow  was  softly  spread:  , 

"  Are  you  sure,"  said  tliey,  "  sure  that  it  is ) 

the  Milky  Way?" 
Oh  the  Milky  Way  is  a  film  on  the  blue. 
Letting  stars  look  thi'ough,  as  through  o;'- 

less  delicate,  open  lace; 
AndtheWay  holds  her  court  in  anotherpli  ■ 
But  this  train  of  white  lay  in -a  wediockf 

silence  and  light;"  ' 

A  downy  strip,  on  its  background  blue,      : 
While  from  lip  to  lip  the  wonder  flew. 
And  within,  the  immortal  questions  grew. 
Sacred  and  still  -slept  the  pure  fleece  n  - 

ped  on  the  heavenly  iiiU, 
Keeping  its  own  sweet  secrets  well. 
And  liedged  about  by  a  nameless  spoil 


$ 


LOCAT^   AND    NATION AL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


ROBERT  DUKE  WEAR. 

Bokn:  Verona,  Miss..  Feb.  26,  1854. 
iY  profession  Mr.  Wear  is  ;i  hiwyer,  and  re- 
.iiies  in  Givuibury,  Texas.  He  was  married 
n  18T6  to  Miss  Cora  Leeper.  The  poems  of 
Jr.  Wear  have  appeared  quite  extensively  in 
Jie  periodical  press,  and  in  1885  publislied  a 
olumeof  verse  entitled  Beauty,  a  romance 
rem  real  life,  tog-ether  with  other  poems. 


UNDER  AN  APPLE  TREE, 
list!    listen!     Hear   the    rolling',    rumbling- 
boom 
^ow   sounding-    forth    a    nation's     dreadful 

doom. 
There  comes  from  Sumpter"s  fiery  mouth 

A  belching  stream  with  lurid  glare 
That  heats  tlie  land  from  north  to  south, 
And  heating,  makes  the  nations  stare. 
Tlieri  four  weary  years 
Of  blood  and  of  tears 
Are  spoilt  in  vain; 
Our  sons  are  slain. 
'Mid  sobs  and  cries 
A  nation  dies. 

lark!  listen!    Hear   the   rolling,    rumbling 

boom 

iluw  lifting  forth  a  nation  from  its  gloom. 
The  storm  has  swept  the  nation  wide; 

And  now  the  sun  is  shining  bright 
Beholds  our  heroes  side  by  side. 
And  peace  is  sending  foi-th  her  light. 
Then  two  mighty  men 
Met  with  grand  amen. 
In  meeting  sad. 
But  greeting  glad; 
Tlien  Grant  met  Lee 
'Neath  liist'ry's  tree. 


ALL  ALONE. 
Vhen  from  life's  dark,  dreary  patliway 
All  the  light  of  hope  has  flown, 
^nd  we  stumble  on  the  stairway 
With  a  sad  and  plaintiff  moan  — 

'Tis  worse  when  left  alone. 
Lnd  the  soul  is  filled  witli  sadness 
As  we  reacli  the  silent  door, 
Ind  we  miss  the  cliildisli  gladness 
Of  the  liappy  days  of  yore  — 

'Tis  liard  when  left  alone, 
n  the  evening,  will  we  gather 
With  the  little  ones  ai-ound 
P^here  the  sacred  name  of  father 
Is  tiie  all-enchanting  sound? 

Ah,  no,  we're  left  alone, 
low  we  miss  the  childish  prattle 
And  the  infant's  gentle  tone; 
'ea,  the  constant  tattle,  tattle 


Of  the  children  now  is  gone  — 
How  sad  to  be  alone. 
Wlie  n  the  soul  is  bowed  in  sorrow 

After  many  toiling  year.s, 
Wlien  no  sheen  is  on  the  morrow, 
Then  the  soul  is  spent  in  tears. 
O,  God!  we're  all  ak)n('. 
An<l  the  spirit  sounding  hollow 
With  its  emptiness  and  (lain. 
Seems  about  inclined  to  follow 
On  the  first  departing  train; 
For  now,  we're  all  alone. 
If  the  dark  and  silent  reaper, 

Seekfng  for  a  flower  fair, 
Sliould  a  sweet  and  tender  creeper 
Fi-t)m  my  very  spirit  tear, 

"Twould  leave  me  all  alone. 
If  I  knew  w'd  meet  forever 

In  another  world  than  this. 
Then  I  could  thus  bear  to  sever. 
And  their  sacred  presence  miss; 
But,  'tis  sad  to  be  alone. 


717 


-« 


HOME. 

As  the  twilight  lingers  softly 

On  the  fading-  rims  of  day. 
Hear  the  toiling-  whisper  gladly. 

Plodding-  homeward  on  their  way. 
Home,  sweet  home!  I'm  going  home. 
As  the  noonday's  sun  is  sinking 

Like  a  bird  with  weary  wing. 
Seems  to  me  the  world  is  thinking 

As  the  birdies  sweetly  sing. 
Home,  sweet  home  I  I'm  going  home. 
Wlieii  the  evening's  blusliiiig  beauty 

Crimsons  all  the  earth  around. 
Then  we  hear  the  man  of  duty 

Witli  his  weary  echoes  sound. 
Home,  sweet  home!  I'm  going-  home. 
Wlien  the  brain  is  tired  and  weary 

With  the  busy  cares  of  life. 
And  the  world  is  dark  and  dreary, 

Man  will  sing  in  ev'ry  strife. 
Home,  sweet  home!  I'm  going  home. 
When  the  heart  is  sad  with  failing. 

And  the  soul  with  anguish  burns; 
When  the  liglit  of  hope  is  paling. 

Then  the  spirit  always  turns 
Home,  sweet  home,  uo  place  like  home. 
And  the  children  in  their  gladness, 

Loit'ringon  the  verge  of  night. 
Never  feel  a  pang-  of  sadness 

As  a  vision  comes  in  sight  — 
Home,  sweet  home,  they  are  going  liome. 
Oh,  the  sweet  and  facred  treasure 

Of  our  own  domestic  vine. 
And  its  holy  thoughts  and  pleasure 

We  will  sing  through  coming  time  — 
Home,  sweet  liome,  no  place  like  home. 


-* 


*- 


718 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMKKICA. 


MRS.  BENNIE  A.  COLLINS. 

BOBN :  Livingston,  Tenn.,  Oct.  20, 1863. 
At  an  early  age  this  lady  support  ed  herself 
and  widowed  mother  by  teaching  school.  She 
was  married  in  1888  to  James  O.  Collins,  the 
sheriff  of  Overton  county,  Tenn.  Her  poems 
have  appeared  in  the  Livingston  Post  and  the 
local  press  generally.  Personally  Mrs.  Collins 
is  slightly  above  the  average  size,  with  light 
hair  and  blue  eyes,  and  resides  with  her  hus- 
band in  her  native  city. 


TWILIGHT. 

The  twilight's  misty  shadows 

Come  stealing  o'er  the  plain. 
And  tell  of  the  coming  darkness 

As  a  cloud  foreshadows  rain. 

Earth's  mingled  sounds  die  slowly 

And  fall  on  the  tired  heart, 
Like  beautiful  dream-music 

On  the  breaking  of  waves  apart. 

The  glittering  lamps  of  Heaven 

Are  lighted  one  by  one, 
Their  fitful  gleam  betok'ning 

That  the  cares  of  the  day  are  done. 

The  moon  glides  up  so  gently 

On  her  silvery,  cloud-wreathed  throne. 
And  wraps  the  earth  in  halo 

Of  light  that  is  not  her  own. 

Fit  hour  for  retrospection 

Of  the  life  that  lies  beyond  — 
The  joys  and  cares  in  contrast. 

And  the  thoughts  that  crowd  the  mind. 

The  soul  drinks  in  the  nectar 

Distilled  by  unseen  hands. 
And  memory  wanders  backward 

O'er  life's  receded  sands. 

Sometimes  there's  a  rift  in  the  music 
As  these  memories  come  and  go. 

And  a  cloud  passes  over  the  sunshine 
Like  a  shadow  falls  on  the  snow. 

But  the  heart  takes  up  the  echo 

Of  the  rifted  music  low. 
And  treasures  the  cloud  which  darkens 

Like  the  shadow  does  the  snow. 

Oh,  sacred  hour  of  twilight ! 

How  like  the  hour  of  death. 
When  the  after  life  and  this  one 

Are  divided  by  a  breath. 

'Tis  the  bridge  'tween  light  and  darkness, 
'Tis  the  hour  of  softest  light. 


'Tis  the  daughter  of  the  day  time, 
The  mother  of  the  night. 


IF  WE  KNEW. 

If  we  knew  the  voice  whose  cadence 

Falls  upon  our  ears  to-day. 
Like  soft  strains  of  angel  music 

From  the  bright  world  far  away,— 

Ne'er  again  would  speak  unto  us 
Words  of  love  and  hopes  and  olicer. 

We  would  prize  the  slightest  tremor 
Every  tone  we'd  strive  to  hear. 

If  we  knew  hands  whose  pressure 
Thrills  us  with  the  sweetest  bliss. 

Ne'er  again  would  gently  touch  us. 
Ne'er  caress  us  after  this,— 

Oh,  how  warmly  we  would  clasp  them, 
Press  them  to  our  throbbing  heart, 

Kiss  them  with  a  wild  devotion 
While  hot  tears  of  grief  would  start. 

If  we  knew  the  love-light  beaming 

From  the  eyes  whose  slightest  glance 
Fills  us  with  a  spell-bound  rapture,  1 

Vast  as  Heaven's  broad  expanse- 
Would  be  faded  e'er  the  morrow. 

Never  more  to  shine  again. 
We  would  linger  in  their  sunlight. 

We  would  weep  our  tears  like  rain. 

If  we  knew  the  paths  would  sever. 
Which  now  lie  so  close  and  sweet. 

We  would  often  stop  and  linger 
We  would  walk  with  slower  feet. 

If  we  knew  the  joys  we're  tasting 
Would  be  changed  to  bitterest  woe, 

We  would  fill  life's  empty  goblet 
With  their  sweetness  ere  they  go. 

.'Strange  we  never  prize  the  music  " 
Till  the  harp  lies  all  unstrung, 

Strange  that  we  should  slight  the  carols 
By  the  sweetest  songsters  sung. 

Strange  the  sweetest,  fairest  flowerets 
That  we've  found  along  the  way. 

Waft  their  waves  of  richest  perfume 
From  the  regions  of  decay. 

Ah  I  too  late  we  scent  the  roses 
That  have  siied  their  nectared  sweet, 

Thick  as  raindrops  on  the  pathway 
We  have  trod  with  hurrying  feet. 

Yes,  too  late,  our  hearts  re-echo 

With  a  throb  of  keenest  pain. 
For  the  flowers  that  once  have  blossomed 

Ne'er  for  us  will  again. 


«■ 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL   I'OETS   OF  AMEKIOA. 


719 


-* 


CHARLOTTE  M.  PALMER. 

That  common,  wayside  blossoms 

Are  with  much  sweetness  fraught. 

Bokn:  Dover,  N.  H. 

The  poems  of  Miss  Palmer  have  occasionally 
appeared  in  the  Boston  Traveler,  Christian  at 
Work,  and  otlier  periodicals.    She  is  a  writer 

Take  thankfully  the  treasures 
Heaven  daily  sendeth  tliee; 

Illusive  future  pleasures 

of  both  prose  and  verse,  and  still  resides  in 

Are  Hope's  fond  fantasy. 

lier  native  place. 

WAYSIDE  LESSONS. 

FAITH. 

I  sauntered  bj-  the  roadside,— 

Our  God  gives  perfect  p?ace  to  those 

A  rural,  grass -grown  way; 

Whose  minds  are  stayed  on  Him; 

On  cither  liaiid  green  meadows 

Believing,  trusting,  they  repose 

And  f ragrant  woodlands  lay. 

In  Faith,  though  Hope  grow  dim. 

Along- g-ray,  mossy  fences 

Faith  can  endure  all  present  ill 

Wild  roses  blushing-  bright; 

As  seeming  Him  unseen. 

Fields  glowed  with  golden  buttercups 

Wlio  gives  us  strength  to  do  his  will. 

And  daisies  snowy  white. 

Or  bear,  with  soul  serene 

The  distant  dark,  pine  forests 

Faith  owns  a  charm  which  none  may  scorn. 

Seemed  quite  to  touch  the  sky, 

A  precious  secret  knows; 

Or  nearer  hills  fell  shadows 

Where  worldly  minds  bewail  tiie  tiiorn 

As  light  clouds  floated  by. 

Faith  sees  the  budding  rose. 

I  thought  I  was  pursuing 

Faith  hears  God's  fond  .assuring  voice 

My  humble  quest  alone. 

Above  the  thunder's  loud. 

The  sky,  trees,  flowers,  smiling 

Sees  his  benignant,  smiling  face 

A  welcome  all  my  own. 

Through  the  dark,  threatening  clou.d. 

Anon  piped  up  a  bobolink,— 

Faith  like  the  lark,  mounts  heavenward. 

Thus  ran  his  charming  lay: 

Soaring  on  noiseless  wings. 

"So  grateful  and  so  happy 

Till,  distant  from  earth's  mists  and  jurs 

This  gladsome  sunny  day!" 

In  calm,  pure  air  she  sings. 

T  stopped  to  cull  a  nose-gay. 

Faith  views  this  life  as  pilgrimage. 

And  chanced  to  find  a  bee 

We  tent  on  foreign  strand. 

In  a  cluster  of  pinkkalmia. 

Still  toiling  on  to  reach,  at  length. 

Gathering  its  booty  free. 

Our  home,  the  promised  land. 

A  butterfly  was  sporting, 

Faith's  torch  the  dangerous  road  illumes. 

Frail  child  of  summer  hours. 

Which  leads  us  to  the  tomb; 

And  dainty  nectar  seeking 

Through  shadowy  vistas  we  discern 

Tn  fair  untended  flowers. 

Bright  shores  beyond  the  gloom. 

As  I  walked  on  I  pondered  — 

Though  tossed  on  Time's  tempestuous  zone, 

Not  failing  to  observe 

A  realm  of  rest  outlies; 

How  Providence  is  careful 

Faith,  foiling  Death,  convoys  the  soul 

All  creatures'  needs  to  serve. 

To  gates  of  Paradise. 

I  saw  that  Nature's  cliildren 

Wait  not  for  ample  feast. 

Take  the  crumbs  our  Father  gives  them. 

EXTRACT. 

Supplied  in  his  way  best. 

A  grassy  bank  with  blooms  aglow, 

All  green  and  gold  'neath  waving  trees; 

I  mused  upon  this  folly,— 

A  fairer  carpet  none  can  show. 

Disdainful  passing  by 

Be  it  Turkish,  French,  or  Japanese. 

Life's  present  good  and  comforts. 

Which  close  about  us  lie. 

Not  tinted  walls,  nor  paintings  rare. 

Uutgray  rocksclad  with  clematis: 

'Twas  thus  I  learned  the  lesson 

Tiien  meadows,  pastures,  woods  appear. 

By  Nature's  pupils  taught. 

And  far-off  hills  the  west  clouds  kiss. 

■® 


«- 


720 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


MRS.  ELEANORA  FINDLAY. 

Born:  Dickson  Co., Tenn. 
This  lady  was  married  to  Sylvester  L.  Find- 
lay.  uIinVi.M-iir.'.l  l;iw  ]irinr  in  thi' war.    The 


All    ~     111     \  N'  IRA     M  \  111     \  V 

poems  of  this  writer  have  appeared  quite  ex- 
tensively in  the  periodical  press.  She  is  now 
a  resident  of  Oakland  Springs,  Tenn. 

EDNA  CORA. 
A  pleading-  voice  steals  on  mine  ear 

In  cadence  soft  and  low; 
Those  silv'ry  tones  to  me  as  dear 

As  fond  affection's  glow. 
That  gentle  voice  I  seem  to  hear. 

And  as  it  floats  along, 
'•  Forget  me  not,  my  Nora  dear," 

The  burthen  of  its  song. 
Oh !  would  that  now  the  gift  were  mine. 

To  'wake  with  skillful  liand, 
The  harp  that  erst  the  "  tuneful  Nine," 

Concealed  among  their  hand; 
I'd  sweep  its  chords  witli  magic  art. 

Till  ev'ry  string  should  tell 
Of  her  who  dwells  within  my  heart 

And  wliom  I  love  so  well. 
In  tuneful  measures  I'd  inii)ai't 

To  my  sweet  sister  dear. 
The  inmost  feelings  of  my  heart 

That  .softly  nestle  there; 
And  wliere  for  :iye  they  will  remain 
As  fresh  as  morning  dew; 


Their  bloom  :md  beauty  still  retain, 
My  sister  sweet,  for  you. 

Thou  kuow'st  that  mine's  a  happy  fate, 

A  fondly  cherish 'd  wife  — 
Deep  joy  upon  my  footsteps  wait  — 

Each  hour  with  hap'ness  rife; 
And  when  my  cup  with  joy  runs  o'er 

I  fondly  will  recall 
The  f liends  I'll  cherish  ever  more. 

Dear  father,  mother,  all  I 

Some  ties  there  are,  and  ours  is  one. 

That  time  can  ne'er  undo; 
Dark  grief  may  come,  the  world  may  shun. 

That  knot  remains  still  true. 
Content  thee  then,  my  sister  dear, 

Whate'er  my  future  lot, 
I  will  enshrine  thy  image  here,— 

Thou  wilt  not  be  forgot. 


LETITIA  M.  ADAMS. 

This  lady  has  been  a  constant  contributor  of 
verse  to  the  Farmers' Cabinet  and  numerous 
other  periodicals.  Miss  Adams  formerly  lived 
in  New  Boston,  but  is  now  a  resident  of  Gofls- 
(own,  N.  H. 

INFLUENCE. 

Not  to  itself  alone 

Tlie  little  violet  blooms. 

Deep-shaded  in  its  mossy  bed 

It  meekly  lifts  its  head, 

And  speaks  a  lesson  full  and  free,- 

A  lesson  of  humanity. 

Not  to  itself  alone 

The  spring-bird's  earliest  song 

Above  the  frost  and  snow  is  given. 

Its  richest  notes  ascend  to  Heaven, 

And  birdies  join  in  words  of  love. 

The  praise  of  Him  who  reigns  above. 

Not  to  themselves  alone. 

The  stars  in  von  bright  zone 

Send  forth  their  lustre  clear  and  bright; 

Athwart  the  gloom  and  shade  of  night. 

They  teach  a  nobler  lesson  still: 

Obedience  to  a  higher  will. 

Not  to  itself  alone 

The  voice  of  nature  comes, 

Tlie  wild  winds  murmur,  careless,  free, 

Tlie  swelling  earth,  the  sounding  sea. 

Proclaim  the  wisdom,  power  and  might 

Of  God,  the  source  of  lite  and  light. 

Not  to  liimself  alone 
Man  seeks  an  influence  not  Ids  own. 
We  live  iu  words,  we  live  in  deeds, 
And  sow  on  earth  immortal  seeds 
Of  good  or  b:id,  of  peace  or  strife. 
The  germ  of  death  or  endless  life. 


*- 


0&- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


L'l 


-* 


MRS.LOUISEP.W.PALMITER. 

Born:  Victor,  N.  Y.,  April  5, 1833. 
Commencing  to  write  verse  at  an  early  ag-e, 
the  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  in  many 
prominent  publications,  such  as  the  Weekly 
Wisconsin,  Western  Rural,  Chicago  Inter- 
Ocean,  and  numerous  other  publications  of 
equal  prominence,  from  which  they  have  been 
extensively  copied  by  the  local  press. 


SONG  OF  THE  REAPER. 
I  sing  a  song. 
As  I  roll  along, 
Behind  my  "  four-in-hand," 
A  ptean  of  hope  lor  weary  souls, 
Throughout  this  beauteous  land. 
I  sing  a  song. 
The  whole  day  long. 
To  the  fall  of  the  golden  grain. 
From  Minnesota's  prairies  broad, 
To  the  hills  of  far-off  Maine. 
I  sing  a  song. 
To  the  hungry  throng. 
That  is  sweet  to  the  listening  ear. 
For  I  sing  of  plenty  and  peace  to  come, 
When  the  wintry  storms  draw  near. 
I  sing  my  song. 
The  hills  among, 
I  sing  in  the  valley  fair, 
From  rosy  morn  till  set  of  sun. 
My  song  floats  on  the  air. 
Oh  !  I  sing  a  song, 
A  jolly  song. 
As  I  reap  the  golden  grain. 
And  roll  behind  my  four-in-hand. 
Sole  monarch  of  the  plain. 

SUMMER  NIGHT  SOUNDS. 

'Tis  sweet  to  sit. 

Ere  the  lamps  are  lit. 
By  the  vine-wreathed  casement,  listening 

When  the  winds  are  still. 

And  the  cricket's  trill 
Is  heard  where  the  dew  is  glistening: 

"Cheereet;  cheereet." 

'Tis  a  summer  night. 

With  a  moon  so  bright. 
That  the  flre-fly  lamps  are  pale. 

And  all  nightlong. 

Comes  a  mournful  song 
[  From  a  lone  bird  in  the  vale: 

"  Whip-poor-will,  whip-poor-will." 

In  a  shady  nook. 

By  the  side  of  the  brook. 
Hid  away  from  the  prying  moon. 

On  a  moss-grown  log. 

Some  love-lorn  frog 
Is  singing  this  mellow  tune: 

"  Ker-chug,  ker-chug." 


And  a  little  beyond. 

Just  over  the  i)ond. 
From  a  tall  tree  on  the  l)ank. 

Comes  faint,  l)ut  clear 

To  my  listening  ear. 
The  song  of  a  feathered  crank: 

"Too-whoo,  too-whoo." 

Then  a  gossip  unseen. 

In  the  ivy  green. 
Repeats  to  a  drowsy  bird, 

A  scandalous  tale. 

Of  some  mortal  frail. 
And  these  are  the  word  I  heard: 

"  Katy-tlid,  katy  did." 

And  across  the  way. 

By  the  moon's  bright  ray 
A  youth  and  maiden  are  seen. 

And  I  hear  a  repeat 

Of  the  old  words,  sweet. 
As  the  gate  swings  to,  between : 

"  Good-night,  good-night." 


BELDEN  CRANE  HOYT. 

Born  :  Richland,  Mich.,  Dec.  15, 1856. 
As  teacher,  printer,  farmer  and  book  agent, 
Mr.  Hoyt  has  experienced  fair  success;  he  now 
has  aspirations  toward  the  pulpit.  The  poems 
of  Mr.  Hoyt  have  appeared  in  the  county  pa- 
pers, from  which  they  have  been  extensively 
copied.  He  now  resides  in  Paola,  Kansas,  di- 
viding his  time  between  school  teaching  and 
the  book  business. 


WHO  ARE  WISE. 

Is  it  they  who  soar  in  air  — 

Soar  in  thought  beyond  the  blue; 

Up  to  Heaven's  plains  so  fair. 

And  celestial  glory  view  — 

They  who  soar  above,  below. 

To  the  bounds  of  everywhere. 

Downward  to  the  world  of  woe 

And  its  depths  of  dark  despair; 

They  who  through  the  mists  of  time. 

Dimly  see  eternity. 

Who  contrast  the  lofty  rhyme 

Thrilling  in  its  majesty,— 

With  its  music-laden  flow 

Beautifying  mystic  themes 

Of  the  wonders  forests  know. 

And  the  racing,  shining  streams. 

Of  the  roaring  of  the  wave 

As  it  leaps  upon  the  strand. 

As  it  doth  the  ledges  lave. 

As  it  raises  hills  of  sand? 

Is  it  they  who  arc  the  wise  — 

They  to  whom  is  wi.<dom  given? 

Ask  the  Ruler  of  tlic  Skies, 

Ask  the  mighty  King  of  Heaven. 

Hark?  A  deep-toned  voice  replies  — 

"They  who  fear  the  Lord  are  wisel" 


* 


©- 


722 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


WELCOME  OTWAY  SPENSER. 

Born:  Lakeport,  N.Y.,  April 31, 1838. 

For  the  past  twenty  years  the  poems  of  Mr. 
Spenser  liave  appeared  in  the  New  York  Sun, 
World,  and  tlie  periodical  press  generally.  He 


WELCOME  OTWAY  SPENSER. 

was  married  in  1864  to  Miss  Anna  E.  Jones, 
and  still  resides  in  his  native  place.  Mr. 
Spenser  is  an  agriculturalist,  and  has  filled 
several  positions  of  public  trust. 


WHAT  THE  POET  SEES. 
O,  ask  him  not  what  he  shall  see, 
Dreamer  and  gazer  on  the  stars, 
His  soul  may  woo  infinity. 
And  mount  and  leap  the  golden  bars 
Tliat  fence  the  secrets  of  the  spheres. 
And  dalliance  hold  with  love  or  tears. 

The  sunny  skies  may  g"ild  his  thoufrht, 
And  cloudlets  m:ike  him  golden  robes, 
Bi-ig-hter  than  silk  with  gold  all  wrought; 
And  grander  far  than  starry  globes. 
May  be  his  trysting-  place  of  rest, 
Where  Hope  is  always  to  be  blest. 
With  wing-s  of  flame  his  soul  may  fly. 
Higher  than  all  the  Alpine  heig:hts. 
No  fane  of  beauty  is  too  high. 
No  joy  too  great  for  his  delights; 
No  nook  shall  hold  him  in  its  fold; 
Nor  years  shall  grimly  make  him  old. 


O,  tell  me  what  his  high  desire. 
And  what  the  dream  his  musing  soul! 
Whither  his  flight  on  wings  of  fire. 
Beyond  the  reach  of  earth  control! 
Ah,  seeks  he  youth  and  love  divine, 
And  holy  place  to  build  a  shrine? 
What  is  the  glory  he  would  know? 
What  fancies  sweet  so  fill  his  brain? 
What  sounds  are  wafted  him  below, 
The  fates  so  often  waft  in  vain? 
O,  ask  him  not  what  he  shall  see. 
For  never,  never  can  it  be. 

Could  love  be  what  he  Idly  dreams. 
And  hope  an  argosy  of  gold. 
And  love  as  loving  as  it  seems. 
And  life  still  brighter  as  it  rolled, 
Ah,  then  his  prayer  would  answered  be, 
And  those  the  things  that  he  would  see. 
He  still  may  wander  'mid  the  spheres 
Where  stars  their  sweet  efi'ulgence  shed, 
He  still  may  pray  that  hate  and  tears. 
Be  banished  from  the  world  and  dead; 
But  ah,  his  dreams,  they  cannot  be. 
And  vain  to  ask  what  he  shall  see. 


JOHN  B.  L.  SOULE.  ■ 

Born:  Freeport,  Me.,  April 4, 1815. 
Although  Mr.  Soule  completed  a  courseof 
law  studies,  be  never  entered  upon  the  prac- 
tice of  that  profession.  After  ten  years  en- 
gaged in  teaching  in  Maine  and  Indiana,  he 
spent  several  years  as  a  journalist.  He  next 
was  a  minister  of  the  gospel  For  eleven 
years  he  was  professor  of  ancient  languages 
in  Illinois  at  Blackburn  university;  at  the  end 
of  which  time  he  became  pastor  of  the  Presby- 
terian church  in  Highland  Park,  a  suburb  of 
Chicago.  He  filled  that  position  for  seven 
years,  and  has  now  retired  from  active 
public  duties. 

MY  ESTATE. 
When  comes  the  flushing  dawn  of  day, 

I  go  forth  quiet  and  alone 
To  meet  the  morning,  and  survey 

The  lands  and  houses  that  I  own. 
The  town  is  still,  all  life  is  mute; 

For  death  and  slumber  are  the  same; 
I  am  the  heir,  and  none  dispute 

The  justice  of  my  lordly  claim. 
And  as  I  walk  the  silent  street. 

My  steps  resound  from  wall  to  wall. 
And  wakened  birds  in  whispers  greet 

The  coming  landlord's  early  call. 
When  day  comes  on,  and  noise  abounds, 

And  dust,  and  heat,  retiring  then. 
My  large  estate  of  roofs  and  grounds 

1  leave  in  care  of  other  men. 


©■ 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    I'OKTS   OK  AMEUICA. 


723 


* 


W.  n  WITT   -WAIA-At'E. 

New  Albany,  Intl.     He  was  in  tlu-  army  for 
two  years,  serving  in  the  fortieth  Indiana  reg- 

6 


No  taxes  vex  my  wide  domain, 

Nu  irksome  load  of  debt  it  bears; 
My  mid-day  tenantry  sustain 

All  due  expenses  and  repairs. 
My  income  — not  the  rents  and  tolls 

That  greed  extorts  from  want  and  scorn. 
But  the  rich  commerce  of  the  soul, 

Communion  with  the  golden  morn. 

I  wonder  whether  manj-  other  deeds 

Were  not  in  fact  a  satii-e  or  a  blunder. 
Great  stories  grown  from  ver.v  little  seeds. 

And  told  to  make  us  wonder. 
I  wonder  if  Lycurgus,  Pope  and  Penn, 

Ben  Jouson,  Pompey,  Massasoit  and  Moses, 
Were  what  they  were,  or  were  some  other 
men, 

By  some  metempsychosis. 
And  if  this  thing  is  false,  and  that  thing  true 
is. 

When  every  thing  seems   falling  fast  asun- 
der, 
I  cannot  tell  — and  all  that  I  can  do  is 

To  wonder,  and  to  wonder  1 


W.  D^WITT  WALLACE. 

Born:  LaFayette,  Ind.,  Nov.  19, 1838. 
Mr.  Wallace  graduated  In  1861  and  was  mar- 
ried the  same  year  to  Miss  Anna  M.  Shields,  of 


iment,  and  was  wounded  at  Stone  river.  Mr. 
Wallace  has  achieved  success  in  tlie  profession 
of  law,  in  his  native  city,  wliere  he  has  a  large; 
and  lucrative  practice.  He  has  a  lovely  family 
of  four  daughters,  two  of  them  young  ladies 
whohave  just  graduated.  In  1886Mr.  Wallace 
published  a  novel  entitled  Loves  Ladder, 
which  went  through  several  editions.  He  is 
now  engaged  on  another  novel,  and  occasion- 
ally contributes  to  the  leading  periodicals  of 
America. 


LOST. 
I  had  a  friend.    Our  souls  clasp'd  hands; 
Our  heart-stiings,  like  two  vines,  about 
Each  other  twined  till  twain  seemed  one 
For  time  and  for  Eternity. 
One  stormy  night,  lo,  while  I  slept, 
I  know  not  how,  or  whj-,  my  friend 
Unloosed  the  cords  and  faithless  fled. 
Speak  not  of  deatli,  nor  count  that  loss 
Which  plucks  from  earth  a  flower  to  plant 
In  Heaven.    He  only  sounds  the  depth 
Of  woe,  and  drinks  the  gale  of  life 
Who  mourns  a  living  friend  that's  lost. 


ACROSS  THE  STREET. 
At  open  window  across  the  street. 
Each  morn  soft  eyes  my  eyes  do  meet  — 
Eyes  large  and  blue  and  sad  and  sweet. 
'Tis  not  for  me  her  curtains  slide, 
'Tis  not  for  me  she  looks  outside; 
She  welcomes  every  thing  beside. 
The  blithe  canaries  win  her  love. 
That  in  gold  cages  swing  above. 
To  them  she's  tender  as  a  dove. 
She  greet  her  flowers  with  look  divine 
That  'neath  her  glances  bloom  so  fine. 
And  with  soft  fingers  trains  the  vine. 
The  free-born  sparrows  of  the  air. 
That  flit  about  her  windows  fair 
Knjoy  her  smile  and  have  her  care. 
To  boot-black,  beggar,  passing  uear. 
She  throws  a  coin  or  drops  a  tear; 
.Me  only  doth  she  seem  to  fear. 
Ah,  maiden!  pure  assnowflake's  wing, 
Did'st  thou  but  know  the  heart  I  bring, 
What  chaste  desires  within  it  spring. 
Toward  thee  at  least,  thou'dst  not  deny 
One  kindly  look,  nor  question  why 
Across  the  street  1  turn  my  eye. 


FROM  VELVET  LIDS. 

From  velvet  lids  Love  wings  the  dart 

That  deepest  thrills  the  human  heart. 

The  purest  joy.  the  fiercest  woe. 

That  mortals  here  may  ever  know. 

From  Love's  sweet  wound  unfailing  start. 


© 


724 


LOCAL    AMD    MATIONAL    FOETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


WARREN  W.  AMES. 

Bokn:  De  Ruyter,  N.Y.,  Feb.  25, 1850. 
IN  1873  young  Ames  founded  the  Cape  Vin- 
cent Eagle,  and  in  1876  he  bought  the  CU.ytou 
ludevendent.  Having-  sold  both  the  papers 
mentioned  he  returned  in  1878  to  h.sname 
town  and  established  The  Gleaner.    Six  years 


^\  AKIiEN    W.    AMK>. 

later  Mr.  Ames  purchased  the  De  Ruyter  New 
Era  consolidated  the  two  offices,  and  built  a 
handsome  three-story  block.  He  was  married 
in  1873  to  Miss  Ella  M.  Wilcox.  In  liis  early 
days  Mr.  Ames  taught  in  the  common  schools 
of  Tennessee,  Illinois,  and  New  York.  The 
verse  of  this  journalist  and  poet  have  appear- 
ed quite  extehsively  in  the  periodical  press. 


FANCIES. 
I've  risen  early  this  morn-do  tlie  same  if 

you'd  thrive  — 
Filled  with  earnest  intentions  my  goose-quUl 

to  drive. 
To  inscribe  on  this  sheet  a  few  lines   for  your 

eyes  —  . 

A  few  transient  thoughts,  either  simple  or 

wise—  , 

And,  as  Morpheus  but  late  from  my  eyelids 

has  flown. 
My  thoughts  may  be  dull  or  to  drowsiness 

prone. 
I  sit  by  the  table  with  goose-quill  in  hand. 
Before  me  a  lamp  in  its  beauty  doth  stand. 


And  its  calm,  brilliant  light  spreads  abroad 

through  the  room. 
Dispelling   the   darkness,  and  changing  the 

gloom 
That  reigned  e'er  its  rays  had  appeared  on  the 

scene. 
To  a  light  almost  dazzling— to  splendor  se- 
rene. 
How  calm  and  how  quiet  are  things  'round 

about! 
The  streets  are  all  free  frofn  loud  clamor  and 

shout ; 
Yet  the  chanticleer's  note,  rising  full  on  the 

ear. 
Gives  me  warning  that  day  and  its  turmoils  !| 
draw  near;  L^^^'  | 

And  the  timepiece  proclaiming  to  all  that  'tis  . 
Impels  me  the  faster  my  goose-quill  to  drive,  j 
My  muse  seems  o'er  glad  to  assist  me  this  ! 

morn. 
And  swiftly  these  thoughts  of  my  fancy  are  ^ 

born ; 
Yet  how  slow  seems  my  quill  to  inscribe  them  • 
in  ink—  i 

To  assemble  in  lines   and   each  word  inter- 
link, tvein. 
And  to  spread  through  each  stanza  a  similar 
Uniting  the  whole  in  harmonious  strain. 
But  my  muse,  as  you  witness,  has  wandered 

quite  wide. 
And  seems  disinclined  to  one  thing  to  be  tied; 
But  I've  humored  its  flights  in  their  wild  aim-. 

less  glee  — 
Loosed  the  reins  of  my  fancy  and  let  both  go 

free. 
Still  my  th.iughts  have  roamed  wide  througli 

the  limits  of  time. 

And   my  muse,  following  on,  has  arranged. 

them  in  rhyme.  ; 

But  this  strain  is  quite  aimless,  howe'creasil>j 

it  flows,  ! 

And  'tis  time  that  its  contents  were  drawn  U.^ 

;i  close,  ,   ; 

For  if  fancy  be  nursed  in  its  wanderings  wide 

It  may  never  consent  to  one  thing  to  he  tied  • 

So  I'll  lay  down  my  quill,  wiih  a  sigh  it  i., 

true,  ,.        ' 

And  at  present  to  fanciful  flights  bid  adieu. 


ALBUM  VERSE. 

I  fain  would  search  the  Avhole  vast  field  o, 

song  , 

And  glean  from  ov'iy  tongue  and  ev  ry  age 
That  1  niighr  And  a  gem  in  all  the  throng. 

To  dedicate  to  thee,  on  this  fair  page. 
Some   thought  that  would    most  gntcefnll 
convey  , 

The  deepest  wishes  for  your  f"*"""*^^,^,"  ',,,' 
Which  would  express.as  full  as  pen  could  sa.< 
The  admiration  of  a  friend  most  leal; 


*- 


8&- 


-« 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   I'OETS   OF  A^IKKIOA. 


^•J..^ 


REV.  NATHAN  F.CARTER. 

Born:  Hennikek,  N.  H.,  Jan.  6,  lam 
In  18f)5  Mr.  Ciirtor  snuliiated  at  the  tliook)- 
gical  seminary  in  Bangor,  and  in  18ti9  became 
pastor  of  a  cliurL'li  in  Orford,  N.  H.,  wliicli 
position  he  lield  for  five  years.  He  tlien 
went   to    Bellows   Falls,    Vt.,    and   in  1879  to 


®- 


REV.  NATHAN  FRANKLIN  CARTER. 

Quechee  in  the  same  state,  wliere  he  still  lab- 
ors. For  several  years  Mr.  Carter  has  been 
one  of  the  editors  of  the  New  Hampslure 
Journal  of  Education.  He  has  just  complet- 
ed a  work  entitled  The  Native  Ministry  of 
New  Hampshire,  and  lias  also  a  volume  of 
poems  ready  for  publication. 

GREAT  THOUGHTS. 

Great  thoughts  in    mig'hty  souls  born    into 
life,  [sky. 

Like  towering  mountains,  lean  against  the 
Their  radiant  summits  far  at)ove  all  strife, 

Fi.xing  with  wonder  many  a  gazing  eye. 
So  far  above  the  common  level  rise,  [soul 

Their  morn-empurpled  heights,  they  fill  the 
Witli  awe  and  reverence,  till  in  mute  surprise, 

It  deems  them  altars  near  tlie  Eden  goal. 
Whereon  the  incense  of  a  great  life  burns, 

DilTusing  sweetest  fragrance  evermore; 
Or  glow  like    watch-flres,  blessing  him  who 
yearns 

For  trusty   guidance    on    Time's    pilgrim 
shore ! 


The  lowly  one  toils  earnestly  and  long 

To  cfimb  their  steep  but  ever  verdant  sides, 
Yet,  rising  higher,  he  feels  the  heart  grow 
strong. 

To  mount  where  everlasting  spring  abides. 
To  gather  holier  sweets  distilling  there. 

To  see  screner  prospects  yet  unknown. 
To  breathe  a  purer  life-awakening  air. 

And  find  himself  a  nobler  being  grown. 
And  thus  ho  presses  on,  till  victor-crowned. 

Upon  the  heights,  he,  with  enraiifured  ken. 
Drinks  in  the  vastness  of  the  scene  around, 

A  better  man  among  earth's  worthy  men! 
And  those  great  thoughts  of  mighy  souls  are 
ours. 

Stamped  with  a  time-long  immortality, 
A  gift  ne'er   growing  old,    whose  greatness 
towers 

Above  all  gifts  by  gold  or  fame  made  free. 
We  feast  upon  them,  as  on  viands  rare. 

And  feel  a  newer  life  spring  up  within; 
They  give  the  longing  spirit  wings  to  dare 

A  lofl  ier  tlight  for  good   we  fain  would  win. 
Tluur  influence  wakes  a  hynm  of  blessedness. 

Sounding  a  victor's  psean  in  our  cars. 
Whose  sweet  refrains,  ensiM-ined  in  good  deeds 
liless 

A  plodding  wt):k'l,  as  stars  a  night  of  years! 


IN  THE  BATTLE  OF  LIFE. 
In  the  battle  of  life  do  the  best  that  is  in 
thee, 
Climl)   up    with    a  will  and  an  eye  on  the 
stars, 
The  noblest  of  names  aspiring  to  win  thee. 

At  the  price,  if  need  be,  of  perils  and  scars! 
There  is  room  in  the  radiant  spaces  above 
thee; 
On  the  tops  of  the  mountains  are  comiuer- 
ors'-  palms; 
Live  grandly  for  God,— make  the  great  world 
love  thee. 
For  the  sowing  of  sunshine  and  giving  of 
alms ! 
Grow  virtues  and  graces  to  ripen  for  glory; 

Seek  riches  and  honors  that  pass  not  away; 
With  manifold  blessings  make  golden  life's 
story ; 
For  the  good  of  luinianity  labor  and  pray! 
Be  a  peer  and  a  prince  in  the  grace  of  for- 
giving; 
Keep  ever  to  pathways    the  saintly  have 
trod; 
In  love  with  the  good,  be  the  best  of  tlie  liv- 
ing; 
Do  the  best  for  the  world  by   the  favor  of 
God ! 
With  a  bold,  brave   heart,  and  a  holy  endeav- 
or. 
Girt  surely  and  well  with  an  armor  divine, 
_ ffl 


©- 


726 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  MARTHA  K.  COLBURN. 

Born:  Garrettsville,  O.,  Oct.  4, 1846. 
The   poetical    productions  of  Mrs.  Colburn 
have  already  received  recognition  in  Harper's 


MRS.   MARTHA  K.   COLBURN. 

Weekly,  although  she  has  but  recently  com- 
menced to  court  the  muse.  She  is  a  very 
pleasant  lady,  and  now  lives  in  Waterford,  Pa. 


3<- 


THE  HERO'S  LAST  RIDE. 
Through  the  valley  with  the  paleness  of  death 

on  his  brow. 
Dashed  a  rider—  unmindful  of  where,  or  how 
He  could  best  escape  the  torrent  wide. 
Which  was  bearing-  destruction  on  every  side. 
His  only  thoughts  were  of  those  below. 
Who,  in  the  valley,  the  danger  did  not  know ; 
And  through  the  air,  his  clear  voice  thrills, 
"  Run  for  your  lives,  to  the  hills,  to  the  hills." 
Madly  the  noble  steed  plunged  along. 
The  rider,  unheeding  the  gathering  throng. 
Flew   by.    While  the   vale  eclioed    back  the 
thrills,—  [the  hills." 

"To  the  hills,  to  the  hills,  for  your  lives,  to 
With  the  speed  of  the  wind,  he  hurried  down 
The  valley  to  warn  the  ill-fated  Johnstown; 
For  tht!  miglity  dam,  had,  at  last,  given  'way. 
And  the  water  was  eagerly  seizing  its  prey. 
Sweeping   everything   clean    tliat  lay  in  its 

track. 
It  came  like  a  demon,  all  grim  and  bhick; 


And  the  town,  which  lay  peaceful,  at  break 

of  day. 
Was,  in  a  few  moments,  all  swept  away. 
And  thousands  of  souls,  borne  down  by  the 
Shall  lie  foi-ever  in  nameless  graves;    [waves, 
Among  them  the  rider,  who  thought  in  the 

morning. 
To  the  valley  below,  he'd  carry  the  warning. 
He  thought  for  a  time  to  outride  the  wave, 
But  alas  I  too  soon  it  would  be  his  grave,    [tide, 
As  he  gained  the  bridge,  he  was  struck  by  the 
And  e'er  he  could  reach  the  other  side 
The  structure,  with  a  crash,  was  seen  to  fall. 
And  bridge,  and  rider,  steed  and  all 
Were  plunged,  in  the  seething  mass  below! 
Alas !  alas !  that  it  should  be  so. 
A  nameless  "Paul  Revere  "  he  dies  — 
Somewhere,  with  the  nameless  dead  he  lies; 
Though  no  marble  slab  shall  mark  the  spot. 
Yet  his  daring  deed  will  be  ne'er  forgot. 
As  ages  roll,  and  the  pen  shall  tell, 
Of  hero's  who,  with  laurels  fell. 
No  name  shall  shine  with  a  brighter  hue. 
Than  that  of  the  rider,  so  brave  and  true. 


ELMER  OSBORN   LAUGHLIN. 

Born  :  Paris,  III.,  Aug.  2, 1867. 
Although  a  young  man,  Elmer  has  written 
quite  extensively  for  the  Toledo  Blade,  Cin- 
cinnati Gazette,  Chicago  Tribune  and  other 
equally  prominent  journals.  He  is  now  study- 
ing medicine,  and  resides  in  Paris,  111. 


AN  AUTUMN  SONG. 

But  yesterday 

Bright  flowers  of  May, 
Smiled  in  the  sunshine  everywhere! 

And  joyous  notes. 

From  tuneful  throats 
Of  countless  songsters  filled  the  air. 

But  yesterday 

Eartli,  young  and  gay. 
Tripped  lightly  'neath  the  bluest  skies. 

While  sunbeams  kissed' 

Away  the  mist 
Of  morning,  from  her  dewy  eyes. 

Oh,  yesterday. 

How  far  away; 
How  distant  from  the  bleak  to-day 

Thy  niem'ries  fade 

Into  a  shade, 
A  dream  of  liirds  and  flowers  and  May. 

For  ah,  to-day 

Skies  cold  and  gray 
Hang  heavy  o'er  the  Eartli's  patiiway; 

And  naked  trees 

Mourn  in  tlie  breeze 
For  yesterday,—  sweet  yesterday. 


m- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


-® 


JOSIAH  GIBERTON  ENGLISH. 

Bohn:  Camden  Co.,  N.  J.,  Nov.,  1833. 
The  poems  of   Mr.    English    liave   appeared 
(juite  extensively  in  tlic  pci'iociical  press.     Ho 
published  in  1888  a  volume  of   poems,  which 


JOSIAH  GIBERTON  ENGLISH. 

has  had  quite  an  extensive  sale.  Mr.  Eng-lish 
is  a  resident  of  Xenia,  Ohio,  where  he  is  well 
known  for  his  integrity  and  literary  standing-. 
Mr.  English  served  in  the  civil  war,  and  he  has 
since  tasted  of  joys  and  experienced  sorrows 
by  the  deatli  o(  loved  ones. 


GAMRLING    DISPATCHES. 

Tattle!  tattle!  tattle! 
Ship-sheep,  hogs  and  cattle! 
Send  the  money  Oy  express, 
Not  a  sing-le  dollar  less; 

No  other  time  will  do  as  well. 
Or  I  would  not  the  cattle  sell. 
John  will  see  the  cattle  tlirough. 
After  whicli  will  talk  with  you. 

Z.  to  C.  L. 
ANSWER. 

Cattle,  sheep  and  hogrs  ari'ivc. 
Glad  to  find  them  all  alive; 
Send  your  price  for  all  the  cattle. 
Glad  to  make  the  wire  rattle. 
All  the  talk  I  had  with  John 
Was  'bout  a  silver  watch  to  pawn ; 


Enter  the  price  of  hog-s  and  sheep  - 
1  leave  with  you  tlie  books  to  keep. 


To  look  at  stock, 
I'll  come  next  fall; 
Don't  think  to  sell, 
I'll  take  them  all. 

Bless  me!  here's  old  ZinI 
For  all  you  shipped 
Have  got  the  tin. 
Am  ready  now 
To  g-o  with  John 
And  see  for  what 
The  watch  will  pawn 

Love  in  short. 
Life  is  sport. 

C.    LIUHTFOOT. 

LATER. 
TO  CHIEF  OF    POLICE. 

Arrest  a  worse  than  thief, 

A  counterfeiter  in  brief; 

Seize  my  cattle,  sheep  and  hogs; 

Hunt  up  my  John, 

My  watch  and  dogs. 


I'm  ready  to  cleave  the  air, 

On  swiftest  train  — 

I'll  soon  be  there. 

All  he's  got  is  sure  my  money. 

His  tongue  is  sweeter 

Than  butter  and  honey. 

PETER  ZOL.MAN. 


AMERICA. 

America's  vast,  continual  source. 
Guides  the  world's  great  business  force; 
Her  wealth  in  minerals,  and  stores  of  grain. 
Excites  the  weak,  and  strong,  of  brain. 

The  picture,  under  eye  of  heaven. 
Adds  .source  to  God,  for  what  he's  given; 
As  multiply  the  millions  seen. 
So  multiplj'  the  things  to  glean. 

Earth's  reaping  time  of  golden  grain. 
Renews  the  love  of  God  again ; 
And  thankful  heart  rejoices  day. 
And  gladness  feels  the  sown  way. 

From  bread  of  wheat  to  bread  of  life. 
Calls  he  the  reaper  from  the  strife; 
And  welcome  hand  extends  a  boon. 
Before  the  man  has  reached  liis  noon. 

The  scene,  resulting  from  tlie  soil. 
Rewards  the  heart  for  all  its  moil. 
Happy  American ;  Thy  loved  of  lot 
Has  found,  of  earth,  the  sunny  spot. 


-« 


©; 


728 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


®- 


THE  GRADITE'S  FLIGHT. 
The  Gradite  trembled  with  terror. 
When  he  looked  out  ou  the  plain. 
And  saw  the  host  a  coming 

Was  the  friends  of  one  he'd  slain. 
And  he  felt  himself  so  lonely 
In  a  far  off-land  from  home, 
As  he  thought  of  a  city  of  refuge. 

As  death- like  on  they  come. 
His  gaze  was  loosing  a  moment 
To  the  coming  wheel  of  time; 
And  following  like  the  shadows. 

Was  lengthing- out  the  line; 
As  the  swifter  of  pursuers. 

Were  leaving  some  behind. 
And  why  their  tread  was  deadly. 

Was  torture  to  his  mind; 
Poor  trembling  mortal  sought  then. 

Away  his  life  to  find. 
And  prayer  was  in  his  mind  then; 

O!  Lord,  to  me  be  given. 
The  power  to  reach  the  refuge; 

For  thou  hast  made  the  heaven. 
Just  then  there  came  a  warning, 

4.  A  fool  has  time  to  spare. 
Shake  thyself,  Gradite 

Prepare  to  cleave  the  air. 
..  The  crush  of  the  sand  neath  foot-sole. 

Will  cease  for  the  harder  ground; 
Nothing  but  flight  will  save  you. 

Flee  if  you  would  be  crowned. 
"  Flee  from  this  country 

The  home  of  the  stranger; 
Flee  from  the  plain 
And  hill  of  danger; 
Flee  from  the  Reubenite 

Or  blood  avenger. 
.'Flee  past  thy  own  home 
And  the  coming  to  meet. 
The  wife  of  thy  bosom. 

Or  child  of  thy  feet. 
Flee  like  the  Hitite. 
Flee  like  the  fleet. 
"  Flee  by  tlie  grain  fields 

And  haunts  when  a  boy; 
The  nature  and  sunshine. 

Serving  decoy. 
"  Though  summer  of  love 

Be  banished  for  snow; 
Better  thou  flee. 

While's  thine  to  go." 
Catching  sight  of  his  life 

Weighed  in  the  scales. 
Of  the  all-lost  hope. 

Of  the  dismal  wails. 
He  sped  for  the  refuge. 

Scarce  leaving  a  trace;    ' 
For  he  flew  as  he  ran. 
From  the  very  earth's  face. 


ALBERTS.  HAWKINS. 

The  poems  of  Mr.  Hawkins  have  appeared 
quite  extensively  in  the  periodical  press.    Mr. 


Hawkins  is  a  resident  of  Midlaiul.  Texa^ 
where  he  has  already  gained  great  populanlyr 
and  respect  as  a  journalist  and  lawyer. 

A  LOVER'S  LAMENT.  ] 

I  a  the  love  of  a  maiden  I  once  took  delight.     ; 
But  where  is  the  love  1  once  knew?  i 

Tt  has  gone!    It  has  gone!    For  alas,  the  fan  j 
maid,  ; 

Like  all  of  her  kind,  proved  untrne.  | 

She  said  that  her  love  for  me  would  G"dum    | 
That  love  like  her  love  would  reman..   Lname  j 
But  memory  of    falsehoods  that  sullen  hei 
My  heart  will  forever  retain. 
Her  words  were  spoke  in  jest  I  suppose, 
Mv  words  were  in  earnest  I  know. 
My  gift  was  pure  love,  not  much  you  will  sa> 
•Twas  all  that  I  had  to  bestow. 

She  accepted  a  heart,  an  "'^^f <;"*  *''"''''!'  j,,  I 
A  heart  that  was  trusting  and  t rue .  ta^'"  , 
Having  gained  this,  her  end.  she  turned  the. , 
To  conquests  more  daring  and  new. 
But  fair  maiden  I'll  say,  tho'  now  far  away.  ; 
That  a  lesson  I've  learned,  yes  'tis  true.  j 

When  a  loved  one  is  wanted,  some  other  .    ; 

seek. 
When  a  flirt  is  desired,  I'll  seek  you 


®- 


I.OCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


729 


« 


EDGAR  JACKSON  KLOCK. 

Born:  Schuyler,  N.Y.,  July  1, 18(i;J. 
Edgar  graduated  in  1881  from  the  Fairfield 
academy,  seeuring'  the  Ing-liest  lioiiois  aud 
valediflory  of  his  class.  Realizing-  lliat  liis 
health  would  never  permit  his  entering'  any 
of  the  professions  with  that  vim  as  he  would 
have  liked  to  have  done,  he  declined  Ids  par- 
ents' offer  of  a  college  course,  and  returned 
with  them  to  the  farm,  where  he  lias  since  re- 
sided and  spent  much  of  his  time  in  collecting' 
a  flue  and  extensive  cabinet  of  minerals,  In- 
dian relics,  and  other  curiosities.  In  1888, 
while  editor  of  the  Mohawk  Standard,  a  small 
collector's  paper,  he  published  in  that  sheet 
his  first  poeiu,  with  no  intention  of  continu- 
ing- in  that  line.  Since  then,  at  the  request  of 
friends,  he  has  published  quite  a  number  of 
l)oems  in  the  several  village  and  city  papers 
tif  central  New  York.  Mr.  Klock  resides  within 
twenty  rods  of  his  birthplace. 


LIFE    MOMENTS. 

Creeping-,  creeping-,  oh  how  slow ! 

Waiting,  waiting-,  as  thej^  go; 

So  the  moments  stop  and  ling-er  as  they  build 
each  passing- day, 

To  the  one  whose  heart  is  broken,  never  wish- 
ing them  to  stay. 

Rushing,  rushing,  ah  what  speed; 

Bounding,  bounding,  like  a  steed; 

So  the  fleeting  moments  hasten,  dragging  near- 
er to  the  end. 

Those  who  have  earth's  pleasures  plenty,  era 
wasted  life  to  mend 

Gliding,  gliding,  in  God's  time, 

Passing,  passing,— His  is  mine; 

So  the  Iwippy  moments  ever,  bringing  plea- 
sures one  by  one, 

Pass  to  those  who  learn  to  murmur,  not  my 
will  but  Thine  be  done. 


TWO  PAIRS  OF  EYES. 
Two  men  stood  on  the  summit  of  a  hill. 

The  one,  erect  in  youth  and  fair  of  face. 
In  whom  beauty-  blended  with  strength    to 
prove 
A  worthy  offspring  of  a  noble  race; 
The  other,  bent  with  age,  upon  whose  brow 
The  lines  of  three-score  years  and  ten  were 
seen. 
Types   of   hope   and    wisdom,  thus   together 
stood. 
And   gazed    they   out    across   life's    fickle 
scene. 

The  youth  saw  naught  in   all  those  wid'ning 
fields 


« 


But   pleasure,  to   the   one   who  sought  it 
there. 
For  out  as  far  as  e'en  his  eye  could  reach. 

Were  pleasing  landscapes,  opulent  and  fair; 
On  everj-  hand  were  grass-bound    hills  and 
dales, 
And  plains  bedecked  with  bud  and  bloom  of 
flowers; 
Red  roses,  giving  out  their  rich  perfume. 
Hung-  clustering  'round  the  doors  of  vine-clad 
bowers ; 

Sweet  voiced  brooklets  on  whose  mossy  banks 

You  listen  to  the  music  soft  and  low. 
And  dream  yourdaj'-dreams  as  you  gaze  upon 

The  beauty  of  the  valley  far  below; 
Where  orchards  bend  beneath  their  golden 
loads. 

And  ripening  grain-fields  ripple  in  the  wind, 
And   vineyards    with   their  tendrels  fruited 
deep. 

Around  the  creeking  trellises  entwined. 

All  these  and  more  the  eager  youth  beheld 
Before  him  in  life's  pathway,  as  it  wound 
Out  through    the    world— then  to    a  forest 
came. 
Where  'neath  the  welcome  shade  sweet  rest 
is  found. 

Ah,   foolish,   hopeful  youth,  dost    thou    not 
know 
That  "distance  lends  enchantment  to  the 
view." 
How  think  you  thy  companion  views  those 
things? 
To  him  the  gilded  world  is  not  so  new. 

He  knows  that  mingled  with  the  grass  are 
weeds. 
And    bramble    acrubs    and    nettles    rank 
abound. 
While  on  the  stems  that  bear  the  fragrant 
rose. 
Beneath  the  leaves,  sharp,  biting  thorns  are 
found; 
Across  your  path  the  slimy  serpent  glides. 

Or  spits  and  hisses  at  you  as  you  go. 
And  hidden  with  your  luscious  fruit,  perhaps. 

The  asp  abides  to  strike  its  deadly  blow ; 
But  even  when  you've  found  your  youthful 
dreams 
Where  all  delusions,  yet  have  bravely  made 
A    struggle   onward   through    life's    rugged 
ways. 
And  almost  reached   that  grateful    forest 
shade, — 
Ah,  even  there  are  beasts  of  prey  that  watch 
For  those  who  falterere  they  reach  tliegoal. 
To  drag  them    back   almost   from  Heaven's 
gate, 
Down,  down  to  Hell,— a  lost  and  shattered 
soul. 


■« 


Si- 


(30 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


©- 


SUNLIGHT  DRIVES  THE  MIST  AWAY. 
I  stood  at  night  by  the  river, 

Under  a  storm-cast  sky ; 
The  wind  that  swept  thro'  the  tree  tops, 

Gave  forth  a  disnial  sig-h ; 
Darker  and  black  grew  the  storm-clouds. 

Loud  did  the  thunders  peal, 
Vividly  bright  flashed  the  lightnings. 

That  made  tlie  strong  oaks  reel; 
Angry  and  fierce  did  the  tempest. 

Its  pent-up  wrath  outpour. 
Till  the  river  swelled  to  a  torrent. 

Rushed  by  with  deaf  ning  roar; 
But  I  felt  not  wind  nor  raindrops. 

Against  my  hot  brow  sent. 
For  deep  locked  within  my  bosom, 

A  fiercer  storm  was  pent; 
And  darker  far  than  the  night  storm 

Was  earth  and  life  to  me. 
Till  I  longed  but  for  oblivion 

To  come  and  set  me  free; 
I  longed  for  the  surging  river. 

To  take  me  on  Its  tide. 
And  bear  me  away  to  the  ocean. 

Out  on  its  billows  wide; 
To  forget  and  be  forgotten. 

As  they  who  stop  and  drink 
Of  the  fabled  Lethean  waters. 

And  then  forget  to  think. 
Thus  by  the  river  at  midnight, 

Under  a  storm-cast  sky, 
I  watched  by  the  lightning's  flashes 

The  wild  tide  rushing  by. 
Again  I  stood  by  the  river. 

Under  a  star-lit  sky. 
When  the  storm  had  spent  its  fury. 

And  clouds  had  all  passed  by; 
The  waters  had  ceased  their  tumult. 

The  wind  had  gone  to  rest. 
The  rumbling  thunders  had  sunken 

To  silence  in  the  west; 
I  watched  the  stars  in  the  hCcavens 

Grow  dim  and  fade  away, 
As  up  through  the  eastern  gateway. 

Old  Sol  brought  in  the  day; 
And  as  the  mist  on  the  river. 

Kissed  by  the  morning's  ray. 
Went  floating'  adown  the  valley. 

Then  broke  and  passed  away. 
Just  so  the  gloom  and  the  shadows. 

That  make  our  lives  like  night. 
Will  some  day  lift  and  be  scattered 

By  that  all-piercing  light. 
That  comes  from  beyond  the  tempest. 

Beyond  the  stars  and  sun. 
To  lead  us  home  to  our  Father, 

When  life  and  work  are  done. 
And  thus  I  stood  by  the  river. 

Under  a  morning  sky. 
Unrest  had  gone  with  tiie  tempest, 

God's  love  and  peace  were  nigh. 


HIRAM  HOWARD  BROWNE/ 

Born:  Cornish,  Me.,  Nov.  15, 1838.        : 

After  teaching  school  for  a  while  Mr.  Browne  ' 
studied  law  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  ' 
1863.  Four  years  later  he  was  married  to  Miss . 
Emily  M.  Blazo.  Mr.  Browne  now  resides  iu  I 
Boston  with  his  wife  and  daughter.  Since  hisj 
youth  Mr.  Browne  has  been  an  occasional : 
contributor  of  both  verse  and  prose  to  various 
literary  and  other  publications. 


TO  A  DROP  OF  DEW. 
Pearl  of  the  skies !    Gift  of  the  swarthy  night. 
To  glow  and  sparkle  in  the  misty  light. 
Amid  the  tresses  of  the  fair-haired  morn! 
What  gem  so  rare  her  beautj'  could  adorn? 
For  thou  art  fairer  on  the  grassy  lea. 
Than  were  thy  charming  rival  of  the  sea. 

Now  pendant  shining  on  the  slender  blade. 
Reflecting  tints  in  changing  light  and  shade. 
Of  diamond,  ruby,  emerald,  sapphire,  seen 
Like  tiny  jewels  of  some  fairy  queen  — 
Too  pure  and  beautiful  to  be  of  earth, 
Thou  gem  etherial  had  in  heaven  thy  birth  I 

Spirit  of  purity  wandering  in  disguise, 
With  no  abiding  place  in  earth  or  skies; 
This  morn  a  gem  of  sparkling,  purest  ray; 
This  noon  but  vapor  boundless  space  away— 
At  eve  descending  to  the  earthy  plane. 
At  morn  ascending-  to  the  skies  again! 

Now  heavenward    soaring-   on  the  zephyr's; 

wing—  ; 

Now  sparkling  in  the   depths   of   woodland 

spring  — 
Now  with  the  cloud,  upon  its  steed,  the  wind,; 
Circling  the  world,  new  scenes  and  climes  tci 

find,  j 

Now  in  the  g-littering  crystal  of  the  frost—     ^ 
Now  in  the  ocean  wave  by  tempest  tossed.       ' 

i 
Shining  at  eve  in  sunset's  glory  splendid  — 
Now  in  the  rainbow's  gorgeous  colors  blended,, 
In  sun-lit  shower  now  falling  from  the  sky- 
Now  in  the  tears  of  wan-faced  sorrow's  eye- 
Beginning  now  the  petals  of  the  rose—  ' 

Now  in  the  lily's  cup  seeking  repose.  | 

Thou  thing  etherial  glowing  on  this  flower. 
So  evanescent,  changing  with  the  hour, 
I  fain  would  pluck  thee  in  thy  beauty  rare,  ^  ■ 
To  deck,  in  splendor,  bright  Maude  Marlon'^ 
hair—  ; 

Art  gone!  rude  Eos.  from  its  dainty  cup. 
Like  Egypt's  queen,  has  drunk  her  jewel  up  ; 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


^.® 


'in 


MRS.  ISA  G.  W.  WHITMAN; 

Bokn:  Buckfield,  Me.,  Oct.  ^8,  1849. 
Tnis  lady  has  always  resided   in   her  native 
town,  where  she  was  married  in  1872  to  Alden 
C.  Whitman.    Mrs.  Whitman  has  a  volume  of 
a  iiiivcl  wliich  will  Miipi'iii'  in  |-<'iii     >.;|i,.  |i:i-  1  v\ , , 


MKS.  l.SA  G.  W.  WHITMAN. 

cliildren,  a  sun  and  a  daufrhter.  The  son, 
Plaisted,  who  is  represented  in  this  work,  has 
developed  quite  a  literary  talent,  and  al- 
tlmug-h  but  nine  years  of  ag-e.  several  of  his 
poems  have  received  publication.  Mrs.  Whit- 
man is  considered  a  very  tine  writer. 


THE  FIRST  CHRISTMAS. 
A  solemn  hush  pervaded  all  the  air. 
The  chill,  December    iiijilit    had    passed    its 

noon ; 
Tlie  west  wind  slumbered    in    the    branches 

bare. 
The  clouds  had  fled  the  arrows  of  the  moon. 
The  shepherds,  watchinj?  on  the  Judean  hills 
Their  peaceful  flocks,  that  slumbered  through 

the  night. 
Saw,  ere  the  midnight    liour   had    darkened 

PilSt, 

The  whole  world  silvered    with    a    wondrous 
light. 

The  mystic  glow  o'erflooded  vali'  and  hill. 
The   myriad    stars    withdrew     their     tender 

gleams 
^sif  the  morning  hour  had  come  again. 


And  this  effulgent  glow  was   glad    Aurora's 

beams. 

All  save  one  star,   th.it    swung    its    lump    of 

gold 
Adown  the  East,  afar  oer  Bethlehem's  plain. 
Set  in  the  sky  to  tell  a  wondrous  tale, 
A  signal  light  that  burned  a  jeweled  flame. 
Low  in  the  East,  it  rayed  its  golden  glow 
Above  a  manger,    strewn    with    straw,    and 

hay; 
And  odorous  with   tlie  breath  of  mild-faced 

kine. 
Where  lo!  in  peaceful  sleep,  a  new-born   in- 
fant lay. 

Oh :  mystic  scene,  at  midnight's  holy  hour.' 
Tlie  fair  Madonna,  filled  with  rapturous  awe. 
The  tender  eyes,  upraised  in  silent  prayer. 
The  infant  Jesus,  on  his  bed  of  straw. 

The  wondering  shepherds,    hastening    from 

the  hills. 
The  Magi  of  the  Orient,  kneeling  round. 
Pouring  their  wealth  of  incense,   myrrh  and 

gold. 
All  hailed  Him  King,  whose  brow  was  yet  en- 
crowned. 
While  thus  tliey  knelt,  adown  the  East  came 

swelling. 
The  silvery  cadence  of  the  angel's  hymn; 
That  still  floats  on,  through  centuries   long 

and  dim 
Of  "  Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 
The  stricken  earth  rejoiced,  and  smiled  again. 
This  wonder-birth,  by  Galilee's  dark  wave 
Brought  hope,  to  hearts  long    burdened   by 

despair; 
A  king  had  come  from  Heaven  with  power  to 

save. 
Tlien  afar  and  abroad,  on  this  sacred  niglit. 
From    our   own   briglit   land,  to  the  Jordan's 

flow. 
Let  the  story  of  Jesus  be  told  once  more. 
The  beautiful  story  of  long  ago. 
Yea,  softly  abroad  on  this  holy  night 
From  the  deep  recess  of  each  church's  door. 
From  windows  agleam  witli  tinte<l  light 
Let  the  beautiful  story  be  heard  once  more. 

And  afar  and  away    o'er    the   snow-crowned 

hills. 
Rising,  and  falling,  wiili  mystical  swell. 
With  a  melody  sweet  as  of  singing  birds. 
Ring   the  silvery    chime,   of   the  Christmas 

bells. 
Oh:  tliose  beautiful  chimes  well  1  know. 
For  they  tell  their  own  story  to  me; 
Of  the  babe,  who  was  born  in  a  stall. 
On  the  shores  of  the  d;irk  Galilee. 
Of  the  babe,  who  was  born  in  a  stall. 
Of  the  King,  and  the  Savior  of  men  : 

« 


^ 


732 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    I'OETS    OF  AMERICA. 


How  the  angels  of  God,  at  His  birth 

Sang  of  "  Peace  and  good  will  unto  men." 

Then  hush,  and  your  own  hearts  shall  hear 

What  these  Christmas  bells  say  unto  me; 

Of  the  sweet,  tragic  life,  that  began 

On  the  shores  of  the  darli  Galilee. 

Of  his  earth-life,  so  holy  and  pure. 

That  it  seemed  like  a  beautiful  prayer; 

Or  an  anthem  the  ransomed  might  chant, 

In  those  mansions  all  shming  aM  fair. 

Oh !  the  peal  of  the  bells,  soft  and  low. 

As  tlie  murmur  of  waves  on  tlie  shore; 

Swelling  out  to  a  jubilant  chime. 

As  they  tell  the  sweet  story  once  more. 

And  to-day,  as  T  list  to  their  peals. 

The  thought  is  borne  in  upon  me. 

That  as  bells,  we  are  tossed  to  and  fro. 

By  the  waves  of  life's  stormy  sea. 

And  the  thought  tlirilled  its  way  to  my  Heart, 

Our  lives,  are  but  prints  in  the  sand; 

Which  the  tide  of  Time  sweepeth  away. 

As  it  breaks  on  eternity's  strand. 

Let  us  cling  to  the  dear  wounded  side. 

Let  us  anchor  our  boat  to  the  cross; 

Then  laugh  at  the  wild  surges'  roar. 

Nor  fear,  thougli  our  barque's  tempest-tossed. 

For  the  anchor  of  faith  holds  secure: 

And  the  white  sails  rock  safe  on  the  bay. 

And  they  need  not  the  light  of  the  sun 

Who  bask  in  the  white  throne's  ray. 


ROBERT  F.SRILLIXGS. 

Born:  Cdshing's  Island,  Me..  Oct.  31, 1819. 
Mr.  Skillings  has  always  lived  in  the  im- 
mediate vicinity  of  his  birth-place,  with  the 
exception  of  some  eight  months  spent  in 
Eastport,  and  two  voyages  to  the  West  Indies. 
He  is  very  popular  wherever  he  is  known. 


A  MORNING  PRAYER. 
As  this  new  morning  I  awake, 
I  pray  Tliee  Lord,  for  Jesus'  sake. 
Help  me,  by  wisdom  from  above. 
Through  all  this  day  to  dwell  in  love. 


SB- 


JULY. 
A  very  pleasant  month  is  this 

To  be  in  a  country  town. 
The  sunlight  doth  tlie  foliage  kiss. 
Each  verdant  leaflet  beams  with  bliss, 

I  see  not  one  that's  brown. 
Fresh  zephyrs  fan  the  thrifty  trees 

The  oaks,  the  elms,  the  willows. 
The  lake's  face  caressed  by  the  breeze 
In  imitation  of  the  seas. 

Is  flecked  with  tiny  billows. 


PLAISTED  WHITMAN. 

Born  :  Buckfield,  Me.,  1880. 
Although  but  nine  years  of  age.  Plaisted, 
son  of  Mrs.  Isa  Gertrude  Whitman,  has  writ-i 


PLAISTED    WHITMAN. 

ten  quite  a  few  poems.    He   is   very   far  ad 
vanced  in  his  studies,  and  is  a  rollicking  boy. 


GOOD  NIGHT. 
Good-night,  good-night  to  the  daisies! 
Good-night  to  every  one; 
Oh !  the  dew  is  falling 
And  homeward  I  must  run. 
Out  of  the  sweet,  sweet  meadow. 
Out  of  the  waving  grass. 
Where  the  buttercups  and  the  daisies 
Nod  to  me  as  they  pass. 
And  a  little  twinkling  star 
Comes  peeping  out  of  the  sky; 
Just  as  a  little  bird 
To  its  nest  flits  by. 
The  little  bird  begins  to  sing 
Twit-twee,  twit-twee,  twit-twoo: 
He  seems  to  say,  ••  I  am  going  to  my  nest, 
Will  you  come  with  me.  with  me." 

THE  MOUNTAIN    ROSES. 
Among  the  hills  the  mountain  roses 
Drink  the  dew,  as  day  reposes; 
And  .softly  wake,  when  dawns  tiip  morn. 
And  on  tlie  Eastern  hills  the  day  is  hiirii. 
When  from  behind  the  clouds  the  sun  comi 

Mill 
peeping,  ^ 

Andin  the  fields  of  grain  the  men  are  rca; 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK  AMERICA. 


7.'i3 


« 


JOHN  FRANKLIN  BRILEY. 

Born:  Marshall, Mo.,  June  9, 1869. 
At  the  age  of  fifteen  Mr.  Briloy  contributed 
to  the  St.  Louis  papers,   and  lias  since  tluit 
time  written   verse    for    niiniorous    piiblica- 


Jcni.N  F1{.\NKLIN    BUILEV. 

tioiis.  He  is  al.so  an  artistic  penman  and  re- 
ceived a  prize  at  Chicago  In  1887  for  the  best 
pendrawin;4-.  Mr.  Briiey  is  secretary  of  the 
local  lodjre  of  the  Farmer's  Alliance  at  Lamar 
in  his  native  state. 


IS  LIFE  WORTH  LIVING? 

Is  life  worth  living?  Go  ask  a  pair 
Whose  heads  are  crowned  with  silver  hair, 
Who,  hand  in  hand  down  the  stream  of  life 
Have  gone  together  through  joy  and  strife, 
Who  lived  not  for  self,  but  others  to  bless  — 
Go  ask   if  of   them  and    they'll  answer  you 

■•yes." 
Is  life  worth  living?  Go  ask  a  tramp 
Whose  state  of  manhood  is  of  lowest  stamp. 
Who  has  spent  his  life  in  idle  crime  — 
Whose  record  is  dark  and  not  sublime. 
Whose  home  is  out  in  the  rain  and  the  snow; 
Go  question  him  thus  and  lie'll  answer  you 

••  no." 
Is  life  worth  livitig?  Go  ask  the  saint 
\Vlio  has  lived  llnough  life  without  complaint 
And  knows  the  source  of  all  his  joy. 
And  his  happiness  is  without  alloy. 
And  his  last  of  earth  is  drawing  nigh ; 
Go  ask  it  of  him  and  he'll  answer  j-ou  ••  aye." 


Is  life  worth  Jiving?    Go  ask  the  rake 

Who  has   lived   through  life    for  pleasure's 

sake. 
Who  has  no  love  but  for  the  gilded  saUxm 
And  to  his  friends  a  curse,  but  never  a  boon. 
And  his  race  through  life  is  ebbing  low. 
Go  ask  it  of  him  and  he'll  answer  you  ••  no." 

Is  life  worth  living?  Go  ask  the  birds 

That    pipe    from   their   throats    the   musical 

words 
That  cheers  the  sad  heart  and  soothes  ttie  dull 

ear, 
And  drives  from  our  bosoms  the  burdens  of 

care. 
And  they  breathe  forth  joy  but  never  a  sigh; 
Go  ask  it   of  them  and  they'll  answer  you 

"aye." 


TWO  SCHOOL  GIRLS. 

With  arms  linked  together,  a  coming  thro' 
the  meadow. 

And  tripping  so  lightly  that  they  scarce  can 
be  heard, 

And  pushing  before  them  a  calm  air  of  sweet- 
ness 

That  is  very  far  superior  to  the  most  musical 
bird. 

One  with  hair  like  the  sunset,  though  a  little 
more  dimmer. 

That  falls  on  her  forehead  so  smooth  and  so 
fair 

In  many  short  ringlets.  (One  graces  our 
scrap-book 

And  has  a  magical  power  of  driving  off  care.) 

The  other  with  tresses  as  jet  as  a  raven 

Though  minus  the  card.s,  'tis  treasured  as 
high 

When  cut  off  and  lied  u|>  with  a  little  red  rib- 
bon. 

And  given  a  fiiciid  for  remembrance  for  aye. 

With  arms  linked  together  they  would  thus 
cross  the  meadow  [lane. 

Because  it  was  nearer  than  the  long  muddy 

With  a  little  low  school  house  at  the  end  of 
their  journey. 

Where  we  gathered  each  day,  whether  sun- 
shine or  rain. 

And  day  after  day,  at  each  iutermi.ssion 

The  boys  to  tliese  girls  would  instinctively 
draw  near,  [voices 

And  listen  with  fondness,  to  the  kind  loving 

That  was  sweeter  than  nnisic  to  each  listen- 
ing ear. 

But  at  last  came  the  day  of  the  sad,  tearful 
parting  — 

The  last  day  of  school, 'twas  the  saddest  of  all. 

But  deep  in  our  heart  is  a  warm  spt)t  allotted 

To  those  two  pleasant  school  girls,  whom  we 
often  recall. 


-« 


*- 


734 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMBHICA. 


ISAAC  BASSETT  CHOATE. 

Born  :  Naples,  Me.,  July  13,  1833. 

After  graduating  in  1863  at  Bowdoin  coUeg-e, 
Isaac  then  studied  law  and  was  admitted 
to  the  bar  three  years  later.  Mr.  Choate  has 
written  nearly  a  hundred  poems  wliich  have 
received  publication,  and  has  also  written 
considerable  prose.  He  is  now  a  resident  of 
Boston,  Mass. 


®- 


THB  DOOM  OF  ESCOUBLAC. 

The  ang-ry  winds  come  fierce  and  strong-,— 
Blow  fresh  from  off  the  western  sea, 

And  rave  around  the  cliffs  along: 
The  coast  of  Brittany. 

The  white  sea-foam  is  upward  borne. 
And  wildly  driven  before  the  gale. 

Like  flying  shreds  of  canvas  torn 
Off  from  a  tattered  sail. 

The  waves  break  round  the  rocks  that  stand 
Like  giant  warders  old  and  gray; 

Tliey  chase  each  other  up  the  sand. 
Within  the  curving  bay. 

In  clefts  the  cedars  rooted  fast 
Lean  landward  with  a  frightened  look. 

As  if  with  terror  of  the  blast 
Their  withering  branches  shook. 

And  on  the  shore  the  shining  sands 
Are  piled  in  dunes  or  smoothed  to  plains. 

As  thougli  unseen,  unresting  hands 
Were  turning  countless  grains. 

Those  shifting  sands  turn  evermore 
Only  one  way,  like  drifting  snow. 

The  breezes  blowing  off  that  shore 
So  soft  and  gently  go. 

Over  moist  meadow  lands  they  pass  — 
Those  creeping  sands  — with  stealthly  care, 

Where  larks  nest  in  the  tufted  grass. 
And  flowers  scent  the  air. 

They  fill  the  ditches  in  the  field 
And  tiiirsty  drink  the  runnels  dry. 

To  drought  the  flag  and  iris  yield. 
The  lilies  droop  and  die. 

Tlie  meadow  to  a  desert  turns. 
Above  its  cold,  wet,  springy  earth 

The  glittering-  sand  in  summer  burns 
Like  embers  on  the  hearth. 

Upon  the  slope  the  orchard  trees 
Sliow  only  brandies  bleaching  white, 

Beneatli  the  sand  tlie  trunks  of  these 
Are  hidden  from  tlie  sight. 

And  many  a  low  straw-tli'atchcd  abode 

Of  village  folic  and  flslier  crew, 
Tliat  used  to  line  a  winding-  road. 

Has  vanished  from  tlie  view. 


Only  the  chapel  spire  now  stands 
Where  stood  the  hamlet  ages  back 

Above  the  sifting,  sliding  sands 
That  cover  Escoublac. 

The  neighbors  still  a  tale  repeat. 
Told  of  a  winter's  evening  wild. 

When  wandered  through  that  village  street 
A  beggar  and  his  child. 

They  asked  for  shelter  from  the  storm  — 

The  furious  storm  from  off  the  bay  — 
From  every  cosy  cabin  warm 

The  two  were  turned  away. 
And  when  they  stood  in  helpless  plight, 

Tlieir  prayer  refused  at  every  door. 
The  old  man  plucked  three  hairs  so  white 

And  blew  them  toward  the  shore. 
And  ever  since,  instead  of  rains. 

Instead  of  feathery  flakes  of  snow. 
Those   blasts    have    brought    sharp   cutting 
grains 

Of  sand  when  e'er  they  blow. 


SELMA  WARE  PAINE. 

Born:  Bangor,  Maine.  | 

Miss  Paine  still  resides  in  her  native  toivu  '. 
with  her  father,  Hon.  Albert  W.  Paine.  Miss 
Paine  has  written  quite  a  few  poems  that  • 
have  received  publication,  all  of  which  have  ' 
been  well  and  favorably  commented  upon. 


SINGING  PRAISES. 
They  pictured  heaven  in  by-gone  days 

With  angel  hosts  that  sang 
For  aye  and  aye  the  Maker's  praise. 
While  all  along  the  heavenly  ways 

The  harps  celestial  rang. 
But  now  a  century  more  wise 

Kejects  the  simple  lore; 
And  yet  perchance  within  it  lies 
A  truth  from  wise  and  prudent  eyes, 

Concealed  as  once  of  yore. 
What  fragrant  fields  the  angel  feet 

May  tread,  I  do  not  know; 
Wliat  words  the  angel  lips  repeat, 
Wliat  seeds  of  kindness  fair  and  sweet 

The  angel  bauds  may  sow. 
But  this  I  know,  the  heart  that  stays 

On  earth,  and  bears  its  part. 
And  sings  the  while  its  Maker's  praise 
On  stormy  and  on  sunny  days— 

That  is  1  he  heavenly  heart. 
I  think  when  such  a  lieart  is  freed 

From  cumbering  clay,  that  where 
The  tlunight  and  love  are  word  and  deed, 
rnoonseiously,  its  grateful  need 

Will  change  to  music  there. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


in3 


® 


LEWIS  J.EARLY. 

Born:  Pellvilde,  Ky.,  Feb.  2,  18(!5. 
SevekAl  works  have  been  written  and  pub- 
lished by  Lewis  ,7.  Early  under  the  noni  (U; 
plume  of  Markus   Pillsberry,  which  are  of  a 


LEWIS  J.   EARLY. 

liumorous  character.  His  poems  have  appear- 
ed in  many  prominent  journals,  and  he  is  now 
editor  of  tiie  News  Workl,  published  at  Hawes- 
ville,  Ky.  In  person  Mr.  Early  is  rather  tall, 
but  of  good  stature. 


ON  THE  OHIO  RIVER. 
All  quiet  along  the  Ohio  to-day,— 

No  cry  save  the  .scream  of  the  crane, 
As  he  murders  the  fish  on  the  farther  shore, 

Wliile  he  tramps  in  the  sand  and  the  rain. 
All  peaceful  to-day  on  the  river  shore. 

All  silent  along-  the  white  .sand; 
But  swiftly  and    smoothly  the  boats  glide 
along, 

'Mong  the  billows  so  proudly  and  grand. 
All  quiet  along  tlie  Ohio  this  eve, 

Tiie  murmuring  waters,  liow  clear! 
While  sadly  we  gaze  on  each  saudy  reef. 

And  sigh  for  the  ones  who  are  here. 
Listless  and  still  are  the  leaves  on  the  trees,— 

For  the  autumn  has  called  again. 
And  on  thee  we  gaze,  dear  Ohio,  with  these. 

And  long  for  the  cool  'f  resiling  rain. 
All  quiet  along  the  Ohio  to-night,— 

The  night  winds  l)low  coldly  and  drear. 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  thy  bosom  again, 

And  the  niglit-bird  we  distantly  hear. 
Thou  dost  not  forsake  us,  Ohio,  thou'rt  here. 

And  on  thee  we  fondly  will  gaze. 


Till  death  shall  call  for  us  and  take  us  away 
To  moulder  to  dust  in  the  grave. 

Then    proudly  thy    waves    on    the    farther 
shore, 

Will  tell  of  the  dear  ones  who  ai'e  gone. 
And  gently  thy  ripples  I'oU  proudly  away 

To  join  in  the  murmuring  song. 

Then  silent  and  sadly  along  the  dear  stream, 
Our  friends  will  in  memtiry  come 

To  gaze  on  thy  bosom,  losing  the  sad  song 
Of  the  loved  ones  who've  gone  to  their 
home. 


MRS.  MARCIA  M.SISCO. 

Born:  Steuben  Co.,  N.Y.,May31,  18:32. 
Mrs.  Sisco  has  written  both  prose  and  verse, 
and  her  poems  have  received  publication  in 
the  local  press.    She  now  resides  in  Pomeroy, 
Iowa. 


AN  APPEAL  TO  LIBERTY. 

Spirit  of  love  unstring  yi)ur  golden  harp 
And  lay  it  down  before  the  eternal  throne; 
Then  bow  thy  head  and  plead  with  liberty. 
To  uuglove  her  hands  and  then  unveil  her 

face. 
And  look  with  naked  eyes  upon  her  sword  — 
Red  with  oppression's  l)lood;  then  trace 
With  naked  hands  the  many  names 
Written  upon  the  surface  of  her  throne. 
In  raised  letters  so  bold  and  prominent 
That  they  can  be  Ijoth  seen  and  felt; 
And  there  are  pictures,  too,  wrought  by  her 

hand  — 
Pictures  of  men  —  good,  honest  men— 
With  daggers  at  their  throats  — 
Because  of  unbelief  in  Christian  creeds; 
Nurslingsof  tyranny —offsprings  of  misery, 

too. 
Held  in  the  lap  of  ignorance  and  crime. 
And  drawing  at  the  paps  of  foul  disease. 
Their  souls  baiitised  at  the  dark,  dismal  fount 
Of  sin  and  death.    And  most  of  them 
Crushed  by  heavy  burdens  unmerciful  to  bear, 
And  boutid  in  menial  chains  of  .servitude 
Before  earth's  monieii  kings.    And  now. 
Oh!  tyranny,  clothed  in  free<lom's  robes  — 
Wearing  ui)on  thy   cur.sed  brow  the  starry 

crown. 
And  holding  in  thy  strong  right  hand 
The  key  to  prison  walls,  and  in  thy  left 
The  flowing  bowl  —  thine  armor  stain|)ed 
With  customs,  creeds  and  dogmas  — 
But  wholly  void  of  Gods  almighty  truth; 
Ope  wide  the  dtxirsof  nature's  gilded  halls 
And  bathe  their  guilty  .soids 
With   the    pure    bracing    air    of     freedom's 

bowers. 


-* 


SB: 


736 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


© 


Then  take  the  gloves  that  have,  for  ages  past, 
Covered  the  treachery  of  thy  blood-staiued 

hands. 
And  wipe  thy  hloody  sword  — then  sprinkle  it 
With  gold  dust  from  the  streets X)f  freedom's 

heaven ; 
Then  stand  before  thy  throne  of  burnished 

gold 
And  there  behold,  written  by  demons'  hands, 
Upon  its  brazon  front,  "The  lust  of  power;" 
Then  look  above,  below,  on  either  side, 
Thou  monstrous  vulture  of  all  civiHties, 
And  see  the  different  titles  thou  hast  held  — 
The  different  garbs  you've  worn ; 
The  different  chains  you've  forged  about  the 

necks 
Of  slavery  by  tyranny,  oppression,  despotism, 

mammon, — 
And  worst  of  all,  by  creeds.    Then  draw  aside 
The  drapery  of  thy  curtained  throne  and  there 

behold 
The  piles  upon  piles  of  heaped  up  skeletons. 
Which  thou,  with  ax,  and  rope,  and  sword,  and 

gun. 
And  prison  walls,  have  slain  in  the  name 
Of  Christian  liberty.    Turn  now  thine  eyes, 
Exalting  tyranny,  thou  low  vituperation 
Of  fair  liberty,  and  look  upon  the  lowest  of 

thy  sons 
Whose  mind  is  fettered  v/ith  stale  ignorance, 
Whose  body  daily  feeds  on  bread  alone, 
Whose  soul  has  never  yet  been  satisfied. 
Albeit  his  hands  are  rough  with  honest  toil, 
He  stands  a  moral  blot  upon  the  foremost  page 
Of  nature's  book.  Now  go  from  this  low  speeia 
Of  thy  native  law  to  the  weird  denizens  of  the 

damned. 
And  there  behold  the  brilliant  minds  on  flre. 
The  loathsome,  bloated,  reeling  human  form 
That  hold  those  minds,  and  hear  the  frenzied 

oaths, — 
The  kicks,  the  cuffs,  the  midnight  pistol  shots, 
And  watch  the  flowing  of  the  crimson  stream 
That  once  did  feed  a  soul  as  pure  as  they  — 
Who  bow  before  the  throne  of  the  most  high. 
And  plead  with  dissipation.    Turn  now  thine 

eyes 
From  this  revolting  scene  of  loathsome  fllth 
To  mad  insanity  in  all  its  varied  forms, 
From  minds  where  reason  comes  and  goes  at 

will 
To  those  who  ever  wail  In  utter  darkness. 
And  from  bright  youth  unto  the  faded  crone 
Whose  af^pirations  once  leaped  mountain  high, 
Arched  by  the  bow  of  promise  spite  of  doubts, 
Clothed  in  thegorgeous  hues  of  high,  resolves 
Led  on  by  faitli  while  hope  lield  higli  her  hand 
And  pointed  forward  to  the  final  goal. 
Look !  look  upon  the  highest  of  God's  works. 
Wrecked  and  worse  than  slaughtered  by  thy 

hand. 


«- 


Shut  up  in  prisons,  dark  and  damp  and  cold. 
Or  in  the  madhouse  gnawing  at  their  chains 
Until  their  teeth  are  keenly  set  on  edge; 
Or  worse  than  all,  drinking  the  flery  draught 
Of  earth  deluded  hell  holes  deep  and  dark. 
While  thus  you  stand  within  hell's  open  jaws 
And  scan  the  miseries  of  oppression's  chains. 
Trample  the  gaudy  crown  beneath  thy  feet 
Which  thou  hast  worn  with  such  an  empty 

grace, — 
Brush  from  thy  robes  the  vile  corroding  dust 
Of  foul  deceit, —  then  sprinkle  them 
With  mercy's  sparkling  gems  of  human  love; 
Tear  down  the  tottering  pillows  of  thy  throne. 
Which  stand    upon     the    shaky,   crumbling 

sands 
Of  dead  men's  bones  already  rotten  — 
Not  from  the  lapse   of   time,  but   from   the 

stench 
Arising  from  the  wasted,  stagnant  blood    . 
Of  honest  men.    Wash  well  thy  bloody  hands 

at  nature's  fount 
And  cleanse  the  inner  temple  of  thy  throne 
With   the   bright   glowing    fires    of    human 

rights. 
Then  hie  away  to  the  beautiful  hills  of  God, 
And  there  behold  the  progeny  of  all  below  thy 

race. 
Feeding  on  Uving  pastures  bright  and  green, 
Drinking  deep  at  the  fount  of  natural  life, 
All  living  out  the  order  of  God's  laws 
In  perfect  harmony  on  their  native  plain; 
Look  and  compare  and  then  say,  if  you  can, 
My  creeds,  my  customs  and  my  laws  are  just; 
Next  roll  away  the  stone  from  nature's  tomb 
And  there  behold  wrapped  in  a  little  napkin 

pure  and  white. 
And  lain  away  for  future  use 
The  holy  principles  of  justice,  love  and  truth, 
At  which  the  world  still  scoffs  and  wags  its 

head 
And  spits  upon  and  crowns  with  thorns. 
And  crucifies  and  tries  to  kill,  but  which. 
Though  crushed  to  earth,  will  ever  rise  again 
In  spite  of  all  the  hellish  powers  that  crush  it 

down, 
And  still  proclaim  the  truth,  and  truth  alone 
Shall  make  you  free.    And  now,  O  tyranny. 
But  liberty,so-called,lurking  within  the  house 

of  holy  creeds. 
Cast  off  thy  monarch  crown  of  shining  gold 
And  bow  before  the  throneof  human  rights 
And  there  confess  t  h.v  sins.    Show  to  mankind 
That  he  who'd  save  the  world  must  save  him- 
self 
By  living  out  his  own,  his  innate  laws, 
Wiiich  are  the  only  way-marks  on  the  road 
Leading  up  to  wisdom's  lioly  mount 
And  the  unfoldment  of  the  spirit  man 
To  future  peace  and  universal  love 
Throughout  the  vast  domains  of  spirit  worlds. 


« 


SB- 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


737 


® 


LEANDER  S.  KEYSER. 

Born:  Tuscarawas  Co.,  O.,  March  13,  185T. 
At  the  age  of  sixteen  Mr.  Keyser  first  taught 
school;  and  later  combined  teaching  and  ed- 
ucating himself  with  the  money  he  thus  earn- 
ed. Having  taken  a  theological  course,  he 
took  charge  of  the  EngUsh  Lutheran  church 
at  Elkhart,  Ind.,  where  he  remained  for  near- 
ly sixyears.  T;l•^■.  K('>-  '-l"  'ilwayshadan 
intense  lo\e  I'M  lii cr.K  muny  poetic 


LEANDER  S.  KEYSER. 

effusions  emanated  from  his  pen  from  time 
to  time.  He  has  also  written  many  stories, 
and  in  1886  his  first  serial,  The  Only  Way  Out, 
was  published,  which  was  followed  two  years 
later  by  anotherone  entitled  Epochs  of  a  Life. 
Mr.  Keyser  now  resides  at  Springfield,  Ohio, 
where  he  is  well  known  as  a  clergyman  of 
good  standing. 

BRIC-A-BRAC. 
Judith,  that  glove  is  much  too  tight; 
It  presses  your  hand  so  pure  and  white. 
If  I  should  press  your  hand  for  you 
As  that  kid  glove,  what  would  you  do? 
Dear  Judith,  let  us  go  to  the  woodland  to-day. 
And  sit  on  the  bank  of  the  lonesome  rill ; 
I     And  Pan,  the  god  of  those  shadows  gay, 
I     Shall  rule  our  hearts  at  his  own  sweet  will. 
I     We  will  need  no  book  of  jingles  and  rhymes, 
I     For  love  will  sing  in  her  sweetest  tone, 
I     And  the  birds  will  warble  their  liquid  chimes 
\i 


And  you,  dear  Judith,  shall  be  my  own. 
I'd  like  to  hear  the  Jingle  of  atoms  in  a  wave 

of  light. 
Or  the  sonnet  of  roses  as  they  throw  their 

colors  upon  the  siglit, 
The  melody  of  the  frost  as  it  forms  upon 

the  window-pane, 
And  the  song  of  the  sap  as  it  courses  the  veins 

of  the  grass  and  the  growing  grain. 
The  little  child  with  wistful  eye 
Stretches  his  hand  out  toward  the  sky ; 
He  sees  and  wants  the  distant  moon. 
And  weeps  that  he  cannot  have  the  boon. 
We  larger  children  from  day  to  day 
Are  wanting  objects  too  far  away. 
Once  I  held  to  my  ear  a  beautiful  shell, 
And  I  heard  the  song  of  the  far-off  sea. 
So  I  list  to  my  soul,  and  I  hear  f  uU  well 
The  song  of  its  native  eternity. 
And  I  think :  as  the  shell  belongs  to  the  sea, 
And  cannot  forget  its  home  in  the  wave. 
So  my  yearning  soul — this  immortal  Me — 
Belongs  to  the  home  yon-side  of  the  grave, 

THE  AESTHETIC  SEARCH. 
Somewhere  I  knew  she  was,  for  I  had  caught 
Quick  glimpses  of  the  damsel  whom  I  sought. 
Her  figure  was  divinely  fair  of  mould. 
Her  tresses  flashed  in  purple  and  in  gold; 
Her  eyes  had  stolen  of  the  vaulted  blue. 
Her  cheeks  the  crimson  of  the  rose's  hue. 
But  when  I  sought  her  with  a  rapture  rare. 
My  Virgin  Bt'autiful  was  otherwhere. 
I  wandered  into  groves  of  living  green,  [seen. 
Where  traces  of  her  marvelous  touch  were 
A  moment  she  appeared,  and  then  she  fled. 
Like  some  poor  startled  nymph,  with  noise- 
less tread. 
Amid  ambrosial  gardens  then  I  sought 
With  hope  and  strong  desire;  for  I  thought: 
«»  Surely  among  the  flowers  she  will  be!" 
I  saw  her  form  and  ran  to  bend  the  knee. 
To  worship  at  her  shrine ;  but  quick  the  maid 
Fled  wildly  from  my  clasp  as  if  afraid 
My  touch  were  vile ;  and  then  I  turned  away, 
And  fairest  flowers  were  nauseous  tliat  day. 
And  then  I  scanned  the  heavens ;  but  every 

star 
Shimmered  at  once :    •'  Thy  quest  is  much  too 

far!" 
And  aU  the  constellations  chorused  thus : 
"Thou  wilt  not  find  the  Virgin  here  with  us !" 
And  then  among  the  master  men  of  song 
I  made  my  search  and  tarried  with  them  long. 
And  thought  the  damsel  was  in  my  embrace. 
Feeling  her  luscious  breath  upon  my  face 
As  o'er  the  rythmic  page  we  bent  and  read. 
Alas  1  e'en  as  the  minstrels  sang  she  fled. 
And  from  the  verse  that  erst  had  thrilled  me  so 
I  turned  with  loathing  and  with  hopeless  woe. 
»•  I  ne'er  shall  find  my  sweet  ideal  bride. 
My  Mistress  of  the  Beautiful  I"    I  cried, 


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LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


Upon  my  knees  I  plead  until  the  dawn : 
•I  O  heaven !  whither  hath  the  Virgin  gone? 
•'Where  shall  I  find,  how  may  1  ever  win 
The  counterpart  of  longings  here  within?" 
Long  while  I  knelt  and  waited  for  reply. 
Until  at  last  a  voice  broke  from  the  sky : 
"  First  cleanse  thy  soul,  thy  thought,  oh  man 

from  sin. 
Then  seek  the  object  of  thy  quest  witiun. 
"Ne'er  in  external  things  is  found  the  goal 
Till  moral  beauty  reigns  within  the  soul. 
"And  if  thou  keep  her  there,   she  e'er  will  be 
A  holy,  sweet  companion  unto  thee. 
"And  then  in  song,aud  flower,and  leaf,  and  sky 
Her  image  fair  thy  vision  shall  descry," 
And  tlius  I  sought— I  need  no  more  repine, 
I  found  her,  wooed  her,  won  her,  she  is  mine. 


LEANDER  COX  HOWE. 

Born:  Mayslick,  Ky.,  Nov.  15, 1866. 
As  a  minister  of  the  gospel,  Mr.  Howe  has  ex- 
perienced fair  success.  He  is  very  fond  of 
literature,  and  hopes  at  no  distant  date  to  de- 
vote the  greater  part  of  his  time  to  literary 
woi-k.  The  Rev.  Howe  has  written  poetry 
from  his  youth,  and  will  present  a  volume  of 
his  poems  to  the  public  in  book-form  at  an 
early  date.  He  is  at  present  located  at  Poplar 
Plains,  in  his  native  state. 


©- 


STAR-THOUGHTS  BY  TWILIGHT. 

The  purple  glory  of  the  dying  day 
Reflects  its  luster  on  the  sky  above. 

While  deep  down  in  my  heart  their  lies 
The  precious  gift — first  love. 

0  gift  divine  that  thou  art  mine; 
Let  sacred  be  the  trust 

Until  tlie  soul  is  lost  in  love, — 
The  mortal  lost  in  dust. 

1  see  afar  a  silver  star. 
Bright  jewel  in  the  blue, 

As  is  its  light  true  to  old  night, — 

My  love  is  true  to  you. 
Behold  another  brilliant  star 

111  azure  realms  of  space. 
It  twinkled  for  the  ages  gone 

On  many  a  faded  race. 
And  so  when  we  have  oaid  the  debt, 

That  mortals  ne'ei  can  miss. 
Still  other  eyes  will  sec  tiiat  star 

In  distant  years  from  this. 
Behold  a  lustrous  si.ster  star, 

High  o'er  the  old  churdi  spire, 
A  thousand  eyes  ujiori  tliis  night 

Its  beauty  may  admire. 
I  see  anotlicr  golden  light 

Hung  out  in  realms  on  high, 


And  by  decree  eternal 
Its  light  can  never  die. 

0  see  a  distant  shining  star! 
Its  light  may  gently  fall 

Upon  a  mother's  grave — 

In  life  who  was  your  all. 
To-night  upon  the  far-oflf  hill. 

Where  starlight  diamonds  glisten. 
There  comes  no  echo  from  the  grave- 
Though  millions  of  us  listen. 
We  love  to  look  upon  that  star 

That  casts  its  rays  below. 
To  decorate  a  motlier's  grave 

With  jewels  in  the  snow. 
While  looking  at  that  sacred  star. 

We  love  to  think  of  this: 
Her  spirit  may  be  drinking  in 

Its  beauty  that  we  miss. 
The  stars  look  down  from  realms  of  blue 

Upon  the  lonely  molds. 
Where  long  have  slept  the  bodies 

Of  many  noble  souls. 

1  see  another  golden  star 
Which  smiles  in  fairy  blue,— 

'Tis  sweet  to  think  of  her  we  love. 

Whose  looking  at  it  too ; 
Its  rays  reflect  the  beauty 

That  to  her  nature  gave. 
And  tlicn  we  breathe  out  gently: 

All  is  not  in  the  grave. 
Sweet  raem'ry  brings  to  mind 

A  happy  hour  just  now. 
That  self-same  star  was  shining  when 

We  made  loves  fondest  vow. 
O  may  that  star  forever  shine 

Down  from  the  blue  above! 
And  fill  all  blissful  hearts 

With  nature's  truest  love. 
O  yonder  is  a  fatal  star  — 

One  tliat  we  ought  to  hate; 
'Tis  said  that  those  born  under  it 

Arc  wedded  unto  fate. 
So  well  did  Gloster's  bastard  youth 

In  Sliakespeare's  i>lay  make  fun 
Of  all  these  planetary  fates 

That  through  the  ages  run. 
Dear  reader  please  remember  this. 

And  read  King  Lear  to  see. 
That  stars  are  not  resi)onsible 

For  what  we  seem  to  be. 
The  meanest  villain  drawing  breath— 

Or  vicious  rake  of  eart  h. 
Fair  Venus  may  have  .smiled  ui>on 

The  cradle  of  their  bn-lh : 
The  purest  saint  that  ever  lived, 

Whose  life  no  vice  did  mar. 
For  ought  wo  know,  may  have  I)een  born 

Beneath  that  very  star. 


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LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


;3'j 


MRS.MARTHAWINTERMUTE 

Born:  Delaware  Co.,  Ohio,  Sept.  C,  1843. 
This  lady's  work,  entitled  Eleven  Women 
and  Thirteen  Men  and  other  works,  contains 
a  beautiful  story  in  prose,  and  a  collection  of 
her  finest  poems.  The  book  is  a  very  fine  one 
and  has  had  an  extensive  sale.    Mrs.  Winter- 


MHS.    .MARTHA   WIN'TERMUTE. 

mute's  poems  have  appeared  in  the  Youth's 
Companion,  and  a  number  of  other  journals 
equally  as  prominent.  She  was  married  in 
ISti:?,  and  now  resides  in  Newark,  Ohio,  en- 
gaged in  literary  work. 


LAURELS. 


©■ 


Victory  men  do  not  inherit; 

Keep  not  back  the  wreaths  of  merit. 

That  become  the  conqueror's  brow  — 
Laurels:  ask  not  what  tliey  cost, 

Go  win  thou ! 
If  thou  gainest  fame's  fair  chaplet, 

Let  it  live. 
"  Unto  liim  that  overcometh 

I  will  give." 
Of  the  lip  that  strangely  weareth 
Wreaths  of  peace,  while  spirit  beareth 

Sorrows  dark  and  sins  that  mar  — 
Laurels:  ask  not  what  they  speak  — 

Wliat  of  war? 
But  the  grace  tliat  overcometh 
Go  thou  seek! 


It  is  conquest  if  thou  find 

Peace  of  mind. 
There  be  laurels  never  given 
Until  wars  and  storms  have  driven 
Heart  and  mind  and  soul  to  rest. 
As  the  blooming  flowers  are  laid 

On  deatli's  breast. 
Yet  make  thou  thy  life  victorious, 

Tliou  may'st  win 
What  is  more  than  eartlily  honor,— 

Strength  within. 


MY  DREAM. 

I  chanced  to-day  so  near  to  that  land. 
Where  the  loved  and  immortal  dwell, 

That  I  felt  the  clasp  of  a  spirit  hiind. 
And  heard  what  her  lips  would  tell. 

I  caught  from  a  soul  a  cherished  wish. 

And  it  seemed  akin  to  care. 
Too  deep,  too  subtile  for  song  like  this. 

It  was  shaped  in  a  realm  so  fair. 

'Twas  a  longing  quest  for  a  heart  astray, 

And  lost  in  this  world  of  sin. 
She  fain  would  be  .sending-  my  soul  away. 

Praying  and  calling  him  in. 

You  see  her  earthly  love  was  riven 
By  the  shaft  of  the  archer  —  death 

As  she  lingers  and  waits  at  the  gate  of 
heaven, 
This  quest  seems  her  vital  breath. 

A  Magdalene,  now  pure  and  free  — 
I  once  helped,  swept  silently  near. 

And  kissed  my  eyelids,  with  lips,  to  me, 
Tliat  seemed  like  the  drop  of  a  tear. 

So  pitiful  soft  and  tender  with  love  — 

I  cared  not  to  lift  them  to  see. 
Till  I  felt  she  was  gone,  tlien  gazing  above, 

Fell  back  her  whisper  to  me: 

"  I  have  sisters  fair  in  death  and  night. 

Where  the  proud  of  the  world  will  not  go, 
I  wish  you  might  bring  them  "—away  in 

light. 
Was  she  gone,  gleaming  whiter  than  snow. 

And  I  saw  the  celestial  feet  of  a  saint. 

I  once  cheered,  when  he  stumbled  below. 
And  he  touched  my  lips,  "Ye  sliall  never 
faint. 

Ye  shall  drink  where  His  rivers  flow." 

I  drew  this  lesson—  all  Heaven  is  near. 

And  longing  the  lost  to  find. 
The  words  I  utter,  the  look,  the  tear. 

The  prayer  and  the  service  kind 

Will  live  above  —  and  the  bread  I  cast 
On  the  waters  —  I  there  shall  find. 

It  may  seem  fruitless,  but  O!  at  last. 
The  angels  my  sheaves  will  bind. 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEHICA. 


CHAUNCEY  C.  JEXCKS. 

BORX:  OssiAX,  N.Y.,  JrsE  25,  1S53. 
After  attending- 1  he  state  normal  school  of 
Greneseo  for  several  years,  Chauncej-  then 
taught  school.  Mr.  Jeucks  wrote  both  poetry 
and  prose  for  the  Schoolday  Magazine,  -which 
-was  afterward  absorbed  by  the  St.  Nicholas 
Magazine.  He  has  contributed  quite  exten- 
sively to  the  Dans-ville  Advertiser.  Rochester 


tHACXCEY  CLIXTOX  JEXCKS. 

Democrat  and  Chronicle,  Detroit  Tribune  and 
the  Chicago  Inter-Ocean.  Commencing  the 
study  of  law  in  1881,  he  was  subsequently  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar,  and  has  since  been  actively 
engaged  in  the  practice  of  that  profession  at 
Kalkaska.  Michigan.  Mr.  Jencks  was  marrievi 
in  1882  to  Miss  Nettie  M.  Kellogg.  He  was 
school  examiner  for  eight  years  of  Kalkaska 
county. 

AN  EMBLEM. 
Wilt  accept  this  little  rosebud, 

Nellie -Nell. 
From  among  its  blooming  sisters. 

Plucked  to  tell 
To  thine  ear,  if  thou'lt  incline  it, 

What  Id  say. 
And  can  only  with  this  emblem 

It  portray? 
In  this  simple  little  rosebud, 

Nellie -Nell, 
Beauty  rare,  and  frajrrance  rarer. 

Sweetly  dwell ; 


But  'tis  not  the  passing  beauty 

Of  its  cheek. 
Nor  its  fragrance  —  emblematic  — 

I  would  speak. 
Young  and  tender  is  the  rosebud, 

Nellie -Nell; 
Childhood  innocence  it  tokens. 

Fitting  well. 
Guileless  type  of  blooming  maidhood; 

But  not  yet 
Have  you  guessed  the  sweetest  emblem 

In  it  set. 
Calyx  veUed  the  beauteous  rosebud, 

Nellie— Nell, 
Blushes  out  at  each  rude  gazer; 

Blushes  tell 
Of  its  modesty  supreme  and 

Unassumed; 
But  'twould  serve  as  well  my  symbol 

Had  it  bloomed. 
'Tis  the  mission  of  the  roseb  ud, 

NeUie  — Nell, 
How  it  lives  to  bless  poor  mortals 

I  would  tell; 
How  it  cheers  our  darksome  pathway 

As  we  go 
By  its  sweetness  —  Uke  a  maiden 

That  I  know. 


SB- 


GATHER  THE  ROSES. 

A  spirit,  unnamed  and  unknown. 
From  the  cycles  of  ages  unnumbered. 
Came  into  my  dreams  as  I  slumbered. 

And  talked  with  my  spirit  alone. 

Sweet  and  grand  were  the  words  that  it  said; 
And  as  bright  (as  my  spirit  remembers) 
As  the  glowing  at  midnight  of  embers. 

Was  the  halo  of  beauty  it  shed. 

It  spake  of  the  deeds  of  the  just; 
It  unfolded  the  leaves  of  the  ages. 
And  wiped  from  their  moldering  pages 

The  blood,  and  the  tears,  and  the  dust; 

And  it  painted  their  pictures  anew 
In  colors  of  glory- world  splendor  — 
In  lines  that  were  touching  and  tender  — 

The  deeds  of  the  pure  and  the  true. 

It  purged  from  the  time-colored  leaves 
Tlie  tares  that  have  sprung  f aim  ambition— 
The  thistles  of  dark  superstition  — 

But  gatliered  the  wheat  into  sheaves. 

The  records  of  history  stood 
Replete  with  the  warring  of  powers. 
It  blotted  the  carnage-stained  hours. 

And  pointed  alone  to  the  good. 

It  spoke  of  no  battle  where  Might 
Had  marshaled  its  legions  in  action 
To  crush  an  inferior  faction. 

But  breathed  of  the  triumphs  of  Right, 


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LOCAL,   AXD    XATIOXAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


711 


© 


ALVARO  F.  GIBBEXS. 

BoRx:  Parkersbcrg,  Ta.,  March  L  1S37. 
After  receiving:  his  education.  Alvaro  taught 
in  Missouri  at  La  Grang-e  college  in  1S6L  He 
has  held  many  positions  of  public  trust,  and 
in  1966  became  one  of  the  editors  and  pro- 
prietors of  the  Parkersburg  Gazette.  Since 
then  he  has  been  connected  with  several  pub- 
lications and  held  gx>rernruent  clerkships. 
For  Hie  past  twenty  yeai-s  Z^Ir.  Gibbens  has 


ALVARO  r.  GIBBEXS. 

been  a  contributor  of  poems  and  other  liter- 
ary articles  to  the  leading  magazines  of  the 
country,  and  has  read  poems  before  the 
Press  Association  of  Louisiana  and  other  in- 
stitutions. In  1865  he  received  the  degree  of 
A.  M.  Mr.  Gibbens  is  one  of  the  editors  of 
Prominent  Men  of  West  Virginia,  an  histoid 
ical  illustrated  work  of  some  nine  hundred 
pages.  He  has  a  volume  of  poems  in  pre- 
paration entitled  Sparks  from  Thoughts  An- 
vil, which  he  hopes  soon  to  publish. 


s<- 


THE  SPIRITS  PETITION". 
Out  in  the  porch  of  the  temple 

I  stand  and  knock  at  the  door. 
Master  of  all  in  the  heavens. 

As  others  have  stood  before. 
Feebly  I  ask  for  an  entrance. 

Earnest  and  trusting-ly  too; 


Grant  but  the  word  of  admittance. 

And  1  shall  foUow  them  through. 
Out  in  the  darkness  of  midnight 

Among'  the  profane  and  tlie  poor, 
I  tread  as  a  pilgrim  in  search  of 

A  Ug'ht  through  the  open  door. 
I  know  there  are  riches  and  knowledge. 

Where  worship  the  faithful  and  true, 
I  long  for  the  veil  lo  be  parted,— 

I  long-  for  the  Temple  to  view. 

Out  in  this  world  of  commotion. 

WTiere  sorrows  o'ershadow  the  way. 
Oh,  Master  of  all  in  the  heavens, 
I  journey  in  search  of  the  day; 
I  wait  for  the  light  of  the  dawning-. 

As  others  have  waited  before, 
A  pilgrim  from  earth  to  the  heavens, 

I  wait  and  knock  at  the  door. 

I  stand  in  the  porch  of  the  Temple, 

And  gaze  at  the  brig-ht  starry  sky. 
My  heart  leaps  out  in  petition 

To  pass  up  the  ladder  on  high : 
For  I  know  there  is  joy  in  the  mansion 

Where  brothers  have-  hastened  before, 
A  pUgrim  from  earth  to  the  heavens, 

1  wait  and  knock  at  the  door. 


WHAT  IS  THAT  TO  THEE? 
Through  the  forest  runs  a  river. 

Restlessly  and  free. 
Singing  as  it  onward  rushes. 

Searching-  for  the  sea. 
Thus  my  heart  has  long  been  searching, 

Lena  Xora,  thee. 
Lena  Nora,  Lena  Nora, 

Tliou  art  dear  to  me. 
And  my  heart  is  very  lonely : 

What  is  that  to  thee? 
I  have  loved  the  sunshine  peeping 

Through  the  forest  tree. 
And  the  bird-songs  on  the  mountain. 

And  the  rolling  sea : 
But  I'll  never  love  them  longer 

If  thou  love  not  me. 
Lena  Nora,  Lena  Nora, 

Thou  art  dear  to  me. 
And  there's  nothing  else  I  care  for. 

If  thou  love  not  me. 
In  a  grove  beside  the  streamlet 

Stands  a  cottage  fair, 
WTiere  the  sunshine  and  the  shadows 

Fill  the  dewy  air. 
And  the  very  birds  are  sighing 

For  a  footstep  there. 
Lena  Nora,  Lena  Nora, 

Dear  thou  art  to  me. 
And  this  heart  is  very  lonely. 

Wilt  thou  go  with  me? 


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LOCAL,   AXD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MIGHT  BE  TO-DAY. 
We  cannot  see  the  heart. 

And  we  do  not  know  the  words 
That  arc  rushing;  toward  the  lips, 

When  its  very  depths  are  stirred. 
If  we  did,  the  friends  we  meet 

In  our  path  of  every  day. 
Would  be  dearer  than  they  are. 

And  less  likely  to  betray. 
But  we  mask  our  very  souls 

From  the  ones    whose  love  we  seek. 
And  we  bind  our  tongues  to  hush 

What  our  hearts  desire  to  speak. 
This  is  earth's  mysterious  waj': 

But  there  comes  an  hour  of  trust. 
When  the  gates  will  open  wide 

And  the  spirit  leave  its  dust, 
And  the  knowing  and  tlie  knowa 

Shall  beside  each  other  rest. 
While  all  doubts  shall  banished  be 

From  each  confidential  breast. 
Could  we  laj'  aside  our  fears, 

This  bright  hour  might  be  to-day. 
And  the  happiness  of  love 

Find  its  perfect,  blissful  sway. 
Could  we  look  into  the  heart 

That  we  fondly  wish  our  own. 
We  would  find  a  friendship  there 

Deep,  responsive  in  its  tone. 
Pride  and  fear  bar  up  the  way. 

Keeping  humati  souls  apart. 
And  our  noblest  words  are  crushed 

Ere  they  into  being  start. 
True  expression  deepens  love: 

Why  not  say  you   prize  your  friend? 
It  will  cheer  his  life  to  know 

What  you're  keeping  to  the  end. 


UPON  THE   STAINLESS  SAND. 
Weird  shadows  creep  from  wave  to  wave 
With  velvet  feet,  like  sandaled  dreams, 
vviiilo  clouds  above  with  parted  seams 
Drop  sunlight  througli.    Wild  waters  lave 
The  shores  sea-girt.    I  trace  in  sand 
Her  name  beloved,  while  mute  I  stand 
And  feel  my  heart  beat  sweet  refrain 
For  hours  I  wish  might  come  again. 

Then startled  by  the  sea-bird's  form 

High  in  the  upper  Summer  air 
Sliown  by  the  light  which  sunbeams  wear 
Across  my  tracings,  lilie  a  storm 

Tliat  clouds  some  distant  spot  of  sky 

My  hand  rests  idle.    Why,  oh,  why? 
My  lieart  has  flown  on  wings  afar, 
As  if  to  wait  for  rising  star. 
A  ship  out  in  the  wavivcrest  sea 
Sails  toward  the  land  with  measured  tread. 
And  seems  to  bring  me  some  strange  dread 
Of  future  that  maj^  never  be. 


While  once  again  I  trace  in  sand 
The  name  of  old  with  lover's  wand. 
And  wonder  if  the  flying  years 
Will  bear  away  these  silent  tears. 
I  ask  the  bird,  the  wave,  the  cloud. 
The  sail  that  floats  the  coming  ship. 

And  swings  its  arms  with  sea-gull  tip 

Because  I  dare  not  speak  aloud 

If  I  shall  see  again,  in  love. 
The  face  of  her  with  dreams  inwove. 
Whose  voice  was  like  angelic  song 
That  set  me  dreaming  all  life  long. 
As  mute  as  now  is  Memnon's  lyre. 
Bird,  cloud,  and  ship,  and  restless  wave 
Give  to  my  heart  no  answer,  save 
The  moan  which  bids  e'en  hope  expire. 
And  as  my  eyes  lift  from  the  sea 
I  trace  the  name  so  dear  to  me 
In  ocean  sand,  again;  again 
I  hear  fond  Memory's  sweei  refrain. 
Go,  bird  with  an  unwearied  wing. 
Float,  cloud  with  velvet-covered  feet ; 
Speed,  wave,  you  ship  with  message  fleet. 
To  one  I  name,  and  to  me  bring 
The  love  I  know  is  prisoned  deep 
Within  her  breast  for  me.     I  weep. 
And  trace  in  stainless  sand  till  then 
The  magic  lines  with  lover's  pen. 


*- 


TRUSTING. 
Out  in  the  busy  world. 

Breasting  the  tidal  storm; 
Watchmg  the  scowls  of  sky. 

Over  the  billows  form. 
Smiling  at  fearful  clouds. 

Gathering  about  my  path; 
Music  is  in  their  winds. 

Spirit  is  in  their  wrath. 
Facing  the  stranger  throng. 

Hearing  no  word  c>f  cheer; 
Isn't  the  voice  within 

Bidding  away  despair: 
Grasping  each  offered  hand. 

Asking  no  mortal  aid; 
He  who  can  rule  the  storm. 

Strengthens  the  creature  made. 
Threading  the  waj-s  of  life. 

Toiling  amid  the  night; 
Believing  all  is  well,  if 

Onlj'  the  heart  is  right. 
Steadily  on  the  tide. 

Careless  of  wind  or  wave; 
Glad  of  the  smiling  sk.v. 

Willing  the  ills  tobrave. 
Sails  my  life  barque  frail. 

On  to  the  harbor  above. 
Knowing  Deity's  power. 

Trusting  Eternal  liove. 


®  — 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AJIEIUCA. 


743 


© 


HORx^CE  A.STICKNEY. 

Born:  Harrison,  Iowa,  Feb.  U,  1846. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Stickney  have  appeared  in 
the  Mii.scatiiie  Tribune,    ;ind   tlie   periodical 
press  geiierallj'.     Ho    is   tlie   proprietor  of  a 


HORACE  A.  STICKNEY. 

hotel  at  Steele,  North  Dakota.  Mr.  Stickney 
was  married  in  1875  to  Miss  Eimira  L.  Car- 
penter. 


I  KISSED  YOU. 
I  kissed  you,  'tis  true,   and  no  king  on  bis 

throne 
Was  ever  more  happy  than  I  there  alone 
With  the  pride  of  my  life  clasped  in  the  em- 
brace 
Of  the  lover  that  worshiped  your  form  and 

your  face; 
Who  worshiped  devoutly  the  graces  sublime 
That  made  you  half  human,  the  other  divine. 
And  looking  down  into  your  eyes  full  of  love. 
As  pure  as  an  angel's  from  heaven  above, 
I  drank  from  the  cup  overflowing  with  bliss 
Just  seasoned  for  me  with  a  passionate  kiss. 
I  kissed  you,  'tis  true,  and  the  bright  stars 

above 
Rejoiced  at  my  pure  demonstration  of  love; 
For  was  it  not  written  on  tablets  of  stone, 
In  this  world  it  is  not  good  that  man  be  alone? 
Leave  father  and  mother  and  cleave  to  thy 

wife 
Are  precepts  that  sprang  from  the  fountain 
of  life. 


® 


Such  thoughts  and  emotions  were  fllUng  my 

brain 
With    heaven-born    pleasure,    my  heart  was 

aflame. 
Till  I  prayed   from  the  iniu'rmost  depths  of 

my  soul 
To  be  ever  with  you,  my  loving  life  goal. 
I  kissed  you,  'tis  true,  and  the  deep-vaulted 

blue 
Smiled  heaven's  approval  on  me  and  on  you. 
With  your  head  on  my  bosom,  all  nature  to 

me 
Grew  brighter  the  longer  I  lingered  with  thee; 
And  the  questions  I  now  ask  my  own  weary 

heart 
Are  unanswered  questions  — Oh!  why  did  we 

part? 
Oh !  why  should  such  true  love  in  fragrance 

bloom 
If  not  the  ripe  fruit  instead  of  the  tomb? 
For  could  I  this  moment  lost  manhood  regain 
I  would  worship  you,  darling,  and  kiss  you 

again. 


CODFISH  AKISTOCRACY, 

Snub  your  neiglibor  if  he's  poor  — 
Make  him  feel  his  poverty; 

In  your  presence  he's  a  bore 

If  his  coat's  a  little  wore. 

Though  the  nickle  on  your  door 
Glitters  with  dishonesty. 

Snub  your  neighbor  if  he's  poor  — 
Make  him  feel  his  poverty; 

Never  ask  him  out  to  ride. 

Never  once  in  him  confide; 

Seemingly  you  thus  can  glide 
Into  popularity. 

Snub  your  neighbor  if  he's  poor- 
Make  him  feel  his  poverty; 

Use  him  as  you  would  a  tool. 

Treat  him  as  you  would  a  mule. 

For  it's  the  unerring  rule 
Of  codfish  aristocracy. 

AN  ACROSTIC. 
Just  and  noble,  kind-hearted  and  true: 
A  boy  on  the  toe-path,  a  soldier  in  blue: 
Member  of  Congress,  prudent  and  bold. 
Energetic  and  honest,  by  virtue  controlled; 
Social  and  easy  at  home  and  abroad, 
A  statesman     untrammeled     bj-     Tammany 

fraud. 
Gifted  with  wisdom,  rich,  racy  and  grand, 
A  hero,  and  all  but  a  sage  in  the  land. 
Right  on  the  tariflf  and  revenue  law  — 
Foresight  that  never  admitted  a  flaw. 
In  history  forever  his  memory  will  shine 
E'en  with  the  beauty  of  one  more  divine. 
Long  after  his  physical  bearing  shall  wan. 
Dead,  yet  alive  in  the  memory  of  man. 


-m 


m- 


744 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


->B 


JAMES  NESTOR  GALLAGHER 

Born  :  Concord,  N.  H.,  July  5, 1848. 
For   the  past  fifteen   years   the  pen  of  Mr. 
Gallagher  has  been  engaged  more  or  less  in 
literary  worli.     His  new  work,  Let  'er  Go  Gal- 


JAMES  NESTOR  GALLAGHER. 

lagher,  which  is  a  booli  of  poetry  and  prose 
combined,  has  had  an  extensive  sale  from 
Maine  to  California.  Mr.  Gallagher  now  re- 
sides with  his  wife  in  San  Antonio,  Texas. 


GOT  LEFT  HIMSELF. 

There's  little  worse,  ye  clams  of  verse. 

Than  rhyming  with  the  shears, 
And  warming  o'er  the  thouglits  of  yore. 

The  chestnuts  of  the  years. 
Oft  sterile  pens,  like  brooding  hens. 

Warm  over  other's  lays. 
And  spread  anew,  in  borrowed  hue. 

The  light  of  other  days. 
Bards  that  rely  on  sonnets  dry 

For  hash  and  raiment  here. 
Discover  soon  an  empty  spoon 

And  trousers  worn  a  year. 
Alas,  the  time  that's  spent  in  rhyme 

Would  many  furrows  turn ; 
Yet  idle  scribes  write  diatribes 

And  —  Tanner  diet  earn. 
But  little  fame  —  whicli  many  claim  — 

Heads  'neath  tlie  poet's  wig. 
And  few  rewards  enrich  the  bards 

That  write  instead  of  dig. 


A  silly  bard  once  musing  hard. 

Plucked  verses  out  of  time. 
And  missed  the  freight  a  minute  late 

Because  he  stopped  to  rhyme. 
So  jingle  not  'less  flaming  hot. 

Ye  flre-bugs  of  tlie  brain. 
For  if  you  do,  like  him  you'll  rue  — 

Hello !  I've  missed  the  train! 


GOLD. 

Gold  is  a  sort  of  railway  train 

That  takes  us  fast  or  slow 
O'er  pleasure's  height  and  sorrow's  plain. 

Through  happiness  and  woe; 
And  speeds  the  coarse  aud  superfine, 

The  agile  and  the  lame 
Along  its  grim,  ensanguined  line 

Through  good  and  evil  name. 

Conductor  Greed  directs  the  train 

With  heart-strings  as  tlie  cord. 
And  mirage-like  the  siren  Gain 

Allures  the  sordid  horde. 
As  heedless  of  the  swelling  wails 

Of  humankind  it  starts 
And  speeds  along  on  icy  rails 

Spiked  onto  human  hearts! 

O'er  rosy  beds  and  thorny  fields, 

Through  fragrance  and  decay. 
It  traverses  and  never  yields  — 

It  has  the  right  of  way  — 
But  opens  witle  its  throttle  black. 

Regardless  of  the  moans 
Provoked  along  its  mazy  track 

Laid  on  a  bank  of  bones! 

Along  the  route  poor  humankind  — 

Crushed  bits  of  breathing  clay  — 
Imploring  line  the  ditch  behind 

Or  dot  the  blood-marked  way. 
While  speeding  by,  the  gilded  train 

No  plaint  of  sorrow  hears. 
But  passes  on  through  human  pain 

Upon  the  stream  of  tears! 

Many  in  this  mortal  fold 
By  thee,  alas!  are  bought  and  sold; 
And  yet,  despite  thy  hellish  mold. 
We  idolize  thee,  winsome  gold. 


BE  YE  HARD  TO  GET. 

Possession  seldom  tends 
To  enhance  the  value  set; 
So  be  yo  hard  to  get,  friends. 
Be  ye  hard  to  get. 
Tlie  curliest  of  curls 
Some  libertine  may  stretch; 
So  be  ye  hard  to  catch,  girls. 
Be  ye  hard  to  fetch. 


—9 


SB 


LOCAI.   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


r4r) 


m 


A.  H.STODDARD. 

In  1880  Mr.  Stoddard,  the  farmer  poet,  pub- 
lislied  a  neat  volume   entitled  Misuellaueous 


r- 

%■ 

1 

.       ,M'  ^ 

s 


A.  H.  STODDARD. 

Poems,  which  i-eceived  liig-h  commendation 
from  the  press.  Mr.  Stoddard  resides  in  Kal- 
amazoo, Mich.,  where  he  is  very  popular. 

ALBUM  LINES. 
We  search  beneath  the  ocean  tide 

For  pearls  of  beauty  rare, 
We  pierce  the  rugged  mountain  side. 

For  golden  trinkets  there. 
We  delve  among-  Brazilian  sands. 

We  cross  the  dang-erous  main. 
Explore  Golconda's  diamond  lands, 

Their  sparkling  g-ems  to  gain. 
With  these  the  outward  form  is  decked. 

Admiring  eyes  to  win; 
But  moral  worth,  and  intellect, 

Are  brighter  gems  within. 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  TIME. 

So  silent  is  the  flight  of  time. 

That  years  will  sometimes  seem. 
With  all  their  varied  changing  scenes. 

E'en  as  a  fleeting  dream. 
It  seems  as  'twere  but  yesterday. 

Since  in  my  childish  joy, 
I  joined  my  schoolmates  in  their  play, 

A  wild  and  thoughtless  boy. 
A  few  brief  years  since  that  bright  day, 

On  hastening  wing  have  fled; 


And  many  of  those  schoolmates  now 

Are  slumbering  with  the  dead. 
And  pictures,  tliat  like  rainbow  beams 

Were  ranged  in  bright  array. 
Have  vanished  as  unreal  dreams. 

In  life's  advancing  day. 
In  view  of  this,  my  youthful  friends. 

In  kindness  I  would  say: 
Life's  happy  morn  will  soon  be  past, 

Enjoy  It  while  you  may. 


TO  ROSA. 
There's  dazzling  beauty  overhead 

In  evening's  starry  show. 
There's  beauty  everywliere  outspread 

On  this  green  earth  below. 
There's  beauty  in  the  circling  bow 

When  sun  and  shower  combine. 
There's  beauty's  in  the  crimson  glow. 

That  marks  the  day's  decline. 

There's  beauty  in  the  towering  pine 

That  bends  in  lofty  pride, 
There's  beauty  in  the  creeping  vine 

That  nestles  by  its  side. 
But  star  and  bow,  and  tree  and  skies. 

In  beauty  all  combined. 
May  all  be  prized,  but  more  we  prize 

The  beauty  of  tlie  miud. 


MY  LITTLE  GRAND-DAUGHTERS 
Two  little  girls,  with  teeth  like  pearls, 

And  cheeks  like  summer  roses. 
With  eyes  of  blue,  or  some  such  hue, 

And  funny  little  noses. 
When  combed  with  care,  tlieir  flaxen  hair 

Is  left  ni  flowing  tresses,— 
But  by  the  way  it  will  not  pay 

To  tell  about  their  dresses:— 
For  girls  are  vain,  'tis  very  plain. 

And  if  their  dress  we  mention. 
Would  not  their  pride  be  gratified 

By  giving  it  attention? 
These  children  play,  in  childish  waj% 

With  dolls  and  little  dislies,— 
Sometimes  with  hook,  along  the  brook. 

They  catch  the  little  fishes. 
The  names  you'll  find  if  so  inclined. 

Of  Lucy,  and  of  Lizzie, 
If  you  will  look  in  this  my  book. 

When  you  are  not  too  busy. 


EXTRACT, 
To  lead  a  useful,  honest  life. 

To  gain  an  honest  living. 
And  something  more  for  weans  and  wife. 

And  charitable  giving. 


-s 


®- 


® 


tie 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    FOETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  ELLA  MAUDE  MOORE. 

Born:  Warren,  Me.,  July  22, 1849. 

In  1884  appeared  Songs  of  Sunshine  and  Shad- 
ow, a  volume  of  poems  from  the  pen  of  this 
lady  In  1873  she  was  married  to  Joseph  E. 
Moore  of  Thomaston,  a  prominent  lawyer 
who  now  has  an  ofllce   in  Boston.    The  first 


MRS.  ELLA  MAUDE  MOORE. 

story  she  ever  wrote  for  publication  took  the 
first  prize  of  five  hundred  dollars  offered  by 
the  publishers  of  Youth's  Companion.  Mrs. 
Moore  has  one  ciiild,  a  daughter,  who  was 
born  in  1886.  Tlie  Lewiston  Journal,  Christian 
at  Work,  and  other  leading-  publications, 
liave  given  the  literary  work  of  this  lady  the 
highest  praise. 


THE  BOY  ON  THE  TRAIN. 
A  little  plain  brown  face. 
That  notliing  claimed  of  grace 
Or  comeliness,  lighted  by  mournful  eyes 
That  might  liave  matched  the  skies 
In  deptli  of  l)lue;  brown  hair 
That  held  a  gleam  of  sunshine  'prisoned  there. 

Through  the  long  swaying  train 

Of  cars  he  moved  —  again 

And  yet  again  scanning  each  form  and  face; 


9B- 


Then  drew  from  out  its  case 

His  well-worn  violin. 

And  doffed  his  cap  to  place  his  earnings  in. 

From  him  on  either  side 

Robings  of  silken  pride 

Were  gatliered  back  by  jeweled  fingers  fair. 

As  with  that  weary  air 

That  only  heartache  brings. 

He  drew  his  bow  across  the  trembling-strings; 

Forth  'neath  his  hand  there  crept 

Sad,  plaintive  airs  that  swept 

Like  half-awakened  memories  the  heart; 

Anon  he  played  a  part 

Of  some  gay,  joyous  song  — 

And  all  unheeded  by  the  busy  throng. 

The  music  ceased  at  last. 

And  then  his  cap  he  passed. 

With  hands  that  trembled,  down  each  serried 

line; 
Many  the  gems  thp.t  shine 
Like  stars,  from  fingers  fair. 
Jewels  that  gleam  from  robe  and  breast  and 

hair. 

Yet  as  he  went  his  round. 

Few  were  the  pence  that  found 

The  old  torn  cap;  his  voice  amid  the  din. 

Trembling,  and  weak,  and  thin. 

Was  only  faintly  heard. 

And  few  gave  heed  to  his  imploring  word. 

Sadly  he  turned  away 
From  faces  glad  and  gay. 
Heartsick  and  weary;  brooding  bitter  hate 
Against  earth's  rich  and  great. 
Thinking  how  but  one  gem 
Of  all  their  store  would  bring  so  much  to 
him! 

•1  Life  is  gone  out,"  they  said 

Lifting  the  icy  head. 

Sweeping  the  dripping  hair  back  from   the 

brow. 
Loosing  the  fingers  thin 
Clutching  the  violin: 
•'Threw  himself  ofl"  the  bridge  —  that's  all  we 

know." 
Come  ye  glad  hearts  and  gay  I 
All  ye  who  turned  away. 
Careless  of  pleading  eyes  —  heedless  of  sigh ! 
Look  on  this  cold,  damp  brow  I 
Say,  feel  ye  guiltless  now? 
Is  there  no  wound  to  bleed,  no  blood  to  cry? 

Hungry:—  ye  fed  him  not! 
Thirsting:— ye  gave  no  thought! 
Heartsick:—  ye  turned  aside! 

O  ye  who  go. 
Thoughtless,  o'er  all  life's  track  I 
Pray  God,  that,  looking  back. 
Cause  for  such  cursings  ye  never  may  know 


$ 


©- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEUICA. 


747 


© 


N.K.GRIGGS. 

The  poems  of  this  geutleman  have  appeared 
from  time  to  time  iu  the  leadiug  periodicals 
of  America,  from  which  they  have  been  ex- 


N.  K.  GRIGGS. 

tensively  copied  by  the  local  press  generally. 
Mr.  Griggs  is  a  well  known  attorney,  practic- 
ing at  Beatrice,  Neb.,  where  he  is  highly  re- 
spected. 


*- 


THE  FLOWERS  OF  LOVE. 
The  flowers  of  love   spring  up  in  our   high- 
ways. 
And  wave  in  our  fields  and  border  our  byways, 
And  yet  we  ne'er  learn  who  plants  them  nor 

tills  them. 
Nor  yet  when  they  die,  what  secret  foe  kills 

tliem. 
Some  flowers  of  love,  tho'  carefully  tended. 
And  from  the  rude  blast,  by  fond  ones  defend- 
ed. 
Bloom  sweetly  an  hour,  then  wither  and  perish 
And  leave  not  a  leaf  for  fond  ones  to  cherish. 
And  other  love-blooms  are  beautiful  roses, 
That  blossom  from  spring,  till  summer-time 

closes. 
And  then  only  fade  because  we  neglect  them, 
And  from   the  chill  frost,  we  fail  to  protect 

them. 
And  other  love-blooms,  tho'  fragile  and  lowly, 
Are  jewels  of  earth  most  precious  and  holy. 
For  even  when  winds  of  autumn  are  sighing. 
Those  flowers  bloom  on,  unfading,  undying. 


Those  blooms  of  the  heart  that  gladden  life's 

mountains. 
Are   watered    by    rills  that  flow   from  pure 

fountains; 
And  tho'  a  white  sliroud  in  winter  conceals 

them. 
An  angel  again  in  spring-time  reveals  them. 


HASTEN. 
O,   hasten,    my    darling,    while    sunlight   is 

streaming. 
And  tarry  till  moonlight  in  glory  is  beaming, 
For  welcome  unmeasured  is  waiting  to  meet 

you. 
And  kisses  unnumbered,  are  longing  to  greet 

you. 
Ah,  truly  the  skies  have  bi'ightened  above  me, 
Since  hearing  your  vows  and  knowing  you 

love  me ; 
And  even  the  birds,  transported  with  pleas- 
ure. 
Seem    ever    repeating,    "Come    hither,    my 

treasure." 
I'll  garland  you  gladly  with  chaplet,  so  holj-. 
Of  roses  so  ruby,  and  lilies  so  lowly; 
I'll  whisper  you  softly  a  story  inspiring. 
Of  loving  forever,  with  ardor  untiring. 
As  leaflet  and  bud  awake  in  the  sliower. 
My  heart   and    my  soul    acknowledge  your 

power; 
As  smiling  of   spring,    each  morning  grows 

brighter. 
My  spirit,  my  darling,  in  loving  grows  lighter. 
Enchanted,    we'll    wander    thro'    fairyland 

bowers, 
Where   angels   are   bending   o'er   ravashing 

flowers : 
Enraptured,  we'll  harken  to  music  enthralling. 
Where  loudly  the  songster  its  sweetheart  is 

calling. 
O,  give  me  but  love,  unchangeably  glowing, 
And  fountains  of  trust,   unceasingly  flowing. 
And  heaven  itself,  with  rapture  will  quiver. 
While  safely   together,   we're  crossing  life's 

river. 


POWER  DIVINE. 

The  sheen  of  the  morn,  on  the  valley  and 
mountain. 

The  gems  of  the  field,  and  the  gifts  of  the 
mine, 

The  glance  of  the  rill,  as  it  leaps  from  the 
fountain. 

Declare  with  their  splendor,  the  Power  Di- 
vine. 

The  trill  of  the  bird,  in  a  carol  of  gladness, 

The  voice  of  the  wind,  to  the  whispering  pine, 

The  husli  of  the  eve,  with  its  shadow  of  sad- 
ness, 

Declare,  with  their  magic,  the  Power  Divine, 


© 


m- 


-)5 


748 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    I'OETS    OF  AIMEKICA. 


MRS.  LAURA  0.  HAWK. 

Born  :  Franklin,  III.,  March  3, 1853. 
This  lady  has  written  both   prose  and  verse 
for  the  St.   Louis  Christian,   Cliicapi  Blade, 


©- 


MRS.  LAUKA  O.   HAWK 

Shelton's  Weekly,  and  the  periodical  press 
generally.  She  was  married  in  1887  to  J.  M. 
Hawk  of  Niantic,  where  she  now  resides. 

MY  DREAM. 

I'm  sitting  alone  in  the  gloaming. 

And  my  fancies  go  wandering  out: 
Through  the  "beautiful  city  'I'm roaming  — 

The  city  John  tells  us  about 
I  hear  the  "  great  voice  out  of  lu  aven," 

I  see  the  broad  gate  open  wide. 
As  Christ  in  his  infinite  mercy 

Calls  the  weary  of  earth  to  His  side. 
I  see  the  dear  hand  of  the  Savior 

The  swift-falling  tears  wipe  away. 
And  smiles  of  contentment  and  rapture 

Come   over  each  glad  face  to  stay. 
For  sorrow  and  death,  pain  and  crying 

Are  gone,  never  more  to  return. 
Arrayed  in  white  robes  of  great  beauty. 

They  gladly  of  ••  all  things  new  "  learn. 
Now  sadly  the  streets  I'm  retracing  — 

The  beautiful  streets  of  pure  gold. 
And  out  at  the  "  pearly  gate's  "  portal 

I  pass  to  earth's  region  so  cold,— 
Back  into  my  room  to  my  table. 

And  sit  down  to  write  of  my  dream. 
O,  God,  when  life's  heartaches  are  over. 
May  T,  too,  have  Christ  for  my  theme. 


ELVA  BRYANT. 

Born:  Monroe,  Wis.,  Dec.  10,  1863. 
The  poems  of  Miss  Bryant  have  appeared 
quite  extensively  in  the  periodical  press.  She 
resides  at  Madison,  Wis.,  where  she  is  well 
known  and  admired  for  her  many  accomplish- 
ments. Miss  Bryant  lived  for  three  years  in 
Washington,  D.  C.  She  has  a  fair  knowledge 
of  French  and  Spanish,  and  is  the  daughter 
of  Edwin  E.  Bryant,  Dean  of  the  Law  School 
of  the  University  of  Wisconsin  at  Madison. 
In  person  Miss  Bryant  is  very  attractive  — 
tall  and  graceful,  with  brown  hair  and  brown 
eyes. 


THE    GLOW-WORM. 

The  glorious  sun  has  slipped  away; 
The  voices  of  the  woods  are  still; 
To  light  the  deathbed  of  to-day 
Burns  one  lone  taper  on  the  hill. 

Perchance  it  is  a  fallen  star. 
That  crossed  the  heavens  all  ablaze; 
The  fragment  of  some  meteor. 
That  once  was  worthy  of  our  gaze. 

Or  it  may  be  the  glad  firefly. 
That  brilliant  blossom  of  the  night 
Choosing  upon  the  ground  to  lie. 
And  broadly  .shed  his  generous  light. 

But  better  still,  I  trust  it  is 

The  pa  'ent  Glow-worm's  constant  gleam, 

That  fai   Mumines  with  the  bliss 

Of  her  ow.  i,  long-enchanting  dream. 


UNKNOWN  LOSS. 
Something,  this  summer  day  my  life  has  cost, 
Sometliing,  I  feel,  witli  light  and  music  gone; 
As  though  a  friend,  I  dearly  loved,  were  lost, 
And  in  his  place  another  newly  won ; 
As  though  my  ship,  so  oft  in  tempest  tossed. 
Were  stranded,  now,  but  stranded  near  its 

home. 
'Twill  bring,  I  know  not  whether  sob  or  smile, 
This  covering  o'er  of  what  I  loved  so  well 
By  fair  strange  hands  that  offer  more,  mean- 
while. 
More  than  my  soul,  through  all  its  tears,  can 

tell; 
A  wondrous  change,  that  works  with  many  a 

will. 
But  cannot  win  me  from  that  dearer  spell. 
The  spell  that  lingers   when   some  joy  has 

flown. 
The  subtile  robe  that  Happiness  had  donned. 
Before  she  sped  to  regions  still  unknown; 
The  utmost  border  of  our  Hope  beyond. 
The  breath  th;it  hovers  still  about  a  rose. 
When  far  afield  its  petals  all  are  blown. 
wJ 


©- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


rio 


-m 


EDWIN  H.BARNES. 

Born:  Marathon,  N.  Y., Mav  13, 1849. 
Appointed  Marathon  postmaster  at  the  age 
of  twentj'-one,  a  position  lie  filled  lor  eleven 
years,  he  next  entered  the  railway  mail  ser- 
vice.   He  is  now  resident  ag-ent  of  the  Phcenix 


EDWIN    H.   BARNES. 

Insurance  Company  in  his  native  city, 
where  he  resides  with  his  family.  Mr.  Barnes 
has  issued  a  beautiful  little  volume  of  verse 
entitled  A  Wild  Bouquet,  by  Leon  Claire  — 
his  nom  de  plume. 


& 


BENEDICITE. 

Sleep  peacefully  my  Uttle  one. 
Under  the  azure  swell  of  skies. 
Where  daisies  bend  their  starry  eyes  — 

Beneath  white  fringes  of  the  sun. 

Thy  soul  with  Christ ;  thy  spirit  here. 
Thy  rosy  lips  that  now  are  dumb, 
By  death's  dark  siren  overcome, 

Leaves  earth  draped  in  a  mantle  drear. 

Wliy  woo  thee  back  ?    Were  it  unjust  ? 
The  voice  of  all  the  world  is  such 
Tliat  none  would  care  •  .  not  overmuch. 

Save  one  who  broods  above  thy  dust. 

The  winter's   wind,  the  summer's  breath. 
The  pearly  tears  of  June's  sweet  flow'rs. 
Drag  slowly  out  the  weary  hours, 

That  throbs  between  a  life,  and  .  .  death. 


Come  back  to  me,  my  own,  my  fair  1 
I  reach  out  hands  in  bitter  pain 
To  clasp  you,  sweet,  all  mine  again; 

But  reason  mocks  at  my  despair. 

My  blue-eyed  pet,  my  precious  one. 
Could  I  but  hear  your  baby  voice, 
How  gi-eatly  would  my  soul  rejoice. 

None  happier  beneath  the  sun. 

The  stars  go  out,  the»moon  sleeps  low 
Beneath  yon  fringe  of  stalwart  pines. 
The  weary  night,  in  dull,  dark  lines. 

In  mantled  blackness  hides  my  woe. 


MINE. 
My  heart  broods  o'er  a  coffined  lid : 
The  truest,  purest,  best  of  all 
Is  in  its  narrow  hmits  hid; 
And  I,    .    .    ■    well,  life  seems  all  of  gall. 
More  bitter  far  than  anything. 
The  saddest  morsel  Time  can  bring. 
There  is  a  grief  too  deep  for  tears, 
A  wild,  corroding  sense  that  eats 
Full  deep  into  the  heart,  and  sears 
The  soul,  where  gladness  seldom  beats. 
It  is  a  grief  that  none  may  know. 
Save  those  whose  hearts  are  full  of  woe. 
Sweet,  sainted  mother,  truly  mine; 
Tour  boy  whose  breast  is  full  of  woe. 
Who  loved  you  deeply,  purely  so, 
Bends  low  beside  a  broken  shrine. 
The  blue  bent  sky  so  f  uU  of  stars 
A  wild  uncertain  light  sends  down 
Upon  the  mantled  earth  of  brown. 
Blown  full  of  deep  volcanic  scars. 
Do  angels  weep  ?    Do  angels  grieve? 
Full  soon  there  comes  so  much  of  dread. 
Full  much  —  full  more.    Can  I  believe 
My  darling  one  lies  cold  and  dead? 
Lies  still  and  white    ...    so  better  far 
Than  I    •    .    •    beneath  a  baleful  star. 
Christ  is  a  mystery—  a  breath, 
A  holy  dream—  a  pure  sweet  trust. 
Whose  promises  are  truly  just; 
But  why,  oh  why,  did  He  bring  death  ? 
I  would  that  tears  of  mine  might  flow. 
Strive  though  I  may  they  will  not  come ; 
My  very  soul  seems  coldly  dumb, 
So  bitter,  deep,  this  cruel  woe. 
O  lo\ing  smiles  that  all  for  me. 
Awoke  within  my  breast  such  bliss, 
A  love  far  deeper  than  the  sea. 
And  pure  as  any  angel's  kiss: 
Inwoven  dreams  full  bright  and  fair, 
As  rainbows  braided  in  the  air. 
O  sweet,  puretlips,  all  voiceless  now, 
Kissed  into  silence  —  sadly  mute  — 
By  the  pale  angel's  cold  salute, 
Christ  help  me  bear  this  woe,  somehow! 


-^ 


-<b 


*tf- 


750 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF    AMERICA. 


QUESTIONING. 
Why,  sweet,  wliut  if  the  stars  should  fall  — 

In  all  their  anguislmientof  love, 

In  memory  of  one  above. 
To  smile  no  more  upon  this  vale? 

Would  you  not  for  a  time  — 
Be  haunted  with  a  namelsss,  untold  pain, 
A  weary  dread,  a  longing  once  again 

For  some  sweet  chime 
Of  half-forgotten  melody,  to  rise 
And  sudden  greet  you  with  a  glad  surprise? 

What  if  the  flow'rs  should  lie  — 

A   crushed    and   faded    mass   of   incense 
sweet. 

No  more  to  blossom  at  your  little  feet, 
And  all  the  sky 

Assume  a  leaden  blackness  day  by  day. 

And  darkness  hover  over  all  the  way? 

Would  you  not  think  that  life 
Was   nothing  but   a   wild   and    wayward 

dream, 
A     passion-tossed     and    sorrow-swollen 
stream. 
Full  of  a  strife  — 
That  gave  too  overmucli  of  weary  toil. 
To  make  the  living  worthy  of  the  spoil? 

What  if  all  Nature  shed 
Her  last,   sweet  fragrance,  nevermore  to 

bear 
The  dear  angelic  dream  of  purest  pray'r. 
And  ever  dead  — 
Sweep  onward  through  an  endless  sea  of 

space. 
Like  one  who  flees    full  frightened  from 
disgrace? 

Would  you  not  wish  that  you  — 
Could    leave    the   horrors    of   that  dismal 

clime, 
Oiitrcachiiig  far  beyond  the  lapse  of  tnne— 
For  something  true? 
A  something  that  your  soul  might  lean 

upon, 
The  guerdon  of  a.  love  that  you  had  won. 

Why,  such  a  spot  to  me  would  be 
Like  kisses  sweet  blown  out  of  Heav'n, 
If  only  to  me  you  were  giv'n, 

What  if  all  else  were  misery? 


UNDER  THE  STARS. 

EXTn.VCT. 

"Leone,"  he  s;iid,  while  one  hand  soft  car- 
essed 
The  rich,  silken  mesh  of  hci'  glorious  hair;— 


..You  have  suffered  much,  but  my  own,  my 

fair, 
We  will  turn  aside  to  the  pathless  West, 
Where  the  days  are  sweet  as  the  flow'rs  that 

bloom  — 
In  the  subtle  fragrance  of  rare  perfume. 

..  Where  the  nights  are  rich  with  a  golden 

lore. 
And  the  stars  float  out  from  the    moon's 

white  shore; 
Where  the  trees  bend  low  to  the  silver  waves, 
Singing  above  them  la  beautiful  staves; 
Whei'e  the  birds  make  music  the  whole  day 

through. 
And  gold  barred  flies  skim  the  circle  of  blue; 
Where  the  warm  sun  tosses  its  golden  hair, 
In  a  show'r  of  love,  to  the  lilies  fair; 
Where  love  floats  out  in  a  beautiful  dream, 
Like  the  fringes  fair  of  an  unknown  stream. 

"  Where  the  orange  groves  and  the  clustered 

trees, 
Kiss  their  bands  to  the  dimpled.upper  seas— 
In  a  wealth  of  bloom,  as  they  reach  and  lift 
For  the  fragrance  born  of  a  holy  gift; 
What  more?  save  you  with  me,  and  I  with 

you. 
And  faith  and  love,  and  a  confidence  true  — 
Through  the  cycled  years,  as  they  rise  and 

wane. 
With   never  the   thoughts  of  a  dead,  past 

pain." 

His  dark  eyes   met  hers,  as  the  last  words 

creep  — 
Through  tlie  trembling  waves  of  the  nioon- 

sprent  air. 
And  she  bends  her  bead,  Avith   its  wi'alth  of 

hair. 
In  an  answer  mute,  while  the  waters  deep  — 
Murmured  soft  and  low  in  a  rhythmic  swell, 
Of  a  song  full  sweet,  in  an  unknown  tongue, 
Full  so  sweet  and  low,  as  they  tossed  and 

swung 
Through  the  tropic  air,  in  a  mystic  spell. 

And  they  gave  them  up  to  the  subtle  swoon- 
Of  a  love,  full  deep,  as  the  bended  skies; 
With  head  on  his  breast,  and  her  part-elos.  .1 

eyes  — 
Full  of  deei)  content,  'ne;ilh   the  milk-wlnle 

moon ; 
Willi  never  a  thought  of  the  crafty  horde 
Swift    trailing     their   course   through    tlie 

tangled  ways,— 
Willi    a   stealthy    sweep,   while   their  pal'- 

faeed  lord. 
Like    a   sleuth-hoiiiul     tracked     'ne;itli    the 

moon's  white  rays. 


•*- 


^- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    TOETS   OF   AMEIilCA. 


751 


-^ 


CHARLES  E.  ARMIN. 

Born  :  St.  Lawrence  Co.,  N.  Y.,  Dec.  27, 1853. 
Working  at  the  drug-  business  when  a  boy, 
Charles  afterward  entered  the  state  normal 
SL-hool  at  Potsdam,  N.  Y.  In  1878  he  moved 
out  west,  and  five  years  later  commenced  the 


CHARI.l,-^    I'.   AFOIIV. 

practice  of  law,  in  which  he  is  at  present  en- 
gaged in  Waukesha,  Wisconsin.  The  poems 
of  Mr.  Armin  have  appeared  from  time  to 
time  in  the  press  of  his  adopted  state,  and 
have  received  favorable  mention. 


© 


GRANDMA'S  REVERIE. 
As  the  cradle  she  swung  to  and  fro, 
A  vision  of  days  long  ago 
Came  before  my  Grandmother's  eyes. 
And  she  saw  the  green  fields  and  blue  skies 
Of  a  land  far  away  o'er  the  sea; 
And  the  vision  she  told  it  to  me 
Filled  my  heart  with  unwonted  surprise. 
For  she  said  she  was  young,  long  ago. 
Ere  over  her  brown  locks  the  snow 
Had  thrown  its  cold  mantle  of  white, 
And  her  dim  eyes  she  said  they  were  bright. 
And  her  form,  now  so  bent,  it  was  fair; 
But  she  took  up  her  burden  of  care 
And  was  bearing  it  into  life's  night. 
Tlien  she  told  of  her  love  in  that  land. 
How  she  gave  her  heart  and  her  hand 
To  a  lover  both  noble  and  brave: 
How  he  sleeps  'neath  the  cold  restless  wave. 


How  her  heart  went  to  sleep  in  his  bed. 

With  the  ocean's  unsepulchred  dead. 

In  his  bed  in  a  Coraliue  cave. 

And  she  told  of  her  own  cherubs  then 

Who  had  since  grown  to  women  and  men. 

How  they  frolicked  in  innocent  glee. 

And  oh:  it  was  wondrous  to  me 

When  I  heard  of  my  Grandmother's  boys, 

Of  their  dogs  and  kittens  and  toys. 

How  they  sat  at  my  Grandmother's  knee. 

Then  the  cradle  stopped  swinging,'twas  queer. 

And  over  her  brown  cheek  a  tear 

Rolled  down  and  fell  into  her  lap, 

And  she  fingered  the  strings  of  her  cap , 

And  she  told  me  that  I  too  should  grow 

To  be  old  and  feeble  and  slow ; 

Then  Grandma  went  oif  in  a  nap. 

INCONSISTENCY. 
We  often  think  of  the  happy  hours 
Our  lives  in  the  past  have  known. 
But  we  seldom  stoop  to  pluck  the  flowers 
Which  to-day  by  our  paths  have  grown : 
Spurning  the  beauties  which  round  us  lie 
We  sigh  for  the  jos's  of  days  gone  by. 
The  pleasures  of  youth  are  brightest 
Because  coloied  by  youth's  wild  dream, 
And  our  hearts  were  then  the  liglitest 
For  we  sailed  on  a  waveless  stream; 
But  the  streamlet  has  into  a  river  grown. 
And  with  its  wild  waves  each  battles  alone. 
But  mid  the  tumult  and  cares  of  life. 
There  are  pleasures  we  all  may  grasp. 
If  we  stop  a  moment  amid  the  strife 
Some  friend  in  our  arms  to  clasp. 
And  tell  them  that  love,  just  of  old 
Burns  in  our  hearts  that  appear  so  cold. 

FAREWELL  TO  HOME. 

Farewell,  for  now  it  cannot  be 

That  we  shall  meet  full  soon. 

The  moon  must  many  a  waning  know. 

The  sun  see  many  a  noon. 

And  changes  that  with  time  do  come. 

Will  charge  the  wanderer  and  his  home. 

Yet  deem  not  that  my  eyes  are  wet. 

For  friends  that  love  must  part; 

And  yet  I  hold  with  jealous  care 

Your  forms  within  my  heart. 

And  hope  the  time  will  swiftly  come 

Wlien  I  can  backward  turn 

And  quench  the  longing  in  my  heart 

That  tor  my  home  doth  yearn. 

Tlie  full-fledged  Eaglet  lea\''es  its  nest 

To  breast  the  storm  alone; 

Why  should  men  fear  to  wander  forth, 

And  do  as  they  have  done. 

But  feelings  flit  across  the  breast 

That  pencil  may  not  tell. 

'Tis  when  my  eyes  will  backward  turn 

To  say  to  home  Farewell. 


-m 


*- 


752 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMISKICA. 


TO  MOTHER. 
"  Silent  and  lone,  Silent  and  lone,"' 
Oh,  for  a  mother's  kiss,  ever  so  brief 
Oh,  for  that  look  and  g-entle  tone ; 
Which  chased  from  my  bosom  all  childish 

g-rief ; 
Far  on  life's  'pathway  I've  wandered  from 

thee  — 
Mother,  and  art  thou  still  thinking  of  me? 

'I  Silent  and  lone,  Silent  and  lone," 
Thoughts  turn  again  to  the  home  that  was 

mine  — 
Turn  to  the  friends  from  which  I  have  flown. 
Often,  now  often  for  thee  do  I  pine. 
Let  me  go  back  to  my  boyhood  again, 
I  weary  of  waging  this  battle  with  men. 

"  Silent  and  lone,  Silent  and  lone," 

Vainly  1  look  for  a  friend  that  is  true. 

Wise  in  the  world's  chilling    wisdom  I've 

grown, 
Which  teaches  th;it  none  are  so  faithful  as 

you. 
Strangers  care  not  if  I  rise  or  I  fall. 
Mother  and  friend  you  are  dearest  of  all. 


TO  F 

Darling  will  the  love  now  plighted 
Last  when  brown  has  turned  to  gray. 
When  the  flowers  of  j'outh  are  blighted 
On  life's  downward  weary  way. 

Darling  will  that  love  grow  stronger 
If  misfortune  is  our  lot; 
When  hope  beckons  us  no  longer 
Can  these  moments  be  forgot? 

Darling- 1  will  trust  the  morrow 
When  the  present  is  so  blest; 
If  its  sun  should  sink  in  sorrow, 
At  the  last  we  shall  find  rest. 


*- 


ON  EECEIVING  A  PICTURE  OF  THE  OLD 
HOMESTEAD. 

I  could  not  go  back  to  my  home. 

But  my  home  has  come  out  to  me, 

Tlie  same  old  place  with  its  quiet  grace, 

The  faces,  the  forms  I  see. 

Which  made  it  so  dear  in  days  gone  by  — 

The  days  whose  memory  oft  raises  a  sigh. 

Can  it  be  that  it  all  remains 

As  I  left  it  so  long  ago? 

Have  Summers'  heat  and  Winters'  cold. 

The  dews,  the  frosts  and  the  snow 

Left  so  faint  a  trace  on  the  dear  old  place 

That  it  looks  for  tlie  world  the  same; 

All  as  it  was  when  our  footsteps  from  it  came. 

The  children  who  once  were  there 

Are  out  in  the  world's  wide  mart, 


Fighting  the  battles  that  you  have  fought, 
And  each  one  playing  his  part 
In  the  game  of  life  with  its  rush  and  strife 
With  its  burden  of  doubt  and  care  — 
The  burdens  that  all  must  bear. 

We  would  oft  go  back  if  we  could— 
Back  to  the  old  home  nest; 
Would  lay  aside  the  cares  of  life 
And  lean  on  a  mother's  breast; 
Would  feel  as  we  once  have  felt, 
Ere  our  wild  heart  longed  to  roam 
Would  feel  the  frost  in  our  bosoms  melt 
And  be  soothed  to  rest  at  home. 


HERMON. 
I  love  to  roam  when  night's  dark  curtains 

fall 
By  singing  brooks  in  nature's  spacious  hall. 
And  listen  while  the  world  Is  wrapped  iu 

sleep 
To  voices  that  my  memory  '11  ever  keep: 
Voices  that  sung  when  life  was  in  its  prime. 
Before  the  soul  was  stained  with  thought  of 

crime; 
For  in  such  wanderings  I  am  carried  back 
Through  many  a  year,  o'er  many  a  weary 

track. 
To  childhood's  day  —  its  sorrow  and  its  joy, 
And  musing  there  —  again  I  am  a  boy. 

Again  I  walk  through  Hermon's  quiet  streets 
And  see  the  loafers  in  their  wonted  seats, 
Tlie  saucy  school-boy's  shout  rings  as  of  yore, 
And  busy  merchants  sit  beside  tlieir  door. 
The  town-clock  counts  the  hours  with  dreary 

toll 
As  one  bj'  one  they  by  us  swiftly  roll, 
The  school-house  with  its  warped  and  batter- 
ed floor. 
With  barefoot  urchins  playing  'round  the 

door; 
Painful  the  memories  which  thy  siglit  does 

bring. 
Painful  as  the  birch's  unwelcome  sting. 
Taught  there  to  say  "I  love  "  for  Grammar 

drill. 
Now  without  Grammar  I  repeat  it  still. 

But  now  these  scenes  in  visions  only  come. 
Bearing  me  ou  their  wings  to  childhood's 

home. 
Bridging  the  flood  of  years  that  rolls  between 
My  present  state  and  each  familiar  scene. 
Raising   anew   the   hopes  which  long  have 

fled. 
Bringing  to  life  the  friends  who  now  are 

dead. 
Tuning  my  lyre  to  sing  in  loudest  praise 
Of  friends  and  scenes  of  youth's  unclouded 

days. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


753 


-* 


GILBERT  L.  EBERHART. 

Born  :  Beaver  Co.,  Pa. 

After  completing:  his  education  Mr.  Eber- 
hart  adopted  civil  eng-ineering-  and  teaching- 
as  a  profession;  but  finally  he  read  law  and 
was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1870.  He  served 
for  over  three  years  in  the  civil  war,  was 
piouioted  and  served  ou  the  stafiE  of  Gen. 


GILBERT  L.  EBERHART. 

Meade  for  a  time.  He  now  practises  his  pro- 
fession at  Beaver  Falls,  and  for  several  years 
has  also  been  part  owner  and  the  literary  and 
political  editor  of  the  daily  and  weekly  Tri- 
bune of  that  city.  At  an  early  age  he  beg-an 
to  contribute  both  prose  and  verse  to  various 
literary  journals  of  Boston,  New  York  and 
Philadelphia.  He  has  represented  the  dis- 
trict in  which  he  now  resides  in  two  seesions 
of  the  Pennsylvania  legrislature. 


I 


THE  CHILD  AND  FLOWERS, 
The  earth  was  clad  in  regal  robes 
Of  golden  grain  and  blooming  flowers; 
And  all  was  song  and  notes  of  joy 
From  dewy  morn  till  evening  hours; 
When  out  a  bright  and  laughing-  boy 
With  eye  as  clear  as  heaven's  blue. 
To  pluck  the  sweetest  buds  that  grew. 
The  mead  and  wildwood  wandered  thro' 


And  soon  lie  liad  his  heart's  desire. 
But  stepping  by  a  brook  to  rest. 
In  thoughtless  mood  he,  one  by  one. 
The  blooms  threw  on  its  rippled  breast. 
And  soon  upon  its  dancing  waves. 
Far  out  beyond  the  urchin's  reach, 
He  saw  each  blossom  swiftly  borne 
Adown  the  streamlet's  shingly  beach. 

At  length,  the  last  one  out  of  sight. 
Beneath  the  distant  woodland  bowers, 
With  tearful  sobs  he  loudly  cries  — 
"Thou  cruel  brook  bring- back  my  flowers." 
The  chattering  brook,  in  heedless  glee. 
Still  leaped  along  with  all  its  powers; 
And  only  echo  made  reply;— 
'•  Bring  back  my  flowers,  bring  back  my 
flowers." 

So  erring  man  oft  careless  throws 

On  Time's  swift  stream  his  golden  hours; 

And  like  the  child,  when  all  too  late. 

He  vainly  cries,— '-Bring  back  my  flowers." 


THE  FIRST  BLUEBIRD  OF  SPRING. 
Hark:  hark!  I  hear  a  bluebird  sing! 

His  voice  rings  through  the  purple  air. 
And  tells  me  that  the  hand  of  Spring 

Is  weaving  garlands  fresh  and  fair. 
In  mossy  dell,  on  frowning  fell. 

And  strewing  flowers  everywhere. 

What  lesson  doth  the  springtide  teach. 
As  from  the  mould  the  blooms  arise?— 

How  life  begun  below  shall  reach 
Eternal  hfe  beyond  the  skies;— 

These  souls  of  ours,  thro'  blissful  hours. 
Bloom  ever  in  God's  Paradise. 


A  WISH. 
I  wish  I  were  a  fragrant  flower, 

Fresh  blooming  on  the  summer  lea; 
And  thou  would'st  come  at  even's  hour, 

A  dewdrop.  Love,  to  rest  on  me. 

I'd  fold  thee  in  my  perfumed  cup. 
With  all  a  lover's  jealous  care. 

Till  morning's  sun  should  lift  us  up 
Into  the  crystal  fields  of  air. 

And  there  the  world's  rude  strife  above. 
We'd  mingle  with  the  rainbow's  dyes. 

And  live  in  Heaven's  sweet  bonds  of  love. 
Forever  in  the  radiant  skies. 


-« 


-* 


754 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKRICA. 


RUTH  AND  I. 
•Twas  eve.  The  stars  like  censors  bright  were 

hung  about 
The  dome  of  Nature's  old  cathedral,  grand 

and  high, 
While   the    sweet   roses  from  their  golden 

hearts  poured  out 
A  fragrant  incense  on  each  breeze  that  wan- 
dered by; 
Dear  Ruth  and  I.  the  blooming  croft  strolled 

slowly  o'er, 
Wondering  whether  beyond  the  stars  and 

mortal  ken 
We  might  not  find  some  fairy  isle,  some  love- 
ly shore 
And  live  forever  in  the  joy  which  thrilled  us 

then. 
The  flowers  ope'd  their  rosy  lips  and  whisper- 
ed. Yes! 
The  sighing  zephyrs  echoed  back  the  sweet 

reply ; 
While  all  the  starry  host  in  glowing  tender- 
ness. 
Sent  down  the  same  glad  answer  from  the 

quiet  sky. 
Ah,  then  we  thought  all  joys,  or  past,  or  yet 

to  be. 
Were  crowded  in  the  space  of  that  one  hal- 
lowed hour; 
That  love  and  hope  were  one  exhaustless, 

boundless  sea. 
And  swayed  all  life  beneath  their  own  resist- 
less power. 

1  said  "  I  sail  to-morrow  for  a  distant  land ; 

I  shall  be  gone,  dear  Ruth,  for  months,  per- 
haps for  years. 

But  will  return."  She,  trembling,  claspt  in 
her's  my  hand 

And  tried  to  speak.  Instead  words,  came  only 
tears. 

I  asked,  "la  all  the  weary  years  I  maybe 

gone. 
Wilt  thou  the  wanderer  with  thy  love,  as  now. 

still  bless?  " 
And  while  her  eyes,  through  gathering  tears. 

with  love-light  shone. 
She  wound    her  arms  about  my  neck  and 

murmured,  .'Yes!" 

I  We  parted,  and  I  sailed  for  years  o'er  foreign 

sea  and  bay. 
But  still  the  light  of  those  dear  radiant  eyes 
Beamed  ever  on  me  in  their  beauty,  night 

and  day,  ^    ,  ^    ^, 

Bounding  my  hfe  as  earth  is  bounded  by  the 

But  that,  alas!  was  many  long,  long  years 
ago. 


And  Time  it  seems  can  change  the  passions 

of  the  heart; 
In  place  of  love  make  thorns  of  cold  neglect 

to  grow. 
But  yield  no  anodyne  to  cure  their   bjtter 

smart. 

They  tell  me  Ruth's  inconstant  heart  was 

wooed  and  bought. 
Through  show  of  wealth  by  some  mean,  ly- 
ing spawn  of  Hell. 
Who,  after  he    the  deed  of    ruin  well   had 

wrought, 
Left  her  to  perish  in  the  shame  to  which  she 

fell. 
Alas,  that  Hope  should  whisper  such  allur- 
ing tales ! 
Alas,  that  Love  should  fill  the  heart  with  such 

wild  joy. 
When  like  the  flame  'round  which  the  foolish 

insect  sails. 
They  win  us  only  that,  at  last,  they  may  de- 
stroy. 


THE  GOOD-NIGHT. 
The  moon  was  hanging  in  a  cloudless,  mid- 
night sky ; 
The  stars  smiled  on  the  roses  with  a  calm  de- 
light— 
I  rose  to  go;    she    said  'twas   early  with   a 

sigh: 
I  took  her  jeweled  hands  in  mine  to  say  good- 
night. 
She  softly  wound  about  my  neck  her  milk- 
white  arms; 
She  breathed  in  love  upon  my  lips  her  balmy 

breath. 
And  drew  my  fainting  heart  out-with  her 

kisses'  charms, 
While  on  her  breast  I  died  a  strange  delicious 
death. 

Her  eyes  met  mine  and  in  my  soul's  volup- 
tuous pain, 

I  trod  the  rounds  of  bliss  as  kings  their  royal 
palaces;  , 

While  in  my  ear  she  poured  her  love  as  o  er 
the  plain 

The  flowers  pour  the  musk  from  out  their 
crimson  chalices. 

We  little  recked  how  fast  or  slow  the  mo- 
ments flew. 

Enraptured  so  were  we   by  Love's  bright 

golden  glory. 
1  know  I  said   good-night  at  last,  and  she 
adieu ;  . 

But  when,  or  how  is  now  our  own  sweet 
secret  story. 


*- 


* 


LOCAT^   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


755 


MURDER. 
The  hearts  of  the  flowers  have  shrunk  from 
the  dew. 
The  moon  has  gone  down  in  affright; 
And  the  terrified  stars  dare  scarcely  peep 
through 
The  storm-tattered  clouds  of  the  night. 

The  gaunt  wolf  listens  with  bated  breath, 
As  in  fear  of  some  hidden  snare; 

And  it  seems  that  the  bloody  wings  of  Death 
Were  beating  the  sweltering  air. 

There's  a  gleam  of  a  knife,  a  wail  of  pain, 

And  a  sound  of  struggling  feet; 
And  a  form  with  hands  of  gory  stain, 

Like  a  phantom  flies  down  the  street. 

From  the  gloomy  aisles  of  the  shivering  wood. 
Cries  a  strangling  voice  on  the  wind: 

"  Near  the  side  of  the  road,  a  pool  of  warm 
blood. 
And  a  murdered  corse  thou  wilt  find." 


THE  FIFE. 
Warlike  fife  1 
Ah,  how  rife 

With  the  battle's  stormy  strife 
Are  thy  sharp  reverberations  as  they  ripple 
into  life. 

And  we  hear, 
Far  and  near. 

Falling  on  the  startled  ear. 
All  the  piercing  undulations  of  thy  music, 
shrill  and  clear. 

There's  a  sense 
Most  intense 

Of  impatience  and  suspense. 
As  the  notes  exulting,  screaming,  from  thy 
throat  are  rattling  hence; 

And  a  thrill 
Which  no  will 

And  no  force  of  human  skill, 
Like  thy  voice's  ring  of  valor,  can  the  soul 
with  daring  fill. 

And  the  peal 
Which  we  feel. 
Like  a  blade  of  keenest  steel 
Crashing  through  the  head  that's  loyal,  cut- 
ting through  the  heart  that's  leal, 

Brings  unrest 
To  the  breast. 
As  we  see  in  battle  prest 
All  the  brave  and  gory  legions  that  thy  call 
hath  sent  to  rest. 


«- 


In  thy  tones 
Hear  the  groans. 
And  the  deep  and  wailing  moans 
Of  the  heroes  who  at  Concord  and  at  Mon- 
mouth left  their  bones. 

And  again. 
On  the  plain 
Of  Antietam's  iron  rain. 
Hear  thy  voice  defiant  swelling  o'er  the  bat- 
tle's wail  of  pain. 

But  the  years 
Dry  our  tears. 

And  assuage  all  griefs  and  fears. 
And  thy  blasts  of  war  have  vanished  with 
our  slaughtered  heroes'  cheers; 

Yet  on  high 
Swells  thy  cry. 
Like  an  anthem  to  the  sky. 
While  our  serried  hosts  triumphant  in  our 
dreams  go  marching  by. 

And  to  God, 
From  the  sod 

Which  our  fallen  martyrs  trod. 
Ever  rise  their  blood  as  incense,  and  their 
souls  still  march  abroad: 

Keeping  time. 
With  the  chime. 
And  the  symphony  sublime. 
Of  the  valiant  tramp  of  freemen,  and  the 
glory  of  our  clime. 


A  SONG. 
Ever  is  my  soul  enchanted. 
In  my  dreams  am  ever  haunted, 

By  a  beiny  fair  and  young; 
Fairer  far  than  poet  ever 
In  his  happiest,  best  endeavor. 
Dared  to  dream  of,  or  hath  sung. 
But  how  I  adore  and  love  her, 

She,  sweet  soul,  doth  never  weet. 
More  than  clouds  that  swim  above  her. 
Or  the  blossoms  at  her  feet. 

All  the  golden  store  and  treasure. 
All  the  wide  world's  rarest  pleasure. 

Would  I  lavish  at  her  feet. 
If  but  once  she  would  enfold  me 
In  her  arms;  or  even  scold  me 
With  that  mouth  so  full  and  sweet. 
But  how  I  adore  and  love  her. 

She,  alas,  doth  never  weet. 
More  than  stars  that  glow  above  her. 
Or  the  buds  that  kiss  her  feet. 


-* 


*- 


756 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL,   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


How  my  soul  with  joy  would  quiver, 
If  she  would  but  let  me  give  her, 

On  her  sweet  mouth's  pouting  lips. 
Just  one  little,  dainty  token 
Of  the  love  that  now  has  broken 
Into  words  upon  my  lips. 

But  how  well  I  love,  adore  her. 

She,  dear  angel,  doth  not  weet, 
More  than  skies  that  smile  above  her. 
Or  the  daisies  at  her  feet. 

If  upon  her  spotless  bosom. 
Blooming  like  a  radiant  blossom, 

She  would  let  my  head  recline 
Only  for  one  single  minute. 
Heaven  and  all  the  bliss  within  it 
Were  no  joy  compared  to  mine. 
But  how  I  adore  and  love  her, 
She  shall  never,  never  weet, 
More  than  airs  that  float  above  her, 
Or  the  roses  at  her  feet. 

If  she  will  but  let  me  be  her 
Slave,  that  daily  I  may  see  her. 

Know  that  she  is  near  the  while, 
I  will  bear  life's  keenest  sorrow. 
More  than  blest  to  know  each  morrow 
Shall  be  radiant  with  her  smile. 
But  how  I  adore  and  love  her. 

She,  sweet  angel,  doth  not  weet. 
More  than  birds  that  soar  above  her, 
Or  the  violets  at  her  feet. 


THE  KISS  OF  MAUD. 

When  Maud  came  with  her  lips  of  pink, 

I  felt  as  do  the  bees  that  drink 
The  honey  from  the  rose's  cup. 
When  South  winds  wake  the  blossoms  up. 

When  Maud  came  with  her  lips  of  pink. 

She  held  them,  like  a  chalice,  up, 
Wherefrom,  the  better,  I  might  sup 
The  nectar  there:  how  pure  and  sweet, 
No  one  but  me  shall  ever  weet  — 
She  held  them,  like  a  dear  girl,  up. 

The  day  was  fair,  and  long  the  aisle 
Down  whicli  we  wandered,  double  file; 
The  setting  sun,  his  glories  cast 
On  every  blossom  that  we  passed  — 
The  day  was  fair,  and  long  the  aisle. 

She  strolled  along  the  way  with  me. 
As  happy  a.s  a  droning  bee. 
And  made  each  rosebud  brighter  grow 


Along  the  path  that  we  did  go  — 
She  strolled  along  the  way  with  me. 

And  still  she  held  the  chalice  up, 
That  I  the  wine  of  love  might  sup: 
I  drank  and  felt  my  soul  aflame 
With  every  draught  of  joy  that  came  — 
And,  still  she  held  the  chalice  up. 

Then  Maud,  beside  me,  sat  and  smiled. 
Demurely  as  a  little  child; 
And  O,  what  thrills  of  purest  bliss 
Ran  through  my  soul,  with  each  fond  kiss- 
Then  Maud,  beside  me,  sat  and  smiled. 

The  Summer  moon,  old  Time  beguiled. 
And  Maud,  as  pure  and  undeflled 
As  stars  that  decked  the  blue  above. 
Poured  in  my  ear  her  deathless  love  — 
The  Summer  moon,  old  Time  beguiled. 

Ah,  that  was  long,  long  years  ago. 
But  still  the  roses  bud  and  blow. 
And  still  the  sun,  his  glories  cast. 
Athwart  the  aisle  down  which  we  past  — 
Ah,  that  was  long,  long  years  ago. 

But  where  is  Maud,  I  do  not  know. 
More  than  the  buds  that  then  did  blow: 
For  in  those  dear  and  bygone  years. 
She  poured  her  love  in  other  ears  — 
And  where  is  Maud,  I  do  not  know. 


THE  REASON. 
Ah,  see  her  brilliant  eyes,  her  classic  nose; 
Her  jaunty  bonnet,  and  her  other  clothes  — 

0  dear,  how  they  attract  me! 

A  figure  tall  and  lithe;  her  face  so  sweet  — 
Her  slender  hands,  and  then  those  sylph-like 
feet! 
These  all,  indeed  distract  me. 

Pdream  of  her  —that  is,  sometimes  I  do  — 
And  think  I'll  try  right  hard  to  win  and  woo 

Her  hand  and  her  affection; 
And  yet,  altlio'  I  know  she's  good  and  sweet. 
And  has  a  fortune  quite  complete, 

1  have,  to  her,  just  one  objection. 

And,  hence,  T  think  T'll  have  to  let  her  go. 
And  still  I  kind  o'  sort  o'  love  her  so, 

I  really  liate  to  lose  her. 
But  she,  perliaps,  will  find  some  other  man, 
Who  can't  sec  dirty  finger  nails  —  I  can ; 

And,  therefore,  I  refuse  her. 


*- 


* 


*- 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


757 


WE  PART  FOREVER. 
Fare  thee  well!  We  part  forever  I 

Love's  bright  dream  is  turued  to  pain; 
And  my  bleeding  heart  shall  never 

Throb  in  joy  to  thine  again. 
Once  I  was  thy  fond  believer  — 

Once  did  deem  thee  pure  and  true; 
But  I've  learned,  thou  felldeceiverl 

There  is  naught  so  false  as  you! 
All  the  boasted  love  you  cherished 

Once  so  tenderly  for  me, 
In  thy  heart  as  quickly  perished 

As  the  bubbles  on  the  sea. 

Once  I  loved  thee,  oh,  how  dearly! 

Fondly  hoped  to  call  thee  mine; 
And  my  foolish  heart  had  nearly 

Worshipped  thee  as  one  divine; 
But  the  fatal  word  thou'st  spoken. 

That  dost  drive  me  hence  from  thee  — 
Love's  sweet  spell  hast  rudely  broken, 

Thou  hast  proved  too  false  for  me ! 
Then  farewell!  We  part  forever! 

All  thy  tears  must  fall  in  vain; 
For  thy  false  heart  I  will  never 

Press  in  love  to  mine  again. 

Tell  me  not  in  feigned  sadness, 

Thou  wilt  fondly  love  me  yet  — 
That  the  deed  was  human  madness, 

And  thy  folly  dost  regret. 
No;  thou  false  one!   I  will  never 

Listen  to  one  word  from  thee; 
For  the  tongue  that  heart  can  sever 

Is  too  false,  too  false  for  me ! 
Then  farewell !  We  part  forever! 

All  my  love  is  turned  to  pain ; 
And  my  bleeding  heart  shall  never 

Throb  with  love  for  thee  again! 


*- 


ROBIN  HAS  COME. 
Robin  has  come,  and  bluebird,  too. 
And  while  their  songs  the  air  float  through. 
They  call  up  visions  of  beauty  and  days 
That  lie  beyond  the  springtime's  haze; 
Of  babbling  brooks  and  leafy  trees. 
Of  golden  grain,  and  rosy  seas 
Of  bloom,  on  which,  in  fragrant  gale. 
The  bee  will  spread  his  fair}'  sail. 
And  carry  away  to  his  own  sweet  mart 
Some  precious  freight   from  each  blossom's 

heart; 
Of  roses  clasped  in  the  arms  of  Dusk; 
Of  jasmines  pouring  their  wine  of  musk 
Into  the  heart  of  the  mignonette, 
And  the  purple  lips  of  the  violet; 
Of  fruits  that  shall  make  the  children  laugh; 
Of  the  luscious  juice  their  fathers  shall  quafl 


As  they  gather  about  the  Christmas  hearth. 
When  leaf  and  blossom  have  left  the  earth. 

And  other  visions  of  summer  time 

Run  in  the  warp  and  woof  of  my  rhyme; 

Visions  as  fair  as  May  and  June, 

Of  happy  lover  and  happier  maid. 

Swinging  along  in  the  twilight  shade; 

Strolling  beneath  the  smiling  moon, 

Whispering  each  to  the  fragrant  breeze 

Of  something  as  deep  as  the  deep,  deep  seas; 

Of  hours  too  short,  and  tales  too  sweet 

For  mortal  lips  to  dare  repeat; 

Of  joyous  lull  of  lute  and  song; 

Of  vows  of  love,  and  ties  too  strong 

For  ruth  of  man,  or  strength  of  art, 

Or  life,  or  death,  to  tear  apart. 

Robin  has  come,  and  bluebird,  too, 

Telling  of  joys  for  me  and  you; 

Singing  of  balmier,  softer  airs 

That  shall  waft  away  our  sorrow  and  cares; 

Telling  us  all  that  every  hour. 

Like  the  unfolding  of  leaf  and  flower, 

Cometh  to  us  from  the  Father  above. 

His  bountiful  gifts  of  gracious  love; 

Strewing  for  all  with  his  kind  hand 

Endless  blessings  over  the  land. 

And  while  the  robin  and  bluebird  sing. 
Waking  these  thoughts  of  budding  spring- 
Ringing  in  with  their  merrj'  chime 
Riper  beauties  of  summer  time  — 
Grander  visions  unbidden  arise 
Ever  before  the  poet's  eyes; 
Visions  bright  of  immortal  lands; 
Of  loving  faces  and  angel  hands; 
Voices  that  come  from  realms  afar 
Soft  as  the  beam  of  twilight  star, 
Whispering  ever  to  soul  and  sense 
Of  the  boundless  flelds  of  recompense, 
That  stretch  away  in  glor.v  sublime, 
Far,  far  beyond  the  gray  hills  of  Time, 
Where  all  that  is  mortal  shall  ever  be 
Robed  in  the  bloom  of  immortality. 


AFTER  THE  BALL. 
I  now  sit  alone;  the  guests  have  departed; 
The  viol's  sweet  music  no  longer  I  hear; 
And  only  the  laugh  of  the  throng,  merry- 
hearted. 
In  shadowy  cadence,  dies  away  on  my  ear. 

But  there's  one  whose  soft  tones  and  eyes' 
tender  glances, 
Still  echo  and  thrill  through  my  soul  and 
my  heart. 


-* 


*- 


* 


758 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


As  when  in  the  whirl  of  the  wildering  dances, 
She  sighed  that  so  soon  we  should  be  sun- 
dered apart. 

I  see  the  red  roses  she  daintily  fingered, 

I  smell  the  carnations  that  fell  at  her  feet. 
When  close  hy  my  side,  in  her  beauty  she 
lingered. 
And  whispered  the  words  that  I  dare  not 
repeat. 


I  wake  from  my  dream  in  the  keenest  of 
anguish; 
My  heart  is  now  bursting  with  bitter  re- 
gret; 
She's  left  me,  as  others,  in   sorrow   to  lan- 
guish— 
I  have   learned,  when  too  late,  she's   a 
heartless  coquette. 

Alas,  that  such  creatures  are  all  so  unreal! 
That  the  soul's  rarest  pleasures  so  soon 
fade  away ! 
That  the  purest,  the  best,  the  most  perfect 
ideal. 
Like  buds  that  are  fairest,are  first  to  decay. 


SADIE  BENN. 
Ah,  Sadie  Benn,  fair  Sadie  Benn, 

Long  are  the  years  since  last  we  met. 
But  that  fond  kiss  thou  gav'st  me  then. 

In  sweetness  lingers  round  me  yet. 

Thy  broken  vow,  false  Sadie  Benn, 
Is  still  to  this  fond  bleeding  heart 

As  bright  and  dear,  alas,  as  when 
Thou  swor'st  death  only  should  us  part. 

For  years  I've  tried  in  vain  to  break 
The  spell  that  binds  my  soul  to  thee. 

But  each  attempt  doth  only  make 
Tliine  image  dearer  still  to  me. 

And  thus,  in  grief's  keen,  bitter  smart 
My  long  and  weary  days  are  passed. 

In  madness  pressing  to  my  heart 
The  sting  that  brings  me  death  at  last. 


DIRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER. 
Lay  him  low,  ah,  lay  him  low; 
Out  of  reach  of  all  tliat's  human, 
A'hat  cares  he  for  friend  or  foe. 
Sigh  of  man,  or  tear  of  woman ! 
liiiy  liim  low. 


"Where  the  verdant  grasses  grow ; 
Where  the  meek-eyed  pansies  blow. 
Lay  him  low. 

He  the  race  of  life  hath  run. 
In  discharge  of  loyal  duty; 
He  the  meed  of  valor  won, 
In  his  manhood's  crowning  beauty. 
Lay  him  low. 
Where  the  roses  bud  and  blow. 
Where  the  sweetest  blossoms  grow, 
Lay  him  low. 

Let  him  now  in  glory  rest. 
Free  from  all  life's  toil  and  sorrow, 
Sure  that  He  who  knoweth  best 
Gives  to  him  eternal  morrow. 
Lay  him  low. 
Where  the  lilies  fairest  blow; 
Where  the  rue  and  pansy  grow, 
Lay  him  low. 


THE  FISHING  BOY. 
The  little  boy,  he  doth  get  up 

Quite  early  in  the  morning, 
And  goeth  to  the  creek  to  fish, 

Despite  his  mother's  warning. 

And  there  he  fisheth  all  the  day. 
The  sun  his  nose  a-burning. 

But  catcheth  not  the  great  big  fish 
For  which  his  heart  is  yearning. 

At  last  the  sun  it  goeth  down; 

That  boy  his  steps  retracing, 
Arriving  hungry  at  liis  home. 

To  meet  his  ma's  embracing. 

She  turneth  him  across  her  lap. 
And  soon  her  boy  is  wishing 

He  ne'er  hath  seen  the  fatal  day 
He  skulked  to  go  a-fishing. 


FRENCH-ENGLISH. 
A  man  at  Dubuque, 
Called  another  a  puque; 
Then  he  tried  hard  to  )iit  him. 
But  lie  couldn't  quite  git  him. 
Because  he  was  quick  on  the  juque. 
Was  this  very  gallant  young  duque, 
That  called  the  other  a  puque. 
Without  any  fear  of  rebuque. 


*- 


*- 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 

By  tlie  cottage  door  hv.v  baby  slie  lulls, 
And  hums  to  the  tune  of  tlie  fountain, 

As  it  bubbles  over  the  shelving  rocks 
From  its  source  in  the  purple  mountain. 

She  slngeth  a  song  of  her  early  love; 

But  she  suddenly  stops  to  listen. 
While  tears  roll  down  across  her  cheeks 

Where,  as  dew  on  the  rose,  they  glisten. 

She  looks  on  her  child  with  feverish  gaze  — 
Does  she  hear  the  thunder  and  rattle 

Of  the  red-mouthed   guns  as  their   heated 
breath 
Blasts  the  foe  on  the  field  of  battle? 

No!  Again  she  singeth:  >'  Sweet  baby  rest; 

God  will  protect  thy  brave  sire  ever; 
Tender  and  pure  be  the  dreams  in  thy  breast, 

Sorrow  shadow  thy  dear  heart  never." 


In  her  cot  by  the  fountain,  a  tender  song 
Singeth  she  still  for  her  absent  darling; 

But  it  never  will  reach  his  listless  ear 
On  the  red  field  where  the  wolf  is  snarling. 


GONE. 
Gone  as  the  stream  that,  for  many  a  year. 

Gladdened  the  traveller  worn  and  weary: 
Gone  as  the  song  of  a  beautiful  bird. 

And  the  hope  of  the  heart  that  is  dreary. 

Gone  as  the  wing  that  cleaveth  the  sky. 
Gone  as  the  bloom   from  the  corn  that  is 
golden. 

Gone  as  the  fragrance  that  is  wafted  by, 
When  the  summer  is  faded  and  olden. 

Gone  as  the  visions  In  our  dreams  at  night. 
When  the  stars  are  asleep  on  the  silent 
river; 

Gone  as  the  loved  eyes'  beam  of  light. 
When  shadowed  by  Death  —  and  forever. 


THE  WINDS  DO  BLOW. 

The  mellow  wihds  do  blow,  do  blow. 
Over  the  tiiountain,  over  the  plain. 

Swelling  the  germens  that  lie  below 
Into  broad  oceans  of  golden  grain. 

And.  when  ye  last  did  blow,  did  blow. 
My  Willie,  my  darling,  said  to  me: 

>•  Over  the  main,  my  dearest,  I  go; 
Back  with  a  fortune  will  come  to  thee. 


*- 


"Ah  me,  the  winds  do  blow,  do  blow, 
Manj'  a  sail  o'er  the  summer  sea. 

But  why  do  they  mock  my  sad  heart  so? 
Why  do  they  bring  not  vvillie  to  me? 

"  Ah  me,  ye  winds  that  blow,  do  blow, 
The  beautiful  blossoms  over  the  lea. 

Tell  me  in  truth,  for  ye  know,  ye  know. 
Is  Willie,  my  own,  still  true  to  me?  " 

"  Ah  summer  winds  that  blow,  do  blow, 
In  melodj-  sweet  o'er  land  and  main; 

If,  alas,  to  me  ye  answer,  No! 
Maj'  never  I  hear  your  voice  again." 

The  winds  of  spring  do  blow,  do  blow. 
Calling  in  sobbing  and  tender  stave, 

Pansy  and  rue  to  bourgeon  and  grow, 
Over  a  maiden's  new-made  grave. 


LOVE  NOT. 
Love  not,  for  love  will  soon  decay, 

And  teach  thee  to  thy  sorrow; 
Tlie  brightest  skies  that  smile  to-day. 

May  scowl  with  storms  to-morrow. 

Love  not,  for  love  is  but  a  dream. 
Whose  glory's  soon  departed, — 

Fair  joys  that  for  an  instant  gleam. 
Then  leave  us  broken-hearted. 

Love  not,  for  love  is  but  a  thing 

Tliat  lives  in  airy  flashes; 
A  tempting  fruit  until  thou  bring 

It  to  thy  lips,  then  —  ashes. 

Love  not,  for  love  is  full  of  tears. 

In  doubt  its  victims  languish ; 
And  when  their  hope  most  bright  appears. 

It  turns  to  keenest  anguish. 

Love  not,  for  love  will  leave  thee  soon ; 

The  things  ye  fondly  cherish. 
Like  buds  that  crown  the  brow  of  June, 

When  fairest,  soonest  perish. 


TO  MINNIE. 
Thou  little,  laughing,  dumpy  sprite! 

Thou  lovely,  romping  baby! 
I  ne'er  have  known  such  keen  delight, 

Nor  e'er  on  earth  can,  maybe. 
As  thy  sweet  smiles,  my  ciuld.  impart 
Day  after  day  to  my  glad  heart. 

Laugh  on,  thou  fairest,  sweetest  innocent  I 
Fear  not:  I  am  thy  loving  friend, 


-* 


«l- 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


And  would  not  check  thy  merriment 
For  all  the  world.    Still  to  me  lend 
Thy  confidence.    May  sweet  and  unaffected 

grace 
E'er  plaj',  as  now,  in  rosy  dimples,  o'er  ihj' 
face. 

Sweet  child!  within  thy  laughing  sparkling 

eyes, 
Methinks  I  catch  e'en  now 
A  glimpse  of  that  bright  world  beyond  the 

skies. 
Where  all  are  fair  as  thou; 
And   where  each  face,  thro'  all  Eternity's 

long  years. 
Shall  ever  be  as  free  as  thine  is  now  from 

tears. 

A  heavenly  lamp,  O  Minnie  dear,  art  thou. 
Let  down  thro' the  blue  curtains  of  the  sky. 

To  light  with  joy  and  hope  my  sin-stained 
brow 
And  lead  me  to  the  realms  of  love  on  high. 

Romp  on !  I  love  to  see  thee  laugh  and  crow 

In  frantic  glee,  in  thy  fond  mother's  arms. 

I  know  that  earth.no  purer  type  can  show 

Of  Heaven  than  thou.     God  shield  thee 

from  all  harm. 

And   grant  thee  many  years  my  heart  to 

bless 
With  thy  pure  love  and  angel  tenderness. 


FORSAKEN. 
Ah  me,  my  soul  is  drenched  in  Grief's  hot 
tears ! 
My  heart  consuming  in  a  hidden  Are; 
And  no  loved  one  is  near  to  calm  my  fears; 
No  tender  voice  one  ray  of  hope  to  inspire. 

I,  joyless  am,  as  some  wrecked  mariner. 
Tossed  on  old  Ocean's  rough  and  stormy 
wave ; 

No  land  or  beacon-light,  or  far  or  near. 
No  pitying  eye,  no  hand  to  help  or  save. 

But  doomed  in  wild  despair  awhile  to  drift. 
Before  the  veering  blast  — the  cheerless 
wind. 

Then  all  alone,  as  some  poor  soul  unshrift, 
Sink  in  the  deep  and  leave  no  trace  behind. 


*- 


GRIEVE  ME  NO  MORE. 
Grieve  me  no  more,  grieve  me  no  more. 

With  words  of  scorn  and  bitter  strife; 
But  let  thy  loving  words  of  yore, 

Still  be  the  solace  of  my  life. 


Grieve  me  no  more,  but  let  thine  eye 
Beam  kindly  as  in  other  years. 

And  light  my  soul  while  Hate  goes  by. 
And  Love  comes  in  to  dry  my  tears. 


QUATRAINS. 
I  yearn  for  the  joy  of  a  tender  embrace, 

I  weep  for  the  grasp  of  a  vanisht  hand; 
1  pray  for  the  smiles  of  a  radiant  face 

I  lost  long  ago  in  a  foreign  land. 

How  vain  are  all  our  fondest  joys. 

Our  hearts  how  much  abusing! 
They  are  but  children's  gilded  toys 

That  perish  with  the  using. 

As  two  bright  clouds  that  float  all  day  be- 
neath the  sun. 
At  eve,  fuse  in  the  rosy  chambers  of  the 
West. 
I  felt  my  heart  and  soul  with  hers  melt  Into 
one, 
When  on  my  lips  her  first  dear  seal  of  love 
she  prest. 

Sleep  dear,  till  morn,  with  bright  beaming 
eyes. 
Peeps  through  tlie  opening  doors  of  Day; 
And  in  rosy  robes   climbs  up    the  Eastern 
skies; 
And  tears  the  dusky  curtains    of   Night 
away. 

Her  mouth  is,  indeed,  as  sweet  as  the  roses 
That  bloom  in  the  soft  airs  of  June; 

But  lier  tongue's  like  the  snake  that  reposes 
At  its  root,  and  will  kill  quite  as  soon. 


OUR  VOLAPUK. 

"  O  dear  mother,  that  is  enough !  " 
He  cried,  as  she  gave  him  a  cough. 
That  fell  kind  o'  sudden  and  rough. 

On  her  darling  son's  left  ear; 
And  made  liim  think  of  rappee  siiough. 
Or  some  otfier  very  hard  stough 

Tliat  caused  him  to  feel  quite  queer. 

"Tliere,"  said  the  old  lady,  ••  you  nough. 
Go  to  the  field  and  bring  in  the  cough. 
And  see  you  don't  get  into  a  rough 

With  any  boys  by  the  way. 
Wlieii  you  returti,  call  dad  from  the  plough, 
And  be  sure  to  drive  the  old  sough 

And  her  pigs,  to  the  whey." 
* 


©- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


759 


-IB 


WILLIAM  CASWELL  JONES. 

Born  :  Hutson ville.  III.,  July  15, 1848. 

The  poems  of  this  gentleman  have  appeared 
in  the  Railway  Age,  Chicago  Evening-  Jour- 
nal, National  Tril)une  and  the  periodical  press 
generally.  Mr.  Jones  was  a  member  of  the 
twenty-seventh   g-eneral  assembly  in  1871-73; 


WILLIAM  CASWELL  JONES. 

county  judg-e  in  1877,  and  is  now  serving  his 
second  term  as  judge  of  the  second  judicial 
circuit  of  the  state  of  Illinois.  The  Hon. 
William  C.  Jones  was  married  in  1869  and  re- 
sides at  Robinson.  Personally  Judge  Jones 
is  of  very  fine  stature,  and  is  well  known  and 
highly  respected;  and  is  a  member  of  Gorin 
Commandery  No.  14,  K.  T. 


®- 


LOVE'S  ARROWS. 

Treacherous  thy  arrows.  Love, 

Poisonous  thy  darts; 
We  place  them  in  our  quivers.  Love, 

Forgetting  broken  hearts; 
You  bid  us  be  in  welcome.  Love, 

We  blindly,  madly  sing; 
Hope's  sweetest  smile  is  with  us,  Love, 

Till  thou  thy  arrows  fling. 

You  play,  you  fondle  with  your  prize. 
Led  captive  by  thy  love ; 


You  tease,  torment  us,  with  thine  eyes  — 

Sweet  starliglits  like  above! 
We  tliy  caresses  glad  embrace. 

Not  fearful  of  thy  sting; 
We  yield  to  beauty  and  thy  grace. 

Till  thou  thy  arrows  fling. 

Yet  seek  we  for  thy  arrows.  Love, 

And  gather,  o'er  and  o'er. 
Thy  smarting,  stinging,  piercing  darts. 

Forgetting  those  of  yore. 
What  would  life  be  without  them,  Love? 

We'll  to  them  always  cling; 
Trust  to  thy  graciousuess,  O  Love, 

Till  thou  thy  arrows  fling. 


THE  TWILIGHT  SHADES. 
The  twilight  shades  of  night  appear, 
As  I  sit  silent,  lonely  here. 
Watching  the  rifting  clouds  on  high 
Swiftly  passing  each  other  by. 
The  fitful  stars  shine  out  so  bright, 
As  nature  dons  her  robes  of  night; 
'Tis  time  for  weary  eyes  to  close 
In  sleep—  kind  nature's  sweet  repose. 

The  low,  sad  chirp  of  insect  wail. 
Alone  doth  cheerless  hours  regale. 
Save  ripplings  from  yon  babbling  brook, 
Tliat  greet  me  in  this  quiet  nook. 
All  nature's  still!  The  weary  borne 
To  peaceful  rest  from  cares  till  morn. 
And  hushed  in  the  stillness  of  the  night 
Are  all  the  busy  sounds  of  light. 

I  fancied  in  yon  peeping  star, 
A  home  for  beings  tho'  afar, 
Who  now  are  free  from  sin  and  vice. 
And  dwell  with  God  in  paradise. 
I  saw  in  vision's  viewless  space. 
Spirit-forms  of  a  blissful  race. 
Who  trod  of  yore  the  unseen  way 
That  leads  to  life's  eternal  day. 

Eternity!  O  endless  years! 

Shall  mortal  fear  thee!   Banish  tears  1 

Put  trust  in  Him  who  gave  to  thee 

A  soul  to  save  for  eternity. 

Along  time  rolls !  It  waits  for  nonel 

It  claims  alike  the  oM,  the  young; 

Earth's  but  a  season  to  begin 

To  save  the  soul  once  lost  in  sin. 

And  as  I  dreamed,  'way  sped  the  night. 
With  flick'ring  moon  and  starry  light  — 
Emblem  of  death!  when  'neath  the  sod 
We  wait  the  coming  of  our  God. 
So,  as  the  night  gives  way  to  morn 
We'll  to  undying  life  be  born; 
The  dawn  of  lovely  morning  bright. 
Is  emblem  of  the  world  of  light. 


-© 


©: 


m 


760 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


THE  TKEE  AND  THE  fiOSE. 
I. 

One  day,  boasting, 

An  Oak-Tree  said 
Unto  a  Brier-Rose, 

With  low-bent  liead: 

II. 
"  Barns  and  bridges 

Are  built  of  me; 
Towns  and  cities  — 

I'm  a  useful  tree. 
III. 
"  You,  a  Brier-Rose, 

Are  of  little  use  — 
To  the  busy  world 

A  mere  excuse!" 

IV. 

"Sir,"  said  Brier-Rose, 

"  Happy  the  hours. 
Seeing-  fair  ones 

Gather  my  flowers. 

V. 

"  Wreathes  of  roses. 

Buds  on  the  stem. 
Lovely  garlands 

T  give  to  them." 

VI. 

The  giant  tree  — 

The  boasting  Oak, 
Soon  lay  fell'd 

By  woodman's  stroke: 

VII. 

But  the  little  Rose 
Still  grows  each  year. 

Her  fragrant  flowers 
To  the  world  so  dear, 

VIII. 

So,  isn't  it  best 

Quite  oft'  to  be, 
A  Brier-Rose 

Than  a  boasting  tree? 


©- 


THE  FELON'S  DREAM. 
Slumbering  I  lay  in  prison  cot. 

In  peaceful  dreams,  all  woes  forgot. 
Repose!  How  sweet!  'Twas  scarcely  marred 

By  heavy  tramp  of  prison  guard. 
Back  to  my  home  in  dreams  I  went; 

Back  to  that  place  I  childhood  spent; 
Mingling  there  in  merriest  glee 

Again  with  those  quite  dear  to  me. 
1  clasped  in  fond  embrace  once  more 

A  mother's  form!  Heard  her  implore 
In  bitter  anguish,  God  to  spare 

A  truant  son,— an  only  care! 
Friendly  faces  were  gathered  around. 

Welcoming  home,  a  lost  one  found; 


I  had  resolved  to  quit  my  sin,— 

1  felt  a  change  of  heart  within! 
It  was  a  dream  —  and  when  I  woke 

The  walls  of  prison  on  me  broke: — 
I  felt  to  dry  a  felon's  face, — 

Saddest,  dreariest  of  his  race ! 

I  said:  >•  This  cruel  fate  seems  hard!" 

'Twas  only  mocked  by  tramp  of  guard. 
Gruel's  the  pang!  Deep  is  the  sting! 

A  lonely  cell  to  felons  bring! 
Deal  not  harshly !  Speak  not  ill! 

Fate  was  'gainst  him  —'gainst  him  still, 
Who  sleeps  behind  this  prison  wall:— 

There's  none  so  strong,  but  what  may  fall ! 


THE  LITTLE  PHYSICIAN. 

There  is  no  type  of  man 

Among  all  I  can  scan. 
Assumes  such  a  mystical  air. 

As  the  little  physician  — 

A  kind  of  magician  — 
A  man  of  some  unction,  as  'twere. 

He  is  always  quite  dapper. 

Remarked  as  a  snapper. 
Important  in  the  superlative  degree; 

And  when  called  to  a  case. 

Assumes  such  a  wise  face. 
You  are  struck  with  the  wisdom  you  see! 

Polite,  to  a  fault. 

He  bows  should  you  halt. 
And  tips  a  small  hat  which  he  wears; 

Witli  his  pill-bags  and  cane, 

Tho'  seemingly  vain, 
'Tls  only  his  knowingsorae  airs. 

When  he  visits  the  ill. 

With  powder  and  pill, 
Prescribes  for  a  patient  with  brains; 

His  bump  of  conceit 

Is  the  first  thing-  you  meet, 
As  you  lie  there  racking-  with  pains. 

As  an  expert,  I  ween. 

No  other  I've  seen, 
Can  theorize  in,  and  then  out; 

A    hypothetical  case, 

He  states  with  such  grace. 
As  convinces  beyond  reasonable  doubt. 

But  his  faults  are  all  laid. 

Where  the  willow's  deep  shade 
Obscures  them  forever  from  view. 

As  you  pause  to  reflect. 

And  can  only  suspect 
The  devil  will  some  day  get  his  due. 

For  there's  no  type  of  man. 

Among  all  I  can  scauv 
Assumes  such  a  mystical  air. 

As  the  little  physician  — 

A  kind  of  magician  — 
A  man  of  some  unction,  as  'twere 


—  © 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


761 


-* 


WHAT  JS  FAME  ? 
And  what  is  Fame? 
A  dazzliug  name. 
Like  a  meteoric  star; 
A  moment  on 
And  then  'tis  gone. 
Away,  away  so  far. 
Aye,  who  can  tell. 
What  worli,  and  well, 
Will  bring- it  in  our  grasp? 
Like  melting  snow, 
'Tis  quick  to  go. 
Ere  mortals  can  it  clasp. 
Man's  never  still. 
But  ever  will  — 
Ambition  his  desire  — 
Seek  for  a  name; 
To  court  proud  Fame, 
Alone  he  will  aspire. 
Still  life's  made  bright 
Like  new-born  light. 
That  doth  each  morning  shine; 
And  toiling  man 
Will  plan  and  plan. 
In  search  of  Fame  divine! 


BIRCH  ROD  DAYS. 
Fond  memory  still  recalls  the  day 
Of  tyrannizing  birch  rod  sway. 
When  sturdy  teacher,  of  the  old-time  school. 
Did  govern  well  with  rod  and  rule. 
His  unrelenting  look,  his  solemn  mien. 
May,  in  imagination,  still  be  seen; 
And  the  truant,  disobedient  of  his  law 
Recalls  how  quick  he  was  to  find  some  flaw ; 
Remembers  youthful  days— the  days  of  woe — 
When  oft  was  dealt  the  unforgiving  blow 
Upon  the  back,  oft  minus  coat  and  vest, 
Of  hapless  youth,  for  trifles,  thus  opprest. 

Who  dared  to  look  or  feel  a  moment  gay. 

Felt  his  coercion  all  that  day ! 

Well  calculated  to  suppress  all  noise 

His  laws  inexorable,  were  for  boys. 

We  would  rebel,  yet  each  rebellious  time 

Were  scored  with  the  birch  rod,  as  for  some 
crime. 

Forgive  him!  Never!  My  heart  revolting 
swells 

With  wicked  thoughts,  when  back  my  mem- 
ory dwells. 

Yet,  I  remember,  when  in  days  now  past, 

We  were  all  taught  to  spell,  alike  and  fast; 

To  syllable  and  pronounce  were  taught  it 
well  — 

Taught  from  the  spelling  book  —  learned  how 
to  spell; 

The  class  in  reading, from  books, were  taught 
to  read, 


The  teacher  had  one  purpose  —  to  succeed ; 
And  grammar,  boys  and  girls  were  sparse 
Who  could  not  give  the  well  known  rules 

and  pai'se; 
Each  winter  brought  us  to  the  rule  of  tliree. 
And  we  could  cipher, well— for  well  could  he; 
In  writing  the  teacher  would  oft  indite 
This  couplet,  in  our  home-made  copy  books 

to  write: 
"  A  man  of  words  and  not  of  deeds 
Is  like  a  garden  full  of  weeds." 
And  well  we  wrote,  and  there  was  scarce  a 

blot  — 
For  praises  from  his  grace,  quite  oft  were 

sought— 
But  never    given,  unless  true    worth  was 

there  — 
Worth  was   not    found,  if  it  was,  I'm    not 

aware. 
Among  them  all,  alone  there  is  but  one 
My  memory  loves  to  dwell  upon; 
He  spared  the  rod  on  me,  a  helpless  wight, 
And    made  me  love  him,  ruled  me  not  by 

might; 
Judge  was  he  then,  as  now  supreme  — 
Best  of  them  all,  be  he  alone  my  theme: 

ACROSTIC. 

Just  man !  A  friend  to  my  early  days. 
All  hail,  for  thee  can  I  sing  praise! 
Clear  was  thy  head,  in  discrimination  then— 
Oft  hast    thou  since    sliown   it  'mong  thy 

walks  with  men; 
Brilliant  in  speech,  sweet  voiced  also; 
When  first  I  knew    thee,  tbou   did'st    thy 

greatness  show. 
When  in  my  boyhood  days,  young,frank  and 

free. 
In  thy  tuition  I  loved  to  be; 
Led  by  thy  teaching  we  first  Inclined 
Knowledge  to  obtain  for  the  j'outhful  mind. 
Infinite  thy  kind  offices  — we  name  thee  — 
Noblest  of  men  —  true  as  man  can  be. 

As  the  mind  recalls  those  days,  T  am  proud 

There  is  one  enduring  without  a  cloud 

To  darken.      Brilliant   to-day  —  bright  was 

then  — 
Best  of  dear  teachers  — loveliest  of  men ; 
Who  ruled  and  governed  well  — one  always 

may 
Kindly  —  without  dictatorial  sway- 

My  memory  loves  to  dwell  upon  those  days — 
For  even  'midst  the  clouds  of  mist  and  haze 
Life's  brightest  sunshine  will  appear 
When   looking  back    o'er  times   we    now 

revere. 
Ah,  chilling  time!  we  turn  aside  to  glance 
And  find  thy  fancied  visions  all  romance; 
Thy  fondest  hopes,  thy  brightest  dreams. 
Sad  memories  for  life's  after  themes. 


-* 


*- 


762 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


We  hear  no  more  the  gentle,  chikUike  voice. 
Who   long-,  long   years    ag-o   was    youthful 

choice 
Of  one  who  bent  with  years,  now  silvered 

gray, 
Waits  but  for  time  to  bear  his  cares  away; 
Waits  for  the  hour  to  come  when  life  is  o'er. 
When  he  shall  join  her  on  the  other  shore. 

CLARA. 

I  think  me  now  of  one  sweet  girl. 

That  was  the  gem,  'mong  many  a  maiden 

pearl, 
Tliat  grew  in  loveliness  and  grace 
Until  we  loved  her  —  time  will  ne'er  efface 
The  memory  of  her  sparkling  eyes  — 
Bright  as  the  stars,  that  nightly  jewel  skies; 
And  the  wavy  tresses  of    her  dark-brown 

hair 
Were  soft  and  silken,  as  her  face  was  fair; 
Lithe  was  her  form,  each  perfect  part 
Chiseled  as  'twere  for  the  sculptor's  art; 
With  voice  full  round,  so  soft  and  sweet. 
She  spoke  not  word  you  would   not   wish 

repeat. 
But  like  the  wild  flowers  we  used  to  gather 
And  bring  to  her  from  off  the  heather, 
Slie  too  has  faded.    Gone  now  to  rest 
With  Him  who  gave  that  angel  spirit  blest 
Unto  the  friends,  who  lingering  stay 
To  watch  and  weep  o'er  now  her  lifeless  clay. 
Who  is  there  who  has  not  stood  by  the  grave 
Of  some  dear  friend,  and  tried  most  brave 
To  stop  the  silent  tear  that  trickled  down 

with  sorrow 
All  the  fond  hopes  of  the  bright  to-morrow? 
Who  is  there  that  does  not  now  recall 
The  sorrow  of  the  funeral  knell  and  pall? 
Who  is  there  here  on  earth,  who  would  not 

give 
His  own  sweet  life,  one  dear  to  him  might 

live? 
Who  is  there  who  has  not  felt   the  sting  and 

tear 
Of  bitter  anguish  losing  friends  most  dear? 
And  yet  'mongst    God's   angel  forms  and 

fairies, 
I'll  find,  I  know,  someday,  loved  Clara's! 

THE   SKATE. 

December's  sun  has  risen  bright  and  clear. 
Red  cheeks  and  blue  noses  told  winter  was 

severe. 
But  boys  were  happy,  for  the  chill  of  night 
Brought  to  them  visions  of  rare  delight! 
The  creek  was  frozen  o'er,  its  glistening  ice 
Was  to  their  minds  a  part  of  paradise; 
And  morning's  task  at  home  complete. 
Each    buckled    on  his  skates  for  winter's 

treat. 


i 


Alas !  the  glittering  surface  of  the  ice 
Did  many  a  truant  boy  from  school  entice. 
The  swiftest  was  a  "deer,"  and  soon  the 

race. 
For  forty  lusty  throats  quick  gave  him  chase ! 
The  school  bell  rang,although  its  notes  were 

clear. 
What  cared  we  for  it,  while  playing  deer? 
Away  we  went,  each  steady  stroke 
But  hours  of  distance  onus  broke; 
And  as  the  race  more  intense  grew 
It  seemed  to  each,  he  fairly  flew ! 
When,  at  last,  we  caught  the  long  chased 

deer. 
The  air  was  rent  with  deafening  cheer! 
It  was   then    boys  circles  cut,  and  eagles 

spread  — 
While  some    cut   letters  that  were  plainly 

read ! 
On   ice  we    ran   to  see   who  could    farthest 

jump  — 
Saw  stars,  in  daylight,  as  our  heads  would 

thump! 
Yes,  mingled  we  in  sports,  then,  o'er  and 

o'er 
Just  as  boys  mingled  in  the  days  of  yore. 
Then  schoolward  turned,  each  skater  gay. 
Little  did  he  list,  the  weal  that  he  must  pay. 
The  homeward  journey  one  always  tires 
And  passes  little  that  he  first  admires; 
'Tis  true  of  life,  we  pass  ambition's  goal. 
Then  pray  to  rest  the  weary  mind  and  soul. 
Ah,  noble  youth,  thy  freaks  are  oft  despised. 
When  better  judgment  would    them  have 

prized ! 
Think  you,  my  friend,  that  boyish  vim 
Augurs  not  but  usefulness  to  follow  him? 
Exultant  youth,  both  bright  and  gay. 
Will  ever  live  to  bear  life's  prize  away? 
Reached  we  at  last  the  school  house  door, 

our  faces  bright. 
Forgetful  of  the  hour,  in  our  delight  — 
His  angry  looks,  his  sullen  tones. 
Were  worse  than  next  day's  aching  bones  — 
His  switches?     I    remember  — and    live  to 

tell  — 
How  well  he  used  them  —  Aye   used  them 
well! 

THE  HUTSON  MASSACRE. 

In  eighteen  hundred  and  ten,  a  pioneer. 
Named  Hutson,  left  for  the  wilderness,  then 

here. 
His  wife  was  with  him,  and  six  dear  boys  and 

girls; 
One,  a  maiden  of  sixteen,  had  soft  brown 

curls. 
And  bright  blue  eyes,  with  cheeks  so  fair, 
Tlicy  would  with  lilies  well  compare  I 
The  daughter  was  the  idol  of  her  father's 

heart  — 


^- 


-^ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


763 


« 


And  Tvlien  the  time  liad  come  tliey  must  de- 
part 
For  the  unknown,  and  then  far  distant  west, 
Slie  was  witli  all  his  plans  imprest. 
Hardships  were  endured,  and  privations  by 

the  way 
But  laughed  at,  in  hopes  of  a  better  day. 
Then  came  they  to  a  land  in  Nature's  dress — 
A  plain  and  valley  teeming-  in  fruitfulness: 
Earth  had  not  then,  nor  now,  a  lovelier  spot. 
Than  the  grand  old  prairie  of  Lamotte! 
It  was  liere  Hutsonbuilta  homely  dwelling'— 
A  rude  log-  cabin  —  liis  stout  heart  welling- 
With  joy  o'er  the  happiness  it  gave  to  him, 
To  be  thus  safelj'  housed,  in  a  cabin  trim. 
Time  went  smoothly  on  until  the  season's 

close. 
When  their  harvest  warned    them  of   the 

savage  foes ! 
Plundering,    murdering-,    committing-     rav- 

ag-es, 
Around   that    cabin    home,    were   lurking: 

savages, 
Who  for  the  pale  face  had  the  most  intense 

hate  — 
Yet  none  was  more  cruel  than  the   Hutson's 

fate: 
One  evening-,  as  the  sun  sank  in  the  west, 
A  mother  sat  watching-,  with  babe  at  breast. 
The  leturn  of  father  who  had  gone  to  mill 
Miles  of  distance,  across  the  plain  and  hill. 
Would  that  lovely  sunset,  as  it  westward  fell 
Could  but  their  fate  to  them  foretell! 
Calmly   she    waits  — when,    yell    of   Indian 

devils 
Break    now   upon    her  —  death    in   carnag-e 

revels! 
Her  babe  was  Into  a  boiling-  caldron  thrown  ; 
Mother  and  children  tomahawked,  save  one 

lone 
Sweet  g-irl;    who  was  there  captive  led 
To  live  a  life  of  shame  and  dread ! 
Then  to  that  cabin  was  placed  a  torch  of  lire, 
The    lifeless  hurled    thereon!     While  with 

demon's  ire 
They  watched  the  rolling  flames  and  curling: 

smoke. 
Till  sighing  embers,  and  faint  glare,  the  end 

bespoke ! 
Hutson  came  home !  Though  strong  of  frame 
Intensely  haggard  his  face  became! 
"My  wife!   my  children!"    Then   'mid  the 

agony  of  woe. 
The  teardrops  from  their  fountain  ceased  to 

flow! 
The  carnage  was  complete.     Aye,  well  he 

knew 
The  brutal  nature  of  the  scene  in  view! 
Hutson,  from  all  once  near  and  dear,  then 

turned, 


And  while  on  horse,  as  heart  within   him 

burned. 
Vowed  eternal  vengeance,  o'er  and  o'er. 
Against  the  Indians  evermore. 
Well  did  ho  keep  that  vow!     Week   after 

week. 
He  with  lus  trusty  rifle  did  vengeance  reek; 
Until,  at  last,  he  too  was  known  to  fall 
At  the  head  of  troop,  pierced  by  the  Indian's 

ball! 
And  the  old  creek,  where  we  boys  used  to 

skate 
Was  nailed  Hutson,  o'er  his  untimely  fate; 
And  on  the  Wabash  banks,  'bove  and  'neath 

the  hill, 
Sits  to  his  memory,  the  village— Hutsonville. 
'Tis  said  that  we  grow  old !  That  time's  decay 
Will  change  our  feelings  day  by  day; 
That  man  will  change  the  purpose  of  his 

youth. 
And  feel  that  all  is  fading— even  truth; 
That  what  is  good  lived  onlj^  in  the  past  — 
The  world's  degenerating  fast  and  fast. 
Tlie  lawj'er  lays  aside  his  book,  grown  old, 
Wliich  once  such  precious  truths  had  told. 
And  folds  the  door  upon  the  musty  shelf. 
And  feels  despondent  with  the  world  and 

self  — 
Then  moralizes  with  his  fate  and  time. 
And  blames  the  world,  not  his  decline. 
But  youth,  exultant,  with  eager  look. 
Will  gather  up  the  shelfworn  book. 
He  will  its  pages  anew  read  o'er. 
And  glean  fresh  treasures  from  its  store. 
He  will  for  the  future  each  day  plan 
And  feel  the  world  depends  on  coming  man ; 
New  cities  shall  grow  up,  the  future  great. 
Will  rival  all  the  past  in  church  and  State! 
'Tis  ever  thus;  the  old  shall  weary  be. 
While  youtli  is  buoyant,  lithe  and  free; 
And  feels  the  world,  with  all  its  broad  ex- 
panse 
Is  made  for  him,  his  pleasures  to  enhance; 
And  grapples  with  it,  new  treasures  sure  to 

find. 
That  ever  yield  to  his  inquiring  mind. 
One  age  declines,   another  takes  its  pl.-ice. 
And  progress  ever  marks  our  noble  race. 
Aj'e,  man!  no  matter  what  thysiihere. 
Thy  memory  loves  to  wander  back  to  things 

once  dear; 
And    dear  to  thee,  which  after  years  will 

trace. 
Are  all  the  scenes  of   boyhood's  time  and 

place. 
Call  back  in  memory  ye  gray-haired  sires, 
Call  back  to  memory  your  youthful  flres; 
Call  back  the  laws  you  once  transgressed. 
Call  back  the  times  you  were  repressed; 
Go  back  unto  the  turning  point  of  life. 


* 


*- 


764 


LOCAT-   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKRICA. 


The  sweet  repressions  of  the  future  wife; 
She,  who  was  sweetheart  of  year  youthful 

days. 
Reproving  kindly  wayward  ways. 

THE   SPELLING   SCHOOL. 

How  cheery  was  the  old-time  spelling  school 
Given  by  the  teaclier  in  days  of  birch  rod 

rule. 
Do  you  not  still  remember  with  what  delight 
We  hailed  the  coming  of  that  night? 
The  mud  of  winter,  or  the  drizzling  rain. 
Caused  us  no  anxiety  or  pain; 
For  we  would  bundle  well  and  go 
Be  it  through  storm  or  winter's  snow ; 
Do  you  not  still  remember  tlie  rosy  cheeks 
Whieli  youth  and  liealth  alone  bespeaks? 
His   glasses    were    adjusted,  with   stick  in 

hand, 
He  was  determined  all  erect  should  stand; 
Long  lines  were  drawn  up,  like  armies  well 

arrayed 
For  field  of  action,  not  for  dress  parade; 
And  warm  the  contest,  for  there  were  those 
Who  faced  each  other  like  deadly  foes  1 
And  there  were  some  who  knew  every  word 
In  Webster's  speller  — for  I  have  heard 
It  said,  'twas  only  by  some  grave  mistake 
That  either  side  could  honors  take. 
'Tis  no  fancied  vision !  Ah,  I  remember  well 
The  merry  times  of  the  old  fashioned  spell ! 
The  night  though  dark,  the  sidewa'k  then 

unknown, 
But  otlier  pleasures  would  these  all  atone ; 
For   as  we    wandered   home,  her  words  so 

sweet, 
I  would  not  dare  in  after  life  repeat! 
But   you    remember,    though     now   you're 

silvered  gray. 
The  words  as  well  as  'twere  but  yesterday. 
And  you  might  tell,  though    this    perhaps 

you'd  hate  — 
The  kiss  was  stolen  — just  at  her  father's 

gate! 
These  feats  of  skill  by  all  were  well  enjoyed, 
Think  you  not  still,  'twas  time  quite  well  em- 
ployed? 
O,  boyhood's  happy  days!   We  dream  them 

o'er. 
Forgetful  now  the  ills  we  had  in  store. 
As  we  go  back  unto  our  first  old  home. 
To  find  none  dearer  'neath  earth's  dome. 
We  see  again  with  enrapt  deliglit 
The  teachers  in  their  power  and  miglit; 
And  learn  obedience  from  their  law 
That  ever  guides  our  after  life  in  awe. 
Ah,  yet,  those    lessons   first   impressed    in 

youth 
Are  full  of  thought  — if  not  prosaic  truth. 
We  find  the  boy  a  man, and  watch  his  course, 
And  hail  delightedly  his  manhood's  force ; 


Then  trace  his  truant  youth,  his  wayward 

ways. 
To  find  the  man  was  made  in  birch  rod  days. 

THE    DEBATE. 

Can  you  callback  the  anguish  of  your  look 
When  first  you  part  in  tlie  discussion  took? 
His  august  presence,  as  he  sat  in  state. 
And  eager  watched  your  first  debate! 
Aye,  Cushing's  Manual,  altho'  'twas  new. 
Produced  not  consternation  then  to  you ; 
But  stammering,speechless,  with  your  heart 

in  throat  — 
Forgetful  the  points  you  were  quick  to  note ; 
The  floor  was  sinking— it  would  soon  give 

'way  — 
You  could  not  then   on   feet  one  thouglit 

convey. 
Tour  effort  was  a  failure  —but  his  word 
Was  not  reproof,  and  when  from  him  you 

heard:  [sound 

"  The  Halls  of  Congress  would  some  day  re- 
With  words  from  the  speaker,  intense,  pro- 
found!" 
You  felt  at  once  this  life  to  you  renewed 
As  with  new  ideas  you  were  imbued. 
Confidence  in    yourself  when  once  you've 

gained. 
Ever  through  life  will  be  by  you  maintained. 
And  from  that  moment  in  forensic  art 
You  eager  were  to  take  some  active  part; 
Skilled  in  parliamentary  law  you  tried 
With  due  deliberation  to  preside. 
Your   efforts   then,    if   with    success   were 

crowned. 
Speak  but  the  man,  in  after  life  renowned. 

Dear  Hutson,  my  heart  turns  back  to  thee 
As  scenes  of  boyhood  days  come  back  to  me. 
Back  to  the  river's  bank  I  trace 
My  steps,  with  line,  to  the  old  fishing  place. 
We  angle  with  the  world  in  after  years. 
Trembling  and  cautious,  we  battle  it  with 

fears. 
While  in  our  youth  we  cast  a  baited  hook 
With  joyous  glee  into  the  babbling  brook. 
Watching  contentedly  until  the  bite 
To  land  the  bass  and  croppie  with  delight; 
But  busy  man  will  scarce  find  time  to  know, 
Or  wander  back  to  scenes  of  long  ago. 
Until  old  age  creeps  'long  with  silent  stealtli 
When  first  he  realizes,  that  in  life  his  wealth 
Is  but  contentment!  Contented  will  I  bo 
When  the  hour  shall  come,  old  time  is  done 

with  me  — 
When    the  clouds  grow  dark,  and  the  eye 

grows  dim. 
And  the  Master's  summon,  is  to  answer  Him, 
If  they'll  take  me  back  to  thee,  old  place  so 

dear. 
To  rest  'side  Him  who  gave  my  spirit  here, 


*- 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF    A3IEUICA. 


7G5 


THE  FELON'S  SOLILOQUY. 
Yes,  I  have  killed  him  I    And  in  bending  low, 
Kifling  j)Ockets,  I  saw  his  life's  blood  flow. 
Then  stood  aghast!    For  who  can  tell  the 

sorrow 
Even  a  life-long'  criminal  will  borrow 
At  sight  of  deed  so  cruel.    Woe  is  me ! 
Outcast!  outlaw!  Where'er  on  earth  to  flee! 
Quick!    Let  me  go!    The  very  stillness  of 

night 
Makes  doubly  dread  even  a  felon's  flight! 
And  blood-leeches  will  soon  be  on  my  track, 
Hounding,  pursuing,  soon  to  drag  me  back. 
Where  shall  I  fly?  Is  there  no  safety  left 
To  one  of  law's  protection  now  bereft? 
Flee  where  1  may,  the  lightning  tracks  my 

path  [wrath. 

And  justice  scents  my  trail  with  pent-up 
Hark !  Ere  the  gray  of  morning's  dawn  1  fear 
The  sleuth-hounds  will  have  trailed  me  and 

be  near. 
Surrender !  Never !  I  will  fast  retreat 
Back  to  the  lonely  swamps —  for  life  is  sweet. 
"Throw-up!"  List!  See!  Now  they  surround 

me  fast. 
I  yield  —  for  in  these  times  escape  is  past. 
For  even  one,  who  hath  law  offended  oft 
Of  God  and  man, and  at  man's  nature  scoffed ! 
But  tracked  and  trailed,  like  a  wild  beast  of 

prey, 
I,  felon,  bend  before  the  law's  dread  sway! 
Oh,  fate,  thrice  wretched !  Henceforth  in  this 

cell 
Remorse  is  mine,  so  bitter  none  can  tell! 
Behind  the  prison  wall,  a  sin-cursed  Cain, 
Fettered  in  irons,  bound  in  prison  chain! 
Aye,  never  more  to  breathe  a  breath  that's 
In  sorrow  waiting  for  the  gallows  tree !  [free — 
Ah!  We  have  felt  the  silent  tear  of  time 
Steal  down  the  careworn,  hardened  face  of 

crime.  [grief 

Ah,  crime!  Foul  crime!  Thou  hast  indeed  to 
Brought  all  thy  followers,  and  thy  course  is 

brief ! 
Methinks  at  times,  thy  seed  is  bred  in  man. 
And  curse  the  fate  that  brought  us  in  thy  van 
To  dire  destruction !  yet,  we  oft  neglect 
Best  feelings  of  our  conscience,  and  reflect 
Not  until  the  deed  is  done.    Ill-fated  born. 
Flee  from  the  path  of  sin,  ere  you  forlorn 
Fill  some  prison  cell,  or  a  felon's  grave ! 
Fear  laws  of  God  and  man  and  thyself  save 
Kespect,  as  well  as  fear,  for  they  alone 
Bring  peace  on  earth  and  happiness  our  own. 


MARION  MUIR  RICHARDSON 

Born:  Chicago,  III.,  Feb.  13,1857. 
Thk  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  In  the 
Boston  Pilot,  New  York  Sun,  Century,  St. 


Louis  Magazine  and  the  periodical  press 
from  Maine  to  California.  She  was  married 
in  1886  to  Prof.  Richardson,  founder  of  Gun- 
nison, Colorado,  and  Pioneer  of  southeast 
Utah.  Mrs.  Kichardson  has  one  son,  William 
Muir,  and  resides  with  her  husband  at  Rich- 
ardson, Utah,  where  they  have  a  magnificent 
fruit  farm. 


IN  SOUTH-LANDS. 
The  sun  on  burning  levels  pours 

A  torrent  of  continuous  light. 
The  river  winds  by  stony  shores 

A  serpent-curve  of  silver  white. 
Oh,  for  the  waters  of  the  spring, 

The  tasselled  fir-tree's  wall  of  shade, 
The  mountain  breeze's  fragrant  wing. 

The  cool,  sweet  flowers  that  will  not  fade  I 
The  high  Sierra's  crested  brow 

Looks  calmly  down  on  sultry  days. 
A  dim,  blue  shadow  seeming  now 

Like  some  diviner  resting-place. 
A  promised  land,  serenely  fair. 

The  mother  of  a  host  of  streams, 
Whose  presence,  throned  in  upper  air. 

Rules  the  warm  darkness  of  our  dreams. 


EAST  AND  WEST. 
Yes,  quick  —  too  quick — of  act  and  speech 

am  I, 
Not  fair  to  see,  but  darkened  by  the  sky. 
Yet,  ere  you  blame  me  wholly,stop  and  think. 
Your   childhood   knew   the   river's   shaded 

brink,  [school. 

The    garden   wall,    the  coming  home   from 
Deep  clover  fields  and  orchard  alleys  cool. 
And  mine?  — Up  where  the  breath  of  June 

is  cold 
I  saw  the  light,  in  vallcj's  seamed  with  gold. 
Where  even  the  stream  is  darkened  in  its  flow 
And  men  are  buried  by  the  blinding  snow. 
To  one  the  odor  of  the  brush-fire  tells 
Of  where  the  Platte  goes  rolling  on  in  swells 
Of  welcome  silver,  sweeping  leisurely    [sea. 
Through  green  Nebraska's  lowlands  to  the 
The  music  I  remember  was  the  gale 
In  roaring  pines,  or  far  down  in  the  vale. 
The  song  of  Indians  as  the  tribe  went  by,— 
The  locust  fifes,  the  coyote's  midnight  cry. 
Not  gentle  were  the  faces  that  I  knew. 
Yet  full  of  kindness, bearded,strong  and  true. 
The  bare,  brown  blutfs  were  'round  me  as  I 

played 
At  evening  by  the  camp,  or,  not  afraid. 
Flew  through  the  morning  on  mj'  pretty  bay, 
Would  you,  thus  trained,  not  be  the  same 

to-day? 
We  do  not  choose  our  lives,-  or  well  or  ill, 
Vou  keep  your  book,  and  T  my  pony,  still. 


-* 


*- 


766 


LocAi.  a:st>  national  poets  of  AMEKICA. 


REV.  WALTER  L.  FERRIS. 

Born:  Oneida,  III.,  July  31, 1852. 

After  attending  the  colleg-e  at  Wheaton,  111., 
Mr.  Ferris  entered  the  ministry.  He  }ias 
filled  pastorates  at  Wataga,  Prospect  Park 
and  Chicago,  and  is   now  pastor  of  the  Con- 


BEY.  WALTER   L.  FERRIS 

gregational  church  at  Clierokee,  Iowa.  This 
gentleman  has  written  many  fine  poems 
which  have  appeared  from  time  to  time  in 
the  Chicago  Inter-Ocean  and  other  leading 
publications.  He  has  a  family  of  two  child- 
ren, Mary  and  Hattie,  born  in  1884  and  1887 
respectively. 


■*- 


THE  PIONEER 

'nien  let  me  sing  of  the  Pioneer, 

The  hero  hardy  and  strong. 
Who  "blazed  the  way"  for  better  days. 

When  the  road  was  dark  and  long; 
1  hear  e'en  now  the  woodman's  stroke. 

As  it  echoes  along  the  years. 
And  hear  again  the  crashing  oak. 

And  the  shout  of  the  pioneers. 

They  were  heralds  of  a  better  time, 
These  men  who  went  before. 

For  they  wrouglit  for  coming  ages, 
In  the  brave  days  of  yore; 


Though  hands  were  hard  and  calloused, 
And  cheeks  were  brown  with  tan. 

They  know  each  drop  on  the  wrinkled  brow 
Was  the  sweat  of  an  honest  man. 

And  thus  it  is  in  every  cause. 

Which  lifts  aloft  the  rights  of  man, 
Some  one  must  labor  ou  before. 

Some  men  march  In  the  van; 
Aye,  every  sacred  God-born  truth,] 

Which  to  this  world  hath  come. 
Hath  had  its  sturdy  pioneers, 

Wlio  bore  the  torch  of  faith  alone. 

Tlie  Switzer  sings  at  eventide 

Sweet  freedom's  song  by  his  cabin  door. 
But  Gcssler's  threat  must  be  defied. 

And  Winkelried  press  on  before. 
To  court  the  point  of  Austrian  spear, 

And  cry,  "Make  way  for  Liberty,"^ 
'Ere  freedom  reigns,  or  we  may  hear 

The  hero's  shout  of  victory.; 

Through  years  of  malice  and  of  scorn 

Tlie  mighty  Luther  led  the  way, 
And  heralded  the  blessed  morn 

WJicn  ages  dark  should  turn  to  day ; 
He  nailed  his  Theses  to  the  door. 

The  old  church  door  of  Wittenburg, 
And  men  shall  know  him  evermore 

As  Reformation's  Pioneer. 

'Twas  old  John  Brown,  of  martyr  fame, 

Wlio  spoke  from  out  his  inmost  soul, 
"  My  country's  flag,  shall  wave  above 

No  man  who  wears  a  chain." 
He'll  keep  his  word,  ye  need  not  fear. 

For  the  shackles  now  are  gone. 
He  wrought  the  work  of  the  pioneer. 

And  the  cross  hath  won  a  crown. 

Where  other  foot-sore  pilgrims  trod, 

With  valiant  step  we  walk  the  road, 
Wlnle  some  have  died  for  faith  and  God 

Wo  reap  the  fields  which  they  have  sown; 
Tlie  yeomanry  of  other  days 

Hath  lit  the  fires  upon  the  hill. 
They  send  adowu  their  cheering  rays 

To  light  the  valleys  still. 

And  so  I  love  the  pioneer 

And  gladly  sing  the  praise 
or  him  who  saw  'mid  prayer  and  tears 

The  glory  of  our  better  days; 
For  thus  it  is  in  every  cause 

Which  lifts  aloft  the  rights  of  man. 
Some  one  must  labor  on  before. 

Some  men  march  in  the  van. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


769 


->h 


ALVIN  T.  LANPHERE. 

Born:  Hanoveis,  N.  Y.,  March  22,  1840. 
Early  in  life  the  subject  of  this  sketch  was 
connected  willi  liis  father  in  railroad  eon- 
tractinfr,  and  later  as  a  banlser  at  Coklwater, 
Mich.  In  1861,  with  two  brothers,  ho  raised 
the  Battery  of  Light  Artillerj-,  Ijnown  as 
Lanphere's  Battery,  and  went  to  the  front. 
In  1862  Alvin  was  obliged  to  resign  on  ac- 
count of  disability.  Mr.  L:inphei'e  w:is  then 
ndmittod  to  the  bar.  and  li;is  practiced  in  the 


•    0^ 

"i 

1^ 

^^^^^\^^^^^^^^^^H 

ALVlN  T.  LANPHEBE. 

State  and  federal  courts  ever  since.  He  was 
elected  justice  of  the  peace  and  alderman, 
and  declined  the  nomination  for  mayor, 
politics  not  being- cong-enial.  Since  his  boy- 
hood Alviu  T.  Laiiphere  has  written  prose 
and  poetry  for  the  press,  and  a  collection  of 
his  poems  was  published  in  book  form.  Mr. 
Lanphere  has  lectured  extensively  upon 
temperance;  is  prominent  in  Grand  Army 
and  Union  Veteran  circles,  and  is  a  member 
of  the  Episcopal  church.  His  poems  have 
appeared  in  Waverley  Mng-azine,  Ballou's 
Magazine,  Atlantic  Monthly,  Kansas  City 
Times,  Kalamazoo  Gazette  and  other  publi- 
cations. Ml.  Lanphere  was  married  in  1858 
to  Miss  Helen  L.  Saunders,  and  has  two  sons- 
Herbert,  born  1866;  and  Victor  Carl,  born 
1869,  whom  he  lost  by  death  a  few  years  since, 
which  is  the  great  sorrow  of  his  life. 

MY  TREASURES. 
I  count  my  treasures  o'er  again, 
As  oft  I've  done  in  passing-  years, 
* . 


With  eyes  .suffused  by  blinding-  tears 
And  heart  surcharged  with  ceaseless  pain. 

The  treasured  toys  ni.y  darling-  prized, 
Like  sunbeams  from  its  setting-  cast. 
Now  breathe  a  language  from  the  past 

That  few  lilce  me  have  realized. 

And  as  I  count  them  o"er  and  o'er. 
These  relics  of  some  j-ears  ago; 
Wliy  wonder  that  I  prize  them  so. 

For  ..  Carl  "  once  prized  them  all  before. 

The  childish  gifts  that  once  ho  loved, 
And  oft  caressed  in  boyish  glee. 
Still  speak  a  language  dear  to  me. 

And  can  I  view  them  now  unmoved? 

His  hat  now  hanging  on  the  wall 

Reminds  me  of  the  liead  that  wore 
It  oft  as  coming  from  the  door 

He  met  me  at  affection's  call. 

The  cab  whereiTi  in  boyish  state 

He  rode  impelled  by  loving  hands, 

Now  still  —  but  how  suggestive  —  stands 

A  sad  reminder  of  his  fate. 

The  empty  crib  whereon  he  lay 

At  morning,  noon,  and  eventide. 

In  health  and  sickness  —  where  be  died — 

Ere  from  our  midst  he  passed  away; 

Still  breathes  its  tale  of  treasured  love  — 
Its  sheets  and  pillow  now  unpressed 
By  "Carl's  "  loved  form- — an  empty  nest 

Whence  flown  the  bird  to  realms  above. 

Oh  God!  how  cruel  death's  decree 

That  parts  us  from  our  loved  and  lost 
Awhile,  until  the  river  crossed 

Again  their  sainted  forms  we  see. 

But  through  the  countless  ages  gone 

Have  untold  millions  bowed  with  grief 
Like  me,  and  vainly  sought  relief. 

And  shall  I  grieve  as  one  alone? 

And  as  I  retrospect  to-night 

Shall  I  not  prize  all  else  abo^'e 
The  memory  of  the  one  whose  love 

Leads  onward,  upward  to  the  light. 

For  though  my  grief  be  great,  I  know 
That  sunshine  always  follows  night  — 
That  darkest  hours  but  uslicr  light. 

And  blessings  from  aflflictions  flow. 

Though  lost  his  outward  form  to  me, 
His  presence  ever  lingers  near 
To  solace,  comfort  and  to  cheer 

Me  in  my  journey  o'er  life's  sea. 

And  as  I  view  life's  golden  bars  — 

The  sunshine  'mid  the  cloud  and  storm. 
My  mind  surmounts  griefs  outward  form, 

And  fondly  looks  ••  beyond  the  stars." 


-* 


770 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


LINES  TO  LORENA. 
The  daylig'ht  is  swiftly  declining-, 

And  its  splendors  are  fading  awaj% 
While  tlie  tremulous  twilight  is  chang-ing 

Its  glories  from  golden  to  gray; 
And  I  stand  with  the  zephyr's  soft  kissing 

My  brow  in  the  glimmering  light, 
While  my  spirit,  love-laden  and  longing. 

Turns  to  thee  on  this  beautiful  night. 

Turns    to    thee    in   its    quest    through    the 
gloaming. 

Though  distance  doth  now  intervene. 
And  thy  memory  lingers  about  me 

Lilce  a  charm,  o'er  this  beautiful  scene, 
For  I  know  thou  art  here  in  thy  musing  — 

That  thj'  longing  responds  unto  mine. 
And  'tis  sweet  to  be  witli  thee  in  spirit. 

And  to  mingle  my  iovclight  with  thine. 

I  remember  a  fable  in  story 

That  tells  of  the  mystical  hour, 
When  "  Genii  "  and  •>  Fairies  "  were  casting 

Their  magic  o'er  leaflet  and  flower; 
And  I  think,  could  I  gather  a  chaplet 

Of  those  marvelous  flowers,  and  entwine 
Them  over  the  brow  of  my  loved  one. 

While  sleeping,  her  faith  would  be  mine. 

For  then  I  would  gather  a  garland 

Of  lilies  and  amaranth  bright  — 
Of  rose  buds  and  pansies  and  tulips. 

To  twine  round  my  darling  to-night; 
From  the  lotus  I'd  steal  one  rare  blossom, 

For  its  golden,  its  quivering  beams. 
Would  be  of  the  whole  the  most  potent 

In  my  Ijeautiful  wreath  of  dreams. 

My  chaplet  once  wreathed,  and  each  blossom 

Full  bathed  in  those  magical  airs, 
I  would  whisper  my  love  in  each  calyx 

That  my  spirit  might  mingle  with  theirs; 
Then  I'd  send  off  those  lovely  enchanters 

On  the  moonlight's  soft  hallowing  beams. 
To  press  lightly  the  brow  of  my  loved  one. 

And  thus  mingle  my  thoughts  with  her 
dreams. 


*- 


TWILIGHT  MUSINGS. 
When  my  mind  l:)ecomes  lieavy  and  weary 

With  the  world's  earnest  struggle  and  strife. 
And  the  future  looks  darkstmie  and  dreary 
O'er  the  mountains  and  valleys  of  life  — 
Wlien  my  heart  mid   its  longings  and  pleas- 
ures 
Sinks  sad  'neath  its  burdens  again. 
As  I  count  up  my  losses  and  treasures 
And  compare  them  In  silence  and  pain,— 


When    the    years    that    havc^    vanished,  re- 
turning 

With  the  joys  and  the  sorrows  I  knew. 
And  the  fond  lamp  of  memory  burning 

Now  passes  them  quick  in  review; 
And  the  dark  chilling  winds  of  December, 

And  the  soft  lisping  breezes  of  May 
Are  commingled  as  uow  I  remember 

Those  scenes  that  have  vanished  away. 

And  the  bright  sunny  spots  that  are  throng- 
ing— 

How  little  I  treasured  them  then; 
But  now  I  am  sighing  and  longing 

To  live  o'er  their  brightness  again. 
How  vain  and  how  useless  my  sighing! 

Our  journey  is  forward  and  on. 
And  the  past  to  the  future  replying. 

Mingles    sighs    with  the    pleasure    that's 
gone. 

There's  a  dear  one  whose  memory  lingers 

Like  the  fragrance  where  incense  is  burned. 
As  Time  with  his  skeleton  fingers 

The  hands  on  the  dial  hath  turned; 
And  the  voice  I  once  knew  is  around  me, 

And  his  footsteps  are  echoing  near. 
And  the  charm  of  his  presence  that  bound 
me 

Like  a  halo  encircles  me  here. 

Ah !  the  dark  loving  eyes  that  were  beaming, 

And  the  bright  sunny  ringlets  of  gold. 
And  the  dimples  where  Cupid  lay  dreaming. 

And  the  ways  that  no  language  had  told; 
And  the  sweet  lisping  accents  of  childhood. 

With  their  musical  thrill  of  delight. 
Come  like  voices  that  flit  through  the  wild- 
wood 

On  the  wings  of  the  vanishing  night. 

And  I  think  of  the  loved  one  departed  — 

Of  the  sunshine,  the  tempest  and  strife  — 
Of  the  barque  that  in  joyousness  started 

To  sail  o'er  the  ocean  of  life; 
And  I  wake  from  those  transports  Elysiau  — 

From  tlie  dreams  so  enchantingly  fair. 
And  tin;  sunshine  has  passed  from  my  vision, 

Leaving  darkness,  and  sorrow,  and  care. 

And  when  the  dark  curtain  concealing 

Our  future  is  wafted  aside, 
And  the   "  unknown,"  its  brightness  rcvoal- 

iug. 
Shines  clear  o'er  life's  turbulent  tide; 
Oh !  then  may  my  soul  be  reciuited 

For  its  sadness  and  sorrow  below. 
And,  with  the  "lost  loved  one"  united. 

Through  the  realms  of  eternity  go. 


*- 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


771 


MRS.  GRACE  DUFFIE   ROE. 

Boun:  K.ax,am.\zoo,  Mich.,  Feb.  9,  186L 
This  lady  received  }ier  early  education  in 
the  public  schools  ot  that  place;  she  after- 
ward attended  tlie  college  of  Literature  and 
Art  at  Boston,  where  she  g'raduated  with 
liig-li  lionors.  While  Mrs.  Roe  has  attained 
her  greatest  prominence  as  a  poet,  she  is  also 
a  prose  writer  of  considerable  merit  and  an 
olocutioni.st  of  rare  abilitj-.  Her  poems  have 
appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the  leading 


MUS.  OHACE  nrFFIE  ROE. 

newspapers  and  magazines  of  America,  and 
some  of  them  liave  found  their  wa3-  into  the 
papers  of  the  old  world.  As  a  song-writer 
she  is  meeting  with  great  success,  sind  most 
of  the  words  in  that  charming  selection  of 
musical  gems,  >'  Royal  Songs,"  are  from  her 
pen.  Slie  is  also  tlie  author  of  the  songs 
"Love's  Angelus,"  "Looking,"  "Pilot  of 
Galilee."  >.  The  Prayer  "  and  others.  Per- 
sonally, she  is  petite  in  form,  possesses  a 
handsome,  f.iscinating  face,  and  is  popular 
in  social  circles.  She  was  mari-icd  in  18V9  to 
Mr.  George  Roe,  of  Detroit,  and  one  child  — 
a  Httle  daughter  — is  the  result  of  the  union. 
Mrs.  Roe  resides  in  Battle  Creek,  Mich. 


XINDER  AND  OVER  THE  STARS. 
I  have  wander'd  away  from  the  music. 
The  laughter  light,  and  the  flowers. 
And  out  where  night's  gatli'ring  shadows. 
Fall  fast  in  the  path  of  the  hours. 


I  can  hear  the  feet  of  the  billows. 

As  iliey  tread  o'er  the  wide  sandbars; 

And  lie  at  rest  on  the  short  warm  grass. 

Looking  up  at  the  beautiful  stars. 

On  the  brown-jeweled  breast  of  our  mother, 

I  lay  my  head  weary  with  care. 

The  wind  has  blown  chill  thro'  life's  valley. 

And  scatter'd  its  snows  in  my  hair; 

I  catch  from  yon  dark-masted  schooner. 

The  songs  of  some  home  ward- bound  tars; 

We  both  see  the  liglits  of  a  harbor. 

But  I  look  at  the  beautiful  stars. 

So  I  lie  on  the  grass  while  e%''ning 

Glides  by  with  lier  feet  shod  with  dew, 

And  the  lights  fade  out  of  the  windows. 

For  tlie  cares  of  to-day  are  through. 

Perchance  when  the  hand  of  summer. 

Again  earth's  frost-prison  unbars, 

I  sliall  be  lying  under  the  grass. 

Looking  down  at  the  beautiful  stars 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  THE  SOUL. 
Unfinished  was  the  temple.    Here  and  there 
A  stone  unpolished  lay,  an  archway  flung 
One  curved  arm,  unwedded,  to  the  air; 
The  shadow'd  niches  saintless  gaped  and  bare 
And  on  harsh  hinge  the  graven  portal  swung. 
Yet   many  walked  therein.      The  clangor'd 

aisles 
Gave  proof  of  armed  heel,  as  lighter  tread. 
Legion  and  phalanx  passed  in  serried  flies. 
Whom  wide-brow'd  historj-  alone  beguiles 
From  out  the  guarded  fortress  of  the  dead. 

And  thro'  the  pulsing  corridors  betimes 
Sounded  the  anthems  of  the  morning  stars. 
Or  chained  in  meshes  of  the  silvered  rhymes 
The  restless  tenant  heard  the  vesperchimes. 
That  night  flung  to  him  from  the  sunset  bars. 

Still  at  the  shadowed  altar  cool  and  gray 

No  footsteps  paused,  no  orison  arose 

To  freight  the  wings  of  incense  on  its  way; 

With  slumb'rous  eyes  the  taskless  vestal  lay, 

A  poppy-lidded  Goddess  of  Repose. 

Till  with  a  flame  the  elements  drew  near. 

Formed  by  an  alchemist  above  —  below  — 

I  know  not  where,  for  it  doth  oft  appear 

(In  all  its  lights  and  shades  of  joy  and  fear) 

To  mingle  Tartarus  and  Heaven  so. 

But  as  it  fell  upon  the  sacred  place 

A  sudden  splendor  shimmcr'd  from  above. 

The  temple  quivered  thro'  its  golden  space, 

Shook  as  at  throe  of  birth  or  death's  embrace, 

Audstood— completed— at  the  touch  of  Love  I 

OLD   FOLKS    HEAR    THE   CITY    CHOIR. 
Father  an'  me  are  gettin'  old; 

We  ain't  used  to  the  way 
Of  goin'  to  hear  the  singin',  'stead 

Of  preachin',  Sabbath  day. 


*- 


772 


-• 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AlilERICA. 


So  when  we  was  with  Andrew's  folks. 

An'  Sundaj'  mornin'  come, 
We  s'posed  we'd  hear  the  Word  an'  jine 

In  the  sweet  hymns  they  sung. 

An'  when  we  stood  in  that  dim  aisle, 
'Neath  arclied  an'  fluted  stone, 

A  ray  of  light  touclied  father's  hair 
An'  his  worn  features  shone. 

The  organ's  grand  an'  solemn  tone 

Jest  sounded  like  a  prayer, 
An'  when  it  stopped  I  seemed  to  feel 

Wings  beatin'  through  the  air. 

"The  prodigal,"  the  preacher  said, 

•I  Of  sinnin'  weary  grown, 
Has  left  the  swine  an'  now  has  turned 

His  face  toward  his  home." 

Then  all  to  once  the  choir  riz; 

It  almost  made  me  laugh 
To  hear  that  young  soprany  shriek: 

"  Bring  in  the  fatted  calf !  " 

"  Bring  in  the  fatted  calf,  the  calf," 

Implored  the  alto  low. 
An'  all  the  rest  jined  in,  as  if 

They  couldn't  let  it  go. 

The  tenor's  pleadin'  touched  my  heart, 

A  critter'd  been  a  stone 
Not  to  hev  come  a  friskin'  in. 

In  answer  to  that  tone. 

Waal,  pa,  he  sot  with  eyebrows  bent. 

Like  bushes  touched  with  snow 
A  growin'  round  some  sheeny  lake. 

Half  hidin'  its  blue  glow. 
But  when  the  bass  had  started  in 

A  callin'  for  that  calf. 
He  jest  reached  fur  his  han'kerchief 

To  cover  up  a  laugh. 
"  Bring  in  the  fatted,  fatted  calf," 

Bellow'd  tlie  bass;  an'  stars! 
Our  grandson  John  called  (half  asleep): 

"Grandpa,  lot  down  the  bars!  " 


*- 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  WING. 

Swiftly  sped  the  banner'd  steamer 
With  a  gay  excursion  crowd ; 
But  apart  from  all  his  fellows. 
One  in  thought  or  sorrow  bowed, 
Watcliing  absently  the  waters, 
Crisply  foam  and  geiitly  roll, 
Softly  singing  —  as  for  lieart-ease  — 
"  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul." 

As  he  sang,  a  stranger  near  him 
Sought  with  courtesy  his  side: 
"Pardon,  sir,  but  for  that  juithom, 
By  my  liand  a  man  had  died: 
And  to-day  it  seems  to  lead  me 
Once  again  neath  Southern  sky. 


Were  you  in  the  army,  stranger?  " 
"Yes."    "And  for  the  Union?"    "Aye:" 

"Then  the  incident  may  please  you 

For  I  was  a  soldier,  too ; 

Not  your  comrade,  friend,  but  fighting 

For  the  cause  I  thought  was  true. 

So  one  niglit  at  Chattanooga 

I  crept  near  the  Union  camp; 

Near  enough  to  see  the  jjicket 

And  to  hear  his  measured  tramp. 

I  could  see  his  boyish  features 

Lifted  to  the  star-lit  sky. 

But  the  hate  of  war  burned  in  me 

And  I  longed  to  see  him  die. 

Panted,  witli  a  savage  triumph. 

As  my  rifle  leaped  in  place. 

And  my  eye  gleamed  'long  it's  barrel 

Straiglit  to  his  fair.  Northern  face. 

Ping !  Death's  me.ssonger  went  singing: 

Buttlie  lad  was  singing,  too; 

And  my  marksmanship,  so  boasted. 

For  that  once  had  proved  untrue. 

And  his  beardless  lips  were  saying 

As  he  turned  and  passed  me  by: 

"  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul. 

Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly." 

Then  I  muttered:  "  Come  old  rifle. 

Join  his  song  and  change  its  note; 

Stop  the  pious  j-oungster's  warble 

In  his  cursed  Yankee  throat: 

Now  he  comes"— ping!   go  and  meet  him! 

But  he  sang  (from  danger  frcej 

"  Other  refuge  have  I  none, 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  thee." 

Then  a  chill  of  fear,  or  anger. 

Fell  upon  me  in  that  place. 

And  I  aimed  in  reckless  fury 

For  the  tender,  brave,  young  face. 

Friend,  that  moment  seemed  eternal. 

Till  I  heard  him  softly  sing: 

"  Cover  my  defenseless  head 

With  tlie  shadow  of  thy  wing?  " 

Then  I  knew  an  host  unnumbered 

Was  encamped  up  on  the  way. 

And  that  boy  was  under  orders 

From  tlie  Captain  of  the  day: 

And  the  unseen  li'gions  gathered 

As  I  knelt  ujion  the  sod. 

And  vow'd,  there  in  my  suit  of  gray. 

Allegiance  to  his  God. 

Years  have  passed,  but  in  my  mem'ry 

Is  engraved  that  soldier's  face. 

Nor  can  lines  of  careworn  manhood 

Quite  efface  its  youthful  grace. 

Turn  and  look  at  me,  my  brother. 

Take  the  faith  my  message  brings: 

For  you  were  the  lad  in  refuge 

'Neath  the  shadow  of  the  wings! 


■A 


*- 


-* 


LOCAT.   AND  NATIONAL  POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


773 


EDWIN  SEYMOUR  HULIN. 

Born:  Braceville,  Ohio,  July  14,  1822. 
The  subject  of  tliis  sketch  was  brought  up 
on  a  farm,  but  abandoned  that  occupation 
for  want  of  strength,  and  learned  a  trade, 
which  he  followed  several  years.  Mr.  Huliu 
then  became  a  school  teacher,  and  has  since 


1.U\^1^    i-tYMOUK  HULIh. 

taught  in  six  different  states.  At  present  he 
occasionally  engages  in  light  farm  work  and 
in  taking  orders  for  standard  works  at  Er- 
win,  Tenii.  Mr.  Hulin  has  written  numerous 
fine  poems,  many  of  which  have  appeared 
quite  extensively  in  the  periodical  press. 


THE  FADING  FLOWER. 

How  oft  they  do  this  caption  use  — 
Ambitious  and  poetic  youtlis,  — 

To  praise  some  tiower,  thro'  aid  of  muse. 
Then  show  its  death.    Two  simple  truths. 

But  in  my  walks  of  yesterday, 

1  saw  a  flower,  "t  seemed  struck  with  death. 
The  petals  and  the  leaves  all  lay 

Beyond  all  signs  of  vital  breath. 

That  flower  was  reared  by  love  and  care. 
Of  sisters,  brothers,  parents,  all. 

But  now  the  tears  that  all  can  spare 
Cannot  new  life  again  recall. 

No  care  or  dress  of  roo  t  or  spray. 
Of  friends  of  tliat  once  lovely  flower. 

Can  send,  to  root,  or  stem,  one  ray 
Of  health  and  life's  renewing  power. 

A  fiend  in  manly  form  and  shape. 
With  wooing  words  of  wily  power. 


Did  often  seek  ••  for  friendship's  sake," 
To  sit  beneath  that  lovely  flower. 

But  when  he'd  taken  final  leave. 
The  fragrant  blooms  all  fade  away. 

Nor  filial  care,  of  those  who  grieve. 
That  shrinking,  fading  blight  can  stay. 


THE  LITTLE  ORPHAN. 
Walking  down  the  lonely  street. 
Where  want  and  woe  we  daily  greet, 
A  little  child  I  chanced  to  meet  — 

A  child  that  had  no  mother. 
Then  spake  a  woman  passing  by: 
Why  sit  you  here  alone  and  cry? 
He  answered  her  with  heaving  sigh, 

I've  lost,  lost  my  mother! 
That  blessed  saint  to  me  so  dear. 
Whose  spirit  ever  lingers  near. 
Who  taught  me  God  to  love  and  fear. 

Is  dead.  Oh!  Oh!  my  mother! 
My  cruel  father  once  so  dear. 
For  that  accursed  wine  and  beer. 
Did  oft  forsake  his  children  dear, 

Wliich  did  distract  my  mother. 
He  then  to  rum  became  a  slave. 
And  like  a  madman  oft  would  rave. 
But  soon  did  fill  a  drunkard's  grave. 

Broke  her  heart  —  killed  my  mother. 
Then  go  with  me,  we  heard  her  say 
Unto  my  home  not  far  away. 
And  from  me  never  go  astray. 

And  I  will  be  your  mother. 
"xJut  liowcan  you  with  patience  share 
All  the  ills  tliat  orphans  heir. 
And  lisp  my  name  in  every  prayer. 

Since  you  are  not  my  mother? 
That  God  thy  mother  taught  to  fear, 
Doth  ever  whisper  in  my  ear. 
Unto  the  poor  draw  gently  near. 

And  be  the  orphan's  mother. 
With  joy  beaming  in  his  eyes. 
Into  her  arms  he  quickly  flies. 
And  kissing  her  he  wildlj-  cries, 

I  think  I've  found  my  mother. 
She  banished  all  his  rising  fears, 
'And  wiped  away  his  falling  tears. 
While  hope  and  love  his  spirit  cheers. 

She's  now  the  orphan's  mother. 
This  lovely  little  prattling  boy. 
Did  soon  become  the  household  joy. 
And  oft  thanks  gave  without  alloy. 

For  his  new  and  kind  mother. 
He  was  the  solace  of  her  heart. 
And  from  him  she  could  tiever  part. 
But  blest  the  day  that  she  became 

That  little  orphan's  mother. 


-* 


*- 


774 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


GEORGE  W.  KETTOMAN. 

Born:  Gettysburg,  Pa.,  April  17, 1853. 
Mr.  Kettoman  is  known  as  the  South  Moun- 
tain Bard.  At  nine  years  of  age  he  com- 
menced to  court  the  muse  and  since  that  time 
he  has  written  more  tlian  five  thousand  pag-es 
of  maiuiscriiit.     In   1^76   Mr.  Kettoman  was 


GEOUCE    \V.  KETTO.MAN. 

married  to  Miss  Carrie  B.  Smith,  of  Decatur, 
111.,  by  wliom  he  has  liad  two  eliildren— ason 
who  died  of  diplitheria  at  the  age  of  eight; 
the  oilier,  a  daugliter,  who  is  still  living.  Mr. 
Kettoman  has  studied  medicine.  His  best 
poems  have  not  yet  been  published. 


*- 


HAZEL  GREENE. 
There  is  a  land  dear  to  my  heart 

As  freedom  to  the  fawn. 
Which  from  my  memory  ne'er  shall  part 

While  life  in  me  lives  on. 
'Tis  where  the  Lehigh,  broad  and  bright, 

Do'^h  pour  his  glinnnering  slu-en 
Down  through  a  vale  of  love  and  light 

To  beauteous  Hazel  Greene. 

Around  her  quiet  cottage  home 
Sleek  herds  in  shadows  di'owse; 

And  meadow  pink,  and  daisy  bloom. 
And  asphodel  and  rose. 

And  there  within  a  becchen  grove 
A  ch.-ipel  lifts  its  vane. 


And  choristers  sing  God's  high  love 

With  saintly  Hazel  Greene. 
Now  down  the  mead  her  dainty  feet 

Light  tripping  stir  the  dew. 
And  nymph-like  in  this  arcady 

She  sings  to  me  and  you. 
Her  basket  with  wild  flowers  in  it 

She  bears  with  artless  mien : 
In  soft  blue  gown  and  jaunty  hat, 

God  bless  our  Hazel  Greene! 
No  marquis,  duke,  or  titled  earl 

Walks  in  her  suitors'  train. 
But  those  who  love  the  farmer  girl 

Are  Nature's  noblemen. 
And  no  proud  empress  sable-robed, 

Or  jeweled  Southern  queen 
Can  dare  compare  with  her  so  rare, 

God'sown  sweet  Hazel  Greene. 


THE  OLD  HOME  PLACE. 
I  have  wandered  far  and  wide. 
Over  land  and  over  tide; 
I  have  gazed  on  the  rarest  of  grace. 
But  I've  found  no  other  spot 
With  so  much  of  beauty  fraught. 
As  the  kingdom  of  my  childhood. 

The  Old  Home  Place. 

Chorus:  The  Old  Home  Place 

With  its  violets  so  blue, 
The  Old  Home  Place 

With  its  hearts  so  leal  and  true; 
The  pride  of  my  father. 
The  home  of  my  mother. 
My  sister  and  my  brother  — 
Heaven  send  a  blessing  on  the  Old  Home 
Place ! 

I  have  lingered  half  the  year 
Where  the  roses  of  Cashmere 
Were  bewildering  in  odor  and  grace. 
But  more  beautiful  to  me 
Are  the  lilies  on  the  lea. 
In  the  kingdom  of  my  childhood. 
The  Old  Home  Place. 

I  have  felt  what  man  doth  feel 
When  cathedral  organs  peal 
Under  domes  where  angel  wings  interlace. 
But  a  grander  melody 
Were  the  Sabbath  psalms  to  me. 
In  the  Kingdom  of  my  childhood. 
The  Old  Home  Place. 

When  I  die  I  will  not  <ask 
Sculptured  tomb  or  obelisk,         [grace 
Let  them   lay  me  down   in   tenderness  and 
Where  the  violets  will  blue 
In  the  Summer  sun  and  dew. 
In  the  kingdom  of  my  childhood, 
The  Old  Home  Place. 


*- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA, 


775 


-* 


ENOCH  GEORGE  ADAMS. 

Bokn:  Bow,  N.  H. 
Graduating  in  1849  from  Yiile  coUeg-e,  Mr. 
Adams  tliGTi  taug-lit  school  in  the  states  of 
New  Hampshire,  Massachusetts,  Marjland 
and  Missouri.  At  an  early  age  he  contributed 
poems  to  the  Boston  Olive  Branch,  the  Cin- 
cinnati Ladies'  Kepository  and  other  publi- 
cations. Tn  1861  he  enlisted  in  Co.  D.  2d  N.H. 
regiment,  and  \v;is  .iftorward  woiindeil  :itthe 
battle  of  Williamsburg,  tliu  bullet  ailll  re- 


L^ 

LNDCU   (;i,(ni(ih,  AUA.M^. 

maining  in  his  body.  He  was  in  the  Peach 
Orchard  at  tlie  battle  of  Gettysburg-.  In  186.5 
he  commanded  Fort  Rice,  D.  T.,  wliere  he 
met  and  vanquished  the  famous  Sitting-Bull 
and  ten  thousand  warriors.  In  1865  Mr. 
Adams  was  mustered  out  of  service  as  cap- 
tain and  brevet-major.  For  a  number  of 
years  he  was  editor  and  proprietor  of  the 
Vancouver  Register,  W.  T.,  where  he  was 
also  register  of  the  land  office.  He  next  pub- 
hshed  the  Columbian,  at  St.  Helen,  Oregon, 
wliere  he  was  also  justice  of  the  peace.  As 
a  lecturer,  Major  Adams  lias  attained  a  wide 
reputation,  and  his  poems  have  been  highly 
praised  by  the  press  and  public. 

THE  RELEASED. 
Over  the  dark  cloud  of  her  life 

The  rainbow  of  death  ascended,  [arch, 

And  her  spirit  went  through  its  triumphal 

Like  a  liero  when  battle  is  ended. 
She  never  will  wake  in  the  gloomy  niglit 

And  dread  the  coming  morrow: 


She  has  gone  where  the  strains  of  eternal 
peace 

Hush  the  wild  notes  of  sorrow. 
The  angels  of  light  they  met  her  that  morn 

Close  by  the  gates  of  wonder,  [sweet. 

Which    turned    on    their    hinges   to    music 

Then  gloriously  fell  asunder. 

Then  her  spirit  went  up    New   Jerusalem's 
streets. 

With  the  angels  of  God  around  her. 
And  then  from  the  amaranth  bowers  above 

Wit  h  a  garland  of  beauty  tlioy  crowned  her. 
Then  she  seized  in  her  hand  a  harp  of  gold, 

In  that  wilderness  of  splendor,  [full. 

And  poured   forth  a  song  of  thanksgiving 

Ineffably  sweet  and  tender. 

The  angels  took  up  the  ending  song. 

In  a  full  and  mighty  chorus, 
..All  glory  to  the  Lamb  that  was  slain. 

To  the  Lamb  that  goes  before  us." 
The  sapphire  hills  that  were  gleaming  there. 

With  a  grandeur  serene  and  splendid. 
Repeated  in  echo,  again  and  again. 

The  strain  that  should  not  be  ended. 
And  the  river  of  Life  that  is  flowing  for  aye. 

From  the  throne  of  the  Great  Jehovah, 
In  silvery  cadences,  sweet  and  low. 

Kept  singing  the  chorus  over. 
( ),  what  to  her  are  the  griefs  of  life! 

Like  clouds  iu  remotest  distance, 
Since  she's  entered  upon  a  glorious  state 

In  a  blissful  and  new  existence. 
She  weeps  not  that  her  path  through  life 

Was  roughened  by  thorn  and  briar,  [state 
Since  the  griefs  that  consumed  her  mortal 

Only  brought  her  heavenly  nigher. 
Her  path  was  stony,  her  path  was  rough. 

And  her  feet  were  torn  and  bleeding; 
But  she  bathes  them  now  in  the  river  of  Life 

From  the  throne  of  the  Lamb  proceeding. 
And  binding-  her  golden  sandals  on 

With  a  joyous  step  and  vagrant. 
She  wanders  along  where  the  lily-bells 

Are  showering  their  odors  fragrant. 
No  light  of  the  sun  or  moon  is  there. 

But  a  soft  and  crystal  brightness. 
Like  a  cluster  of  stars,  the  Deity's  throne. 

Stands  afar  in  its  silvery  whiteness. 
And  ever  above  it  a  rainbow  gleams, 

A  pledge  that  the  Gt>d-hcad  has  given. 
That  undisturbed  shall  the  quiet  be 

Of  inhabitants  of  Heaven. 

O,  for  the  pen  of  the  angel  that  stands. 

In  the  Book  of  Life  recording 
The  deeds  of  the  just,—  to  tell  of  the  joys 

That  the  righteous  are  rewarding-. 
4" 


776 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


ORSON  F.  WHITNEY. 

Born:  Salt  Lake  City,  Utah,  Jclv  1,  1&55. 
For  some  years  Mr.  Wliitney,  wlio  is  a  pro- 
minent mormon,  traveled  In  Europe  on  busi- 
ness connected  witli  liis  cliurch.  Returning- 
in  1883  he  resumed  liis  former  place  on  ti^ie 
editorial  stair  <>{  tin-  DcM-n-t  X<-\\-,  auda 
year  lati-r  \\a-  clfi-tnl  city  trea.-un'i-  nf    Salt 


ORSON  F.  WHITNEY. 

Lake,  which  he  retained  until  1890.  He  has 
published  two  books,  including  a  volume  of 
his  Poetical  Writing's.  Mr.  Wliitnej'  lias 
held  various  high  positions  in  his  native 
place,  and  in  Utah  is  best  known  as  BLsliop 
Wliitney.  Mr.  Whitney  is  quite  a  musician, 
and  possesses  not  a  little  dramatic  talent, 
and  was  president  o£^  tiie  home  dramatic 
club  for  some  time.  He  is  now  engaged  in 
writing  the  History  of  Utah,  to  be  published 
in  three  volumes. 


*- 


A  LOVE  SONG. 
Thou  art  lovely,  tliou  art  fair. 
Maid  of  sunny  golden  hair. 
Eye  of  azure.'neath  its  curl. 
Lips  of  coral,  teeth  of  pearl. 
Sure  the  .soul  that  has  its  shrine 
In  that  face  and  form  divine  — 
If  such  things  did  (;'er  agree  — 
Must  a  soul  of  beautj'  be. 
Radiant  as  a  vesper  star: 
Gazing  fondly  from  afar. 
To  mine  eyes  thou  dost  appear 
Being  of  a  brighter  sphere. 
Though  I  ne'er  may  call  thee  mine. 
Lovely  star,  still  o'er  me  shine; 


Though  I  ne'er  may  .see  thee  more. 
Still  thy  memory  I'll  adore. 
Though  art  lovely,  thou  art  fair. 
Maid  of  sunny  golden  hair. 
And  thy  silvery  voice  .shall  seem 
As  the  music  of  a  dream. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  AND  THE  VALE. 

There's  a  mountain  named  stern  justice. 

Tall  and  towering,  gloomy,  grand. 
Frowning  o'er  a  vale  called  Mercy, 

Loveliest  in  all  the  land. 
Great  and  mighty  is  the  mountain. 

But  its  snowy  crags  are  cold. 
And  in  vain  the  sunlight  lingers 

On  the  summit  proud  and  bold. 
There  is  warmth  within  the  valley, 

And  I  love  to  wander  there 
'Mid  tlie  fountains  and  the  flowers. 

Breathing  fragrance  on  the  air. 
Much  I  love  the  solemn  mountain; 

It  doth  meet  my  sombre  mood. 
When,  amid  the  muttering  thunders. 

O'er  my  soul  the  storm-clouds  l)ro<xl; 
But  when  tears,  like  rain  have  fallen 

From  the  fountain  (jf  my  woe. 
And  my  soul  has  lost  its  fierceness, 

Straight  unto  the  vale  I  go; 
Where  the  landscape,  gently  smiling, 

O'er  my  heart  pours  healing  balm. 
And,  as  oils  on  troubled  waters. 

Brings  from  out  its  storm  a  calm. 
Yes,  I  love  both  vale  and  mountain, 

Ne'er  from  either  would  I  part, 
Each  unto  my  life  is  needful. 

Both  are  dear  unto  m3'  heart; 
For  the  smiling  vale  doth  soften. 

All  the  rugged  steep  makes  sad. 
And  from  icy  rocks  meander 

Rills  that  make    the  valley  glad. 


THOUGHT'S  MARTYRDOM. 

What  is  it  to  be  gifted";*  Sons 

Of  .science  or  of  song'/ 
Ye  whose  brows  are  crowned  with  laurel. 

Ye  to  whom  the  wings  belong 
Of  Fancy's  eagle,  upward  soaring 

Past  the  regions  of  the  sun,  [erns, 

Or  downward  piercing  thought's  deep  cav- 

Whither  erst  had  ventured  none. 
Answer,  is  it  not  to  suffer 

Pangs  to  lesser  souls  unknown? 
Pine  'mid  earthlj-  throngs  an  exile 

Ne'er  as  then  so  much  alone'/ 
Is  it  not  to  feel  more  keeidy 

Censure's  breath  or  sorrow's  dart, 
To  feed  Fame's  fickle,  flickering  flambeau. 
With  blood  from  passion's  breaking  heart. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


777 


-* 


CH.\RLESRIEF. 

Born  in  Germany,  Nov.  13,  1843. 
Mr.  Rief's  career  lias  been  an  eventful  one, 
having  been  around  the  world  twice,  and  lias 
just  returned  from  Palestine  and  Egypt. 
He  is  a  member  of  the  city  council,  president 
of  the  Board  of  Education,  and  also  member 


CHARLES     RIEP. 

ofthe  Board  of  Examiners  of  Teachers.  He 
has  been  county  representative  and  also 
county  clerk  at  Grand  Island,  Neb.,  where 
he  now  resides,  engaged  principally  in  lit- 
erary work. 


THE  SNOW  STORM. 
Hazy  in  the  northern  skies. 
Doth  a  dark-grey  storm-cloud  rise; 
Now  a  hill,  anon  a  gust 
Playing  free,  in  sportive  lust, 
Intermi.xed  with  dust  and  snow; 
Driven  quickly  to-and-fro. 

Whirling  round  — 

Onward  bound; 
With  a  hollow  moaning  sound. 
And  an  icy  arctic  sting 
Comes  the  storm-the  snow-crowned  king. 

Beast  with  instinct,  man  with  brains. 
Dread  the  storm-king  of  tlie  plains. 
In  his  snow-fed  track  they  come 
Eacli  one  striving  for  a  home; 


Man  walks,  blinded  on  liis  route. 
Whilst  the  beasts  will  roam  about. 

Till  at  last  — 

The}' are  cast, 
Down  before  the  winter's  blast: 
One  to  die,  one  to  be  blest 
Yonder  with  celestial  rest! 

See  the  fragrant  cedar  tree  — 
Bows  its  head  to  worship  thee. 
King  of  storms,  thy  royal  will 
Sweeps  the  mountain,  vale  and  hill; 
On  thy  regal  diadem 
Every  crystal  is  a  gem. 

Snow  sublime. 

For  a  time. 
Ruler  of  a  nortiiern  clime; 
All  thy  fury  will  be  spent. 
Three  days  bring  thy  final  end! 

In  the  west  we  see  a  gleam. 
Now  and  then  a  golden  beam; 
Fleecy  clouds  pass  swiftly  by. 
Presently  an  azure  sky 
Greets  us,  with  a.  setting  sun; 
Storm-king  now  thy  work  is  done? 

Still  the  nifiht. 

Stars  shine  bright. 
And  the  moon  sheds  silv'ry  light. 
Sparkling  white  the  crystals  glow. 
On  the  snowy  plains  below. 


AN  ADDRESS  TO  THE  ..ISLAND  OF 

ICELAND." 
Hark!  storm-tossed  land,  isle  of  the  sea. 
Field  of  the  geysers,  seat  of  Thor, 
Restore  again  to  memory 
The  runes,  within  thy  ice-bound  shore. 
And  sagas  of  tlie  ancient  skald. 
'•  Heims  kringle  "  as  by  Sturleson  told. 
Reclaim  thy  former  liberty. 
And  set  thj'  sons  and  daughters  free! 

O  cold  and  arctic  wonderland. 
With  slumbering  jo-kuls  glacier  crowned. 
Brought  forth  from  Neptune's   aqueous 
And  Titan's  forces  upward  bound,    [hand, 
Child  of  the  wave,  yet  born  by  fire! 
Thy  eddas  ever  will  inspire. 
Produce  the  legends  of  the  sea. 
And  chant  the  songs  of  liberty. 

The  Midgard  serpent  is  asleep, 
Reposing,  in  the  ocean's  bed; 
Old  Kraken  rests  within  the  deep, 
Still  twilight  of  the  gods  gleams  yet. 
Let  Frigga's  son  from  Hecla's  dome. 
Again  command  the  Norse,  to  roam 
For  liberty,  from  Vinland's  shore. 
Where  first  the  Vikings  freedom  bore. 


-« 


*- 


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778 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


Stern  Skaptar,  in  his  fog-bound  clime, 
With  Vatna's  heads  spread  gloom  about; 
Volcanic  peers,  that  rule  sublime; 
(When  Strokr  may  be  coaxed  to  spout) 
Such  wars,  of  fire,  and  frost,  and  snow. 
With  streams,  that  liot  from  geysers  flow. 
Proclaim,  that  fire-born  energy 
Is  incubating  liberty. 

Behold  the  Logberg  of  ThingwoUs 
Where  clear  and  dark-green  water  flows; 
In  secret  streams,  from  far  Joculs, 
Close  by  the  ancient  >>  Mount  of  Laws," 
Here  on  the  rugged  lava  floor. 
The  "  Althing  "  met  in  days  of  yore; 
When  Leif  stood  with  his  bark  to  sea. 
For  Bjarues  —  Laud  of  Liberty. 

King  Olaf 's  Christian  tidal  wave. 
Submerged  the  northern  pagan  claim. 
At  that  time  when  a  chieftain  brave 
In  council  mocked  god  Odin's  claim. 
When  sagas  pure  and  elegant 
From  Frode  .J  and  from  Snorre's  hand 
Told  of  thy  jarls,  the  brave  and  free. 
Then  Iceland  cradled  liberty. 

Awake  once  more  from  lethargy. 
Float  the  white  falcon  to  the  breeze; 
Unfurl  the  blue  flag  of  the  free. 
Let  vassalage  and  bondage  cease  1 
Erect  thy  runic  ballad's  throne. 
In  honor  of  the  arctic  zone. 
First  self-rule,  or  autonomy 
Then  native  free-born  liberty. 


ATOMIC     GRAVITY,    THE     CAUSE     OF 

SOLAR     SYSTEMS. 
A  force,  designed  by  mystic  hand 
Launched,  from    the    realms   of    nature's 
cause; 
Found  in  the  smallest  grain  of  sand. 
And  atoms,  moved  by  inborn  laws. 

These  laws  at  work,  in  space  appear 

As  gravity,  the  cosmic  nurse. 
Which  governs  ever,  far  and  near, 

And  rules  and  guides  the  universe. 

From  causes,  effects  are  displayed ; 

Observed  wherever  we  may  gaze. 
An  atom,  that  a  cause  obeyed, 

Gave  effect  to  a  sun  in  space. 

It  was  at  the  creative  morn, 

When  atoms  brought  along  that  force 
Of  matter,  deep  within  them  born; 

Nursed,  from  a  life-inflating  source. 

Decreeing  Fiat  ordered  light, 
When  chaos  was  upon  the  scene; 

And  from  a  long  Cimmerian  night. 
Did  suns  and  worlds  in  space  convene. 


An  innate  force  they  did  maintain. 
By  casting  from  a  blazing  throne 

The  planets,  which  around  them  train. 
With  pristine  power  still  their  own. 

Perforce,  whilst  j-et  each  planet  glows. 
Their  crusts  —  cooled  in  an  onward  race- 

Were  hurled  along,  by  seismic  throes 
In  moons  and  asteroids  through  space. 

So  suns  were  with  iheir  systems  thrown 
In  space,  on  spiral  curves  to  roam. 

By  impulses  in  atoms  shown  ; 
Bound  ever  for  a  central  home. 

This  force  born  by  primeval  laws; 

A  motor  for  eternity; 
Receding  and  advancing  cause 

Is  the  Atomic  Gravity. 


ROBERT  SINNICKSON. 

Born:  Salem,  N.  J.,  Feb.  10, 1827. 
Mr.  Sinnickson  is  a  printer  by  trade.    He 
has  contributed  to  some  of  the  leading  i)eri- 
odicals  of  Americn. 


LINES  TO  A  GOLD  DOLLAR. 

Bright  little  messenger  of  love ! 

Speed  on  thy  way. 
And  cheer  the  weary  hearts  of  those 

In  sorrow's  fold. 

Thy  tiny  mold 
Doth  concentrated  power  inclose, 

Which  even  may 
The  Aveight  of  Sorrow's  mountain  move. 


NEW   VERSION. 
He  said  he'd  traveled  cast  and  west. 

Both  continents  all  over; 
But  liked  his  native  land  the  best. 

Where  springs  the  Jersey  clover. 
I  asked  him  if  he  was  the  ■•  swell" 

I'd  met  with  in  Vienna: 
He  said  that  I  might  go  to  —  well, 

They  call  it,  now,  Gehenna. 


ALBUM  LINES. 

What  shall  I  write 
For  her,  to-night?  — 

Though  young  she's  far  advanced: 
Shall  it,  like  wine. 
With  ricliness  shine. 

Its  worth  by  age  enhanced? 

Now  let  me  see  — 

What  shall  it  be? 
Metbinks  I  see  her  laugh. 

As  she  replies. 

With  sparkling  eyes. 
Why,  write  your  autograph. 


I 


i 


I 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


779 


DR.  AMASA  S.CONDON. 

Born  :  Penobscot,  Me.,  Dec.  23,  1846. 
Dr.  Condon  served  as  a  volunteer  in  the 
civil  war,  and  is  now  an  active  member  of 
the  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic.  In  1875  he 
was  appointed  one  of  the  surgeons  of  the 
Union  Pacific  railroad,  with  headquarters  at 


DR.  AMASA  S.  CONDON. 

Ogden,  Utah,  where  he  now  resides.  Dr. 
Condon  has  written  numerous  poems  tliat 
have  appeared  quite  extensively  in  the 
pei-iodieal  press,  and  liopes  to  publish  a 
volume  of  liis  poems  at  an  early  date. 


MEMORIAL  DAY.  1889. 
Tell  me,  oh  Spirit  of  the  eager  sun, 
When  the  long-  circuit  of  thy  worls  is  done. 
What  liolier  shrines  thy  beams  have  bless'd 

to-day 
Than    those   green    mounds    embalmed    in 

faitliful  tears. 
Love's  sweet  libation  to  the  feudal  years 
Now  honored  with    tlie   flowery  wealth   of 

May. 

And  thou  dear  Angel  of  the  lingering  Spring, 
As  on  our  ear  throbs  tliy  departing  wing, 
Lilie   Ocean's   pulse-beat   ou  some   distant 

shore, 
Tell  me  what  dust  tliy  garlands  wrap  about 
With  more  of  ruth  or  tender  love  devout 
Than  ours  that  once  a  Nation's  ransom  bore. 


Those  days  come  back,thosedays  when  War's 

red  hand 
Wove  cypress  o'er  the  thresholds  of  the  land 
For  brave,  strong  men,  who  nevermore  re- 
turn. 
To  weeping  Rachels  whose  belov'd  and  lost 
They  offered  as  a  Nation's  holocaust 
And  made  of  hearths  a  sacrificial  urn. 

Tins  sad  recurring  day  serenely  warms 
The  recollection,  and  familiar  forms 
Tlirow  off  the  grave's  dull  ceremental  rust. 
We  hear  and  know  their  voices  as  of  old 
And  grasp  tlieir  hand  outstretched,  nor  feel 

it  cold 
Till  in  our  own  it  turns  to  naught  but  dust. 

***** 
<3nce  more,  'tis  Spring,   and  her    reviving 

breath 
Hides    with   propitious    buds   the    sears  of 

death. 
And  clouds  are  white-wing'd  angels  of  the 

air; 
Once  more  the  brook  sweeps  through  the 

meadows  green,  [tween. 

And  sings  unvexed  its  fragrant  banks  be- 
That  Peace  and  sweet  Content  dwell  everj-- 

where. 

To-day  I  backward  look  through  years   of 

rime, 
Adown  the  long-drawn  misty  aisle  of  Time, 
i'o  the  old  picture  of  the  village  green ; 
1  see   tlie  circling  camp-fires    through  the 

night. 
Painting   the   soldier's  tent   with  timorous 

light. 
While   silhouette   sentries    pace  the  lonely 

scene. 

1  feel  the  spell  of  sadness  brooding  down. 
And  deepening  gloom  pervades  my  native 

town, 
O'erspreading  all  the  rural  country  side, 
I  seem  to  hear  through  twilight  deepening 

still 
The  cricket  and  the  plantive  whip-poor-will. 
And  murmurs  from  the  Ocean's  rising  tide. 
****** 

Like  some  fair  morn  that  wakes  in  leafy 

June 
To  Boreal  frosts  and   Winter's  sunless  noon. 
And  snows  that  sting,  and  bitter  winds  that 

blow  — 
So  woke  to  wrath  the  Nation's  Summer  way. 
When  men  were  met  in  battle's  fierce  array. 
And  foe  crossed  swords  witii  hate-inspiring 

foe. 
So  fell  the  day  and  every  heart  stood  still 
Beneath  the  rod  of  Fate's  imperious  will. 


-* 


*- 


780 


-* 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


*- 


When  thunderiug- from  the  Southern  clouds 

afar. 
We  heard  the  roaring'  cannon  of  Bull  Kun, 
Telling-  the  awful  wage  of  strife  was  on, 
Nor  knew  the  end  of  this  remorseless  war. 

Once  more  we  see  the  ensang-uiued  plain 
With  crimson  windrows  of  heroes'  slain. 
The  wounded    slow-pouring-  their   life  out 

there. 
The  trooper  controlling  his  plung-ing  horse. 
Full  charging-  the  front—  a  trampled  corse 
With  face  of  a  girl,  and  as  debonair. 
We're  with  them  now  in  the  elm-shaded  home 
And  waiting-  with  dread  for  the  news  to  come. 
Detailing-  the  list  of  immortal  dead.       [g-rief 
There's  wringing-  of   hands  and  impatient 
And  hearts  are  breaking-  for  tears  of  relief. 
And  silent  and  bow'd  is  tlie  silvery  head. 

But  Peace  has  come  down  and  tlie  old  home 

still 
Is  charmed  by  the  song-  of  the  whip-poor-will. 
As  he  tunes  his  voice  to  a  happier  key. 
And    we,  each   year,  when    the   day   comes 

round, 
Eng-arland   the  graves  in  the  Holy  Ground 
Where  they  sleep  who  died  for  you  and  me. 

WHITTIER. 

Scotland  with  pride  claims  Burns  her  c>wn 
Although  his  fame  fills  zone  to  zone; 
With  right  good  clieer,  and  song,  and  mirth. 
She  hails  the  day  that  gave  him  birth. 
Where'er  his  well-loved  portraits  hang  — 

By  wimpling  Doon's  dear  cottage  halls, 
Where  sweetest  of  the  minstrels  sang; — 

Or  by  proud  crests  on  gilded  walls, — 
The  Scotchmen  true  to  Scotia's  pride; 
Wreathe  the  loved  face  of  liim  who  died 
The  friend  of  all  of  human  kind. 
In  precept  and  example  taught 
"  A  mon's  a  moii,"  whate'er  his  lot; 
Man's  patron  saint  and  friend. 
For  to  their  eyes  their  seems  to  bend, 
An  aureole  as  lieavenly  bright 
As  angels  wear  beyond  this  night. 
They  feel  his  pain  —  want's  cruel  whip;— 
Death  set  his  seal  upon  his  lip; — 
And  thank  high  heaven  that  He  bequeathed 
This  Scotchman  best  that  ever  lived ; 
And  from  this  birthright  of  the  free. 
Goes  out  across  the  billowing  sea  —"Amen." 

And  our  dear  Whittier ;  sage  of  men ; 

Who  caught  the  other's  falling  pen; 

Who  sung  —  and  liuman  fetters  broke 

And  melted  in  the  battle's  smoke; 

And  in  that  all-consuming  act. 

The  world's  great  Hope  forged  into  Fact,— 


May  thy  long  afternoon  endure 
Long  e'er  the  dreamy  twilight  ends 
Where  shadow  into  darkness  blends 

And  rest  at  last  becomes  secure. 

We'll  hang  thy  wreath  with  his  beside, 

And  though  th'  unthinking  world  deride, 

We'll  garland  them  with  rusting  bands 

That  fell  from  lielpless  human  hands. 

Thou,  -who,  ignoring- sect  and  creed. 
Self  abnegating  to  behold 

The  lifted  faces  of  the  freed; 
Thou  who  did'st  seize  the  falling  pen, 

Shall  in  all  future,  side  by  side. 
Be  the  compeer  of  Scotia's  pride 

While  all  the  world  responds-"  Amen." 


DR.  S.  D.  SIBBET. 

Bokn:  Northampton,  Pa. 
For  the  past  twenty  years  Dr.  Sibbet  has  di- 
vided his  time  between  the  practice  of  his 
profession  and  scientific  researches.  He  has 
read  a  number  of  papers  before  scientific 
bodies  on  The  Unity  of  Matter  and  Force,  The 
Correlation  and  Conservatism  of  Energy, 
Spectrum  Analysis,  The  Nebular  Hypothesis, 
and  upon  other  topics. 

THE  DEWDROP  ON  MY  WINDOW  PANE. 
As  I  watched  the  frost  on  my  window  pane, 

A  dewdrop  came  laughing  in  sight. 
As  pure  as  the  frost  in  which  it'liad  lain 

A  close  )>risoner  all  night. 
Bright,  laughing  dewdrop,  the  sun  set  you 

A  nd  soon  he  will  bear  you  away  [free, 

Toyour  cloudland  home  now  waiting  for  thee 

While  here,  as  a  truant,  you  stay 
Whj',  little  dewdrop,  why  stay  from   your 
home. 

Where  sun-tinted  clouds  are  at  play? 
Did  j-ou  know  the  bright,  bright  sunbeams 

To  take  you  as  vapor  away"?     [would  come 
"As  vapor  I  came,  as  vapor  I  go," 

Said  ray  dewdrop  laughing  with  glee; 
"Maybe  I'll  come  back  as  beautiful  snow, 

I  would  love  a  snowtlake  to  be. 
"Should  1   be  wooed  by  some  bright  little 

I'll  sport  as  a  dewdrop  again;  [flower, 

Perchance,  In  summer,  descend  in  a  shower 

As  one  of  its  drops  of  warm  rais." 
"Sweet  child  of  the  frost.thou  first-water  gem 

I  know  of  no  jewel  so  bright; 
Will  you  come  back  to  my  window  again 

And  sleep  in  its  frost  over  night"?  " 
But  ere  I  could  get  the  wished-for  reply, 

Or  ere  a  good-bye  I  could  say. 
The  sun  sent  a  beam  from  the  Eastern  sky 

And  bore  little  dewdrop  away. 
4 


* 


LOCAI.   AND   NATIOJfAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


-* 


781 


HORACKBIRNEY  WILLx'^RD. 

Born  :  Volney,  N.  Y.,  JIay  2, 1825. 

Graduating  in  1849,  Mr.Willurdsubsequent- 
Ij'  practised  medicine  for  tv/enty  years, 
whicli  profession  failing  liealtli  compelled 
him  to  abandon.  ITe  served  several  j-ears  in 
the  county  board   of  supervist)rs;  one  year 


HORACE  BIRNEY  WILIvARD. 

as  Mayor  of  Fort  Atkinson;  and  in  1861  was 
a  member  of  the  Wisconsin  legislature.  Mr. 
Willard  lias  been  often  called  to  otlier  places 
of  public  trust  and  responsibility.  He  is 
now  vice-president  of  the  Citizen's  State 
Banli  at  Fort  Atkinson,  Wis.,  where  he  now 
resides 


THE  TRUTH    SHOULD    BE    SPOKEN   AT 
ALL  TIMES. 
Is  silence  a  lie? 
How  guilty  am  I 
Wlio  suppress  many  truths  from  duty  or 
choice, 
And  lay  them  away 
For  some  future  day. 
If,  indeed,  they  ever  be  given  n  voice. 

If  truth  must  be  spoken. 
Then  hearts  must  be  broken. 
And  family  ties  often  sundered  in  twain; 
Wouldn't  editors'  wives 


Lead  miserable  lives 
If,  on  every  occasion  the  truth  should  obtain  r 

Should  ministers  tell 

The  truth  about  hell. 
Would  editors'  sleep  e-ive  the  same  quiet  rest? 

A  maxim  quite  old 

Says  "Silence is  gold," 
While  speech,  tho'  'tis  truth,  is  but  silver  at 
best. 


TO  DELLA. 
My  Child,  could  I  the  Fates  control, 
I  would  not  dare,  upon  my  soul. 

To  make  the  coming  years 
As  cloudless  as  I  might  desire. 
The  fruit  and  flowers  of  life  require 

Some  s5-mpathetic  tears. 

I  oft  have  thought,  and  wished  as  oft. 
That  I  might  spread  the  velvet  soft 

For  thy  soul's  white  feet. 
And  jet  I'd  have  you  understand 
That  Wisdom  dotli,  with  loving  hand. 

Mix  bitter  with  the  sweet. 

Why  should  the  feeble  plant  despise 
The  benediction  of  tlie  skies. 

Or  deem  the  storm  its  foe! 
For  leaf  and  bud  and  fragrant  flower. 
Both  to  the  sun  and  to  tlie  shower. 

Their  wealth  of  beauty  owe. 


QUANDARY. 
To  lie,  or  not  to  lie,  with  me. 
The  solemn  question  seems  to  be. 
In  such  a  world,  where  naught  is  real  — 
Where  love  and  friendship  are  ideal  — 
Where  lying- isHhe  legal  tender, 
And  Truth's  large  discount  seems  to  render 
Bankrupt  all  who  dare  invest- 
Where  joy  and  peace  and  sacred  rest 
In  hope  and  faith  and  fancj' dwell, 
Wliere  human  nature  since  it  fell. 
As  we  are  told,  and  don't  deny. 
Is  a  contradiction  and  a  lie. 
And  feeds  on  falsehood;  as  we  know. 
On  carcass  feeds  the  carrion  crow  — 
Whether  'tis  better  for  age  or  youth 
To  mix  with  lies  some  little  truth. 
Or  take  quite  clear  their  natural  food. 
Behold  there  goes  a  hungry  brood 
Of  turkey-buzzards;  o'er  the  plain 
They  soar,  scorning  all  fresh  slain 
Quadrupeds,  that,  untainted  lie 
In  rich  abundance;  by  and  by 
They  snuff  with  fierce  avidity 


-^ 


*- 


782 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


*- 


Quintescenco  of  putridity. 

And  there  thej'  feed  —  there  they  batten. 

Do  you  suppose  that  they  would  fatten 

On  the  sweetest  kinds  of  diet? 

Could  you  ever  laake  them  try  it? 

Should  moral  buzzards  be  coerced 

To  feed  on  truth  when  so  aversed? 

Lying!  Why  'tis  the  "  Goldsmith  Maid  " 

Of  politics.    Wlio  rides  tlie  jade 

Is  sure  to  win  in  every  lieat; 

While  ig-nominious  defeat 

And  dire  disgrace,  do  but  await 

The  honest,  truthful  candidate. 

In  literature  'tis  much  the  same; 

Ambition's  son  who  covets  fame. 

Finds  It  in  fiction  and  romance. 

It  only  needs  a  furtive  glance 

To  see  th'  immortal  mind  demands 

The  works  of  Dickens,  Elliot,  Sands. 

We  thank  the  Lord  they  lived,  and  lied. 

And  pray  their  like  be  multiplied; 

Living,  we  laud  and  glorify. 

We  monument  them  when  they  die. 

Tlien  in  tlic  social  Avorld,  ah  me, 

What  should  we  do,  what  would  we  be. 

Could  we  speak  nothing  but  the  truth? 

What  palsied  tongues  for  want  of  use  — 

What  wretched  souls  for  want  of  food  — 

How  stagnant  all  the  neighborhood  — 

How  stupid  our  tea-table  talks. 

Insipid  all  our  evening  walks; 

No  cheek  would  tingle  with  delight 

At  Flattery's  tongue,  or  eye  grow  bright. 

How  sweet  the  words  ••  I  love  you  well," 

From  woman's  lips  —  though  false  as  bell, 

Tlie  depths  are  stirred,  the  thrills  are  given, 

And  sweetest  thoughts  of  life  and  Heaven 

Exalt  the  soul.    What  the'  she  lied, 

Would  not  tlie  lie  be  sanctified? 

Who  does  not  know,  as  well  as  Knox, 
Tlint  lying  may  be  orthodox? 
That  Abraham  denied  his  wife. 
Because  lie  fancied  that  his  life 
Was  jeopardized  by  her  sweet  face. 
Or  by  her  symmetry  and  grace? 
And  Jacob,  too,  as  well  we  know. 
Lied,  and  was  blessed  in  doing  so; 
Oh,  such  a  master-stroke  of  lying 
To  a  father,  old  and  dying ! 
Sucli  a  rich  reward  receiving 
For  his  falsehood  and  deceiving, 
In  vain  we  search  historic  page 
For  parallel  in  any  age. 
George,  of  the  "hatchet,"  never  lied; 
Ho  lived  and  loved,  and  when  ho  died 
He  left  no  son  to  bear  liis  name; 
No  child  nor  chick  to  share  his  fame: 
Such  was  tlie  poor  reward  he  met, 
While  Jacob  lives  in  Israel  yet. 


PROF .  JOSEPH  W.  CHAPMAN 

Born:  Marblehead,  Mass.,  Nov.  26,  1855. 

After  graduating  from  the  Dartmouth  col- 
lege in  1879,  Joseph  W.  Chapman  entered  the 
educational  field,  and  is  now  principal  of 
High  school  at  Pueblo,  Colorado.  His  poems 
have  appeared  quite  extensively  in  the  peri- 
odical press,  and  in  several  collections.  He 
has  lectured  on  literature,  written  quite  a 
number  of  stories,  and  is  a  great  student  of 
literature.  Mr.  Chapman  was  married  in  1885 
to  Miss  Julia  Prichard,  and  has  a  son  named 
Edward. 


MARBLEHEAD. 

There  is  none  like  our  mother  in  the  land ! 
Such  grace  as  hers,  such  warm,  impulsive 

heart ! 
Such  will,  too,  strong  as  her  gray  rocks  that 

part 
The  squadron  waves  when  mustering  on  her 

strand ! 
Stout    souls     her    children    are  — a  valiant 

band! 
They  carve    her    name    ahigh    in  Honor's 

mart; 
They  write  her  praise  on  Time's   eternal 

chart; 
For  men  are  they  of  sturdy  heart  and  hand! 
And  who  but  loves  her  for  her  gracious  self  ? 
Who  is  not  proud  lier  humblest  child  to  be? 
Freedom  she  gives  us  with  our  everybreath, 
Not  born  of  servile  wills,  nor  gilded  pelf. 
But  of  her  winds  and  her  gi-een-girdling 

sea. 
And   sweet  as    love,    iiye,  strong   iis  bitter 

death. 


MY  FRIEND. 
"  Oh,  deep  love  for  a  new  friend  is  not  meet!" 
You  say  with  something  bitter  in  your  tone. 
Then  do  you  grant  me  that  the  years  complete 
The  perfect  friend,  and  but  the  years  alone? 
And  is  there   nauglit  save  time,  and  life  so 

sweet? 
Is  not  the  spirit  more  than  blood  and  bone? 
This  man  is  not  a  new  friend  you  saw  greet 
Me  yesterday.     1  knew  his  soul  ere  moan 
Of  life  began.     We  joyed  in  fields  of  light 
Together,  heart  and  heart,  while  a'ons  sped. 
Till  on  our  souls  asleep  came  as  of  night 
And  we  were  born.  Should  I  not  know  though 

dead. 
My  own  1  The  now  Isold.  Saw  you  not,  say, 
How  true  unto  my  heart  he  know  the  way?  | 
-H 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


783 


-* 


JOSIEFRAZEECAPPLEMAN. 

Born:  Champaign,  III  ,  June  28, 1859. 

When  about  eight  years  of  age  the  parents 
of  this  lady  removed  to  Louisville,  Kentu(;ky, 
and  later  to  Okolona,  Mississippi,  where  she 
now  resides  with   her  husband,   whom  she 


JOSIE  FRAZEE  CAPPLEMAN. 

married  in  1880.  She  graduated  in  1876,  re- 
ceiving-the  gold  medal  in  senior  composition. 
Mrs.  Ciippleman  has  written  some  two  hun- 
dred pieces  of  i)oetry,  almost  all  of  which  has 
received  publication.  She  is  a  member  of 
the  Press  Association  of  Mississippi. 


I  * 


WHERE  DO  THE  KISSES  GROW 
They  leap  from  the  soul  of  a  baby 

And  then  all  over  it  spread. 
From  the  white  and  pink  of  its  toe-tips. 

To  the  halo  of  gold  round  its  head; 
From  the  depths  of  its  dainty  dimples. 

From  the  i-oseate,  laughter-turned  lips. 
From  the  smooth, shapely  neck  and  shoulders 

To  the  tapering  finger  tips. 

They're  hidden  within  every  heart-fold. 
And  cuddled  down  close  to  the  core. 


And,  the'  they  are  evermore  gathered. 
Still  I  find  there  a  thousand-fold  more ! 
And  each  one  seems  softer  and  sweeter 

Than  the  treasure  I  found  just  before  — 
Till  I  wonder  if  ever  the  sweetest 

Is  taken  from  baby's  vast  store. 

So  daily  I  search  for  and  seize  them, 

And  hourly  I  pluck  a  new  prize  — 
Sometimes  from  the  whitest  of  foreheads, 

Sometimes  from  the  brightest  of  e.ves; 
And  I  whisper— O,  angel-kissed  babj% 

Do  you  feel  —  can  you  ev^er  quite  know  — 
Of  the  wonderful  worth  of  these  kisses 

That  ever  continue  to  grow? 
Of  tlie  wearisome  woes  that  they  soften? 

Of  the  heart-cares  they  curtain  from  sight? 
That  their  magic  soars  outthro'  the  sunshine, 

And  on  thro'  the  knells  of  the  night? 

I  hold  that  we're  higher  and  better 

For  every  fresh  kiss  that  we  take. 
For  every  fond  love-token  given  — 

When  given  for  sacred  love's  sake; 
For,  if  purity's  planted  in  earthdom, 

Then  surely  it  springs  from  the  soul 
Of  that  beautiful,  angel-like  being. 

As  its  life-page  begins  to  unroll. 

So  I'll  gather  them  early  and  often. 

From  the  bright,  curly  head  to  the  toe, 
I  can't  rob  the  wee-tot  of  its  treasures  — 

For  scill  they'll  continue  to  grow; 
And  in  long  after-years  gleams  a  mem'ry 

That  backward  forever  will  flow. 
To  that  bonnie-eyed  babe  of  the  bygone, 

Whose  kisses  no  longer  may  grow. 


LITTLE  HANDS. 
Dear  little  hands,  kind  little  hands. 

Dear  and  kind  as  can  be. 
Hands  that  I  feel  hold  all  the  world, 

And  are  dearer  than  life  to  me. 

Good  little  hands,  warm  little  hands. 
Warm  as  the  heart  by  their  side, 

Warm  when  the  world  and  its  ways  have 
chilled. 
And  friends  have  failed  whom  we  tried. 

Bold  little  hands,  brave  little  hands. 

Bold  and  brave  as  can  be, 
Hands  that  will   brave  the   world    and  its 
wiles. 

Just  for  the  sake  of  me. 


-qi 


*- 


784 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


-* 


Tried  little  hands,  true  little  hands. 

True,  and  oft  tried  they  be, 
Hands  that  will  toil  tlie  whole  night  through 

In  their  loving  concern  for  me. 

Know  we  not  all  some  loved  little  hands. 
That  are  dear,  and  brave  and  true? 

Aye;  and  for  them  we'd   lay  down  our  lives, 
Or  aught  that  a  mortal  can  do? 

O  loved  little  hands  now  leaping  with  life. 

All  chilly  they'll  some  day  be; 
Then  care  and  caress  them,  ere  folded  from 
sight. 

For  the  term  of  eternity. 


A  PLEA. 
I  have  watched  the  children  playing 

With  the  countless  odds  and  ends. 
Such  as  children  glean  together 

In  their  mystic  little  dens. 
I  have  watched  their  mute  emotions 

Ever  changing  with  the  hours. 
And  I  find  they  have  their  heart-aches 

The  same  as  we  have  ours. 

I  have  seen  their  frightened  faces 

When  a  glorious  Golden-hair, 
From  out  the  dolly-kingdom, 

Had  sudden'  gone  back  there; 
And  have  lieard  tlieir  sighs  and  heart-sobs 

When  thej-  realized  the  blow. 
Then  isn't  dolly's  death  to  them 

Just  as  a  mother's  woe? 

Yet  we  smile  upon  their  folly. 

Or  chide  them  for  their  grief. 
Little  thinking  of  their  anguish  — 

That  their  feelings  need  relief: 
Never  heeding,  never  halting 

To  reck  that  childhood's  heart. 
Of  all  that's  good  in  nature. 

Is  the  best  —  the  purest  part. 

But,  can  you  not  remember. 

In  the  days  of  long  ago. 
Of  just  sucli  crusliing  sorrow 

As  these  little  darlings  know? 
And  for  days  and  days  together 

Have  mourned  some  thing  of  play. 
And  wondered  tliat  your  elders 

Should  not  your  grief  allay? 

Do  you  think  because  its  childhood, 
And  childhood's  lieart  is  light. 

That  these  ceaseless  little  crosses 
Cannot  their  beings  blight? 

Oh,  hear  that  soulful  sobbing, 
And  see  those  tearful  showers ! 


Ah!  children  have  their  heart-aches 
The  same  as  we  have  ours. 

Then  soothe  that  childish  sorrow. 

And  smooth  the  throbbing  head, 
As  tho'  it  were  a  mother 

When  mourning  for  her  dead: 
And  the  little  heart  will  thank  you 

In  the  years  that  are  to  be; 
Aye,  remember  that  the  children 

Have  heart- aches  just  as  we. 


THE  CLICK  OF  THE  RUSTIC  GATE. 
There  rises  a  picture  before  me  — 

A  picture  that's  darkened  and  dim. 
And  the  feelings  of  youth  —  time  rush  o'er 
me  — 

A  youth-time  all  hallowed  to  him. 
Again  'tis  the  husli  of  the  gloaming. 

And  my  heart  doth  all  eagerly  wait. 
As  I  breathlessly  look,  then  listen 

For  the  click  of  the  rustic  gate. 

Anon  sound  the  rust^hampered  hinges. 

And  I  smother  a  great  boundless  sob. 
While  a  tremor  thrills  thro'  my  whole  being 

Till  my  heart-strings  convulsively  throb; 
And  I  feel  the  glad  light  of  his  presence. 

As  I  list  to  the  tread  of  his  feet, 
And  my  soul  Hows  out  in  its  fullness 

Its  mate  and  its  master  to  meet. 

Ah,  sacred  —  too  sacred  for  mention  — 

Are  words  uttered  low  in  the  ear  — 
Too  sacred  the  troth  of  our  soul-lives 

For  aught  but  the  night-winds  to  hear. 
I  know  a  content  fell  upon  me, 

And  I  tremulous  tried  then  to  pray 
That  the  perfect  love-peaco  of   that  moment 

Might  prove  my  sweet  portion  alway. 

Are  you  waiting  the  end  of  my  love-dream? 

The  sobs  choke  my  voice  should  1  speak. 
And  the  tears  dim  all  the  white  pages 

When  the  cause,  to  unl)ui-tluMi,  I  seek; 
Yet  the  moments  have  merged  into  ages  — 

Or  ages  it  seemeth  to  mo  — 
Since  the  click  of  the  gate  in  the  gloaming. 

That  can  never,  ah?  never  more  be. 

Those  rapturous  hours  are  all  ended, 

Tliose  love-days  long  since  died  away. 
And  their  memory  is  all  that  remaineth 

Of  my  hero,  who  fell  in  the  Fray: 
And  here,  in  my  lone,  loveless  chamber. 

In  desolate  sorrow  1  wait, 
For  silent,  forever  is  silent 

Tlie  click  of  the  rustic  gate. 


*- 


LOCAL   A^'i)   XATIOXAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


785 


MRS.  C.  M.  H.  WRIGHT. 

Bokn:  Junes,  1830. 
Mrs.  Wright  has  written  prose  and  poetry 
quite  extensively  for  different  papers  and 
periodicals  for  tlie  past  tljirty  years.  She 
has  g-iven  mucli  of  her  time  to  temperance 
work,  and  written  several  dramas;   one  of 


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'^'.        *   -. 

MRS.  C.  M.  H.  WRIGHT. 

which  is  entitled  "  Mot  lie  r  Knows  Best,"  a 
temperance  play.  Naturally  of  a  retiring' 
and  conscientious  disposition  Mrs.  Wriglit  is 
averse  to  liaving  her  name  placed  as  promi- 
nently before  the  puhhc  as  it  undoubtedly 
deserves. 


A  PLEA  FOR  THE  WORN-OUT  HORSE. 
Have  mercy  on  that  worn-out  liorse. 

Remember  how  ho  strove 
Witli  heavy  load  up  hill  and  down. 

When  but  a  youth  you  drove. 

Deal  g-entlj'  with  him  now  he's  old, 

And  halt,  and  lame,  and  Ijlind; 
The  time  was  wlien  a  better  horse 

You  strove  in  vain  to  find. 

Have  pity  on  his  stumbling'  gait. 

Those  rough,  iinsluii)ely  limbs. 
Were  smootli  and  fleet  in  younger  days. 

You  were  justly  proud  of  him. 

Do  you  mind  that  free  and  dashing-  step. 
When  once  you  bet,  and  won  the  race? 


So  proud  to  be  the  winning  liorse 
He  sliowed  it  in  his  face. 

Give  him  a  warmer,  softer  bed, 

A  sweeter  bunch  of  haj'; 
Buy  him  a  thick  warm  blanket  too. 

And  don't  begrudge  the  pay. 

You  fed  him  when  a  prancing  colt. 

And  with  a  boyish  pride 
Remarked  upon  his  rounded  build. 

As  you  stroked  his  glossy  side. 

Heap  up  the  measure  round  and  high. 

He  needs  it  all  the  more. 
Since  age  with  its  infirmities, 

And  hardships  oft  he's  bore. 

Don't  let  the  children  harass  him, 

But  teach  them  to  be  kind 
To  patient,  plodding  old  lame  Dick, 

And  all  his  needs  to  mind. 

The  best  that  you  can  do  for  him 

Isonly  his  just  due; 
His  long  hard  life  of  honest  toil 

He  freely  gave  to  you. 


SHE  COULD  NOT  BE  SELFISH 
I  wouldn't  be  selfish  like  some  girls  I  know. 
And  be  wishing  for  everything  nice  on  the 
tree; 
Of  course  I  want  something,  a  dolman  per- 
haps 
And  a  few  more  things,  would  satisfy  me. 

I  own  I've  been  wanting  a  book  and  some 
lace, 
Oyes!  and  some  mittens,  a    scarf  and  a 
ring. 
Besides  there's  that  necklace  I've  doted  upon. 
And  a  cage  with  a  pert  little  bird  that  will 
sing. 

That  isn't  much  I  am  sure,  but  I  almost  for- 
got 
A  set  of  new  furs  and  a  stylish  new  liat. 
That  will    quite  eclipse  the  Browns  and  the 
Jones, 
With  a  long  sweeping  feather,  and  all  of 
that. 

Yes !  I'd  like  some  slippers  and  a  dainty  hood, 
Which  would   lie  the  envy  of  all  the  town, 

And  I  am  sure  to  get,  I  hope  so  at  least, 
A  pearl  card  case  and  blue  silk  gown. 

A  box  of  perfumery  and  a  pair  of  kid  gloves 
With  a  nice  gold  watch  would  come  in  very 
good, 

But  I  don't  want  everything  as  some  girls  do. 
I  cannot  be  selfish  —  I  never,  never  could. 


-* 


* 


786 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


A  CHRISTMAS  RHYME  FOR  THE  LITTLE 

ONES. 
A  poor  little  girl  with  a  tattered  g-owii 

One  beautiful  Christmas  night. 
Crept  up  to  a  window  large  and  wide 

And  feasted  her  eyes  on  the  sight. 

A  table  was  spread  with  Christmas  pies. 

And  all  that  was  good  to  eat; 
While  she  stood  shivering  and  cold  without 

No  shoes  to  cover  her  feet. 

A  kind  old  man  saw  the  dear  little  face 
Pressed  close  to  the  window  pane; 

And,  snatching  her  up  in  his  g-reat  strong- 
arms 
Strode  up  to  the  door  and  walked  in. 

A  bevj'  of  children  gathered  around 

To  take  in  the  curious  sight; 
Some  gave  her  candy,  and  some  gave  buns. 

Till  the  little  girl  cried  with  delight. 

That  night  she  slept  in  a  soft  warm  bed. 

And  never  knew  hunger  more; 
For  the  man  who  picked  up  the  starving  waif. 

Was  a  friend  to  the  needy  and  poor. 

Now,  when  we  eat  our  Christmas  sweets. 
And  beautiful  presents  receive. 

Let  us  not  forget  that  some  boys  and  girls 
Are  liungry  and  cold  this  Christmas  Eve. 


SORROW  IN  EVERY  HEART. 

There  is  sorrow  in  every  heart  on  earth. 
No  mortal  can  hope  to  be  free. 

And  others  have  seen  their  idols  laid  low 
Alike  tvith  you  and  with  me. 

The  cup  our  neighbor  is  drinking  to-day. 
Draining  to  tlie  dregs  of  Sorrow, 

May  come  to  us  as  it  came  to  them. 
To  quaff  it  off  to-morrow. 

We  lay  our  choicest  treasures  down. 
The  while  our  hearts  are  breaking; 

And  in  our  woe  we'll  nigh  forget. 
What  other  hearts  are  aching. 

What  though  our  darlings  still  and  cold, 
Sleep  'ncath  the  nodding  daisies; 

When  Jesus  wakes  his  jewels  up 
They'll  rise  to  sing  his  praises. 

And  then  how  sweet  'twill  be  to  fool. 
When  united  round^  His  throne, 

Tlirough  affliction  Clirist  was  leading  us. 
To  our  bright  eternal  home. 

'Tis  the  common  lot  of  all  mankind, 
Each  in  their  turn  to  suffer  pain; 

But  he  who  often  sows  in  tears. 
Shall  reap  in  joy  again. 


TEMPERANCE  RECITATION. 

FOR  A  SMALT>  BOY. 

Red  Ribbon,  do  you  ask  why  I  wear  it. 

Why  notliing  can  be  mure  plain  — 
Just  simply  to  say  to  my  neighbor 

That  I'm  not  a  drinking  man. 

I've  signed  the  pledge  over  and  over. 
And  broke  it,  I  blush  to  confess. 

But,  with  this  little  pleasant  reminder. 
I  can't  drink  with  this  ou  my  breast. 

I've  tried  to  look  the  other  way. 
And  edge  my  way  up  to  the  bar. 

But  it  is  sure  to  flash  up  in  my  face. 
The  bright  little  guiding  stur. 

To  be  sure  it  is  but  a  trifle. 

This  bit  of  red  ribbon  I  wear. 
But  our  life  is  made  up  of  trifles. 

And  each  trifle  some  weiglit  doth  bear. 
It  is  but  a  trifle  this  drinking 

A  little  weak  ale  now  and  then ; 
Yet  it  leads  to  results  most  disastrous. 

Often  ruining  tlie  mightiest  of  men. 
These  trifles,  I  happen  to  notice. 

Soon  alarming  proportions  assume. 
And  in  order  to  steer  clear  of  breakers. 

We  should  mind  all  these  trifling  things. 
Besides,  the  girls  look  more  kindlj% 

A  fact  which  I'm  happy  to  note. 
And  if  the  dear  creatures  will  back  us. 

We'll  wipe  this  vile  whisky  stain  out. 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  BOY. 

Why  is  it  my  school  mates  all  shun  me; 

And  call  me  a  poor,  worthless  brat. 
Do  they  think  I  have  not  enough  sori-ow, 

That  tliey  scorn  me,  and  treat  me  like  that. 
Is  it  not  enough  I  must  go  shivering. 

And  starved  and  beaten  at  home, 
Tliat  they  jostle  and  push  me  so  rudely. 

Must  I  travel  life's  journey  alone? 
Is  there  not  one  eye  left  to  pity. 

One  heart  in  sympathy  to  beat; 
One  hand  in  mercj'  to  lead  nie, 

To  guide  these  poor  wandering  feet. 

Am  I  to  blame  that  my  father 

Loves  whisky  more  than  the  right. 
Must  I  bear  Ins  iiicks  and  liis  curses. 

And  the  scorn  of  the  world  alike? 
Is  there  a  being  above,  as  thej'  tell  me, 

All  powerful  in  goodness  and  love; 
Who  is  able  to  give,  or  take  from  us, 
r     O,  is  there  such  a  being  above? 
If  so,  why  does  he  not  help  me; 

Wliy  do  I  not  hear  his  loved  voice? 
One  look  or  one  word  of  kindness. 

Would  make  this  poor  lone  heart  rejoice, 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAI..   POETS   OF    AMERICA. 


787 


* 


REV.  DENIS  O.CROWLEY. 

Born:  Ireland,  1852. 
Before  attaining-  liis  majority,  Mr.  Crowley 
emigrated  to  America  and  settled  in  Boston, 
where  be  procured  a  position  in  the  pub- 
lishing- bouse  of  Rand,  Avery  &  Co.,  at  the 
siune  time  contributing  many  short  poems 
and  sketcbes  for  the  periodical  press  under 


*- 


BEV.  DENIS  O.  CROWLEY. 

the  nom  de  plume  of  Dunboy.  We  next  find 
him  in  the  lar  west,  having  laid  aside  the 
pen  and  took  up  the  pick-axe  in  the  mining 
camp,  -where  he  accumulated  sufficient 
means  to  enter  St.  Vincent's  college,  at  Los 
Angeles.  Here  be  won  the  first  prize  every 
year  for  English  composition,  and  graduated 
the  Valedictorian  of  his  class  in  1880.  He 
next  entered  the  St.  Mary's  seminary,  at 
Baltimore,  where  be  completed  a  tbree  years' 
course  of  theology,  and  was  elevated  to  the 
priesthood  in  1883.  In  1887  be  was  transferred 
to  Sau  Francisco,  where  the  City  Waifs  ivere 
confided  to  his  care.  Since  then  be  has  built 
a  large  and  beautiful  home  for  the  destitute 
and  homeless  boys  of  the  city  and  state.  At 
the  same  time  Rev.  Father  Crowley  started 
the  St.  Joseph's  Union,  a  magazine  from 
which  he  derived  the  principal  means  of  sup- 
port for  bis  destitute  boys.  As  president  of 
the  Youth's  Directory,  of  San  Francisco,  and 
as  editor  of  tlie  St.  Joseph  Union,  Rev.  Denis 
0.  Crowley  has  attained  a  national  reputation 
as  a  philantnropist  and  litterateur.  He  is  the 
author  of  "AChapletof  Verse,"  and  has  con- 
tributed extensively  to  current  literature. 


THE  SWEET  AND  GOLDEN  WEST. 

They  talk  of  the  beauteous  Dardanelles, 

And  tlie  Sunny  land  of  Spain; 
Of  scenes  where  primeval  Nature  dwells 

Away  by  the  Indian  main; 
But  the  plastic  germ  ol   Empire  great 

Wakes  hope  in  every  breast. 
Where  a  future  grand  looms  o'er  the  land 

Of  the  sweet  and  golden  West. 
I  have  roamed  by  sunny  Southern  seas. 

Thro'  breathing  groves  of  palm. 
Where  flight  of  birds  alone  disturbs 

The  blue  ethereal  calm; 
But  the  vernal  vest  of  the  glowing  West 

Is  fairer  far  to  me 
Than  the  snn-i-obed  South  wilb  its  coral  isles 

And  cloudless  canopy. 
The  sun  there  smiles  on  a  hundred  isles 

Of  the  greenest  and  loveliest  hue. 
Ere  liis  rays  are  spent  in  the  Occident 

Where  he  bids  the  -world  adieu; 
And  Sierras  tall  from  a  hundred  peaks 

Their  darkling  shadows  throw 
O'er  a  virgin  land  where  glades  expand 

And  beautiful  rivers  flow. 
Those    sombre    dells    where    the  wild   deer 

And  the  rude  red  Indian  roams,       [dwells. 
Are  yielding-  now  to  the  white  man's  steel 

And  the  white  men  build  their  homes 
Over  Indian  graves  where  the  Madrone  waves 

And  sunbeams  love  to  rest. 
When  evening  shades  steal  thro'  the  glades 

Of  the  sweet  and  golden  West. 

DECORATION  DAY. 

We  pray  for  the  fond  ones  whose  life-blood 

On  Liberty's  altar  -was  shed ; 
And  deck  with  green  garlands  and  flowers 

The  graves  of  the  Patriot  dead; 
Who  stood  by  the  Union's  brave  banner. 

Unflinching  'neath  War's  open  mouth. 
When  the  proud  Rebel  hosts  rushed  upon  her 

Like  tempest-clouds,  up  from  the  South; 
Who  march'd  to  the  red  field  of  battle 

And  breasted  the  brunt  of  the  fight. 
While  the  guns  of  the  foe  were  out-belching 

Death-hail  against  Justice  and  Right. 
Weave,weave  your  gay  garlands,  young  mai- 

And  make  no  distinction  to-day  [dens, 

'Twixt   those   who  went   down  in  the  Blue 

And  these  who  fell  under  the  gray,  [ranks 
The  Patriot,  Poet  and  Statesman 

Long,  long  shall  their  virtues  proclaim 
In  the  fond-leeling  heart  of  the  Nation 

Upbuilt  is  their  temple  of  fame. 
And  there  it  shall  stand  forth  unshaken. 

Defying  wreck,  molder,  or  change 
While  down  through  the  vistas  of  ages 

Gray  Time  on  his  orbit  doth  range. 


*- 


M 


788 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


JUANITA. 

The  flowers  that  bloom  in  tropic  bowers. 

And  bask  in  sunset  splendor; 
The  halcyon  breeze  at  twilight  hours. 

Where  rippling  torrents  me'uder. 
Are  uot  so  fair  as  thy  sweet  face. 
Or  liglit  as  thy  elastic  pace, 

Juanita. 
A  sunbeam  o'er  a  sea  of  pearls, 

Is  thy  briglit  smile,  Juanita; 
Thou  fairest  of  tlic  lovely  girls. 

From  far  La  Paz  to  Quito! 
Spouse  of  my  soul,  hope  of  my  heart. 
My  love  beyond  compare  thou  art, 

Juanita. 
Bright  Angels  fi-om  celestial  spheres, 

Melliinks  might  stoop  and  listen 
To  thy  sweet  song,  or  view  thy  tears. 

When  pity  bids  them  glisten; 
Sure  Cortez  in  his  palmy  days. 
Would  gladly  pause  to  chant  thy  praise, 

Juanita. 
O,  for  an  island  far  away. 

An  Avalon  of  beauty. 
Where  founts  of  youth  eternal  play, 

And  it  should  be  my  duty 
To  praise  and  loi  e  but  thee  alone. 
Unseen,  unheard  of,  and  unknown, 
Juanita. 


*- 


THE  SONG  OP  OUR  LAND. 

Koam  where  you  will  through  the  civilized 
nations. 

From  grim  Keeps  of  winter  to  summer's 
bright  zone. 

And  still  it  will  greet  you  in  sweet  intona- 
tions — 

"  The  last  Rose  of  Summer  left  blooming 
alone." 

Ye  sons  of  the  muse  that  illumine  our  pages,- 

Moore,  Mahonj',  Davis  and  Callanan  grand— 

Your  names  shall  go  down  through  the  long 
coming  ages. 

Enshrined  intlie  beautiful  songs  of  our  land. 

Dear  Children  of  Nature,  sweet  bards  of  our 

Island,  [blime, 

Balfe,  Mangan    and  Lover   and  Griffin  su- 
Your  songs  are  a  beacon  that  gleams  from 

the  highland, 
"  A  rainbow  of  hope  "  through  ilie  vistas  of 

Time. 
You  may  roam  through  the  Universe,  mix 

with  it's  races 
From  the  Orient  sky  to  the  Occident  strand. 
And  still  you  shall  hear  'mid  all  people  and 

places. 
The  soul-stirring,  sweet-sounding  songs  of 

our  land. 


WASHINGTON. 
Thou  gallant  Chief  whose  glorious  name 
Doth  still  adorn  the  Book  of  Fame; 
Whose  deeds  shall  live  while  freemen  prize 
The  cause  for  which  the  Patriot  dies. 
Long  to  Columbia  may'st  thou  be 
The  beacon  light  of  Libertj*. 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  COLISEUM. 
Hearken,  ye  bards,  I  sing  a  noble  theme. 
The  pride  of  Rome,  the  wondrous  Coliseum 
Whose  aged  ruins  in  tow'ring  boldness  stand. 
Their  shadows  casting  o'er  a  storied  land; 
Whose  ancient  splendor  e'en  surpassed  the 

height 
Of  facts  far  range,  or  fancy's  chain  less  flight. 
Ere  yet  the  Christian  sun  of  modern  Rome 
Shed  its  efl'ulgence  on  St.  Peter's  dome, 
Tlie  Coliseum,  six  hundred  feet  in  length. 
In  width  five  hundred, peerless  in  its  strength 
Of  pillar'd  arches,  tow'rs  and  turrets  high. 
Reared  its  dimensions  to  the  sapphire  sky, 
Cfesar  spoke,  Augustus  laid  its  plan; 
Titus  finished  what  Augustine  began; 
Tier  after  tier  uprose  in  Doric  style. 
Out-soaring  thePj'ramidsof  themj-stic  >file; 
And  its  vast  awning,  when    at    morn  out- 
rolled. 
Flashed  in  the  sun  like  undulating  seas  of 

gold. 
Its  cushioned  theatre  of  elliptic  mold. 
Glittered  with  lamps  inlaid  with  Syrian  gold; 
With  precious  rubies,  culled  from  Eastern 

mines. 
And     sacred    pendants    torn    from   Juda's 

shrines. 
The  broad  arena  in  the  center  stood. 
Crimson  and  reeking  M'ith  barbarian  blood, 
Drawn  by  the  lion's  fang,  the  lictor's  dai't, 
And  acting  like  incense  on  the  Roman  heart. 

Ten  times  ten   thousand  gazers,  breathing 

low. 
Watched    with  impatience    the    descending 

blow 
That  forced  some  spirit  from  its  mortal  zone, 
And  sent  it  trembling  to  its  Maker's  throne; 
Then  call'd  and  clamor'd  till  Oi'pliean  strains 
Stilled  the  flerce  current  in  the  flery  veins. 
Void  of  humanity,  it  seemed  their  aim 
To  drug  with  human  woes  their  draught  of 

fame. 

They,  with  a  foice  wliich   uncurbed  jiassion 

lends, 
Oppressed  the  world,  to  further  private  ends; 
An(Jso,  at  length,  impelled  by  savage  greed. 
Outstepped  tlie  limits  Nature's  law  decreed. 
And  wrung  from  sacred  heaven  that  direful 

fate. 


*- 


-« 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEllICA. 


789 


*- 


Which  humbled    Rome  in  all  lier  streugtli 

elate ; 
Alaric  came  to  veut  with  sword  aud  Are, 
On  Pagan  heads  the  Lord's  avenging-  ire; 
God's  Chast'ning-  Rod,   was  he,  surcharged 

with  doom. 
That  smote  tliose  savage   games  in  all   the 

pride  of  bloom. 

PART    II. 

When  Luna  sheds  her  melancholy  light 
O'er  this  vast  ruin,  and  peoples  all  the  night, 
With  spectral  forms,  the  wand'riug-  poet's 

brain 
Fills  the  wide  space  with    yelling-   crowds 

again. 
Creative  faiicj'  olden  acts  renew. 
And  former  scenes  come  thronging  to  liis 

view. 
His  bosom  heaves,  he  sheds  a  pitying-  tear 
For  poor  barbarians,  brought  trom  Finland 

here; 
Torn  from  their  native  spring-s,  their  forest 

home. 
To  glut  the  cravings  of  licentious  Rome. 
Young  Christians  kneeling-  on  the  crimsoned 

sands. 
Raise  to  high  heaven  their  wistful  eyes.    In 

bands. 
Scorning    alike  the    Emperor's   smile    and 

frown. 
Reject   they  the   ermine    for   the  martyr's 

Crown. 
Where  once  the  sands  were  dyed  with  human 

blood. 
Now  hostile  navies  sweep  along  the  flood. 
He  Gees  them  grapple,  whirl  their  flashing 

spears. 
Tumultuous  shouts  are  sounding  in  his  ears. 
Anon  the  galleys,  filled  with  human  gore. 
Sink  'neath  their  crews,  alas !  to  rise  no  more. 
And  drowning  wretches  crying  for  aid  aloud. 
Receive  but  jeers  from  the  encircling  crowd. 
The  floods  recede,  and  vernal  woods  appear 
Wherein  are  crouched  the  '-forest king"  and 

bear; 
Where  flitting  birds  of  gaudy  plumage  sing. 
And  sparkling  fountains  from  their  sources 

spring-, 
Wliore  the  rich  lawns  mirror  the  countless 

dyes 
That  fleck  ths  azure  of  Italia's  skies. 

PART  III. 

Thus  the  young  poet,  through  fancy's  golden 

maze, 
Roams,  laughs,  and  weeps,  'mid  scenes  of 

other  days ; 
Sips  from  the  cup  of  visionary  joy, 


Brimful  of  hope  and  bliss  without  alloy. 
But  as  the  joy  that  most  sul)stantial  seems 
Breaks  from  our   grasp,  like   sparks    from 

meteor  beams. 
His  bliss  evanislied.    Tlie  shrill  screams 
Of  the  night-owl  arouse  him  from  his  dreams. 
And  starting  up  he  sees  the  silent  moon 
Gaze  softly  down  the  broad  expanse  of  ruin; 
Then  slowly  spake  he  —  thus  his  stanzas  ran: 
"  How  frail,  how  faultj'  is  the  work  of  man! 
How  fleeting  joy,how  fickle  power  and  health. 
How  false  is  pride  and  how  deceiving  wealth." 
Yon  Celean  hills  as  full  aud  firmly  stand 
As  when  just  molded  by  the  Maker's  hand. 
The  rushing  Tiber  flows  with  force  unspent. 
As  when  Rome's  founder  gazed  from  out  his 

tent 
On  its  bright  bosom,  spreading  far  and  wide. 
Or  led  his  flocks  along  its  cooling  tide; 
While  this  huge  wreck,  the  climax  of  man's 

power, 
'Neath  Time's  corroding:  breath  is  wasting 

hour  by  hour. 
Where  stilted  Trajan  reared    his   haughty 

head. 
The  busy  spider  spins  his  glossy  thread; 
And  hooting  owls  in  nightly  broils  engage. 
Where  proud  Commodus  reddened  into  rage; 
The  swift  swallows,  the  silent  sable  bat. 
Usurp  the  arches  'neath  which  Titus  sat. 
Ye  Kings  of  Commerce,  ye  who  gaze  with 

pride 
On  fertile  acres  stretching-  far  and  wide; 
Who   would   oppress  the  wealth-producing 

poor. 
Ponder  the  fate  of  those  who  ruled  of  yore. 
From  Obe's  tide  to  Britain's  western  shore. 
Observant  man  who  studies  Nature's  laws 
And  deeply  thinks,  this  one  deduction  draws: 
All  works  of  Art,  no  matter  how  sublime,'* 
Shrink  from  the  touch  of  all  subduing  time; 
While  those  of  Nature— ocean, dale  and  steep. 
Sky,  sun  and  stars  —  the  Godhead's  impress 

keep. 

Then  how  account  for    Rome's  unequaled 

age! 
Her  sisters'  fall  illumines  Historj-'s  page, 
Greece,  Carthage,  Antioch,  Sj-ria,  all 
Who  lived  ere  she  was  conqueror  of  Gaul, 
Have  sunk  beneath  the  feitile  fibrous  plains. 
But  she  of  all  the  ancient  throng  remains! 
A  simple  Cross,  the  symbol  sign  of  Truth, 
Though  old  in  years,  in  strength  a  stripling 

youth. 
Is  poised  whereon  ••  Colossal  of  the  Sun," 
The  culminating  height  of  Rome's  dominion 

shone; 
And,  after  centuries  of  mortal  strife. 
Reveals  the  mystery  of  Rome's  immortal  life. 


-* 


»- 


790 


LOCAI.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A5IERICA. 


AARON  W.  FREDERICK. 

Born:  Pennsylvania. 
Graduating  from  the  Mount  Union  college 
of  Ohio  in  1876,  Mr.  Frederick  has  since  been 
a  teacher,  and  in  1883  was  elected  superin- 
tendent of  schools  in  Preston  county,  W. 
Va.,  which  position  he  filled  for  two  years. 
He  next  had  charge  of  the  Saint  George 
academy,  of  West  Virginia,  for  two  years; 
then  was  called  to  the  principalship  of  a 
high  school  at  Parks,  N.  C. ;  and  in  the 
spring  of  1888  Mr.  Frederick  went  west  and 
has  since  had  charge  of  Dry  Creek  academy, 
a  grammar  school  in  Fresno  county.  Gala. 
The  poems  of  this  educator  and  writer  have 
appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the  periodical 
press,  and  have  received  high  commendation. 

-A  GENTLEMAN  FRIEND." 

Is  he  your  friend?    Is  he  your  friend,  who 

chats  [your  soul 

With  you  and  smiles  his  gladness  through 

Like  moonbeams  shimmering  through  the 

trees  where  love 
Links  arm  with   love?    Is   he,  indeed,  your 
friend? 
Is  he  your  friend,  forsooth,  who  leaves  the 
stamp 
Of  sweet  sincerity  upon  your  lips? 
Who  presses  you  against  his  too-warm  heart. 
As  if  to  let  you  know  it  beats  for  you  — 
Would  break  for   you,  had  it  but    half   a 

chance? 
He  is  j'our  friend,  though   but  a  dog,  wlio 
leaps  [waves 

From   off   the  pier  and    plunges  thro'   the 
At  risk  of  his  own  life  to  rescue  yours. 

He  is  your  friend,  who  hears  the  wild  alarm 
Of  bells,  who  rushes  to  your  side  and  dares 
The  flames,    who   brings   you    saved    from 

crumbling  walls 
In  his  strong  arms  — a  god-like  hero,  he! 
He  is  your  friend,  who  rather  would  meet 
death 
Than  see  you  sin  or  suffer  wrong  and  pain 
Through  any  fault  of  his;  'tis  such  alone 
Can  bring  a  bride  love  like  a  parent  feels. 
Call  him  by  his  true  title  —  fiend,  not  friend, 
Who  spreads  a  snare  to  dupe  young  inno- 
cence,                                               [kiss. 
No  friend  would  give  weak  Virtue  one  false 
Or  cause  the  cooing  dove,  poor  thing!  to  fall 
A  victim  to  the  vulture  of  his  vice. 
A  gentleman  is  pure  as  he  would  have 
His  sisters  be;  no  less.    A  friend  is  he 
To  guardian  angels  dear,  who  loves  you  well 
Enough  to  be  your  stout  and  staid  ally. 
Your  Noah  'mid  the  deluge  of  desires 
qf 


That  topover  religion's  Ararats  —        [wealth 
A  friend  worth  more  than  worlds  of  hoarded 
Is  1)6  who  helps  you  sot  your  spirit  free 
From  passion's  burning  edifice  of  lust 
In  which  youth  finds  itself. 

A  friend  is  one 
Who  should  be  Christian  to  the  finger  tips, 
And  ready  always  with  a  kindly  hand 
To  proffer  aid,  and  honor  to  defend. 

Who  lives  the  life  of  duty  and  would  lead 
All  men  in  ways  of  worth,  elect  him  friend- 
No  nobler  suffrage  has  the  heart  on  earth  — 
And  hold  him  high  in  holy  confidence; 
For  friendship  is  akin  to  faitli  in  God. 


A  HOME. 
He  has  a  home  — a  loving  heart 

In  which  he  may  securely  dwell; 
No  harm  can  come  to  him,  I  ween. 

In  such  a  dainty  citadel. 
She  has  a  home  —  a  manly  breast 

Will  shelter  her,  whate'er  befall; 
No  harm  can  come  to  her,  I  ween, 

Within  that  rugged  castle-wall. 
They  have  a  liome  —  a  sweet  child-soul 

Wherein  they  live  in  perfect  bliss; 
No  harm  can  come  to  them,  I  ween. 

In  such  a  residence  as  this. 


CLARA. 
One  day  the  sun  peeped  thro'  the  clouds 

And  a  little  girl  smiled. 
And  all  around  grew  brighter  still 

Because  of  the  child. 
Her  father  sat  and  talked  about 

The  way  that  it  rained. 
And  all  around  grew  dark  again 

While  he  complained. 
'.  I  wouldn't  mind  it,  pa,  a  bit," 

Said  little  daughter, 
"  You'll  make  it  worse  to  cry,  I'm  sure  — 

You'll  make  more  water." 


A  SONNET. 
Afar  I  often  see  a  stranded  yacht 
Along  the  dim  horizon  of  my  dreams. 
And    from  the  floundering    wreck  I  catch 

faint  gleams 
Of  warm  desires,  too  bright  to  be  ft)rgot. 
My  yearning  is  forever —  yielding  not, 
Tlio'  jetsam  be  the  gold  of  buoyant  schemcis. 
I  long  for  liappiness.    My  day-star  beams 
Its  bliss  on  some  far-off  and  favored  spot. 
Not  here.    My  aspirations,  waking,  rise; 
I  wish;  hope  soars  and  seeks  a  better  sphere— 
The  instinct  of  the  soul  is  hence;  'tis  wise: 
Faitli  hovers  hifih  above  each  fluttering  fear, 
And  I  am  sure  the  spirit  never  dies 
But  lives  in  cycles  farther  on.    Not  here 


-* 


*- 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


791 


-* 


AARON  GREEN  DAVIS. 

Born:  Camden,  Tenn.,  March  9, 1865. 
In  his  youth  Mr.  Davis  contributed  both 
prose  and  verse  quite  extensively  to  the 
Southern  press.  In  1889  he  began  the  pub- 
Heation  of  th(>  Soutlicrner,  and  the  following- 
spring  was  elected  county  lecturer  of  the 


AARON  GREEN  DAVIS. 

Agricultural  Wheel,  ik)w  known  :is  the  Far- 
mer's Alliance,  which  position  he  filled  for 
two  years.  He  is  now  county  court  clerk  of 
Dyer  county,  and  resides  in  Dyersburg-, 
Tenn.  JFr.  Davis  also  has  editorial  control 
of  the  Dyersburg-  Times. 


THOUGHTS. 
Some  tlioug-hts  like  liowers  grow. 

In  tenderness,  and  iliese  are  sweet 
Blown  when  the  dawn  is  bending  low; 
But  some  gushed  from  tlie  furnace,  glow 

Like  sun-rays  of  the  noontide  heat. 

These  gently  breathe  thro'  heart  and  mind 

The  sweets  of  Beauty's  spirit  deeps; 
Those  with  the  fires  of  passion  blind. 
Fill  souls  that  rise  and  weep  to  find 
They  cannot  reacli  the  glory  steejis. 


'* 


]N  THE  WOODS, 
I  love  these  grand  old  solitudes. 
These  sylvan  deeps,  these  pathless  woods: 
For  when,  with  weary,  throbbing  brain 
And  yearning  bosom,  dull  with  pain. 


I  long  for  rest,  I  find  it  here 
In  this  screner  atmosphere; 
In  tranquil  moments  of  release 
From  toil  blessed  with  holy  peace. 

NOVEMBER. 

The  corn  is  shocked  in  the  hollow, 
And  the  cotton  patch  is  white; 

The  rugged  hills  in  the  distance 
Grow  dim  in  the  smoky  light. 

The  lingering  birds  are  chirping 
In  the  boughs  of  the  sighing  hedge; 

Where  the  lonely  flowers  are  blowing 
And  the  rabbit  hides  in  the  sedge. 

The  lark  is  gay  where  the  meadow 
Is  sprinkled  with  tinted  leaves; 

And  the  partridge,  over  the  thicket. 
Is  piping  among  the  sheaves. 

And  when  the  sundown  has  faded. 
And  the  night  comes,  bleak  and  chill. 

And  I  hear  the  horn  of  the  hunter 
Break  over  the  distant  hill. 

When  the  dim,  red  moon  is  rising 

Over  a  path  that  is  traced 
Across  the  woodland,  I  wander 

To  a  cot  half  hid  in  the  waste  — 

To  a  cot  where  fagots  burn  brightly 
As  the  hour  is  wearing  late. 

And  two  bright  eyes  at  the  window 
In  the  gloaming  watch  and  wait! 


THE  CONFEDERATE  DEAD. 

EXTRACT. 

Tlie  blast  from  the  battle-blown  trumpet 

Has  died  on  the  War  God's  breath, 
And  the  blood-stained  banner  of  Freedom 

Droops  over  tlie  plains  of  death. 
Where  under  the  clod  of  the  valley 

In  many  a  gory  bed. 
Amid  the  shadows  and  silence, 

Are  the  long,  long  ranks  of  the  dead. 
There,  resting  in'death  and  glory, 

Are  the  proud  Confederate  braves. 
All  gathered  from  tempests  of  battle. 

And  lost  ill  myriad  graves, 
Wliere  war-clouds  never  shall  darken. 

Or  the  bolts  of  the  combat  fall. 
But  the  years  of  sleep  unbroken 

Shall  linger  alike  for  all. 
From  many  a  rural  fireside 

And  home  of  the  throbbing  marts, 
Lit  up  with  the  light  of  aflfcctioii 

And  dear  to  their  jiroud,  brave  hearts. 
With  the  gleaming  sword  and  musket. 

At  the  call  of  a  bleeding  land. 
They  arose  like  Spartan  heroes 

In  the  ranks  of  glory's  band. 


-* 


*- 


792 


LOCAL.  AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A:UERICA. 


MRS.  B.  A.  DINSMORE. 

Born  :  Guilford,  Me.,  1836. 
Since  the  death  of  her  husband  this  lady  has 
resided  at  the  old  homestead   at  Foxcrofr, 
Maiiu'.  Her  poems  have  api)eared  in  snnieof 


MH.s.  B.  A.  DINSMOKE. 

the  leading  periodicals,  and  she  is  represent- 
ed in  the  Poets  of  Maine.  Mrs.  Dinsmore  is 
a  teacher  of  vocal  music. 


LIFE. 
Forever  palpitates  creative  thought 
In  nature's  vast  expanse  to  all  her  deeps. 
And  drawn  by  sun-smile  of  His  love  upleaps 
New     formed  —  reflecting-   glory,    clear   en- 
wrought 
With  deathless  sign, — And  tho'  o'er  mountain 

brought 
And  down  its  slope,  where,  brooding  dark  it 

keeps 
Its  mingling  teardrops  hid,  at  length,  forth 

creeps 
In    mighty    tide,    unbearing   and    strength 

fraught 
By  skyward  flight,  and  sweeping  torrent's 

force. 
On  toward  the  pulsing,  primal,  deep  abyss. 
Where  rhytlimi(!  lite  on  life  forevermore 
Moves  up  from  darkness  in  the  Spirit's  cour.se 
And,  at  that  Light-commanding  word  there 

soar 
Forms  radiant  clothed  from   Death's  dark 

chrysalis. 


DUANE  MOWRY. 

Bokn:  Providence,  E.  I.,  Dec.  14, 1853. 
After  receiving  his  education  at  the  univer- 
sity of  Wisconsin,  Mr.  Mowrj'  entered  the 
profession  of  the  law.  His  poems  have  ap- 
peared in  many  prominent  newspapers  and 
magazines,  and  have  always  received  favor- 
able notices.  Mr.  Mowry  was  married  in  1880 
to  Miss  Mai-y  J.  Eusminger,  and  resides  with 
his  wife  and  family  at  Mauston,  Wis.,  where 
he  is  a  prominent  practicing  attorney  of  the 
firm  of  Veeder  &  Mowry. 


THE  WAY  OF  LIFE. 
'Tis  love  of  gold  makes  man  akin 
To  many  evils  bound  by  sin; 
'Tis  love  of  praise  that  causeth  man 
To  gain  »»wcll  done"  from  whom  he  can; 
'Tis  dread  of  death  that  makes  man  sad. 
And  love  of  life  maketh  him  glad. 
And  peace  of  mind  at  set  of  sun. 
Gives  hope  of  peace  in  worlds  to  come. 


ENJOYMENT. 
Drink  deep  at  the  fount  of  glorj', 

And  long  at  the  cup  that  cheers. 
For  never  was  truer  story  — 

Life  is  too  short  for  tears. 


IMMORTALITY. 

"Let  the  dead  die." 

Such  was  the  lay  of  Infidelity, 

Such  the  prattle  skeptics  loved  to  prate. 

But  the  soul  stood  'ghast  at  words  so  cruel, 

And  in  thundering  notes  of  mightiness  said, 

"Never," 
Even  in  accents  of  the  gentlest  love, 
Pronounced  a  benediction  on  the  heads  of 

men. 
And  tho  heart  believed. 
But  the  Mind  was  disinclined, 
Until  the  holy  sunshine 
Of  impartial  and  unprejudiced  investigation 
Had  removed  the  mistiness  of  self-conceit 
And  error.  Then  it,  too,  stood  ready  to  avow 

its  weakness. 
So  the  dead  do  never  die. 
But  live  on  and  on  forevei'. 
To  the  end  of  the  unending  days. 
That  are  unnumluTed. 


BABY'S  GRAVE. 

'Tis  liere  that  Hope  lies  buried  deep. 
That  love  forevermore  doth  cling. 

That  precious  Memories  we  keep. 
And  Death,  the  sting. 


*- 


LOCAL,   AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


-* 


793 


LULA  EMMA  SPEARS. 

Born:  Avalon,  Mo.,  July  13,  1870. 

A  FEW  of  the  poems  of  Miss  Spears  have  ap- 
peared  ill    the     riiilliootlip    f'l-isis,    Avalon 


luijA  kmma  speaks. 
Aurora  and  other  local  papers.    She  received 
her   education   at  the  Avalon  college,  and 
still  resides  in  her  native  town. 


THE  FOOTPRINTS  OF  TIME. 
In  studying-  Time's  history 
Opened  for  us  all  to  read. 
Let  us  profit  by  its  precepts, 
Of  its  value  be  agreed. 
Muchot  knowledg-e,  truth  and  wisdom. 
We  will  find  engraven  there. 
Much  we  thouglit  had  been  forgotten, 
And  to  Heaven  a  silent  prayer  — 
Rises  in  deep  supplication. 
To  Him  who  sits  on  Mercy's  throne; 
To  blot  out  tlie  crimes,  the  errors. 
And  we  in  good  deeds  will  atone  — 
For  all  the  vices  we've  committed. 
In  the  vivid,  bitter  past. 
And  will  ever  love  and  serve  Him, 
Yea!  as  long  as  life  shall  last. 
Oh  Time  I  dost  thou  never  weary, 
In  the  ceaseless  march  of  years. 
Dost  thy  sliy  grow  never  cloudy. 
Is  thy  light  ne'er  dimmed  by  tears'? 
When  we're  happy,  bright  and  joyous. 


Thou  flit'st  by —  we're  unaware; 
But  when  our  joy  lias  turned  to  sorrow, 
Tliy  wings  seem  clogged  witli  pain  and  care. 
And  slowly  —  slowly  on  thou  draggest, 
Tliy  fleetness  and  thy  brightness  gone; 
Tlio'  oft  we  weary  of  life's  burden. 
We  grasp  new  hope  and  bear  it  on. 
Tho'  the  music  all  bo  mournful. 
As  played  upon  tho  harp  of  life; 
There  is  a  melody  and  sweetness. 
That  lulls  our  pain  and  soothes  our  strife. 
Love's  guardia,ii  angel  hovers  o'er  us. 
Bids  us  labor  and  to  wait; 
And  at  last  we'll  wear  the  glory. 
Just  beyond  the  pearly  gates. 
Then  learn  to  read  aright  the  footprints. 
Printed  on  the  sands  of  Time; 
Know  the  laws  of  human  duty. 
For  these  all  lead  to  the  sublime. 
Thouglits  thus  wakened  prompt  to  action, 
Acts  of  right  and  untold  worth; 
Lights  and  sliadows  haplj'  blended. 
Brighten  the  somber  hues  of  earth. 
Clouds  are  transformed  into  sunbeams. 
Rippling  o'er  life's  troubled  sea; 
And  the  seaman  almost  hopeless. 
Views  the  light  across  the  way- 
Takes  new  courage  and  steers  forward 
To  the  dim  —  yet  distant  shore; 
And  though  peril  marks  his  pathway. 
The  crown  he  wins  —  tlie  journey  o'er. 


TO  A  ROSE  BUD. 
Oh!  sweet  and  beautiful  rose  bud. 
Emblem  of  early  spring. 
To  think  that  so  mucli  beauty 
Is  enclosed  in  so  small  a  thing; 
So  much  of  grand  perfection. 
And  of  wisdom  quaint  and  rare. 
So  sweet  too  is  thy  fragrance. 
And  thou  art  wondrous  fair. 
I  wonder  who  was  thy  maker. 
Surely  some  one  very  wise. 
For  tliine  is  real  perfection. 
And  man  could  not  thus  devise ; 
And  so  to  some  power  higher. 
Than  the  frail,  weak  powers  of  man. 
To  one  —the  Supernatural, 
I'll  ascribe  thy  wondrous  plan. 
This  being  is  called  by  us  God; 
He's  the  Maker  of  us  all. 
He  lists  to  our  feeblest  cry. 
And  hears  e'en  the  sparrow's  fall. 
And  here  is  thy  sister  fair. 
Butlo!  concealed  in  her  heart 
Is  a  worm,  the  sad  destroyer. 
Who  is  ever  doing  his  part. 


-* 


*- 


794 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


Oh !  ye  sadly  shattered  beauty, 
Thy  heart  is  vacant  within; 
Thou'rt  the  emblem  of  fallen  man, 
The  worm  —  the  demon  of  sin ! 
He  stole  as  a  thief  in  the  night 
Into  thy  pure  heart's  cell. 
And  now  as  I  behold  you 
You  are  naught  but  an  empty  shell. 
So  many  of  God's  dear  children 
Let  the  worm  steal  into  their  heart, 
Till  we  see  so  much  corruption  — 
It  chills  us,  and  quickly  we  start. 
I'll  pluck  this  worm  from  the  bud. 
And  help  it  be  a  perfect  flower; 
'Twill  gladden,  tho'  late  in  the  day. 
And  brighten  the  gloomiest  hour. 

♦-►-♦ 

ETHEL  ALICE  CARTER. 

Born:  Shasta,  Cal.,  Jan.  18, 1873. 
This  young  lady  has  written  about  thirty 
commendable  poems,  wliich  have  appeared 
in  the  San  Francisco  Christian  Advocate  and 
other  publications.  Miss  Carter  resides  in 
her  native  city,  wliere  she  is  finishing  her 
education. 


AFTER  THE  STORM. 
'Tis  night.    No  star  shines  in  the  sky; 
The  moon  is  hid;  against  the  shore 
The  angry  restless  waves  dash  Iiigh. 
Borne  on  the  winds,  a  human  ciy 
Rings  out  above  the  ocean's  roar; 
It  swells  and  then  is  lieard  no  more. 

'Tis  morning.     A  sad  woman  stands 

Upon  the  wet  beach,  cold  and  gray. 

She  looks  out  o'er  the  yellow  sands, 

And  wildly,  sadly  wrings  her  hands. 

She  sees,  thruugli  the  white  oce;in  spray 

A  wave-wet  sail,  far,  far  away. 

The  sky  is  clear;  the  wind  blows  free. 

The  dancing  waves  are  blue  and  bright. 

And  those  who  live  beside  the  sea 

Go  to  their  day's  work  cheerfully. 

With  joyous  hearts  and  laugliter  liglit, 

Save  she,  whose  son  was  drowned  last  night. 


*- 


SLEEP  BABY,  SLEEP. 
The  bird  has  forgotten  its  cai'ol. 
And  sleeps  in  its  downy  nest; 
Tlie  flowers  liave  folded  their  petals, 

And  silently  gone  to  rest; 
And  cosy  and  warm  in  liis  cradle. 

While  the  gath'ring  shadows  creep. 
Lulled  t-o  dreams  by  his  mother's  singing. 
The  baby  has  gone  to  sleep. 
Sleep,  little  onel 
The  long  day  is  done. 


Night's  shadows  creep  — 
Sleep  baby,  sleep! 
Again  the  baby  is  sleeping; 

Closed  fast  are  the  deci)  blue  eyes; 
They  closed  on  earth,  and  were  opened 

By  an  angel  in  Paradise. 
Mother,  you  cannot  rouse  him, 

Tliough  you  maj'  mourn  and  weep; 
You  cannot  awaken  the  dreamer. 
For  baby  has  gone  to  sleep. 
Sleep,  little  one; 
The  short  day  is  done; 
In  slumber  deep  — 
Sleep  baby,  sleep! 
Mother,  what  need  to  cover 

The  quiet,  icy  breast? 
For  Nature  will  bring  fair  g;irments 

To  shelter  your  darling's  rest; 
In  winter  a  robe  as  spotless 
As  the  ermine  of  a  queen. 
And  in  springtime  a  blanket  of  daisies. 
Bordered  with  brightest  green. 
Sleep,  little  one; 
The  short  day  is  done; 
In  slumber  deep. 
Sleep  baby,  sleep. 


JOHN  WILLEY  DEAN. 

Born:  Randolph  Co.,  Va.,  Dec.  26, 1847. 
After  receiving  his  education  at  Mt.  Pleas- 
ant, Iowa,  Mr.  Dean  taught  school.  Since 
1871  he  has  resided  in  Putnam  couuty.  Mo., 
where  he  still  lives  at  Chariton.  Mr.  Dean 
was  admitted  to  the  bar;  has  been  a  justice 
of  the  peace,  school  director,  township  clerk 
and  township  registrar,  and  notary  public; 
and  in  1877  edited  the  Union ville Investigator. 
His  poems  have  appeared  in  the  Western 
Plowman,  Burlington  Saturday  EveningPost 
and  tlie  leading  papersof  Ohio  and  Missouri. 

THE  VALUE  OF  TIME. 
Were  I  to  give  to  you  to-day 
A  lesson  that  would  last  for  aj'e. 
And  serve  in  every  age  and  clime. 
It  would  be  this:  Improve  your  Time. 
Your  days  at  school  that  seem  to  go 
With  ladened  wings  so  dull  and  slow. 
Swift  as  a  meteor,  alas! 
With  all  their  f  roightof  prospects  pass. 
And  gone,  they  ne'er  return  again, 
Our  siii)plications  are  in  vain 
That  ask  for  chance  to  use  once  more, 
'J'he  moments  that  have  fled  before. 
Then  stei'iily  strive  to  make  your  mark 
While  daylight  lasts;  for  comes  the  dark, 
The  long,  dark  night,  when  you  must  tell 
If  you  have  used  your  daylight  well. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


795 


HUBBARD  ALONZO BARTON. 

Born:  Ckoydon,  N.  H.,  May  1,  1842. 
Fob  many  years  this  g-ontlcmnn  held    the 
position  of  superiiiteudeiit  of  schools.  Iul8i9 


HTJBBARD  ALONZO  BARTON. 

he  became  the  editor  and  one  of  the  proprie- 
tors of  the  N.  H.  Arg-us  and  Spectator. 


FLAG  OF  OUK  COUNTRY. 
O  flag' of  our  countrj'  and  emblem  of  g'lory ! 
How  dear  to  my  lieart  istlie  shrine  thou 
infold. 
How  uoble  the  deeds  cnlialnied  in  Ihy  story, 
Howsacred  thy  trust  to  the  millions  untold. 

The  Koyal  of  Britain  maj-  cause  admiration 
To  well  ill   the  heart  of  tlio  Englishman's 
breast ; 
The  German  Inperial  point  admonition 
To  the  foe  that  would  dare  tliat  nation's 
behest. 
Tlie  Stars  and  the  Stripes  have  a  far  pr;inder 
meaning': 
They  stand  for   freedom  and  liberty's  law; 
For  learning-  and  progress  and  Christ's  spirit 
g-lcaming, 
Tlic  grand,  liailing- future  our  forefathers 
saw. 

Tliey   tell   of     a    nation    whose    g'lory    and 

grandeur 
Are  known  iu  remotest  abodes  of  the  earth. 
Whose  l)lessings  are  shed  on  tlie  poor  and 

the  stranger, 


As  well  as  tlie  rich   and  tlie  subjects  by 
birth. 

Then   guard  ever  well   our  lov'd  ensig-n  of 
freedom. 
Protect  tlie  ]iioud  cniblcni  on   land  and  by 
sea, 
Sing'  its  praises  in  song:  and  hopeful  Te  Deum, 
And  long  let  it  wave  o'er  the  land  of  the 
free. 


ARTHUR  LEWIS  TUBES. 

Born:  Glens  Falls,  N.  T.,  Jcxy  2, 1867. 
For  several  years  the  subject  of  this  sketch 
resided  at  Lake  George  in  his  native  state, 
where  many  of  his  earlier  poems  were  writ- 
ten. Several  hundred  of  the  poems  of  Mr. 
Tubbs  have  appeared  in  Peterson's  Mag'azine, 
NVaveriey  Mag'.aziiie,  Sunday  Mercury,  Yon- 
ker's  Gazette,  and  the  periodical  press  g'en- 
erally.  Mr.  Tubbs  is  now  eng'ag'ed  iu  edito- 
rial work,  and  resides  in  his  native  town. 


WHISPERS. 

Oh,  how  the  glistening'  waters 

Whisper  along  on  the  shore. 
Telling  of  lands  in  the  distance 

With  beauty  and  fragrance  galore. 
Mystical  islands  of  pleasure. 

Far  in  the  ocean  of  Rest, 
Where  the  'origlit  angels  of  glory 

Sing  in  that  land  of  the  blest. 

Whispering  flowers  are  ever 

Telling  of  visions  they  know; 
Lowly  we  bend  if  we  hear  them. 

Their  voices  of  fragrance  are  low. 
Whispers  of  melody,  sweeping 

Many  harmonious  keys, 
Down  from  the  fluttering  treetops 

Float  ou  the  breath  of  the  breeze. 

Many  the  voices  of  nature. 

If  we  but  listen  we  hear; 
Ever  a  message  to  cheer  us. 

Never  with  tidings  of  fear. 
With  the  bright  blushes  of  twilight. 

Blending  in  unison  fair. 
Then  do  we  whisper  to  Heaven, 

On  the  sweet  Incense  of  prayer. 

Lips  that  are  filling  their  mission 

Hopefully  whisper  of  cheer. 
Telling  the  beautiful  story. 

Ever  so  precious  and  dear. 
'Tis  the  same  word  that  tlie  flowers. 

Breezes  and  murmuring  tide. 
Bear  in  their  musical  wliispers. 

That  joy  mny  with  mortals  abide. 


-* 


*- 


796 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


EDWARD  HOLLx\ND. 

FOB  the  past  twenty  years  Mr.  Holland  has 
been  engag-ed  in  mining  and  prospecting  in 
Arizona  and  California.  He  has  written 
enough  poems  to  fill  a  volume,  many  of 
which  have  appeared  in  the  leading  publica- 
tions of  America^ 

YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

There,  amid  the  meadows,  grow  the  trees, 
forever  green; 
There  is  heard  tlie  voice  of  youth  in  joyous 
song; 
There  the  sunny  skies  and  ocean  forever  are 
serene:-  [throng. 

Along   the  shore    the   youth  and    maiden 
There  is  music  everywliere. 
On  the  ocean,  in  tlie  air, 
And  flowers  are  scattered  by  many  a  fairy 

baud; 
And  from  the  sunny  ocean  comes  the  fresh, 

life-giving  breeze 
That  breathes  o'er  the  morning  land. 

Here,  withered  are  the  flowers,  and  sere  and 
brown  the  trees ; 
Here  the  voice  of  song  is  silent  evermore; 
Here,  mournfully  beat  and  break  the  sullen 
seas. 
All  ceaselessly  along  the  rugged  shore. 
And  livid,  dripping  clouds 
Fall  like  ghastly  tattered  shrouds- 
Like  a   pall   spread   o'er  dead     nature    by 

night's  hand; 
And  from  the  leaden  skies  comes  the  deadly 

chilling  wind 
That  sighs  o'er  tlie  sunset  land. 

A  RAY  OF  LIGHT. 

..  Go  forth !  "  said  the  sun,  to  a  ray  of  Ught 

That  for  feons  hud  lain  on  its  breast. 
..Of  light  and  Ufo  from  world  to  world 

ne  thou  tlie  bearer  blest." 
Down  past  the  morning  star  it  flew. 
And  lighted  on  earth.  On  the  glistening  dew 
Reflected  here,  refracted  there. 
It  shimmered  and  glistened  everywhere. 
It  visited  all  the  liaunts  of  men: 
Looked  into  misery's  noisome  den; 
Lost  in  the  city's  flltli  and  mire. 
Found  again  in  the  f  urnace-flre  — 
Refracted  here,  reflecti'd  there, 
U  shimmered  and  glistened  everywhere. 

U  told  the  tale  of  h;i.te  and  scorn; 

It  dyed  the  rosy  clouds  of  morn; 

U  shone  on  many  a  precious  gem; 

1 1  gleamed  on  a  royal  diadem ; 

1 1  bore  love's  glance  to  beauty's  eyes ; 

It  painted  evening's  purple  skies; 

It  glanced  along  the  polar  snow, 


And  lingered  in  the  tropic's  glow; 
And  cleaving  again  the  vault  of  blue, 
From  star  to  star  it  onward  flew. 
Where  the  vision  of  man  can  never  pierce. 
To  the  nebulous  pales  of  the  universe. 
Bearing  light  and  life  wherever  it  went. 
It  again  returns  from  whence  'twas  sent. 
Where  rest  eternal  ends  its  wearied  flight- 
In  the  life  of  life,  in  the  light  of  light! 
So  thy  spirit,©  man,when  its  destiny's  flUed- 
Thongh  it  hide  in  a  body  of  shame. 
Though  it  burn  in  passion's  red  flame, 
On  the  journey  Omnipotence  willed  — 
Yet  pure  as  it  comes,  so  untarnished  it  goes, 
And  returning  again  to  the  God  whence  it 
came. 
Will  in  glory  eternal  repose! 


CHARLES  KELSON  JOHNSON. 

Chakles  Nelson  Johnson,  L.  D.  S.,  D.  D. 
S.,  has  written  quite  a  number  of  commend- 
able poems  which  have  appeared  in  some  of 
the  leading  publications.  He  is  a  resident  of 
Chicago,  where  he  is  highly  respected. 

BETTER  THAN  REST. 

And  what  if  the  striving  and  groping. 

And  the  passionate  pleading  for  truth; 
And  what  if  the  peering  and  hoping,  ■ 

Dispels  all  the  faith  of  our  youth. 
'Tis  better  this  faith  were  confusion ; 

'Tis  not  only  better,  but  best 
That  we  flee  from  the  utter  delusion 

Of  that  which  We  once  thought  was  rest. 
If  we  seek  for  new  facts  and  we  find  them; 

Shall  the  finding  not  add  to  our  store. 
As  the  seeds  bring  the  harvest  behind  them? 
There's  no  better  harvest  tlian  lore,  [fores. 
Shall  we  crush  all  the  whyfores  and  where- 
All  the  longings  that  rise  in  our  breast? 
Shall  wo  stop  on  this  side  of  the  therefores? 

Ah,  that  were  a  heathenish  rest! 
Go  ask  of  the  Prophets  and  Sages, 

The  men  who  illume  the  world's  night. 
They  who  hold  up  the  mirror  of  ages; 
Ask  them  if  they  .see  too  nuich  light. 
Must  we  lie  down  in  lanquid  contentment, 

With  nothing  but  ignorance  blest? 
We  had  far  better  sulTer  resentment, 

Tiian  a  life  lived  in  that  kind  of  rest. 
..There  are  truths  too  sublime  .and  too  holy 

To  grasp  with  a  mortal  mind's  touch  1 " 
Ah  no!  If  the  man  bo  so  lowly,  [much. 

Between  man  and  the  brute  there's  not 
We  are  launched  on  the  waves  of  life's  ocean. 

Let  us  reacli  while  we  can  for  the  crest; 
The  precept  of  nature  is  Motion, 
There  is  something  that's  better  than  rest 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


797 


-* 


REV.  A.  M.  EVERS. 

Rorn:  Rockingham  Co.,  Va.,  Oct.  3, 1837. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  is  a  minister  of 
tlie  gospel,  and  for  fiv^e  years  lias  been  pre- 
siding' Elder  in  the  Conference,   and    been 
twico  elected  to  tlie  General  Conference.  He 


REV.  A.  M.  EVERS. 

has  written  many  hymns  and  small  poems 
which  have  received  publication  in  singing 
books  and  newspapers  generally.  Mr.  Evers 
%fas  married  in  1863  to  Miss  Jennie  S.  Rine- 
hart,  and  now  has  a  family  grown  to  ma- 
turity. 


HE  SACRIFICED  HIS  LIFE  FOR  OTHERS. 
His  keen  far-seeing  eye 

Looks  up  the  mountain-side; 
He  sees  there's  danger  nigh. 

The  coming  of  the  slide. 

He  thinks  of  precious  lives, — 
Unconscious,  on  tliey  ride,— 

Reasons  within  himself. 
The  train  must  backward  glide. 

The  throttle-valve  is  closed, 
Reverse-bar  now  is  drawn, 

Then  precious  lives  are  saved 
Regardless  of  his  own. 

The  engine  overturned, 
So  ponderous  was  the  slide 

A  few  brief  words  of  prayer. 
And  then  brave  Arthur  died. 


The  boulder  quickly  came. 
Then  Artliur's  work  was  done; 

He  sacrificed  his  life, 
Yet  laurels  he  has  w'on. 

Oh,  blessed  after-life, 
When  all  our  toil  is  done, 

May  we  our  brother  meet. 
And  with  him  wear  a  crown. 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  GENERAL  GRANT. 

The  press  and  bells  announce  to-day. 
Our  hero.  Grant,  has  passed  away. 
At  Mt.  McGregor,  heralds  tell 
Where  the  victor  general  fell. 

In  days  agone  his  star  arose, 
Historians  tell,  in  verse  and  prose; 
Distinction  classed  liim  with  the  grea 
His  fame  no  one  will  dissipate. 

That  he  was  faultless  none  will  claim. 
And  yet  few  heroes  had  such  fame; 
We  class  him  with  the  most  renowned. 
Because  his  brow  Is  honor-crowned. 

At  Donelson  the  victor  rose 
To  eminence  in  spite  of  foes; 
Undaunted,  calm  and  undismayed, 
His  generalship  was  there  displayed. 

At  Vicksburg,  oh,  how  great  the  strife! 
Great  sacrifice,  great  loss  of  life; 
But  Grant,  with  superhuman  will. 
Yielded  not  till  Vicksburg  fell. 

At  Appomattox,  Grant  and  Lee, 
Generals  great,  as  all  concede. 
Agreed  that  war  to  peace  should  yield. 
And  have  their  soldiers  quit  the  field. 

The  terms  of  peace  let  angels  tell, 
Since  Grant  and  Lee  with  angels  dwell; 
Like  brothers  side  by  side  they  stood 
To  reckon  on  the  nation's  good. 

All  felt  that  strife  and  war  should    ease  - 
Magnaiiimous  were  the  terms  of  peace  — 
The  terms,  so  easy,  so  sublime. 
Proffered  through  influence  benign. 

As  husband,  father,  brother,  friend, 
Millions  now  live  to  see  the  end; 
As  soldier  and  chief  magistrate. 
We  classify  him  with  the  great; 

In  our  city,  yes,  everywhere. 
The  flags  half-mast  to  all  appear  — 
Streamers  of  black  from  flag-poles  wave; 
Prepare  the  hero  for  the  grave. 

The  everlasting  .4rms  beneath 
Made  him  invincible  in  death. 
He  died  in  hope  of  bliss  beyond. 
And  with  his  peers  is  victor  crowned. 


-* 


*- 


798 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


COURTLAND  S.  WHITE. 

Born:  Waukegan,  iLt..,  Nov.  13, 1849. 
Since  settling  in  Kansas  in  1883  he  has  taken 
great  interest  in  the  Union  Labor  and  Peo- 
ple's Partj'.     He   was  one  of  the  founders  of 


COURTLANXt  S.  WHITE. 

the  Industrial  Publishing-  Company,  and  is 
still  president.  One  hundred  campaig-n  songs 
and  labor  poems,  have  been  written  by  him. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  FREEDOM. 

It  is  coming,  it  is  coming. 
The  grand  spirit  of  the  times; 
'Tis  written  well  in  lines  of  prose, 
Told  o'er  and  o'er  in  rhymes; 
There  is  nothing  now  can  check  it 
For  its  under  full  head-way; 
It  is  bursting  from  the  darkness 
Into  full  resplendent  day; 
So  ye  proud  and  tyrant  rulers 
Who  have  filched  our  wine  and  corn, 
Must  now  hide  your  guilty  faces 
From  the  bright,  new,  coming  morn; 
For  the  sun  of  truth  and  justice 
As  it  sheds  its  sparkling  light. 
Will  reveal  your  deeds  a:id  actions 
That  were  fostered  in  your  might. 
It  is  coming,  it  is  coming  — 
Over  high  and  over  low. 
It  is  inarching  bravely  forward. 
And  will  strike  the  freeman's  blow 
It  is  like  the  sciirfog  rolling. 
As  it  comes  down  from  the  hills. 
And  through  every  niche  and  corner 
Of  humanity  it  thrills: 


And  the  rulers  start  and  tremble. 

As  with  i)alsy's  fearful  dread. 

For  they  dream  of  French  rebellions. 

And  the  words  the  prophets  said; 

Man  will  ride  in  blood  of  humans 

From  the  ground  to  bridle  reign; 

They  will  lose  their  hold  on  power 

Which  they  never  can  regain. 

It  is  rolling  up  in  splendor 

As  it  comes  from  east  and  west; 

It  is  throbbing,  it  is  beating 

In  each  freedom-loving  breast. 

You  will  hear  it  talked  in  hovels. 

And  debated  in  the  shop. 

But  looked  upon  in  mansions 

As  a  thing  that  must  be  stopped. 

They've  defiled  our  grand  republic  — 

ITave  given  us  want  and  shame. 

And  have  prated  about  contentment,— 

So  disgraced  our  parents  name. 

For  out  fathers  in  rebellion 

Had  raised  their  honest  hand 

Against  the  stamps  and  tariff 

That  Great  Britain  made  demand; 

But  to  live  in  want  and  hunger 

With  oppression  on  everj-  side. 

Are  burdens  ten  times  greater 

Than  lor  which  our  fathers  died. 

It  is  coming  like  the  sunlight 

As  it  drives  the  night  away; 

It  is  bringing  to  the  workers 

A  brighter,  happier  day; 

For  it  tells  them  in  the  future. 

When  justice  rules  the  land. 

They  will  enjoy  the  full  reward 

Of  the  labor  of  their  hand. 

'Tis  the  gospel  of  peace  and  plenty 

Taught  by  the  noble  ones  and  true, 

AVho  give  up  homes  and  comfort 

For  the  good  which  they  can  do. 

So  all  praise  the  sturdy  workers 

Who  devote  their  sacred  lives 

To  banish  ever  from  the  world 

The  Lazarus  and  the  Dives. 

It  is  coming  like  the  sea-wave 

As  it  rolls  upon  the  shore; 

It  is  stirring  up  the  people 

As  was  never  done  before; 

For  they  see  their  homes  all  vanish. 

With  starvation  at  the  door. 

And  they  hear  their  children  crying 

For  the  bread  they  have  no  more. 

So  we'll  never  stop  our  efforts 

Till  the  tyrants  are  in  the  dust. 

Though  our  i)lows  tiiay  lay  in   idleness. 

And  our  pruning  hooks  may  rust. 

But  with  Reason's  voice  proclaiming 

And  the  power  of  press  and  pen. 

We  will  gain  our  rights  to  justice. 

Truth  and  freedom  for  all  men. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


799 


-* 


EMMA  BENNION. 

Born:  Sheldon,  N.Y.,  March  13, 1859. 
The  poems  of  Miss  Emma  Bennion  h:ive  ap- 
peared in  the  Amherst  Bee,  Golden  Record, 
Jiivan  E.-iiile  ami  m  her  jkijicix  of  ihe  slate  of 


EMMA  BENNION. 

New  York,  from  wliieh  they  have  been  ex- 
tensively copied.  Miss  Benniou  still  resides 
in  her  native  state  at  Strykersville. 


*- 


JOSIAH  AND  BETSY  ANN. 
I've  been  a-thinking-,  Betsy  Ann, 

While  sitting- in  the  shade. 
That  all  the  fuss  and  show  to-day 

Was  but  a  dress  parade; 
The  jewels  and  the  orange  flowers. 

The  satin  and  the  lace. 
The  rush  and  crush  and  flutter 

To  secure  the  choicest  place. 
'Tis  all  a  jumble  in  my  mind. 

It  don't  seem  real  or  true. 
And  no  one  looked  quite  natural 

Like  people  that  we  knew. 
It  'minds  me  how,  when  but  a  lad, 

A  circus  came  to  town. 
And  I  couldn't  see  tlie  elephant 

For  staring  at  the  clown. 
And  though  we  are  .so  near  of  kin 

We're  scarcely  of  a  kind. 
And  when  we  got  to  church  to-day 

I  wished  I'd  stayed  behind. 
They  call  me  "  dearest  uncle  " 

With  the  crowd  a-standing  by. 


But  when  we  meet  in  private 
It  will  be  ••  how  are  you  Si ';' " 

It's  just  like  grafting  fancy  boughs 

Upon  an  old  crab  tree. 
And  when  the  fruit  begins  to  grow 

Things  somehow  don't  agree. 
I'm  not  ripening,  Betsy  Ann, 

1  know  I'm  dull  and  slow. 
And  I  don't  expect  the  world  to  move 

In  the  ruts  made  long  ago. 

But,  O,  how  different  was  the  morn 

When  you  and  I  were  wed; 
It  hardly  seems  the  same  old  sun 

That's  sliining  now  o'erhead. 
I've  but  to  close  my  fading  eyes 

To  see  it  all  again. 
The  meadow  path,  that  lay  between 

The  fields  of  waving  grain. 

The  ground-lark  in  the  hawthorn  hedge 

Where  scarlet  berries  glowed. 
We  gathered  some,  I  know  the  spot, 

Close  by  the  old  stile  road. 
The  thrush  was  singing  in  the  grass. 

The  crickets  chirping  shrill 
About  the  tombstones  that  surround 

The  chapel  on  the  hill. 
No  wedding  bells  rang  out  for  us. 

No  wedding  march  was  played. 
Our  only  march  was  made  through  lanes 

Beneath  the  pleasant  shade. 
Our  tiny  home  was  all  our  own. 

No  stranger  dare  efface 
The  old  land  marks  that  gave  the  place 

Its  mellow,  old  time  grace. 
The  woodbine  at  the  cottage  door. 

The  drooping  wild  rose  tree, 
The  lilacs,  all  were  planted  here 

By  either  you  or  me. 
Sometimes  the  outer  world  was  harsh. 

Often  a  friend  unkind. 
But  when  I  closed  the  cottage  door, 

I  left  the  world  behind. 

And  when  my  heart  was  wounded 

And  my  spirit  sick  and  sore, 
I  always  pictured  Betsy  Ann 

A  smiling  at  the  door. 
My  wife  would  understand  me. 

She  would  know  my  spirit's  need 
And  the  words  so  hard  to  utter  * 

Would  be  taken  for  the  deed. 
And  so  through  sun  and  shadow 

Steady  walked  we  side  by  side. 
And  never  left  the  narrow  way 

For  one  more  smooth  and  wide. 
Soon,  yes  soon  we'll  reach  the  turnpike, 

Almost  run,  our  earthly  span. 
Only  death  can  part  Josiah 

And  his  faithful  Betsy  Ann. 


-* 


*- 


800 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


FRED  MYRON  COLBY. 

Born:  Warnei:,  N.  H.,Dec.  9, 1848. 
After  receiving  hiseducatiou  at  tiie  schools 
of  his  native  town  and  the  Concord  High 
school,  Mr.  Colby  then  taught  school  success- 
fully for  many  years.    Tor  a  while  he  was 


FRED  MYRON   COI,BY. 

editor  of  a  prominent  iiewsjiaper,  and  in 
1875-76  was  in  Washington,  D.  C,  as  a  corres- 
pondent for  Boston  and  New  Hampsliire 
papers.  Fred  Myron  Colby  has  written  large- 
ly for  the  press,  stories,  historical  articles 
and  poems,  and  in  1876  published  a  novel  en- 
titled "The  Daughter  of  Pharaoh."  Since 
that  time  he  has  published  several  books 
which  have  had  a  large  sale.  In  1883  Mr. 
Colby  was  married  to  Miss  H.  Maria  George. 


THE  ROSE  OF  JERICHO. 

'Neath  Afric's  spreiiding  palm-trees 

There  blooms  a  humlile  flower. 
Sacred  as  virgin's  holy  Vilnsh. 

That  blossomed  one  sweet  hour,— 
Wlien  at  the  feet  of  Mary 

It  raised  its  lovely  he:id. 
The  night  she  fled  to  Egypt 

From  Herod's  hate  -  'tis  said. 
O  flower  of  perfect  beauty. 

So  holy,  fair  and  bright 
Opening  thy  spreading  petals 

Only  on  Christmas  night, 
We  hail  thee  as  an  emblem 

Of  that  immortal  love. 


Which  Christ  the  King  of  Glory, 

Sheds  from  his  throne  above! 
O  sainted,  loving  mother. 

Whose  pearly  teardrops  fell; 
We'll  not  forget  thy  sorrow 

When  Christmas  carols  swell. 
We  join  the  angel  chorus 

That  sings  this  eve  again,— 
Glory  to  God  the  Lord  most  High, 

Good  will  and  peace  to  men ! 

M ARIL'S   AMONG   THE   RUINS  OF  CAR- 
THAGE. 

The  orb  of  day  was  sinking  fast. 

On  Afric's  shores  its  beams  were  cast. 

As  mid  the  sands  an  t)ld  man  passed. 

Weary  and  worn  with  care. 
'Twas  Marius,  Rome's  bravest  chief. 
Who,  like  the  crown  of  a  golden  sheaf. 
Though  now  an  exile  and  in  grief. 

Wore  a  glory  none  might  share. 
Before  him  in  tlie  setting  sun. 
Lying  in  silence  cold  and  dun. 
Where  erst  so  many  feet  had  run. 

Were  the  ruins  of  Dido's  city. 
He  saw  once  more  his  eagles  wave 
O'er  Roman  hosts.    Once  more  his  brave 
Legions  fought  the  Gaul  and  to  the  grave 

Consigned  the  foes  of  the  Roman  state. 
Once  Rome  itself  had  feared  his  frown. 
Seven  times  he  had  worn  the  laurel  crown, 
High  senators  of  the  seven-hilled  town 

Had  trembled  under  his  stern  rage. 
Now  he  was  like  those  ruins,  sad  and  old,[ed. 
His  rival's  flushed  whereonce  his  chariot  roll- 
Forgotten  were  his  victories;  none  so  bold 

As  to  show  reverence  to  his  age. 
But  hark !  A  voice  fell  on  his  ear, 
I.  Cains  Marius,  dost  thou  hear?" 
Shame  that  he  could  address  without  a  tear, 

This  br.ave  old  Roman  consul. 
1. 1  bear  from  Afric's  praetor  here, 
Sextillius,  whom  all  traitors  fear. 
Tidings  to  thee.    Thy  footsteps  near 

Must  now  no  longer  linger." 
The  grand  old  man  looked  like  a  king. 
No  more  he  seemed  the  abject  thing. 
His  bosom  heaved,  his  voice  did  ring 

As  when  of  yore  lie  led  his  legions. 
"Go  tell  your  praetor  this."  he  said, 
..Go  tell  it  in  Rome's  streets  gory  and  red, 
Aye,  let  it  fill  every  consul's  head. 

With  the  lesson  of  its  .story. 
That  amid  Hamilcar's  ruined  hall. 
Where  once  an  army  thronged  the  wall. 
Thou  hast  seen  Mai'ius,  under  the  pall 

Of  exile,  reading  the  fate  of  Roman  glory." 


*■ 


_* 


$ 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


801 


-* 


MRS.  ADDIE  LUCIA  BALLOU. 

Born:  Chagrin  Falls.O., April  29, 1837. 

As  ARTIST,  writer  and  orator  Mrs.  Ballon 
has  become  very  popular.  She  is  president 
of  the  Nationalist  Club  of  San  Francisco. 


ADDIE   LUCIA  BALLOtT. 

The  poems  of  Mrs.  Ballou  have  appeared  in 
various  publications  from  tlie  Atlantic  tu 
the  Pacific. 


MAMMA'S  DAISY. 
Stealing  from  lier  snowy  pillow. 
Kneeling'  by  the  window  pane, 
Little  face  upon  the  casement, 

Hands  outstretched  to  catch  the  rain. 
Whispered  little  lips  in  sadness, 
«'  Wish  mamma  would  come  again  I  " 
Chc— Do  the  angels  know 
How  we  miss  below 
Their  sweet  love-words  — 
Do  they  know,  do  they  know? 
"Riiitidrops,  have  you  seen  my  mamma 

Where  you  come  from  in  the  sky? 
Mamma's  gone  to  live  with  angels  — 
What  made  God  have  mamma  die? 
Wonder  if  when  I  get  sleepy. 
He  won't  take  me  by  and  by?" 
Do  the  angels  know 
How  we  miss  below 
Their  sweet  love-words  — 
Do  they  know,  do  they  know? 


"Every  night  I  say,  •!  lay  me 

Down  to  sleep,'  and  llien  I  wait 
For  mamma  to  come  and  kiss  me; 

But  I  guess  it  was  so  late 
When  she  got  'way  up  to  Star-land 

God  just  thought  He'd  shut  the  gate." 
Softly  drooped  the  lids  in  slumber. 

As  the  leaves  of  falling  flowers. 
Gently  into  sunny  dream-land, 

Nested  in  its  mazy  bowers, 
While  the  guardian  angel-mother 
Watched  her  all  the  sleeping  hours. 
Chc— For  the  angels  know 
How  we  miss  below 
Their  sweet  love-words  — 
Yestliey  know,  yes  they  know. 


LENVOI. 
Down  Memory's  shadowy  aisle  to-night, 

There  sweeps  the  train  of  bygone  years; 
As  stars  with  shimmering  trail  of  light. 
An  army  of  the  heaven  appears. 
While  night  dews  show  their  crystal  tears. 
Each  orient  space 
Some  long-loved  face 
Unveils  to  bless  my  lingering  sight. 
Down  by  each  time-familiar  lane 

My  mother  walks,  as  in  those  days 
When  we  were  boys.    Ah  !  would  again 
Our  eyes  could  meet  her  tender  gaze 
As  they  looked  then  their  love  and  praise. 
The  soft  caress, 
Her  fingers'  press. 
Was  solace  for  all  grief  or  pain. 
Down  where  the  silence  is  so  deep 

My  thoughts  give  echo  ere  I  speak. 
They  laid  you  when  you  fell  asleep. 
With  death's  pale  lilies  on  your  cheek. 
You,  best  l)ek)ved,  wlio  was  so  meek. 
So  placid  seemed, 
As  if  you  dreamed 
Of  secrets  tliat  the  angels  keep. 
Down  from  your  now  abiding  place 

Is  there  no  passageway  to  ours? 
No  window,  where  }"our  sainted  face 
May  look  from  out  your  spirit's  bowers 
To  cheer  us  on  life's  lonely  hours? 
Is  there  no  word 
That  may  he  heard 
Peace-giving  in  its  thrilling  powers? 
Down  Time's  tempestuous  coast  at  last, 
When  life's  frail  tent  forme  is  furled, 
When  night  my  day  shall  overcast. 
When  wrecked  and  out  of  being  hurled, 
Will  your  sweet  eyes  by  love  impearled 
In  welcome  wait 
At  Aiden's  gate 
And  find  me  room  in  your  blest  world? 


-* 


*- 


802 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


-« 


GO  AND  TELL  IT  TO  THE  BEES. 
Have  you  heard  the  oldeu  leg-end 

By  the  Eastern  people  told. 
Of  the  strange,  sweet  superstition. 

That  wlien  Death's  dark  pinions  fold 
Newly  'I'ound  some  cherished  loved  one, 

That  the  dearest  friend  to  these 
To  the  busy  hive  must  hasten. 

And  must  tell  it  to  the  bees? 
Is  it  true  some  spirit  lingers 

'Twixt  their  busy  lives  and  ours, 
And  that  half  their  sweets  they  gather 

From  tlie  breaths  of  human  flowers? 
Did  some  other  winged  thing  tell  them. 

When  the  bees  o'er  drifts  of  suow 
To  her  window  came  to  perish 

When  she  died,  who  loved  them  so? 

How  distinctly  I  remember 

All  those  drear  uumotherod  years, 
Of  the  lalie-side  and  the  cottage 

Where  I  wept  my  childish  tears; 
How  from  earlj'  budding  April, 

Till  the  autumn  sered  the  trees. 
Every  twilight  found  my  father 

Busy  with  his  swarms  of  bees. 
For  they  loved  him,  and  caressed  him 

With  their  gauzy,  restless  wings. 
Dusty  with  the  yellow  pollen, 

Girt  about  witli  golden  rings. 
Year  by  year  they  thus  enriched  him 

With  tlie  sweets  from  flowering  trees,  [him 
And  witli  each  white  thread  that  crowned 

Dearer  grew  to  him  the  bees. 

Oh,  I  know  how  they  will  miss  him 

All  the  summer  afternoons. 
When  the  languid  perfume  lingers 

O'er  the  lily-spread  lagoons! 
And  the  angel  that  received  him 

Must  have  told  among  the  trees. 
When  the  dear  old  man,  grown  weary. 

Fell  asleep  among  the  bees. 
Busy  bees,  cease  not  your  humming. 

Burdened  witli  the  summer  sweets; 
Hallowed  thoughts  'round  you  are  clustered. 

Where  the  past  and  future  meets. 
When  shall  come  the  dark-winged  angel, 

And  my  weary  spirit  frees. 
Will  some  loving  friend  or  kindred 

Tell  it  to  my  father's  bees? 


*- 


WHERE  DO  THE  SEAGULLS  GO  ? 
Away  from  the  docks  and  the  shipping 

That  tangled  the  breast  of  the  bay. 
From  the  flutter  of  hands  in  the  harbors. 

Our  ship  went  sailing  away. 
And  as  the  cannon's  brazen  lip 
Boomed  back  farewell  from  our  good  ship. 


A  score  of  snowy-breasted  things 
Swooped    low   and    drooped  their  downy 

wings, 
And  rose  and  dropped  with  every  swell. 
And  cried,  in  flute-like  tones,  "Farewell!  " 

Up  rose  the  winds  and  the  waters 
In  fury,  leaped  forward  and  aft. 

And  the  foam  and  the  spume  of  the  breakers 
Dashed  over  the  decks  of  our  craft, 

Till  rocked  upon  a  gentler  swell. 

Our  gallant  ship  uprose  and  fell. 

Still  followed  close  those  feathered  things 
Who  trip  and  sweep  with  noiseless  wings  — 
Those  restless  birds,  by  day  and  nigiit. 
Who  seaward  wing  their  ceaseless  flight. 

Away  and  away  o'er  the  ocean 
The  track  of  our  destinies  lay. 

Through  the  languor  of  tropical  evening. 
Through  the  tropical  languor  of  day. 

Willie  still  a  thousand  leagues  from  shore 

The  watery  waste  we  traverse  o'er, 
I>ike  phantoms  of  an  exile  troupe 
Those  pinions  o'er  the  waters  droop. 
And  swing  and  curve,  and  dip  the  main. 
Then  rising,  lift  their  plumes  again. 

And  this  I  asked  of  tlie  skipper: 
"  Pray,  where  do  the  seagulls  go 

When   the   ships  wliich  their  white  wings 
follow 
Go  down  with  the  wrecks  below?" 

He  smiled,  and  looking  far  away. 

Replied,  "  Ours  do  not  go  that  way." 
Heaven  grant  him  right;    and    yet— and 

yet  — 
The  hearts  that  break  cannot  forget 
Those  who  along  the  seagulls'  track 
Went  out,  but  never  more  came  back. 

With  a  strange,  yet  sweet  superstition, 
A  nation  as  free  as  their  wings. 

Believe  that  the  bird  on  the  ocean 
Good  speed  and  prosperity  brings. 

The  mariner  o'er  frozen  seas 

Thinks,  too,  the  souls  of  men  arc  these; 
That  angels  of  the  so-called  dead. 
In  these,  their  own  bright  pinions  spread, 
And  watchful  of  the  wrecks  and  shoals. 
Bring  safe  to  harbor  human  souls. 

Whatever  may  he  the  tradition, 
A  truth  or  a  f-.uicy  of  thought. 

May  the  wing  of  our  angel  jirotect  us. 
That  calamity  follow  us  not; 

And  lip  to  lip,  and  heart  to  heart. 

May  all  yet  meet  who  wide  apart. 
In  different  ways  —  by  land  or  sea- 
Pursue  life's  varied  destiny. 
Oh,  white  wings,  bring  at  last  our  spars 
To  liarbor  safe,  beyond  the  stars. 


» 


I.OCAI.   AMD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


803 


-* 


CHARLES  H.  MACKAY. 

Born:  Bridgton,  Me.,  March  11, 1859. 

For  five  years  Mr.  Mackay  was  a  railroad 
telegraph  operator.  Besides  writing-  poetry 
lie  is  the  author  of  many  articles  on  astrono- 
my which  have  appeared  in  the  Boston  Jour- 
nal and  the  Esoteric,  of  which  latter  publi- 


CHARLES    H.  MACKAY. 

cation  he  is  editor  and  business  manager. 
Mr.  Mackay  is  a  cornettist  of  considerable 
ability,  and  has  played  leading  parts  in 
bands  and  orchestras  from  his  youth.  He 
has  been  postmaster  at  Amherst,  N.  H.  and 
at  Wilmington,  Mass. 


YESTERDAY. 
Following  peace,  as  night  the  day. 

These  lonely,  darksome  hours, 
Yet  through  their  gloom,  like  sunny  May 

Emerging  bright  from  April  showers 
Tl\ere  streams  a  pure  white  ray. 

The  day  is  dull;  the  hours  so  long; 

But  yesterday  was  bright. 
For  yesterday,  my  life  in  song 

Rose  higli  in  strains  of  pure  delight. 
Seemed  lieavenward  borne  along. 

And  yesterday  the  azure  curve 

O'er  all  the  sky  was  blue; 
To-day,— ah!  me,  I  fain  would  swerve 

From  care,  from  life,  e'en  duty  true  — 
These  scarce  a  thought  deserve. 


For  all  that  now  should  bring  me  joy 

Gives  only  saddest  pain. 
To-day  all's  drear,  all's  cheap  alloy, 

For  yesterday  comes  up  again. 
And  smiles  and  niirtli  annoy. 
I  hate  the  things  which  come  to  nie. 

Reminders  of  that  day; 
I  hate  e'en  i>eace  which  seems  to  flee. 

Because  of  one  now  far  away 
And  'neath  whose  eyes  I'd  be. 
Oh,  rain!    Oh,  clouds!  ye  verif j- 

The  love  within  my  soul; 
The  contrast  show  'twixt  placid  sea, 

'Twixt  peaceful  vale  and  waves  that  roll 
Between  my  love  and  me. 
The  march  of  time  I  fain  would  spurn,— 

To  heaven  of  yesterday,— 
The  wheels  of  time  I  then  would  j'earn 

Might  stop,  and  leave  that  brightest  May 
All  mine  in  peace  eterne. 


THE  ROSE. 
Mute  reminder  of  an  evening's  joy 

Sweet  emblem  pure; 
I'd  not  exchange  for  mines  of  gold 
One  leaf  in  its  dear,  blissful  fold; 
'Twould  only  peace  of  mind  destroy 

And  grief  allure. 
Before  me  here,  in  deep,  calm  grace. 

It  lies  in  state; 
Dear  token  of  a  love  so  strong. 
It  bears  me  high  above  the  throng 
Of  life,  and  brings  to  nie  her  face, — 

Strange  act  of  fate. 
It  thrills  me,  as  by  sweet  perfume 

It  now  doth  speak. 
In  gentle  zephyr  seems  to  breathe 
The  joy  which  througli  my  soul  doth  seethe 
At  thoughts  of  d;iys  that  end  too  soon 

When  thee  I  seek. 
Each  petal  in  its  purity. 

Each  leaf  so  bright. 
Reminds  me  of  a  pure,  true  heart. 
From  which,  hcav'n  grant,  I  ne'er  may  part; 
It  gives  me  peace  and  sanctity. 

It  lends  sunlight. 
As  to  my  lips,  with  sac  red  thought 

Of  absent  love, 
I  press  thy  labyrinthine  vein, 
I  wonder  that  thou  dost  not  deign 
Response,  but  ah  !  thou  quick'nst  not 

Bj-  word  or  move. 
Sweet  flower,  as  tliro'  tliy  tender  leaves' 

Transparent  hue 
The  light  of  day  is  plainly  seen; 
Thus,  sanctified,  I  hope  to  glean. 
From  heart  and  soul  that  ne'er  deceives. 

Pure  love,  and  true. 


-* 


*- 


804 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


*- 


THE  MIDNIGHT  ECLIPSE. 
Fair  and  bright  the  full  moon  rides 

In  southern  sphere,  down  low; 
To  nig-ht  she  gives  a  splendor  grand. 
Touching  earth  with  magic  wand. 
Coining  gold  from  out  tlie  sand, 

She  malieth  all  to  glow. 

So  proud,  so  bright,  withal  so  pure ! 

Of  night  she's  trulj'  queen ; 
No  rival  to  her  silver  face, 
None  equal  her  in  winning  grace. 
As  on,  iti  still,  majestic  pace. 

She  sails  with  noble  mien. 

The  twinkling  fctars  in  myriad  host. 

Attend  lier,  great  and  small; 
The  Millsj'  Way,  the  Pleiades; 
Tlie  Nebula-,  great  Hercules; 
From  northern  heights  to  southern  seas. 

In  homage  bow  they  all. 

Her  grandeur  now  she  seems  to  feel. 

Flooding  the  earth  and  sliies; 
Her  light  she  takes  to  be  her  own  — 
The  beauty  hers  and  hers  alone  — 
So  thinks  this  queen  upon  her  throne. 
As  tlirougli  the  night  she  flies. 

Truly,  thou  may'st  well  be  proud. 

Goddess  of  starry  dome : 
Thy  shining  front  In  dazzling  rays 
Maketli  all  a  fairy  maze. 
Changing  night  to  autumn  days; 

We  must  thy  splendor  own. 

But  ah  I  what  transformation  steals 

Upon  that  face  so  bright? 
Upon  her  clieeks,  around  her  brow. 
About  her  limbs  there  creepetli  now 
A  phantom  grim,  a  darksome  vow 

Which  dims  the  streaming  light. 

A  passing  cloud?    It  cannot  be. 

For  all  tlie  sky  is  cleiir; 
The  arclier  bold;  tlie  arrow  small; 
Meteors,  as  they  flasli  and  fall 
Are  plainly,  clearly  noted  all. 

But  our  queen  —  alasl  so  drear. 

Where  now,  O  moon,  that  sparkling  light 

So  recently  with  thee? 
Wliere  all  thy  cold  and  soulless  glare. 
Thy  beams  of  silvery  sheen  so  fair. 
Thine  unsurpassed  grandeur;  where 

May  now  tliy  beauty  be? 

My  eyes  may  safely  dwell  on  thee. 

As  on  the  deep,  black  sky; 
Impotent  now  to  blur  my  sight. 
Completely  shorn  of  grace  and  light; 
I  mourn  thy  lot,  dead  queen  of  ntght; 

I  hear  all  nature  sigh. 


The  humble  star,  before  unseen. 

Close  at  thy  glowing  side. 
Was  lost  in  tliine  effulgent  glare. 
But  shineth  now  with  glory  rare. 
Seeming  to  smile  at  thj'  despair, 

And  sneer  at  thy  false  pride. 

Wouldst  thou,  O  moon,  if  now  thy  light. 

So  quickly  gone,  w^as  thine; 
Wouldst  tliou,  with  evil  thoughts  again. 
In  self-suflBcient  promptings  vain. 
Deny  thy  king  whose  powers  sustain, 

Whose  face  mak'st  j-ours  to  shine? 

Repentance  dawns  upon  thy  brow; 

Upon  thy  crown  the  light 
In  distant  space  from  that  great  orb, 
In  trembling  benedictive  sob. 
Falls  by  grace  of  loving  God 

Upon  the  beauteous  sight. 

All  nature  wakes  and  casts  aside 

The  mantle  dark  and  sad; 
The  little  birds  arouse  and  praise 
Approach  of  morn  by  lunar  raj'S, 
For  trulj'  now  the  light  of  days 

Has  made  the  midnight  glad. 

Again  the  splendors  of  the  sk.v. 

But  tranquil  peace  present; 
The  moon,  with  all  her  fair,  clear  light. 
Now  sails  away  in  greater  might; 
The  shadows  passed,  fair  queen  of  night 

Rolls  on  in  sweet  content. 


TRUST. 
With  nature  here  in  evening's  peace  I  sit 

And  think  on  life. 
Tlie  end  of  day  has  come; 
There's  naught  of  worldly  lium. 
As  past  me  swift  and   soft  the  moments  Hit, 

And  banish  strife. 
I'm  filled  with  love  and  happy  trust  to-niglit; 

A  strange  deep  calm. 
Here  God  His  beauties  shows 
To  me  as  twiliglit  glows. 
And  while  I  think  on  Him  .-uid  find  tills  light 

I  fear  no  harm. 
May  heart  and  mind  forever  know  the  mood 

Tliat  now  they  feel. 
My  past  I've  thrown  away. 
And  things  which  cannot  stay 
I've  crucified,  that  I  may  iiave  tliat  food 

Of  higliest  weal. 
There's  harmony  in  all  I  sec,  and  love 

More  tlian  I  l^now. 
My  life  within  is  peace. 
And  may  it  never  cease 
Its  trusting  course  to  love  and  light  above 

Though  drawn  below. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


* 

805 


HUNTER  MACCULLOCH. 

Born:  Glasgow,  Scotland,  Oct. 22, 1847. 
Hunter  MacCclloch  was  brought  to  this 
country  in  18.51,  and  has  been  a  resident  of 
Plnladelphia  ever  since.  For  six  years  he 
was  in  business  as  an  importer  of  fancy 
goods.  In  1878  lie  classified  and  arranged  the  ■ 
library  of  the  Spring- Garden  Institute.  In 
1882  Mr.  MacCuIlocli  was  engaged  byStraw- 


HUNTER   M'CULLOCH. 

bridge  and  Clothier  to  edit  a  liousehold 
magazine,  wliich  is  now  in  its  ninth  year  of 
publication.  His  poems  have  appeared  in 
Lippincott's,  Overland  Monthly,  Godey's 
Lady's  Book,  Pliiladelphia  Ledger,  Boston 
Transcript  and  various  other  leading  publi- 
cations. In  1886  lie  published  a  selection 
under  the  title  of  From  Dawn  to  Dusk. 
Hunter  MacCuUoch  is  the  author  of  a  drama 
entitled  Amour,  which  was  successfully 
produced  at  the  Philadelphia  Arch-street 
Theater,  and  at  Ford's  Opera  House,  Balti- 
more; and  many  of  his  songs  have  also  been 
Bet  to  music. 


*- 


THE  END. 
There  is  no  end  of  days,  no  end  of  nights  — 
Alternate  links  of  time's  unending  chain; 
There  is  no  end  to  nature's  keen  delights. 
For    spring    in    time  to  siiring    succeeds 
again; 


i'et  do  they  run  their  ceaseless  round  in 
vain? 
Will  seasons  lielp,  will  d;iys  and  nights  be- 
friend 
When  I  have  reached  the  end:- 

There  is  no  end  of  joys,  no  end  of  sorrows  — 

Alternate  iinksof  life's  unending  chain  : 
No  end  of  dark  to-days  and  bright  to-mor- 
rows. 
For  oft-slain  hope  as  oft  will  rise  again; 
Yet  let  who  will  rejoice;  who  will,  com- 
plain; 
What  matters  the  days  that  mar,  the  mor- 
rows that  mend 
When  I  have  reached  the  end? 

There  is  no  end  of  children  mid  their  pleas- 
ures; 
No  end  of  youthful  hearts  by  visions  fed; 
There  is  no  end  of  men  to  win  life's  treas- 
ures; 
No  end  of  age  to  dwell  half  with  the  dead; 
Though  down  time's  waj'  the  great  proces- 
sion tread. 
There  is  none  will  leave  the  ranks  some  help 
to  lend 
v.'iien  I  have  reached  the  end! 

There  is  no  end  of  time,  no  end  of  space; 
Beneath  and  above  stand  stars  of  all  de- 
gree ; 
This  whirling  world  forever  runs  its  race. 
And  harvests  life  thereon  perpetually; 
What  good  these  everlasting  things  to  me? 
Since  surely  will  the  shades  of  death  des- 
cend. 
And  then,  there  is  an  end  I 


UNFRAMED. 

The  sun,  that  fell  all  afternoon 

From  mid-height  heaven  in  mid-month  June, 
Has  touched  the  far,  warm  west,  and,  lol 
It  sinks  in  the  earth  like  April  snow; 

While  clouds  of  crimson,  purple  and  gray 

Are  anchored  about  in  the  buriushed  bay; 
And  the  sea  of  glad,  green  leaves  is  stirred 
At  the  soft  southwest  wind's  whispered 
word. 

The  spell-bound  painter  looked  with  awe 
On    the   earth-wide,  heaven-high  scene   he 
saw, 

While  one  ecstatic  moment  passed. 

Then  turned,  exultant,  to  make  fast 
With  cunning  hand,  that  very  hour. 
The  secret  placed  within  his  power. 

Alas !  he  lost  It  on  the  way; 

For  in  no  frame  Is  it  seen  to-day  I 


-* 


>b- 


806 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


LABORES. 
Ye  worshipers  bending  before  her, 

O'erladened  with  gifts  for  her  shrine. 
Ye  do  well  to  admire  and  adore  her, 

She  is  great  above  all  and  divine; 
Surpassing  the  Greek-conceived  stories; 

With  hands  and  with  garments  that  soil  — 

0  humble  and  haughty  Labores, 
Our  Goddess  of  Toil ! 

'Tis  mine  to  bedeck  thee  with  praises, 
My  well-paying  labor  of  love, 

1  coin  for  thee  current  gilt  phrases, 
That  set  thee  beyond  and  above. 

My  voice  has  grown  husky  and  broken. 
My  weight  has  been  greatly  increased, 

I  am  paid  for  each  syllable  spoken, 
I,  Proudflesh,  the  priest! 

0  strenuous  souls  in  strong  bodies! 

How  ye  struggle  and  strain  and  perspire! 
From  the  heighth  of  the  throne  where  a  god 

is 
I  will  reach  down  the  sponge  when  ye  tire. 

1  have  set  apart  one  day  in  seven. 
That  rest  may  replenish  the  oil. 

Dividing  your  days  between  heaven 

And  our  Goddess  of  Toil. 
No  trifling  mere  tithes  are  ye  leaving. 

Like  a  ravenous  churchman  demands; 
For  I,  the  high-priest,  am  receiving 

Nine-tenths  of  the  work  of  your  hands. 
Though  the  dust  and  the  grime  that  inclose 
you 
Be  as  bars  in  the  cage  of  a  beast. 
There  is  one    looking    through    them   who 
knows  you, 
I,  Proudflesh,  the  priest! 

As  I  jingle  your  gifts,  as  I  jingle, 

I  cry  to  you  never  to  shirk! 
Since  dirt  and  true  dignity  mingle! 

Since  nothing  is  nobler  than  work! 
See  the  workmen  in  haloes  of  glories, 

Forgetting  the  duties  that  moil 
At  siglit  of  thee,  holy  Labores, 

Our  Goddess  of  Toil! 


She  sends  unto  all  of  you  greeting. 
And  manifold  bU'ssings  this  day. 
The  pleasures  of  life  thoy  aie  fleeting, 

Tlien  think  but  of  work  and  not  play; 
For  work  wears  a  visage  of  beauty. 

From  her  service  who  would  be  released? 
Have  not  I  an  adorable  duty, 

I,  Proudflesh,  the  priest? 
What!    What!    Thou  her  message  ref  uscst? 
(Some  souls  there  are  yet  who  blasphemed !) 
The  work  which  tliou  lackest  thou  losest 
If  thou  callest  devotion  a  scheme 


Would  a  priest  (and  a  high  priest)  tell  stories. 

And  the  fair  face  of  truth  would  he  soil. 
For  the  good  of  the  cause  of  Labores, 

Our  Goddess  of  Toil? 
O  Goddess,  again  we  implore  thee! 

Inspire  us  once  more  Avith  thy  wine. 
Bring  back  the  long  hours  to  adore  thee 

With  worship  from  five  until  nine; 
Else  into  thought's  gulf  we  be  falling. 

Or  be  puffed  up  withcoUege-biewed  yeasi; 
In  the  name  of  thy  sons  ant  1  calling, 

1,  Proudflesh,  tlie  priest! 
O  teach  us  to  labor  untiring; 

To  thrive  on  a  sup  and  a  bite; 
To  hire  out  our  souls  in  our  hiring; 

To  fulfill  each  industrial  rite. 
Oh!  kill  every  thought  that  emerges; 
Exhaust  us  and  freeze  us  and  broil; 
Overwhelm  with  innumerable  surges, 

O  Goddess  of  Toil! 
Thou  Shalt  set  upon  all  but  the  laggard. 
The  seal  that  proclaims  them  as  thine; 


Have  I  labored  enough,  O  Labores? 

Have  1  praised  thee  my  dutiful  time? 
Thy  beauty  and  worth  such  a  store  is, 

'Twould  wear  out  all  rhythm  and  rhyme. 
I  liave  flred  men  with  glimpses  of  beauty ; 

I  have  fed  men  with  honey  and  oil  — 
Have  I  done  my  adorable  duty, 

O  Goddess  of  Toil? 
By  the  little  ones  weakly  and  stunted, 

Wlio  are  needed  to  phiy  their  small  part; 
By  the  half-grown,  with  senses  half  blunted, 

Who  know  thee  so  well  what  thou  art; 
By  the  father  made  brutish  by  labor; 

By  the  mother  whose  love  has  long  ceased; 
By  the  love  that  I  bear  for  my  neighbor, 

],  Proudflesh,  the  priesi! 
By  the  body  which  once  was  a  dwelling, 
Where  the  soul  finds  a  prison  instead; 
By  the  slaves  we  are  buying  and  selling. 

That  are  ours  till  the  day  they  are  dead: 
By  the  mountain   of  gifts  that  they  bring 
thee: 
By  the  wage  of  six  feet  of  the  soil  — 
Receive  and  believe  what  I  sing  thee, 

O  Goddess  of  Toil! 
And  ye,  with  lives  barren  of  pleasure. 
Though   your  hopes  are  killed  one  altoi 
one; 
Though  the  march  for  the  .lead   he  the  mea- 
sure 
Until  life's  wretched  journey  be  done; 
Though  the  curse  of  life  bitter  and  sore  is 

The  malice  of  fate  ye  may  foil. 
If  ye  fall  down  and  worship  Labores, 
Our  Goddess  of  Toil ! 


*- 


LOCAL,   AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


807 


-* 


SUSAN  ELLEN  WIXON. 

Born:  Dennisport,  Mass.,  1849. 
From  lier  youth  this  lady  has  written  poetry 
aud  prose.  She  has  taught  school  at  inter- 
vals for  several  years.  Miss  Wi.voii  has  con- 
tributed to  the  press  since  a  girl,  and  is  the 
author  of  several  books — All  in  a  Lifetime, 


>i^ 


SUSAN   VLLF.N    WIXON. 

Apples  of  Gold,  The  Story  Hour,  Summer 
Days  at  Onset,  and  various  pamphlets.  For 
many  years  past  this  lady  has  edited  the 
children's  departed  of  the  New  York  Truth 
Seeker,  and  is  at  preseut  engaged  upon 
that  journal.  She  is  also  a  well  known  and 
popular  lecturer  on  moral  reform  and  ed- 
ucational topics.  Miss  vvixon  is  a  resident 
of  Fall  River,  Mass.,  where  she  is  a  promi- 
nent member  of  the  school  board,  and  also 
president  of  the  Humboldt  Scientific  society. 

WHEN  WOMANHOOD  AWAKES. 

No  more  shall  Error  'round  her  play 
In  fitful  moods  and  clouds  of  gray. 
Or  cruel  fancies  crush  her  down 
Where  demons  wait  and  furies  frown  — 

When  Womanhood  awakes. 
No  more  sliall  big-ftt  turn  and  rave, 
A  ranting  yet  a  cringing-  slave. 
At  Truth,  who,  in  her  garments  white, 
Stands  facing  ever  to  the  right  — 

When  Womanhood  awakes. 
No  more  shall  sisters  turn  aside, 
With  haughty  tread  and  sullen  pride, 
From  those  who  walk  in  clearer  light. 


Whose  keener  vision  sees  the  right- 
When  Womanhood  awakes. 
No  more  in  abject  fear  she'll  cower 
Before  a  mitred,  tyrant  power; 
Nor  grope  in  darkness,  pain  and  shame  — 
A  hopeless  wretch  without  a  name  — 

When  Womanhood  awakes. 
No  more  she'll  idly  dream  away 
Life's  splendid  hours  in  trifling  play. 
Nor  think  the  whole  of  life  to  be 
To  lose  her  own  identity  — 

When  Womanhood  awakes. 
No  more  the  story  will  be  told 
By  writers  young-  and  writers  old. 
That  man  but  toils  till  set  of  sun. 
While  woman's  work  is  never  done  — 

When  Womanhood  awakes. 
The  chains  that  bind  her  foot  and  hand  — 
That  hold  her  close  in  every  laud  — 
Will  drop  and  crumble  in  the  dust 
By  force  of  their  own  ancient  rust  — 

When  Womanhood  awakes. 
Her  eyes  are  closed  in  slumber  now. 
The  poppy-wreath  is  on  her  brow. 
But  soon  her  night  shall  change  to  day. 
And  mid  the  tombs  no  more  she'll  stray  — 

Wlien  Womanhood  awakes. 
In  horror  will  she  view  the  past. 
That,  vice-like,  lield  her  hard  and  fast. 
The  coming  time  her  mind  shall  dower 
With  vigorous  strength  and  helpful  power- 
When  Womanhood  awakes. 
The  future  day  shall  see  her  then 
Clothed  rightly  as  a  citizen. 
And  she'll  behold  with  judgment  clear 
The  sovereigii  rights  that  wait  her  here  — 

When  Womanhood  awakes. 
And  man  shall  stand  on  grander  height; 
Shall  see  the  truth  in  larger  light; 
Shall  rise  from  groveling  in  the  dust 
To  realms  where  dwell  tlie  true  and  just  — 

When  Womanhood  awakes. 
And  all  these  things  shall  surely  be 
When  Justice  reigns  from  sea  to  sea; 
Fair  Freedom  then,  in  fullest  measure. 
Shall  give  to  each  her  equal  treasure  — 
When  Womanhood  awakes. 

How  gloomy  all  the  past  will  seem ! 
A  misty  way  —  a  dreadful  dream  — 
With  Superstition's  slimy  trail 
O'er  mossy  banks  and  flowery  dale  — 

When  Womanhood  awakes. 
O,  rosy  dawn  in  eastern  skies! 
Thy  morning  light  the  world  supplies! 
Joy-bells  shall  ring  from  shore  to  shore; 
Anthems  shall  swell  forevermore  — 

When  Womanhood  awakes. 


-* 


PERFECT  PEACE. 
Throughout  the  tangled  paths  of  life, 

Restless  we  come  and  go. 
And  'mid  life's  cares,  its  toil  and  strife. 

We  little  quiet  know. 
But,  when  in  silence,  soft  and  sweet. 

Is  ended  life's  short  lease, 
Gently  as  day  the  night  doth  meet 

We  pass  to  perfect  peace. 

Eyes  that  are  closed  toearthly  sight 

Can  never  wake  to  weep ; 
No  pain  or  woe,  no  baleful  l)light. 

Can  move  that  slumber  deep. 
Ears  that  to  earthly  sounds  are  stilled 

May  never  more  be  stirred; 
With  sorrow  never  can  be  filled. 

Or  pained  by  cruel  word. 

Thus  hearts  of  dust  all  griefs  forsake - 

They  never  break  or  bleed; 
The  living  hearts,  that  throb  and  ache. 

Our  tender  pity  need. 
O  restful  sleep!    O  calm  repose  1 

Wliere  all  life's  trials  cease. 
Thy  silver  stream  forever  flows 

To  realm  of  perfect  peace ! 

Then  let  us  in  good  deeds  forget 

The  grief  that  fills  our  eyes. 
And  fn)iri  these  days  of  sad  regret 

Shall  fragrance  sweet  arise. 
And  sanctified  this  life  shall  be 

With  pure  and  holy  aims. 
Until  at  last  we  come  to  see 

All  human  needs  and  claims; 

And  find  in  them  our  power  to  make 

The  lives  of  others  Vilest, 
So  they  with  us  to  hope  shall  wake. 

To  sense  of  joy  suid  rest. 
And  whether  pulseless  sleep  is  death 

Or  quickened  life's  increase. 
Its  gentle  tovich  is  but  the  breath 

That  giveth  perfect  peace. 


HER  BIRTHDAY. 

How  well  I  mind  me  of  the  day, 

Tinted  with  August  gold, 
I  held  her,  laughing  in  my  arms. 

Our  baby,  one  year  old. 
How  fond  I  watched  her  infant  charms. 

And  kissed  her  dimpled  face. 
While  close  I  folded  to  my  breast 

Her  form  of  matchless  grace. 

And  when  on  silvery  wings  Time  sped 
Twelve  months  again  away. 


Then  sweetly  lisped  her  loving  voice  - 

»i  I  two  'ears  old  to-day !  " 

Her  httle  feet  had  learned  to  climb. 

Her  hands  learned  mischief,  too; 
Yet  watch  and  ward  o'er  her  to  keep 

Was  pleasure  sweet  and  new. 

And  when  three  years  had  seen  her  mind 

Unfolk  in  beauty  bright, 
To  her  the  earth  a  Wonder  Land, 

An  Eden  of  delight. 
I  kissed  her  pure  and  stainless  lips, 

Hoping,  trusting  the  while 
That  she  might  never  know  earth's  woe. 

Its  harshness  or  its  guile. 

Four  years  flew  gaily,  swiftly  on  — 

Four  joyous  years  of  love. 
With  brilliant  hopes  and  many  plans 

Each  year  was  thickly  wove. 
Her  i)rattling  voice,  her  merry  laugh. 

Made  happiness  complete; 
And  music  sweet  to  our  ears 

The  patter  of  her  feet. 

Five  years  old !  her  precious  mind 

Unfoldedday  by  day, 
And  promise  gave  of  gracious  worth 

A  gem  of  brightest  ray. 
Proudly  we  watched  her  onward  growth. 

As  fled  the  hours  away. 
Nor  thought  we  that  our  jewel  bright 

Was  shrined  in  mortal  clay. 

Six  years  at  length  came  quick  and  sure, 

Rose-crowned  and  diamond-tipped. 
As  bright  as  though  each  year  had  been 

lu  rainbow  colors  dipped. 
In  sympathetic  grace  she  grew 

A  sweetest  friend  to  be; 
Before  her  words.  "I  love  you,  dear  I" 

All  clouds  would  quickly  flee. 

Seven  years  old!    This  August  day 

Is  gay  with  birds  and  flowers; 
The  purple  pansies  bloom  as  bright 

As  when,  in  other  hours. 
We  wreathed  them  on  our  darling's  head. 

With  leaves  of  ivy  green. 
Herself  the  fairest,  brightest  flower 

Our  eyes  had  ever  seen. 

Her  birthday!  and,  through  n.isty  tc  ars, 

I  look  in  vain  to  see 
Her  lovely  face -her  wondrous  eyes. 

With  love-light  turned  to  me; 
For  silent  is  the  voice  I  loved. 

Still  are  the  dancing  feet. 
And  in  the  dust  are  all  the  hopes 

That  once  made  life  so  sweet. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


809 


-* 


MRS.  JOSIE  AXTONIEWICZ. 

Bokn:  Russian-Poland,  Sept.  3, 1840. 
The  education  of  this  lady  w:is  oommeDced 
at  the  Saered  Heart  Convent  iu  Poland,  and 
fliiishod  in  Paris.    She  was  married  in  ISfiO  to 

;i    P^'li-h    r.'t'u.ii-.M',    wli-    .1i,m|    ■...,,,,    ::<']■■-   t  lie 


MRS.  JOSEPHINE  ANTONIEWICZ. 

French  war  of  18T1,  where  he  served  in  the 
French  national  guard.  She  next  taught 
two  years  in  a  young'  ladies'  schot)l  in  En- 
gland, and  later  engaged  as  governess  in 
Berlin.  About  1878  Mrs.  Antoniewicz  came  to 
California,  where  she  is  now  engaged  in  San 
Francisco  as  a  private  teacher  of  modern 
languages  and  music. 


THE  BIRDS  NEST. 
Near  my  window  grows  a  tree, 
In  it  birdlings  sing  iu  glee; 
On  the  branch  a  nest  hangs  low. 
Swinging,  swinging  to  and  fro. 

The  little  birds  are  hard  to  please. 
And  their  patient  mother  tease; 
Though  she  gives  them  all  her  store. 
Yet  they  crj-  and  cry  for  more. 

Often  in  real  life  we  find 
Children  of  exacting  mind, 
Who  from  parents  more  demand 
Than  is  their's  to  e'ei'  command. 


ON  THE  SOBBING  SEA  OF  TEARS. 

On  the  sobbing  sea  of  tears. 

Wept  by  men  througii  countless  ages, 
I  am  drifting  through  the  years. 

Love  of  you  my  soul  engages. 

On  the  vessel  of  my  heart. 

Guided  by  mj'  grieving  soul, 
I  am  coming  to  the  mart. 

Where  you  wait  —  at  Heaven's  goal. 

Hope  the  mast  is  of  my  ship  — 
Hope's  a  mast  tiiat  never  beuds; 

In  the  waves  the  swift  oars  dip 
Toward  thy  feet  —  a  greeting  sends. 

At  a  certain  day  and  hour, 

O  beloved  Father  mine! 
Heaven's  consul  grants  the  power 

To  a  pen  my  pass  to  sign. 

Then  the  surging  waves  of  feeling 
Glad  shall  break  upon  Heaven's  shore; 

Heart  to  heart,  with  God's  bells  pealing. 
We  shall  meet  to  part  no  more. 


VISION  OF  AGES  GONE. 

Visions  of  ages  gone  drift  by  in  shadowy  le- 
gions. 

Speaking  alike  of  wisdom  as  well  as  of  ig- 
norant weakness  — 

Speaking  of  strife  and  of  conquest,  and  then 
of  subsequent  downfall. 

Those  were  the  days  for  tlie  strong,  when 
the  Macedonian  mantle 

Flaunted  its  jewels  and  colors  in  the  halls 
and  homes  of  t)ie  Persians. 

Then  came  the  Greeks  and  the  Romans, 
struggling  to  gain  on  the  other. 

Marching  with  jihysical  strength,  the  forces 
of  mind  and  of  will  power. 

What  avails  us  the  glory  of  conquest  when 
Rome,  the  most  powerful  of  nations. 

Through  warring  and  strife  met  with  con- 
quest? 

The  time  was  when  force  alone  counted , 

To-day  there  are  kings  in  frail  bodifis; 

'Tis  mind  and  not  muscle  that's  needed. 

And  the  mind  shrinks  from  warfare  and 
hatred. 

Why  not  learn  from  the  ruins  of  ages 

To  live  in  peace  and  in  quiet. 

To  turn  all  the  power  of  tlie  soul 

Toward  making  life  purer  and  better? 

One  man  nor  one  mind  can  suffice 

To  rule  all  the  world  of  the  present. 

But  each  in  liis  place  can  be  a  king. 

If  he  strives  for  the  glorj-  of  others. 


-* 


*- 


810 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  SARAH  K.  BOLTON. 

This  lady  published  in  1887,  in  conjunction 
with  her  son,  a,  volume  of  poems  entitled 
From    Heart   and    Nature.    Mrs.   Sarah    K. 


MRS.  SARAH  K.  BOLTON. 

Bolton  has  gained  quite  a  reputation  in  tlie 
literary  world,  and  her  poems  have  appeared 
in  many  of  tlie  leading-  publications  of  the 
United  States. 


THE  HUMAN  HARP. 

I  said,  .'Now  I  will  play  a  sonj;'. 
No  matter  whether  brief  or  long-. 
So  it  be  blithe,  and  light,  and  gay. 
Fit  only  for  a  summer's  day." 
But  no  one  cared  to  hear  or  see; 
It  did  not  touch  humariity. 

I  said,  "Give  me  a  deeper  strain. 

E'en  tliough  it  must  liave  birth  in  pain." 

The  tempests  came,  and  harp-strings  broke. 

But  sweeter  music  from  them  woke. 

X  learned  to  sviffer  and  be  strong. 

And  yet  to  keep  a  cheerful  song. 

I  learned  the  drift  of  human  needs. 
The  worth  of  higli  and  holy  deeds. 
That  only  noble  hearts  which  break 
Can  suffer  for  another's  sake, 
He  oidy  sings  for  coming  years 
1  Who  mixes  with  his  gladness  tears. 


GOLDEN  ROD. 
O  golden  rod !  sweet  golden  rod ! 

Bride  of  the  autumn  sun; 
Has   he   kissed   thy  blossoms   this   mellow 
morn. 
And  tinged  them  one  by  one? 

T^id  the  crickets  sing  at  thy  christening 

When,  in  his  warm  embrace, 
He  gave  thee  love  from  his  brimming  cup. 

And  Ijeauty,  cheer  and  grace? 

He  brightens  the  asters,  but  soon  they  fade; 

He  reddens  the  sumach  tree; 
The  clematis  loses  its  snowy  bloom 

But  he's  true  as  truth  to  thee, 

Scattered  on  mountain  top  or  plain. 

Unseen  by  human  eye, 
He  turns  thy  fringes  to  burnished  gold 

By  love's  sweet  alchemy. 

And  then,  when  the  chill  November  comes, 
And  the  flowers  their  work  have  done, 

Thou  art  still  unchanged,  dear  golden  rod. 
Bride  of  the  autumn  sun ! 


ONE  FACE. 

One  face  looks  up  from  everj'  page, 
From  snowy  cloud  or  tranquil  sea; 

One  face  that  can  all  woes  assuage. 
Dearer  than  all  tlie  world  to  me. 

The  eyes  are  mild,  the  brow  is  fair. 
The  voice  is  sweet  as  song  of  bird. 

How  oft  my  hand  upon  the  hair 
Has  rested,  with  no  spoken  word. 

The  years  will  come  and  go  again; 

Their  joys  and  sorrows  they  will  trace 
On  lip  and  brow  and  busy  brain ; 

And  heaven  will  hold  that  one  dear  face. 


BLINDED. 


She  lay  like  a  rose-leaf  on  liis  cup; 
He  scarcely  knew  she  was  there  at  all 
Until,  like  tiie  leaves  of  early  fall. 

For  their  i)recious  hue  she  was  gathered  up. 

He  knew  too  late  that  the  flower  was  gono- 
No  fragrance  left  in  tlie  cup  for  hlni; 
Alas!  tliat  he  did  not  clasp  the  brim 

With  tender  hands  in  the  early  dawn 

Of  love,  and  save  to  himself  the  leaf. 

To  own  is  often  to  lose  the  prize; 

We  stumble  along  with  blinded  eyes, 
.\nd  wake  to  losses  and  bitter  grief. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


811 


-* 


JAS.  BARTLETT  WIGGIN. 

Born:  Wadley's  Falls,  N.H.,  July  19, 1833. 
The  Wild  Artist  in  Boston,  a  prose  work  of 
400  piigps,  from  tlie  pen  of  James  Bartlett 
Wipfrin,  luis  received  liigh  praise.    His  jiocms 

1 


JAMES  BARTLETT  WIGGIN. 

have  appeared  in  the  Boston  Transcript, 
Brooklyn  Eas'le,  and  other  publications. 
Mr.  Wig-gin  is  in  business,  and  resides  with 
his  wife  and  faniilj-  at  Cambridgeport,  Mass. 


THE  AIRY  WHEELMAN. 
Young  Bigh  Sj-chelle  of  Ryde 
Of  wheelmen  was  tlie  pride 

Of  the  land: 
He  could  navigate  a  wheel 
Built  of  rubber  and  of  steel. 
In  a  way  to  make  you  feel 

It  was  grand. 
He  started  out  one  day 
To  take  a  spin  away. 

Time  to  do : 
Along  the  road  he  fared. 
And  the  horses  looked  and  seared, 
And  the  people  stood  and  stared 

As  he  flew. 
Wlien  going  down  a  hill. 
In  meditation  still, 

Walked  a  maid ;  " 

Of  course  ho  turned  aside 
As  soon  as  he  espied. 
And,  as  the  road  was  \vid-.\ 

Not  afraid. 


Of  course  nobody  knew 

What  that  angel  maid  would  do. 

So  intent; 
Surprised  tliey  both  did  feel. 
When  she  gave  a  little  squeal. 
And  rushed  before  tlie  wheel, 

Down  they  went. 

Oh,  a  woman,  bless  her  eyes, 
Is  a  constant  wild  surprise 

To  a  man. 
She  will  muddle  all  his  wits. 
She  will  break  him  into  bits, 
She  will  set  him  into  flts. 

When  she  can. 

Man  finds  trouble  where  he  goes, 
Takes  a  header,  skins  his  nose; 

'Tis  his  way. 
But  when  ho  rides  a-boomiug, 
And  sees  not  what  is  coming. 
If  he  upsets  a  woman, 

Let  him  pay. 

Of  course  they  both  got  hurt. 
And  tumbled  in  the  dirt. 

Oh,  so  sad. 
She  was  young,  and  oh,  so  fair; 
Oh,  so  sweet  and  debonair. 
That  it  almost  killed  him  there, 

'Twas  so  bad. 

Then  to  help  her  he  must  try 
To  her  handsome  home  near  by. 

Right  awaj- : 
And  his  arm  was  not  misplaced 
Wlien  he  put  it  round  her  waist. 
And  some  other  wounds  were  placed. 

Come  to  stay. 

When  the  wheelman  rode  away 

To  return  another  day 
He  was  bid; 

And  tliat  maiden's  heart  he  carried. 

And  he  came  and  came  and  tarried. 

And  they  courted  and  got  married- 
Yes,  they  did ! 

And  he  is  a  splendid  man; 
Deny  it  if  you  can. 

And  in  luck; 
He  is  happy  as  a  king. 
And  his  bride  can  laugh  and  sing. 
And  she  is  the  nicest  thing 

He  ever  struck. 

Hurrah  for  Bigh  Sychelle, 
May  his  bearings  all  run  well. 

Not  ajar; 
May  his  blessings  never  cease. 
May  his  homo  be  love  and  peace, 
And  his  family  increase. 
Tra-la-la. 


-* 


812 


LOCAT. 


AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKRICA. 


-* 


FRED  ALLISON  HOWE. 

born:  Blendon.  Mich.,  Sept.  15, 1866. 
AFiTK  graduating,  thosubjcctof  tbis  sketch 
t„„k   up  the   profossiou  of  teaching.     His 


FRED  ALLISON    HOWE. 

poems  have  appeared   In  many  prominent 
religious  and  educational  journals. 

NEVER  AGAIN! 
Never  again,  tl>ose  light-winged  hours 

That  passed  unheeded  by. 
And  filled  our  lives  with  sun  or  showers. 

Sliallother  years  supply. 

Never  again  fho  rosy  smile 
On  youth's  fair  cheelc  that  shone, 

sS  those  dear,  laughing  hearts  beguile, 
Wl.ich  cold  in  death  have  grown. 

Neveragain  shall  this  dead  rose 

Bloom  as  it  did  of  yore,- 
For  Hfes  fair  tide,  when  once  it  flows, 

Ei)l)s  out  forevermore. 
Withered  and  dead,  like  autumn  leaves. 

Are  pleasures  Unit  have  fled. 
O'er  their  lone  grave  the  spirit  grieves. 

But  brings  it  l)ack  the  dead.' 

Fur  soon  the  day  becomes  the  night. 

And  niglit  becomes  the  day. 
Our  sunlit  hours,  ourdrcams  of  light. 

Take  wings  andfly  away! 
Yet  fallen  leaves  and  faded  flowers. 


Perchance,  in  years  unborn. 
Decayed,  may  nourish  greener  bowers. 

And  fairer  brows  adorn. 
And  snows  that  in  the  early  spring 

Dissolved  and  passed  away. 
Far  south  may  chase  the  robin's  wing. 

In  some  dim-distant  day. 
That  cloud  that  shimmered  in  the  sun. 

And  fell  in  April  rain. 
May  rest  again,  its  circuit  done. 

Deep  in  the  boundless  main. 
And  though  our  joys  may  not  revive 

And  blossom  as  of  old, 
Mayhap  some  germ,  e'en  yet  alive. 

May  tender  leaves  unfold. 
Tliat  grief  we  thougbt  had  passed  away. 

May  yet,  like  early  snow. 
On  autumn  flowers,  o'er  hearts  too  gay, 

Drift  all  its  ancient  woe. 
The  secrets  of  the  years  to  be 

Lie  buried  in  the  past! 
Dead  fingers  mold  the  destiny 
In  wliich  our  lives  are  cast! 
We  can  not  tear  tlie  veil  apart 

That  hides  the  long  ago. 
Whose  echoes  yet  surge  o'er  the  heart 
While  life's  swift  currents  flow. 

TWO  VOICES. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

Ah  me?  the  wilderness  is  vast  and  dreary; 
Tlie  wailing  winds,  of  dirges,  never  weary! 

The  hollow  sea-waves  roar! 
O'er  pale,  dead  flowers  the  gloomy  rain  is 
falling,—  , 

The  poor  heart's  tears  on  buried  ^J'^ws^ot 

And  wandering  voices  to  lost  friends  are 

At  midnight's  spectral  hour. 

Along  the  shore  1 
If  this  one  life  be  all.  then  better  Perisb. 
Thanlinger  to  i>ehoUl  whatmost  wec.ierish. 

Like  vernal  wreaths,  decay. 

SECONU  VOICE. 

Tliere  is  a  land  when,  crystal 

WhereTreezes  lull,   and  trees  of  lito  arc 
growing. 
And  starry  waters  shine. 
Tbo-  many  a  task  thy  fingers  must  unrav^ 
O'er  many  a  rugged  path  thy  feet  must  travel 

To  reach  that  radiant  shore. 
Strive  on!  thy  feet  may  stray  tluongl.  mci- 

dows  vernal  ^      , 

1  r  faithful  till  thy  toilscmie  journey  sou. 
Strife  on!  before  thee  lie  the  hills  eternal! 
Let  faith  ga/.e  on  before  — 
Life  soon  is  o'er! 


streams  are 


*- 


LOCAT.   A>!D   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


-* 


813 


JOHN  R.  MUSICK. 

Born;  St.  Louis,  Mo.,  Feb.  28, 1849. 
In  early  life  the  subject  of  this  sketch  was 
an  actor,  then  taught  a  country  school,  stud- 
ied law  and  practiced  five  years,  but  later 
on  gave  his  entire  time  to  literature.     He 


JOHN  R.  MtlSICK. 

has  written  four  novels  and  several  plays. 
His  poems  have  appeared  in  Potter's  Month- 
ly, The  Current,  Yankee  Blade,  Youth's 
Companion,  and  other  prominent  publica- 
tions. Mr.  Musick  has  l)cen  very  successful 
in  his  literarv  work. 


THE  IDEAL. 
I  know  sweet  .songrs  I  can  not  sing-, 

I  have  bright  thoughts  I  dare  not  breathe, 
Thoug-h  triumphs  of  fame  for  me  should  ring- 

And  crown  my  brow  with  laurel  wreath. 
I've  tales  untold  I  cannot  tell 

Though  they  would  bring-  me  wealth  and 
fame. 
And  ihroug-h  the  ceaseless  ages  stamp 

In  gilded  words  my  deathless  name. 
This  hardened  heart  must  ever  bear 

la  silence  through  the  years  to  come 
Its  disappointment  and  despair 

As  day  by  day  I  :>m  nearing  home. 
And  when  those  songs  I  learn  to  sing 

And    breathe    the    thouglits     that    burn 
within. 
This  'prisoned  soul  will  surely  wing 

Its  endless  flight  from  grief  and  sin. 


THE  BAY   WINDOW. 
There's  an  ohjcct,  I  vow. 

That's  to  me  a  treasure. 
For  oft  I  have  hailed  it 

With  exquisite  pleasure. 
More  sacred  to  me 

Than  their  gods  to  the  Hindoo 
Or  gold  to  the  raiser 

Is  a  brilliatit  baj'  window. 
I  haste  to  the  college. 

When  the  early  bell's  ringing. 
The  birds  in  the  trees 

And  all  nature  is  singing, 
I  pause  thereto  listen  forgetting  I  sin,  oh! 

And  cast  a  sly  glance 

Toward  the  bay  window. 
Enchanted  by  a  fairy, 

'Tis  long  there  I  linger 
And  listen  enchanted 

To  the  voices  of  a  singer. 
'Tis  the  voice  of  an  angel, 

Or  one  that's  akin  to. 
For  the  music  of  Assian 

Floats  through  that  bay  window. 
Such  sweet  strains  of  music 

My  heart-chords  are  thrilling 
Although  the  dew  dampness 

Of  even  are  chilling. 
This  heart  has  oft  fluttered 

Like  a  late-captured  minnow 
When  ere  I  glance  into  that  window  — 

That  brilliant  bay  window. 


UNKIND  WORDS. 
Could  mankind  in  the  coujse  of  life 

But  for  a  moment  pause  and  think. 
How  one  kind  word  may  save  a  youth 

With  foot  upon  destruction's  brink  — 
Just  one  kind  word  a  .soul  might  save. 
Or  keep  one  from  a  felon's  grave. 

Did  woman  know  how  unkind  words. 

If  breathed  about  from  ear  to  ear. 
May  bring  despair  on  tender  hearts. 

And  rob  them  of  all  life  liolds  dear  — 
The  tongue  of  scandal  in  one  sl-.ort  hour 
May  blight  and  wither  the  fairest  flower. 
If  children  knew  when  on  the  green 

Engaged,  perhaps,  in  nurthful  play. 
Thai,  words,  like  daggers,  shari)  and  keen. 

May  wound  and  bleed  one's  joys  away  — 
No  dagger's  burnished  point  can  smart 
Like  unkind  words  to  childliood's  heart! 
Oh,  would  we  bo  more  careful  then 

Of  what  we  think  or  how  express. 
And  modulate  our  mind  and  voice 

With  gentle  love  and  tenderness? 
Then  let  us  ever  bear  in  mind 
We  always  gain  by  being  kind. 


-* 


*- 


814 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


DANIEL  F.  MILLER. 

Born:  near  Prostburgh,  Md.,  Oct.  4, 1814. 
For  forty  years  Mr.  Miller  was  a  member  of 
the  Territorial  Leg-islature.    He  has  followed 


*- 


DANU^Fi   F.  MILLEK. 

tlie  profession  of  law  since  1835,  and  is  now 
a  resident  of  Keokuk,  Iowa.  His  poems 
have  appeared  extensively  in  the  periodical 
press. 

OLD  SETTLER  VENTURES. 

Old  settler  life 
Though  good  and  true. 

Was  often  reckless  in  its  way, 
And  many  ventures 
Oft  engaged 

For  less  of  need  than  brave  display. 

To  cross  the  stream 
On  floating  ice  — 

Ice  rushing  wild  from  shore  to  shore, 
Or  stem  the  flood. 
On  horseback  ride. 

Were  feats  they  often  boasted  o'er. 
Or  chase  the  deer 
At  break-neck  speed. 

Dashing  as  fast  as  horse  could  gn, 
Or  pull  the  oar 
When  waves  ran  high. 

And  stem  the  stormy  current's  flow. 
Such  feats  as  these 
Wore  settler's  pride 

When  blood  flowed  free  in  youthful  veins, 


But  now  old  age 
Has  chilled  our  limbs 

And  turned  our  thoughts  to  other  strains. 
But  yet  could  we 
Our  youth  renew  — 

Turn  back  our  years  two  score  and  ten, 
We  would  agree, 
Though  reckless  'twas, 

To  do  these  same  feats  o'er  again. 
And  often  I,  in  depths  of  sleep. 

When  fancy  riots  uncontrolled, 
Imagiue  I 
Am  j'outh  again, 

And  living  as  in  days  of  old, 
A  settler  life  with  all  around. 
As  in  Old  Settler  age  I  found. 
And  when  I  wake,  and  find  'twas  dream. 
It  grieves  my  heart  it  had  not  been 

Not  fane3%  but  a  real  thing; 
For  settler  life  and  settler  ways 
Were,  all  in  all,  my  best  of  days; 

Where  social  life  by  all  was  sought. 

And  friendship  was  the  leading  thought. 


WOMAN  SUFFRAGE. 
They  say  a  woman  should  not  vote 

Because  she  is  not  a  yeoman: 
Because  she  cannot  wield  the  sword 

With  strength  and  force  of  foemau. 
But  I  divine  it  is  not  sword 

Nor  muscle  of  the  yeoman, 
But  intellect  which  casts  the  vote, 

And  that  most  comes  from  woman. 
I  never  knew  a  gifted  man 

But  came  from  gifted  mother. 
And  mostly  every  girl  I  know 

Is  smarter  then  her  brother. 
Tn  former  years  in  Iowa 

The  jail  was  common  passage 
When  poverty  could  not  pay  debts 

And  ci-editors  were  savage. 
But  that  old  shame  is  wiped  away 

By  lionest  legislation. 
Yet  woman's  servitude  remains 

A  scandal  to  our  nation. 
But  God's  great  mill,  tho'  it  grinds  slow, 

Yet  keeps  itself  in  motion. 
And  ere  twice  twenty  years  shall  pass 

Suffrage  will  be  woman's  portion. 


MARS. 
Mars  was  a  soldier  so  'tis  said, 

Witli  iron  liehnet  on  his  head, 
And  full  of  vengeful  ire; 

But  when  liis  eyes  sweet  Venus  saw, 
He  lost  his  ire  and  stood  in  awe. 

Subdued  by  love-lit  Are. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


815 


CHARLES  E.  HOAG. 

Born:  Moultonboro,  N.  H.,  Sept.  IS,  1849. 
In  1875  Cliarles  E.  Hoag-  was  admitted  to  the 
bar.    In  1885  he  purchased  the  Peabody  Re- 
porter, and  two  years  later  issued  the  Amer- 
ican Citizen,  at  Boston,  Mass.,  both  of  which 


CHARLES  E.  HOAG. 

publications  he  still  edits.  Mr.  Hoag  has 
published  several  works,  and  has  just  is- 
sued a  volume  of  poems  entitled  Chords 
and  Discords.  He  was  married  in  1884,  and 
resides  with  liis  wife  and  two  children  at 
Peabody,  Mass. 


SONG  OF  EIGHT. 
The  little  maid  was  eight  months  old, 

The  youth  as  many  years; 
He  held  her,  kissed  her,  O,  so  bold ! 

'Tis  love  that  has  no  fears. 
A  pretty  girl  of  ten  and  eight, 

A  gallant  youtli  of  eight  years  more; 
Again  he  holds  her  (kind  is  Fate !), 

And  kisses,  as  of  yore. 
She's  eighty  years  of  age  yet  fair; 

His  age— some  eight  years  more; 
His  pillowed  head  is  held  with  care, 

As  hers  was  held  before. 


SISTERS. 
Deep,  dark  eyes,  and  curly  liair. 
Rosy  cheeks,  and  face  so  fair  — 
That  is  Ena  standing  there 

By  her  mother's  side. 
Soft,  white  skin,  and  hair  that's  light. 
Pouting  lips  and  blue  eyes  bright  — 
Ila  makes  a  pretty  sight 

Trying  now  to  hide. 


Dark-eyed  Ena's  two  years  old; 
She's  the  elder  of  the  fold. 
Knowing  this  she's  very  old, 

Is  our  Ena  fair. 
Very  young  and  very  shj'. 
Knowing  not  the  reason  why  — 
She'll  be  older  bye-and-bye  — 

Ila  hiding  there. 
Ena  talks  to  Dolly  Dare: 
"  You  must  say  your  evening  prayer; 
Then  I'll  lay  you  right  down  there 

In  your  little  bed!  " 
Ila  looks  with  wondering  eyes 
At  the  ancient  girl,  then  sighs 
At  such  stern  parental  ties; 

Then  she  hides  her  head. 
Ena  kisses  Ila  dear, 
Tlien  says:  "  Baby,  have  no  fear. 
Sister  Ena's  standing  near — 

She's  a  great  big  girl." 
Since  from  liarm  she  is  so  free. 
Baby  Ila  laughs  with  glee; 
Hopes  that  she  sometime  will  be 

Such  a  great  big  girl. 
Will  this  always  seem  to  you  — 
Deep,  dark  eyes,  and  eyes  of  blue. 
These  so  old  and  these  so  new. 

On  life's  weary  way? 
May  you  both  be  always  strong. 
Love  the  right  and  fear  the  wrong; 
Happy,  joyous  be  your  song 

All  the  livelong  day! 


LOOKOUT  ROCK 
There  it  stands;  'tis  Lookout  Rock, 
Baptised  by  many  an  ocean  shock; 

Seaweed  clinging  to  its  side 
But  half  conceal  and  half  reveal 

The  jagged  face  they  fain  would  hide. 
There  it  stood  when  Earth  was  j-oung. 
When  Moses  taught  and  David  sung. 

Poets  then  had  much  to  say. 
But  half  revealed  and  half  concealed 

The  story  of  that  distant  day. 
There  'twill  stand  so  old  and  gray. 
And  years  will  come  and  pass  away: 
And  the  waves  that  round  it  dash 
Will  half  conceal  and  half  reveal 

Marks  that  note  the  lightning's  tiasli. 
There  it  stands,  and  there  you'll  find 
Strange  sights  for  eye  and  food  for  mind; 

Yet  so  spectral  all  appear 
That,  though  it  reveals,  it  lialf  conceals 

Weird  marks  of  life,  of  love,  and  fear. 
There  it  stands  a  sent'ne)  old. 
And  there  it  must  stand,  its  tale  untold. 

Poets,  as  in  otlier  days. 
Half  concealing,  half  revealing. 

Sing  its  song  in  divers  ways. 


*- 


816 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


FOR  MABEL'S  ALBUM. 

Little  Mabel,  luippy  Mabel, 
In  the  joyous  days  of  spring; 

Little  reck  you  of  the  future, 
Little  care  you  what  it  brings! 

Older  Mabel !  sadder  Mabel, 
Now  thy  autumn  days  are  near! 

Is  it  of  the  past  or  present 
Thou  would'st  most  prefer  to  hear? 

Angel  Mabel !  spirit  Mabel ' 
Earthly  joj-s  and  sorrows  past  — 

Do  j'ou  see  eternal  spring'time? 
Do  you  wear  the  crown  at  last? 


THE  PICTURE  ON  THE  WALL. 

See  that  picture  on  the  wall? 
An  old  picture,  that  is  all; 
Yet  that  picture  brings  to  view 
Other  days,  yet  always  new. 
Of  the  years  ago. 

See  that  house  upon  the  hill? 
See  the  meadow,  brook  and  miU? 
It  is  those  that  bring-  to  view 
Other  daj's,  yet  ever  new. 

Of  the  years  ago. 
Dear  old  picture  on  the  wall. 
Very  dear  if  very  small , 
Thou  art  ever  to  me  new. 
Ever  bringing'  to  my  view 

Years  of  long-  ago. 

White-haired  miller  in  the  mill. 
Brown-haired  maiden  on  the  hill. 
They  are  constantly  in  view, 
Never  old,  but  alwaj"s  new. 
New  as  years  of  old. 

Take  that  picture  from  the  wall! 
Ding-y  picture,  old  and  small? 
1  would  have  it  from  my  view, 
I  would  have  me  something-  new 
Now  upon  the  wall  < 

Dead,  the  miller  in  the  mill; 
Wed  the  maiden  on  the  hill; 
I  have  other  g-irls  in  view. 
And  I'll  place  a  picture  new 
Now  upon  the  wall. 


EXTRACT 
Thou  came  and  went  in  all  thy  meekness. 
Came  to  us  in  all  tiiy  weakness; 
Coming-,  going,  all  in  meekness, 
O,  how  much  of  life  is  bleakness 
In  this  world  of  oars! 


MRS.  CARRIE  W.  HOAG. 

Born  :  Peabody',  Mass.,  Dec.  30, 1856. 
After  graduating  from  the  high  school, 
this  lady  afterward  taught  school  for  a  few 
years,  but  delicate  health  compelled  her  to 
give  up  the  occupation.  She  was  married 
to  Charles  E.  Hoag  in  1884,  and  is  the  mother 
of  two  daugViters.  Her  verses  have  appeared 
from  time  to  time  in  the  American  Citizen, 
of  Boston,  and  the  Reporter,  of  Peabody, 
both  published  by  her  husband,  Charles  E. 
Hoag,  who  is  also  represented  elsewhere  in 
this  work. 


WIFE. 

What  is  the  name  to  me? 
Think  how  it  came  to  me; 

So  still  the  summer  night 
Gathered  around  us  there; 
Bending-  your  iiead  to  me. 
"My  wife,"  you  said  to  me  — 

•  'My  wife,"  in  accents  light. 

Soft  as  tliat  evening  air. 
How  like  sweet  birds  to  me 
Came  those  two  words  to  me. 

Singing  all  fears  to  rest  — 

Singing-  sweet  songs  of  love. 
That  keeps  it  near  to  me, 
Keeps  it  so  dear  to  me  — 

Me  ever  happy  and  blest  — 

Blest  as  the  spirits  above. 


THE  SISTERS. 
Two  sisters  there  were,  when  the  world  was 
young, 

Earth  was  fair,  and  life  was  g:iy. 
And  one  liad  eyes  like  midnight  skies. 

And  one  was  fair  as  day. 
But  a  young  lover  came  in  the  summer  time 

To  the  home  of  the  sisters  twain. 
They  loved  liim  in  truth  with  the  love  ot 
youth. 

But,  ah  1  they  loved  in  vain. 
He  played  them  false  with  his  vows  so  free, 

Till  the  love  they  bore  for  liiin 
Made  the  eyes  of  night  shine  tiercely  bright. 

And  the  light  of  day  grow  dim. 
He  went  on  his  way  when  the  Autunuicanio 

And  the  sighing  trees  were  bai-e;  j 

And  he   ne'er    rctunied    to    the   eyes   tha' 
burned 

Or  the  face  as  morning  fair, 
Th.ey  waited  and  watclied  while  hoi'O  g^•^ 
faint. 

Then  in  sorrow  passe<l  away; 
And  one  had  eyes  like  the  midnight  skies. 

And  one  was  fair  as  day. 


*- 


it 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMKRICA. 


817 


-* 


REV.  JOHN  B.  ROBINSON. 

Born:  Warren  Co.,  Ohio. 
Graduating  at  Ohio  Wesleyan  University 
in  1860,  Mr.  Robinson  the  same  year  was 
married  and  made  principal  of  Mount  Wash- 
ington Seminary,  near  Cincinnati.  He  was 
successively  president  of  WillouglibyCoUege, 
Fort  Wayne  College,  New  Hampshire  Semi- 


REV.  JOHN  B.  ROBINSON,  D.li     II 


nary  and  Female  College,  and  Jfiiiiiii--^  ^i  in- 
inary.  He  has  lectured  under  the  auspices 
of  some  of  the  bureaus.  This  gentleman 
has  published  the  following  worljs  in  prose: 
Infidelity  Considered,  Vines  of  Eshcol,  Com- 
mencements, Serpent  of  Sugar  Creek  Col- 
ony, Preacliers'  Pilgrimage,  etc.  He  has  also 
written  a  vast  number  of  fugitive  poems, 
but  his  chief  poetical  work  was  a  volume  en- 
titled Emeline,  or  Home,  Sweet  Home. 


MY  BRIDE. 

My  first,  my  last,  my  only  love. 

My  angel  bride,  my  purest  dove  I 

Let  others  probe  the  deep  unknown. 

And  circle  in  some  magic  zone. 

My  fancy  ends  its  ravished  drpam. 

Daylight  of  bliss  has  flung-  its  gleam; 

I'll  meet  thee  at  that  break  of  day, 

And  never  more  be  torn  away. 

Not  goddess  of  poetic  fame 

Such  ocean  wealth  of  worth  can  claim. 


O,  sacred  altar!  solemn  vowl 

Where  boundless  oceans  overflow, 

And  float  our  souls  upon  its  tide 

In  life-boat  to  the  other  side. 

Melt  warm  affection  in  a  glow. 

These  ocean  currents  overflow. 

Forever  like  a  sea  of  tears. 

That  weep  for  joy  a  thousand  years. 

Th'  immaculate  of  heaven's  throng 

Can  never  chant  a  sweeter  song. 

If  every  star  in  yonder  sky 

Were  riven  from  its  canopy 

And  crushed  to  make  a  starry  crown. 

Its  lustrous  wealth  should  be  thine  own. 

Let  fancy-painters  fade  away. 

Eclipsed  by  real  fruition's  ray. 

Deep  down  the  avenues  of  soul 

In  ravishment  let  nature  roll. 

Should  fortune  frown  or  hope  despond. 

Through  Christ  and  thee  I'll  iiope  bej'ond. 

On  Sabbath  morn,  that  happy  ••  now," 

I'll  print  caresses  on  thy  brow ; 

I'll  meet  thee  at  that  break  of  day. 

And  never  more  be  torn  awaj\ 


FIRSTLINGS. 

Two  milky  eggs  peeped  from  the  nest 
Which  mother  bird  warmed  with  her  breast; 
To  brood  and  watch  them  in  the  grove 
Her  faith  was  constant  as  her  love. 
She  warmed  the  gems  each  lonely  day 
While  father  bird  would  fly  away. 

At  break  of  day  "  peep !  peep !  "  Avas  heard 

Beneath  the  wings  of  mother  bird. 

"  What's  that  I  hear?"  chirped  Mr.  Thrush, 

"  I'm  at  my  morning  chorals,  liush ! 

Vour  curtain-lecture  starts  again. 

Or  did  your  hungry  crop  complain? 

You  should  be  here,  close  by  my  side. 

With  feathers  smooth  as  when  a  bride." 

"Peep!  peep!"  comes  from  the  nest  more 

clear. 
Till  all  his  feathers  stand  in  fear. 
Said  Mrs.  Thrush,  "Do  look  at  this  "  — 
A  scene  of  real  domestic  bliss. 
She  raised  her  breast  just  so  his  bill 
Could  peep  beneath  the  downy  frill. 
"Oh!  oh!"  said  lie,  "  what  pretty  things. 
So  like  their  papa's  silver  wings. 
We  did  it,  mamma,"  cliirruped  lie. 
And  hastened  gaily  down  the  tree. 
Ashamed  of  all  liis  sore  neglect, 
So  lately  vowing  to  protect. 
But  worms  and  seeds  are  lavished  now, 
The  infant  birdies  sealed  his  vow. 
No  happier  mates  could  love  or  blush 
Than  papa  and  good  mamma  Thrush. 
So  baby's  smile  inspires  esteem 
To  which  the  honeymoon's  a  dream. 


*- 


818 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


THOMAS  H.  ARNOLD. 

Born:  New  Orleans,  La.,  Dec.  36,  ISST. 
After  learning  the  printer's  trade  at  Mo- 
bile, Ala.,  tliis  writer  tor  three  years  was 
connected  witli  the  Times-Democrat,  of  New 
Orleans,  when  he  accepted  a  lucrative  posi- 
tion on  a  St.  Louis  publication.    For  three 


THOMAS  H.  ARNOLD. 

years  Mr.  Arnold  was  connected  witli  the 
Chattanooga  Times,  and  is  now  editor  of  tlie 
Middleborough  News,  of  which  publication 
he  is  also  president  and  manager.  In  1883  the 
subject  of  this  slsetch  was  married  to  Miss 
Mary  B.  Harrison,  by  whom  he  has  two  sons. 

"  'TISS  ME  AND  I'LL  DOE  TO  SLEEP." 

"'Tiss  me,  an'  T'U  doe  to  sleep," 

Said  our  darling-  sweet  and  low. 
For  her  face  was  flushed  and  fevered, 

And  her  breath  came  soft  and  low. 
O'er  her  crib  I  bent  and  watched  her. 

Stroking  back  her  golden  hair. 
And  my  heart  seemed  bowed  in  anguish 

Overladened  with  despair. 
..Don't  try,  mamma,  I'll  be  better 

Wlien  dis  night  is  done  away; 
Den  your  baby'll  tiss  and  love  'oo. 

Be  a  dood  cliild  all  de  day." 
How  each  word  seemed  bulened 

With  a  sori'ow  long  and  deep; 
How  my  heart  bled  when  she  whispered, 

.''Tiss  me  an'  I'll  doe  to  sleep! " 


Then  I  kissed  her,  oh,  so  fervent. 

Held  her  tiny  hands  in  mine, 
And  I  prayed  that  God  might  spare  her 

If  but  for  a  little  time. 
STes,  I  prayed  as  never  mother 

Prayed  for  that  she  longed  to  keep. 
And  again  the  v/ords  came  fainter, 

"'Tiss,  me  an'  I'll  doe  to  sleep." 
But  'twas  useless,  God  had  called  her. 

He  had  placed  his  signet  there 
On  the  pure  and  holy  forehead 

Of  my  baby  darling  fair. 
He  had  called  her  to  heaven. 

Where  the  angels  vigils  keep. 
So  the  Savior  bent  and  kissed  her. 

And  my  babe  had  gone  to  sleep. 
Oh,  ye  fathers,  and  ye  mothers 

Who  have  darlings  pure  and  fair. 
Guard  their  gentle  little  footsteps, 

Foster  them  with  tenderest  care; 
Hear  ye  not  the  angels  calling 

To  your  dear  ones  —  low  and  sweet? 
Hear  you  not  our  darling's  murmur, 
..'Tiss  me  an'  I'll  doe  to  sleep." 


THE  FARMER  TO  HIS  SON. 
So  yer  goin'  to  leave  the  old  home,  boy  — 

Yer  goin"  away  from  the  farm"? 
Well,  I'm  sorry  the  thing  hez  come  to  this, 

But  I  wish  yer  may  meet  no  harm. 
It's  hard  ter  think  we  must  give  yer  up  — 

Your  poor  old  mother  aiid  me; 
We've  tried  hard  fur  to  do  the  square  thing, 
boy. 
An'  to  tote  with  you  fair  and  free. 
The  world  is  filled  with  its  crooked  ways. 

And  the  city's  the  place  whar  they 
Is  found  on  every  corner  and  street- 

You'll  meet  'em  by  night  and  day. 
You'll  have  a  hard  time  to  'scape  sin,  John, 

Fur  they'll  always  be  in  yor  way ! 
But  jest  close  yer  eyes  and  think,  my  boy. 

What  the  old  folks  at  home  would  say. 
Just  think  that  yer  old  mother's  heart  would 
break 
If  yer  foot  should  slip  by  the  way; 
And  that  every  night  we'll  kneel  by  the  bed 

And  pray  for  our  boy  away. 
We'll  pray  that  some  time  he  may  wander 
back 
To  the  farm  where  he  often  has  played 
In  his  childhood's  home,  and  rest  his  head 

On  our  lireast  where  it  oft  has  laid. 
It 'taint  that  we're  'fraid  of  the  boy  we've 
raised. 
Or  that  aught  of  his  heart's  going  wrong. 
But  the  city  is  full  of  vices  and  sieh. 
And  temptation  for  sin  is  strong 


*- 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


819 


-»J. 


LAURENCE  W.  SCOTT. 

Born  :  Monongalia  Co., Va.,  May  29, 1846. 
The  subject  of  tliis  sketch  weut  to  Texas  in 
liis  youth,  where  he  learned  the  printer's 
trade.  He  was  at  one  time  local  editor  of 
the  Daily  Leader,  published  at  Coving-ton, 
Ky.    At  the  age  of  twenty  Mr.  Scott  became 


LAURENCE   W.    SCOTT. 

a  preacher,  and  has  become  somewhat  dis- 
tinguished as  a  theolog-ical  disputant.  In 
1872  he  returned  to  Texas,  where  he  pub- 
lished the  Olive  Rranch,  which  was  after- 
ward consolidated  with  the  Southern  Chris- 
tian Weekly.  He  is  the  author  of  Paradox 
and  Other  Poems,  besides  several  prose 
works. 


*- 


MARCHING  HOME. 

The  bells  of  heaven  are  ringing-. 
The  choir  of  heaven  is  singing-. 
The  pearly  gates  are  swinging. 

As  we  go  marching-  home. 
The  Ught  of  heaven  is  shining. 
The  shade  of  night's  declining, 
Tlie  clouds  have  silver  lining. 

As  we  go  marching  home. 
Tlie  harps  of  heaven  are  playing, 
Tlie  lieirs  of  heaven  arc  praying. 
To  God  their  homage  paying, 

.\s  we  go  marching  home. 


The  songs  of  lieaven  we're  singing. 
The  garnered  sheaves  we're  bringing. 
To  Jesus'  cross  we're  clinging. 

As  we  go  marching  home. 
The  silver  is  refining. 
The  dross  of  earth  dechning. 
The  golden  ore  we're  mining. 

As  we  go  marching  home. 
"We  long  for  heaven,"  we're  saying. 
On  Christ  our  hopes  we're  staying. 
To  God  we're  Immbly  praying. 

As  we  go  marchirig  home. 
Our  souls  in  heaven  we're  saving, 
In  blood  our  robes  we're  laving. 
The  banners  liigh  are  waving. 

As  we  arriv(!  at  home. 


BALxM  IN  GILEAD. 
A  Christian  lies  upon  his  cot. 

With  aching-  heart  and  limb; 
Suffering  long  has  been  his  lot; 

His  sister  reads  to  him: 
•  •  Is  there  no  balm  in  Gilead  ?  " 
And  "Is  there  no  physician  there?" 
"Grant  us  balm  o'  Gilead," 

Is  his  mother's  prayer, 

••Soothing-  balm  o'  Gilead, 

Cordial  for  our  care." 

His  frame  is  racked  with  misery. 

His  nerves  are  twinged  with  pain. 
His  soul  is  full  of  agony. 
And  this  his  sad  refrain: 
"Is  there  no  balm  in  Gilead? 
Oh.  is  there  no  physician  there?" 
Echo  answers,  .'Iliad! " 
Echo  answers,  "  air!  " 
Answers  faintly,  "  Iliad," 
Expiring  on  the  air. 
His  father  from  his  study  comes - 

His  hearing  is  not  clear  — 
He  raises  to  his  head  his  thumbs. 
And  bends  his  ears  to  hear: 
"Is  there  no  balm  in  Gilead? 
Oh,  is  there  no  physician  there?" 
"  Here  is  Homer's  Iliad  — 

Doctor,  too,  is  near! " 
Holding  Homer's  Iliad, 
He  soils  it  with  a  tear. 
The  doctor  comes  with  solemn  mein 

And  looks  Into  his  face; 
He  feels  his  pulse  and  sees  his  tongue 
And  hears  his  cry  for  grace: 
"  Is  there  no  balm  in  Gilead? 

Oh,  is  there  no  physician  there?" 
Doctor  queries,  "Gilead?" 
Doctor  whispers,  "there?" 

Musing,  queries,  "Gilead?" 
Wondering,  whispers,  "there!" 


-* 


*- 


820 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


ELVIRA  H.  HOLLOWAY. 

Born:  Richvil,l,e,  N.Y. 

This  lady  went  to  San  Francisco,  Cal.,  in 
1860,  and  holds  a  teacher's  life  diploma  for 
that  state.    Her  poems  have  appeared  in  the 


EL.V1KA   HASKINS  HOLLOWAY. 

New  York  Tribune  and  various  other  publi- 
cations, generally  under  a  nom  de  plume. 
She  is  now  preparing-  a  volume  of  poems  for 
publication. 

THE  BURNING  BUSH. 
The  Burning  Bush  that  Bible  lore 

Records  as  seen  by  Moses, 
Perchance,  was  the  sunlight  streaming 

Through  a  bush  aflame  with  roses. 

Fair  petals  crowned  with  gems  of  light. 
Glowing  with  glistening  pearls. 

As  the  roseate  flush  of  dawn, 
Her  banner  of  beauty  unfurled. 

Our  great  creator  through  his  works 

His  wisdom  thus  discloses; 
And  by  this  wondrous  power 

He  spake  in  the  bush  to  Moses. 

Through  all  the  fair  creation. 
Through  flow'ret,  loaf  :uid  tree. 

He  is  speaking  by  his  wisdom 
In  tones  of  mystery. 


WAIT  NOT. 
Wait  not  till  the  leaves  have  fallen 

From  the  rose  tree,  in  full  bloom ; 
Ere  you  cull  the  fragrant  blossoms. 

Would  you  gather  their  perfume 

Seek  not  in  the  winding  pathways 
Of  the  vine-wreathed  sylvan  glade. 

For  the  glory  that  departed 
With  the  summer's  beauteous  shade. 

Do  not  wait  till  loved  ones  falter. 
Droop  and  perish  by  your  side; 

If  their  burden  you  may  lighten. 
Or,  with  helping  hand  may  guide. 

If  with  loving  thoughts  and  kindly. 
You  some  darkened  life  would  cheer. 

Speak  them  while  the  tender  accents. 
Fall  with  music  on  the  ear. 

Do  not  wait  till  loving-  glances 
Are  bj'  death's  chill  shadow  marred. 

Speak  the  words  of  love  and  kindness. 
Ere  the  eai-s  are  closed  and  barred. 

Send  the.  lovelj'  fragrant  blossoms. 
While  the  soul's  deep  sense  may  know 

All  the  wealth  of  true  aftection. 
That  doth  from  love's  fountain  flow. 

Do  not  wait  till  icy  fingers 
Place  their  signet  on  the  brow ; 

Crown  with  love's  sweet  benediction. 
Ere  too  late,  the  tardy  vow. 


OUR  PATRIOT  DEAD. 
Whene'er  we  tread  on  freedom's  plain 
We  wake  to  life  her  dead  again! 
Though  their  mounds  are  worn  away 
By  the  waves  of  time's  decay. 
Their  deeds  immortal  and  sublime 
Live  through  the  cliangmg  years  of  time. 
As  ages  pass  with  silent  tread, 
Tlie  memory  of  our  patriot  dead 
Will  live  forever  in  tlie  soul, 
As  the  cycles  onward  roll; 
And  evermore  will  prajan-s  arise 
As  grateful  incense  to  the  skies. 
How  loved,  how  lionored  are  their  names. 
Though  naught  of  them  but  dust  remains; 
Yet,  heroes  die  not  with  their  dust, 
Let  earth  enclose  her  sacred  trust; 
The  atti-ibutes  divine  were  given 
As  the  inheritors  of  lieaven. 
Fame  will  iiiifadiiig  laurels  wreathe. 
For  them  proud  elcxiurnce  will  breathe 
In  lofty  strains  their  highest  praise; 
And  poesy  witli  graceful  phrase 
For  them  her  fairest  flow'rswill  twine 
And  consecrate  to  freedom's  shrine. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


821 


-« 


HU  MAXWELL. 

Boun:  St.  George,  W.Va.,  Sept.  23,  1800. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Hu  Maxwell  have  appear- 
ed in  the  li'iidini;-  duily  :iiid  woukly  iirw 


Hr   MAXWKI.T, 

pers.    He    follows  the  proiession  of  a  civil 
engineer,  and  slill  resides  in  his  native  place. 


*- 


TO  AMY. 
I  cannot  say  that  I  would  wish  thee  blest 
Entirely,  always  with  no  cloud  of  shade 
To  cross  thy  pathway.    It  perhaps  were  best 
Tluit  so  it  should  not  be.   The  summers  fade 
To  bloom  more  beautiful  with  flowers  ar- 
rayed [dread 
When  storms  are  o'er,  and  when  the  winter's 
No  longer  hovers  In  the  angry  west. 
It  will  be  so  with   thee.    The  shades  that 
spread                                               [stead. 
Above  thee  will  but  bring  a  purer  light  in- 
But  I  would  never  liave  dull  sorrow  crush 
That  gentle  iit-art  of  thine,  too   kind  and 
true  [rush 
For  the  rough  ways  of  earth,  nor  memories 
Remorseless  on  you.    It  were  best  for  you 
To  know  not  these.    'Neath  .skies  serene 
and  blue 


Almost  forever  —  just  a  shadowy  day  [brush 
Sometimes,  the  merest  shade  of  clouds  to 
The  azure  from  above  —  I'd  have  thy  way 
Lead  in  wliere  light  and  love  and  sheen  and 
shadows  play. 


A  SONG. 
•  •  Softlj-  calling,"  sings  the  sailor, 

"  Whisper  low  the  winds  to  me. 
At  they  come  with  gentle  welcome. 

Calling  softly  o'er  the  sea." 
And  the  sailor  by  the  islands 

Of  the  southern  ocean  far 
Lingers  while  along  the  waters 

Trembles  faint  the  evening  star. 
Then  his  dreaming  lightly  wanders 

To  that  distant  haven  fair. 
Where  she  waits,  while  winds  are  playing 

With  her  sunny,  golden  hair. 
And  he  hears  the  passing  whisper 

Of  the  winds  through  flower  and  tree. 
And  he  sings:  "Her  voice  is  calling. 

Calling  softly  o'er  the  sea." 


THE  EVENING  STAR. 
Fair   Evening  Star,  now   gleaming  calmly 
bright 

Above  the  crest  of  mountains  far  away. 
Thou  shinest  silent  o'er  the  world  to-night 

As  thou  wilt  gleam  in  peacefulness  for  aye. 
I  cannot  sleep.    Thy  beams  of  silvery  white 

Like  fairj-  forms  around  me  softly  play, 
.\nd  soothe  me  into  memories  that  throng 

Rack  to  the  rapturous  summer  of  tlie  Past. 
Bright  star,  tliat  shineth  all  the  still  liours 
long, 

Perhaps  even  now  thy  silver  beams  are  cast 
Through  that  far  window,  where  in  sweet 
repose 

My  gentle  "Vivian  sleeps   and  dreams  in 

bliss !  [rose. 

Calm  star,  touch  soft  her  fair  cheek,  like  the 

And  as  she  sleeps  bestow  for  nie  a  kiss. 
Disturb  her  not.    'Tis  well  that  she  can  rest 

Unconscious  of  the  Past.    Let  balmy  sleep 
Soothe,sweetly  whom  the  angels  love  the  best 

And  vigil  o'er  her  slunibi'r  kindly  keep. 
Calm  star,  yet  radiant  in  the  sinking  West, 

Thou  knowest  not  what  liotli  buried  deep 
In  human  hearts.    She  drearaeth  not  of  me. 

My  Vivian  to-night,  and  it  is  well. 
Then,  star,  go  down  into  that  western  sea. 

Thou  knowest  not,  and  tongue  shall  never 
tell! 
But  ere  thou  leave  me  lonely  here  to-night. 

And  train  thy  beams  along ,some  distant 

shore,  [lig'ht. 

Shine  through  that  window  with  thy  silent 

And  on  her  cheek  for  me  leave  one  kiss  more. 


*- 


822 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


CHARLES  M.  >s^EWELL. 

Boun:  Concord,  Mass.,  Nov.  23, 182L 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  took  to  the  sea 
before  he  was  seventeen  years  of  age,  and 
followed  that  occupation  for  twenty  years, 
sailing  on  long  voyages  to  all  parts  of  the 
world.  He  became  master  of  a  ship  at  the 
age  of  twenty-six,  and  continued  so  for  ten 
years.  He  then  left  the  sea  to  study  medi- 
cine, in  which  he  has  been  very  successful. 


CHARLES  MARTIN  NEWELL. 

Mr.  Newell  has  published,  in  addition  to 
medical  literature,  six  volumes  of  prose  of 
nearly  500  pages  each,  entitled  The  Voyage 
of  the  Fleetwing,  The  Isle  of  Palms,  the 
Wreck  of  the  Greyhound,  and  others,  which 
have  given  him  a  world-wide  reputation  as  a 
writer  of  sea-stories.  Mr.  Newell  was  mar- 
ried in  1855,  and  is  a  resident  of  Boston, 
Mass.  The  jewel  shown  in  his  portrait  is  the 
insignia  of  a  Knight  Companion  of  the  Order 
of  Kapiolani,  and  was  presented  to  him  by 
the  king  of  Hawaii  in  appreciation  of  Mr. 
Newell's  work,  Kalani  of  Oahu.  The  poems 
of  this  popular  author  will  be  published  m 
book-form  in  the  near  fut  lire. 


O,  dream  to-night  one  dream  of  me! 

Dream  I  am  pure  and  fair, 
My  heart  all  bright  with  melody. 

The  Bride-rose  in  my  hair. 
No  harm  to  dream  a  dreamland  kiss. 

To  only  dream  of  me ! 
It  fills  my  heart  with  a  witching  bliss 

Whene'er  I  dream  of  thee. 
O  dream  of  me  these  soft  night-hours  - 

God  grant  I  may  dream  of  thee ! 
Like  perfume  from  the  garden  flowers. 

Our  love  in  dreams  will  be. 


DREAM  THOU  OF  ME. 

Dream  thoa  of  me,  these  soft  night-liours? 

Dost  dream  of  love  divine? 
Forget,  dear  Love!  the  fate  that  lowers; 

Forget  that  thou  art  not  mine. 


ALOATA'S  DEATH  SONG. 
Tuning  her  lute  with  fingers  fair. 
Tuning  her  lute  to  divine  despair. 
Touching  the  strings  with  a  girl's  caress. 
Freeing  her  face  from  a  raven  tress. 
Sadly  she  sang  in  a  voice  so  sweet! 
Cooing  her  notes  as  the  wood  doves  greet 
Into  her  voice,  with  its  gift  of  song. 
Into  her  lute,  with  its  tones  of  wrong. 
Sorrow  crept  in  like  a  sad  refrain. 
Till  song  and  lute  seemed  a  cry  of  pain. 
Wringing  the  heart  of  the  man  she  loved  — 
Never  again  have  his  lips  reproved. 
Ending  her  song,  she  was  dumb  and  mute; 
Snapping  the  strings  of  her  heart  and  lute. 
Silent  she  sat,  with  her  face  to  the  moon. 
Tearless  and  pale,  like  a  soul  in  swoon; 
Into  her  face  crept  a  look  of  woe 
Only  the  heart-breaking  soul  may  know? 
Swooning,  she  fell  with  her  arms  on  high, 
Reaching  to  God  with  an  anguish  cry; 
Falling,  she  lay  on  her  lover's  breast. 
Bleeding  from  lips  where  his  kisses  pressed; 
Broken  -  the  heart  that  had  loved  so  long! 
Winning  his  love  with  her  dying  song. 

THE  ISLE  OF  PALMS. 
There's  an  isle  I  love  in  the  Southland  seas, 
Where  the  palm  waves  tall  in  the  trade-wind 

breeze;  . 

Where  the  flow'ring  vines  leap  aloft  on  high 
Like  appealing  hands  reaching  up  to  the  sky. 
There  the  Sabbath-bells  are  the  golden  fruit, 
As  dumb  in  their  chimes  as  the  silent  lute; 
There  the  orange  blossoms  their  stars  iin- 

foid,  [^«'*': 

And  the  jasmine  gleams  with  its  stars  oi 
E'en  the  sea  below,  in  its  coral  eaves. 
Has  its  Mermaids  fair  in  the  azure  waves; 
They  ring  on  the  shore  to  the  summer  moon 
Wifii  the  voice  of  a  lute  in  its  sweetest  tune. 
Tis  an  Isle  of  beaut  y !  Spirits  guard  the  plaro. 
And  the  wing-breeze  of  spirits  fan  the  facei^ 
There  the  sea-worn  mariner, bowed  wit  li  cart, 
Finds  an  ear-divine  to  receive  his  pray  r 


*- 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


823 


-* 


MONTGOMERY  M.  FOLSOM. 

Born:  Hahira,  Ga.,  Jan.  31, 1857. 
In  bis  youtli  tliis  writer  was  a  great  reader 
of  Josoplius,  Telemadus  and  other  works  of 
like  nature.  Wlien  eig-hteen  years  of  ag-e  he 
went  to  Southern  Florida,  tlien  a  wilderness, 
where  he  spent  several  years  as  a  hunter 
and  woodsman,  occasionally  teaching-  a  coun- 
try school  in  the  back  woods.     For  awhile 


MONTGOMERY  M.  FOf-'-OM. 

he  was  a  f aimer,  then  a  country  mereluint, 
and  then  a  teacher.  Anally  drifting-  into  jour- 
nalism. His  work  finding  favor  with  the 
late  Henry  \V.  Grady,  Mr.  Folsom  was  em- 
ployed on  the  Atlanta  Constitution.  In  1888 
he  published  Scraps  of  Song-  and  Southern 
Scenes,  a  very  fine  collection  of  jioems  and 
sketches.  Mr.  Folsom  has  made  a  national 
reputation  as  a  story,  sketch  and  editorial 
writer,  reporter,  correspondent  and  as  a  poet. 
He  was  married  in  1879  to  Fannie  B.  Croft, 
and  now  resides  with  his  wife  and  four  chil- 
dren at  Atlanta,  Ga.,  where  lie  is  on  the  edi- 
torial staflf  of  the  Constitution. 


A  WOMAN'S  WORD. 

I  told  you  nay  when  last  we  met; 
I  knew  'tis  inconsistent,  yet, 


Upon  reflectien,  1  confess 
Wells  from  my  heart  the  answer  - 
Uncertain  as  a  humming  bird 
Upon  the  wing,  a  woman's  word ! 


res! 


I  love  you,  but  I've  changed  my  mind; 

I  do  not  mean  to  be  unkind; 

I  see  it  in  a  different  light, 

And  really  must  say  ••  No!  "  to-night. 

No  leaf  by  varying  breezes  stirred 

So  changeful  as  a  woman's  word. 


O,  love,  pray  press  your  lips  to  mine. 
Once  more  your  arms  around  me  twine; 
Now,  that  life's  tide  is  ebbing  fast, 
I  will  be  consistent,  true,  at  last! 
Heartsick  from  hope  too  long  deferred  — 
A  woman's  word !    A  woman's  word ! 


TO  HENRY  W.  GRADY. 

True  Friend: 
To  wliom  my  heart  hath  turned 
When  in  Life's  skies  in  splendor  burned 
The  Star  of  Hope.    And  oft  to  whom 
My  soul  hath  looked  when  deepest  gloom 
Of  dark  adversity  appalled: 

To  Thee: 
To  whom  I  oft  have  called 
For  help  and  sympatliy  and  cheer      [drear 
When    clouds  were   dark  and  skies  were 
And  never,  never  called  in  vain; 
This  modest  tribute  of  my  bi-ain 

Tn  Love 
I  dedicate,  and  bring 
With  this  a  heart's  free  offering. 
Through  every  change  or  varying  mood. 
Of  deep,  undying  gratitude. 

A  SPRAY  OF  HELIOTROPE. 
A  withered  spray  of  lieliotrope. 

With  one  poor  faded  blossom. 
Fit  emblem  of  a  cherished  hope 

Borne  in  his  restless  bosom. 
Were't  like  that  "Resurrection  Rose," 

In  Mexic  legend  tender. 
That  'neath  the  showers  of  April  bUiws 

Anew  in  heightened  splendor; 
So  might  tliat  dead  liope  bloom  again 

In  beauteous  form  atid  fashion. 
After  the  driving,  blinding  rain 

Of  some  wild  gust  of  passion. 
Reminder  of  what  I  forgot  — 

The  glamor  and  the  glory. 
The  sacred  joy,  the  vain  regret 

Of  one  sweet  summer  story. 
Tliough  shadows  dark  increase  the  scope 

Of  sorrows  that  enslave  me, 
I'll  keep  this  spray  of  heliotrope 

That  long  ago  you  gave  me ! 


-* 


*- 


824 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


SEPARATION. 
So  near  and  yet  so  far  apart. 

Dear  faithful  heart! 
Day  after  day  we  meet  and  greet 

Upon  the  street 
With  -words  so  calm  and  dignified. 

Such  well-feig-iicd  pride. 
None  guess  we  love  —  ah,  none  can  know?  - 

Each  other  so ! 
And  yet,  though  circumspect  and  wise, 

Our  tell-tale  eyes 
Give  —  unvoiced  thoughts  we  dare  not  say 

Our  souls  away ; 
And  wakened  by  their  ardent  beam 

From  blissful  dreams. 
The  youthful  god,  with  mischief  rife, 

Renews  the  strife. 
So  far  apart,  and  yet  so  near. 

We  linger  here; 
The  radiance  in  your  love-lit  eyes 

The  tear-drop  dries 
In  mine,  just  as  the  distant  sun 

Drive?,  one  by  one. 
The  dew-drops  off  that  tremble  on 
The  cheek  of  Dawn. 


THEY  WILL  MISS  YOU. 
I  am  sure  the  birds  will  miss  you 

Bye  and  bye; 
Whispering  winds  will  loug  to  kiss  you 

When  the  sky 
Wears  a  veil  of  teary  sadness. 
Shadowing  the  summer  gladness. 

When  you  die! 
Flashing  waters,  lowly  humming 

Out  of  tune. 
Blossoms  bright  that  loved  your  coming 

As  a  boon ; 
Smile  no  more,  but  grieve  and  wonder  - 
Busy  bees  will  sadly  ponder 

As  they  croon ! 
Starry  eyes  of  night  will  glisten 

Through  their  tears; 
Chant  the  whip-poor-will  and  listen 

Through  the  years. 
Ever  sighing  and  recalling 
That  'tis  not  your  light  step  falling 

That  he  hears! 
Children,  too,  with  sober  faces. 

They  will  tell 
How  that  you,  with  all  your  graces. 

Loved  tliem  well ! 
Treasured  memories  will  awaketh 
With  your  name,  in  hearts  forsaken 

Isabel ! 
But  one  heart  e'en  nbw  must  languish. 

Sob  and  moan  — 
Bear  its  load  of  pain  and  anguish  - 


And  unknown. 
Like  some  tortured  soul  unshriveu. 
Watch  the  guarded  gates  of  heaven 

All  alone ! 

Yet,  I  know  the  world  will  miss  you 

When  life's  done; 
But  I  envy  now  the  winds  that  kiss  you. 

And  the  sun 
Who,  with  rapturous  caresses, 
Touches  now  your  shining  tresses  — 

Happy  one ! 
From  December  to  December, 

All  the  way 
Through  life's  decline  will  remember 

That  bright  day 
When,  upon  your  snowy  bosom. 
Bloomed  a  spray  of  apple  blossom 

In  the  May ! 
Oh,  the  words  I  cannot  fashion. 

Though  I  try; 
For  th'  unfathomed  depth  of  passion 

Drowns  the  cry ' 
You  will  know  it  all  and  feel  it 
When  mists  of  earth  no  more  conceal  it  — 
Bvc  and  bye! 


MY  LADYS  EYES. 
My  Lady's  eyes 
Are  like  the  dyes 
Of  Indian  summer's  ]:)luest  skies; 
And  in  their  deeps 
An  angel  keeps 
His  watch,  while  infant  Cupid  sleeps. 
Her  brow  is  white 
As  snow  and  bright 
As  April's  incandescent  light 

When  south-winds  bring 
And  gently  fling 
Their  treasures  at  the  feet  of  Spring. 
Nor  dark  nor  fair 
Her  twining  hair. 
But  all  the  rays  of  evening  share; 
Each  tender  touch 
And  tint  is  such 
I  only  know  I  love  them  much. 
The  rich  rays  seek 
Her  rounded  cheek 
Like  sunbeams  clustering  'round  some  peak 
Where  ebbs  and  flows 
And  burns  and  glows 
The  blended  light  of  suns  and  snows. 
Her  sweet  breath  tips 
Those  rosy  lips 
With  honey  dew  the  brown  bee  sips 
From  fragrant  flowers. 
In  wavehuul  bowers. 
At  evening's  calm  and  tranquil  hours. 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


825 


* 


LUTHER  GRANGER  RIGGS. 

Born:  Fairfield  Co.,  Conn.,  Sept.  38,  1837. 
This  editor,  author  aud  poet  commenced 
liis  career  as  a  printer,  at  the  same  time  con- 
tributing stories,  slvetclies  and  verse  to  nioic 
than  a  score  of  the  leading-  publications  of 
America.  Since  that  time  he  has  contri- 
bntcd  to  Graliam's  Magazine,  Peterson's 
Magazine,  Godey's  Lady's  Book,  aud  hun- 


« 


liXJTHER  GRANGER  RIGGS. 

dreds  of  otlier  equally  prominent  publica- 
tions. After  serving  through  the  war,  Capt. 
Riggs  began  tlie  publication  of  the  Meriden 
Recorder,  which  he  successfully  conducted 
for  twenty-one  years,  issuing  both  daily  and 
weekly  editions.  For  a  number  of  j-ears  lie 
also  published  and  conducted  the  Evening 
Journal,  the  Morning  Call,  the  Citizen,  the 
Wallingford  Forum,  and  the  New  Haven 
BailyNews.  Capt.  Riggs  was  for  five  suc- 
cessive years  an  official  reporter  of  the  Con- 
necticut state  senate.  Ill  1875  he  published 
a  collection  of  liis  miscellaneous  poems,  and 
a  second  edition  was  issued,  which  was 
speedily  sold.  In  the  fall  of  1883  Capt.  Riggs 
located  in  Chicago,  where  he  has  written 
largely  for  the  Chicago  Tribune,  Times, 
Herald,  Inter-Oeean  and  News;  prepared 
many  scientific  and  descriptive  articles  for 
Andreas'  History  of  Chicago,  edited  trade 
journals,   and  has  done  an  almost   infinite 


amount  of  specialty  work.  In  1877  Capt. 
Riggs  married  Miss  Ray  Warner,  daugliter 
of  Samuel  Warner,  of  Apple  River,  Jo 
Daviess  county,  Illinois.  He  is  now  editor 
of  tlie  Recorder,  pul)li.s.hod  at  Richmond, 
Illinois. 


LIFE'S  SUNSET  HOUR. 
The  western  hills  are  fading  now. 

The  golden-tinted  clouds  are  gone. 
The  rapid  river's  ripples  flow 

More  faintly  in  my  fancy  on. 
Tlie  sweet  repose,  so  still,  so  calm, 

Whicli  sunset's  softening  shades  impart, 
Migiit  soothe,  metliinks,  likeGilead's  balm. 

The  weary  or  the  wounded  heart. 

The  flowers'  scent,  the  forests'  force, 

Sweet  silence  of  pale  stars  still  sliare. 
Since  sorrow's  shadow  its  sad  source 

Secrets  with  solemn,  sober  air. 
Now  its  fierce  fires  spread  o'er  the  soul; 

No  drop  of  dew  dispels  the  heat; 
The  eartli  seems  shriveled  like  a  scroll. 

Nor  lonely  lakes  lave  lonely  feet. 

\Vhere  waves    are  wild,  where   shores    are 
steep. 

And  princely  pines  peer  down  in  pride; 
Where  waters  cheerless,  dark  and  deep 

In  gloomy  groans  grate  on  life's  tide; 
Wliere  reeds  and  rushes,  red  and  ranlv. 

Skirt  shining  strand  of  shell-strewn  shore. 
Or  foamy  seas  sweep  o'er  steep  bank, 

I  list  the  waves'  low,  sullen  roar. 

I  know  not  why,  but  at  this  hour. 

When  sinks  the  golden  sun  to  rest, 
I  turn  with  strange,  impelling  power 

A  searching  glance  within  my  breast, 
And  in  the  day's  receding  light 

Tlie  veil  falls  from  my  heart  anew. 
And  all  grows  dim  to  human  siglit. 

And  but  One  Eye  its  faults  can  view. 

The  sun-set  hour  is  sweeter  far 

Than  glittering  glare  of  glowing  noon, 
I  love  to  watch  the  first  faint  star 

Or  gaze  upon  the  crescent  moon ; 
Then  thotight  flies  high,  and  memory 

Sleeps  in  the  quiet  of  the  scene. 
Till  in  the  future  far  I  see 

A  desert  isle,  forever  green. 

'Tis  fancy  all!    Eiirth  hath  no  rest! 

Life's  busy  throng,  with  bustling  air, 
Press  on ;  while  liidden  in  each  breast 

Are  eager  hope  and  anxious  care, 
Till,  torn  by  turbulent  desires. 

And  chilled  by  disappointments  past, 
Consumed  by  passion's  fevered  fires. 

Life's  sunset-Iiour  is  readied  at  last. 


-* 


*- 


* 


826 


LOCAI.   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OK   AMERICA. 


CHARITY. 
Be  thou,  O  man '.  in  all  thy  ways 
Generous  as  love,  and  like  the  rays 
Shot  from  the  sun  to  warm  the  field: 
Let  thy  full  sheath  its  substance  yield, 
Not  with  a  stealth,  but  free  as  love. 
As  God  sends  rain  from  clouds  above 
To  water  fields  with  gentle  sliowers. 
And  woo  the  seeds  to  burst  in  flowers. 
So  all  through  life,  ye  sons  of  man. 
Aid  ye  the  heart  in  this  great  plan. 
To  wreathe  in  smiles  each  careworn  face, 
And  plant  within  the  soul  new  grace. 
Give  of  thy  store,  though  small  it  be. 
As  God  gives  life  and  health  to  thee; 
Oh !  blest  it  he  who  gives  with  love 
His  charity,  and  high  above 
Tlie  angels  sign  and  gild  his  name 
On  the  eternal  scroll  of  fame! 


*- 


EVENING. 
When  the  long,  bright  hours  are  numbered. 

And  the  daylight  beauty  dies; 
When  the  stars  tlieir  nightly  watch-fires 

Kindle  in  tiie  western  skies. 
What  is  that  which,  gently  stealing. 

Dream-like  o'er  the  musing  mind. 
Calms  each  wayward  thought  and  feeling 

With  a  magic  undefined? 
Hark!  the  sound  of  distant  waters. 

Murmuring  in  their  ceaseless  play. 
Comes  upon  the  breath  of  evening. 

Blending  with  the  night-bird's  lay. 
Whence  the  power  that  strangely  sways  us. 

As  we  list  that  magic  tune. 
Bringing  back  fond,  faded  memories 

With  the  glances  of  the  moon? 
Now  the  evening-star  nrises 

Brightly  o'er  the  wooded  hill. 
Gilding  with  its  mellow  radiance 

Field  and  forest,  fount  and  rill; 
Knowest  thou  whenci^  this  strange  emotioti, 

Stirring  e'en  the  fount  of  tears- 
Why  the  glance,  so  quick  and  searching. 

Backward  flies  to  childhood's  years? 

Is  it  memory  of  the  wildwood. 

Wherein  early  life  we  straj'ed. 
Or  the  moonlit  haunts  of  childhood. 

Where  we  innocently  played? 
Is  it  name  of  friend  or  brother. 

Hoarded  long  in  memory's  cell. 
Or  tiio  mild  glance  of  our  mother 

That  awakes  tlie  mystic  spell? 
Deep  within  that  spell  is  centered  — 

Yet  what  tongue  can  speak  the  whole  — 
Wlio  reveal  the  hidden  power 

Of  the  strange,  mysterious  soul? 


Ever  unexplained  yet  in-csent 
With  our  spirits  dwell  the  power 

Potent  thus  to  move  and  sway  us 
In  the  pensive  evening  hour. 


IMPULSE. 


The  silvery  sun   shone  through  a  cloudless 

sky, 
And  bright  the   blossoms    borne    on  shrub 

atid  tree; 
Sweet  was  the  hum  of  the  industrious  bee. 
While  birds  filled  all  the  air  with  melody. 
I  saw  her  tie  her  hat  beneath  her  chin ; 
I  saw  her  band  her  raven  ringlets  in; 
But  not  alone  were    these    cauglit   in  lier 

snare. 
For  O!  my  truant  heart  went  roving  there! 
The  rude  rough  winds  witli  her  thick  tresses 

played ; 
They  madly  l)lew  her  curls  across  my  face? 
They  chased  her  ringlets  in  a  frolic  race; 
They  played  sad  tricks  with  my  sweet  rural 

maid; 
How  could  I  less  than  gently  fold  her  in. 
Or  how  forbear  to  kiss  her  dimpled  chin? 


ASPIRATIONS. 
O,  for  the  mistral's  strong  wing,  hence  to  fly 
To  realms  where  the  bards  wake  soul-mel- 
ody — 
Where,  in  mystical  harmony,  fair  buds  and 

bright  flowers 
Blend  their  voices  with  twin  stars  and  sing 

of  the  liours; 
Where  the  zephyr  and  sunbenin.  in  ecstatic 

delight, 
Playful  dalliance  give  fairies,  then  hideout 

of  sight; 
While  the  lute's  melting  iiiusic  in  soft  tones 

swept  by. 
And  the  harp's  grand   choral   wakes  sweet 

melodj-. 

O,  for  the  wings  of  the  wild  Lutin-steed, 

To  bear  me  to  charmed  flower-circles  with 
speed ! 

Wliere  the  lightning's  dread  waiul  cncliant- 
eth  the  ground. 

And  luminous  footprints  tlie  sprites  scatter 
round.; 

Where  fond  Hope  hath  planted,  'mid  scenes 
of  deep  gloom. 

Bulbs  of  Fancy  and  Feeling,  whose  perpet- 
ual bloom 

With  the  blossoms  of  Sympathy  juM-feetly 
blend. 

And  the  delicate  odors  waft  to  earth's  re- 
mote end. 


*- 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


— * 


827 


MRS.  MAY  C.  SHAPLEIGH. 

Born:  St.  Louis,  Mo 
In  1878  this  l.idj'  was  nuirried  t(3  Augustus 
F.  Shapleigh,  of  St.  Louis,  Mo.,  wliere   she 
now  resides  with   her  husband  and  two 


^.  \,  -  V: 


;    Vn 


.^iiL 


Jn{ S.MAY  C.  SHAPLEIGH. 

children.  Mrs.  Shapleig-h  has  written  more 
than  a  hundred  poems  anri  a  number  of 
plays. 


THE  ARTISTS  LAMENT. 
You've  ensnared  my  heart,  my  darling. 

With  your  burnt  sienna  liair, 
Witli  your  cobalt  eyes,  beloved, 

And  your  cheeks  of  carmine  rare: 
And  your  smile  has  quite  bewitclied  me. 

Oh,  that  soft  Vermillion  smile! 
As  your  teetli  of  Kremnitz  white 

Gleamed  dazzlingly  the  wliile! 
Let  those  blushes  of  rose  madder 

But  faintly  ting-e  your  clieek. 
And  those  drooping-  eyelids  shadow 

With  neutral  shadows  while  I  speak. 
May  the  Naples  yellow  high  lig-hts 

Of  your  soft  sienna  hair. 
Rest  lifrhtly  and  distoi-b  not 

Those  Vandyke  shadows  there  I 
Sitting  silently  before  me. 

Ideal  of  my  dream ! 
"  As  pretty  as  a  picture  " 

In  your  reverie  you  seem. 


And  I  love  you  as  you  sit  there 

In  your  robe  of  Prussian  blue. 
Wearing-  topaz,  like  gold  ochre. 

And  a  deep  chrome  llower  or  two; 
Whilst  you  lean  against  a  background, 

Caledonian  brown  and  gold. 
And  the  traces  of  soft  laces 

Sigh  caresses  in  each  fold. 
If  my  arms  might  thus  enfold  you. 

If  I  dared  to  hold  you  so! 
But,  alas !  you  are  another's. 

And  your  heart  may  never  know 
How  I've  loved  j'our  very  outline. 

And  have  traced  it  with  bright  dreams. 
As  the  moonlight  rays  trace  shadows 

Of  the  flowers  'ueath  its  beams. 
Oh,  my  sweet,  poetic  idyl ! 

Pictured  ideal  of  my  heart. 
Dreams  of  j'ou  are  vain  and  idle  — 

From  my  idol  I  must  part. 
For  to  love  you  is  heart-misery 

And  "madness  to  the  brain;  " 
If  your  heart  were  mine,  my  darling, 

I  must  give  it  back  again; 
For  fate  has  come  between  us, 

And  in  grief  I  turn  to  go  — 
I  who  have  loved  you,  oh!  beloved, 

More  than  j'ou  can  ever  know. 
And  so,  with  tears  and  sorrow, 

I  must  tear  you  from  my  life  — 
You,  who  are  my  sweetheart. 

Fate  forbids  should  be  my  wife. 


I  LOVE  AIY  LOVE. 
I  love  my  love  with  a  heartache. 

For  my  love  does  not  love  me; 
And  whether  I  sleep  or  wake. 

And  whatever  and  wherever  I  be. 

It  is  all  the  same  to  me 
That  I  love  my  love  with  a  heartache. 

Because  she  loves  not  me. 

I  love  my  love,  and  I  trust  her. 

For  none  could  doul)t  her  eyes, 
So  tender  their  wonderful  lustre  — 

So  tender  with  h.-ippy  surprise. 
And  shining  like  stars  from  the  skies 

Is  the  truth  tliat  makes  me  trust  her  — 
The  truth  from  her  heavenly  eyes. 

I  love  my  love  and  I've  lost  her. 
And  the  floodgates  of  grief  open  wide. 

Whilst  the  waves  madly  dash  thro'  the  dark- 
ness. 
Bringing  wrecks  with  the  incoming  tide. 

Oh,  there's  no  life  but  death  since  she  died '. 
I  loved  her  so!  and  I've  lost  her. 

And  there's  nothing  to  think  of  beside! 


-* 


*- 


828 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


AN  APPEAL  TO  YOU. 
Do  you  tbiuk  I  did  not  care 
When  you  turned  from  me  there, 
Leaving'  me  moody  just  where  1  stood, 

Transfixed  as  it  were, 

For  I  could  not  stir; 
And    j-ou    thought    it    indifference  ?     You 

should 
Study  the  indifference  'twixt  a  listless  mood 
And  the  hopelessness  of  despair ! 
You  thought  then  I  did  not  care, 
That  you  turned  from  me  there? 
You  saw  only  the  attit  ude ! 

You'd  have  been  more  wise 

Had  you  noted  the  eyes 
That  followed  you,  tho'  I  stood 
Stunned  when  you  turned  from  me  just  as 

I  should  — 
There  seemed  nothing  to  me  but  despair! 

You  still  thiuk  I  did  not  care 

When  I  told  you  tliere 

What  I  told  you,  asking  so  much  beside; 

Can  you  not  recall 

I  said  all,  asked  all. 
In  my  foolish,  presumptuous  pride? 
And  you  left  me  there  in  despair 
For  a  hopeless  love  denied? 

Ah!  you  can't  think  I  did  not  care; 

You  believe  in  despair! 

Don't  mock  me  thus !    Beware ! 

You  surel.v  know 

Since  I  tell  you  so! 
Don't  say  that  I  did  not  care! 
Don't  tempt  a  desperate  man  to  break 
His  heart  for  your  heartless  sake. 

What  is  that?    'Tis  an  idle  threat? 

You  know  I'll  forget? 

A  man's  heart  is  not  easy  to  break. 

Well,  perhaps  tliat  is  so; 

But  stay !  —ere  you  go 
Perhaps  you  had  just  as  well  know 
I  feel  I  can  never  recover  this  blow; 
Despair  will  not  let  me  forget! 
Farewell,  then:  your  hand  —if  you  will 
You  would  be  friends  still? 
No  I  could  never  be  such  to  you. 

It  isn't  too  late 

To  face  my  fate. 
There's  something  left  for  me  to  do! 
Your  satire  has  saved  me  to  myself,  thank 

you! 
I'll  be  brave  if  I  can.    Adieu! 
You're  as  wliite  as  a  ghost!    What  care 
Can  you  have  for  despair? 
I  thank  you  for  i)ity;  but  no. 

You  needn't  weep  now. 

For  my  grief  I  bow 
Submissive,  release  you,  and — go  — 


See !    I  shall  g'ive  you  up  bravely,  you  know ; 
1  shall  try  to  outlive  my  despair! 
You  are  weeping;  and  yet  do  not  care 
For  me  —  but  my  despair; 
You  must  needs  not  pity  me  so ! 

For  God's  sake,  no! 

Ah !  let  me  go, 
I  can't  bear  your  pitj',  you  know. 
There,  I  cannot  be  brave  if  I  stay;  let  laego! 
But  you  love  me?    Thank  God  it  is  so ! 


ill  the 


A  DREAM  LULLABY. 

Let  us  float  far  away 

To  the  end  of  the  day  — 
To  the  Bye  Babyland  we  will  go; 

We'll  drift  down  in  a  dream 

On  the  deep  slumber  stream, 
^V^hile  the  waves  sing  a  lullaby  low. 

In  that  wide  wonderland. 

With  your  hand  in  my  hand. 
We  will  wander  at  will  to  and  fro; 

And  such  strange  things  we'll  see  — 

Strange  to  you,  dear  and  me; 
Things  that  none  but  the  Bye  Babies  know 
There  the  rosebuds  have  wings. 

And  the  buttei-ily  sings. 
And  the  birdies  can  talk  if  they  try; 

While  the  babies  that  never 
Could  talk  or  walk  ever. 

Can  sing  like  the  birds  and  can  fly. 
In  that  land  it's  always  June, 

And  the  happy  afternoon 
See  the  laughing   sunlight   daiicini 
grass. 

While  the  madcap's  merry  breeze 
Frolics  romping-  through  the  trees, 

Catching  at  the  little  shadows  as  they  pass. 
There  the  ripples  of  the  stream 

Laugh  like  music  in  a  dream 
At  the  sleepy  flowers  nodding  to  and  fro  — 

Nodding  flowers,  dreaming  flowers. 
Rocked  to  sleep  by  golden  hours. 

As  tlie  golden-winged  hours  come  and  go. 
And  the  bees,  the  lazy  things, 

On  such  honey-laden  wings, 
Drowsy,  droning.half  asleep  upon  the  bloom; 
Langruor- faint,  the  cradled  bees. 
Fanned  by  the  phaniuui  breeze. 

Fall  asleep  upon  the  pillows  of  perfume. 
Then  lliat  guardian  angel  sleep 

Witli  enfolding  arms  will  keep 
My  nestled  darling  closely  sheltered,  float- 
ing on 

Tiiro'  the  dreamless  slumber  times, 
Till  earth's  matin  music-chimes 

Whisper  to  the  winged  sleepers:    "It  is 
dawn! " 


*- 


LOCAL,  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


* 

829 


CHARLES  L.  PAIGE. 

Born:  Pontiac,  III.,  Dec.  9, 1859. 
At  twelve  years  of  age  the  subject  of  this 
sketch  went  to  Cleveland,  Ohio,  and  two 
years  later  to  Shasta,  Cal.,  where  he  still  re- 
sides. He  was  appointed  postmaster  at 
Shasta  in  1878,  and  served  m  that  capacity. 


CHARLES  L.  PAIGE. 

and  as  telegrapli  operator  and  merchant, 
until  1886.  The  following-  three  years  he 
was  agent  for  the  Pacific  railroad  company 
in  Nevada  and  California.  He  is  an  ardent 
sportsman  with  rod  and  rifle  in  the  moun- 
tains. The  poems  of  Mr.  Paige  have  ap- 
peared in  the  San  Francisco  Chronicle,  Over- 
land Monthly,  New  York  Forest  and  Stream, 
and  many  other  notable  publications. 


SONG  OF  THE  GOLD. 
With  features  heavy  and  worn, 

With  visage  florid  and  red, 
A  gentleman  sat  in  conventional  rags 
And  siglied  in  a  way  that  was  sad: 
Eioh!  rich!  rich! 
In  wealth  and  in  luxury  roU'd, 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  a  dolorous  pitch. 
He  sang  the  -Song  of  the  Gold !  " 
Wealth!  wealth!  wealth! 
In  houses,  and  lots,  and  land. 

And  wealth!  wealth!  wealth! 
In  possessions  vast  and  grand. 

It  is  oh !  to  be  a  slave 
And  have  the  barbarian's  health ! 
1& 


For  a  man  has  never  a  soul  to  save 
Who  only  toils  for  wealth  1 

Wealth!  wealth!  wealth! 
Still  striving  and  toiling  for  gain; 
Wealth!  wealth!  wealth! 
Yet  I  never  enough  obtain. 

Gold,  and  mortgages,  and  deeds. 
Bond,  and  mortgage,  and  gold; 

And,  counting  it  all,  1  fall  asleep. 
To  dream  of  the  coupons  I  hold! 
O  men  who  strive  for  gold ! 

O  men  who  revel  in  wealth! 
You  make  ill-use  of  limited  time  — 

You  lose  your  strength  and  health! 
Rich!  rich!  rich! 
In  wealth  and  in  luxury  roU'dl 

What  is  it  all  in  the  end  but  dross? 
And  for  what  was  existence  sold? 

Work!  work!  work! 
My  labor  is  never  less. 

And  what  are  its  wages?  Additional  cares. 
Additional  cares  and  distress. 

O  you,  who  are  poor  and  in  want. 
You  do  not  suffer  alone  — 

Your  lot  may  be  hard,  but  so  is  mine. 
Your  sighs  only  echo  my  own. 

Oh  I  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslips  and  primrose  sweet, 
Witli  the  sky  above  my  head 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet? 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel  — 
Before  1  knew  cir  cared  for  wealth ! 

Ah !  then  T  enjoyed  a  meal ! 
With  features  heavy  and  worn. 

With  visage  florid  and  red, 
A  gentleman  sat  in  conventional  rags 

And  sighed  in  a  way  that  was  sad: 
Rich!  rich!  rich! 
In  wealth  and  luxurj'  roU'd, 

And  still  of  a  lot  that  was  hard  to  endure 

(The  rich  may  be  sad  as  well  as  the  poor!) 
He  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  Gold!  " 


AWAY  FROM  THE  THRONG. 

It  may  not  be  —  yet  it  seems  to  me 

Away  from  the  throng  is  best; 
By  some  lonely  shore  where  the  waters  roar. 

Or  far  in  the  crimson  west. 
For  friends  are  few  that  are  sure  and  true  — 

Aye,  the  crowd  is  a  mob  to  me; 
More  tame  and  mild  is  the  distant  wild. 

More  calm  is  the  stormiest  sea. 
Ah,  it  must  be  so,  for  the  wisest  know 

That  man  is  a  foe  to  man ! 
The  love  is  small  that  extends  to  all, 

Tho'  we  trust  it  as  we  can. 


-* 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


To  have  oue  friend  at  a  long  life's  end 

Is  a  blessing-  rare,  I  sigh. 
One  faithful  clasp  as  we  dying  gasp- 

Oue  glance  in  an  honest  eye ! 
Yet  there's  love  in  all,  in  great  and  small, 

]u  the  fiend  whom  all  avoid; 
You  may  see  its  gleam  in  a  demon's  dream. 

And  it  cannot  be  destroyed. 
In  the  great  and  least,  in  man  and  beast, 

'Tis  the  soul,  till  life  shall  fail; 
I'm  sure  'tis  ihe  part  of  my  lady's  heart. 

And  it  wags  my  spaniel's  tail. 
But  I  sigh  again  as  I  say  with  pain. 

Away  from  the  throng  is  best; 
My  fondest  dreams  are  of  woods  and  streams 

Afar  in  the  hostile  west. 
There's  a  gleam  1  prize  in  my  horse's  eyes, 

And  I  like  —  three  dogs  at  most  — 
Aye,  one  dear  face  in  my  heart  has  place. 
But  it  cannot  liold  a  host. 


A  BELIEF. 

Time  shifts  the  scenes,  fast  changing  each 
and  all; 
No  little  atom  rests  inert  on  earth; 
No  tiling,  no  thouglit,  no  life,  or  great  or 
small 
But  changes  with  the  seon  from  its  birth. 

Men  come  and  races  come  and  go  as  fast 

As  ever  magic  pictures  on  a  screen; 
The  era,  age  and  empire,  at  the  last 

Will  come  and  go  as  this  and  will  have 
been. 
Omnipotence  is  all;  Man  makes  nor  mars; 

He  cannot  cause  or  check  a  sparrow's  fall. 
Else  he  might  change  from  destined  ways 
the  stars 

And  scorn  fell  death  -  the  universal  pall. 
That  power  is,  and  nothing  can  evade. 

Diminish  or  re-order  it  a  jot; 
Fate  was  decreed  when  all  the  worlds  were 
made. 

And  every  man  apportioned  then  his  lot. 

Thi'  babe's  first  gasp  is  not  an  act  its  own ; 
The  youth's  loud  shout  is  still  no  part  of 
him; 
And   reasoning    man    may    labor    or    may 
drone; 
He  lives,  he  dies -and  all  beyond  is  dim. 


I'll    write    no    more,   all  themes    are    over- 
wrought. 
And  only  wrinkles  deck  the  pale,  sad  brow 

of  thought. 
Why  store  tke  brain  to  stoop  beneath  the 
weight 
Of  never-sated  reason's  cumbrous  load? 
Only  to  know  the  fixedness  of  fate  — 

To  bear  the  pain  and  still  apply  the  goad! 
And  then,  when  all  the  lease  of  life  is  spent, 
But  be  more  gray  than  wise  —  more  feeble 
than  content! 

Why  should  we  reck  of  days  or  years  or  ages? 
Why    note   the   mysteries   each    moment 
brings? 
I   Why    heed   the   hoarded    wisdom   of    dead 
sages? 
Why  pore  o'er  histories  of  fools  or  kings? 
Away  with  all   that's  past!    all    ghosts  of 

time  — 
And  all  the  grinning  skeletons  of  prose  or 
rhyme. 


I'll  rest  me  here;  the  soul  most  yearns  for 
rest ; 
The  vacant  mind  is  fetterless  and  free; 
All  things  that  live,  save  man,  live  to  attest 

Unalterable  nature's  stern  decree! 
Then  blest  the  boor  who  lives  and  dies  se- 
rene. 
Careless  and  dull,  nor  thinks   what   is  or 

might  have  been ! 
Too  late-too  late!  the  craft  once  cast  adrift 
Upon  the  shoreless  sea  must  restless  float; 
All  points  converge  and  useless  every  shift 

Of  the  blind  pilot  in  each  fated  boat. 
Then  spread  all  sail,  catch  every  wind  that 

blows ; 
Sail,  bravely  sail,  and  sink,  and  then  who 
knows,  who  knows! 


A  PAUSE. 
The  poet  paused  and  listless  dropped  his  pen ; 
I'll  think  no  more,  he  said.    The  w(n-ld  is 
old, 
'Tis  filled  with  thouglit,  and  weary-mindi'd 
men 

Have  gleaned  eiu)iigh  from  all  that  time 
has  told ; 


EXTR.^CT. 
Sere,  blank  and  yellow,   orchard,  lield  and 

On  drooi.'ing  boughs  s.uiie  dead-ripe  fruit 
is  hung; 
With  thrifty  care  is  garnered  all  the  gnnu. 
The   summer's  ended  and  hor  birds  have 

Her  birds  have  sung.  and.  we.uiod,  seek  to 

rest;  ,    _„, 

There's  scarce  a  chatter  in  the  sim-hurnt 

hedge ;  ,,, 

And  dry  leaves   rustle   in  the  spring-bullt 

As  wheiv'no  more  the  little  groups  should 
fledge. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   O^^   AMERICA. 


831 


-* 


ISAAC  EDGAR  JONES. 

Born  :  Liverpool,  Eng.,  1850. 
As  author  aud  journalist,  tliis  writer  has 
gained  a  national  reputation,  having-  con- 
tributed extensively  to  the  Boston  Tran- 
-script,  Louisville  Courier-Journal,  Chicago 
Times,  Chicago  Inter-Ocean,  aud  other  lead- 


ISAAC  EDGAR  JONES. 

ing  publications,  and  he  is  now  editor  of  the 
Daily  Chronicle,  Muskegon,  Mich.  For  sev- 
eral years  he  lived  in  Indianapolis,  Ind., 
wliere  he  was  proprietor  and  editor  of  the 
official  city  paper,  aud  was  active  in  social, 
benevolent,  political  and  literary  circles. 


THE  MEASURELESS  DEEPS. 

I  think  sometimes  that  the  silence  itself  has 

a  soundless  ghost, 
A  stillness  deeper  than  ocean,  where  gather 

the  countless  host 
Of  shades  that  are  shade's    reflections,  of 

glooms  that  are  shades  of  gloom. 
And  echoes  of  thoughts  unfathomed'which 

never  in  words  find  room. 
There  are  thoughts  which  move  at  midnight, 

too  deep  for  a  vision's  reach; 


There  are  waves  deep  down  in  silence,  too 
strong  lor  the  grasp  of  speech ; 

And  a  mystic  intuition  in  infinite  depths  of 
space 

Too  far  to  impress  reflections  or  .shades  on  a 
mortal  face. 

We  know  in  the  silent  chambers  the  beats  of 
a  distant  heart. 

Wo  have  seen  with  an  inner  vision  the  cur- 
tains of  silence  part. 

And  far  in  the  shaded  distance  have  read,  as 
on  magic  scroll. 

The  words  no  sound  could  utter,  addressed 
to  an  earnest  soul. 

There  are   things  so  deep  and  sacred  they 

flee  the  approach  of  sound. 
There  are  ideas  pure  and  holy   no  natural 

hedgerows  bound, 
And  somewhere  M'ell  adjusted,  unseen,  un- 
heard, intense, 
Are  the  truths  which  reach  ns  only  through 

a  seventh  mysterious  sense. 
We  hear   not,   speak  not,  feel   not,  yet  we 

think,  and  trust,  and  know. 
While  the  viewless  mystic  currents  sweep  by 

in  their  endless  flow. 
While    above   the   mirrored     crystal    there 

flutter  the  ghostly  wings. 
And  a  song  too  sweet  for  language  its  jubi- 
lant anthem  brings. 
The  grandest  truths  of  the  ages  have  entered 

the  heart  like  this, 
The  things  we  can  never  utter  ])rodueiiig 

the  greatest  bliss; 
Mysterious    intuitions,    swift    shades  of    a 

shadow-thought. 
Have    flooded   the  soul   with  sweetness  in 

miracle  wonders  wrought. 
We  know  there  are  soul  vibrations,  a  subtle 

and  glorious  bond. 
Uniting  the  world  matei'ial  with  a  something 

so  far  beyond 
That  it  reaches  us  in  soul  waves,  too  delicate 

far  for  touch. 
That  the  brightest  words  are  lieavy  and  bur- 
den them  overmuch. 

So  we  learn  its  beauteous  wisdom.  Its  peace- 
ful currents  flow 

Too  far  for  the  reachof  evil,  too  high  for  the 
touch  of  woe. 

Too  deep  for  our  words  to  fathom,  too  soft 
for  the  grasp  of  sound. 

In  a  jilace  which  God  hatli  guarded  with  a 
silence  most  profound-. 

Then  welcome  the  mystic  message,  the 
peace  beyond  all  compare. 

Too  sweet  to  be  grasped  or  measured,  found 
but  by  a  voiceless  prayer; 

* 


*- 


832 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


The  sig-n  of  a  higher  presence,  a  rapture 
which  may  not  cease 

Till  it  reach  the  great  Nirvanna  and  hlend 
into  endless  peace. 

A  symbol  of  sometliing-  coming,  revealings 
some  time  to  be, 

The  ripples  of  glory  lapping  the  shore  of  an 
endless  sea; 

The  secret  of  life  eternal,  too  grand  for  the 
bonds  of  speech, 

Conveying  a  soundless  message  to  the  wait- 
ing souls  on  the  beach. 

So  the  soul  receives  its  message,  by  a  route 

we  may  not  trace. 
From  tlie  deeps    where  fathomless  silence 

broods  ever  in  endless  space; 
Where  the  finite  may  not  measure  with  its 

puuy  rule  and  rod 
Tlie  truths  which  the  soul  receiveth   direct 

from  tlie  lieart  of  God. 


CHAS.  RNOWLES  BOLTON. 

Bohn:  Cleveland,  O.,  Nov.  14, 1867. 

The  poems  of  tliis  writer  liave  appeared  in 
the   Century,  Magazine  of   Amerieau  His- 


*- 


CHAHLKS    KN()\V1.K8    liOl.TON. 


tory,  Youth's  Companion,  and  other  promi- 
nent publications.  In  1887  he  published  a 
volume  of  poems  entitled  From  Heart  and 
Nature;  and  he  has  also  published  a  gene- 
alogy of  the  Bolton  family.  Mr.  Bolton  has 
traveled  extensively  in  Europe,  and  lias 
given  art  entertainments  of  one  thousand 


brilliant  views  tliroughout  America,  which 
have  made  him  very  popular. 


A  VOICE. 
The  rain  makes  music  at  midnight, 

Dripping  from  rafter  and  eaves. 
Blown  hither  and  thither  by  mad-cap 

Wind  on  the  twittering  leaves. 
Its  sound  has  solace  for  sorrow. 

Touching  the  heart-chords  o'er 
So  softly,  oh,  so  softly ! 

Sweet  as  the  lutes  of  yore. 
But  sweetest  of  all  sweet  music, 

Making  my  heart  rejoice. 
Comes  over  the  dew-damp  meadow 

Tenderly,  true— a  voice! 


RLTTH. 

She  is  fair  as  a  child  unchidden 
On  the  marge  of  a  wonder  stream. 

And  the  lights  in  her  bright 
Blue  eyes  are  the  stars  a-gleam. 

Where  her  breast  by  flowers  is  hidden 
The  white  flower,  crushed,  lies  dead. 

And  the  light  of  her  bright 
Cheek  reddens  to  rose  in  its  stead. 

Where  her  red  lips  part  unbidden 
Her  breath  comes  fast  and  low, 

Till  the  light  in  her  bright 
Eyes  dies  and  the  tears  flow. 

And  tears  bring  love  as  they  did  in 
The  cavalier  olden  times; 

And  the  light  of  her  bright 
Blue  eyes  is  the  light  of  my  chimes. 


PEKPETITITY. 
In  my  garden  grows  ;l  flower, 

Roj'ally  yellow  it  is; 
Tliere  my  neighbor  has  a  bower  — 

Golden  curls  in  his. 
Sun  and  rain  and  summer  air 

Open  my  bud  each  day; 
Flowers  and  skies  and  visions  fair 

Circle  him  in  his  play. 
Soon  he  will  love  my  little  flower, 

Tender  and  undeflled; 
Then,  though  it  die,  it  will  live  a  power 

Sweet  in  my  neighbor's  child. 


BEAUTY  IN  SORROW. 
Souls  that  master  sorrows. 

Bear  and  oft  forl^ear. 
Find  existence  borrows 

Richness  from  life's  care; 
See  each  rich  to-morrow's 

Sky  new  beauty  wear; 
Beauty  born  of  sorrows 

Is  most  truly  fair. 


f- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


833 


-* 


WILLIAM  CUMBACK. 

Bobn:  Franklin  Co.,  Ind.,  March  24, 1829. 

Before  lie  was  twenty-six  years  of  ag-e  Wil- 
liam Cumback  was  elected  to  congress,  being 
the  joiinfiest  member  of  the  3tth  congress. 
la  1868  he  was  elected  Lieutenant-governor 
of  Indiana.    Gov.  Cumback  is  a  member  of 


WILLIAM  CUMBACK. 

the  Beta  Theta  Pi ;  and  was  president  of  the 
National  Convention  at  Cincinnati.  He  is  an 
Odd  Fellow,  and  lias  been  grand  master  and 
grand  representative  of  his  state.  He  has 
been  on  the  lecture  platform  for  more  than 
fifteen  years,  and  lias  gained  quite  an  envia- 
ble reputation.  Mr.  Cumback  was  married 
in  1851  and  now  resides  with  his  family  at 
Greensburgh, Ind. 


THE  WITHERED  BOUQUET. 

The  midnight  blast  is  sweeping  past 

Through  each  deserted  street. 
With  not  a  sound  its  moan  to  drown. 

The  weary  ear  to  greet. 
The  cold  before  eacli  dweller's  door 

Would  fain  admittance  gain. 
And  tne  chilling  winds  weave  frosty  lines 

On  every  window  pane. 
No  moon  or  stars  with  radiant  bars, 

Banish  night's  sable  shroud, 
For  before  them  all,  like  a  gloomy  pall. 

Is  winter's  darkest  cloud; 


And  not  a  light  rejoiced  the  sight. 

Save  a  feeble,  flickering  ray 
In  the  student's  room,  on  this  night  of  gloom. 

In  the  attic  over  the  way. 
The  light  was  small,  yet  it  told  me  all 

The  secrets  of  his  place, 
And  bore  my  sight  through  the  gloom  of 
night 

To  his  sad  and  sorrowing  face  — 
For  before  liim  lay  a  wither'd  bouquet. 

Fastening  his  tearful  eyes. 
From    whence    more    showers    fell    on  the 
flowers 

Than  e'er  from  laughing  skies. 
But  ne'er  again  can  the  summer  rain. 

Or  affection's  warmest  tear. 
Bring  back  the  i:)loom  they  had  last  June, 

To  the  flowers  now  crisp  and  sere; 
And  ne'er  will  come  the  loving  one. 

As  bright  and  sweet  as  they. 
Who    plucked    the    flowers    in    his    joyous 
hours  — 

Her  gift  in  his  happiest  day. 
Ambition's  schemes  are  idle  dreams. 

To  that  lonely,  suffering  heart. 
His  dead  hopes  lay  near  the  dead  bouquet  — 

A  fitting  counterpart. 
A  slender  band,  tied  with  lier  own  hand. 

Around  the  withered  flowers. 
So  memorj-'s  chain  still  holds  in  vain 

The  liopes  of  his  better  hours. 
His  harp  unstrung;  and  his  song  unsung. 

Unfinished  his  poem  lies. 
His  fancy  will  soar,  alas!  no  more 

To  the  poet's  paradise. 
He  thii'sts  for  the  cheer  of  the  voice  so  dear. 

To  nerve  him  for  the  strife; 
For  love  is  the  spring  of  everything 

In  the  bitter  contest  of  life. 

I'll  not  cease  to  pray  that  next  smiling  May. 

As  she  comes  with  her  troops  of  flowers 
And  her  birds  of  song,  singing  all  the  day 
long. 

In  aromatic  bowers. 
Will  gather  anew  of  the  choicest  hue. 

Another  and  sweeter  bouquet. 
And  send  by  the  one,  now  absent  so  long. 

To  the  attic  over  the  way. 


THE  SUICIDE. 

« 
On  a  beetling  cliff,  on  a  moonless  night. 

The  gloomy  suicide  stood; 
Above  rolled  the  dark  and  angry  clouds, 

Below  leaped  the  raging  flood ; 
No  hope  illumed  his  wretched  soul. 

But  a  bitter  agony  wrung 
A  wail  of  despair  from  his  broken  heart,— 

And  this  was  the  dirge  lie  sung: 


*- 


834 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A5IERICA. 


*- 


Come  death— oh  come,  you're  my  only  friend ; 

No  other  can  serve  aie  now, 
You,  only,  can  still  the  throbbing  heart. 

Can  cool  the  fevered  brow; 
And  come  you  must,  I'll  not  be  denied, 

JFor  now  you're  in  my  power; 
The  sorrow  and  gloom  of  weary  years 

You  shall  end  this  very  hour. 

No  more  of  life!  I  know  it  all, 

Hither  and  thither  I've  run 
To  find  its  jjromised  peace  and  joy. 

But  before  I  had  begun 
To  taste  what  false  and  flattering-  hope 

Had  sworn  was  rare  and  sweet, 
I  found  all  filled  lilse  Sodom's  fruit. 

With  the  ashes  of  deceit. 

Its  Wealth!  An  empty  senseless  show. 

Brought  the  hollow-hearted  near. 
Who  fled  with  a  laugh  of  railing-  and  scorn 

When  Poverty  did  appear; 
Its  Fame !    I  loathe  myself  to  know 

That  1  sought  the  rabble's  applause. 
For  their  curses,   and    jeers  and    shallow 
sneers 

Followed  close  their  wild  huzzas. 

Its  Friendship!    A  sham  and  mere  disguise, 

A  mask  that  the  selfish  wear. 
Its  Love!    Ah,  its  torturing- agony, 

I  never  again  can  bear ! 
Ingratitude,  Hate  and  Jealousy, 

Falsehood  and  Slander,  too. 
Are  hell-born  demons  that  poison  love. 

And  banish  all  that's  true. 

Life!  Life!    The  shameless  cheat! 

Too  long- 1  have  endured; 
A  prison  for  my  unwilling  soul 

With  grim  despair  immured  — 
Thesiglis  and  groans  of  l)reaking  hearts 

Make  up  the  sad  refrain 
In  his  charnel  house  of  buried  hopes 

Where  pity  calls  in  vain. 

My  brain  is  hot,  my  heart  is  cold. 

The  flood  lieneath  my  feet 
Is  calling  for  death  and  me  to  come 

In  sweet  embrace  to  meet; 
Its  surging  waves  will  ne'er  reveal 

Or  whisper  to  the  shore. 
That  far  beneath  in  its  calmer  depth 

I  rest  forever  more. 

A  wretch  he  lived,  a  fool  he  died; 

Unbidden  lie  has  gone 
To  answer  to  Him  who  gave  him  life 

For  the  deed  that  he  had  done. 
His  Cliristless  soul,  embittered  life. 

His  proud  and  stubborn  will, 
Kef  use  to  liear  the  voice  of  Him 

Who  whispers:  "Peace  be  still." 


ALFRED  W.  HARRIS. 

Born  :  Louisville,  Ky.,  Jan.  27, 1842. 
Mr.  Harris  served  through  the  war  in  the 
Union  army,  was  captured  at  the  battle  of 
Chicamauga  in  1863.  and  became  a  prisoner 
for  seven  months,  when  he  was  exelianged; 
he  rejoined  his  regiment,  and  was  mustered 


ALFRED    W.  HARRIS. 

out  of  service  -with  a  gallant  and  soldierly 
record.  After  the  war  Mr.  Harris  was  mar- 
ried to  Miss  Margaret  Heimer.  and  now  lias 
two  daughters,  botli  elocutionists  and  teach- 
ers in  the  public  schools.  He  lias  filled 
many  important  public  positions,  and  is  at 
present  in  the  U.  S.  Internal  Revenue  serv- 
ice at  Louisville,  Ky.  Mr.  Hairis  has  writ- 
ten extensively  for  manj-  of  the  leading  pub- 
lications of  America,  and  is  also  tlie  author 
of  several  prose  -works. 


SUNNY  SIDE. 
Fond  memory  brings  to  me  the  dny 

When  I  was  loth  to  i)iirt 
From  tlie  rural  scenes  not  far  away 

Which  often  elieered  my  licarl : 
Wliere  the  silvery  rill  ran  purling  on 

Through  wood  and  meadotv  wide. 
And  merry  children  sported  on 

Tlie  lawn  at  Sunny  Side. 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


835 


-* 


To  the  orchard  I  have  often  strayed 

Amoutr  the  leafy  trees. 
Their  heavj'-ladened  branches  played. 

And  nodded  to  the  breeze; 
The  songs  of  birds,  so  oft  and  clear, 

I've  listened  to  with  pride. 
And  to  this  day  methinks  I  hear 

Them  still  at  Sunny  Side. 
In  the  lovely  irarden  near  there  grew 

Flowers  rich  and  rare; 
The  summer  breezes  gently  blew 

Their  frag'rance  to  the  air. 
I've  'tended  them  with  anxious  care. 

But  all  my  hopes  have  died 
Since  last  I  twined  gay  g-arlands  there 

At  cheerful  Sunny  Side. 
The  vine-clad  bowers  in  days  g'one  by. 

Beneath  their  foliage  green. 
There  with  my  book  I'd  often  lie 

To  enjoy  the  hours  serene. 
Could  I  now  possess  that  spot  again. 

Where  pleasure  still  abide, 
I'd  ever  sing'  a  melodious  strain 

At  cheerful  Sunny  Side. 


WHAT  I'D  LIKE -A  PARODY. 
I'd  like  to  have  a  cozy  cot 
Near  the  limits  of  the  town ;  a  spot 

Tlu'ee  hundred  feet  or  so. 
With  pojilar,  peach  and  apple  trees. 
And  lilacs  scenting-  sweet  the  breeze, 

'Twould  suit  me  to  a  "T,"  I  know. 
To  have  morning  glories  here  and  (here. 
And  big  sunflowers  bright  and  fair. 

On  each  flower  an  liumble  bee. 
And  round  my  front  room  window  spreatl 
Hollyhocks,  some  white,  some  red, 

To  cheer  up  mine  and  me. 
I  think  I  would  so  much  desire 
To  hear  in  my  backyard  a  clioir 

Of  jay  birds  singing  sweet. 
And  when  tlie  fruit  is  large  and  ripe. 
In  the  shade  I'd  sit  and  smoke  my  pipe. 

Such  sliould  be  my  retreat. 
Away  from  the  town  and  its  busy  whirls 
There  would  I  rear  my  little  girls. 

(I  have  but  two,  you  see,) 
And  as  I've  often  said  before. 
If  I'm  not  blest  with  any  more. 

How  happy  I  will  be. 


BUILDING  CASTLES. 
I  sit  me  where  the  firelight's  glare. 

Before  my  vision  dances ; 
I  And  castles  fair,  build  high  in  air, 
I    Adorned  with  idle  fancies. 
I  My  wife  so  true,  and  children  two, 
1    Sit  by  my  side  unheeding; 


Content  arc  tliey,  with  naught  to  say. 
Some  pleasant  stories  reading. 

And  fairer  days  shed  brighter  rays 

Athwart  my  dreamy  vision ; 
Sweet  prospects  rife  crown  all  my  life 

Through  golden  fields  Elysiau. 
In  wreaths  and  curls  the  smoke  it  whirls 

In  shapely  forms  around  mo; 
From  my  pipe  of  clay  I  smoke  away. 

Redoubled  joys  surround  me. 

Amid  the  daze  of  smoke  and  blaze 

My  heavy  eyelids  closing; 
As  Morpheus  plays  in  luring  ways. 

And  sets  me  all  a-dozing. 
To  my  surprise  I  ope  my  eyes. 

For  some  one  I  hear  calling; 
And  rousing  me,  what  do  I  .see. 

But  all  my  castles  falling. 


THE  LONE  GRAVE. 
A  lonely  mound  by  the  wayside. 

Where  the  traveler's  feet  have  sped. 
The  myrtle  and  the  sweet-brier  hide 

From  view  of  the  strangers  who  tread 
Lightly  in  the  narrow  pathwaj'. 

Near  the  grave  of  the  unknown  dead. 

A  rugged  tombstone  marks  the  spot. 
No  trace  of  birth  or  death  descries; 

A  broken  vase,  a  flower-pot 
In  the  lank  gra-ss  half  hidden  lies; 

A  stately  poplar  guards  the  place. 
And  points  in  grandeur  to  the  skies. 

The  bleak  winds  whistle,  sigh  and  chant 
A  requiem  o'er  the  solemn  mound; 

The  screecli-owl's  piteous  lament 
Breaks  the  deep  stillness  all  around; 

The  pale  moon  sheds  its  mellow  light 
Softly  on  the  hallowed  ground. 

No  loved  ones  near  to  shed  a  tear 
Unnoticed  through  the  twilight  hours; 

Or  bow  the  head  in  grief  sincere. 
And  strew  the  grave  with  choicest  flowers; 

The  gathering  clouds  weep  down  their  tears 
Of  tenderest  love  in  showers. 


EXTRACT. 
The  dew  was  glist'ning  on  the  grass. 

High  up  the  lark  was  soaring; 
The  sheep  were  grazing  in  the  pass, 

The  mill-dam  loudly  roaring. 

Within  the  deep  and  tangled  wood 
The  huntsman's  horn  was  sounding, 

Afar  into  the  shady  wood 
The  foxhound's  yelp  resounding. 


*- 


836 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEPaCA. 


J.  HOWARD  WERT. 

As    THE    authdl"   of    Pooms    of    Camp    and 
Hearth,  and  other  works.  J.  Howard  Wert 


J.  HOWARD   WEKT. 

has  attained  quite  a  reputation.  He  is  now 
principal  of  public  schools  at  Harrisburgh, 
where  he  is  a  very  popular  citizen. 


THE  VOLUNTEER. 
Hurrah !  hurrah !  for  the  Volunteer, 

Who  fought  our  Nation  to  save. 
Who  proudly  marched,  with  a  ringing  cheer. 

Where  blood-stained  banners  -wave. 
Three  millions  went  to  the  battle-fleld, 

And  many  never  came  back ; 
And  oft  the  dirge  of  their  death  was  pealed 

By  the  ringing  rifle's  crack. 
Chokus: 

Honor  the  men  who  fouglit  for  you  1 
Honor  the  men  who  wore  the  blue  I 
Honor  the  patriots  tried  and  true! 
Our  Nation's  Volunteers. 
Hurrah!  hurrah!  for  the  Volunteers, 

Who  fought  for  our  nation's  life. 
Who  left  fond  children  bedewed  with  tears. 

Left  father  and  niotlier  and  wife; 
And  when  you  look  at  the  land  we  love, 

As  brightly  its  fame  api)e;irs. 
Return  your  thanks  to  the  Father  above 
For  our  Union  Volunteers. 


May   the  besom  of    fate    from    our  bosom 
sweep 

Each  one  of  the  cowardlj*  crew 
Wlio,  in  foldsof  their  heart's  pollution  deep, 

Scofl'  the  praise  of  the  boys  in  blue. 
Unworthy  to  dwell  in  our  goodly  land. 

Unworthy  of  Freedom's  ray  — 
A  curse  on  the  heads  of  tlie  poltroon  band, 

A  curse  forever  and  aj'e. 
But  let  the  praise  of  the  Volunteer, 

Embalmed  in  story  and  rhyme. 
Be  loyally  hailed,  with  a  rousing  cheer 

To  the  uttermost  verge  of  time. 
And  when  the  last  shall  be  gathered  in 

By  the  pale  and  sicklcd  hand. 
May  the  freedom  they  boldly  helped  to  win 

Still  dwell  in  our  sacred  land. 


THE  LAST  GRAND  ARMY  MAN. 

The  brilliant  sun  had  risen  bright  athwart 
The  domes  and  colonades  of  Washington. 
In  peerless  grandeur  lay  beneath  its  heams 
The  mighty,  bustling  arteries  of  life; 
And  thronged  those  avenues  a  massof  men 
And  women,  old  and  young.  And  childhood, 

too. 
Was  there  with  artless  grace  and  hands  that 

held 
Fair  gifts  of  spring-time's  sweetest,  fragrant 

flowers, 
N'>r  there  alone  were  tlirongs  and   dense- 
packed  men. 
One  hundred  millions,  all  the  land  across, 
Were  bringing  votive  oflerings  to  deck 
Graves  that,  by  time  with  matted  sod  thick- 
clad, 
Were    ever   green:    hallowed  by  memories 

grand. 
And   wet   each    May-lin't"   with 

tears. 
But  at  tlie  caTiitol,  in  honored  seat. 
Sat  one.     That  one,  with  reverent  awe  be- 
held. 
Took    precedence    of    ermincd    judge. 

eyes 
Forsook  the  nation's  President  to  gaze 
Upon  the  feeble,  age-wrecked  veteran  — 
The  one  alone  yet  spared  by  cruel  time 
To  link  the  living  with  the  quiet  mounds 
Of  Arlington. 

And  grander  in  the  eyes 
Of  thankful  nuillitudes,  tliosc  hoiuy  locks. 
That  time-bent,  pain-racked  frame  than  ai 

the  domes. 
Resplendent  with  the  stars  and  stripes, 
That  reared,  in  massive    granilen 

ments 
Of  miglit  resistless  in  the  laud  that  he 
H  a  d  lo ved  —  h  ad  saved . 


nation  s  ■ 


Alii 


monu 


*- 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   I'OKTS   OF   AilERlCA. 


JAMES  G.  CLARK. 

Born:  Constantia,  N.Y.,  June  28, 1830. 
At  the  age  of  twenty-one,  James  G.  Clark 
drifted  into  tlie  concert  field.  He  married 
early  in  life,  and  has  had  three  children,  two 
of  whom  are  living-  — Jennie,  who  was  mar- 
ried iu  1880  to  Hon.  J.  P.  Jacobsou  of  St. 
Paul;  and  James  G.  Clai^k,  Jr.,  wlio  is  now 


CLARK 

connected  with  the  Minneapolis  Daily  Star, 
being-  a  natural  journalist.  Mr.  Clark  has 
written  numerous  stories  tliat  have  become 
known  the  world  over,  and  he  has  been 
called  the  Tom  Moore  of  America,  combin- 
ing as  he  does  iu  the  highest  degree  the  triple 
gifts  of  poet,  coiniioser  and  singer.  His 
work,  Poetry  and  Souij-,  was  well  received. 


INNOVATION. 

Tie  mj-  wrists  with  hempen  strands 
While  brazen  force  around  me  stands!  — 
You  cannot  with  j-our  fetters  bind 
The  daring  impulse  of  the  mind, 
I  Nor  quench  the  lightning  sparks  of  thought 
I  That  upward  from  the  scaflfold  leap, 
I     To  live  and  wait  through  slavery's  years 
I  Till  destiny's  firm  web  is  wrought  — 
I  To  bide  their  time  while  tyrants  sleep, 
j  And  prisoners  pace  their  cells  and  weep  — 
I  Tlien  burst  with  power,  in  bolt  and  flash, 
I  And  roaring  flood  and  thunder  crash 
I     In  answer  to  the  exile's  tears !  — 
j  To  work  their  will,  above  control 
Of  human  customs,  courts  and  laws; 
So  leaped  the  fires  of  Emmet's  soul. 
To  burn  anew  iu  freedom's  cause, 
I  Wherever  blades  for  freedom  rise. 
Wherever  freedom's  banners  stream, 
jWlierever  freedom's  thunders  roll. 
Wherever  freedimi's  lightnings  gleam. 
And  man  for  freedom  strikes  and  dies! 


837 

Still  my  inilse  and  stop  my  breatli!  — 
Who  works  with  tiulli  may  play  witli  death. 
Hang  me  quick  and  hang  me  high  I  — 
So  hung  the  form  of  old  John  Urown ; 
And  though  tiiey  cut  the  body  down. 
The  shadow  broader,  higlier  grew; 
It  met  the  seas,  it  reached  the  sky. 
And  darkened  mountain,  lake  and  town  I  — 
Wherever  freedom's  eagle  flew. 
Wherever  freedom's  breezes  blew  — 
From  frigid  north  to  fervid  south, 
From  Main  to  broad  Columbia's  mouth  — 
The  shadow  towered  above  the  world 
Where  freedom's  stars  in  shame  were  furled ; 
It  turned  the  stars  and  sun  to  blood. 
And  poured  on  earth  a  crimson  flood!  — 
The  nation  quaffed  the  bloody  rain. 
And  all  her  first-born  sons  were  slain. 

Let  me  die !  my  work  is  done! 
The  dying  stars  proclaim  the  sun 
That  weaker  eyes  could  not  behold. 
And  lower  lights  had  not  foretold; 
Then  die  upon  a  bed  of  gold. 

Because  the  grander  light  is  born ! 
Thehigliland  rills  that  seaward  glide. 
May  vanish  in  the  mountain  side. 
And,  sinking  through  the  voiceless  earth. 
Within  the  cold,  dark  caves  abide; 
But  naught  can  stay  their  second  birth, 

Or  dim  their  resurrection  morn; 
Sometime,  somewhere,  in  stronger  tide. 
And  warmer  light  and  broader  sweep. 
They  rush  to  swell  the  distant  deep. 
That  turns  its  awful  palms  to  heaven. 
That  giidles  with  its  mighty  bands 
All  kingdoms,  empires,  realms  and  lands, — 
W' ithin  whose  all-embracing  rim 
The  fleets  of  nations  sink  or  swim 
Like  fire-flies  in  the  mist  of  even. 
And  on  whose  all-receiving  breast 
The  ages  lay  their  dead  to  rest. 

Lead  me  forth !    I'm  ready  now ! 
Pull  the  black  cap  o'er  my  brow !  — 
You  can  not  blind  my  inner  sight: 
I  see  the  dawn  behind  the  night , 
Beyond  the  dawn  I  see  the  day; 
And  through  the  day  I  see  the  truth 
Arising  in  immortal  youth! 
The  sunbeams  on  her  forehead  play. 
The  lilies  in  her  tresses  twine. 
The  peace  of  God  dwells  in  her  face 
And  rolls  the  clouds  of  war  away; 
Around  her  feet  the  roses  grow. 
Her  tender  bosoms  swell  and  flow 
With  healing  for  the  stricken  race. 
And  in  her  eyes  seraphic  shine 
Faith,  hope  and  love  and  every  grace ! 
The  old  recedes,  the  new  descends! 
Earth  clasps  the  hand  that  heaven  extends  — 
The  lion  and  the  lamb  are  friends! 


-* 


*- 


^38 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


THE  INFINITE  MOTHER. 
I  am  mother  of  life  and  eompuuion  of  God ! 
I  move  in  each  mote  from  the  suns  to  tlie 

sod, 
I  brood  in  all  darkness,  I  gleam  in  all  light, 
I  fathom  all  depth  and  I  crown  every  hight; 
Within  me  the  globes  of  the  universe  roll. 
And  through  me  all  matter  takes  impress 

and  soul. 
Without  me  all  forms  into  chaos  would  fall; 
I  was  under,  within,  and  around,  over  all, 
Ere  the  stars  of  the  morning  in  harmony 

sung. 
Or  the  sj'stems  and  suns  from  their  grand 

arches  swung. 
I  loved  you,  Dearth!  in  those  cj-eles  pro- 
found. 
When   darkness    unbroken    encircled    you 

round. 
And  the  fruit  of  creation,  tlie  race  of  man- 
kind, 
Was  only  a  dream  in  the  infinite  mind; 
I  nursed  you,  O  eartli !  ere  your  oceans  were 

born. 
Or  your  mountains  rejoiced  in  tlie  gladness 

of  morn. 
When  naked  and  helpless  you  came  from  the 

womb. 
Ere  the  seasons  had  decked  you  with  verdure 

and  bloom. 
And  all  tliat  appeared  of  youi'  forin  or  your 

face 
Was  Ji  bare,  lurid  ball  in  the  vast  wilds  of 

space. 
Wlien  your  bosom  was  shaken  and  rent  with 

alarms 
I  calmed  and  caressed  j-ou  to  sleep  in  my 

arms. 
I  sung  o'er  your   pillow    the  song  of    tlie 

spheres 
Till  the  hum  of  its  melody  softened  your 

fears. 
And  the  hot  flames  of  jiassion  burned  low  in 

your  breast 
As  you  lay  on  my  heart  like  a  maiden  at  rest; 
When  fevered,  I  cooled  you  with  mist  and 

with  shower. 
And  kissed  you  with   cloudlet  and   rainbow 

and  flower. 
Till  you  woke  in  the  heavens  arrayed  like  a 

queen. 
In  garments  of  purple,  of  gold  jind  of  green, 
From  fabrics  of  g'lory  my  Angers  liad  spun 
For  the  mother  of  nations  and  bride  of  the 

sun. 
There  was  love  in  your  face,  and  your  bosom 

rose  fair. 
And  the  scent  of  your  lilies  made  fragrant 

the  air. 


*- 


And  your  blush  in  the  glance  of  your  lover 
was  rare 

As  you  waltzed  in  the  light  of  his  warm  yel- 
low hair. 

Or  lay  in  the  haze  of  his  tropical  noons. 

Or  slept  'neath  the  gaze  of  the  passionless 
moons: 

And  I  stretched  out  my  arms  from  the  awful 
unknown. 

Whose  channels  are  swept  by  my  rivers 
alone. 

And  held  you  secure  in  your  young  mother- 
days, 

And  sung  to  your  offspring  their  lullaby 
lays, 

While  races  and  nations  came  forth  from 
your  breast. 

Lived,  struggled  and  died,  and  returned  to 
their  rest. 

All  creatures  conceived  at  the  fotintain  of 

cause 

Are  born  of  my   travail,  controlled  by  my 

laws;  [breath, 

I  throb  in  their  veins  and  I  breathe  in  their 

Combine  them  for  effort,  disperse  them  in 

death ; 
No  form  is  too  great  or  minute  for  my  care. 
No  place  so  remote  but  my  presence  is  there. 
I  bend  in  the  grasses  that  whisper  of  spring, 
I  lean  o'er  the  spaces  to  hear  the  stars  sing, 
1  laugh  with  tlie  infnnt,  I  roar  with  the  sea, 
I  roll  in  the  thunder,  I  hum  with  the  bee; 
From  the  center  of  suns  to  the  flowers  of  the 

sod 
I  am  shuttle  and  loom  in  the  purpose  of  God, 
Tlie  ladder  of  siction  all  spirit  must  climb 
To  the  clear  heights  of  love   fioni  the  low- 
lands of  time. 

'Tis  mine  to   protect  you,  fair  bride  of  the 

sun,  [is  done; 

Till  the  task  of  the  bride  and  the  bridegroom 
Till  the  roses  that  crown  you  shall  wither 

away. 
And  the  bloom  on  your  beautifulcheekshall 

decay ;  [gray. 

Till  the  soft  golden  locks  of  your  lover  turn 
And  palsy  shall  fall  on  the  pulses  of  day; 
Till  you  cease  to  give  birth  to  the  chiUbenof 

men,  [ngain- 

And  your  forms  are  absorbed  in  niy  currents 
But  your  sons  and  your  daughters,  iincon- 

quered  by  strife,  l-'"'-' 

Shall  rise  on   my  pinions  and  bathe  in  my 
While  the  fierce  glowing  siilenilors  of  suns 

cease  to  burn. 
And  bright  constellations  to  vapor  return. 
And  new  ones  shall  rise  fiom  the  graves  of 

the  old,  l^oUl 

Shine,  fade,  and  dissolve  like  a  tale  that  is 


*- 


LOCAL   A>4D  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


839 


-* 


DAVID  W.  MCCOURT. 

Born:  Waukesha,  Wis.,  Oct  4,1859. 
For  several  yenrs  the  subject  of  this  sketch 
taught  scliool  in  WiscDiisln  and  Nebraska. 
In  1880  he  was  married  to  Miss  Lucy  Shepard, 
and  has  one  son  living.  Since  1884  Mr.  Mc- 
Court  has   luacl  iccil   diiit  i>l  i  y    In  Si.  Paul, 


DAVID  ■R'lLLIA.M   M'COL'IiT." 

Minn.,  and  resides  in  the  pretty  suburb  of 
Maealester  Park.  The  poems  of  tliis  g-entle- 
nian  have  appeared  in  the  St.  Paul  Pioneer 
Press,  Tacoma  Globe  and  other  periodicals. 

OUR  LAST  ESTATE. 
Here  in  sepulclu-al  paths  alone 

I  mark  the  chambers  of  the  dead. 
Where  broken  slab,  a  mossy  stone 

Reveals  some  long--ncglected  bed, 
Unepitaplied  by  slow  decay. 
Mute  witness  of  forgotten  clay. 
I  ponder  o'er  each  name  unread, 

Musiiiy  on  time  and  life  and  death. 
And  with  mute  awe  and  reverence  tread 

The  consecrated  sod  beneath; 
For  in  the  presence  of  the  tomb 
Our  natures  feel  the  general  doom. 
The  monuments  of  wealth  and  pride. 

The  modest  marble  of  the  poor. 
Here  fall  and  crumble  side  by  side: 


Even  fame  itself  is  scarce  .secure. 
For  Time,  whose  toucli  is  laid  on  all. 
At  last  will  level  g-reat  and  small. 
To  be  remembered  in  the  dust 

In  vain  man's  liopes  to  marble  reach. 
For  monuments  that  take  on  trust 

His  name  and  memories  only  teach 
How  vain  ambition's  proud  endeavor 
To  keep  a  name  alive  forever. 
Egypt's  proud  kings  of  story  old 

Built  to  their  names  a  pyramid, 
That  after  ages  might  behold 

The  splendor  witli  their  mummies  hid : 
To-daj-  we  view  the  hands  and  toes 
Of  Cheops  and  the  Pharaohs. 
Ambition's  smiles  allures  us  on. 

We  grasp  at  pleasure,  wealth,  or  fame; 
The  bubble  bursts,  and  all  is  gone; 

Not  even  an  unrememl^ered  name 
Is  left  at  last  to  say  who  run 
Lite's  tleet  course  to  oblivion. 
For  this  is  but  the  common  lot. 

To  bid  adieu  to  every  scene. 
Fall  where  our  names  are  soon  forgot. 

And  be  as  though  we  had  not  been. 
Splendid  in  ashes  still  to  be 
Vain  pomp  to  tax  their  memory. 
But  worthy  deeds  will  outlive  stone. 

And  lofty  thoughts  a  name  engrave 
On  human  hearts  that  will  live  on 

When  marljle  turns  to  dust.  The  wave 
Of  time  and  change  can  waste  not  these. 
True  balsams  of  our  memories. 


A  CHANGE  OF  HE.\RT. 
I  loved  her  once  —  no  matter  when, 

'Twas  one  of  boyhood's  first  romances; 
We  were  scarce  more  than  children  then. 

When  love  is  little  more  than  fancies. 
It  had  a  charm  because  'twas  new. 

My  hopes  and  fears  I  bade  her  tell, 
And  I  believed  if  words  were  true 

She  loved  no  other  half  so  well. 
We  grew  apart  —  no  matter  how. 

Young  love  can  always  find  a  reason 
To  break  a  heart,  a  hope  or  vow. 

As  you  may  learn  in  one  brief  season. 
'Twas  not  that  I  had  fickle  grown. 

Attracted  by  some  fairer  belle. 
But  if  the  truth  must  all  be  known. 

She  loved  another  full  as  well. 
We  meet  no  more  —  no  matter  why, 

The  world  is  anxious  to  discover 
The  burden  of  each  maiden's  sigh. 

The  gloom  of  every  hopeless  lover. 
Yet  if  I  but  get  back  my  heart, 

I  know  a  short  way  to  forget  her. 
And  'tis  not  quite  so  sad  to  part 

When  cheered  by  one  who  loves  me  better. 


4 


*- 


-* 


840 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


POST  OBITUM. 
Why  do  we  thus  so  fondly  cling 

To  life  and  tremble  over  death, 

And  strugg-le  for  a  longer  breath. 
If  death  be  but  the  shadowing 

Of  portals  opening  to  the  dawn 

Of  life  immortal  farther  on? 
Why  do  we  fear  those  treacherous  shears 

That  sever  Clotho's  golden  thread. 

If,  waking  from  the  unknown  dead. 
We  rise  to  brighter,  happier  spheres? 

Why  look  beyond  the  shores  of  truth 

For  fountains  of  immortal  youth? 
How  hope  does  cling  to  fond  deceit; 

Love  gives  us  an  immortal  claim; 

It  looks  on  death  and  feels  the  same. 
And  whisperS;  >•  We  again  shall  meet." 

Tlius,  hope's  illusions  to  fulfill, 

Our  hearts  outrun  our  reason  stlU. 
We  cannot  pass  the  boundary  set; 

For  fairer  forms  and  purer  tints 

We  are  but  bullion  in  the  mints 
Of  Nature,  who  will  mold  us  yet; 

And  other  life  shall  take  in  trust. 

Like  Phojnix,  our  discarded  dust. 
Suns  and  their  systems  have  their  day. 

Empires  and  nations  rise  and  fall. 

For  "dust  to  dust"  is  true  of  all. 
And  are  we  mortal  less  than  they? 

No!  let  us  face  the  truth  and  know 

What  lies  before  us  ere  we  go. 
Draw  superstition's  veil  aside; 

No  gleams  of  bliss  where  glory  glows. 

No  immortality  of  woes 
For  us  beyond  the  tomb  abide. 

But  an  eternity  of  rest 

On  Mother  Nature's  ample  breast. 
But  in  the  years  of  endless  change 

Some  spark  of  life  not  doomed  to  die 

May  prove  thine  immortality; 
As  life  from  form  to  form  shall  range, 

Some  flower  may  open  to  the  morn 

Through  the   same    dust    that  thou  hast 
worn. 
Eternal  mystery  in  all 

About  us  both  in  life  and  death; 

Wo  come  to  being  like  a  wreath 
Of  light  from  darkness,  and  we  fall 

Into  the  shadows  of  the  tomb 

That  faith  seeks  ever  to  illume. 


MIDNIGHT  CHIMES. 
I  love  the  wood  with  its  solitude. 

And  I  love  the  shoi'c  with  its  roar; 
I  love  the  musical  words  of  the  birds. 

And  the  soft,  low  dip  of  the  oar. 
1  love  the  dawn  on  the  dewy  lawn 

And  the  sunset  glow  on  the  hill; 


But  dearer  the  time  of  midnight  chimes, 

When  the  world  is  hushed  and  still. 
I  love  the  morn  with  its  hounds  and  horn, 

And  the  glowing  race  in  the  chase. 
And  the  quiet  eve  is  mine  to  grieve 

Or  meet  with  a  friendly  face. 
But  the  calmest  season  to  muse  or  reason. 

To  poets  and  sages  dear. 
Is  the  quiet  time  when  the  midnight  chime 

Breaks  solemnly  on  the  ear. 
Oh !  some  are  bold  in  their  search  for  gold. 

And  some  have  a  passion  for  fashion. 
While  some  find  a  greater  treasure  in  pleas- 
ure. 

And  some  in  the  tender  passion; 
But  give  me  a  book  in  a  quiet  nook. 

Some  volume  of  lore  to  peruse. 
Or  the  poet's  pen  in  his  midnight  den 

To  follow  the  flights  of  his  muse. 
'Tis  sweet  to  trace' in  the  fields  of  space 

The  silvery  bars  of  the  stars. 
And  to  open  our  ears  to  the  musio  of  the 
spheres, 

Thrown  down  from  their  rt)lling  ears. 
There  are  truths  to  learn  when  their  bright 
orbs  burn. 

And  thoughts  tliat  are  high  and  sublime; 
i'here  is  much  to  feel  and  much  to  reveal 

In  the  hour  of  the  midnight  chime. 
'Tis  the  hour  when  sages  light  up  their  pages 

With  thought  that  glows  as  it  grows. 
And  truth  is  lighted  and  wrongs  are  righted 

When  the  world  is  lost  in  repose; 
And  the  mellow  chime  of  the  poet's  rhyme 

Rings  out  in  its  fullest  power 
With  the  inspiration  for  bright  creation 

That  is  born  in  the  midnight  bour. 
'Tis  the  time  to  brood  in  our  solitude 

On  the  ills  that  are  rife  in  this  life; 
To  banish  our  cares  in  whispered  prayers. 

And  prepare  for  the  morrow  of  strife. 
'Tis  the  time  to  sleep,  'tis  the  time  to  weep, 

'Tis  the  time  to  calmly  lie 
And  patiently  wait  thedecrees  of  fate  — 

'Tis  the  quiet  time  to  die. 


STOLEN  AND  RETURNED. 

Oh!  do  not  pout  those  pretty  lips 
Nor  chide  me  with  thine  eyes. 
If  yielding  to 
Their  tempting  hue. 
Mine  own  may  seem  unwise. 

Yet  if  you  rue  the  stolen  bliss 
By  one  who  deemed  it  pleasure, 

I  will  give  back 

The  little  smack. 
And  add  ten-fold  the  measure. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


841 


-* 


WILLIAM  EDGAR  PABOR. 

Born:  Harlem,  N.Y.,  May  31, 1831. 
During  Lincoln's  presidency  Mr.  Pabor  was 
appointed  postmaster  of  Harlem,  N  Y.,  at 
the  same  time  contributing- many  fine  poems 
to  the  periodical  press.  In  1870  he  emigrated 
to  Colorado,  and  liis  name  is  associated  with 
the  establishment  of  three  of  the  most  thriv- 
ing towub  of  that  state  — (iret-k-j,  Culornili) 


9 


WILLIAM  EDGAR  PABOR. 

Springs,  and  Fort  Collins.  In  1871  he  became 
associate  editor  of  the  Colorado  Farmer,  and 
since  that  time  lia's  been  more  or  less  con- 
nected with  tlie  journalism  of  that  state, 
and  has  also  pubhshed  several  agricultural 
works.  In  1888  he  founded  the  Fruita  Star; 
in  1890  was  for  a  time  editor  of  tlie  Daily  Star 
at  Grand  Junction;  in  the  same  year  was 
elected  second  vice-president  of  the  National 
Editorial  association,  and  %also  president  of 
the  Colorado  State  Editorial  association. 
Mr.  Pabor  now  resides  in  Denver  in  a  pleas- 
ant lioine  with  his  wife,  four  sons  and  one 
daughter,  in  Shady  Side,  Argyle  Park,  edit- 
ing Health  and  Horticulture,  a  semi-monthly 
devoted  to  fruit  culture ,  and  he  is  also  editor 
and  manager  of  the  Colorado  Farmer. 


COxME  BACK. 
Come  back,  I  cry,  but  cry  in  vainl 

Lost  Youth  returns  no  more; 
Ships  that  go  sailing  o'er  tlie  main. 

These  may  come  back  to  shore; 
But  Youth  — oh,  dreams  of  lost  delights  I 
Is  quenched  in  nature's  endless  nights. 
Come  back,  I  cry,  but  cry  in  vain! 

Lost  fouth  no  answer  yields; 
The  rose  that  last  j'ear  graced  the  plain 

This  year  may  flusli  the  fields. 
But  Youth  — oh,  star  of  life's  bright  track! 
Who  ever  watched  it  trailing  back? 
Come  back,  I  cry,  but  cry  in  vain! 

Lost  Youth  no  more  returns; 
Love,  dying,  springs  to  life  again 

From  out  funereal  urns; 
But  Youth  — oh,  flame  of  strong  desire ! 
Who  can  relight  the  ancient  fire? 
The  moon,  in  questioning,  is  dumb. 

Sun,  stars,  are  silent,  too! 
Where'er  at  Nature's  shrine  we  come, 

She  whispers  nothing  new. 
The  ^vorld  is  old,  the  world  is  cold. 
Since  Lost  Youth  lies  beneath  the  mold. 

IF  MY  LOST  LOVTl  WOULD  ONLY  SMILE. 
If  my  lost  love  would  only  smile 

How  changed,  I  said,  the  world  would  be; 
Lilies  would  leap  from  out  the  snow, 
Roses  would  on  the  hedges  grow; 

Ships,  waited  for,  would  come  from  sea. 
Blown  homeward  from  the  Happy  Isle, 
To  win  me  heaven  on  earth  tlie  while. 
If  my  lost  love  would  only  smile. 

Last  night  I  saw  her  saintly  face. 

While  lost  in  dreamland,  far  away; 
But  oil !  the  sadness  that  dwelt  there! 
Tears  from  my  eyes  flowed  unaware; 

Her  lily  lips  moved  as  to  say:  [place ! 

Dear   heart!    sweet    heart!    you   filled  my 
How  can  I  smile  again  and  see 
Another's  heart  lie  close  to  thee? 
Lost  love  of  mine,  forgive!  forgive! 

I  kiss  her  lips  and  think  tlieni  thine; 
I  hear  her  speak,  and  every  word 
Recalls  the  voice  tliaf  once  I  he;ird. 

The  voice  of  one  wlio  once  w:is  mine; 
Who  once  upon  this  earth  did  live! 
Tlie  heart  that  now  lies  close  to  mine 
Is  dear  because  it  seems  like  thine. 
And  lo!  she  listened  and  then  smiled; 

She  smiled,  and  all  the  world  grew  bright; 
She  kissed  me.    Then  her  saintly  face 
Evanished  into  starry  space. 

Now  lilies  leap  up,  pure  and  white. 
And  roses  bloom  where  thorns  grew  wild; 
And  all  my  hours  are  heaven-beguiled 
Since  my  lost  love  has  on  me  smiled! 


-* 


ib- 


-* 


842 


LOCAL,  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


RIO  DE  LAS  ANIMAS  PERDIDAS. 
I. 

Who  are  these  that  drift  before  me,  weaving: 
spells  euchanted  o'er  me. 
That  with  magic  power  draw  me  where  the 
shining  waters  charm? 
And  what  is  this  sound  of  sweetness,  with  its 
fatal  gift  of  tleetness? 
Sound  that  fills  me  to  completeness  with  a 
sense  of  perfect  calm? 
Have  I  leaves  of  lotus  eaten,  even  Time  it- 
self been  cheating. 
And  the  murmur  still  repeating,  as  it  down 
the  river  rolls. 
Find  that  memory  is  sleeping,  Lethe  my  af- 
fections steeping. 
And  my  soul  in  durance  keeping,  by  tlie 
River  of  Lost  Souls? 

IL 

In  a  wonder  born  of  terror  I  look  in  the  riv- 
er's mirror, 
And  behold  the  ghosts  of  error,  shrouded 
in  white  samite  stoles ; 
In  the  near  light  or  the  far  light,  of  the 
moonlight  or  the  starlight. 
Or  the  flashing  of  the  car  light  that  along 
the  river  rolls. 
Gaunt  against  granitic  edges,  dripping  wet 
amid  the  sedges. 
Poising  upon  dangerous  ledges  of  red  bat- 
tlemented  knolls; 
Golden  locks  and  raven  tresses,  arms  that 
pulsate  with  caresses, 
These  my  midnight  vigil  blesses  by  the 
River  of  Lost  Souls. 

TIL 
Lips  that  move  but  make  no  speeches;  hand 
that  into  space  outreaches. 
As  when  one  in  vain  beseeches  for  a  respite 
from  all  care ; 
And  an  army  of  white  faces,  filling  all  the 
sylvan  spaces 
With    a  vision  of    lost  graces,  these    ai-e 
present  everywhere; 
As  the  star-rays  on  the  river  in  the  solemn 
midnight  quiver, 
And  a  tremor,  like  a  shiver,  seems  to  touch 
each  wave  that  rolls. 
Are  they  wings  of  lost  ones,  lifting?    Are 
they  forms  of  lost  ones,  drifting. 
On  the  sands,  so  soft  and  shifting,  by  tiie 
River  of  Lost  Souls? 
IV. 
In  the  west  Sad  Dolores,  with  Its  legendary 
stories 
Of  cliff-dweller's  time-dimmed  glories  out- 
lined on  each  cell-pierced  wall, 
Moves   along  where   Nature's    pages,  bur- 
dened with  the  tale  of  ages, 
* 


Waits  the  coming  of  the  Sages  who  its  se- 
crets shall  recall, 
Of  the  time  the  mother  taught  her  bright- 
eyed  and  bronzed-bosomed  daughter 
That,  to  taste  the  sliiumg  water  as  it  to  the 
Suuland  rolls. 
Was  to  walk  m  Happy  Islands,  floating  in 
the  azure  Sky-lands, 
Hovering    above    the    Higli lands,   by   the 
River  of  Lost  Souls. 

V. 

Now,  through   pine  trees  tall  and  slender, 
comes  a  rosy  light  and  tender 
As  the  young  day  in  its  splendor  dawns 
upon  the  hemisphere; 
And  the  gho.stly  shapes   around  me,  whose 
weird  presence  have  spell-hound  me. 
And  with  eerie  fancies  crowned  me,  with 
the  darkness  disappear. 
Thus  the  night  has  its  romances,  and  the 
heart  throbs  'neath  ghost  glances 
As  the  midnight  hour  advances  where  the 
fateful  river  rolls ; 
Till,  aU  other  loves  forgetting,  with  hopes 
once  so  soul-besetting. 
Daylight  dawns  with  deep  regretting  by 
the  River  of  Lost  Souls. 


PANSIE. 
I. 

"  Never  w;is  payne  but  it  had  joye  at  last." 
—  Pastime  of  Pleasure. 

We  walked  along  the  rainbowed  way 
That  led  us  through  the  fields  of  bliss. 

With  song  of  birds  and  blooms  of  May, 
And  on  our  lips  the  lover's  kiss; 

While  Hope  her  mirror  held  in  hand 

And  showed  us  love's  enchanted  land. 

The  years  rolled  on ;  our  marriage  vow 
More  sacred  grew  as  time  sped  by; 

Faint  lines  were  traced  on  cheek  and  brow. 
But  love,  in  an  unclouded  sky. 

Still  brightly  shone  and  made  the  hours 

Seem  born  of  fair  and  fadeless  flowers. 

One  thing  alone  gave  sense  of  ••  payne  "  - 
One  nnfiilfilled,  enchanted  hope: 

Once,  twice  — nay,  thrice,  and  yet  again 
Through  doubt  an<l  darkness  we  did  grope. 

And,  touching  di^ippointinent's  hand. 

Walked  with  it  through  a  shadowed  land. 

4.  Never  was  payne,"  the  poet  said, 
..  But  it  had  joye  at  last,"  and  we. 

Still  hoping,  hand  in  hand  have  sped 
Adown  the  tide  that  sweeps  life's  sea. 

Till,  in  the  afternoon  of  time 

Once  more  we  hear  the  Joy  Bells  cbime! 


9^ 


LOCAL,  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


843 


-* 


IL 
"  Here's  Piinsies  —  for  sweet  thoughts." 
—  Shakespeare. 
We  named  her  Pansie,  for  our  thoughts 
Of  lier  were  sweet,  more  sweet,  because 
Her  coming-  was  delayed  so  long. 
And  when,  between  midnight  and  morn, 
March  stars  shone  bright,  tlie  crescent  moon 
Shot  down  a  ray  of  liglit  that  fell 
Upon  the  threshold  of  our  home. 
And  left  behind  our  baby  girl. 
Such  sweet  content  fell  on  our  souls 
That  we  went  singing-  all  the  day 
Tiie  sweetest  songs  that  we  could  sing. 
With  sweetest  words  that  we  could  frame. 
The  century  plant  will  bloom  at  last. 
Though  waited  for  an  hundred  years; 
And  lol  the  baby  girl,  for  whom 
Our  hopes  went  out  througli  weary  years. 
Blooms  on  us  with  her  slij'-blue  eyes 
And  nut-brown  hair,  at  last,  at  last! 
And  life  evolves  such  new  delights 
As  full  exceed  our  wildest  dreams. 
III. 
"Thursday's  cliild  is  merry  and  glad." 

—  Old  Ballad. 
Merrily,  merrily,  go  the  bells. 

Life  is  now  one  holiday; 
On  the  summer  air  the  music  swells 
Kound  us,  o'er  us,  far  away, 
Ringing  changes,  blithe  and  gay  — 
Pain  is  past  and  joj-  has  swa3'. 
How  do  the  words  of  the  ballad  run? 

Let  them  fall  on  baby's  ear  — 
Mirtli  and  gladness  from  sun  to  sun; 
Mirth  and  gladness  crown  life's  year. 
Blue-eyed  darling,  Pansie  dear. 
Child  of  autumn  of  life's  year. 
Tliere  never  was  girl  so  sweet  as  this. 

Never  home  so  proud  as  ours; 
There  never  could  come  a  dearer  bliss. 
Crowning  all  ilie  passing  hours; 
Gatlier  now  the  sweetest  flowers 
For  this  Baby  Queen  of  ours. 


*- 


THE  PALACE  OF  SILENCE. 
A  monk  in  the  Palace  of  Silence 

Sat  counting  liis  amber  beads 
With  white  and  tapering-  fingers 

That  treml)led  like  wind-swept  reeds; 
But  never  a  word  lie  uttered. 

And  never  a  sound  was  thrown 
Through  the  alabaster  cloisters 

In  the  amethystine  zone. 

Vows  of  perpetual  silence 
He  uttered  wlio  walked  therein ; 

In  the  world  he  left  behind  him 
He  had  cast  all  worldly  sin ; 


From  his  cell  out  into  the  cliapel. 

From  shrine  back  into  liis  cell. 
Each  walked  as  he  meditated. 

But  he  spoke  no  syllable. 
Only  the  water-clock  ticking:. 

And  only  the  striliing  bell. 
As  they  told  the  time  of  praying-, 

On  the  solemn  silence  fell. 
And  this  was  the  hourly  message: 

"Thou  are  so  much  nearer  death. 
Oh,  monk  of  the  rueful  visage. 

Oh,  mortal  with  failing-  breath." 
Outside  there  were  blooming  gardens. 

The  richest  that  Nature  knew; 
Where  the  red,  red  rose  of  passion 

By  the  saintlj-  lily  grew. 
But  even  the  birds  were  banished. 

Lest  their  songs  should  be  a  sin. 
By  suggesting-  thoughts  of  pleasure 

Where  pleasure  had  never  been. 
The  only  sound  of  disturbance 

In  the  leafy  solitudes 
Was  the  tread  of  feet  soft-sandled. 

The  rustle  of  long  white  robes 
Of  the  monks  among-  the  lilies. 

With  as  white  :i,  face  and  calm, 
Witli  a  body  born  of  passion. 

But  a  soul  baptised  with  balm. 
But,  oh  !  in  the  lonely  vigil 

Of  the  -weary  day  and  night, 
Did  they  seek  no  mocking  \-ision 

Of  an  Elim  of  delight? 
Or  echo  of  .song-  or  laughter 

From  virginal  rose-bud  lips. 
Or  tremulous  siieech  of  Eros 

When  the  moon  was  in  eclipse? 
In  the  silence  of  life  made  equal 

To  the  silence  born  of  death. 
In  their  amethystine  palace 

(So  the  ancient  legend  saith). 
In  a  solemn  soul-communion. 

With  all  worldly  sins  forgiven. 
Each  monk  for  the  message  awaited 

That  would  waft  his  soul  to  Heaven. 
But  the  palace  gates  are  broken. 

And  ruined  the  jasper  walls. 
And  within  each  sacred  chamber 

Tlie  owl  to  his  fellow  calls; 
While  each  votary  of  silence. 

Each  heart  that  was  hard  as  stone, 
Has  into  the  vanished  ages 

Forever  and  ever  flown. 


EXTRACT. 
Bet-ween  the  young  and  the  old  life 

The  heart  is  full  of  cheer; 
But  later  the  trail  of  sorrow 

Brings  with  it  doubt  and  fear. 


*£) 


4<- 


844 


LOCAL,    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


HELEN  M.  WINSLOW. 

Born:  Westfield,  Vt.,  APRiti  13,  1851. 
For  the  past  teu  j^ears  this  lady  has  been  a 
resident  of  Boston,  wliere  she  has  been  en- 
gaged in  the  profession  of  journalism  in  con- 
nection with  the  Boston  Advertiser,  Boston 
Transcript,  and  Saturday  Evtniin^-  (iazcltc; 


WHY  SHOULDN'T  I? 

My  canary  sings  in  his  cage  all  day 

Behind  his  gilded  bars; 
Sliut  in  from  all  that  birds  enjoy, 

Of  sun,  and  sky  and  stars: 
The  freedom,  grace  and  action  fine. 

Of  wild  bird  ho  foregoes; 
Yet  'spite  of  that,  with  happiness 
His  little  heart  o'er  flows: 
The  world  is  wide 
And  birds  outside 
In  happy  song  always  abide  — 
Why  shouldn't  1? 

I,  too,  must  dwell  behind  the  bars 
Of  pain  and  sacrifice; 


HELEN  M.  AVINSI-OW. 

at  the  same  time  she  has  contributed  to  a 
host  of  other  periodicals,  including  such 
publications  as  Wide  Awake  andDemorest's. 
She  is  also  editor  of  the  House  and  Homo 
department  of  the  N.  E.  Fireside.  Both  as  a 
poet  and  journahst  Helen  Maria  Winslow 
is  fast  gaining  a  national  reputation. 


From  weary  heart  and  weary  brain 

Mj'  prayers  and  songs  arise. 
Yet  all  around  sad  hearts  abound. 

And  troubles  worse  than  mine: 
If  aught  of  comfort  I  can  bring- 
To  them,  shall  I  repine? 
God's  world  is  wide: 
If  I  can  hide 

My  crowding  tears  and  sing  beside. 
Why  shouldn't  I? 


OVER  ALL. 
1  said  — 

If  I  covild  see  a  light  ahead  — 
Could  know  the  ships  I  sent  to  sea 
Were  blown  by  Fortune's  gale  toward  me, 
I  could  believe,  in  matters  great  and  small, 

God  watcheth  over  all. 
O  selfish  heart! 

Can'st  thou  not  see  the  nobler  part, 
To  bear  with  patience  sure  defeat; 
To  upward  climb  with  stubborn  feet. 
In  spite  of  disappointment's  iron  thrall! 

For  God  is  over  all ! 


*- 


THE  MESSENGER. 

'.  I'll  be  a  singer,"  so  she  said  one  day; 
•  ■My   words    shall    soothe  and    strengthen 
earth's  rough  way 
For  many  a  weary  heart." 
Her  lines,  tho'  lined  with  all  a  poet's  art, 
And    measured  as  the  drum-beat's  steady 
roll. 
Touched  not  a  single  soul. 
God  sent  his  angel  down  and  gently  smote 
Her  little  plans;  and  disappointment's  note 

Quivered  through  all  her  life. 
Once  more  she   wrote;   but,   under  all,  tho 

strife. 
Of  grief  and  bitter  loss  echoed  so  plain 

Who  read,  shed  tears  of  pain. 
Again  the  silent,  whitewinged  angel  came, 
And  snatching  love  with  life's  best  hopes 
away. 
Left  but  a  breaking  iieart. 
No  longer  from  humanity  apart. 
She  wrote,   but    learned    ii  lesson  born  of 
trust, 
And  wrote  because  .she  must. 
Brave,    lielpful  words  of   trutli.     So  as  wo 

liidc 
Our  sclflsli  griefs,  and  at  God's  will  be  tried 

In  crucible  of  sorrow. 
Strength  comes  to  point-  ;i  brigliter,  glad  t(v 

morrow 
To  fainting,  struggling  souls;  and  keenest 
loss 
A  crown  may  be,  not  cross. 

—4 


*:<- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


-* 


845 


RUFUS  CYREXE  M^^donaLD 

Born:  Boston,  Mass.,  1861. 
In  1890  appeared  Love  and  Other  Poems,  a 
volume  of  verse  from  the  pen  of  Rufus  C. 
MacDouald,  which   has  been  very  favorably 
noticed  by  the  press.    He  has  contributed 


DR.  RTITtrS  CrHENE  MACDONAU), 

largely  to  the  Waverly  Magazine,  Boston 
Transcript,  Life,  Boston  Herald,  Globe  and 
various  other  publications.  Mr.  MacDonald 
is  by  profession  a  physician,  and  is  still  a 
resident  of  his  native  city. 


PESSIMISM. 


*- 


Life  is  but  dreary!  living-  is  only 
A  passage  weary,  painful  and  lonely! 
Pleasure  is  fleeting!  sorrow  unending! 
Care  always  greeting!  joy  rarely  blending? 

Friendship     is    faithless;      though     widely 

flaunted. 
It  is  false,  nathless,  when  it  is  wanted ! 
Virtue  is  paid  for !  truth  is  but  lying ! 
All  we  are  made  for  is  to  be  dying! 
Levels  a  mystery,  which  in  its  doing, 
Maketh  a  historj^  many  are  rueing! 
Life  is  a  burden,  heavy  with  gloom. 
Having  no  guerdon  saving  the  tomb ! 
That  is  the  endins,  sad,  of  our  journey; 
That  we  are  wending,  fighting  life's  tourney ! 
Of  the  tomb  lioUow,  only,  we're  certain! 
What  scene  will  follow  raising  the  curtain? 


FATE. 
Within  the  shadow  of  a  mighty  tree 

A  floweret  grew. 
As  fair  and  beautiful  as  one  could  see 

The  whole  world  through. 
The  birds  sang  love  to  it;  the  honey-bee 

Assailed  its  heart; 
The   love-lorn   zephyrs  whispered    plain- 
tively 

Their  woes  apart. 
But  vain  and  fruitless  were  their  plaints 
and  sighs; 

It  might  not  be; 
The  floweret  gazed,  with  ever  longing  eyes. 

Up  to  the  tree. 
But  ah !  The  tree  gazed  only  at  the  sky 

With  yearnings  sweet. 
Ne'er  noticing  the  floweret's  sigh. 

Low  at  its  feet. 


IN  MY  HAMMOCK. 
Swinging  'twixt  earth  and  sky. 
Dreaming  I  lie; 
Neai'er  the  twinkling  stars; 
Further  from  jars 
Of  earthly  pain. 
Hereon  my  silent  roof. 
See  I  the  woof. 
Golden  and  silver  shooi 
Of  star  and  moon 
Woven  again. 

Slowly  star-shuttles  spread 
Bright  golden  thread, 
Sprangling  the  web  of  night 
With  shining  light. 
Till  all  is  clear. 
Plain  is  the  starry  loom; 
That  of  the  gloom. 
Weaving  mysteriously, 
Eye  cannot  see; 
Yet  is  it  near. 


OLD  MEMORIES. 
Old  memories  never  die. 
The  gust  of  passions  and  the  glow  of  love 
May  fade  away,  like  dew  upon  the  flower; 
But  'round  about  the  past 
Old  recollections,  twining  tenderly. 
Still  cling,  like  ivory  'round  a  ruined  tower. 
Old  memories  never  die. 
Their  voices  sound,  within  the  empty  heart. 
Like  echoes  of  some  old  familiar  song; 
And  stir  within  the  soul 
Thoughts  bitter,  sad,  or  sunny  bright  with 

joy 
Of  former  days,  when  youth  and  love  were 
strong. 


*- 


846 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


JOSEPH  T.  COPlTIiORNE. 

born:  SAN  FRANCISCO,  Cal.,  march  39, 18T0. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Copithorne  have  appeared 
in  the  San  Francisco  Call  and  the  periodical 
press  av.uerally.     He  has  received  a  goud  cd- 


JOi.LPIl  T.  COPITHORNE. 

ucation,  and  in  1887  graduated  at  St.  Mary's 
College,  and  still  resides  in  San  Francisco. 

FANCY'S  PICTURE. 
Last  eve  on  the  green  sward  reclining, 
With  the  moon  overhead  dimly  shining 

On  mountain  and  lea. 
With  the  wakeful,  fair  stars  faintly  gleaming 
And  tlie  slumberous  flow'rs  brightly  drenm- 
Came  Fancy  to  me  LmJ^ — 

In  her  garments  of  white. 
As  though  Queen  of  the  Niglit, 
Before  me  stood  in  her  matchless  array ; 
With  a  gossnmer  veil. 
That  moved  in  tlie  gale  [the  May. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  trees  in  the  breath  of 
She  smiled,  but  not  a  word  said  she. 
But  soon  grasping  my  liand,  she  led  uie 

Aloft  tliruugli  tlie  air; 
Ascended  we  liigher  and  liiglier. 
Quick  as  the  flames  of  Are 
Up  a  chimney  bii.re. 
We  alighted  'mid  flowers, 
'Mid  ruins  iind  towers,                          [sea; 
And  a  broad,  surging  river  rau  down  to  the 
1  opened  mine  eyes 
In  wondrous  surprise, 
For  the  beautiful  spot  seemed  familiar  to  me. 
9 


When,  lo!  as  I  heard  the  bells  pealing. 
Straight  o'er  me  tliere  came  a  strange  feeling 

I  ne'er  felt  before ; 
'Twas  the  joy  of  an  exile  returning  — 
A  joy  indescribable,  burning  — 

To  his  fair  native  shore. 

And  the  scenes  1  beheld 

W ere  the  same  as  of  old,  [of  glee ; 

When  I  gamboled  amid  them  with  soul  full 

And  the  stream  was,  in  truth, 

Tlie  same  as  in  youth  —  [tlie  sea. 

The  Shannon  — the  Shannon  that  winds  to 


ELFIN  MARY. 

Thou  art  a  winsome  maid,  my  lairy. 

Flitting  from  chair  to  chair; 

No  creature  of  light  is  ever  so  airy 

As  my  blue-eyed,  laughing,  little  Mary- 

My  Mary  with  the  sun-kissed  hair. 

As  she  roams  along  the  deafening  noises 

Of  earth  seem  all  unbound ; 

From  morn  till  eve  she  glad  rejoices 

In  tones  so  loud  as  if  human  voices 

Mingled  in  one  great  sound. 

When  musing  in  my  cozy  study. 

Or  delving  in  some  book. 

In  steals  my  darling  busy-body. 

With  face,  fiom  toil,  bedaublcd  and  ruddy. 

And  with  her  sweet  arch  look 

She  climbs  and  climbs  until  full  seated 

On  my  knee  she  rests  awhile. 

Nor  stirs  until  she's  kindly  greeted. 

Nor  speaks  until  to  her  is  meted 

A  whole-souled  welcome  smile. 

Erewhile    she    breathes,  with    whisp'rin^ 

Her  tales  in  my  listening  ear,  Lslowiy. 

Of  infant  play  and  infant  folly. 

With  Gertie,  Gracie,  Susie,  Dolly, 

And  a  host  of  infants  here. 

I  smile  at  the  quaintness  of  her  story. 

At  the  earnest  way  she  told 

How  she  had  whipped  her  brother  Aury, 

Because,  too  proud,  he  seemed  to  glory 

In  being  three  years  old. 

Unheralded,  thus  she  walks  sprightly. 

With  her  golden  liair  unstrung. 

Into  my  little  sanctum  lightly,  , 

Like  the  ray  of  a  summer  sun  that  huiiMM 

Plays  my  old  books  among. 

Ah!  honnie  wee  maid,  what  untoW  pleasure 

You  fling  within  my  bn'ast; 
With  joy  supreme -joy  without  measure, 

You  thrill  me,  dimpled  little  treasure - 

'I'reasure  priceless  and  best. 
May  heaven  shield  Ihee,  child,  forever. 

From  harm's  unsightly  mein: 
May  it  shower  on  thee  true  joy  that  ne% 
Ceases,  like  an  eternal  river 

That  winds  thro'  banks  of  green 


^ 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


847 


-* 


HORACE  P.  BIDDLE. 

Born:  Fairfield  Co.,  O.,  March  24, 1811. 
For  nearly  half  a  century  the  poems  of 
Horace  P.  Biddlo  have  constantly  appeared 
in  the  periodical  press  of  America,  and  in 
six  large  volumes,  amonf?  which  we  specially 
mention:  Glances  at  tlie  World,  a  work  in 
verse  of  nearly  four  hundred  pages;  Anieri- 


HORACE   p.  BIDDLE 

Can  Boyliood,  a  long-  poem  of  over  two  hun- 
dred pages,  portraying  American  boyhood, 
with  its  surroundings  as  it  was  in  the  early 
part  of  the  nineteenth  century;  and  in  1883 
appeared  a  large  volume,  entitled  Last 
Poems,  containing-  some  beautiful  poems. 
Mr.  Biddle  has  long-  since  retired  from  active 
work,  and  this  scholarly  g-entleman  is  now  a 
resident  of  Logaiisport,  Ind. 


TO  THE  MUSES. 
Ye  Beautiful,  ye  Nine,  where  do  ye  dwell V 
And  can  your  haunts  only  be  seen  afar? 
May  we  approach  ye  not?    O,  who  can  tell 
Me  on  what  rock  or  laureled   mount,  or 
where. 
On  flowery  plain,  in  woods,  or  sliady  dell, 
On  the  green  earth,  or  in  the  bluey  air. 
My  eyes  may  see  your  beauty ;  for  they  long 
For  vne  sweet  g-limpse  to  aid  my  laboring- 
song-. 

Where  —  in  blue  ether,  or  the  burning  star. 

In  sky,  or  cloud,  or  earth,  or  In  the  sea: 
Above,  below,  here,  there,  or  near,  or  far ; 


In  cave,  on  mountani-peak,  or  flowery  lea; 
On  rock  or  wave,  in  waste  or  rich  parterre; 

In  darkness,  light,  in  time,  eternity  - 
Dost  dwell  the  True,  the  Good,  the  Beauti- 
ful? 
Tell  me,  sweet  Spirit,   l)reathe  it  to   my 
soul ! 


DEARER  THAN  LIFE. 

Brighter  to  me  than  the  sun  of  morning, 

Fairer  than  flowers; 
Fresher  than  the  dews  of  evening, 

Or  summer  showers ; 
Sweeter  than  the  breath  of  zi-phyrs 

Sighing  in  bowers, 

Dearer  than  life ! 

More  welcome  than  the  whispers  of  genius. 

Or  throbs  of  health; 
Tenderer  than  the  touch  of  angels 

Coming  by  stealth ; 
Richer  than  chaplets  of  laurel 

Or-  the  world's  wealth. 

Dearer  than  life  1 

i. livelier  than  the  stars  of  midnight 

Lighting-  the  sky; 
ivinder  than  hearts  of  young  maidens 

Who  love  — and  die; 
i' lire  as  the  souls  of  the  sinless 

Looking-  on  higli. 

Dearer  than  life! 

Till  the  sun  pales  and  stars  are  fading. 

Or  cease  to  be ; 
Till  dews,  and  zephyrs,  and  the  showers 

Come  not  to  me; 
Till  my  heart  and  soul  cease  their  hoping 

I  will  love  thee 

Dearer  than  life! 


THE  FIRST  POEM. 

I've  published  my  poem  —  'tis  out; 

See  Helicon's  Reg-ister  —  yonder. 
The  scribblers  are  all  in  a  rout. 

The  world  is  preparing  to  wonder. 

The  publishers  —  up  and  agog. 

Are  seeking  a  copy  to  plunder; 
The  news-boys  are  waiting  their  jog. 

To  carry  the  wonderful  wonder. 

The  people  will  learn  it  by  heart. 

The  crusty  old  critics  will  ponder. 
And  even  the  dolts  of  the  mart 

Will  turn  from  their  chattels  and  wonder. 

A  day,  even  thirty,  soon  flit : 
No  notice,  no  critique,  no  thunder? 

They're  jealous  of  genius  —  that's  it; 
But  why  don't  the  world  stop  and  wonder  1 


*- 


848 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A31ERICA, 


I  LOVE  THEE. 
In  the  deep  silence  of  my  soul 

1  love  thee! 
For  thou  art  good  aud  beautiful. 

I  love  thee ! 
Before  thy  beauty  I  am  dumb. 

I  love  thee ! 
Yet  where  thou  art  I  may  not  come. 

I  love  thee : 
Yet  not  for  love's  fulfillment  here 

1  Jove  thee ! 
Though  I  would  be  forever  near; 

I  love  thee ! 
But  with  a  love  too  pure  for  earth 

I  love  thee ! 
For  in  my  soul  it  has  its  birth. 

I  love  thee ! 
Thou  art  my  bliss  and  yet  my  woe. 

I  love  thee ! 
I  must  not  stay  and  cannot  go. 

I  love  thee ! 
Though  thou  hast  chain'd  my  soul  and  heart, 

I  love  thee! 
And  kiss  the  chain  that  gives  me  smart, 

I  love  thee ! 

Yet  words  can  not  my  pain  express. 

I  love  tliee! 
No  tongue  would  dare  my  joy  confess. 

I  love  thee ! 
My  heart  still  would,  yet  may  uot  speak, 

I  love  thee! 
In  lonely  silence  let  it  break. 

I  love  thee ! 
And  with  a  love  that  cannot  die 

I  love  thee ! 
My  soul  shall  bear  it  to  the  sky. 

I  love  thee ! 


*- 


THE  POET'S  GENIUS. 
Genius  was  witli  him  at  his  birth, 

And  genius  guides  him  on  his  waj'; 
It  marks  him,  'midst  the  Sons  of  Eartli, 

With  aureoleau  ray. 

The  Muses  seek  him  and  disclose 

Their  beauties  to  his  soul. 
Inspiring  thought  until  it  glows 

As  the  seraphic  coal. 

Then  poetry  bursts  from  his  lips 

As  blossoms  from  the  bud, 
As  sweet  as  bee  on  Hybla  sips 

High  o'er  Deucalion  flood. 

His  chaplet  gatliers  round  his  brow 
Wliile  years  liis  honors  bring. 

As  leaves  upon  the  laurel  grow 
And  bloom  in  endless  spring. 


THE  POET'S  NEED, 
Sweet  lips  to  give  liim  smile  for  smile. 

Bright  eyes  to  answer  tear  for  tear, 
A  loving  heart  to  care  beguile. 

And  true,  to  keep  his  own  sincere; 
White  arms  to  cling  around  liis  neck, 

A  breast  to  give  him  sigli  for  sigh, 
A  courage  tliat  M'ill  not  forsake. 
And  love  that  could  not,  would  not  die ! 
Ah.  give  liim  these  and  lie  will  build 

A  monument  to  reach  the  sky; , 
Tlie  briglitest  star  its  spire  sluiU  guild; 

Its  stately  columns,  towering  high, 
Shall  bask  beneath  the  light  of  lieaven. 

And  throughout  ages  stand  unriven! 

THE  CROWN  OF  THE  POETS. 
Though  poor  in  wealth  the  poets  be. 
They  are  full  rich  in  royalty; 
Richer  in  heart  and  soul  and  mind 
Than  all  the  world  of  sense  combined. 
To  laureled  niount  and  stream  they  hold 
A  title  never  bought  or  sold. 
And  take  from  nature's  heraldy 

Their  true  nobility. 
They  wear  a  crown  begemmed  with  stars, 
That  ne'er  was  won  nor  lost  in  wars; 
And,  uneonflned  to  realm  or  birth. 
It  rules  unseeptered  o'er  tlie  earth; 
More  royal  than  a  regal  crown. 
Grander  in  beauty  and  leuown  — 
A  crown  of  genius  from  the  sky 

Conferred  by  Deity! 


CUPID  IN  THE  KITCHEN. 
Ah!  Cupid's  flames  will  never  kindle 

The  fagots  in  the  kitchen; 
His  tears,  although  they  fill  a  rindle. 

You  cannot  boil  a  flitch  in; 
Nor  will  his  arrow,  like  a  spindle, 

Twist  threads  to  put  a  stitch  in. 
Nor  spin  a  web  to  round  liim  windle. 

And  keep  tlie  little  witch  in. 
For  he  will  never  wear  his  clothing 

If  he  the  bands  can  sunder, 
And,  as  to  food,  he  lives  on  nothing 

But  love's  delicious  plunder; 
On  this  he  often  feeds  to  loathing. 

And  sickens  tor  his  blunder, 
Aud  then  he  needs  nuich  care  and  soothing:. 

Or  quickly  he  will  wander. 
The  little,  naked  mischief-maker 

Stays  not  for  goods  or  money. 
And  never  cares  for  cook  or  baker 

If  you  but  give  him  honey. 
He  is  an  arrant  promise-breaker. 

And  cheats  the  trusting  many: 
A  sad  deceiver  and  forsaker. 

And  never  true  to  any. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


849 


-* 


CHARLES  FOLLEN  ADAMS. 

Porn:  Dorchester,  Mass.,  April  21, 1842. 

In  1862  Charles  F.  Adams  enlisted  in  tlie 
Thirteenth  Kegiment  Massacliusetts  Volun- 
teers, and  was  in  the  battles  of  Bull  Run, 
Fredericlishurg-,  Chancellorsville  and  others; 
was  wounded  at  Gettysburg-,  1863,  and  lield 
as  prisoner  for  tljree  days,  until  Federal 
troops  retook  the  town.  He  was  then  taken 
to  hospital  at  New  York  and  Rhode  Island; 
afterward  detailed  in  1864.  Upon  his  return 
home  he  ag-ain  resumed  business,  and  is  now 
at  the  head  of  au  extensi\-e  establishment  in 


CHARLES  F.  ADA3IS. 


Boston.  His  literary  pursuits  may  be  said 
to  have  just  begun,  his  first  poem  having 
been  written  in  1870,  and  his  first  dialect 
poem.  The  Puzzled  Dutchman,  1872,  appear- 
ing in  Our  Young  Folks,  now  merged  into 
St.  Nicholas.  From  that  time  lie  was  an  oc- 
casional contributor  to  local  papers,  Oliver 
Optic's  Magazine,  Scribner's  and  others,  un- 
til 1876,  when  he  became  a  regular  contribu- 
tor to  the  Detroit  Free  Press,  his  first  poem 
in  tliat  paper  being-  ..Leedle  Yawcob 
Strauss."  Nearly  all  of  his  subsequent  pro- 
ductions have  been  written  for  that  paper. 
Many  of  the  poems  have  been  adapted  to 
music,  and  have  become  very  popular.  Be- 
sides the  two  volumes  entitled  "Leedle 
Yawcob  Strauss  and  Other  Poems,"  and 
Dialect  Ballads,  he  has  written  many  prose 
sketches,  mostly  in  dialect,  which  have  been 


copied  in  all  the  prominent  journals  of  the 
country,  and  in  the  different  humorous  col- 
lections that  have  been  published.  Those 
may  form  the  nucleus  for  a  future  volume. 
Mr.  Adams  has  had  numerous  calls  for  his 
services  on  the  platform,  and  has  delivered 
many  of  his  original  productions  before  Bos- 
ton audiences,  by  whom  lie  has  been  received 
witli  much  favor.  In  1870  Charles  FoUen 
Adams  was  married  to  Miss  Hattie  Louise 
Mills,  and  has  two  children —Charles  Mills, 
born  in  1874;  and  Ella  Paige,  b(irn  in  1878. 


YAWCOIi  STRAUSS. 
I  haf  von  funny  leedle  poy, 

Vot  gomes  schust  to  mine  knee; 
Der  queerest  schap,  der  Greatest  rogue. 

As  efer  you  dit  see. 

He  runs,  und  schumps,  und  sehmashes  dings 

In  all  barts  off  der  house: 
But  vot  off  dot?  he  vas  mine  son, 

Mine  leedle  Yawcob  Strauss. 

He  get  der  measles  und  der  mumbs, 

L'nd  eferyding  dot's  oudt; 
He  spills  mine  glass  off  lager  bier. 

Foots  schnuff  indo  mine  kraut. 

He  fills  mine  pipe  mit  Limbui-g  cheese,  — 

Dot  vas  der  roughest  chouse: 
I'd  dake  dot  vrom  no  Oder  poy 

But  leedle  Yawcob  Strauss. 

He  dakes  der  milk-ban  for  a  dhrum, 

Und  cuts  mine  cane  in  dwo. 
To  make  der  sehticks  to  beat  it  mit,  — 

Mine  cracious,  dot  vas  drue! 

I  dinks  mine  hed  vas  schplit  abart. 

He  kicks  oup  sooch  a  touse: 
But  nefer  mind;  der  poys  vas  few 

Like  dot  young-  Yawcob  Strauss. 

He  asks  me  questions  sooch  asdese: 

Who  baiuts  mine  npse  sored? 
Wlio  vas  it  cuts  dot  schmoodth  blace  oudt 

Vrom  der  hair  ubon  mine  hed? 

L^nd  vhere  der  plaze  goes  vrom  der  lamp 

Veue'er  der  g-lim  1  douse. 
How  g-an  I  all  dose  dings  eg-grsblain 

To  dot  schmall  Yawcob  Strauss? 

I  somedimes  dink  I  schall  go  -vild 

Jlit  sooch  a  grazy  poy, 
Und  vish  vonce  more  I  gould  haf  rest, 

L^'nd  beaceful  dimes  enshoy. 

But  ven  he  vas  ashleep  in  ped, 

So  gruiet  as  a  mouse, 
I  prays  der  Lord,  ••  Dake  anyding. 

But  leaf  dot  Yawcob  Strauss." 


-* 


*- 


850 


LOCAli   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMERICA. 


DEK  OAK  AND  DER  VINE. 
I  don'd  vus  preacliing-  vraian's  righdts, 

Or  anyding  like  dot, 
Und  I  likes  too  see  all  beoples 

Shust  gondented  mlt  dlieir  lot; 
Budt  I  vants  to  gondradict  dot  shap 

Dot  made  dis  leedle  shoke : 
"  A  vomaii  vas  der  glhigiiig  vine, 

Und  man,  der  shturdy  oak." 
Berhaps,  somedimes,  dot  may  pe  drue; 

Budt,  den  dimes  oudt  off  nine, 
I  find  me  oudt  dot  man  liimself 

Vas  peen  der  glinging  vine; 
Und  ven  liees  f  rendts  dhey  all  vas  gone, 

Und  he  vas  shust  "  toad  proke," 
Dot's  vhen  der  voman  shteps  righdt  in, 

Und  peen  der  shturdy  oak. 
Shust  go  oup  to  der  pasc-pall  groundts 

Und  see  dhose  "  shturdy  oaks  " 
All  planted  roundt  ubon  der  seats  — 

Shust  hear  dheir  laughs  und  shokes! 
Dhen  see  dhose  vomens  at  der  tubs, 

Mit  giothes  oudt  on  dor  lines; 
Vhich  vas  der  shturdj'  oaks,  mine  frondts, 

Und  vhich  der  glinging  vines? 

Ven  sickness  in  der  householdt  come 

Und  veeks  und  veeks  he  shtays, 
Who  vas  id  figlidts  him  mitoudt  resdt, 

Dhose  veary  niglidts  und  days? 
Who  beace  und  gomfort  alvays  prings, 

Und  cools  dot  fefered  prow? 
More  like  id  vas  der  tender  vine 

Dot  oak  lie  glings  to,  now. 
"Man  vants  budt  leedle,  here  pelow," 

Der  boet  von  time  said; 
Dhere's  leedle  dot  man  he  don'd  vant, 

I  dink  id  means,  inshted; 
Und  ven  der  years  keep  rolling  on, 

Der  cares  and  drubles  pringing. 
He  vants  to  pe  der  shturdj^  oak, 

Und  also  do  der  glinging. 
Maybe,  ven  oaks  dhey  gling  some  more, 

Und  don'd  so  shturdy  peen, 
Der  glinging  vines  dhey  haf  some  chance 

To  helb  run  Life's  masheen. 
In  belt  und  sickness,  slioy  und  pain, 

In  calm  or  shtormy  vcddher, 
'Twas  bedlicr  dot  dhose  oaks  und  vines 

Schuldt  always  gling  togedher. 


*- 


VAS  MARRIAGE  A  FAILURE. 
Vas  marriage  a  failure?    Veil,  now,  dot  dtv 

pends 
Altogedher  on  how    you  look    at  id,   mine 

friends. 
Like  dhose  double-horse  teams  vol  you  see 

at  der  races. 
Id  depends  pooty  much  on  der  pair  in  der 

traces; 


Eef  dhey  don'd  pool  togedher  righdt  off  at 

der  shtart. 
Ten  dimes  oudt  off  nine  dhey  vas  beddher 

apart. 

Vas  marriage  a  failure?    Der  vote  vas  iu 

doubt; 
Dhose  dot's  oudt  vould  be  in,  dhose  dot's  in 

vould  be  oudt; 
Der  man    mit   oxberience,  goot  looks  und 

dasli. 
Gets  a  vife  mit  some  fife  hundred  dousand 

in  cash; 
Budt,  after  der  honeymoon,  vhere  vas  der 

honey? 
Siie  haf  der  oxberience  —  he  haf  der  money. 
Vas    marriage  a  failure?    Eef  dot  vas  der 

case, 
Vot  vas  to  pocome  off  der  whole  human  race? 
Vt)t  you  dink  dot  dor  oldt  "Pilgrim  faders' ' 

vould  say,  [Bay, 

Dot  came  in  der  Sunflower  to  oldt  Plymouth 
To  see  der  fine  coundtry  dis  peoples  haf  got, 
Und    dhen    hear   dhem    ask    sooch   conoii- 

dhrums  as  dot? 
Vas  marnage  a  failure?    Shust  go,  ere  you 

tell,  [renfell; 

To  dot  Bunker  Mon  Hillument,  vhere  Vai^ 
Dink  of  Vashingtou,  Franklin,  und  "Honest  ' 

Old  Abe"  — 
Dhey  vash  all  been  aroundt  since  dot  first 

Plymouth  babe. 
I  vas  only  a  Deutscher,  budt  I  dells  you  votl 
I  pelief  every  dime,  in  sooch  "failures"  as 

dot.  I 

Vas  mari-iage  a  failure?   I  ask  mine  Katrine,  | 
Und  she  look  off  me  so  dot  I  feels  pooty  ; 

mean.  j 

Dhen  she  say:  "Meester  Strauss,  shust  come  , 

here  eef  j'ou  blease."  I 

Und  she  dake  me  vhere  Yawcob  und  leedle, 

Loweeze  j 

By  dheir  shnug  trundlo-bod  vas  shust  saying  J 

dheir  prayer,  i 

Und  she  say,  mit  a  smile,  "Vas  dhere  some  | 

failures  dhere." 


FROM  "DER  VATER-MILL." 
Dhen  nottor  mindt  dor  loaves  dot's  dead;  dor 

grain  dot's  in  dor  bin; 
Dhey  botli  off  dhem  haf  had  dheir  day,  und! 

shust  vas  gathered  in. 
Und  ueffor  mindt  der  vator  vhen  id  vonce; 

goes  droo  der  mill; 
Ids  vork   vas  done!    Dhere's   bleudy  more. 

dot  vaits  ids  blace  to  fill. 
Let  cacli  von  dake  dis  moral,  vrom  der  klnfi; 

down  to  der  i)oasant: 
Don'd  mindt  der  vater  dot;  vast  past,  bud' 

der  vater  dot  vas  bresent. 


LCCAT>   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


851 


-* 


JULIAN  NOYESSTICKNEY. 

Born:  West  Newbury,  Mass.,  July  5, 1830. 
I\  1884  appeared  Lake  Wiiuiipesaukee,  a 
volume  of  verse  from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Julia 
Noj-es  Stickuej'.  Her  poems  have  appeared 
iu  the  Boston  Transcript  and  tlie  periodical 
press  generally.  She  was  married  in  1855  to 
Cliarles  Stickney  of  Grovehind,  Mass.,  and 
has  a  family  of  five  children.  For  many 
yeai-s   prior   to  her  marriag-e    she    taught 


MRS.  JULIA  NOYES  STICKNEY. 

school,  and  was  principal  of  the  g-irl's  hig'h 
school  in  Haverhill,  Mass.  The  arduous 
duties  of  motherhood  left  little  time  for 
literary  work,  taut  ten  years  ag-o  she  ag'ain 
actively  took  up  her  pen,  and  hundreds  of 
lier  articles  and  poems  yearlj'  find  their. way 
into  the  periodical  press  of  Boston.  Julia 
Noyes  Stickney  spends  her  summers  in 
traveling  over  picturesque  places,  and  oc- 
casionally lectures  on  her  travels  and  literary 
themes.  Her  winters  are  spent  in  Boston 
in  literary  work,  and  she  is  now  an  honored 
pupil  in  the  Emerson  CoUeffo  of  Oratorv. 


JUSTICE. 
Justice,  thou  of  heavenly  birth. 
Come  down  and  dwell  upon  the  earth  ! 
O  white-wing-ed  soul,  whose  prophet-tongue 
Sung  when  the  three-fold  lyre  was  strung. 
And  later,  woke  the  seraph  strains 
O'er  Judah's  meteor-lighted  plains. 
Come  sound  Columtaia's  triumph  song. 
And  chase  the  gathering  clouds  along! 

*— : . 


When  Freedom  to  Hesperia  came. 
And  lit  the  patriot's  torcli  of  flame, 
Wliere  dwelt  thy  soul,  in  realms  afar. 
Beyond  Orion's  upmost  star. 
That  when  the  unflinching  fight  was  done 
Thj-  spirit  soared  above  the  sun. 
And  presentation  from  his  cave 
Come  following  Freedom  o'er  the  wave! 
When  shall  our  land,  from  sea  to  sea 
O  Justice,  be  a  home  for  thee; 
When  shall  our  mountains  be  tlie  siirine 
For  one  with  spirit  all  divine; 
When  shall  our  flag,  unsullied,  wave. 
Above  the  pure,  uncounted  bravi'. 
When  all  wlio  tread  our  native  sod 
Shall  love  their  neighbor  and  their  God, 
And  man  and  woman,  side  b3-  side. 
Shall  equal,  breast  life's  rising  tide! 
Star  of  the  east,  on  high  im pearled. 
Shine  out  upon  the  western  world: 
Strike  seraphs,  smite  tlie  Ij-re  again. 
Sing  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men. 
Thy  kingdom  come,  thy  will  be  done. 
And  wake  the  choirs  beyond  the  sun. 
As  when  the  empyrealzenith  rung, 
And  morning  sturs  together  sung. 


LAND  OF  IPSWICH. 
Land  where  once  my  Alma  Mater 

Lured  my  footsteps  year  by  year. 
Now  my  soul,  iu  life  far  later. 

Flies  to  memory's  haunted  sphere. 
Thou  my  rapture  still  shalt  waken. 

Olden  town,  forever  young; 
There  I  am  not  yet  forsaken 

By  fond  youth,  with  silver  tongue. 
For  my  teachers,  love  beguiling. 

Walk  the  earth,  from  sorrow  free  — 
Land  of  Ipswicli,  ever  smiling. 

Fair,  enchanted  ground  to  me. 
Still  flows  on  thy  silver  river 

Winding  through  the  woodland  green. 
And  the  zenith-sunbeams  quiver 

Where  my  comrades  once  were  seen. 
In  the  hall,  by  care  unclouded. 

Lit  by  love  and  beauty  bland  — 
Now,  in  miduiglit  vigils,  crowded 

With  a  band  from  Eden-land. 
Alma  Mater!  in  a  vision 

All  thy  sacred  haunts  appear 
And  the  olden  days,  elysian, 

Gild  life's  radiant  sunset-sphere. 
Land  of  Ipswich,  still  I  love  thee! 

From  the  hills  thy  spires  are  seen 
With  an  aureole  above  thee. 

Lighting  all  thy  living  green. 
Echoes  wander  o'er  thy  highlands 

From  celestial  lands  afar; 


-•i" 


*- 


852 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


Once  again  the  enchanted  islands 
Mirror  back  Hope's  morning  star. 

Where  by  life's  eternal  fountain, 
On  the  pearl-enshadowed  shore, 

We  shall  gaze  from  Zion's  mountain 
On  the  loved  forevermore. 


BROAD  ARE  MY  LANDS. 
Broad  are  my  lands  for  all  the  earth  is  mine. 

The  living  air,  the  azure  dome  above. 
The  emerald  forest  and  the  lonely  shrine. 
From  mountain-top  to  the  far  border-line 
That  veils  the  realms  of  light  and  life  and 
love. 

The  morn  is  mine,   from  its  first  diamond 
glow. 
When  stars  shine  pale,  and  Luna  slumbers 
blest 
Upon  Hesperian  fields  of  verdure  low. 
Till  glad   Aurora  wakes  the   world  from 
rest 
With  roseate  glow,  like  Monte  Rosa's  snow. 

The  noon   is  mine,  when   from  the  zenith 
glows 
The  sun,  resplendenton  his  golden  throne. 
When  zephyr  o'er  the  stream  a  soft  spell 

throws. 
And  bears  the  breath  of  lily  and  of  rose 
To  cheer  the  oriole  on  her  nest  alone. 

The  sunset  hour  is  mine,  when  rivers  shine 
With  pure  gem-light,  borrowed  from  every 
strand. 
When   summer  evening,  pure,  transcendent 

fine. 
Gathers  tlie  colors,  far-off  and  divine. 
That  light  the  pearl-gates  of  the  spirit-land. 

The  night   is  mine,  when   mortals  slvimber 
still. 
Save  poet-seer,  and  sons  of  pain  and  strife. 
Whose   souls,    the    dreams    of  those  pearl- 
portals  fill 
With  hopes,   that  from   the  woes  of  earth 
distill 
The  pure  elixir  of  immortal  life. 

Nature  is  mine,  upon  the  sapphire  .sea. 

Or  in  the  heart  of  cataract-lighted  woods, 
Or  where  the  purple  highlands  guard  the 

lea 
And  smiling  lawn,  from  northern  tempest 
free, 
Or  in  the  thunder-echoing  solitudes. 
The  homes  of  men  are  mine,  where  love  is 
kind, 
Wht>re  cliildrun  smile,  and  pictures  light 
the  walls 
Almost  as  fair  as  those  once  more  outlined, 


When  momory,  vanished  youth,  in  joy  re- 
calls 
To  gaze  on  her  enchanted  vision-halls. 

And  hope  is  mine  that  in  some  glorious  hour, 

Bej'ond  the  broad,  cerulean  sea  of  time. 
My   rapturous    spirit,  winged    with   rising 
power. 
Shall  hear  the  bells  of  heaven  their  wel- 
come chime 
From    mountain-tops     of   that    supernal 
clime. 


A  DREAM  OF  THE  SEA. 
I  dreamed  of  the  sea— the  wild,  wild,  sea 

And  the  sound  of  the  ocean's  roar. 
Where  the  waves  came  dressed  in  a  foamy 
crest 

And  broke  on  a  shining  shore. 
And  my  heart  beat  high  as  I  turned  my  eye 

On  the  waters  far  away. 
And  my  soul  grew  wild  like  a  restless  child 

At  the  sight  of  the  salt-sea  spray. 
I  sat  awhile  on  a  granite  pile, 

Where  the  billows  from  afar 
Came  up  with  a  shock  to  the  dauntless  rock, 

With  the  sound  of  a  mighty  war. 
How  the  foam-flakes  flew  as  the  waters  blue 

To  the  ocean-caves  ran  'round. 
And  leaping,  played  in  a  wild  cascade 

With  a  soul-enlivening  sound. 
What  joy  was  mine,  at  the  sun's  decline. 

When  the  bright  beams  smote  the  wave, 
To  watch  the  glows  of  a  thousand  bows 

That  seveu-hued  Iris  gave ! 
I  dreamed  of  the  isles  —the  purple  isles 

That  doze  on  the  dimpled  main. 
Where  the  sea-birds  go  on  a  wing  of  snow 

To  an  unmolested  reign. 
I  saw  the  sail,  like  a  spirit  pale. 

On  the  line  of  the  distant  deep, 
Andtlie  bark  near  by,  swung  soothingly 

To  my  soul  in  a  softening  sleep. 
Then  I  heard  the  chimes  from  the   tar-oit 
climes. 

By  the  west  wind  borne  along. 
And  the   nicrinaids  sung  and  the  sea-caves 
rung 

With  a  soul-enchanting  song. 
And  my  dream  of  the  sea— the  wide,  wide 
sea. 

Grew  still  as  a  summer's  sleep; 
I  saw  no  path  of  the  Storm-King's  wrath 

On  the  face  of  the  smiling  deep. 
And  I  long  for  tlie  wave,  the  roUiug  wave, 

I  sigh  for  the  salt-sea  shore. 
My  soul  grows  wild  like  a  restless  child 

For  the  sound  of  the  ocean's  roar. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


853 


-« 


LEON  F.  MOSS. 

Born:  Cuba,  III,.,  Sept.  12, 1861. 
The  poems  of  Leon  F.  Moss  have  usually  ap- 
peared under  a  iioni  de  plume  in  various 
publications,  and  have  always  been  favor- 
abl.v  received.  In  1883  he  was  president  of 
Western   Nnrmiil  Colleg-e  at    Bushnell,    III. 


LEUN    f.  MOSS. 

The  following  year  he  was  admitted  to  the 
bar,  and  since  that  time  has  been  engaged  in 
the  practice  of  his  profession.  In  1883-4  Mr. 
Moss  was  city  attorney  at  Ipava,  111.  Ho 
then  practiced  at  McCook,  Neb.,  for  nearly 
four  years,  when  he  went  to  Los  Angeles, 
Cal.,  where  he  now  enjoys  a  lucrative  prac- 
tice. In  1886  Mr.  Moss  was  married  to  Miss 
Effie  F.  Willard. 


A  MEMORY. 

Near  on  a  grape  vine  Mabel  swung. 
That  to  an  oak  tree's  branches  clung, 
And  creeping  higher  o'er  its  crest, 
A  canopy  of  green  leaves  pressed. 
Around  tliat  sylvan  bower  of  ease 
Were  blooming  rare  wild  ai.ple  trees, 
And  crocuses  and  purple  bells. 
Geraniums  in  sunny  dells. 
And  morning-glories,  rich  in  hues. 
From  which  the  fairies  sip  the  dews. 
Adown  the  vista  at  the  right 
The  wild  plum  trees  were  blooming, 
And  golden  in  the  morning  light 
The  mountain's  crest  was  looming; 


Close  at  its  foot  the  rivulet 

Dim  in  the  distance  furled  and  fret. 

Till  foaming  'neath  the  banks  and  braes, 

Its  ripples  caught  the  sunshine  rays. 

When  sparkling,  glittering  tliro'  the  briars. 

It  shone  a  living  stream  of  fires. 

With  one  arm  circling  'round  the  liill 

The  silver  lake  of  Laula  lay, 

And  joining  there  the  glistening  rill, 

Ketlected  every  burning  ray. 

An  emerald  declivity 

Sloped  toward  tlie  left,  to  where  a  brook 

Flowed  murmuring  'neath  many  a  tree. 

That  with  a  dreamy  rustle  shook 

Its  foliage  of  gold  and  green,        . 

And  sparkled  with  a  wondrous  sheen 

As  down  the  pearl-like  showers  flew 

I  )f  lustrous  drops  of  limpid  dew. 

Sweet  Mabel  viewed  those  beauties  rare. 
And  fair,  amongst  them  seemed  more  fair; 
A  radiance  she  seemed  to  gain 
From  blossoming  bright  May's  sweet  flowers. 

The  turtle  dove's  soft  love  refrain, 
Foretellnig  cioudj'  days  and  showers. 
Amid  the  morning  brightness  heard, 
'Mid  leaves,  and  flowers  and  singing  bird  — 
Was  it  the  lute  of  my  good  fairy 
So    softly     sighing:    "Love,     tarry,    tarry 
tarry'?" 

AS  THE  SUN  SETS. 
Glance  I  now  where  old  Ladoga, 
With  a  sparkling  silver  toga 
Drawn  around  his  rugged  crest. 
In  his  autumn  colors  drest. 
Drooping  down  so  frowning  glowers. 
Where  the  crouching  forest  cowers 
At  his  foot.     His  visage  burning 
With  an  angry  luster  —  spurning 
Intercourse  with  fairer  creatures  — 
He  his  seamed  and  swarthy  features 
Thinks  to  hide  behind  that  crystal  screen; 
But  it  magnifies  and  shows  more  plainly 
His  huge  form  and  hides    the  brown  and 

green  — 
Magnifies,  and  makes  It  more  ungainly. 
Westward  glance,  where  southward  floating. 
Thro'  the  lether  glisting—  gloating 
On  the  fair  earth's  pink  and  green. 
Goes  a  cloud  in  wondrous  slieen. 
Gloats  she  on  the  eartli's  attractions. 
Gloats  she  where  the  sun-reflections 
Thro'  her  own  prismatic  borders 
Give  in  wondrous  bright  disorders 
All  the  rainbow  colors;  where,  in 
Shadowy  outlines  pictured  the  rein,— 
Deep  adown  the  crystal  heart 


-* 


854 


LOCAL   AMD  KATIONAL   POETS   OF   A3IERICA. 


Of  the  lake,  her  shimmering-  likeness  blend- 

eth 
With  what  seems  her  earthly  counterpart, 
And  the  depths  a  fleecj'  luster  lendeth. 
Now  she  sweeps  tlie  red  horizon  — 
Curved  couch  the  big-  sun  lies  on 
Just  before  he  takes  his  way, 
Carrying-  the  fainting  day 
To  another  dewy  morning  — 
For  refreshing-  and  adorning  — 
Sweeps  the  red  liorizon  lightlj- 
With  her  trailing  robes  that  brightly 
Brush  across  the  sun.    The  flashes 
Show  now  purple  —  pink  with  dashes 
Of  a  ciierry  redness  interspersed; 
And  tlie  delicate  pale  tints  that  shimmer. 
In  the  brightest  dyes  twined  and  immersed. 
Like  soft  scintillating-  wavelets  glimmer. 
Soon  the  cloud,  a  silver  coating- 
O'er  her  center  ceases  floating 
As  she  draws  across  the  face 
Of  the  sun  with  airy  grace; 
And  with  silver  coat  and  lining- 
Wound  around  with  beauties  twining-. 
Forms  a  wondrous  woven  garland 
O'er  the  shining- gate  to  Star  Land. 
Thro'  her  broken  upper  edges 
Reach  down  earthward  golden  wedges, 
Driven  thro'  her  margin  to  the  sun; 
Like  a  wreath  of  pansies  and  carnation, 
A  fair  stripe  of  pink  and  purple  spun. 
Fringing  all  the  grooves  and  elevations. 


*- 


IF. 
In  summer  evening-'s  shadow  wandered  I. 

Where  perfume-liiden  zephjTS  roll 
From  down   the  flowery  mountain   slopes; 

where  lie, 
Stretched     at     their     foot,     sweet-scented 
meadow  lands; 
Here  oft  I've  lingered;  here  my  soul 
Hath  heaid  the  lap  of  waves  on  dreamland 
sands; 
And  wafted  herefrom  either  pole, 
Tlie  music  of  the  spheres  oft  heard  I  die. 
Like  rush  of  waters  on  far  distant  strands. 
In  wondrous  tuneful  waves  of  witcherie. 
Atuned  in  sweetest  sylvan  harmonies 

The  fluttering  leaves  that  round  me  twined 
Beat  time  as  liere  I   brt  athed  the  grateful 

breeze ; 
And  mingled  came  the  sound  of  waterfalls, 
And  purl  of  sweet-toned  brooks;  behind 
The  mountain  heard  I  music  low  that  thralls 

The  senses,  stealing  o'er  the  mind 
Like  incense;  'twas  sweet  vesper  melodies; 
Yet,  thought  I,  nauglit  in  church  nor  eon- 
vent  walls. 
Nor  cataract,  liatli  tuned  these  symplionies. 


With  pleasant,  restful  thoughts  I  listened 
long. 

I  heard  a  shepherd  wind  his  horn. 
And  listened  to  the  sweetly  echoed  .song 
Of   shepherd    lass;   I  heard  combined   the 
sound 

Of  every  tune  of  eve  or  morn 
That   sylvan    voices   give;     and    wreathed 
around 

Me  all  the  blossoms  that  adorn 
With  colors  and  witli  fragrance,  set  among 
The  leaves,  most  sweet  the  feast  of  beauty 

crowned; 
To  swain,  nor  lass,  nor  flowers  did  this  be- 
long, 
So  thought  I,  as  with  closed  eyes  I  lay 

Within  that  woodland  bower;  "  No  man," 
Quotli  I, '-nor bird,  nor  bush,  by  night  orday, 
Makes  music;  it  hath  birth  within  the  soul. 

I  know  not  wlience  those  sounds  that  ran 
Within  mine  ears — a  part,  but  not  the  whole, 

Was  real;"  then  turning  saw  I  Pan 
Reclining  upon  the  sward.    He  blew  away 
Upon  his  oaten  pipe —  no  meager  dole 
Gave  he  of  tuneful,  imitated  laj'. 
"All  had   I   but    that   slender  pipe!"   me- 
th  ought, 

•  •  With  soulful  strains  I'd  rapture  all! 
I'd  sound  the  notes  for  coming  ages;  naught 
Should  list  without  enthralling  ravishment!" 

The  god  had  ceased  his  madrigal ; 
Rising-  with  cool,  sarcastic  smile  he  bent 

The  reed,  and  blew  a  sharp,  low  call. 
A  fairy  dancing  on  a  primrose  caught 
The  note  and  liuiried  to  his  feet;  he  sent 
Her  floating  through  the  branches  swift  a8 

thought. 
From  an  adjoining-  field  she  Ijionght  a  reed; 

Whicli  Pan  did  take,  and  sent  his  own, 
With  graceful  motion  and  with  arrow-speed. 
In  mournful  cadence  singing  thro'  the  air, 

Down  to  my  feet.    Witli  bant'ring  tone 
He  then   addressed    me,  saying:    ..Tliere's 
thy  rare. 

Thy  priceles  boon  !    Nor  this  alone. 
Ten  millions  like  it  grow,  to  .serve  thy  need, 
Within  yon  field!  Go.  pipe  thy  sweetest  air, 
A  nd  deathless  strains  create  upon  tliy  reed  I" 
In  vain!  In  vain!  1  seek  for  liarmony  — 

My  jiipe  is  silent  or  but  strains 
Discordant  gives.    And  if  a  melody 
In  broken  music  cometh  from  my  reed, 

But  silonee  follows,  or  njfrains 
That  echo  my  dcsiiair.     My  pipe,  indeed. 

With  many  a  liquid  note  remains. 
But  di.scord  ever  doth  quickly  drown  ray 

gleo 
If  one  melodious  strain  I  do  but  lead;— 
Music,  rare,  pure,  divine,  is  not  for  me.        •  ! 


*- 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  A3IERICA. 


855 


-* 


HARRIET  H.  ROBINSON. 

Born:  Boston,  Mass.,  Feb.  8, 1835. 
In  1848  this  lady  was  married  to  William  S. 
Kobiiison,  a  journalist  and  parliamentarian, 
whose  letters  over  the  signature  of  War- 
rington made  that  uom  de  plume  famous. 
Mrs.  Robinson's  first  work,  published  in  1877, 
was  Warrington  Pen   Portraits,  .i,  selection 


MliS.  HARRIET  n.  ROBINSON'. 

from  her  husband's  published  writings,  with 
memoir.  In  1881  appeared  Massachusetts 
In  the  Woman  SufCrag-e  Movement;  and  in 
1887  Captain  Mary  Miller,  a  woman  suffrage 
drama  in  five  acts.  The  New  Pandora,  her 
greatest  work,  is  a  dramatic  poem  which  ap- 
peared in  1889,  and  has  received  eulogism 
from  the  press  throughout  America.  Mrs. 
Robinson  has  written  prose  articles  on  a 
great  variety  of  subjects  — literary,  his- 
torical and  also  genealogical  —  which  have 
appeared  in  the  leading  newspapers  and 
I  \  magazines. 


PANDORA'S  LULLABY. 

Sleep,  softly  sleep. 

Little  woman-child, 
On  my  aching  heart  — 

Still  its  tumult  wild. 

Sleep,  softly  sleep. 
Sleep,  gently  sleep ; 

Of  air  be  thy  lot! 


My  sorrowful  fate 
O  follow  it  not. 

Sleep,  gently  sleep. 

Sleep,  sweetly  sleep. 

The  ewe  on  the  lea 
And  the  doe  hath  her  young. 

And  I,  only  thee. 

Sleep,  sweetly  sleep. 

Come,  tranquil  hour. 
Low-laden  with  sleep; 

Come  gentle  zephyr. 
And  watch  o'er  her  keep. 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep. 


NO  SEX  IN  MIND. 
Sex  hath  no  limitations  tliou  need'st  fearl 
For  in  itself,  believe  me,  it  is  naugiir. 
The  quality  of  mind  is  all.    I  note 
That  we,  tho'  man  and  woman,  are  alike. 
We  eat  and  drink,  we  sleep  and  wake;  our 

wants 
Are  all  the  same;  we  must  be  clothed.    And 

both 
Alike  must  suffer  if  we  sin.    We  ask 
For  justice;  we  are  parents;  all  our  lives 
Are  bound  in    one.    Alone  we   should    be 

naught. 
To  us,  our  children  dear  a  likeness  Ijear; 
E'en  as  we  are  the  blended  Hkenesses 
Of  him,  the  father  —  mother  of  mankind. 


SONG  OF  THE  IMMORTALS. 

SEMICHOKUS. 

Thou  hast  conquered!    Rise  triumphant 
Upward  toward  thy  being's  sun. 

All  the  world  is  changed,  uplifted. 
For  the  life  that  thou  ha.st  won. 

CHORUS. 

Rise,  O  rise,  ye  souls  immortal! 

Break,  O  break,  imprisoning  clay? 
Pass,  ye  heavenly  guests,  pass  onward; 

Hope,  exultant,  points  the  way. 

SEMICHORUS. 

Suffering  is  the  great  redeemer, 

Joy  and  pain  together  bide; 
'Twas  to  save  from  sin  and  sorrow. 

The  little  first-born  child  hath  died. 

CHORUS. 

Rise,  O  rise,  ye  souls  immortal? 

Break,  O  break,  imprisoning  clay! 
Pass, ye  heavenly  guests,  pass  onward; 

Hope,  exultant,  points  the  way. 


-« 


*- 


-* 


856 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF   AMERICA. 


LORENZO  SOSSO. 

Born  :  Turin,  Italy,  March  3, 1867. 
At  tlie  age  of  eight  Lorenzo  emigrated  with 
his  parents  to  America,  and  is  now  in  busi- 
ness in  San  Fi-ain'isfi).     Hl-  is  the  author  of 


LOHKXZO   SOSSO. 

A  New  Poet,  a  volume  of  several  hundred 
poems,  which  certainly  are  highly  creditable 
to  one  so  compara lively  young-. 


*- 


THE  POET. 
The  poet  roams  from  land  to  land. 

From  sea  to  sea  forevermore. 
While  weaving-  with  a  cunninf?  nand 

The  web  of  life's  divinest  lore. 
He  wanders  through  the  purple  blooms 

Of  sunny  climes  and  wave-girt  isles. 
Or  lingers  in  the  holy  glooms 

Of  temples  and  majestic  piles. 
He  listens  to  the  sing-in.u:  birds 

That  flutter  in  the  golden  air. 
Interpreting  their  mellow  words 

To  chants  of  love  or  hymns  of  prayer. 
A  Uower  blossoms  at  his  feet. 

Unfolding-  beauty  leaf  by  leaf  ;^^ 
He  weepeth,  saying',  "  It  is  meet," 

Since  Beauty  must  succumb  to  grief. 
He  is  of  every  faith  and  creed. 

The  heir  of  every  clime  and  age; 
The  symbol  of  a  living  deed. 

The  glory  of  a  written  page. 
Albeit  there  he  wander  naught. 
He  seeth  with  a  prophet's  eyes 


The  splendor  and  eflulgeucc  wrought 

Within  the  realms  of  Paradise. 
For  him  each  century  reveals 

The  life  that  lives  withouten  breath ; 
For  him  there  is  no  age  that  steals, 
For  him  there  is  no  mortal  death. 
What  is  the  crown  of  laurel  leaves 

That  circles  his  transcendent  brow. 
To  all  the  Beauty  he  believes 
Was  even  then,  is  even  now. 
He  dwells  in  an  ideal  world. 

The  beautiful  is  his  in  youth. 
While  azure  banners  are  unfurled 
Above  him  by  the  hand  of  Truth. 
He  idolizes  fiery  globes 

That  wander  in  the  halls  of  Night, 
While  clinging  to  the  sacred  robes 
That  gird  the  Holy  One  of  Light! 
He  seeth  in  a  little  while 

With  the  deep  vision  of  a  seer 
A  tragedy  in  every  smile, 
A  comedy  in  every  tear. 
The  thunders  of  the  battle-fleld. 

The  silence  of  the  henped-up  slain, 
Have  glory  in  themselves  to  yield  — 

Fit  glory  for  a  mighty  strain. 
He  marvels  not  at  deeds  sublime, 

Sublimer  ones  lie  can  create. 
And  kuoivs  the  deepest  wail  of  Time 
Is  love  whlcli  then  becomes  a  Hate. 
A  thousand  deaths,  a  thousand  lives. 

He  liveth  in  a  living  one. 
And  yet  immortally  survives. 

Because  of  what  his  life  hath  done. 
The  Universe  is  as  his  shrine. 

And  there  transcendent  from  above 
Radiant,  beautiful,  divine. 
His  idol  is  supernal  Love! 
As  flows  the  crystal  of  the  stream. 
As  glows  the  radiance  of  the  sun, 
So  beautiful  becomes  the  dream 
Wherein  his  moral  web  is  spun 
The  flowers  and  the  winds  bespeak 

Upon  him  of  refulgent  things. 
In  Nature  doth  he  ever  seek 

The  life  that  throbs,  the  soul  tliat  siiif 
And  wheresoever  he  may  go, 

In  deserts  calm,  in  bu.sy  mart, 
He  wreathes  annmd  with  Glory's  glow 
The  eternal  temple  of  his  Art 

WOMAN. 

No  sweeter  garland  could  we  cull 

Of  God's  eternal  grace 
Tlian  coiinleiiances  beautiful 

From  woman's  virgin  race. 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


857 


JOEL  MOODY. 

Rorn:  New  Bhunswick,  Oct.  28, 1834. 
The  year  following-  his  birth  the  subject  of 
this  sketch  was  brought  by  his  pai'cats  to 
Illinois,  and  graduated  at  the  University  of 
Michigan  in  1858.  By  profession  Mr.  Moody 
is  a  lawyer.  He  was  a  captain  in  the  Union 
army,  and  served  in  the  Kansas  Legislature 
as  representative  in  1865  and  1881.     For  four 


JtJEIj  MOODY. 

years  be  was  assistant  secretary  of  the  sen- 
ate, and  is  now  state  senator,  and  a  regent 
of  the  University  of  Kansas.  Joel  Moody  is 
the  author  of  the  Science  of  Evil,  Junius 
Unmasked,  and  a  volume  of  poems, The  Song 
of  Kansas,  besides  being  the  autlior  of  nu- 
merous historic.-il  papers.  The  Song  of  Kan- 
sas is  a  tribute  to  tlie  state  in  which  he  lias 
lived  more  than  thirty-two  years,  and  his  life 
is  a  part  of  its  history.  Tiie  miscellaneous 
poems  in  the  same  work  are  messages  of  pa- 
triotism, of  friendship  and  love.  Mr.  Moody 
has  several  cliildren,  and  resides  at  "The 
Maples,"  Mound  City.  Kansas. 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

Nature  iiath  her  golden  wedding 

When  the  summer  days  are  told  — 
When  the  autumn  leaves  are  shoddinj 

And  the  green  is  tinged  witli  gold; 
When  tlie  .sunflower  is  nodding 

Like  lair  Ceres  to  lier  god; 
And  the  Harvester  is  plodding 

Through  the  smiling  golden-rod. 


On  the  st;-eam  the  mist  is  Iloating, 

In  the  air  the  thistle-down; 
On  the  trees  wo  see  the  purple, 

And  the  grass  is  turning  brown. 
On  your  sight  the  mist  is  falling. 

On  your  heads  the  snowy  crown; 
In  the  sky  the  stars  are  calling. 

And  your  sun  is  slipping  down. 
And  kind  Nature  is  a  shedding 

O'er  the  fields  her  ripened  love. 
And  her  gifts  for  golden  wedding 

From  ambrosial  fields  above. 
If  sweet  Nature  hath  been  shedding 

In  your  lives  her  ripened  love, 
Then  her  gifts  for  golden  wedding 

Shall  reward  your  lives  above. 
Fifty  years  of  cloud  and  sunshine 

Cast  athwart  your  horoscope 
Blendeth  in  fantastic  combini! 

All  the  rainbow  tints  of  hope. 
Fifty  years,  and  Autumn  treading 

Out  the  vintage  of  the  vine. 
Brings  unto  your  golden  wedding- 
Fifty  years  of  aged  wine. 
Many  times  the  mists  of  morning 

Have  obscured  tlie  golden  sun; 
Many  clouds  hung  o'er  you  frowning 

Ere  your  fifty  years  were  run. 
But  the  livid  lightning  sleepetli 

Where  the  clouds  are  thunder-lined; 
And  from  out  tlie  sliadows  leapeth 

Heav^eiily  radiance  refined. 

Marriage  is  the  truly  mating 

Of  two  souls  in  tender  mood  — 
Always  loving,  nevcT-  hating. 

Blending  man  and  womanhood. 
Life  thus  lived,  serene  and  purely. 

And  the  sullen  storms  withstood. 
Proves  beyond  a  question  surely 

That  your  hearts  are  true  and  good. 


FANCY. 
O  Fancy  fair!  that  walks  ethereal  fields. 
And  clustering  suns    thy  train  doth  sweep 

on  high. 
Unto  a  god-illumed  star  draws  nigh. 
And  catch  the  holy  influence  that  it  yields. 
Thence  from  this  orb,  while  high  Olymphus 

shields 
My  spirit's  pure  behest  and  phantasy. 
Take  on  thy  tender  wings  this  prayer,  and  fly 
To  her  who  guides  me  l)y  the  lovo  she  wields. 
Come,  radiant  forms  that  flit  in  heavenly  air. 
And  on  my  favored  flowers   sweet   kisses 

press ; 
Come  in  thy  love  and  strew  around  my  Fair 
These  blossoms  and  my  tender  care  confess; 
White  lilies  on  her  breast,  and  in  her  hair 
Put  daisies  rare  —  on  lips,  my  lips'  caress. 


-* 


*- 


858 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


WHAT  IS  THE  WORLD  TO  ME  ? 
What  is  the  world  to  me  without 

One  loving-  heart  to  cherish ; 
Who  ne'er  my  faiihful  love  will  doubt. 

Though  other  faiths  may  perish ? 
For  it's  a  phantom  flitting- past 
That  says:  No  faith  or  love  shall  last. 

What  is  the  world  to  me  when  no 

Soft  lips,  with  their  caressing, 
Invite  my  soul  to  stay  and  go 

Not  elsewhere  lor  its  blessicg-? 
For  it's  no  phantom  of  the  air 
That  makes  those  lips  destroy  my  care. 

What  is  the  world  to  me  when  those 
Bright  eyes  the  fairies  lend  her. 

To  light  my  soul  to  its  repose, 
Shine  not  lor  me  in  splendor  ? 

For  'twas  a  phantom  ol  the  mind 

That  painted  Eros  young-  and  blind. 

What  is  the  world  to  me  if  there 

Be  not  one  fond  and  certain 
To  veil  me  with  her  silken  hair  — 

A  soft,  disheveled  curtain? 
For  she's  no  phantom  of  the  night 
Who  veils  my  soul  in  soft  delight. 

What  is  the  world  to  me,  although 
My  praise  be  world-wide  spoken, 

j^'ithout  some  one  to  say,  I  know 
His  jiledgre  was  never  broken? 

For  piping-  phantoms  never  voice 

That  praise  which  makes  my  heart  rejoice. 

What  is  the  world  to  me  with  all 

Its  gilded  pomp  and  pleasure. 
Without  some  dearest  one  to  call 

My  own,  my  heart's  sweet  treasure? 
I'll  have  no  phantom  in  my  grasp. 
But  one  soul's  wealth  of  love  to  clasp! 


*- 


NATURE. 
Alone  witli  Nature  here  I  stand 

Beneath  her  stars. 
Within  the  landscape  ol  her  suns 

And  golden  bars. 
I  see  the  paintings  of  her  hand 

In  lights  sublime; 
And  in  the  lives  of  migiity  ones 

On  scrolls  of  Time. 

She  set  the  pillars  of  the  sky 

With  her  stout  hand. 
And  made  the  starry  fields  on  liigli 

A  flaming  land. 
She  made  tlie  world  to  turn  for  i>ie 

In  silent  grooves. 
And  the  briglit  moon  to  burn  as  she 

Mysteriously  moves. 


For  me  the  trees  that  glad  ray  eye 

Im  wisdom  grow; 
For  me  tlie  host  that  shines  on  high 

In  glory  glow. 
She  stills  the  sea  when  storms  do  roll, 

And  waters  sweep; 
And  the  fierce  tempests  of  the  soul 

Wlien  waters  weep. 

What  ill  of  earth  shall  e'er  o'crtake 

Or  me  befall? 
Wiiat  if  I  sink  and  suns  forsake 

Beyond  recall? 
1  stand  eternal  in  her  name 

A  spark  sublime. 
And  am  the  radiance  of  licr  fliime 

Throughout  all  time. 


THE  MAPLES. 
Ye  village  of  the  Maple  hills, 

I  sing  tliy  song; 
Bowed  in  the  shadows  of  the  past, 

I  plaint  thy  wrong. 
Let  every  sense  tliat  beauty  tin-ills 

Thy  praise  complete ! 
For  Nature  brings  her  gifts  to  cast 

Them  at  tliy  feet. 
Ye  Maples  ol  the  towering  liills 

And  flowery  glade! 
How  thy  tall  trunks  and  branches  cast 

The  somber  shade? 
And  while  my  soul  thy  beauty  thrills. 

Thy  shadows  creep; 
For  in  the  shadows  ol  the  past 

My  hopes,  do  sleep. 
Dear  Maples!  now  thy  shimmering  leaves 

For  loving  kiss 
Turn  throljbing  to  the  evening-  breeze 

With  floating  bliss. 
How  oft  beneath  thy  dripping-  eaves. 

In  summer  shower. 
Have  warblers  ol  the  summer  trees 

Enjoyed  thy  bower! 
How  doth  my  soul  the  shinimei-ing  leaves 

01  Memory  kiss! 
How  oft  my  heart  doth  tlirobbing  seize 

The  floating  bliss! 
When  baby  arms,  in  snow-white  sleeves. 

Did  bless  the  Power 
That  spread  the  shadows  of  t  he  trees 

For  summer  liour. 
Sweet  Maples !     How  your  saddening  shade 

Doth  crape  my  head. 
As  i-everentlv  T  lowly  bow 

Unto  my  dead. 
Two  sister  hearts  are  lowly  laid. 

Both  safe  and  sweet  — 
"Tlie  Maples  "  cast  their  shadows  now 

Close  to  their  feet. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


859 


-* 


MRS.  BELLE  YANCEY. 

Born:  Louisville,  Ky. 
This  lady  is  the  daugliter  of  Dr.  E.  Bryan, 
iiii  old  iiractic'ioner  of  Louisville,  Ky.      Her 

ji, K  III-    ha VI'    I'oiistautly    appeared    in    the 


MKS.  BELLE  YANCEY. 

press.  She  is  also  the  author  of  several 
novels  that  are  being:  prepared  for  publica- 
tion. She  is  the  wife  of  Hon.  A.  N.  Yancey, 
has  Sehildren,  and  resides  at  Bunker  Hill,Ill. 


MY  LADY'S  JEWELS. 

As  from  my  casket  g-ems  I  spurn, 

Like  tears  1  he  diamonds  fall ! 
While  from  the  sapphire's  tender  blue 
Eyesg-leam,  sufifused  with  hunger's  hue! 

They  speak  with  voices  all, 
"Behold  I  a  mine  of  wealth  ye  now  out-turn." 
Splashed  o'er  the  cushion  warm,  and  red, 

Garnets  lie  like  human  blood! 
They  burn  my  hands,  and  seem  to  cry: 
"  Yc  who  let  thy  fellow-creature  die 

For  want  of  warmth  and  food. 
Are  just  as  guilty  as  if  his  blood  ye'd  shed !" 
Then  dare  I  turn  this  little  key 

Upon  this  price  of  life? 
And  shut  within  the  velvet's  fold, 
The  ehanginj?  opal,  and  the  gold, 

While  Huugfr's  rusted  knife 
Tears  slow  the  wretch,  prolongs  his  ag-ony  ! 
Pink  corals  that  before  me  spread. 

Like  baby  lips  now  plead, 
And  twisted,  shining  chains  hold  fast 
Starved  victims  in  their  golden  clasp, 


Who  cry  aloud,    ..  Take  heed !        [bread !" 
These  gems  can  buy  ten  thousand  loaves  of 


THE  GALLEY  SLAVE. 
"Asleep  to  earth,  and  yet  awake  indeed! 
Chained  to  this  bench, as  well  as  to  this  thing 
That  permeates  my  frame,— called  life—  I'd 

fling- 
It  from  me,  as  I  would  a  poisonous  weed 
That  stabs  my  smarting-  flesh  with  noxious 

sting-.  [death 

Chained  to  this  throttled  life,  this  panting 
That  hangs  upon  my  neck,  with  mocking 

tongue 
To  gibe  my  youtli   from  which  all  hope  is 

wrong-,  [breath. 

And  with  its  black'ning-  lips  it  draws  my 
Smothering,strangiing,  my  quivering  nerves 

unstrung-. 

"  Ha,  ha,  but  ye  must  be  a  princely  boat 
That  human  hands  thus  bear  ye  o'er  the 

deep !  [keep 

And  muscles  strained  in  aching  arms  must 
Thee  bounding-  like  some  living- tiling  afloat. 
Thou,  in  whose   bosom    such  fine  arteries 

lea]) ! 
Like  flames  the  furies  of  his  manhood  rise. 
And  link  with  heated  tongues  his  throbbing 

brain 
Against  his  fetters  all  his  pulses  strain ! 
'Alas  these    bonds,   alas  these  chains  I'  he 

cries,  [but  vain.' 

•  Now  gods,  stand  by!  make  out  my  strength 
"Jo-v'e!  seethe  bending  links  bite  deep  this 

flesh! 
A-a-h,  could  I  break  ye,  then  I'd  to  the  foe! 
In  slaying  them  I  would  more  mercy  show 
Than  they  to  us,  who  with  each  day  mock  us 

afresh. 
Compelling-  men  like  mere  machines  to  row! 
Shut  in  from  sight  of  earth,  of  sky,  and  sea. 
Ambition  bowed  in  shame,  before  me  stands. 
Hiding-  her  tearful  face  within  her  hands! 
Young-  Love  lies  dead,  her  white  face  taunt- 
ingly 
Brings  back  wrecked  hopes  upon  the  sands. 
"Mother!   O,   name   too  sacred  to  breathe 

here !  [heart 

Then  memory  die!  and  give  mo  but  a  wooden 
Like  to  this  boat  of  which  I'm  l)ut  a  part. 
That  I  may  ne'er  again  know  thought,  or 

fear,  [start. 

Nor  from  sweet  dreams  of  home  awake,  and 
For  O,  ye  gods,  of  -what  avail  is  this? 
Fate  rides  in  triumph,  she  hath  won  the  day  1 
Lashed  to  her  wheel  a  trophy  of  the  fray. 
Then  visions  bright,  O,  dreams  of  youthful 

bliss 
Farewell!"  The  galley  ship  goes  on  her  way. 


-* 


^- 


860 


LOCAl.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  L.  ISABELLE  DORMER. 

Born:  Lee  Co.,  Iowa,  Jui.y  9, 1854. 

The  poems  of  Mrs.  Dormer  have  appeared  in 
the  Sun  Francisco  Examiner,  tlie  Chronicle 
aud  the  Call,  and  other  equally  prominent 
publications.  She  has  also  written  numer- 
ous pruse  articles  and  stories,  and  is  weekly 


MRS.  BELLE  DORMER. 

correspondent  for  several  newspapers.  Slie 
was  married  in  1884  to  John  M.  Dormer,  sec- 
retary of  State  of  Nevada,  and  has  a  family 
of  four  children.  Mrs.  Belle  Dormer  will 
very  shortly  publish  a  volume  oC  lier  poetry 
and  prose,  which  will  undoubtedly  make  a 
very  interesting  and  valuable  work. 


*- 


MY  BABY'S  GRAVE. 

There's  a  little  grave  in  the  rain  to-night, 

A  little  mound  heaped  high. 
Where  the  brightest  hopes  of    my  life  lie 
dead. 

For  all  that  is  fair  must  die. 

Aud  every  droi)  of  the  rain  that  falls, 

And  every  siiowflake  white 
Seems  freezing  my  very  heart  to  stono 

As  they  fall  on  his  grave  to-night. 

For  I  never  knew  a  thing  to  love, 

To  cherisl\  and  liold  most  dear. 
But  'twas  always  tlie  flrst  to  perish  and  die. 

And  leave  my  life  more  drear. 


And  though  tiic  world  may  be  full  of  care, 
And  sorrow,  and  sin,  and  bliglit. 

It  never  yet  lield  a  human  heart 
That  was  sadder  than  mine  to-night. 


SVAEET  VIOLETS. 
Ragged  urchin  on  the  corner  — 

Hungry  eyes  and  naked  feet; 
Asking  all  to  buy  her  violets 

Who  might  pass  the  busy  street. 

"Lady,  lady,  buy  my  violofsl 

Oh,  I  beg  you,  don't  refuse; 
Each  bunch  has  its  own  sweet  story; 

I  will  tell  you,  if  you  choose. 

"  Tliis  one  grew  beside  a  river. 
And  perhaps  you'll  like  it  best, 

For  the  sunshine  smiled  upon  it — 
It  is  bluer  than  the  rest. 

"  This  one  grew  beside  an  oak  tree. 
Where  a  grapevine  swing  was  made — 

Where  the  bluebirds  live  in  summer. 
Where  the  happy  children  played. 

•  '  This  the  fairest  of  my  flowers. 
With  the  strangest  story,  too  — 

It  was  given  me  by  a  lady. 
And  her  eyes,  like  yours,  were  blue. 

'.  And  her  face,  though  very  handsome. 

Wore  a  weary  look  of  care. 
And  like  snowdrifts  kissed  by  sunlight. 

Was  her  wondrous  wavy  hair. 

"  Aud  she  kissed  this  bunch  of  violets, 
And  this  daisy's  lieart  of  gold: 

And  she  said  she  had  a  daughter 
Wandering  from  the  Shepherd's  fold." 

"  Hush,  you  beggar !    Tell  me  quickly, 
Did  you  liearthe  lady's  nameV 

God  forgive  me,  'twas  my  motlier  — 
And  she  knows  her  daugliter's  shame  I' 

Silver  pennies,  like  a  shower. 
Fell  about  the  bare,  brown  feet, 

But  the  lady  and  tlie  violets 
Vanished  from  tlie  busy  street. 

On  the  beach  below  the  Cliff  House, 
Where  the  sand  is  firm  and  white. 

Lay  a  handsome,  slender  figure. 
Bathed  in  morning's  ro.sy  light. 

All  about  her  blonde  hair  falling. 
In  her  liands  tlie  violets  pressed. 

On  her  lips  the  smile  of  childhood  — 
God  had  given  her  sleep  and  restl 


* 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKRICA. 


861 


-* 


MRS.  EMMA  THOMPSON. 

Wit  and  Wisdom  of  Don  Quixote,  including- 
life  of  Cervantes,  which  was  published  by 
Koberts  Brother,  of  Boston,  and  Sampson 
Low  &  Co.,  of  London,  was  from  the  pen  of 
Mrs.  Km  ma  Thoiiipsoii.  Aiiotlier  t)f  her  Moi'ks 


Wit  and  Wisdom  of  Charles  Diclcens,  will  be 
shortly  brought  out  by  the  American  Pub- 
lishers' Association  of  Chicago.  Mrs.  Emma 
Thompson  has  written  numerous  stories, 
prose  articles  and  book  notices  for  the  press, 
and  is  the  author  of  many  beautiful  poems. 

TO  MY  FIRST  LOVE. 
I  loved  thee  many  years  ago. 

When  the  rose  of  spring  was  tliine 
And  thy  pure  spirit's  freshest  glow 

Echoed  Itself  on  mine. 

I  loved  thee  in  the  summer  time, 
When  thy  lieart  was  light  and  gay. 

Ere  other  love  and  other  clime 
Bore  thee  from  me  away. 

I  had  not  thought  to  ever  trace 

A  life  from  thee  apart  — 
I  liad  not  thought  to  e'er  efface 

Thine  image  from  my  heart. 

Still  thee  I  love,  though  winter  twine 
Snowy  curls  around  thy  brow  — 

Nor  all  the  other  loves  of  mine 
Could  be  as  dear  as  thou. 


MY  FIRST  GKAY  HAIR. 
1  met  the  glance  of  her  flashing  eye 

And  the  curl  of  her  lip  so  proud: 
I  glanced  at  the  brow  serenely  high. 

And  I  thought,  would  it  e'er  be  bowed? 

Her  spring  of  life  and  affection's  flow 
Passed  on  with  a  rusiiing   train 

Till  summer  song,  with  a  weary  glow. 
Enriched  the  bright  days  again. 

Now  weight  of  tears  has  bowed  her  head. 
No  longer  free  her  spirits  swaj'. 

And  in  her  heart  I  silent  read 
The  reason  why  one  liair  was  gray. 


FAREWELL. 

Since  first  we  met 

The  sun  has  set 
On  many  a  joy  and  sorrow; 

Full  oft  a  sigh 

Has  glided  by. 
To  dwell  on  hope  to-morrow. 

Our  hours  gay 

Have  passed  away. 
And  shadows  o'er  us  gently  fall; 

Sweet  hope  is  oer. 

Then  sigh  no  more  — 
Past  hours  we  can  ne'er  recall. 


MY  YOUTH  HAS  FLOWN. 

Age  is  my  own  ! 

My  youth  has  flown 
Like  a  bird  upon  the  wing  — 

A  sad  farewell, 

A  broken  shell 
For  my  liarp  has  lost  a  string. 

Borne  down  life's  stream 

Swift  as  a  dream. 
Disturbing  the  sleeper's  rest. 

Where  does  it  fleet 

The  dream  so  sweet 
That  scarcely  touched  my  breast? 

It  passed  me  by '. 

A  long-drawn  sigh 
Escapes  with  sorrowing  strain, 

Will  it  return? 

Sadly  I  yearn 
To  dwell  on  its  charm  again. 

It  floated  away 

Like  rays  of  day. 
And  will  come  to  me  no  more; 

A  pathless  track. 

It  ne'er  comes  back  — 
My  season  of  j'outli  is  o'er. 


-® 


*- 


862 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


GHEIN  ON  THE  DANtJBE. 

Mid  scenic  repose 

And  classic  renown 
Lies  Greiu  on  tlie  Danube, 
To  fashion  unknown. 

Its  crescent  and  mosque 

Of  old  Feudal  times 
Is  now  banished  for  aye 

By  true  Christian  shrines. 

Gay,  with  its  music 
And  sweet-flowiuK  rills. 

Is  Grein,  with  its  castles  — 
Old  Grein  'mid  its  hills. 

In  suushiue  so  fair, 

With  mountain  and  vales. 
Yet  more  solemn  at  night 

With  legend  and  tales. 

Of  old  Coburg-  days. 

When  Prince  Albert  was  there. 
And  gay  was  the  castle 

With  merriment  rare. 

We  ne'er  can  forg-et 
The  love  and  the  grace, 

The  welcome  with  flowers 
That  first  g-ave  us  place 

Within  the  Grein  homes, 

So  tender  and  true. 
Nor  the  friendly  hand-touch 

Of  friends  ever  new. 

With  love  in  their  hearts. 

They  bade  us  to  stay ; 
They  pressed  the  warm  kiss 

At  parting:  that  day. 

When  far  on  the  breeze. 
We,  speeding'  from  sig-ht, 

Linger'd  echoes  of  song- 
That  fair  Summer  nig-ht! 

Such  roseate  chords 

Will  never  more  wind 
Round  the  pulse  of  our  hearts 

As  did  those  of  old  Grein. 


*- 


HER  BIRTHDAY. 
'Mid  all  the  friends  that  round  thee  throng 
To  loving-  grreet  with  gift  and  song 

Tliee  on  thj'  natal  day; 
'Mid  sunny  thonghts  that  charm  the  while. 
And  kindred  hearts  and  lips  that  smile, 

Will  list  my  simple  lay? 

I  would  not,  e'en  I  had  the  power. 
Ask  time  to  stay  the  passing  hour 
That  marks  a  year  to  thee; 


I'd  rather  send  a  simple  flower. 
To  live  its  little  fleeting  hour. 
And  dying,  turn  to  thee ! 

Yet  if  I  had  a  magic  power, 

I'd  summon  forth  from  fragrant  flower 

A  fairy  gift  to  send. 
The  rarest  joys  of  all  the  earth 
Should  cluster  lovingly  round  thy  hearth. 
And  with  its  i.rishtucss  blend. 


TRUE  HEARTS  AROUND  US. 
True  hearts  around  us  are  swelUng, 
And  daily  is  heard  from  each  dwelling 
A  murmur  for  freedom  once  more  — 
Our  watchword  from  shore  to  shore; 
For  our  flag  shall  float  on  the  breeze. 
And  our  sails  on  the  foaming-  seas. 
And  a  greater  than  deathless  fame 
Shall  our  champions  ever  claim. 

From  round  us  the  pure  faith  of  old 
Like  the  wave  of  the  ocean  has  rolled; 
But  the  wave  f  i-om  the  shore  that  is  torn 
Is  sure  to  i-oll  back  with  the  morn. 
Then  our  flag  shall  float  on  the  breeze. 
And  our  sails  on  the  foaming  seas. 
And  a  greater  than  deathless  fame 
Shall  our  champions  ever  claim. 

Come  faith  to  our  hearts  from  on  high! 
Let  freedom  be  ever  the  cry 
Of  the  soldier,  the  faithful  and  brave. 
When  his  banner  shall  over  him  wave! 
For  our  flag  shall  float  on  the  breeze. 
And  our  sails  on  the  foaming  seas. 
And  a  greater  tlian  deathless  fame 
From  all  shall  our  heroes  claim. 


A  TEAR  AND  A  FLOWER. 

Strew  sweetest  flowers  on  the  spot. 
That  gentle  fragrance  they  may  shed. 

And  drop  a  tear  upon  the  lot 
Where  oft  we  kneel,  and  lightly  tread. 

He  only  asks  a  silent  tear 
To  flow  from  sympathetic  eye. 

And  begs  one  flower  ever  near 
Upou  the  quiet  grave  to  lie. 

This  nameless  may  have  wished  to  lie 
Where  many  cliosen  saints  are  found. 

Beneath  that  fair  Italian  sky 
That  covers  consecrated  ground. 

Let  fall  a  tear  for  the  unknown 
Upon  the  lowly,  humble  grave; 

For  auglit  that  thou,  or  I,  have  known 
It  shelters  one  of  nature's  brave. 


*- 


LOCAL,   A>D   NATIONAL   TOKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


* 


8(i3 


COL.  JUAN  LEWIS. 

Col.  Juan  Lewi.s  lias  written  cxtcnsivelj' 
for  the  periodical  press,  aud  has  a  volume 
of  poems  soon  to  be  published,  which  is  to 
be  appropriately  illustrated  with  original 
engravings.     He    has    delivered  dedication 


COL.  JUAN  LE.riS. 


poems  at  re-unions,  etc.,  which  have  been 
enthusiastically  received  and  accorded  great 
praise  by  the  press.  Col.  Lewis  is  engaged 
in  the  United  States  Patent  Office  at  Wash- 
ington, D.  C,  in  which  city  he  is  also  chair- 
man of  the  Lewis  Printing  Company. 


I  LOVE  ANOTHER. 
I  love  another!   Is  it  wrong. 

That  I,  a  married  man. 
Should  light  of  heart,  burst  into  song. 
And  happy  as  the  whole  day  long. 

Declare  what  others  ban? 

I  love  another!     Whisper?  Dare? 

Why  should  I  hide  my  love?    • 
For  such  as  we  true  lovers  are. 
Eacli  heart  aglow  —  each  hope  laid  bare. 

All  other  joys  above. 

I  love  another !    Oh,  so  proud ! 

No  monarch  on  his  throne, 
Could  happier  be,  if  from  the  crowd. 


The  high-born  pressed  with  homage  loud. 
Than  J,  when  comes  my  own  ! 

I  love  another.    If  her  kiss 

Were  like  the  mystic  ring. 
To  shield,  protect  from  aught  amiss  — 
All  illsof  Eld— all  woes  of  this  — 

Heaven  to  earth  'twould  bring. 

And  who  is  she?    This  heart  of  gold. 

That  binds  itself  to  me? 
A  wee,  wee  thing,  our  two-year  old. 
Full  bud  of  blessing  unforetold. 

That  clings  about  my  knee. 

And  so,  although  new  love  has  burst. 

Like  sunshine  in  my  life, 
No  jealous  thought  disturbs  her  first. 
Who,  always  true,  sweet  love  immersed. 

Crowned,  laureled  mother!— wifel 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 
Man  hath  his  limits;  with  no  wings. 

To  soar  aloft  through  time  and  space. 
His  thought  wliene'er  it  ujiward  springs. 

Will  people  deserts  with  the  race. 

Man  hath  his  limits;  still  he  keeps. 

The  cycling  ages  as  his  own. 
His  path  leads  upward  to  the  steeps. 

Where  mind  is  monarch  of  the  throne. 

Man  hath  his  limits;  yet  lie  gives, 

A  glow  of  his  immortal  fire, 
To  all  that  breathes,  or  moves  or  lives. 

Or  lifts  to  heaven  a  fond  desire. 

Man  hath  his  limits;  all  we  know. 
Or  need  to  know,  in  paths  we  trod. 

Is  simple  duty; Time's  o'er-throw 
Will  find  this  duty  Love  to  God. 


THANK  GOD  FOR  TEARS. 

Thank  God  for  tears!  — 
That  when  sorrowing  the  most. 

Through  the  desolated  years, 
Aud  storms  lower  upon  life's  coast. 

The  clouds  may  break  thro'  all. 
And  tears,  blessed  tears  may  fall; 

Thank  God  for  tears ! 

Thank  God  for  tears !  — 
As  in  desert  wastes  the  dew 

The  weary  wanderer  cheers. 
With  hope  and  life  anew. 

So  tears,  to  souls  storm  swept. 
Still  are  divine  as  wlien  Jesus  wept; 

Thank  God  for  tears! 


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ii<- 


864 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A3IERICA. 


IT"S  IN  LOVE  THAT  I  AM. 
It's  in  love  that  I  am,  with  ye,  darlni<;-, 

In  love,  and  I  wish  ye  were  mine, 
Yet  how  can  I  hope  that  my  being. 

With  one  that's  so  blessed  may  twine? 
Ye  have  all  the  rich  beauty,  my  darling-. 

Sweet  graces  that  come  from  above, 
While  I  to  love's  duty,  my  darling. 

Bring  only  an  ocean  of  love. 

It's  in  love  that  I  am,  with  ye,  darling. 

Oh,  accept,  then,  a  homage  like  mine, 
A  heart  that's  all  tender  and  bursting. 

With  its  burden  of  promi.se  divine. 
Yc  know  I  lack  polish  in  wooing. 

My  phrases,  at  best,  are  but  weak, 
Tlio'  my  soul  throb  tears  in  the  sueing, 

Yet  answer,  my  darling,  oh,  speak. 

It's  the  love  that  is  with  ye,  my  darling. 

It's  the  soul  that  is  kneeling  to  yt)u, 
That  cries  to  the  heart  in  your  bosom. 

For  answer  to  mine  that  is  true! 
Oh,  a  smile  on  thy  lips  I  see  breaking. 

Like  the  dawn  on  a  roseate  sea, 
O  rapture!  the  joy  of  awaking. 

To  a  love  so  long  liidden  from  me! 


A  DRAUGHT  DIVINE. 
O,  pour  for  rre  a  draught  divine, 

A  sweet  libation  freely  pour. 
The  only  cup  thy  ripe,  red  lii)S, 
Which,  brimming  o'er  with  love,  eclipse 
All  wines  that  man  or  god  e'er  sips. 

Yet  makes  the  drinker  thirst  for  more, 
And  pledge  anew  to  thee  and  thine. 

O,  pour  for  me  a  draught  divine. 

And  fill  the  cup  to  overflow. 
Nor  spill  one  drop  of  nectar'd  bliss, 
Fi'om  thee  to  me,  as  this  —  or  this  — 
(The  echo  sweet  where  all  joys  meet,) 
O,  thrill  that  still  asks  kiss  for  kiss. 

My  cup  of  love  that  trembh^s  so; 
O,  glowing  lips,  add  flame  to  mine, 
And  pour  for  aye  a  draught  divine. 


*- 


THE  WEDDING  DAY. 

Oh,  sum  and  crown  of  happy  life, 
Oh,  day  that  dwarfs  the  years  so  small. 

When  merges  maiden  in  the  wife. 
And  love  itself  is  all  in  all! 

Great  hopes  that  color  from  to-day, 
Tho'  precious  tears  are  gemm'd  to  fall. 

Love's  rainbow  spans  life's  arc  alway. 
For  love,  indeed,  is  all  in  all! 

I  know  not  how  the  child  may  love. 
Whose  ties  of  being  yet  must  wake; 


Unfledged  for  flight  the  snowy  dove. 
Knows  not  the  height  its  wings  may  take; 

Nor  yet,  how  rugged  man  may  choose. 
In  all  the  splendor  of  his  power. 

To  live  alone —  and  love  refuse  — 
When  love  alone  is  heaven's  dower; 

I  know  not  how  old  age  may  love. 
When  voices  from  the  past  may  call, 

But  love,  I  know,  is  from  above, 
Whate'er  its  years,  'tis  all  in  all! 

It  may  be  youth,  it  may  be  age. 
Or  ripened  manhood's  early  morn, 

Wliene'er  tlie  hour  life's  brightest  page 
Is  golden  with  a  faith  new-born! 

Oh,  birthright  of  the  chosen  one !  — 
Oh,  guerdon  that  survived  the  fall. 

All  else  maj'  perish,  but  the  sun 
Of  love  outlasts! — it  shines  for  all  I 

Then  drink  to  beauty  in  its  bloom. 
To  manly  promise  in  its  youth. 

The  budded  rose  yields  sweet  perfume. 
And  souls  that  love  unite  in  truth  1 

Oh,  sheaves  of  fruitage!  bind  them  fast, 
With  golden  words  beyond  recall. 

Oh,  sunny  skies  forever  last. 
And  love  to  each  be  all  in  all! 


JACOB  LUNDY  BROTHERTON. 

1810-1887. 
His  heart  was  sunsliine  as  he  walked 

The  daily  round  of  duty. 
His  soul  was  peace  when  e'er  he  talked 

Of  life,  of  love,  of  beauty: 
Of  duty  toliis  fellowman. 

Of  love  for  every  being. 
The  beauty  of  God's  larger  plan. 

The  faith  that  grows  lar-seeing! 

For  him  these  themes  could  cover  all 

Of  life  that's  worth  the  living. 
And  these  lie  felt  as  of  God's  call. 

And  answered  in  the  giving: 
Not  how  to  die,  but  how  to  live. 

His  noble  life  was  teacliing. 
Not  liow  to  save,  but  how  to  give. 

His  [iractice  — not  his  pivachiiig! 

Oh.  later  Franklin!  we  shall  miss. 

For  truth,  tliy  strong  conviction, 
Whii'h  likt-  thy  jiresence  ne'er  remiss, 

Set'iiied  good  by  benediction  1 
And  si>,  farewell!    The  sword  may  win. 

In  righteous  conflict,  glory. 
But  the  warfare  of  thy  life  has  been, 

For  all  a  nobler  story ! 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


865 


MRS. CLARA  M.GREENE. 

Born:  Buckfield,  Me. 
After  teaching-  for  awliilt!,  this  lady  went 
to  Portland  and  opened  a  studio  for  drawing 
and  painting-,  and  during-  the  next  three 
years  won  unusual  success  as  a  portrait 
painter.  In  1873  she  married  Wyer  Greene, 
a  merchant  of  Portland.  Her  poems  gener- 
ally have  strong-  dramatic  quality,  and  con- 


■MKS.  CLAKA    MARCKr,r.?:   (JKEENE. 

sequeiitly  liave  l)econie  very  popular  among 
elocutionists.  In  1889  appeared  The  Magda- 
len and  other  Poems,  a  worli  that  has  re- 
ceived the  highest  enconiums  of  the  press. 
Slie  has  also  written,  in  addition  to  lier 
poems,  many  stories  and  sketches,  which 
have  been  published  in  the  periodical  press 
from  Maine  to  California.  Mrs.  Greene  still 
lives  in  Portland  with  her  husband  and  two 
dark-eyed  children. 


Q  UESTION  -  ANSWER. 

WINTER. 

The  sun  is  waning  wan  and  old; 
The  days  are  brief  and  gray  and  cold ; 
We  shiver  in  their  garment's  fold. 
A  homeless  dog,  with  dismal  bark, 
Bemoaneth  twilight  chill  and  dark. 
The  shrouded  hills  lie  white  and  stark. 
Wild  sweep  the  snows  about  tlie  clod. 
The  stubble  soughs  above  the  sod; 
Tlie  skies  are  blasting.    Wliore  is  God? 

SPRING. 

A  flood  of  light,  a  deep-drawu  breath. 


That  through  the  being  shuddereth 
With  rapturous  coming  back  from  death. 
A  flash  of  song,  a  glint  of  wings. 
The  starting  of  a  thousand  springs, 
A  thousand  runnel  murmurings. 
Life  thrills  in  the  awakened  clod. 
The  cowslips'  breath,  the  crocus'  nod, 
The  stir  of  nestlings  — here  is  God. 


HANNAH  HOLLIDAY 

Pretty  Hannah  HoUiday, 

Going  to  the  fair. 
With  an  aureole  of  gold 

'Round  her  shining  hair; 
Clothed  upon  with  innocence. 

Sweetest  maiden  there! 
Gallant  young  Fitzpatriek, 

In  his  jaunting-car. 
Drew  his  rein,  enchanted. 

As  men  sometimes  are: 
"Pretty  Hannah  Holllday. 

Are  ye  walking  far-;" 

"  'Tis  good  three  miles  to  Kanturk, 

Ye'll  not  refuse  to  ride? 
Me  car  is  better  balanced 

With  one  on  either  side." 
How  envied  he  the  kerchief 

Around  her  fair  neck  tied! 

Pretty  Hannah  Holliday 

Shook  lier  shining  head. 
While  a  timid  glance  at  him 

From  her  eyes  she  sped; 
With  her  red  lips  half  a-smile, 

•'  I'll  not  ride,"  she  said. 
Pleaded  young  Fitzpatriek  then 

With  a  lover's  guile; 
Still  she  shook  her  shining  head 

With  her  lips  a-smile: 
"Such  a  little  way,"  she  said, 

"  It  is  not  worth  me  while." 
"Faith  now,  lift  your  bonny  face, 

Ye're  too  modest  far: 
Where's  the  harm?    Sure  many  a  lass, 

Wei)  demeaned,  would  share 
With  me  her  lionest  company, 

Riding  to  the  fair." 
Pretty  Hannah  Holliday, 

Glancing  up  again. 
Eyes  as  full  as  they  could  be 

Of  what  hazards  men  — 
"  Sure,  it's  not  meself  will  be 

Riding  with  ye  then  !  " 
Leaped  he  lightly  to  the  ground; 

"Mavourneen,  here  I  swear 
Me  car  sIuJl  carry  two  or  none! 

We'll  walk  to  Kaiiturk  fair. 
Or  ride  with  me  and  marry  me  — 

Which  will  ye  now?    Declare !  " 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


Cried  pretty  Hannah  HoUiday, 

"  What  folly  would  ye  do? 
Your  shoes  would  get  all  over  dust?" 

Then,  blushing,  faltered  through, 
"May  be  we'd  better  both  ride  now, 

Since  mine  are  dusty  too!  " 


VISIONS. 
I  dreamed  that  I  —  but,  ah,  the  dream 

Too  vain  is  for  the  telling! 
In  vain  the  cooling  fountains  gleam 

By  broken  cisterns  welling. 
1  dreamed  that  thou  —  oh !  that  mines  eyes, 

The  vision  fond  confessing. 
Could  meet  thine  own  in  tender  wise. 

And  love's  wrong  find  redressing. 
I  dreamed  that  we  —  O  hearts  that  break. 

Hold  fast  to  love's  sweet  seeming; 
For  all  is  false  to  wiiich  ye  wake. 

And  truth  is  in  your  dreaming  ! 

PENETRALIA. 
We  ate  drifting  in  dreamland,  I  and  thou  — 

Thou  and  I  on  a  golden  tide. 
With  keel  of  silver  and  carven  prow. 

And  liHes  floating  on  either  side. 
There  are  banks  of  myrtle  and  lotus  flowers, 

Violet  odors  and  slumberous  musk; 
Grapes  empurpling  lush  green  bowers. 

And  great  pomegranates, glowitig  and  dusk. 
There  are  waving  branches  of  stately  trees. 

And  amber  dates  in  orchards  of  palm; 
There  are  dripping  combs  of  honey  of  bees. 

And    the    wild     fawn     feeding    without 
alarm. 
Here  drifting  in  dreamland,  on  we  float. 

Thy  soul  and  mine  for  one  blissful  hour; 
The  bulbul  'plaining  her  low  love-note. 

The  soft  wind  kissing  the  passion-flower. 
And  there  groweth  the  wonder  how  this  land 

On  whose  still  waters  our  souls  lie  bask- 
ing. 
Whose  pastures  green  upon  either  hand 

Invite  our  feet,  is  ours  for  the  asking. 
Oh !    the  nectarous  fruitage,    the    rich    red 
wine. 

All,  all  are  free  for  the  lip  to  prove; 
We  may  gather  at  will,  in  this  land  divine. 

Her  rose  of  Sharon,  the  rose  of  love. 
Nepenthe  hushes  our  life  of  care. 

It  is  drowned  and  gone  like  a  tale  that  is 
told; 
We  are  radiant  spirits  in  realms  all  fair, 

Gliding  for  aye  over  sands  of  gold. 
While  blue  over  all  is  the  wondrous  heaven, 

Fair  clouds  caressing  the  far-off  skies; 
I  turn,  and  lo!  is  the  secret  given 
Of  this  dream-vision  within  thine  eyes! 


AT  PARTING. 
I  put  mj-  flower  of  song  into  thy  hand 
And  turn  my  eyes  away. 
And  turn  my  life  from  thine. 

—  Philip  Bourke  Marston. 

I  take,  O  poet  mine,  within  my  hand. 
My  hand  that  hath  been  empty  over  long, 
1  take  from  thee  thy  tender  flower  of  song; 
This    deep,    swift    rapture— dare  I   under- 
stand? 
Oh  !  turn  thou  not  away 

Thine  ejes  where  no  lights  shine 
Till  thou  hast  auswei-ed  mine 
Their  eager  question,  is  it  aye  and  aye? 

These  passionate  pink  petals,  fold  on  fold. 
All  tremulous,  woulcl  they  to  me  disclose 
Their  secret  my  quick  heart  divining  knows, 
The  diamond  dew  of  love  in  cup  of  gold? 
Turn  not  thine  eyes  away 

Till  u)ine  have  drank  froiii  thine 

The  draught  that  is  divine. 
And,  satisfied,  shall  thirst  no  more  for  aye. 

Until  we  met  upon  a  foreign  strand 

My  life  was  barren  and  my  heart  was  old, 

My  skies  were  wintry  and  my  days  were 

cold. 
And  hopelessly  afar  lay  summerland. 
Oh '  turn  thou  not  away 

Till  I  can  understand 
The  radiance  that  o'erspanned 
And  brought  the  dawning  of  diviner  day. 
There  draweth  near  the  lonely  eventide. 
When  lowlier  fall  the  voices  of  the  glad. 
And  sadder  grow  the  souls  that  must  be 

sad; 
The  sea  of  change  outlieth  dark  and  wide; 
I  may  not  bid  thee  stay. 

W^hat  so  malign  as  fate. 
When  two  are  met  too  late. 
And  recognize  —  and  one  must  turn  away? 

Yet  when  thou  goest  forth  to  thy  dark  years. 
And  I  walk  desolate  upon  the  strand, 
Thy  precious  flower  of  song  within  my  hand 
Sliall  fill  my  heart   with   rapture  and  with 

tears; 
Wliile  underbreath  I  say 

•  •  His  love  —  his  love  is  mine. 

Unto  no  other  shrine 
His  soul  from  mine  sh:dl  ever  turn  away." 

And  if  some  day  it  shall  be  mine  to  stand, 
And  Willi  my  brimming  eyes  es.'^ay  to  trace 
The  way  lovi'  looked  ujion  my  marble  face, 
Thy  flower  of  song  will  be  within  my  hand: 
None  there  shall  say  me  nay: 

I  hold  the  flower  in  .sign. 

Tlie  dead  will  tlien  be  mine. 
Nor  ever  more  from  my  life  turn  away. 


«- 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


867 


MRS.  MARY  IVES  TODD. 

Born:  Eddyville,  Iowa,  Dec  23, 1849. 
Mary   Ives  Todd  is  an   occasional  writer 
for  the  press,  and  the  author  of  "The  New 
Adam  and  Eve,"  now  in  press.    Her  parents 
are  Mr,  Homer   D.  Ives  and  Mary  Eastman 


MRS.  MARY  IVES  TODD. 

Ives,  botli  early  settlers  in  Iowa;  the  one  a 
lawyer,  and  the  other  a  teacher.  Mrs.  Todd 
was  western-bred,  with  the  exception  of  a 
short  period  spent  with  an  uncle  while  at- 
tending- an  eastern  seminary. 


JUST  SWEET  SIXTEEN. 
Just  sweet  sixteen  is  our  Lulu  to-day  — 
Ah,  me!  how  swiftly  time  flies  away; 
It  seems  but  yestreen  that  slie  was  laid 
Within  the  liome-nest  a  tiny  maid. 
God  bless  our  darling! 

But  yet  to-day  no  such  babe  can  be  found. 
Thn'  we  searcli  the  liome-nest  round    and 

round; 
Still,  tho'  no  babe  there  longer  reposes. 
Are  two  lads  and  a  lass  sweet  like  roses ! 
God  bless  our  darlings! 

And  oh,  yes;  God  bless  each,  ev'ry  darling. 
Wee,  dimpled  toddlings,  with  eyes  sparliling. 
Strong,  sturdy  lads,who  for  Right  must  flght 
Side  by  side  with  maids    sweet,  true   and 
bright. 
God  bless  all  darlings. 


AMERICA.  NEW  WORLD,  HAIL! 

America,  New  World,  hail ! 

Last  uncover'd,  loveliest 
Of  earth's  domain,  hail!  liail! 

Richest  gift  to  humankind 
By  love  who  cares  for  each-all, 

We  gladly  greet  thee,  hail !  hail ! 

Full  well's  tlij'  history  known — 

How  patiently,  fairest  land. 
Thou  did'st  await  children  fair. 

To  whom  thou  could'st  unlock 
Treasures  rare,  gifts  plenteous. 

Ah,  gladly  we  greet  thee,  liail! 

And  they  came  at  last.    Usher'd 
By  him,  through  her,  of  sublime 

Faith.    Came  and  knelt  upon  tliy 
Breast,  and  didst  thy  bosom  kiss 

And  prajer  to  Heav'u  offer. 
And  lovingly  greet  thee,  hail! 

Four  hundred  years  since  then  have 

Flown.    A  generous  mother 
Hast  thou  proved,  America! 

Freely  as  hast  receiv'd  so 
Given  from  t'ly  bountiful  store. 

As  of  old  we  greet  thee,  hail  1 

But  thy  children,  fair,  favor'd, 

Have  they  thy  fair  example 
Followed?    To  one  and  all 

As  freely  given  as  thou 
To  them?    Can  we  gladly  shout, 

America's  children,  hail! 

Alack,  not  yet.    But  as  thou 

Art  patient  as  bountiful, 
America,  thou  wilt  bide 

Their  approach  from  afar 
E'en  they  come  at  snail's  slow  pace. 

Patient  America,  hail ! 

Yet  seel    Heaven's  messengers 
Are  in  their  midst.    Discernest  thou 

Not  Bellamy,  late  sent,  with 
A  host  of  others,  working 

Prodigiously?    E'en  so,  hail! 
New  World  and  Heav'n  sent,  hail!  hail! 

Yet  again,  see!    Thy  children 

Are  falling  into  ranks  with 
Quicken'd  step.    Aloft  they  bear 

A  banner  of  import  like 
Unto  that  life  Christendom 

Reverses.    Hail!  hasten!  hail!  hail! 

On  they  come,  a  mighty  host! 

Glorious  their  countenance  — 
Fairer,  many  a  time,  than 

'Twas  of  yore.    Shout,  ye  mountains, 
America,  hail!    And  thy 

Children,  forever  hail !  hail ! 


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LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A5IEKICA. 


* 


,    MRS.  SUE  E.  BECKWITH. 

Born:  DeKalb  Co.,  III,.,  1843. 

In  1872  this  lady  removed  to  Kansas,  and  is 
now  a  resident  of  that  state  at  An  Dale. 
Her  poems  have  appeared  in  the  Western 


*- 


MRS.  S.  E.  BECKWITH. 

Rural  and  tlie  local  press  freiierally.  She  is 
the  author  of  the  poem  A  Legend  of  Arkan- 
sas, which  was  eulogized  highly  and  widely 
copied  by  the  periodical  press  of  America. 

INDIAN  SUMMER. 

The  days  grow  short,  tlie  season  wanes 

The  glowing  sun,  whose  bright  rays  kissed 
With  loving  warmth  the  fiowery  plains. 

Seems  shadowed  in  a  vapory  mist. 
The  wind  in  deeper,  sadder  tone 

Is  sighing  through  the  rustling  trees 
Whose  boughs  a  melancholy  moan 

Are  whispering  to  the  dying  leaves. 
All  nature  takes  a  graver  hue ; 

The  woods  a  deeper  sliadow  cast, 
And  o'er  the  sky's  cerulean  blue 

The  hazy  clouds  float  idly  pnst. 
The  season  wanes,  and  nature  seems 

As  if  composed  to  quiet  sleep. 
No  more  the  grove  with  music  teems, 

The  birds  a  charmed  stillness  keep. 
O'er  earth's  bare  bosom  now  is  spread 

A  carpet  soft  of  sinnmer  leaves 
Whose  green  is  dyed  a  goldeti  red. 

And  bare  grows  the  maple  trees. 
The  days  grow  short,  the  season  wanes. 

The  grass  is  sere  o'er  hill  and  lea: 


No  water  in  the  pond  remains. 

The  stream  runs  slower  to  the  sea. 
Tiie  long-spun  cobwebs  idly  float 

In  feathery  festoons  through  the  air, 
And  all  the  while  a  mournful  note 

Seems  sobbing,  throbbing  everj'where. 
The  brilliant  summer  days  have  flown 

Of  singing  birds  and  nodding  flowers. 
Yet  Autumn's  beauty  was  unknown 

In  Suumier's  gayest,  halcyon  hours. 
So  in  the  autumn  time  of  life 

The  "Indian  Summer"  days  will  come  — 
Long  days,  with  meditation  rife. 

When  we  shall  sing  glad  >■  Harvest  Home.' 

AT  SET  OF  SUN. 
I  boasted  aloud  in  the  morning 

Of  the  things  whicli  I  would  do 
To  make  tlie  world  grow  better. 

To  make  weak  hearts  more  true. 
I  would  draw  my  trusty  saber 

To  break  the  chains  of  Night! 
And  scatter  abroad  my  silver 

As  the  stars  begem  the  night. 
Great  deeds  should  my  hands  be  doing 

That  would  shine  on  the  scrolls  of  fame. 
And  the  hearts  of  a  million  people 

Would  glow  at  the  sound  of  my  name. 
At  noontide  I  was  working 

And  dreaming  still  of  fame. 
So  I  founded  lofty  asylums 

And  named  them  with  my  name; 
I  sent  abroad  to  the  heathen 

The  "Wonderful  words  of  life." 
And  wherever  life's  battles  were  hottest 

I  was  foremost  in  the  strife. 
The  evening  found  me  weeping 

Aloud  in  my  grief  and  pain, 
Wliile  the  tears  of  remorse  and  sorrow 

Ran  down  my  cheeks  like  rain. 
Great  deeds  had  my  hands  been  doing  — 

Great  deeds  till  set  of  sun, 
And  missed  on  each  long  day's  journey 

The  things  which  I  should  have  done. 
I  had  refused  to  1  he  starving  orphan 

Tlie  mite  for  his  daily  bread. 
And  reared  with  my  glittering  silver 

Lofty  hospitals  instead. 
I  had  seen  weak  soids  go  downward 

With  !i,  wail  of  wild  despair, 
But  I  had  no  time  to  succor 

From  the  tempter  in  his  lair. 
I  had  seen  my  own  home  nestling 

Grow  faint  for  a  loving  word. 
And  made  a  tlmusand  speeches 

Which  the  nuillitudcs  had  lieard. 
So  I  cried  aloud  in  my  sorrow 

At  the  setting  of  the  sun 
As  they  passed  in  review  bt'fore  me  — 

The  things  which  I  should  have  done. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


-* 


MRS.  L.  R.  MESSENGER. 

In  1886  appeared  Fragriients  From  an  Old 
Inn,  a  volume  of  prose  and  verse  from  tlie 
pen  of  Lillian  RozeK  Messenger,  a  resident 
of  Washington,  D.  C.  The  year  following- ap- 
peared The  Vision  of  Gold  and  Other  Poems, 
a  fine  collection  of  nearlj'  two  hundred  pages 


w 

^m^^ 

■ 

f^m 

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vfW 

MRS.  LILLIAN   li.   MESSENGER. 

of  choice  poems,  many  of  which  have  ap- 
peared in  the  leading  publications  of  the 
east.  The  Southern  Cross  is  her  latest  vol- 
ume. These  works  contains  manj-  rare  gems 
of  tiiought  that  entitle  her  to  a  laurel  wreath 
of  fame  as  a  national  poet.  Mrs.  Messenger 
is  one  of  the  galaxy  of  intellectual  stars  in 
the  firmament  of  the  national  capital. 


I  PRESSED  TO  MY  LIPS  A  ROSE. 
I  pressed  to  my  lips 

A  rose. 
Not  for  its  beautiful  lips. 

But  for  light  and  joy,  that  nobody  knows. 
And  sorrow  can  never  eclipse. 
I  pressed  to  my  heart 

A  rose. 
Not  for  its  heart  divine. 

But  for  the  thought  that  above  and  be- 
yond it  glows  — 
The  faith  that  is  thine  and  mine. 
It  shall  not  die. 

Sweet  rose ! 
Can  love  of  the  lovely  die? 

Goeth  not  life  where  the  beautiful  goes? 
And  shall  not  thou  and  I? 


I  placed  in  a  shrine 

My  rose  — 
Shrine  of  soul  and  memory—* 

And  nobody  knows  how  softly  It  blows 
Life-mysteries  over  me ' 


MY  BOY. 

When  thy  fair  childhood  lifted  eyes 

Brightest  the  blue  skies  under. 
And  heaven  and  earth  look'd  back  replies 

To  the  young  soul,  lost  in  wonder; 
When  rippling  laugh  and  boyish  way 

Were  fairy-like  and  fleetest. 
And  life  and  love  with  thee  at  play  — 

I  thought  thee  then  the  sweetest. 
Thine  eyes  like  deep,  blue  wells  in  June, 

Wild  flowers  and  leaves  scarce  cover. 
With  ripples  tangled  in  sweet  tune. 

Thy  rose-lips  murmured  over. 
When  little  feet  and  hands  at  rest 

Like  pink  shells  on  the  border 
Of  sleep's  soft  sea,  and  on  the  breast 

Tiny  palms  in  silent  order; 
And  little  knee-pants,  crinkled  shoes 

Laid  near  by  —  the  neatest, 
Th'  pockets  full  of  what  boys  will  choose  — 

I  deemed  thee  then  the  sweetest. 
Wlien  tender  leaves  of  years  just  caught 

The  rippling  sunlight  lying 
Tween  two  and  twelve-and-two,  I  thought 

Thy  laughter  music's  sighing. 
When  summer  drifted  out  of  springs 

To  larger,  golden  dawning. 
Thy  grand  young  soul  heard  many  things 

Fallen  through  rifts  of  morning. 

When  the  proud  voice  clear  called  mother, 
dear, 
'Tween  smiles  and  tears  the  fleetest. 
Well  —  thro'   tangled  light  and  shade  each 
year. 
All  times  I  thought  thee  sweetest ! 


THE  PRESS. 
Thought  has  its  tides;  on  its  billows  high 

Coming  in  from  an  ocean  vast; 
An  idea  glows  unto  man's  deep  eye 

Till  his  genius  holds  it  fast. 
A  wanderer  musing  alone  t)ne  day 

Look'd  over  his  dream,  in  a  dream; 
For   dream    followed    thought  in    its 
bright  way. 

As  the  sunlight  follows  the  stream. 
He  saw  in  a  songful  brook  at  his  feet. 

When  still  'neath  its  summer  sky. 
The  tracery  of  leaves  and  flow'rets  sweet, 

And  cloudlets  hovering  nigh. 
And  upon  the  rock  in  fragrant  moss 

Th'  imprint  of  leaf  and  line 


wild. 


*- 


-* 


870 


LOCAL,    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEHICA. 


Of  tender  fern.     "  There  is  no  loss 

In  secret  Nature's  design, " 
Said     he,    "  And    her    cunning    art-works 
wrought 

Of  her  subtler  mysteries, 
Can  they  ever  be  touched  by   man's    line 
thought 

In  mosaics  like  to  these? 
"  Shall  his  thought  have  pinion  yet  to  go 

To  the  bounds  of  the  Infinite? 
Shall  it  ever  its  wing'd  chariot  know. 

And  the  dark  be  fringed  with  light!  " 
He  pondered  long  till  he  fell  asleep 

To  the  music  of  dream  and  thought. 
Time  passed,    .    .    .    and  men  at  last  might 
reap 

The  good  which  the  toiler  brought. 
The  Printing  Press  that  his  genius  gave 

To  the  world  in  a  darker  age 
Was  th'  immortal  form  that  Thought  to  save 

On  time's  immortal  page. 
'Twas  the  body  wing'd  that  Thought  to  hold 

As  life's  strange  riddle  grew. 
While  mystic  threads  from  the  looms  of  the 
Old 

Were  woven  with  the  New. 
For  the  spirit  wrought  for  man's  harsh  needs 

His  royal  robes  of  to-day. 
Till  clothed  with  the  kingliest  mind  he  leads 

Up  to  Beings  loftiest  way. 
Now  knowledge  pines  no  longer  in  night 

Of  prison  or  convent  walls. 
But  goes  a  beauteous  spirit  of  light 

Wlierever  Genius  calls. 
And  the  click  of  the  types,  the  whirr  of  the 
press 

Are  sounds  she  would  rather  hear 
Than  drum  and  clarion  of  War's  dark  stress. 

The  clashing  of  saber  and  spear. 
Now  the  poorest  son  that  poverty  claims 

Dwells  freely  iu  her  high  noon ; 
New  worlds  of  science  and  art  he  names 

With  wisdom's  deathless  boon. 
As  far  as  the  desert  spreads  its  night 

In  the  forests,  or  west,  or  east. 
The  Press  to  the  dreary  will  bear  its  light, 

And  knowledge  shall  be  high-priest. 
Thouglit  has  its  tides;  in  its  ebb  and  flow 

Doth  man  come  forth  on  tlie  beacli 
From  the  still  Unknown;  and  liis  grand,  1 
Know, 

Must  through  the  centuries  reach 
Tlie  ideal  I  am;  he  becomes  througli  power 

Of  spirit,  of  mind,  set-  free. 
By  Science  and  Art;  wliile  the  Press,  each 
hour. 

Gives  trutli  immortality. 


CHARLES  P.  NETTLETON. 

Born:  New  Haven,  Conn.,  1865. 
In  1888  the  subject  of  this  sketch  graduated 
in  the  C  L.  S.  C.    His  poems  have  appeared 


CHARLES  p.  NETTLETON. 

in  the  Pacific  Kural  Press  and  other  publica- 
tions. Mr.  Nettleton  is  engaged  iu  fniit-- 
growing  at  Hay  wards,  Cal. 


PRAISE. 
"I  have  mined  you  a  truth," 

A  poet  cried; 
"  I  have  delved,  I  have  dug 

In  dark  mount-side 
Till  the  gold  is  laid  bare. 

And  —see!  here  stands 
A  great  fragment  of  truth. 

Lift  thou  your  hands." 
But  the  world  thus  replied: 

..  We  lift  no  hands: 
You  have  done  what  you  ouglit. 

But  — no  commands! 
We  have  felt  this  great  trutlj. 

Feeling,  beett  blest. 
Shall  wo  buy  what's  our  own? 

Take  words  for  test? 
..  We  will  grant,  if  you  wish. 

Some  debt  to  you. 
Weigh  yo  tliis  who  want  praise; 

To  us  is  due 
From  eacli  man,  slave  or  king, 

His  best.    Each  life 
Interacts  on  eacli  life; 

Hence,  leave  praise-strife." 


*- 


*- 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


871 


MRS.  JULIETTE  E.  MATHIS. 

Born  :  Glen  Falls,  N.  Y. 
For  the  past  thirty  years  this  lady  has  lived 
in  California,  and  her  home  is  now  in  Santa 
Barbara.     She   is    leading-  soprano    in   the 
Trinity  Episcopal  church  of   that  city.     For 


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■  ••,^*-/ 

Jii. 

JfRS.  .TTTLIETTE  E.  MATHIS. 

many  years  she  was  a  i-esident  of  Ottawa, 
111.  The  poems  of  Mrs.  Mathis  have  appeared 
in  the  Pittsburg-  Clironicle,  Ladies'  Home 
Journal,  and  other  prominent  publications. 


FRUITION. 

Oh,  ye  of  little  faith,  who  see 

No  fruit  upon  your  nurtured  tree. 

No  blossom  on  its  boughs  to  be; 

Brown,  barren  fields  where  wide  and  free 

Ye  cast  the  seed  so  lavishly, 

Despair  not,  for  if  patiently 

Ye  follow  through  the  wilderness 

The  onward-sweeping-  cloud  of  flre. 

Nor  turn  aside  for  dire  distress. 

Ye  yet  shall  reach  your  heart's  desire. 

Ah,  then,  how  short  will  seem  the  way 

That  once  ^vas  long,  the  sky  so  gray 

Be  filled  with  every  gorgeous  ray 

That  burns  with  gold  and  rose  the  day ; 

The  perfect  fruit  shall  not  decay, 

This  steadfast  f:iith  shall  not  betray; 

Then  be  not  weary  in  tlie  race. 

Let  courage  give  ye  strength  to  run. 

For  conquered  Fate  shall  give  ye  grace. 

Nor  shall  in  darkness  set  the  sun. 


MY  HERITAGE. 

My  realm  is  limited 

By  sight  and  sense  alone; 

My  wide  possessions  fed 

By  sources  onlj'  known 
To  me,  sole  autocrat  of  this  wide  sphere 
Wherein  I  live  and  love  and  must  revere 
The  giver  of  my  good,  believe  that  He 
Has  been  a  bounteous  Father  unto  me. 

No  house,  or  land,  or  gold 

Can  counted  be  as  mine; 

My  treasure  must  be  told 

By  sweeter  word  and  sign. 
Without   his   care    my    neighbor's   perfect 

lawn 
Is  given  to  my  eyes,  the  bloom  thereon, 
The  daily  miracle  of  dewy  dawn 
When  dusky  shadows  of  dim  night  are  gone. 

The  glowing  coloring 

Of  field,  hill,  wood  and  sky 

Each  radiant  day  dotii  bring- 

And  shining  seas  anigh 
Are  mine,  all  mine;  the  universe  of  song 
To  my  enraptured  ear  swells  clear  and  long. 
How  rich  am  I,    who  count  such  store  as 

these ! 
I  thank  Thee,  O  my  God,  upon  ray  knees! 

For  memory's  demesne. 

Its  shadows  evergreen. 

Its  reveries  serene 

That  glide  so  oft  between 
New  sorrows,  forced  awhile  to  stand  aside 
When  such  fair  company  with  me  doth  bide 
My    ministers,    their     garments    rite    with 

myrrh. 
Fresh  rosemary,  violet  and  lav'nder. 

For  love's  divine  domain. 

Fulfillment,  yea  and  loss. 

Where  all  is  certain  gain. 

Its  crown  nor  less  its  cross. 
Its  bitter-sweet,  its  rose  and  rue,  its  pain. 
Its  holy  joy  that  may  not  be  again. 
Yet  what  hath  been  is  still   mine  own,   I 

ween, 
For  hearts  retain  the  glory  eyes  have  seen. 

How  can  I  then  be  poor. 

Fearing  no  moth  or  rust. 

Whose  treasure  must  endure 

Until  my  mortal  dust 
Shall  fall  away  and  I  unburdened  be 
By  any  limitation,  spirit  free 
To  enter  that  estate  where  I  may  bear     • 
My  heritage  —  its  priceless  jewels  wear? 


-* 


*- 


872 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


THE  OLIVES. 
How  sofll3-  sleeps  upon  your  silvered  leaves 
The  moou-lit  radiance  of  fragraut  night! 
How  tenderly  the  sea-wind  sobs  and  grieves 
Its  mournful  music  to  the  listening-  light 
Of  steadfast  stars,  that  fail  not  or  decaj' 
Till  heaven    and  earth    shall  vanish  quite 
awaj'  1 

Your  holy  spell  descends 

Upon  my  troubled  soul 

And  sacredly  defends 

From  turbulence  and  dole. 
A    calmness    like    forgiveness     from   your 

sweet  gloom  drips, 
And  kisses  into  silence  my  complaining'  lips. 
Wliile  watching  your    fair    mission-tow'rs, 

upon  mine  ears 
Falls  faintly  far-off  knells  of  dead  and  buried 

years. 

MEMORY. 
How  green  the  hills  that  gently  rise! 
How  blue  tlie  sky  that  o'er  it  lies! 
How  rank  and  sweet  the  rosemarj- 
In  thi3  fair  land  of  memory! 

What  precious  tilings  are  garnered  here 

Once  cherished,  even  yet  held  dear. 

All  overgrown  with  rosemary 

In  this  sweet  laud  of  memory ! 

How  many  broken  idols  lie 

Among  the  graves  once  set  on  hij;li ; 

Bestrewn  so  deep  witli  rosemary 

In  this  sad  land  of  memorj' ! 

How  beautiful  the  faces  there! 

How  sweet  the  lips,  the  eyes,  the  liair, 

All  framed  in  tender  rosemary 

In  this  bright  laud  of  memory ! 

How  many  mortals  wander  here 

To  breatlie  its  holy  atmosphere. 

To  scent  tlie  sacred  rosemary 

In  this  wide  laud  of  memorj-1 

The  phantom  lips  wo  fain  would  kiss, 

Recede  and  leave  as  naught  but  tliis  — 

A  fragrant  leaf  of  rosemary 

From  this  strange  land  of  memory  '. 

The  home  of  immortality 

This  wondrous  land  must  surely  be. 

And  so  T  wear  sweet  rosemary 

For  your  sweet  sake,  oh  memory  I 


THE  WAY  I  LOVE  YOU. 
If  you  should  come  to  me  in  that  still  day 

When  I  sliall  dreamless  lie  upon  my  bier  — 
If  you  sliould  stand  beside  and  softly  say : 

"  Arise,  oh,  best  beloved,  for  I  am  here!" 
It  seems  to  me  my  heart  would  throb  again. 
Once  more  my  frozen   pulse  would  start 
and  heat. 


My  lips  would  quiver  'ueath  your  kisses' 
rain, 
<SIy  breast  would  heave  beneath  my  wind- 
ing-sheet. 
Tlien  toucli  me  not,  oh  love,  for  how  could  I 
Be  dead  if  you  should  hold  my  hands  and 
call 
Upon  my  name,  who  never  left  yoursigli 

Unheeded?    I  should  stir  beneath  my  pall. 
It  would  be  harder  then  to  stay  with  death, 
Who  is  so  true  a  fiiend,  who  gives  us  peace 
For    pain,    such    ]ierfect    rest    for   labored 
breath. 
And  bears  us  out  where  loving  need  not 
cease. 
So  then,  oh  dearest  friend,  you   must  not 
come 
Aneartlie  place  where  I  enshrouded  lie; 
'Twould  grieve  me  wlien  j-ou  wept  that  I 
were  dumb. 
That  I  could  give  no  answer  to  your  cry. 
My  soul  would  turn  back    in    its    upward  ■ 
flight  j 

To  comfort  yours  if  you  had  need  of  me; 
The  bloom  above  be  touclied  with  sorrow's  | 
blight  j 

If  your  distress  my  spirit's  eyes  could  see.     j 


*- 


UNRECONCILED. 

It  is  not  tliat  mj'  soul  shall  fail  to  find 

Her  own  in  tliat  far-off,  mysterious  bourne, . 
Or  any  influence  my  spirit  bind 

From  following  after   her,   that    1    must 

mourn.  ' 

For  this  I  never  grieve ;  I  know  the  wide,      ; 

Wide  universe  can  never  furnish  space 
Enough  for  us,  we  two,  ajiart  to  'bide,  j 

Or  bliud  my  eyes  froui  resting-  on  her  face. ; 

At  last,  at  last;  I  seeking  only  this  .' 

From  star  to  star  adown  tlie  aisles  of  time) 

And  all  eternity,  must  reach  my  bliss  j 

And  hold  her  yet  on  heights  that  I  shal'i 

climb. 

But  now,  now  do  my  faniisherl,  thirsty  lip--*  ^ 

Cry  out  continually  for  toucli  of  heis. 
My  longing  eyes  seek  her's  llirough  deatii'^ 
eclipse. 

No  other  source  such  tenderness  confers  [ 

I 
Tlie  tendrils  of  her  shining  hair  entwine      j 

No  more  about  my  fingers'  soft  caress; 
The  grave  has  robbed  these  hungry  hands  o 
mine 

Of  all  her  sweetness,  flower-like  loveliness  j 
How  can  I  be  content,  liow  say  that  all 

Is  well,  when  she  is  buried  from  my  sijrlit 
It  is  my  child  for  wliom  I  cry  and  call 

And  not  an  angel  robed  in  distant  liprht. 

i 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


873 


-^ 


JOSEPH  LATIMER  WEIR. 

Born:  White  House,  Tenn.,  Jan.  24, 182L 
After    iittainiiig-    the    ag-e    of    tweniy-oue 
Joseph  completed  his  education  at  Wirt  Col- 
lege.   He  was  engag-ed  for  twenty  years  as  a 
school  teacher,  and  ten  years  of  liis  life  has 


^     -Si.  . 
JOSEPH   LATIMEK    WEIR. 

been  spent  in  the  practice  of  law.  Mr.  Weir 
has  filled  several  important  positions  of  trust, 
and  is  now  engaged  as  traveling  agent  and 
newspaper  correspondent.  His  poems  have 
received  extensive  publication  in  the  peri- 
odical press  of  the  South. 


*- 


LITTLE  PAULINE. 
Playful  as  a  kitten, 

'•  Busy  as  a  bee;" 
A  blithesome  little  girl. 

Of  fairest  form  is  she. 

•'  Modest  as  a  violet. 
As  a  rose-bud  sweet;" 

A  pretty  little  girl. 
With  frisky  hands  and  feet. 

Joyous  as  a  robin, 

••  Gentle  as  a  dove;" 
A  winsome  little  girl. 

That  all  delight  to  love. 

"  Bright  as  is  a  diamond. 

Pure  as  any  pearl;" 
A  gem  of  richest  worth  — 

The  precious  baby  girl! 


MOTHER  IS  DEAD. 
To  me,  what  sacred  thoughts  these  words  in- 
spire! woe— 
What  pen  can  paint  the  pain— the  inward 
The  overwhelming  flood  of  crushing  grief, 
That,  like  a  mountain  torrent's  dashing  flow. 
Came  rushing  in  upon  my  stricken  heart. 
When,  from  a  missive  s;i(l,  I  slowly  read, 
'Mid  tears  that  flowed  like  falling  drops  of 

rain. 
The  sadly  solemn  words,  "Mother  is  Dead." 
'Tis  sad,  indeed,  to  know  that  she  is  gone. 
The  home  she  left  is  wrapt  in  deepest  gloom. 
The  sun  may  shine,  the  birds  may  sweetly 

sing. 
And,  as  before,  the  flowers,  too,  may  bloom. 
But  yet,  a  void  there'll  be  within  tluit  home, 
A  sacred  vacant  seat  will  be  there  still. 
And  in  each  saddened  heart  a  lonely  place 
That  naught  but  a  mother's  love  can  rightly 

fill. 
Bereaved  ones  around  the  family  hearth 
Will  miss  a  loving  mother's  tender  care. 
And  turning  back  to  the  light  of  other  days. 
When  on  her  lap  they  lisped  their  evening 

prayer. 
May,  silently  musing  on  the  happy  past. 
With  anxious  thoughts,  by  fitful  fancy  led. 
Still  list,  as  if  to  hear  her  footsteps  coming; 
Alas !   She  comes  no  more  —  their  mother's 

dead! 
But  hope  comes  gleaming  through  the  cloud 

of  grief. 
And  gently  ope's  to  view  a  future  bright. 
What  to  the  good  is  death?    A  transit  safe 
From  earthly  pain  to  heaven's  pure  delight. 
The  passing  storm  that  leaves  a  sweet  repose, 
A  grand  transition  of  the  soul  from  this, 
Its  transitory  dwelling  place  on  earth. 
To  an  eternal  home  of  heavenly  bliss. 


EARLY  SPRING-TIME. 
The  most  lovely  time  of  all  the  year. 
With  soft  and  balmy  breath  is  near. 
And  ringing  out  quite  full  and  clear 
The  sweetest  songs  of  birds  I  hear. 
The  days  are  mild,  the  nights  serene. 
And  sunny  slopes  are  growing  green; 
Along  the  vales,  the  hills  between. 
Wild  flowers  here  and  there  are  seen. 
And  merry  children  on  the  street. 
Their  faces  bright,  tlieir  toilet  neat. 
With  "Silvery  voices  "  like  music  sweet, 
Go  tripping  along  with  nimble  feet. 
A  God  of  Truth,  with  love  benign. 
Rules  all;  He  made  tlie  earth  so  flue: 
'Twas  He  who  made,  with  power  divine, 
The  birds  to  sing,  the  sun  to  shine. 


-* 


*- 


874 


LOCAT,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMERICA. 


F.  HELEN  MCGREGOR. 

Born:  Beckwith.  Tenn.,  May  6, 1833. 

This  lady  has  written  quite  a  few  poems 
which  have  appeared  in  the  local  press  g-en- 
erally,  and  have  received  hig-h  commenda- 


F.  HELEN  m'GREGOB. 

tion.  Helen  McGregor  received  her  education 
in  the  county  schools,  and  has  always  resided 
in  her  native  town. 


ON  BURNS'  "  RED.  RED  ROSE." 
Tliy  love  was  like  the  red,  red  rose 

That's  newly  sprung  in  June, 
And  perished  ere  the  melody 

Of  sweet  "  Bonnie  Doon." 

Yes,  tlio'  she  were  a  lass  as  fair 

As  Nature  ever  gave. 
Neither  love  nor  sad  despair 

Could  save  her  from  the  grave. 

The  sea  still  holds  its  water, 
And  the  rocks  still  meet  the  Sun, 

But  where  is  beauty's  daughter? 
Her  sands  of  life  have  run. 

And  thine;  but  may  you  meet  again 
On  some  fair  happy  shore. 

Where  roses  never  lose  their  bloom 
And  live  for  evermore. 


THE  PRISONER  BIRD. 
Go  now  little  prisoner  bird 

Home  to  thy  native  tree. 
The  storm's  no  longer  heard. 

And  sing  in  liberty  I 

Could  I  have  borne  to  see 
Thy  bright  black  eyes  decline, 

I  could  in  lone  captivity 
Sweet  bird  have  made  the  mine. 

Thy  golden  feathers,  one  by  one, 

I  could  have  torn  apart. 
And  drained  the  ruddy  drops  that  run 

Now  warmly  through  thy  heart. 

But  cculd  I  then  have  hoped 

For  succor  in  the  storm. 
From  Him  whose  wisdom  wrapped 

In  loveliness  thy  form? 

Go  then,  and  soon  with  thee 
May  my  poor  country  swell 

The  joyous  song-  of  liberty, 
And  until  then  farewell. 


THE  SWEET  FLOWERS  SENT  ME. 
They  are  here,  fresh  before  me. 

With  no  sign  of  decay. 
To  tell  that  from  earth 

They  are  passing  away. 

They  are  here,  fresh  before  me. 
And  with  odorous  breath. 

Floating  'round  me  in  beauty 
Are  smiling  in  deatli. 

They  are  here,  fresh  before  me. 
With  no  sign  of  decaj', 

To  tell  that  from  earth 
They  are  passing  away. 

Yes  one,  the  white  rose. 

So  lovely  last  night. 
Is  drooping  and  withered; 

A  pitiful  siglit. 

Like  some  gentle  heart 

Too  easily  tried. 
The  wiiite  rose  is  losing 

Its  beauty  and  pride. 

Yet  thou  lovely  rose 
For  me  thou'lt  not  bloom; 

I'll  see  that  thou  Itickest 
For  no  fitting  tomb. 

For  shrined  in  my  memory 
Tliou  still  -ihalt  live  on. 

As  fresh  and  lovely 
As  when  made  my  own. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAT.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMERICA. 


875 


-* 


SAiMUEL  E.  MANN. 

Born  :  La  whence,  Mass.,  April  10,  1853. 
Graduating  at  the  age  of  nineteen  with 
honor  at  tlie  Worcester  Polytechnic  insti- 
tute, this  poet  then  worked  liiniself  through 
the  departments  of  chemistr.v  and  mechani- 
cal engineering:.    For  some  years  he  taught 


SAMUEL  E.  JIANN. 


natural  science,  mathematics  and  drawing 
I  in  the  high  scliool  of  Middleton,  Conn.  La- 
Iter  on  Mr.  Manu  went  to  Honolulu  and 
!  worked  as  draughtsman  and  carpenter  until 
'1885.  In  1883  he  was  married,  but  his  wife 
;died  one  year  later.  Samuel  E.  Mann  has 
edited  a  volume  of  Florida  verse,  which  he 
hopes  to  publish  at  an  early  period. 


RONDELAY. 
lAt  Waikiki,  where  lingers  dreamy  rest, 
|And  joy,  as  sunshine,  beameth  full  and  free; 
Ah,   there,   sweet   nature!  would  I  be   thy 
guest 

At  Waikiki. 
W^here  breezes  breathe  an  airy  harmony. 
Where    bends    the    Palm    and    preens    her 
i         plumed  crest, 
jWhile  listening  to  the  love  songs  of  the  sea; 

Irhere  as  I  lay  my  liead  upon  thy  breast, 
l^nd  feel  the  throbbings  of  thy  love  for  me, 
|My  heart  shall  find  its  grail  and  end  its  quest 
J  At  Waikiki. 


WAIKIKL 

Beside  the  bay  lies  peaceful  Waikiki, 

With  coral  strand  o'erhung  by  clustering 

l>alnis, 
That  seem    to  wait  with    Welcome's  wide- 
spread arms. 
Thence  I,  aweary  of  the  city,  flee, 
And  under  algarobas  by  the  sea 
Find  rest.     Afar  from  fear  of  all  alarms. 
There  every  fragrant  breath  uiy  spirit  calms ; 
Care  steals  away,  and  1  am  left  thought-free 
Beside  Leahi's  sunset-gilded  height. 
I  look  far  out  beyond  the  dimpled  waves. 
That  laugh  and  play  above  forgotten  graves. 
And  dream  sweet  dreams  of  silver  sails  in 

sight. 
On  broader,  brighter  bays  of  time  to  be. 
On  far-off  seas  of  love's  eternity. 


RONDEAU. 

Jnder  the  sand,  while  the  years  go  bj-, 
'Tis  said  that  brave  old  warriors  lie; 
The  dead  of  wars  that  were  of  old 
When  here  the  noise  of  battle  rolled- 
War-cries  and  shouts  of  victory. 

Beneath  these  palms  that  tower  on  high 
Dark  forms  like  phantoms  gather  nigii  — 
The  miglity  forms  of  warriors  bold  — 

Under  the  sand. 

A  thousand  flashing  paddles  fly. 
Ten  thousand  spears  flash  in  the  sky. 
And  feather  helmets  gleam  as  gold; 
But  now  we  see  but  dust  and  mold 
And  thoughtless  hardly  question  why  — 
Under  the  sand. 


DIAMOND  HEAD. 

Leahi,  long  thy  grandly  buttressed  wall 

Shall  tower  beside  our  happy  island  home. 

Great  ocean's  mighty  waves    shall    swell 

and  comb. 

And  break,  and  all  their  long  lines  roaring 

fall 
Dismayed.      Sougliing,  they  sound  the  sad 
recall. 
And  flee  to  where  supporting  legions  roam 
Perplexed,  their  em'rald  ranks  in  surf  and 
foam 
O'erthrown  on  coral  rock.    But  thou,  o'er  all 
Serene,  above  thy  seaward  trending  slope. 
While  waves  and  winds  against  thee  vainly 
beat. 
Tliou  lifted  high  the  radiant  brow  of  hope 
Unmindful  of  the  passing  years.    Content, 
Thou  standestflrm,  immovable,  complete; 
Hawaii's  oldest,  noblest  monument. 


* 


*- 


876 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


WHAT  IS  OUR  LIFE. 
"Oh,  what  is  it  all  when  all  is  done," 
When  low  in  the  valley  we  lie  at  last  — 
When  this  life  that  we  live  on  earth  is  past, 
And  we  have  departed  one  by  one  — 

When,  gone  are  the  treasures  sought  and 

won. 
As  the  flowers  before  the  wintry  blast? 
Oh,  what  is  it  all  when  all  is  done, 
^Vhen  low  in  the  valley  we  lie  at  last? 

Oh,  sweet!   are  the   blessings  of  life  when 

gone ; 
How  few  are  its  days  that  are  overcast! 
Ah!  the  blessing  of  love,  that  we  liold  fast. 
Our  love  that  will  live  forever  on! 
Oh,  what  is  it  all  when  all  is  done! 


FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH. 

Breathe  in  whispers  sweet  and  low. 
As  the  voice  of  waters  welling. 
Of  DeLeon's  fountain  telling. 

Of  its  youth-renewing  flow; 

Breathe  where  wildwood  blossoms  blow; 
Breathe  within  the  violet's  dwelling  — 
Breathe  in  whispers  sweet  and  low. 

As  the  voice  of  waters  welling. 

Breathe,  oh,  wood-wind!  whisper  slow. 
Of  love's  waters,  pain-repelling. 
Till  the  heart  with  rapture  swelling 
Shall  through  love  a  new  life  know  — 
Breathe  in  whispers  sweet  and  low. 


A  LULLABY. 
Bye,  baby,  bye,  my  song  shall  sweetly  flow, 
For  guardian  angels  gatlier  nigh. 
While  rocks  the  cradle  to  and  fro. 

Bye,  baby,  bye. 
The  sun  swings  low  in  the  western  sky; 
The  evening  heralds  come  and  go; 
How  swift  their  golden  chariots  fly! 

Blue  sky  above,  blue  sea  below. 
And  blue  my  baby's  laughing  eye. 
For  sleep,  sweet  sleep,  comes  still  and  slow. 
Bye,  baby,  bye. 


LIFE. 

Life,  my  boy,  is  this:  to  climb 
Up  the  hard  waj-  of  time 
From  boyish  years  to  manhood's 
With  zest- 


prime 


Then  slowly  down  the;  farther  steep, 
Willi  faltering  step,  to  creep, 
And  weary,  to  lie  down  to  sleep 


* 


weary,  to  lie  down  to  sleep 
And  rest. 


THE  SWEETEST  THEME. 
One  among  the  poet's  themes 
This  one  oft  the  sweetest  seems: 
'•  Home,  Sweet  Home,'"  of  which  he  sings- 
Childhood's  home,  of  which  he  dreams  — 
Vine-clad  cottage,  wooded  hills. 
Grassy  fields  and  rippling  streams. 
Memory  gently  guides  him  there. 
Leads  in  spite  of  Fancy's  schemes  — 
Leads  where  tender  love  was  born. 
Smiles  till  joy  through  sorrow  gleams. 
Faith  through  clouds  of  doubt  shines  forth, 
Hope  reflects  the  golden  beams. 
There  he  finds  again  his  youth  — 
Youth's  fair  promises  redeems; 
Counts  his  home  a  "Chidher's  Well," 
And  its  waters  sweet  esteems. 


THE  LAND  OF  DREAMS. 

I  wandered  in  a  pleasant  land  of  dreams, 

Through  fragrant  fields,  where  harvests  rich 
were  laid 

In  golden  swaths  by  reaper's  swinging  blade; 

I  lingered  on  the  banks  of  gurgling  streams. 

Where  through  its  leafy  gates  the  sunhght 
gleams 

And  glimmere  through  interstices  of  sliade; 

There  every  dewdrop  is  a  gem  displayed 

Upon  the  brow  of  Beauty.    Ah !  this  seems 

Her  home.  Oh  would  that  I  could  under- 
stand 

Her  speech,  for  now  her  voice  most  sweet  I 
hear, 

And  now  her  touch,  as  if  'twas  mother's 
hand, 

I  feel,  and  wake.    Tis  mother  standing  near; 

And  lo,  the  land  of  vision  doth  appear. 

Behold!    It  is  "  My  own,  my  native  land." 


EXTRACTS. 


If  we  cannot  find  a  free  expression 
For  the  wealth  of  love  we  feel; 

Of  our  failure  making  full  cowfession,- 
We  will  all  our  love  reveal. 

Liberty!  Sweet  Liberty  1 
Tliey  livt'  in  love  who  die  for  love  of  thee. 

Land  of  all  lands  our  own  land  is  best; 
Home  of    tlio    homeless,   the  iKior  and  op- 
pressed; 
Home  of  the  wanderer,  in  thee  there  Is  rest. 

Mati  counts  the  golden  sheaves 

The  reapers  bind; 
God  counts  the  dusty  liandfuls 

That  the  gleaners  find. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


877 


-* 


ELISABETHE  DUPUY. 

Born  :  Prospect,  Va.,  1868. 

The  poems  of  this  lady  liave  appeared  ex- 
tensively in  the  St.  Louis,  Cincinnati  and 
Louisville  journals,  and  as  a  writer  of  both 


ELISABETHE  DtJPUY. 

poetry  and  prose  she  is  g-aining  quite  a  rep- 
utation. Miss  Dupuy  is  a  petite  blonde,  and 
resides  in  St.  Louis,  Mo. 


WHEN  ROSES  SCATTERED  LIE. 
Hast  thou  forg-ot  those  golden  days. 
Hast  thou  forg-ot  those  woodland  ways, 
The  flowers  that  blossomed  red  and  white, 
Tlie  blue  that  arched  the  heavenly  height, 
The  birds  that  caroled  high  aud  clear. 
Hast  thou  forgot,  has  thou  forgot,  my  dear? 

Hast  thou  forgot  those  shadowy  walks. 
Hast  thou  forgot  our  murmured  talks. 

The  moon  that  silvery  shone  o'erhead, 

What  titne  the  day  evanished. 
The  sweet  caress,  the  tender  kiss. 
Hasttliou  forgot,  oli  love,  all  this? 

Hast  thou  forgot,  hast  thou  forgot. 

Is  thine  a  heart  that  alters  not? 
Thy  speech  is  cold,  and  colder  still 
Thine  eyes  that  smite  me  with  their  chill, 

And  I  would  know,  beloved  one. 

If  thou  art  changed  with  Summer's  sun. 


THE  TRANSITORY. 
Thy  colors,  rainbow,  'gainst  the  gray. 

Too  soon  they  go,  too  soon  they  go. 
In  track  where  flees  the  dying  day 

Soon  fades  thy  iridescent  glow. 

The  young  mid-suramer  moons  that  sow 

With  gold  the  ripples  of  their  way. 
Too  transient  is  their  shining  show, 

But  these,  the  angels  of  delay. 

Sweet  passions  that  our  fond  hours  know. 
More  dear,  more  brief  their  tender  sway. 

Too  soon  they  go,  too  soon  they  go. 


INVOCATION  TO  SORROW. 
Come,  Sorrow,  be  my  friend  and  dwell  with 
me; 
Thou  hast  been  true  when  dearer  ones  de- 
nied. 
When  others  failed  thou  has  borne  company. 
Henceforth  as  friend  abide! 

Tho'  grim-visaged   thou    art,    and    solemn- 
eyed. 
All  the  sweet  uses  of  adversity 
Thou  hast  taught,  watching  thro'  the  lone 
night-tide 


The  beautiful,  the  dear,  by  land  or  sea. 
Are  faithless  gone  and   fleeting   far  and 
wide ; 
Thou,  thou  alone,  thy  pale  face  turned  to  me, 
Keep'st  mournful  guard  beside  I 


THE  DESOLATE  HEART. 
If  thou,  mine  angel,  couldst  return  to  me. 
Out  of  thy  blest  and  changeless  peace  on 

high. 
This  troubled  heart,  whose  unsolaced  dis- 
tress 
So  long  hath  vexed  the  nights  of  loneliness. 
Mourned   old   bereavement  with   new  con- 
stancy. 
And  given  each  hour  the  largess  of  a  sigh. 
No  more  the  fool  of  fancies  idly  dreamed, 
From    sorrow's    servitude     should    be   re- 
deemed. 
And  can  it  be  that  even  all  the  bliss 
In  which  thy  golden  throne  is  surely  set. 
Hath  made  thy  loyal  heart,  beloved,  forget 
The  pain,  the  grief,  the  agony  of  this? 
Is  it  not  rather  that  with  yearning  eyes 
Thou  lookest  upon  me  from  yon  soft  blue 
skies? 


-* 


*- 


878 


LOCAl.   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


MxARY  R.  D.  DINGWALL. 

born:  Calais,  N.  H.,  Apbil 23. 1844. 
This  lady  was  married  in  1861  to  Alexander 
Dingwall,  who  soon  after  entered  the  service 
of  his  country,  and  is  u  veteran  of  the  civil 
wir     They  have  two  children— Cortez  Alex- 


MRS.  R.  D.  DINGWALTi. 

anderand  Inez  Barbara;  the  latter  a  young 
lady  of  sixteen,  is  taking  a  course  of  study  at 
the  Vermont  Methodist  Seminary  in  Mont- 
pelier  Mrs.  Dingwall  has  never  been  an 
aspirant  for  literary  honors,  but  has  accept- 
ed the  work  nearest  at  hand,  and  is  pre-emi- 
nently a  home  woman. 


IN  THE  MORNING. 
There  ne'er  was  a  night  so  long  and  dark 

But  at  lengtli-there  came  a  day. 
And  never  a  grief  so  deep  and  strong 

But  anon  God  sends  a  ray 
From  the  silver  lining  of  the  cloud 

To  chase  its  shadows  away. 

T  pressed  my  lips  to  a  pallid  brow 

By  the  twilight  zephyr  fanned, 
..I  shall  look  for  thee  at  noon,"  she  said; 

But  I  am  learning  to  understand 
The  long,  dark  days  of  an  arctic  night  — 

O,  morn  of  the  summer-land! 
I  came  again,  and  I  pressed  her  lips. 

But  nothing  of  love  they  told. 
For  the  heart  beneath  had  ceased  to  beat; 

Yet  the  love  has  not  grown  cold, 


And  beyond  the  grave  on  the  hillside 
Standeth  the  City  of  Gold. 

'Mid  tears  I  took  up  my  daily  task 

With  a  heavy  heart  and  sad. 
And  a  fear  lest  I  grieved  the  father. 

For  1  lacked  the  grace  to  be  glad 
When  he  called  away  to  his  kingdom 

The  truest  friend  that  I  had. 

I  watch  for  the  time  of  his  coming, 

And  be  it  early  or  late. 
He  will  give  me  the  strength  I  ask  for. 

The  patience  to  labor  and  wait 
Till  he  sends  my  friend  to  meet  me 

With  a  welcome  at  the  gate. 

So,  beyond  the  clouds  and  the  darkness 

I  count  the  stars  in  the  sky. 

And  wait  for  the  radiant  morning  I 

Of  the  beautiful  By-and-by  —  i 

The  cloudless,  endless  morning  that  brings  j 

The  beautiful  By-and-by.  | 


NOT  ALL  A  DREAM. 
It  was  the  morn  of  Decoration  Day, 
And  while  we  wrought  one  came  who  stood 

aside 

And  smiled  upon  our  work  for  those  who 

died 

..  For  you  and  mc,"  as  each  to  each  would  say 

The  while  she  bound  her  garland  or  bouquet. 

But  when  at  length  the  last  fair  wreath 

was  tied, 
He  gently  stepped  unto  a  maiden's  side 
And  said,  "  I  seek  a  gift  for  Him  who  lay 
Heaven's  royal  robes  aside  for  Calvary." 
..  A  gift  from  me,  O  Lord?  "  she  sadly  cried, 
..  I  nothing  have  to  match  thy  wounded 
side. 
And  yet,  O  Stranger  Guest,  I  beg  Thee  stay ! 
And  as  they  stood  amid  our  sufferings  there, 
An  angel  paean  thrilled  along  the  air. 


EXTRACT. 


AFTER  TWENTY  YEARS. 

That  either  for  the  other  cared 
Not  either  may  have  guessed. 

As  clasping  hands  they  parted; 
While  across  the  Winter's  breast 

The  frost-king  hung  his  jewels. 
And  day  slipped  toward  the  west. 

If  either  of  the  other  thinks. 
Why  should  the  other  care? 

For  twenty  years  have  slipped  between, 
And  each  has  other  where 

Found  life's  full  share  of  joy  and  grlct. 
Enough  to  do  and  bear. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEItlCA. 


879 


* 


LUCILE  MARIE  BENTON. 

Born:  Thomson,  Ga.,  April  9,  1874. 
Miss  Benton  has  written  about  fifty  poems 
which  were  published  in  the  Madison  Ad- 


LUCILF.  M.\KIE   BENTON. 

vertlser,  Athiuta  Constitution,  Americus 
Recorder  and  other  local  papers.  Slie  is  still 
a  resident  of  her  native  state  at  Araericus. 


OUR  NATIONAL  FLOWER— THE  GOLDEN 

ROD. 
Gracing  the  hills  of  snow-clad  Maine, 

Lining  the  vales  of  Florida's  plain ; 
Growing  in  rich  or  barren  sod 

Is  the  hardy  beautiful  golden-rod. 
Rocking  the  bee  to  sleep  in  its  bower. 

Humming-bird  sipping  its  dainty  flower. 
Waving  and  smiling  all  the  long  day. 

It  stands  resplendent  in  bright  array. 
Crowning  the  fields  with  a  golden  fringe. 

Snatching  from  sunliglit  a  deeper  tinge; 
Wooed  by  the  wind  with  a  gentle  kiss, 

Happy  art  thou  in  thine  infinite  bliss. 
Bright  golden-rod  we  crown  thee  now. 

As  queen  of  all  the  flowers  that  grow; 
And  may'st  thou  in  thy  i)urity. 

Sweet  emblem  of  our  nation  be. 


TWILIGHT  MUSINGS. 
'Tis  the  mystic  hour  of  twilight. 
Sweet  quiet  reigns  supreme 
O'er  all  the  tired  face  of  nature. 
I  The  little  birds  twitter  sleepily, 
* 


In  their  nests  beneath  the  eves; 

And  the  shrill  notes  of  the  wliip-i)0()r-rt'ill 

Echo  from  the  neighboring  forest. 

Far  across  the  meadow 

Comes  the  faint  tinkle  of  bells. 

Blended  with  the  lowing  of  the  cattle; 

As  they  wend  their  way  slowlj- 

Toward  tlie  old  barn  yard. 

Far  over  the  distant  liills,  the  rough  swain 

Tired  with  his  hard  duj's  labor, 

Is  slowly  plodding  his  homeward  way. 

To  sit  down  to  a  simple,  but  a  sweet  repast. 

The  stars  twinkle  out  one  by  one. 

The  new  moon  rises  in  all  her  golden  beauty. 

And  as  night  approaclies,  twilight  fades. 

And  my  musings  are  done. 


DAYS  OF  YORE. 
All  alone  by  my  window  I'm  sitting, 

In  my  own  little  cosy  bower; 
The  soft  shadows  are  silently  flitting, 

'Tis  the  dim  placid  twilight  hour. 
Did  I  say  alone?  nay  not  all  alone. 

For  pleasant  thoughts  come  thronging; 
And  each  sweet  thought  has  a  voice  of  its 
own. 

Till  my  heart  is  o'erflowed  with  longing. 
Shall  I  tell  you  of  what  I  am  thinking. 

As  the  stars  twinkle  slowly  out? 
I  am  wearing  a  chain  and  linking 

Each  bar  with  a  golden  thought. 
My  heart  is  fondly  backward  turning. 

Thro'  memory's  golden  haze; 
Back  with  a  deep  and  tender  feeling. 

To  the  merry  gladsome  old  school  days. 
When  we  two  wandered  liand  in  hand  Id- 
gether, 

Down  the  lane  whose  path  wound  in  and 
out; 
Gath'ring  daisies  in  the  sunny  weather. 

With  many  a  merry  laugh  and  shout. 
I  sit  within  the  old  accustomed  place. 

Again  the  busy  hum  of  voices  hear; 
And  by  my  side  I  see  the  sweet  young  face. 

That  in  my  heart  I  ever  held  so  dear. 
But  now  those  happy  days  are  gone. 

And  we  who  then  sat  side  by  side 
Have  drifted  far  apart,  at  last  borne  on 

By  fortune's  cold  and  heartless  tide. 
While  some  have  left  us,  far  apart 

In  distant  climes  to  dwell; 
To  whom  with  sad  and  breaking  heart. 

I  bade  a  long  and  last  farewell. 
But  I  must  wake,  my  dream  is  o'er,  I  rise: 

And  looking  out  into  the  soft  pale  light; 
I  hear  a  whisper  from  the  midnight  skies. 

The  stars  are  bidding  me  a  sweet  -good- 
night." 


-* 


*- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


E.  EDWIN  BYRUM. 

Bobn:  Randolph  Co.,  Ind.,  Oct.  13, 1861. 
The  subject  of  this  sketcli  is  a  graduate  of 
theOtterbein  university  of  Wcsterville,  Ohio. 
In  1887  Mr.  Byrum  was  called  to  accept  a 
position  as  publisher  and  business  manager 
of  the  Gospel  Trumpet,  which  position  he 


E.  EDWIN   BYRUM. 

Still  holds,  and  has  been  office  editor  for  the 
past  two  years.  He  is  also  the  publisher  of 
the  Shining-  Light,  a  paper  for  children, 
which  is  securing-  quite  a  wide  circulation. 
Mr.  Byrum  in  1889  was  married  to  Miss  Rhoda 
B.  Keagy,  and  resides  with  his  wife  and 
daughter  at  Grand  Junction,  Michigan. 

THE  LAST  FAREWELL. 
Our  darling  child,  oh  can  it  be 

Thy  Spirit's  fled  from  earth  away? 
Oh  is  it  true,  thj'  form  we  see 

Is  now  as  lifeless  as  the  clay? 
Our  hearts  bowed  down  in  deepest  grief. 

Are  yet  submissive  to  thy  will 
Who  gave  to  us  tlie  tender  leaf. 

Whose  mission  did  so  soon  fulfill. 
Those  lips  so  sweet  to  press  to  ours 

Now  take  a  pallid  form  in  death; 
Tliy  sweetness  was  as  many  flowers. 

Thy  love  was  seen  in  every  breath. 
An  angel  came  and  wliisptred  near. 

And  did  the  summons  gently  bear; 
Thou  gentle  bud,  to  parents  dear. 

Art  called  to  lands  more  bright  and  fair. 


Thou  canst  not  come  to  us  again 

Nor  can  we  ever  go  to  thee 
Until  our  work  on  earth  began 

Shall  end  in  sweet  eternity. 
We'll  prtiise  the  Lord  who  gave  to  us 

Thy  bright  and  shitiing  life  to  bless; 
We  praise  His  name  for  blessings  thus. 

Which  filled  our  home  with  righteousness. 
And  now  again  we  bless  Thy  name, 
"That  thou  didst  see,  'twas  best  to  call 
Our  darling  little  cherub  home 

To  dwell  with  Thee  who'rt  Lord  of  all. 


THE  CROSS  AND  CROWN. 
When  the  trials  of  life  beset  us  and  the  way 

seems  dark. 
And  the  pathway  rough  and  rugged  all  along 

the  way  of  life. 
Then  we'll  trust  it  all  with  Jesus  and  in  faith 

grow  strong. 
Till  we  reach  our  home  and  join  the  happy 

throng. 

We  will  suffer  persecutions  for  the  sake  of 
Christ,  [are  so  great. 

For  His  love  is  neverendingand  His  mercies 

There  we'll  lose  all  sight  of  trouble  when  we 
gain  the  port. 

And  forever  dwell  within  the  heavenly  fort. 


THE  ROAD  TO  FAME. 

Not  all  who  think  themselves  so  great 

In  deeds  and  thoughts  of  worldly  lore,' 
Will  ever  reach  the  highest  fame 

However  high  their  minds  may  soar. 
Though  lifted  up  in  self  conceit. 

In  fancy  wander  on  and  on; 
And  lauded  high  witli  earthly  praise 

They  miss  the  mark  they  should  have  won. 
Not  so  with  they  of  humbler  birth 

Wliostep  with  honest  tread  along. 
Yet  climbing  upward,  step  by  step. 

With  merry  hearts  of  noblestsong. 
Who  seek  to  aid  their  fellow  men 

And  point  them  to  the  better  way; 
Wlio  cheer  the  weary  troubled  lieart 

And  drive  the  darkness  far  away. 
'    is  not  for  words  of  earthly  praise 

That  we  should  ever  seek  to  gain; 
But  love  and  trutli  and  righteousness 

Should  ever  fill  tlie  inner  man. 
The  great  and  noblest  deeds  of  life, 

Are  done  witliout  a  tliought  of  praise. 
Except  to  lieaven's  potentate. 

Who  sheds  His  love  in  shining  rays. 
Then  would  you  seek  the  famous  way. 

Begin  to  climb  the  bottom  round, 
And  seek  perfection  ev'ry  step. 

And  at  the  summit  You'll  be  crowned. 


*- 


«f- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


881 


-* 


PROF.  WILLIAM  G.  MC/VDOO. 

Born:  Andersonville,  T.,  April  4, 1830. 

After  teaching-  for  a  wliile  he  took  a  regular 
course  of  Latin,  Greek,  and  Sciences  in  the 
East  Tennessee  College,  and  received  his 
diploma  in  1845.  Mr.  McAdoo  was  then 
elected  to  the  Legislature  of  Tennessee,  and 
the  following-  year  he  led  a  company  from 
Tennessee  in  the  Mexican  war.  being  present 


PROF.  WILLIAM  G.  m'AUOO. 

at  the  siege  of  Vera  Cruz  and  the  battle  of 
Cerro  Gordo  in  1847.  The  subject  of  this 
sketch  tlien  studied  law  and  went  into  tlie 
practice  of  that  profession  in, 1848,  and  tliree 
years  later  was  elected  attorney  general  of 
the  seven  counties  comprising  the  Knox- 
ville  judicial  circuit.  In  1857  lie  marricid  Mrs. 
Mary  Faith  Floyd,  who  has  distinguished 
herself  in  tlie  literary  world.  After  the  war 
Mr.  McAdoo  became  school  commissioner 
and  county  judge  of  Baldwin  county,  Ga.; 
and  being  tended  the  chair  of  assistant  pro- 
fessor of  history  and  English  literature,  he 
flUed  that  position  for  nine  years.  Mr.  Mc- 
Adoo now  resides  with  his  accomplished  wife 
in  Nortli  Knoxville,  surrounded  by  a  large 
and  choice  library,  devoting  his  time  to 
literary  pursuits.  Of  late  years  his  poems 
have  been  chiefly  in  the  form  of  sonnets. 
Prof.  McAdoo  lias  been  keeping  a  careful 
diary  for  over  fifty  years,  and  the  contents 
of  that  diary  would  make  a  most  interesting 
and  valuable  history  of  Tennessee. 
* 


TO  HELENA. 
Thro'  years  of  fiery  storm  of  war,— 
Thro'  cliarging  columns'  shock  and  jar. 
And  scenes  of  pain  and  blood  and  death, 
The  prison's  damp  and  loatlisome  brcatli, 
Tliy  worshipped  image  hath  been  borne 
And  fondly  in  my  bosom  worn; 
Loved,  pray'd  for,  blest,  awake,  in  dreams. 
Thro'  darkest  storms  and  sunniest  gleams! 
And  thou  art  yet  afar;  and  I 
Pine  yet,  as  in  king  years  gone  by 
Once  more  to  read  in  thy  loved  eyes 
The  thoughts  that  waked  my  bosom's  sighs. 
Oh,  quick  forsake  thy  Northern  nest. 
Sweet  bird!  and  find  a  summer  rest 
Beside  the  blue  Atlantic's  foam 
No  more -no  more— from  me  to  roam! 

Go,  little  verses!    At  her  feet 
Kneel,  pilgri;n  like,  at  foot  of  saint. 

And  raptures  from  her  favor  steal. 
Or  in  her  cool  displeasure  faint. 


TO  MARY  MINE. 
And  I  am  loved!    Unwortliy  tliougli  I  be, 

AH  tlie  affections  of  one  gifted  soul. 
Like  mountain  torrents  to  the  sounding  sea, 
Toward  me  with  strong-  resistless  currents 
roll. 
Oh,  thou  Shalt  ne'er  repent  it!  for  I  can 

And  will  be  worthy  of  tliy  noblest  heart, — 
Re  thine,  not  only  througli  thy  life's  brief 
span. 
But  till  Eternity  itself  dejiart! 

1  gazed  upon  the  trembling  stars  last  night 

That  twinkled  o'er  thy  dearest   sleeping 
head. 
And  wondered  if  a  tliousand  years  in  flight 

Could  number  thy  jiroud  name  among  the 
dead. 
And  it  did  seem  to  me  the  jioet's  word, 

"A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever," 
Should    be    illustrated,    by    Heaven's    high 
Lord, 

By  sparing   thee    from    crossing   Death's 
dark  river! 
To  me,  thou'rt  more  than  mortal— should'st 
not  die;  [doom. 

But  if  thy  mortal  sink  beneatli  Death's 
And  I,  wlio  am  all  mortal,  haply  lie 

Beside  thee,  as  I  pray,  in  the  still  tomb. 
Still  shall  thy  genius  live  in  words  sublime. 

Thy  name  in  statues  of  undying  thought. 
Like  Sappho's  was  in  olden  golden  time. 

With  immortality  on  earth  be  fraught. 
And  I  will  live  with  thee !    Upon  my  knees 

I  swear  to  win  illustrious  name  with  thine, 
And  close  as  Abelard's  with  Eloise, 

Eternal  fame  our  laurels  shall  entwine  1 


-« 


*- 


882 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


THE  FLOWER  LESSON. 
As  Nona— God  bless  her!— and  1,  one  bright 

daj-. 
To  gatliet-  wild  flowers  in  the  woodland  did 

slraj- 
Where  wild  jasmines  and  crab-apple  lilos- 

soms  were  spreading 
Charm'd  bowers,   and  their  exquisite  frag- 
rance were  shedding 
Gazing  upward,    absorbed   by   the  magical 

sights. 
And  odors,  and  the  mocking-birds'  song  of 

delights. 
Little  Nona  but  three  years  old,  prattled  on 
Unheeded— my    soul    with    my  senses    had 

gone. 

I  held  her  dear  little  soft  hand  in  mine 

As  we  leisurely  sauntered  'neath  tree  and 
wild  vine: 

Half-waj'  was  1  conscious  I  lieard  lier  sweet 
voice 

Swift  to  chide,  to  applaud,  to  lament,  to  re- 
joice: 

Half  T  noted  her  daintiest  feet  on  the  sod. 

Half  my  thoughts  were  with  Nature,  and 
half  were  with  God. 

And  still  deeper  by  thickety  stream,  and 
througii  wildwood, 

Strayed  abstracted  old  age  and  sweet  pratt- 
ling childliood. 

The  streamlet  Azalea-bordered,  we  crossed. 
And  soon  in  the  depths  of  wild  Nature  were 

lost, 
Wliere      meek     Uvularias,     straw-colored, 

drooped. 
And       rose-tinted       Trilliums       blushingly 

stooped. 
And  many    a  quaint  Orchid  with   bashful- 

ness  shy. 
Hid  in  shadiest  nook  from  old  Sol's  burning 

eye. 
While    the  prattler's    sweet   innocent   talk 

still  proceeded. 
And  the  ancient  philosopher  half  heard  not, 

lialf  lieeded. 

At,  length  came  tlie  child-voice  more  sharp 

aiul  decided; 
Remonstrated  first,  then  imperiously  eluded; 
Pulling  back  with  one  liand,  in  an  attitude 

I'egal, 
She  arraigned    me,    by    look,  for  some    act 

most  illegal. 
Then  downward  her  other  small  white  hand 

she  pointed 
As   solemn    as   Priest    of    tlie    Most    Higli 

anointed. 
Exclaiming,  "See!    See!    There  the  violets 

grow! 


Do  not  tread  on  the  flowers,  for  God  made 
thum,  you  know." 

Amazed  at  the  lesson  of  reverence  taught. 

And  precocity  strange  of  the  child's  start- 
ling thought. 

With  soul  lifted  higher  than  Earth's  frag- 
rant bowers, 

1  led  her  most  carefully  through  the  dear 
flowers ; 

And  since  that  good  day  their  bright  petals 
are  preachers. 

And  all  their  sweet  odors  are  exquisite 
teachers. 

Unveiled  to  my  vision  in  newness  of  glory 

By  the  saintly  sweet  heroine  of  this  truthful 
story. 


THREE  EXISTENCES. 
Calm,  weird  Arcturus,  in  j-on  wondrous  sky, 
Reveals  to  my  fixed  gaze,  one  truth  untold: 
In  pre-existence,  ere  this  life  unrolled 
As  lower  earths,  our  being's  destiny 
Of  one  warp  woven,  brighten'd  life  on  high,— 
Here,  adverse,  by  sore  fate,  to  me—  the  old 
Rhymester  devoid   of   wealth,  or  place,  or 

gold. 
Afar  from  my  adored,  must  love  and  dial 
Realms  of  a  future  glory !    O,  I  pray 
Eternity  such  as  the  old,  restore! 
New  blest  Arcturan  life  be  mine  again! 
This  earth-existence  past,  mj-  fond  soul  may 
Exalted  reach  her  love  whom  I  adore, 
Sweet  recompense  for  earthly  direst  painl 


DREAMING. 

Enfolded  in  my  grasp,  thy  precious  hand 
Reposeful  lay,  mine  own— O  yes,  mineownl 
Above    us  smiled  the  blue  far  sky,— God's 

throne. 
Day  spread  her  golden  glory  o'er  the  land 
Refulgent ;  all  the  universe  seemed  planned 
Deliglits  to  niinister,  and  all  things  strown 
Yet  far  pi'of  user  than  was  ever  known 
111   all   things  in  heaven's  blissful  counsels 

planned! 
Right   fondly   my    lips  pressed  the   dainty 

fingers  — 
Compressed,  and   eagerly   fond  lips  sought 

lips 
Ecstatic  and  incomparable;  when 
O,   dream  — delusion  — dream  that  not    yet 

lingers! 
All   bliss   was    swept    by   waking's    harsh 

eclipse. 
My  heritage,  the  mournf  ulest  of  men  I 


* 


« 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


888 


-* 


GEORGE  W.  D.WEBSTER. 

Born:  Geneva,  Ohio,  May  5, 1860. 
Mh.  Webster  has   been    a    g-reat    sufferer 
from  rlieumutism,  which  hus  prevented  him 
from  engaging-  in    auj-  active    occupation. 

He  has  writttMi  i)-\-er  a  hundrofl  jiocnis,  nianj- 


PrEOIiCE  WlIiT.IAM  D.  WEBSTER. 

of  whieli  have  appeared  from  time  to  time 
in  Boston  Transcript,  Cottage  Hearth,  Jour- 
nal of  Education  and  other  publications.  He 
is  still  a  resident  of  the  place  of  his  nativity. 


SMOKE. 
My  fire  is  wreatlied  with  garlands  fair, 
I  hear  a  wild  song  in  the  air. 
And  make  this  charge  in  my  despair. 

0  kindred  spirit  of  my  flame ! 

My  red-plumed  warriors  dost  thou  tame, 
To  crown  them  with  the  poet's  claim? 
They  leap  up,  burning  for  the  fight; 
Thou  twinest  them  a  laurel  light; 

1  hear  them  singing  to  the  night. 

A  voice  comes  down  my  chimney  flue: 
"Thy  warriors  are  thy  minstrels,  too; 
They  have  my  crown  and  spirit  true." 


APPLES. 
Ye  who  eat  apples  on  these  winter  nights. 
Dreaming  of  summer  with  its  past  delights, 
Think  ye  'tis  true  about  the  apple  tree, 
That  bore  the  fruit  of  immortality, 
A  taste  of  which  the  sacred  Eddas  say. 
Could  from  the  gods  drive  stealthy  age  awav? 
* ^ '- 


If  true,  I'll  vouch  some  elf  or  Druid  wise, 
Skilled  in  the  secrets  of  those  northern  skies. 
To  graft  the  immortal  in  tlie  mortal  tree. 
Not  all  in  vain  hath  plied  iiis  witchery. 
For  from  the  uuioti  spring  those  youtiiful 

dreams, 
That,sailing  up  the  dark  and  narrow  streams. 
Furl  in  t\m  apple  all  their  fairy  sails, 
L'ntil  they  spread  them  to  the  wintry  gales; 
Tiieu,    cruising    backward    o'er     thought's 

ebbing  tide. 
Bear  us  througli  many  a  prospect  fair  and 

wide. 
Where  we  have  spent  those  happy  careless 

hours. 
Back  to  the  land  of  childhood  and  of  flowers. 


MY  POET. 
O  Master!  'tis  in  vain  I  trj-  to  see 
The  vision  that  you  strove,  with  mystic 
words 
Of  sorrow  and  of  love,  to  paint  for  me. 
E'en  to  thj'  ken,  as  clear  as  height-bold 
bird's. 
Methinks  it  still  a  far  dim  fantasy. 
For  this  art  thou  my  poet,  that  I  feel 

Thy  mounting  flame  into  my  soul  to  shine. 
To  better  life  and  days  a  latent  zeal. 
That  sometime  may  leap  up  a  fire  divine. 
For  this  art  thou  the  chosen  of  the  Nine. 
That  they  who  climb  l)ut  lialf  way  up  thy 
heights 
Come  where  tlie  joj-  of  song  doth  grow  so 

■"  fine 
Their  rapt  eyes  see  not  how  the  hills  incline 
To  valleys  rich  in  streams  and  wild  delights. 


LIFE. 
How  .shall  I  hold  a  thing  so  swift  of  change! 
It  is  as  if  a  painter  bold  siiould  try 
To  catcli  and  fix  a  storm-wrecked  evening 

sky. 
Now  it  is  love,  and  peace,  and  hope's  broad 
range; 
Now  passions  high  with  fears,  dark,  wild  and 
strange ; 
A  strong  ambition,  reaching  heaven-high; 
A  weak  and  sickly  child  that  longs  to  die. 
How  shall  I  keep  my  life  through  such  swift 
change? 
O  Love,  great  Love,  thrice  blessed  art  thou 
for  this; 
That  thou  hast  taught  how  sweet  it  is  to 

lose 
Life  for  thy  sake.    O  let  me  know  the  bliss, 
Tlie  strong,  delicious  thrill  of  those  who  kiss 
Self-sacriflcc  and  death.  Help  me  to  choose. 
My  life  and  all  I  have,  for  thee  to  lose. 


*- 


* 


884 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.MILLIE  W.CARPENTER 

Born:  Stkphentown,  N.Y.,  Feb.  23, 1840. 
This  lady  has  attained  great  proficiency  in 
German  and  French  literature,  and  lias  great 
elocutionary  and  dramatic  talent.  In  1858 
she  was  married  to  Cromwell  A.  Carpenter,  a 
merchant  of  her  native  town.  Since  the 
death  of  her  liushand  and  child,  literature 


MRS.  MTLLIE  W.  CARPENTER. 

has  been  her  solace  and  support.  Her  poems 
being:  accepted  by  Lippincott's  Magazine, 
New  York  Citizen,Daily  and  Weekly  Graphic, 
Golden  Age,  Springfield  Republican,  Sun- 
day Mercury,  Boston  Pilot  and  other  equally 
prominent  periodicals.  She  has  also  con- 
tributed numerous  stories  in  prose  to  Frank 
Leslie's  publications,  Saturday  Evening 
Journal  and  the  Overland  Monthly. 


OFF  DUTY. 
The  brightest  of  midsummer  days 

Wanes  with  my  Festus  just  begun; 
The  peacock  apes  my  sluggish  ways. 

And  trails  his  plumage  in  the  sun. 
Why  sliould  I  blush  to  own  my  dreams? 
So  fair  this  land  of  reverie  seems 
That  cooler  lieads,  old,  worn  and  gray. 
Might  lapse,  like  inine.  off  guard,  astray. 
Heigli-ho!  O  plodder,  let  me  shirk. 
For  once,  dull  care  and  liateful  work: 
Let  sterner  wights  my  mantle  wear, 
And  leave  me  to  my  mountain  air. 

II 
The  pigeons  cluster  on  the  eaves, 

The  brambles  flirt  and  toss  about, 


The  brown  moth  zigzags  through  the  leaves 

Of  woodbine  on  the  water-spout: 
The  alders  rustle  by  the  brook. 
The  trout  leaps  to  the  floating  hook; 
But  in  the  shade,  my  thin  cheek  prest 
Against  the  daisies,  let  me  rest. 
Wliat  was  that  motto  of  mj'  youth. 
Of  which  Age  vaunts  the  vexing  Truth?  — 
"  Time  waits  for  none  1 "'    Alas !  even  I 
May  let  no  day  drift  fruitless  by. 

III. 
The  wind,  astir  through  scents  of  vines,    , 

Breaks  into  ripples  all  the  streams. 
Till  silver-like  the  water  shines. 

And  rose-tints  blush  through  all  my  dreams. 
And  so  the  day's  fine  work  is  done. 
The  rose  and  silver  threads  are  spun. 
And,  soothed  witli  sounds  of  birds  and  bees, 
The  dreamer  nods  in  blissful  ease. 
There  lies  my  Festus  on  the  grass: 
The  glow-worms  with  their  dim  lamps  pass: 
Why,  Sybaris  would  not  care  to  miss 
The  peace  of  such  an  liour  as  this. 


GOOD-BY,  SWEETHEART. 

Good-by,  sweetheart!  Nay.  stand  there  still! 
Let  these  last  moments  have  their  fill 
Of  tender  looks;  so  dainty  sweet 
Pale  snow  and  pearlj-  rose-tints  meet 
On  this  d(>ar  face  ;  so  softly  lies 
Mj"  last  kiss,  fragrant,  blossom-wise 
Across  the  lips  that  still  would  sigh 
'Neatli  kiss  and  flower.  Sweetheart,  good-by! 

Good-by,  sweetheart!  Your  cheek  is  pale; 

Hush,  listen  forth!    The  nightingale  — 

His  song  the  salt  of  Love's  sad  tears 

Wept  through  the  world's  long  lapse  of  years, 

Woos  mutely  into  perfect  flower 

The  ro.se  that  drooped  in  yonder  bower. 

An  hour  to  love  —  an  hour  to  die; 

O  Rose  o'  my  heart's  young  dreams,  good-by ! 

Oh  fitful  heart,  that  used  to  be 

Tender  with  Love's  young  troth  to  me! 

Dear  heart,  sweet  heart,  that  all  day  long 

Once  matclied    the    sparrow's  spring-time 

song. 
Now  waxing,  waning,  sigh  by  sigh. 
Pass  on,  poor  heart;  jirond  lieiirt,  goixl-byl 

Not  yet?  not  go?  Oli.  false  good-byes!- 
Oh  swect-shanied  lips  — oh  dear  blue  eyes! 
Look  up,  lean  on  me;  faring  so. 
Forth  to  tlie  world,  sweet  lieart,  we'll  go. 
By  i)rimrose  paths  tliat  upward  lie. 
Till  death  shall  cross  life's  latest  sigli. 
Breathing  with  blessing  farewell  low  — 
Good-by  —  good-by ! 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMEIIICA. 


885 


-* 


MRS.  E.  A.  KINGSBURY. 

Born:  East  Hartford,  Ct.,  April  19, 1817. 
For  the  past  tliirty-five  years  this  lady  has 
lectured  aud  preached  in  most  of  the  north- 
ern states,  and  has  attained  a  national  repu- 


« 


MRS.  ELISABKTH  a.   KINCSBIKV. 

tation.  Her  poems  have  received  extensive 
publication  in  the  periodical  press.  She  is 
now  a  resident  of  Los  Angeles,  Cal. 


FIFTV  YEARS  AGO. 

Tall  hollyhocks  and  pinks  and  rue 

And  roses  various  and  violets  grew. 

With  other  fragrant  herbs  and  flowers, 

In  well  kept  beds  and  rustic  bowers. 

At  early  dawn  and  dewj'  eve. 

In  snowy  cap,  with  upturned  sleeve, 

In  petticoat  of  homespun  wool 

And  short-gown  trim  and  clean  and  cool. 

Our  grandmother  would  deftly  dig 

Around  these  plants,  Iwth  small  and  big. 

Their  names  and  needs  she  seemed  to  know, 

Aud  this  was  fifty  years  ago. 

Her  checkered  apron,  full  and  long, 
Was  made  of  linen,  good  and  strong. 
Her  neckerchief  in  many  a  fold 
Lay  o'er  her  bosom.    All  this  told 
The  frugal  housewife,  nice  and  neat. 
From  crown  of  head  to  sole  of  feet. 
And  as  she  weeded,  day  by  day. 
And  dug  and  pruned,  a  simple  lay 
Which  to  our  memory  is  more  dear 


Than  auglit  we  since  have  chanced  to  hear 

Of  olden  times,  she  warbled  low, 

And  this  was  fifty  years  ago. 

The  house  was  large;  and  one  back  room 

Contained  a  spinning  wheel  and  loom. 

And  cards  for  making  rolls  and  reel 

That  measured  skeins  and  little  wheel. 

Where  she  would  sit  with  linen  thread 

Between  her  fingers,  while  the  tread 

Of  her  light  feet  kept  time  meanwhile, 

With  sweet  tunes,  tending  to  beguile 

The  busy  hours.    And  at  her  feet 

We  loved  to  sit.    'Twas  a  great  treat 

To  watch  the  fine  thread  come  and  go. 

And  this  was  fifty  years  ago. 

The  log  behind  the  blazing  fire. 

The  crane  and  hooks  suspended  higher. 

The  two  Ijrick  ovens;  one  inside 

The  chimney  jamb;  'twas  deep  and  wide. 

To  hold  the  turkeys,  puddings,  pies 

For  festal  days;  of  smaller  size. 

The  other  stood  outside  the  jamlD 

And    baked    each    week   bread,  beans   and 

lamb. 
The  clean  and  nieelj'  sanded  floor; 
The  corner  buffet,  with  glass  door 
Displaying  china;  a  rare  show. 
But  this  was  fifty  years  ago. 
Fifty  long  yeai-s !    Within  that  time. 
We've  wandered  far,  from  clime  to  clime. 
Seen  many  a  grand  and  stately  thing. 
But  nothing  such  delight  would  bring. 
As  one  more  look  at  that  elm  tree, 
'Neath  which  our  play-house  used  to  be. 
The  old  clock,  straight  and  dark  and  tall. 
With  burnished  face  and  silver  call. 
Telling  the  hours  that  merrily 
On  swift-winged  minutes  flitted  bj' 
Was  prized  most  highly,  you  must  know; 
And  this  was  fifty  years  ago. 


IF. 
If  the  morning  clouds  are  heavy 

And  the  wild  winds  fiercely  blow 
Leveling  the  stately  pine  tree 

And  the  lilies,  where  they  grow; 
If  the  midday  sun  is  sultry 

And  the  earth  is  parched  with  heat; 
If  the  song  bird  droops  in  silence. 

With  no  voice  for  carols  sweet. 
If  the  night  comes,  dark  and  gloomy, 

With  no  stars  to  light  the  sky. 
With  no  gentle  breezes  whispering 

Of  a  good  time  bye-and-bye; 
Still  we  bravely  trust  the  future. 

Still  with  firm,  elastic  tread 
Walk  the  path  marked  out  before  us, 

Whereso'er  we  may  be  led. 


-* 


*- 


L0CA1<  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OK  AMKKICA. 


HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH 

*  Born  :  Warren,  R.  I.,  Dec.  22,  1839, 
As  THE  author  of  the  Zig-zag  Journeyings, 
Hezekiah  Butterworth  has  become  known 
throughout  this  country  and  Europe,  in  the 
school  and  in  the  family  circle.  In  1870  he 
became  connected  with  the  Youtli's  Com- 
panion as  assistant  editor,  a  position  which 


HEZEKIAH    BUTTERWORTH. 

he  has  filled  for  twenty  years.  In  187.5  he 
wrote  the  Story  of  the  Hymns,  for  which  lie 
received  the  Georfje  Wood  gold  medal;  and 
he  has  since  written  a  companion  volume 
entitled  Story  of  the  Tunes.  Eleven  volumes 
of  the  Zigzag  series  of  books  have  been  writ- 
ten by  him  and  some  three  hundred  thous- 
and volumes  sold.  He  has  published  two 
volumes  of  verso  entitled  Poems  for  Cluist- 
mas,  Easter  and  New  Year,  and  Songs  of 
History.  Mr.  Butterworth  is  withal  a 
scholar,  and  a  pleasant  and  sociable  gentle- 
man. 


^ 


TAMPA. 

And  this  is  Ta-mpa:  yonder  lies  the  Bay 

That  Spanish  cavaliers 
Enchanted  saw  upon  tlieir  unknown  way, 

In  far  and  faded  years,— 

That  to  their  eyes  socahii  and  placid  seemed, 

So  bri^'lit  and  woiidious  fair. 
They  drifted  on  witli  silent  lips,and  dreamed 

The  Holy  Ghost  was  there. 


Here  lies  a  fortress  old,  a  Held  of  death ; 

And  here,  aS  years  increase. 
The  useless  cannon  hide  their  heads  beneatli 

The  snow-white  sands  of  peace. 

The  Gulf  winds  warm  the  orange  orchards 
stir. 

And  from  dark  trees  like  walls. 
In  long-  festoons  and  tlireads  of  gossamer, 

Tlie  trailing-  gray  moss  falls. 

And  ships  come  in  from  tropic  seas,  and  go. 

And  sails  the  Gulf  winds  fan ; 
And  few  do  know,  or  seem  to  care  to  know, 

That  here  that  march  began 

That  set  that  crown  of  empires  in  tlie  West, 

And  gave  the  nations  birtli 
That  stand  like  gracious  queens,  above  the 
rest. 

Upon  the  thrones  of  earth. 

The  town  is  fair,  and  fairer  yet  the  Bay, 
And  warm  the  trade-winds  blow 

Where  lateen-sails  moved  on  tlieir   lonely 
way, 
Three  centuries  ago. 

De  Soto's  hands  lie  deep  beneath  the  wave, 

Dust  are  his  cavaliers; 
The  cypressed  waters  murmuring  o'er  his 
grave. 

The  silent  pilot  hears. 

Ill  that  far  river  where  they  laid  him  down. 

Where  low  the  ring-doves  sigh. 
And  oft  the  full  moon  drops  liei-  silver  crown, 

From  night's  meridian  sky. 

And  here, where  first  his  banners  caught  tlie 
breeze. 

The  peopled  towns  arise: 
And  his  great  faith,  that  piloted  the  seas 

Ueiieatli  uncertain  skies. 

And  dared  the  wilds  by  Christian  feetuiilrod. 

Is  strong  with  hope  to  man ; 
And  here,  where   touched   the   new  world's 
arU  of  (;<)<1, 

Fair  skii-s  the  rainbows  span. 

O  Tampa,  Tampa,  near  the  Gulf's  warm  tide! 
,  Who  would  not  linger  here, 
Where,  on   the  liomes  the    oiange-ii-ardeiis 
hide, 
,lune  smileth  all  the  year/ 


tlu'   autwiun    nor 


the 


Where    never   com 
spring, 
Noi-  summer's  fiercer  glow; 
Where  never  cease  the  mockiiig-l>irds  to  sing 

Nor  roses  new  to  blow. 


— a 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


887 


HERBERT  E.  JENNESS. 

BoHN :  New  Hampshihe,  March  28, 1851. 
Mr.  Jenness  has  acquired  great  pi-oflcieucy 
iu  French,  German  and   Spanish,   and   has 
traushited  many  fine  genis  of  literature  from 
the  German  into  English.    He  has  written 


HERBERT  E.  JENNESS. 

quite  extensively  botli  prose  and  verse,  and 
some  of  the  latter  have  received  publication 
in  the  Boston  Traveler,  Boston  Transcript 
and  the  Spring-field  Kepublican. 


* 


ETERNITr. 
"How long-  is,  then.  Eternity?" 
Give  heed,  I'll  tell  you  my  decree  — 
If  you  will  go  down  to  the  sea 
And  bring  the  water  all  to  me. 

And  bring  it  naked-handed. 
Take  good  large  handsfull,  even  then 
When,  dearladdy,  think  you  when 
The  labor  would  be  ended? 
You  think  the  labor  vain  would  be  — 
You  '.  couldn't  ever  drain  the  sea?  " 
And  so  think  I,  for  ever  welling 
Are  springs  and  brooks,  to  rivers  swelling: 
Unto  the  sea  these  rivers  flow 
And  keep  it  full  —forever  so. 

The  streams  are  like  the  fleeting  time; 
The  sea  is  like  Eternity,— 
A  single  drop  a  year  may  be, 
A  thousand  on  this  dewy  rhyme. 
Now  think  you  well,  and  answer  me: 
How  long,  then,  is  Eternity?  " 


THE  BKOOKLET. 
Thou  brooklet,  silver-bright  and  clear. 
Thou  fleetest  ever  by  me  iiere; 
Pensive  I  watch  thee,  onward  flowing  — 
"  Whence  art  thou  come,  and  whither  go- 
ing? " 

"  I  come  from  dark  and  rocky  glen. 
My  course  lies  over  flower  and  fen ; 
O'er  my  bright  mirror  floats  benignly 
Heaven's  calm  face,  smiling  kindly. 

"  So  I've  glad  thoughts,  and  free  from  care, 
I'm  driven  on,  I  know  not  where,— 
Whoso  from  the  rock  hath  called  me. 
Will  ever,  methinks,  my  leader  be." 


BENEDICTION. 

Thou  art  so  like  a  flower, — 

Pure,  sweet  and  fair  thou  art ; 
I  gaze  on  thee,  and  sadness 

Steals  softly  o'er  mj-  heart. 
I  fain  upon  thy  lovely  head 

My  hands  would  fondly  lay. 
Praying  that  God  so  keep  thee  — 

Fair,  sweet  and  pure  alway. 


WINTER  SONG. 
How  calmly  and  serenely, 
Beneatli  thy  white-robe  queenly, 

Thou,  Mother-earth,  dost  rest! 
Where  are  the  spring-time  carols. 
The  summer-gay  apparels. 

And  thou,— beflowered,  festal-drest? 

Thou  sleepest  now  unheeding; 
No  lambs,  no  sheep  are  feeding 

In  valley  or  on  hight; 
No  song-bird  now  is  trilling; 
No  bee  rich  sweets  distilling; 

But  yet  in  winter  art  thou  bright  I 

The  boughs  and  bushes  shimmer, 
A  thousand  sparkles  glimmer. 

Where'er  the  eye  is  turned; 
W^ho  has  thy  bed  prepared. 
By  thee  so  fondly  tarried. 

And  all  so  gay  with  gems  adorned? 
The  Father,  kindly  caring. 
Has  woven  for  thy  wearing 

This  mantle  pure  and  white; 
In  peace  tliou  mayest  slumber,— 
The  weary  without  number 

He  wakes  to  strength,  to  joyous  light. 

Soon,  through  the  spring-time  hovering, 
Wilt  thou,  thy  youth  recovering. 

Arise  so  wonder-fair; 
■  His  spirit  —  air  the  blandest  — 
Floats  'round  thee  as  thou  standest 

Once  more  with  flower-crowned  hair. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


REV.  W.  L.  HENDRICK. 

Born:  Richville,  N.Y.,  Dec.  2, 18.56. 
Fob  a  while  young-  Hendrick  taught  school 
aud    later   was    engaged    by  his  father   in 
superintending  the  construction  of  railroads. 
In  1883  he  was  married  to  Miss  Jennie  Beaton, 


A  woeful  change  is  wrought. 

This  month  of  May  twixt  him  and  me  has 
sudden  coolness  brought  — 

No  more  he  greets  me  with  a  smile  and  hand- 
shake as  of  old. 

And  when  we  meet  upon  the  street  he  turns 
the  shoulder  cold  — 

I  dare  not  to  accost  him  now  for  blood  is  in 
his  ej'e. 

And  incoherent  mutterings  I  hear  as  I  pass 
by: 

But  why  this  vengeful  spirit  has  my  neigh- 
bor seemed  to  seize? 

The  answer  is — I  own  the  hens  that  scratched 
up  all  his  peas. 


■REV.  WEBSTER  TANr)E  nENDItlCK. 

by  whom  he  has  one  daughter.  For  many 
years  he  has  preached  the  gospel,  and  in  1889 
was  ordained  a  congregational  minister  and 
is  now  pastor  of  the  Bangor  church.  He 
has  written  numerous  memorial  addresses, 
and  his  poems  have  nppeared  quite  exten- 
sively in  the  religious  mid  secular  press. 

THE  TRANSFORMATION. 
I  had  a  neighbor,  good  and  true  as  any  man 

could  boast; 
In  kindly  acts  and  charities  he  was,  indeed. 

4.  a  host," 
No  unkind  words  or  bickerings  we  had  with 

one  another. 
But,  always  i)leasant,  always  kind,  I  loved 

him  as  a  brother. 
And  our  regard  seemed  nuitual;  tlirougii  all 

this  winter  we:ither, 
I've  sat  with  him,  and  he  with  me,  and  talked 

and  smoked  together. 
I've  eonsulte<l  and  advised  with  liim,  have 

been  his  trusted  friend, 
Aud  deemed  that  on  his  constancy  1  ever 

could  depend. 
But  now  that  "gentle  spring  "  has  come 


A  TRIBUTE. 

The  hand  of  a  mother!  Ah,  who  can  express 
Its  power  to  soothe,  and  its  power  to  bless. 
In  tempest  and  sunshine,  in  toil  and  shade. 
Though  wrinkled  and  worn  by  the  world's 

strife  made, 
'Tis  the  truest  instrument  God  has  given 
To  reflect  His  love  and  to  point  to  Heaven. 
And  when,  at  the  Tliione,  the  redeemed  shall 

stand. 
How  many  will  bless  the  Mothers  hand 
That  guided  them  there—  through  trial  and 

sin  — 
Or,  perhaps,  went  before  them,  to  beckon 

them  in. 


*■ 


MEMORIAL  ADDRESS. 

EXTRACT. 

In  peace  and  happiness  to-day 

We  gather  here  among  the  mounds 
Which  cover  heroes;  come  to  lay 

Our  offerings  on  this  sacred  ground. 
In  honor  of  the  Boys  in  Blue 

Who  fought  for  Union  and  for  Right, 
Who  kept  their  hearts  to  duty  true, 

Tlieir  sword  and  armor  burnished  bright. 
And  though  the  forms  lie  buried  here 

May  need  not  this  poor  tribute  now  — 
Still  to  us  are  their  memories  dear, 

Thougli  crowns  are  .settled  on  each  brow: 
And  still  we  feel  their  influence 

Upon  our  Country's  pathway  shed. 
As  here,  to-day,  we  reverence 

These  silent  — these— our  patriot  dead. 
We  come  from  homes  M-here  joy  and  love 

Are  daily  guests  —  where  children  play 
In  happy  freedom  and  are  taught 

To  honor  this  Memorial  Day. 
This  day  —  wlien  uiituro  all  is  dressed 

In  gay  attire— with  beauty  crowned. 
When  field  and  forest  look  their  best; 

And  skies  are  lilue,  and  flowers  abound. 

i 


«- 


LOCAL.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


88!) 


MRS.  GENIE  C.  POMEROY. 

BoKx:  Iowa  City,  Ia..  April,  27, 1867. 
This  lady  1ms  written  nearly  one  thousand 
poems,  Diiiiij'of  which  have  appeared  in  the 
Bosti)ii     Woman's    Journal,    Toledo    liliide, 
Seattle  Press    aiul     the  periodical   press  of 


MRS.  GENIE  CLARK  POMEROY. 

America  generally.  Mrs.  Pomeroy  has  also 
contributed  many  prose  articles  to  current 
literature.  She  was  married  in  1886  to  Carl 
Harrington  Pomeroy,  a  newspaper  publisher 
of  Hoquiam,  Washington. 


*- 


SADNESS 
The  night  is  drear, 
And  chilly  blows  the  wind 

Across  the  plain. 
It  stirs  leaves,  fallen,  sere. 
And  whispers  of  a  rain 

That  will  be  here. 
My  heart  is  drear. 
And  bitter  breathe  my  sighs 

In  saddened  strain. 
They  stir  thoughts,  withered,  sere, 
While  in  fast  falling  rain 

I  drop  each  tear. 
The  world  is  drear. 
And  sighs  but  in  the  wind. 

A  mournful  strain 
Falls  on  my  listening  ear; 
The  world  sobs  in  the  rain. 

Her  only  tear. 


PUGET  SOUND. 
The  beautiful  sound  is  before  me, 
Full  of  its  changing  grace; 

By  its  tidal  lines 

And  by  various  sigTis, 
I  have  gradually  learned  to  trace 
All  its  feelings,  moods  and  emotions, 

As  I  would  on  a  human  face. 

At  first  I  saw  it  unmoved,  unthrillcd, 
No  message,  to  me,  it  bore; 

That  a  soul  like  mine. 

Through  unending  time. 
Was  fettered  from  shore  to  shore, 
I  looked  as  I  would  at  a  stranger's  face, — 

Saw  beauty,  and  saw  no  more. 

But  soon  I  took  to  watching  each  daj% 
And  my  longing  grew  apace. 

And  day  and  night. 

If  read  aright. 
My  thoughts,  with  its  thoughts,  kept  pace; 
The  passionate,  mobile  waters  I  knew. 

As  we  know  a  familiar  face. 

A  great,  wild  heart  is  thobbing 
Deep  in  its  breast,  I  know; 

Interpret  its  moan 

'Twill  answer  your  own. 
With  its  rythmical  ebb  and  flow. 
As  on  one's  own  bclov-ed's  face 

The  heart-tides  come  and  go. 


MY  HEART  IS  A  HARP. 

My  heart  is  but  a  harp, 

Wliere  play  whatever  melody's  thy  will;  — 
It  beats  but  at  thy  slightest,  spoken  word. 

And  at  thy  bidding  it  is  still. 

Oh  happiest  am  I, 

When,    idly    straying   o'er    the  quiv'ring 
strings. 
Thy  fingers  wake  the  harp's  unspoken  sound. 

And  tuned  to  thine  ear  it  sings. 

The  instrument  is  thine 

Where  play  with  all  a  lover's  tender  art. 
But  speak  me  loving  words,  vibrates 

Responsive,  all  gladdened  heart. 

But  gentle  are  the  chords, 

.\nd  must  be  wooed  by  words  most  softly 
spoken. 
If  rude  the  touch  or  harsh  the  bitter  tone, 

Lo!  the  silver  chord  is  broken. 

Whate'er  the  melody 

To  thee  is  left  the  sanctity  of  choice- 
Then  guard  thy  tongue,  for  in  my  heart  for- 
ever 
Shall  dwell  the  echo  of  thy  voice! 


^■ 


890 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AlVIERICA. 


MRS.  MARY  J.  REID. 

Born:  Wayne  County,  Pa.,  Feb.  6, 1847. 
This  lady  was  educated  iu  Brooklyn,  N.  Y., 
and  graduated  at  the  Packer  Collegiate  In- 
stitute iu  1865;   and  for  some  years  subse- 
quently taught  in  the  public   and  private 


MRS.  MARY  J.  REID. 

schools  of  that  city.  Since  1873  she  has  been 
a  resident  of  San  Francisco  and  Alameda, 
California.  Mrs.  Eeid  has  gained  quite  a 
reputation  In  the  educational  world  as  a 
teacher  and  lecturer  to  teachers.  Her  poems 
have  appeared  in  the  Overland  Monthly  and 
various  other  newspapers  in  California. 


*- 


SENT  WITH  MY  LADY'S  THIMBLE. 

Go,  with  my  love,  thou  fairy  shield  of  gold 
And  touch  my  lady's  d;iinty  flnger-tips; 
Live  where  thou'lt  catch  the  music  from  her 

lips 
And  in  thy  clasp  her  pretty  finger  hold. 
When  she  thy  satin  cover  shall  unfold 
And  from  its  inwrought  casket  gently  slips 
Thee  from  its  depths,   and  lo  the  window 

trips 
To  see  her  sweet  name  writ  thereon  —  be  bold 
And  tell  her  that  I  treasure  up  a  dream 
That,  she,  one  d;iy,  witli  tender,  downcast 

eyes. 
Shall  find  a  home  wit  bin  my  lonely  breast. 
Go!  little  trinket,  may  a  radiant  beam 
Shine  on  thy  surface  from  the  amber  skies. 
Won  Id  that  a  poet's  love  might  be  confessed  1 


A  MODERN  DEIANEIRA. 

As  Greeks,  who  saw  the  great  Alcides  quail 
And    watched    with    straining    eyes   that 

awful  sight 
When  to  his  flesh  the  poisoned  tunic  tight 
Did  cling,  and    nothing  could    man's    help 

avail : 
As  Greeks,  who   heard  the  mighty    hero's 
wail 
With   hearts  that  ached  at  his    unhappy 

plight. 
And  wondered  that    the   gods    iliis   man 
should  blight 
Because  one  woman's  bliss   had  turned  to 

ale; 
So  have  the  stricken  fi-iends  of  Carlyle  stood 
In  grim  despair  at  their  old  hero's  fate. 
This  Deianeira  dipped  ber  pen  in  blood 
To  mar  a  splendid  fame  and  desecrate 
A  hearth.  A  fell  destroyer  of  the  good,  [late? 
Did  she,  like  her  of  Calydon,  repent  too 


THE  BAKDS  OF  POLYPHEME. 

The  strangest  storj'  told  in  ancient  song 

Is  of  the  mighty  giant,  Polyiilicme, 

Whose  eye  was  blinded  by  the  blackened 

beam  [throng 

The  crafty  "Noman"  thrust  therein;    The 

Of  shaggy  Cyclops,  Homer  drew  with  strong 

.\nd  steady  hand,  and  still  the  world  doth 

deem 
It  worthy  to  be  rendered  as  a  dream 
Sent  by  the  Gods.    The  muse,  delaying  long. 
Hid  in  Sicilian  vales  old  Homer's  Ij're, 
Amid  the  sununcr-fall  of  brilliant  flowers, 
"For  sweet  Theocritus  to  tune  again; 
A  giant  sprang  from  out  the  Cyclops'  den 
Whose  voice  resounded  'bove  the  belching 

fire 
That  burst  from  ^Etna's  crown.    Too  many 

hours 
He  dallied  with  the  muse;  a  lofty  rock. 
From  whence  the  ringing  laughter,  and 

the  clear 
Sweet  voice  of  Nereus'  daughter  one  could 
hear,  [Hock, 

Was  liis  lone  seat.     Forgot  weie  herds  and 
Deaf  to  all  sounds  e.\cept  the  careless  mock 
Of  Galatea.    Next,  Virgil  .saw  the  blear- 
Eyed,  sightless  giant,  like  a  wild  beiist  rear 
His  lioary  head  to  strike  with  awful  shock 
Tlie  Trojan's  ships.      As  some  young  wife 
dolii  cling  l'''W' 

To  lier  strong  sixnise,  and  tendril-like,  doth 
Herself  in  thought  and  speech  to  him.  so 
fain  [iiSfi'"- 

Would  Ovid  chant  the  ancli>nt  hymns 
iEtna  Inid  changed,  yet  still  tiiese  i)oets  sing 
Of  Polypheme,  dread  foe  of  human-kind 


— « 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OK   AMEUICA. 


891 


-* 


DELAVAN  L.  PIERSON. 

Born:  NA'ateuford,  N.Y.,  Oct.  27,  1867. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Pierson  huve  appeared  in 
the  Nassau   Literary   Magazine,  University 
Majraziiie.  Nassau  Herald  and  otiier  Collegi- 


DELAVAN  LEONAUI)  I'll  KsoN. 

ate  periodicals.  He  was  a  student  of  liter- 
ature at  Princeton  college  and  is  now  study- 
ing in  Europe. 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS. 

The  smiling  face  of  summer's  day. 

May  frown  with  clouds  before  the  night; 
The  bursting  buds  bloom  fresli  and  gay. 

Yet  fade  and  fall  with  sudden  blight. 
Within  a  life  of  sunlit  skies. 

The  storma  of  passion  rage  and  roll; 
Shut  light  and  love  from  longing  eyes. 

And  gloomy  shadows  wrap  the  soul. 
Anon  the  veil  is  rent  away; 

The  glowing  sun  reveals  his  form ; 
Their  silver  fringe  the  clouds  display; 

The  air  is  i)urer  for  tlie  storm. 
At  eventide,  at  death  of  day. 

The  fleecy  clouds  present  a  screen 
On  which  the  changing  tints  portray 

The  glories  of  a  sunset  scene. 


AN  ARCTIC  SUNRISE. 
Enwrapped  in  deepest  darkness. 

Entombed  in  ice  and  snow. 
Unmoved  by  faintest  lifo-throb. 

Or  murmur  soft  and  low. 
The  Arctic  land  of  silence 


Lay  fixed  in  death-likt;  trance, 
As  thougli  transformed  to  marble 

Ry  cold  Medusa's  glance. 
From  Orient  Rridal  chamber 

The  monarch  sun  comes  forth. 
And  darts  his  melting  glances 

Upon  the  k-e-bound  North, 
Wiiere  Gothic  bergs  uplifting 

Their  silver  spires  on  high. 
Like  crystalline  cathedrals. 

Stand  pointing  to  the  sky. 
From  couch  and  cloud  pavilion, 

He  takes  liis  sliiniug  march 
Past  gold  and  crimson  curtains 

And  vast  triumphal  arch; 
While  death  and  darkness  hiding, 

Dare  not  the   futile  strife. 
But  flee  his  golden  lances. 

Resistless  light  and  life. 
In  deep,  unbroken  silence. 

He  comes  to  break  the  bands, 
The  rigid  frigid  fetters 

That  lock  life's  hundred  hands. 
Where  Nature  lies  enfolded 

In  snowy  winding  sheet. 
He  breathes  upon  her  forehead 

The  passion  of  his, heat. 
So,  to  her  pallid  features. 

Returns  life's  mellow  flush. 
And  to  his  royal  wooing 

Responds  her  maiden  blush. 
Meanwliile  on  amber  castles. 

The  golden  flags  unfurl. 
And  morning  spreads  her  banquets 

In  palaces  of  pearl. 

HAPPINESS  IN  HARMONY. 

When  music  swells  in  rich,  melodious  strains, 
A  magic  spell  of  peace  is  spread  around. 
The  soul,  enchanted  by  the  soothing  sound, 

Attunes  its  discords  to  the  sweet  refrains. 

The  rainbow  hues  harmoniously  blent,[rain. 
Where  sunshine  smiles  across  Ilie  tears  of 
Arch  with  celestial  bow  tlie  verdant  plain 

And  fill  the  mind  with  heavenly  content. 

When  graceful  columns,  rising  toward  the 
skies, 
Blossom  in  capitals,  like  stony  flowers. 
And  bear  aloft  high  domes  and  soaring 
towers, 

The  harmonies  of  form  entrance  our  eyes. 

Two  souls  in  sweet  accord,  when  lost  in  love. 
Beat  low  a  sacred  symphony  of  liearts 
Whose  harmonies,  born  of  diviner  arts, 

Are  echoes  of  tlie  bliss  of  God  above. 

Superbest  harmony  none  niaj-  define  I 
That  highest  union  of  accordant  life  [strife 
When  earth  is  banished,  with  its  din  and 

And  human  spirit  blends  with  the  divine. 


* 


*- 


892 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


GEORGE  S.  DORR. 

Born:  Wakefield,  N.  H.,  May  13,  1851. 
In  his  youth  Mr.  Dorr  leurned  tlie  carpen- 
ter's trade,  which  he  followed  until  1881.     He 
then  engaged  in  the  publisliing-  business,  and 
established  the  Carroll   County  Pioneer  at 


GEORGE  S.  DORR. 

Wolfboro  Junction,  of  which  publication  be 
is  still  editor  and  proprietor.  George  S.  Dorr 
has  written  quite  a  few  commendable  poems, 
and  a  short  sketch  of  his  life  and  poems  ap- 
pear in  that  valuable  collection  entitled 
Poets  of  New  Hampshire. 


ANOTHER  MILESTONE  PASSED. 
Another  milestone  left  behind. 

In  the  changeful  race  of  life. 
The  race  wherein  the  lame  and  blind 

Struggle  fiercely  in  the  strife. 

Another  note  within  the  harp. 
The  harp  of  seventj'  strings. 

Sounded  with  an  accent  sharp. 
That  still  around  me  rings. 


*- 


Only  touched  by  the  player's  hand 
To  be  snapped,  while  yet  the  song, 

To  the  beat  of  time's  my.stic  wand. 
Still  smoothly  glides  along 

Swifter  now  than  years  ago. 
The  milestones  pass  me  by, 

As  nearer  comes  the  uooutido  glow. 
And  fades  the  morning  sky. 


And  swifter  seem  the  golden  strings 
To  break,  as  time  flows  on. 

But  sweeter  seems  the  song  it  sings, 
Because  'tis  quickly  gone. 

I  note  with  watchful,  trusting  eye. 
The  milestones  swiftly  passed. 

And  sometimes  wonder  as  they  fly. 
Which  one  will  be  my  last. 

With  thunder,  rev'rent  hand  I  touch 
The  golden  harpstrings  now; 

Believing  He  who  loveth  much. 
Will  guide,  I  know  not  how. 


WAIT  AND  HOPE. 
Wait  and  hope,  my  gentle  friend. 

Though  clouds  hang  thick  and  low, 
And  disappointments  follow  fast. 

Where'er  thj^  steps  may  go. 
There  is  no  folly  half  so  great. 

Nor  half  so  deep  despair. 
As  when  we  drive  away  all  hope, 

And  refuse  its  friendly  cure. 

Backward  on  the  road  of  life. 

We  cannot  turn  to-day. 
Nor  can  we  for  a  single  hour. 

Our  present  journey  stay ; 
Onward  still  we  ever  go, 

Oiu-  footsteps  will  not  cease. 
Though  sorrow's  clouds  are  thick  around. 

Or  all  is  perfect  peace. 

Dark  and  cold  your  home  may  be. 

And  gloomy  shadows  fall. 
But  other  homes  will  still  be  bright. 

With  cheerful  love  for  all. 
Somewhere  the  sun  doth  always  shine, 

Though  you  in  darkness  groi>e. 
And  happiness  may  sqon  be  yours. 

If  you  only  wait  and  hope. 

Wait  and  hope!  some  gentle  hand 

Will  ope  the  portal  wide. 
And  you  will  liave  the  sunshine  brifjht, 

That  now  you  are  denied. 
Press  onward  with  a  steady  step, 

Your  present  duty  do. 
And  you  will  find  in  God's  good  time, 

The  door  will  ope  for  you. 

Wait  and  hope!  the  angel  bright, 

Whost^  mission  this  to  do. 
Another  lonely  one  nuist  cheer 

Ere  yet  she  conies  to  you; 
ISutthougli  she  tarries  on  the  way. 

Her  coming  yet  is  sure; 
Then  wait  and  hope,  and  you  will  have 

A  peace  that  will  endure. 


— 41 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


893 


* 


EMMA  NIERCADWALLADER 

Bokn:  Huntsville,  Ohio,  Dec.  12,  1865. 
After  receiving-  lier  education  iu  the  Oska- 
loosa  High  school,  ill  health  compelled  her  to 
spend  two  years  in  Colorado.    Miss  Cadwal- 


E.MMA  NIER  CADWALLADER. 

lader  then  look  up  the  profession  of  teaching 
and  spends  her  vacation  ia  traveling. 

SOME  DAY. 

Some  day  —  some  day  — 

We  fondly  say. 
And  hope  supplies  the  colors  bright,— 
Throws  over  all  a  radiant  light,— 
While  'neath  the  brush  the  canvas  shows 
A  vision  rare, —  which  rarer  grows 

The  while  we  say, 

Some  day,—  some  day ! 

Sometime,—  sometime 

A  sweeter  rhyme 
Your  pen  will  trace,—  a  nobler  thought 
Will  spring  to  life,—  its  grandeur  caught 
From  heights  to  which  you  fondly  hope  — 
Led  on  by  kindly  horoscope  — 

Your  feet  will  climb 

Sometime, —  sometime! 

Somewhere,—  somewhere, — 

Stately  and  fair, 
'You'll  rear  a  habitation  grand 
Without  compare  in  all  the  land. 
And  she  you  hold  on  earth  most  dear 
Will  share  your  Eden  year  by  year; 

Love  ever  there. 

Somewhere, —  somewhere ! 


Time  comes,— time  goes; 
The  river  flows 
At  last  into  the  sea;  the  tint 
Your  canvas  showed  has  lost  its  glint; 
The  rhyme  and  thought  are  unexpressed; 
The  heights  toward  whicli  your    footsteps 

pressed 
Lie  far  beyond  your  liome  ne'er  knew 
That  loving  presence,— grasses  grew 
Above  her  grave,  the  while  you  dreamed 
How  much  beyond  the  Present  seemed 
The  Future's  golden  promise- 
Somewhere, —  some  day  — 
Eternity ! 


WHO  CAN  MEASURE. 

Who  can  measure 

Half  the  pleasure 
That  a  teacher's  life  alTords? 

Inspiration, 

Approbation, 
Young  man,  maybe,  where  she  boards! 

At  half  past  eight. 

Or  else  you're  late. 
You  reach  the  school  house  door. 

By  ones  and  twos, 

WMtli  muddy  shoes, 
The  children  track  tlie  floor. 

Mem'ry  lingers, 

Stickj'  fingers. 
Still  j'ou  feel  about  your  face; 

And  the  kisses  — 

Passing  blisses  — 
That  you  took  with  Christian  grace. 

A  timid  knock  — 

Yet  mighty  shock  — 
The  young  man's  come  to  school! 

Recitation, 

Consternation; 
Children  breaking  every  rule. 

"  Fred  Smith  got  G., 

You  marked  me  P., 
Ma  says  I'm  as  good  as  him." 

Director's  son  — 

Trouble  begun; 
Your  chance  for  next  term  slim  I 

A  little  girl 

With  hair  a-curl. 
Comes  sidling  to  your  chair. 

And  whispers  clear 

That  you  may  hear  — 
As  every  one  who's  there. 

"  Have  you  a  pin"? " 

Some  bad  boys  grin ; 
You  menace  with  a  frown. 

•>  My  s'pender's  broke" — 

A  little  choke  — 
•'  And  my  stockin's  comin'  down '.  " 


-* 


*- 


894 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


REV.  PHILIP  B.  STRONG. 

Born:  near  Wyoming,  N.Y.,  Aug,  30, 1859. 
From  the  age  of  eighteen  to  twenty-four 
Mr.  Strong  spent  his  time  between  collegiate 
and  theological  studies  at  Rochester  and 
teaching  at  various  villages  of  the  state.  He 
then   for  tlif  next  two  years  prcafhod  and 


REV.  PHILIP  BUKROUCJIIS  STRONG. 

taught  school.  In  1885  he  was  married  to 
Miss  Minnie  M.  Clark  and  took  up  his  resid- 
ence in  Bristol,  Vt.,  where  he  was  ordained 
pastor.  He  remained  in  Bristol  until  1887, 
when  he  was  called  to  Malone,  N.  Y.  where 
he  has  since  served  as  pastor  of  the  First 
Baptist  church.  The  poems  of  Rev.  Philip 
B.  Strong  have  appeared  in  Wide  Awake, 
Demorest's,  Vick's,  Youth's  Companion,  and 
numerous  otlier  periodicals. 


*- 


THE  SPINNERS. 
'Neath  the  ash-tree,  Yggdrasil, 

Sit  the  Nornir,  the  tliree  Fates, 
Ever  spinning,  spinning  still 

(So  the  Northern  myth  relates), 
As  the  ages  come  and  go. 
What  as  human  life  we  know. 

Past  and  present,  future,  all. 
Are  upon  their  spindles  spun; 

Life's  events,  or  great  or  sm.all, 
Tlirough  their  fateful  fingers  run; 

There  beneath  the  sacred  shade 

Weal  or  woe  for  man  is  made. 


Now  is  spun  a  thread  most  briglit  — 

Joy  and  gladness  some  one's  share; 
Now  the  thre.'id,  as  dark  as  night. 

Grief  and  anguish  doth  declare ; 
So,  as  shine  or  shade  appears. 
Come  to  mortals  smiles  or  tears. 
Well  indeed  If  in  thy  life 

Joy  doth  over  grief  prevail. 
If  the  sunny  hues  are  rife, 

And  the  sombre  colors  fail; 
Well  if  e'en  the  sisters  three 
Spin  an  equal  share  for  thee. 

BOYHOOD. 
Yes,  boyhood's  years  were  liappj'  years, 

We  shall  no  happier  know,  I  ween; 
How  memories  start  and  flood  the  heart 

As  we  recall  each  early  scene  I 
But  little  then  our  lot  we  prized  — 

We  envied,  rather,  man's  estate; 
How  blest  and  free  he  seemed  to  be. 

His  griefs  how  slight,  his  joys  how  greatl 
Ah,  well!  experience  has  taught 

The  truth  since  then,  that  young  or  old. 
Life  lias  its  care,  an  equal  share. 

Though  varying  and  manifold! 
Dear,  ardent  lad,  that  read'st  this  rliyme. 

Thy  boyhood's  golden  prime  fleets  fast; 
With  pleasures  true  thou  ne'er  shalt  rue, 

Fill  up  the  days  ere  they  are  past. 
Yea,  fill  thy  youth  with  earnest  acts. 

Their  wortli  to  theo  shall  time  disclose; 
For  boyliood's  deeds  are  f luitf ul  seeds. 

From  which  tlie  future  fortune  growsl 
And  so  spend  life  that  in  old  age 

Thou  canst  look  l)ack  and  say,  with  joy 
And  not  in  tears,  -'All,  happy  years! 

Once  more  wlio  would  not  l)e  a  boy?" 

THE  TONGUE. 
"The  boneless  tongue,  so  small  iind  weak. 
Can  crush  and  kill,"  declares  the  Greek. 
"The  tongue  destroys  a  greater  horde," 
The  Turk  asserts,  "  than  does  the  sword." 
The  Persian  ]>roverb  wisely  saith, 
"A  lengthy  tongue— an  early  death." 
Or  .sometimes  t.-ikes  this  form  instead, 
..  Don't  let  your  tongue  cut  off  your  head." 
..  The  tongue  can  speak  a  word  who.se  speed, 
Say  the  Chinese,  ..outstrips  the  steed." 
Wliile  Arab  sages  this  impart, 
..The  tongue's  great  store-house  is  t  lie  heart. 
From  Hebrew  wit  the  maxim  sprung, 
...Tliough    feet   should    slip,    ne'er   let  tli 

tongue." 
The  sacred  writer  crowns  the  whole, 
..  Who  keeps  his  tongue  doth  keep  his  BOUl 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


-* 


895 


ALBERT  BIGKLOW  PAINE. 

Bokn:  New  Beufoud,  Mass.,  July  10, 1861. 
The  father  of  the  subject  of  this  sketch 
served  in  tlie  Civil  Wjir  us  Capt.  of  tiie  19th 
Iowa  Infantry,  iiaviiig  removed  to  tliat  state 
when  AUiert  was  Ijut  two  months  old.  At 
the  close  of  tlie  war  they  removed  to  Xenia, 
111.,  where  younsr  Albert  received  bia  educa- 


ALbERT  BIGELOW   PAINE. 

tiun.  When  twenty  years  old  he  was  a  reg-u- 
larly  paid  contributor  of  verses  and  sketches 
to  the  periodical  jiress.  For  awhile  Mr. 
Paine  studied  portrait  painting-  at  St.  Louis, 
and'for  three  years  traveled  in  the  south  and 
southwest,  pursuin?  his  profession  as  an 
artist.  Mr.  Paine  finally  settled  in  Fort 
Scott,  Kansas,  where  he  was  married  in  1885 
to  Miss  W.  F.  Schultz,  and  is  now  engaged 
in  the  wholesale  photograpli  supply  busi- 
ness, in  which  he  has  been  very  successful. 
Although  crowded  with  business  cares,  Mr. 
Paine  has  found  time  for  literary  work,  and 
has  written  many  fine  i)oems  which  have  re- 
ceived publication  in  Saturday  Night,  New 
York  Weekly,  Illustrated  World,  Dramatic 
News,  Kansas  City  Star,  Topeka  Lance,  To- 
peka  Daily  Capital,  Belford's  Magazine,  and 
the  periodical  press  generally.  In  1869  Al- 
bert Bigelow  Paine  published  a  poem  in 
Viooklet  form,  entitled  Gabriel,  which  was 
highly  spoken  of  by  the  press  as  a  perfect 
and  harmonious  poem  from  the  pen  of  a 
skilled  poet. 
h 


thp:  MIKUOR. 

Within  the  glass 
Our  sliadows  pass. 

Like  phantoms  one  by  one. 
But  in  the  glass 
Our  lips  can  kiss 

No  imagre  save  their  own. 

THE   GATES    AJAR. 

I  have  seen  a  Kansas  sunset  like  a  vision  in 
a  dream, 

When  a  halo  was  about  me  and  a  glory  on 
the  sti'eam. 

When  the  birds  had  ceased  their  music  and 
the  summer  day  was  done. 

And  a  silent  benediction  came  afioating  from 
the  sun  — 

When  the  gold  and  inirple  vapors  on  the 
peaceful  valleys  lay 

Like  the  final  resiiiration  of  the  dying  sum- 
mer day; 

And  I've  gazed  upon  that  atmosDJicric  splen- 
dor of  the  west 

Till  it  seemed  to  me  a  gatewa.^■  to  tlie  regions 
of  the  blest. 

I  have  seen  a  Kansas  sunrise  like  the  waking 
of  a  dream. 

When  every  dewy  blade  of  grass  caught  up 
the  golden  gleam. 

When  every  bird  renewed  the  song  it  sang 
the  night  before 

And  all  the  silent,  slumbering  world  re- 
turned to  life  once  more; 

vvhen  every  burst  of  radiance  called  up  a 
throng  of  life 

And  all  the  living,  waking  world  witli  mel- 
ody was  rife. 

And  as  that  flood  of  light  and  song  came 
floating  down  tlie  plain. 

It  seemed  to  me  those  goldi'n  gates  were 
opened  wide  again. 

AN  OASTS. 
Whene'er  I  strive  in  vain  to  weep 

O'er  blighted  Iiopes,  or  vanished  years, 
Ah,  then,  what  would  I  give  to  steep 

My  soul  in  tears. 
For  though  such  tears  would  flow  from  me, 

As  bitter  as  the  springs  of  Marah, 
A  sweet  oasis  it  would  be 

In  life's  Sahara. 


A  MORNfNG. 
A  wavering,  misty  sweep  of  greenish  gray, 
A  sullen  landscape  and  the  flying  clouds, 
All    gray  and    white,—  like    parti-colored 

shrouds  — 
A  chill  east  wind,  a  sobbing  drift  of  rain, 
A  heart  that  wakes  to  dull,  returning  pain 
And  so  is  ushered  in  another  day. 


— * 


896 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


THE  ANGLEK. 
The  sun  looks  down  on  many  a  stream; 

The  stream  beholds  taut  one  bright  sun. 
And  in  that  fair,  reflected  beam 

It  sparkles  till  the  day  is  done. 
I  know  beneath  that  limpid  tide. 

In  those  cool  depths,  far  out  of  sight. 
Uncounted  trout  and  bass  abide; 

I  know  and  yet  they  never  bite. 

I  know  this  is  us  fair  a  spot 
As  ever  liuman  heart  could  wish. 

And  yet  the  other  side,  I  wot, 
Looks  Uke  a  better  place  to  fish. 

I've  said  that  failure  is  a  crime; 

A  culpable,  excuseless  tiling; 
And  yet,  I  know  that  1  must  climb 

The  hill  to-night  with  empty  string. 

1  know  that  truth's  a  jewel  bright; 

1  know  it,  and  heave  a  sigh 
To  think  that  I'll  go  home  to-nigbt 

And  tell  a  great,  unholy  lie. 

LINES  IN  A  DICTION  AKY. 
A  feast  of  words  collected  here  doth  lie, 
A  wondrous  feast  of  twenty-six  rare  cours- 
A  modest  taste  of  each  is  all  that  I  [es; 

Mayhope  to  take,  yet  Nature's  ardent  forces. 
With  every  morsel,  hungrier  than  before. 
Unsatisfied  call  lustily  for  more. 


the    bitter  tear  that 


THE  DRYEST    DAY. 
The  soil  within  my  fields  was  hot  and  dry. 

The  corn  had  long  for  water  cried  in  vam; 
With  wistful  gaze  1  watched   the  cloudless 

When  all  at  once  the  south  wind   seemed  to 
sigh.  ,  .     „ 

..  The  dryest  day  is  just  before  the  rain. 

With   hope  deferred  my   heart   had  weary 
grown. 
But  when  1  heard  that  soothing  sweet  re- 
frain 
Methought    therefrom    a   ray   of    comfort 

shone,  , 

As  on  the  breeze  these  words  came,    gently 

blown,  .     „ 

..The  dryest  day  is  just  before  the  rain. 

Then,  to  a  thirsty  little  flower  T  said: 

..Cheer  up,  sweet  bloom,  and  try  to  smile 
again, 
A  better  day  draws  near,  hope  is  not  dead . 
Make  one  more  effort!     Lift   thy   drooping 
head!  .    „ 

.. The  dryest  day  is  just  before  the  rain. 

Oh  ye  to  whom  misfortune  grief  imparts 
Despair  not  yet.  nor  fretfully  complain! 


But   bravely   check 

starts. 
And  let  this  thought   revive   your   fainting 
heart, 
..  The  dryest  day  is  just  before  the  rain." 

THE  MYSTICAL  SEA. 
Oh,  love,  I  am  wandering  back  to-day 

Through  the  valleys  of  memory; 
They  lie  betwixt  mountains  far  away 
The  mountains  of  Hope  and  Youth  are  they. 
And  I'm  dreaming  again  of  that  night,  to- 
day. 
By  the  mystical  southern  sea. 
Oh,  love,  I  loved  you  that  far-off  night! 

By  the  mystical  southern  sea. 
The  breeze   was  light  and  the  stars  were 

bright. 
And  the  sea-gulls  flashed  in  their  circUng 

flight. 
As  we  sat  alone  on  that  far-off  night. 

When  you  whispered  your  love  for  me. 
Oh,  I    kissed   your  lips  and  I  clasped  your 
hands. 
By  that  mystical  southern  sea. 
While  softly  the    waves    were   kissing  the 

sands. 
And  ships  went  a-sailing  to  distant  lands. 
As   I   kissed    your  lips  and  I  clasped  your 
hands. 
When  you  whispered  your  love  to  me. 
Oh,  love,  a  storm  has  swept  the  shore 

Of  that  mvstical  southern  sea; 
The  waves  still  kissed  as  they  kissed  before; 
But  the   ships    that  sailed   wUl   return  no 

more 
And  the  youth  and  the  love  and  the  hopeb 

of  yore 
Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


UNBIDDEN. 
I  gave  up  making  verses  longago- 
I  said  ..  For  me  it  is  a  useless  thing. 
For  fate  hath  clipped    my   roving  fancy  s 
wing,  , 

And,  quenched  the  tlanic,  it  can  no  longu 

glow." 
Ah,  foolish  heart!    How  little  do  we  know 
The  eav.tive  bird  will  still  unbidden  Bing. 
And    though    upon    my   heart  is snappe-l 
each  string. 
As  well  bid  the  river  not  to  flow; 
For  when  fair  Nature's  beauties  I  behol 
Or  dream  upon  the  days  that  once  hav- 
t>een,  ,     , 

The  sr,ark  that  I  believed  was  dead  and  u 
Doth  glow  and  burn  and  burst   to  Dam 

And  wonis  that  I  can  scarce  ^^^l''-'^'^  "["y;;;, 
1  Leap  to  my  lips  -  I  cannot  keep  them  do>M. 


*- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMERICA. 


897 


-* 


MRS.  M.  MARIE  FAIRMAN. 

Bokn:  Illinois,  April  8,  1848. 
This  lady  lias  written  quite  extensivelj-  for 
tlif    lociil    ;ui<l    rrliyioiis    press    :ni(l    liiis    a 


MARIE  FAIRMAN. 


colleciioii  of  Bedtime  Song's  that  she  hopes 
to  publish  sometime  in  the  future.  She  was 
married  in  1873  and  is  still  a  resident  of  her 
native  state. 


HOME  ECHOES. 
Come  home,  dear  love,  come  home! 
Wliy  loiifrcr  from  us  roam? 
No  beck'ning:  star  can  brig-hter  be 
Than  the  household  lamp  that  wait.s  for  thee. 
Come  home,  dear  love,  come  home  I 

Come  home  dear  one  and  see  — 
The  firelight  gleams  for  thee; 
Without  tlie  storm  the  windows  beat. 
The  air  is  filled  with  snow  and  sleet, 
Come  lumio  dear  one  to  me. 

Thy  little  one  says  come! 

A  joyful  greeting  home  — 

We'll  >!:ither  'round  the  fireside  hearth, 

Witli  many  a  gleeful  jest  and  mirth 

Forjfetful,  the  wind's  moan. 

Glad  be  thy  welcome  home! 

No  more  to  leave  us  lone. 

Soon  will  our  darling  "  Birdie  "  sing 

And  our  lowly  cot  witli  music  ring 

Papa!  papa  has  come! 


A  MEMORY. 

'Twas  the  home  of  an  liumble  cottager 

I  called  at  that  day  in  my  ride. 
So  cozy  and  tasteful  the  hartiiuger 

I  remember  it  yet  with  pride. 

That  the  house  was  old,  decay(!d  and  brown 
Mattered  not  with  the  inmates  there. 

The  walls  were  clean  and  with  pictures  hung 
And  the  drapings  arranged  with  care. 

A  table  filled  with  papers  and  books 
That  spoke  of  a  much  refined  taste. 

Some  bric-a-brac  here  and  there 
Lent  charm  to  each  nook  and  space. 

A  young  wife  cheery,  brightsome  and  glad 
In  fresh  lace  and  neat-fitting  dress 

Sat  plying  her  needle  with  fingers  deft 
The  while  glancing  at  Baby  Bess. 

Fair  Bess  saw  the  summer  of  only  a  year, 
Dainty  cherub  with  curly  brown  hair. 

So  haiipy  and  winsome  in  childish  glee 
She  played  near  the  fond  mother's  chair. 

Love  and  contentment  were  pictured  there 
In  that  wilderness  sort  of  a  place. 

Some   how   that  home  scene  my  mind  im- 
pressed 
So  charmingly  filled  with  grace. 

A  rough  chestnut  burr  hides  its  kernel  sweei. 
To  open  you'd  scarce  feel  inclined. 

But  judge  not  always  by  outward  looks 
Neither  of  face,  nor  place  remind. 


EDITH  MAY. 

Our  little  mischief  is  two  years  old; 

I  am  sure  she  is  worth  her  weight  in  gold. 

Blue  eyes  that  read  your  weak  points  right 

through 
And  the  merriest  darling  ye  ever  knew. 

Oft  wlicn  in  mischief,  I  call  her  ••  bad  girl!" 
To  .see  what  she'll  say  —this  little  pearl  — 
An  upturned  face,  reply  most  kind  — 
•iFintiy's  bad  girl  mammal  Pinny's  won't 
mind!" 

At  sound  of  a  bird  she's  off  in  a  trice; 
I'Bird  suigs  i)itty  nice  nuinima!  pitty  nice!" 
Floats  her  voice  through  the  door  as  in  great 

glee. 
She  finds  the  bird  singing  near  by  on  a  tree. 

A  bright  little  elf  'most  liglitsome  as  air. 
With  glintings  of  sunlight  on  her  fair  liair 
Tills  wee  little  lass  so  ciiiuiing  and  true 
We  would  not  help    loving,  neither   could 
you. 


*- 


898 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


JOHN  JOSEPH  F.FARRY. 

Born;  Lowell,  Mass.,  Dec.  7,  1866. 
John  Fabry  was  a  graduate  of  St.  Mary's 
college  of    San  Francisco,  and  later  became 
a  student  at  St.  Ignatius  in  the  same  city. 


.lOHN  JOSEPH   FRANCIS  FARRY. 

He  lias  written  quite  a  few  poems  which 
have  been  accorded  quite  a  little  praise. 


*- 


A  LITTLE  CHRISTMAS  SONG. 
When  the  Taylor  family 

Gathered  'round  the  fire. 
Listening-  to  the  stories 

Of  their  happy  sire; 
Lovely  little  Samuel 

Slept  upon  the  chair. 
There  so  cozy  dreaming 
Of  the  stars  so  fair, 
Till  she  saw  a  golden 

Ray  of  twinkling:  light. 
Fall  upon  the  cold  winds. 

Sighing-  through  the  night. 
And  adown  its  glory 

He  saw  an  angel  band. 
Winging  fast  and  surging 

Toward  the  Holy  Land. 
Then  he  saw  them  hovering 

'Round  a  lamp-lit  cave. 
And  inside  a  woman. 

And  a  man  so  grave. 
When  he  looked  upon  the  cattle, 

Near  a  crib  of  hay. 
Breathing  warmth  so  kindly. 

O'er  a  Babe  so  gay; 


He  couldn't  keep  from  crying. 

Viewing  all  the  sight; 
While  rapt  sang-  the  angels 

Hymns  of  sweet  delight, 
To  their  Infant  Maker 

Lying  there  so  mild. 
Smiling  on  His  Mother 

Like  the  happiest  child. 
Then  His  Father  waked  him. 

To  see  such  flood  of  tears; 
Asking  him  what  ailed  him. 

Full  of  glowing  fears. 
"  Nothing,"  said  sweet  Samuel, 

Wond'ring  as  he  gazed 
At  the  mournful  faces 

'Round  him  eager  raised. 
"Oh!  he  said  in  weeping, 

"  I  dreamt  a  lovely  dream 
Of  the  Infant  Savior 

In  lowly  Bethlehem. 
So  my  throbbing-  heart  so  joyful. 

Made  me  weep  and  crj-. 
Looking-  at  Our  Savior, 

There  so  poor  for  us  to  lie." 


I  LOVE  WHEN  TWILIGHT  BRINGS 
THE  DEW. 
I  love  when  twiliglit  brings  the  dew. 
From  yonder,  rosy,  western  blue. 
To  hear  the  city,  evening-  bells. 
With  all  their  magic  sounds  and  spells: 
Like  rivulets  floating-  'neath  the  sky, 
Upon  the  distant  hills  to  die. 
And  on  the  silver  rolling  bay 
Where  boats  plow  on  their  foamy  way. 
Oh  !  yes  'tis  sweet  to  list  their  roar. 
Like  billows  on  Pacific's  shore. 
Where  golden  light  gleams  in  the  spray. 
That  falls  on  sands  to  melt  away. 
Oh !  yes  'tis  sweet  and  grander  far. 
Beneath  the  lone  and  trembling  star. 
You  hear  the  church  bells  fall  in  line. 
Fling  out  their  notes  in  thunder  fine, 
'Till  St.  Ignatius'  lordly  bell, 
Drojis  down  upon  the  solemn  swell. 
And  raise  their  evening,  mellow  st)iig. 
With  martial  music  deep  and  long. 

TO  THE  WINTER  MOON. 
The  sky  is  blue  and  tilled  with  starry  light;    r 
But  thou, O  Winter  Moon  that  hangs  o'erhead  \ 
And  on  these  hills  and  cots  a  beauty  shed. 
How   soft,  and   sweet   yon   look   this  biilmy 
night,  [^•'''«; 

Their  radiance  dhiimed  by  fleecy  clouds  of 
Till  onewould  think  the  May  does  softlytre.in 
By  yonder  glassy  stream,  in  cressy  bed,  , 

Ami  bay  atween  the  hills  in  silver  bright.  j 
But:  Oh  !  how  soft  your  watery  light  must  fall,  ; 
On  ruined  abbey,  mossy,  lone  and  tall.  j 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEIllCA. 


899 


-* 


MRS.  S.  ELLA  SHELHAMER. 

Born:    TooLESBOito,  Iowa,  Feb.  8, 1860. 
In  her  fifteenth  year  Ella  taught  school  in 
Mitchell  countj-.  Kansas.    Her    poems  have 
appeared  in  Saturday  Night  and  other  pub- 
lications and    many   of   her  prose    articles 


AtRS.  S.  ELLA    SHELHAMER. 

liHre  appeared  in  Wide  Awake  and  the  New 
York  Weekly.  She  has  written  over  two 
hundred  poems,  which  have  been  accorded 
high  praise  by  press  and  public.  This  lady 
was  married  in  1879  to  B.  W.  Slielhamer,  and 
now  resides  in  Pasadena,  California. 


THE  PEPPER  TREE. 

Fern-like  leaves  on  slender  branches. 

Gracefully  swaying-  in  the  breeze; 
Fairj- blossoms,  ripened  fruitage. 

Intermingle  on  the  trees; 
Berries  red  and  blossoms  golden 

Swing  together  on  the  trees. 
Lavishly  she  spreads  her  fruitage 

Down  upon  the  grassj-  ledge. 
Deftly  fills  the  inter-spaces 

Of  the  shapely  cypress  hedge. 
Tucks  away  her  crimson  berries 
In  the  pretty  cypress  hedge. 
Softly  sifts  tlie  golden  sunshine 

Tlirougli  lier  drooping  fring'ed  boughs. 
Noonday  lieat  is  all  forgotten 

In  the  cooling  shade  she  throws; 
Worldly  cares  are  soon  abandoned 

Where  the  dreams'  pepper  grows. 


ODE  TO  MOUNT  SAN  ANTONIO. 
What  arttliou,  mountain  old  and  gray, 

That  tliou  sliould'st  lilt  thy  hoary  head 
So  far  above  the  verdant  vale? 
Come,  cast  thy  ermine  robe  away, 

Speak  to  tlie  scanty  lierbage  dead. 
And  bid  the  winds  no  longer  wail. 

Sweet  Spring  is  tripping  througli  the  glade. 

Her  thoughts  echoed  by  tlie  brooks. 
And  robed  in  green  are  all  the  trees. 
That  favored  ones  may  .seek  the  shade. 

And  revel  in  the  flowery  nooks, 
Kissed  by  the  winds  from  grassy  leas. 
Deride  spring  not,  but  bid  lier  come 

And  deck  thy  flowing  beard  with  flowers, 
'Tis  vain  thy  ragged  robe  to  clasp 
In  icy  fingers,  coldly  numb. 

She  smiles  upon  thee  from  her  bowers. 
Designing  to  unloose  thy  grasp. 
What  art  thou,  mountain  old  and  gray. 

That  thou  shouldst  look  with  cold    disdain 
O'er  sunny  land  and  sounding  sea? 
Say,  hast  thou  craftily  put  away 

The  treasures  that  we  long  to  gain 
Beneatli  the  roots  of  scraggy  tree? 
Then  hark  thou,  mountain  sternly  grave. 

We  scorn  thee  to  thy  very  face ; 
We'll  scale  tliy  battlements  so  high. 
With  liearts  that  ma.<k  the  trul3'  brave. 

And  on  the  canyon's  walls  we'll  trace 
The  records  of  the  years  gone  by. 


NO  TIME  TO  WASTE. 

"It  goes  so  fast,  this  life  of  ours," 

We  have  no  time  to  waste  in  tears 
And  vain  regrets  o'er  shattered  powers; 

But  we  must  hasten  with  the  years. 
It  goes  so  fast  we  may  not  spend 

The  passing  hour  in  idleness; 
Full  soon  our  little  da5'  must  end. 

And  idlers  find  it  something  less. 
So  swiftly  flies  the  hour,  the  day, 

'Tis  wise  to  mark  each  moment  well; 
Do  good  in  each  that  time  alway 

May  hold  for  us  some  potent  spell. 
The  years  like  fleeing  shadows  pass, 

Witli  hurrying  footsteps  we  keep  pace. 
Though  well  we  know  this  trutli,  alas? 

That  time  siiall  one  day  win  the  race. 
But  then,  though  vanquished,   we  may  feel 

A  joy  that  victors  seldom  know, 
A  sheavenly  anthems  o'er  us  steal 

In  praises  of  our  deeds  below. 
•>  It  goes  so  fast,  this  life  of  ours," 

We  have  no  time  for  hate  and  strife; 
But  loving  words,  like  perfumed  flowers. 

Make  glad  the  rugged  paths  of  life. 


*- 


900 


LOCAT-   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMKRICA. 


JUSTIN  ELISHA  WALKER. 

Born:  Fairfax,  Vt.,  Sept.  12,  1835. 

For  a  while  Mr.  Walker  studied  law,  but 
eventually  engaged  in  mechanical  pnrsuits. 
In  1847  he  was  married  to  Lucy  M.  Nichols 
and  has  a  large  family  of  children.  His 
leisure  time  was  always  devoted  to  literature, 


JUSTIN  ELISHA  WALKER. 

and  liis  poems  have  received  publication 
from  time  to  time  in  the  periodical  press. 
Mr.  Walker  has  taken  a  great  interest  in  the 
temperance  question,  and  many  of  his  poems 
were  written  on  tliat  subject.  Since  1858  he 
has  resided  in  Nashua,  N.  H.,  where  he  has 
often  been  urged  to  take  the  lecture  field, 
but  has  steadily  refused  on  account  of  hia 
retiring  disposition. 


A  THREE-FOLD  ASPECT. 
Flowers  that  bloom  in  evei-y  field. 
And  even  to  the  wayside  stray, 
And  fragrance  of  ricli  odor  yield. 
To  cheer  the  weary  traveler's  way. 
Are  often  trodden  under  foot 
By  tlioughtle-ss  youth  and  careless  men: 
But  if  they've  firmly  taken  root. 
They'll  spring  to  life  and  bloom  again. 

So  men  who  journey  life's  rough  way, 
And  scatter  blessings  as  they  go; 


*- 


Who  seek  to  rescue  those  who  stray. 
And  fain  would  share  another's  woe; 
Are  often  crushed  beneath  the  heel 
Of  selfish  and  unfeeling  men; 
But,  if  within  true  Christian  zeal 
Has  taken  root,  they'll  rise  again. 

Insects  that  flutter  round  the  gas 
Are  lured  by  the  dazzHng  light; 
Its  burning  element,  alas! 
Is  wholly  hidden  from  their  sight. 
They  feel  the  pain  the  illusion  brings, 
Yet  from  the  danger  do  not  fly. 
Till  they  have  lost  their  tiny  wings; 
Tlien  fall  to  earth  and  droop  and  die. 

And  so  with  men ;  the  social  glass. 
That  deathless  foe  of  Adam's  race  — 
Witli  winning  smile,  beguiles  alas  I 
Our  noblest  men  to  its  embrace. 
They  feel  its  fangs,  its  deadly  stings, 
Yet  to  escape  they  do  not  try. 
Till  they  become  a  loathsome  thing 
Unfit  to  live;  then  drink  and  die. 

The  bird  that  flutters  from  its  nest, 
And  seeks  to  fly  like  tliose  around. 
With  broken  wing  and  bleeding  breast. 
Will  soon  lie  prostrate  on  the  ground. 
Its  mates  may  bind  the  broken  wing, 
VVith  tender  care  preserve  its  life, 
'Twill  always  be  a  crippled  thing, 
Unfit  to  share  in  noble  strife. 

So  boys  who  learn  to  smoke  and  drink. 
And  think  it  manly,  noble,  giand. 
Below  the  brute  ere  long  will  sink. 
Greeted  with  jeers  on  every  hand. 
Kind  friends  may  strive  to  lift  them  up 
And  make  them  stand  erect  like  men. 
And  they  may  dash  away  the  cup, 
But  are  tliey  what  they  might  have  been? 

Tlie  scattered  mind,  half  palsied  brain 
No  power  on  eartii  caii  e'er  I'ostore, 
And  wliat  they  are  they  nuist  remain, 
A  cripiiled  soul  and  nothing  more. 
Kind  fiicnds,  witli  lovitigcare,  may  yet 
Restore  in  part  their  morl)id  taste; 
Then,  O  liow  keenly  tliey'll  regret 
That  life  has  been  a  barren  waste. 

Had  I  a  voice  like  clarion  note 
To  speak  the  latiguage  of  my  soul, 
Then  all  my  life  would  I  devote 
To  crying  down  the  social  bowl. 
Till'  illusion  past  it  leaves  a  scar, 
More  gliastly  tluin  the  surgeon's  knife; 
And  all  our  happuiess  'twill  mar, 
And  give  us  but  a  wasted  life. 


»;+- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


901 


-* 


TRUMAN  D.ROSS. 

Born:  Plattsburoh,  N.  Y.,  Oct.  8, 1859. 
This  gentleman  is  well  known   in  Coloriido 
as  an  able  and  forcible  verse  writer.    He 
moved  to  the  west  in   1880,  locating-  at  Lead- 
ville,  Colorado,  wlii-ie   lie  worked    for  many 


TRUMAN   D.  ROS.S. 

years;  later  on  he  engaged  in  the  mercantile 
business  at  Dake,  Colorado.  The  poems  of 
Mr.  Ross  have  appeared  in  the  Arkansas 
Traveler,  Overland  Monthly  and  other  prom- 
inent publications. 


LET  THE  WORLD  GO. 
Join  in  a  toast  to  the  Goddess  of  Pleasure 


(Flowers  that  blossom  will  wither  I  trow 


Life,  love  and  license,  joy  without  measure, 
Ciink  all  your  glasses  and  let  the  world  go. 
Mad  leap  our  pulses  in  rhj'thmic  confession, 
(Dead  are  the  flowers  and  the  autumn  winds 

blow.) 
Life  is  a  nightmare  and  death  a  delusion. 
Pour  out  the  ruddy  wine :  let  the  world  go. 

CHORUS. 

A  farewell  glass  at  least 

To  penitent  and  priest, 

As   Care's   gray    coast-line   vanished    from 

sight. 
We  live  but  to  forget. 
Let  every  sail  be  set 


For  the  gaj- ship  Pleasure's  bound  towards 
the  night. 

Heartache  and  horror,  with  purple  and  pas- 
sion, 

(Soft  sleep  the  violets  under  the  snow.) 

Life  must  be  lived  until  death  comes  in 
fashion. 

Fill  up  your  glass  again;  let  the  world  go. 

Who  is  it  prates  of  a  soul's  resurrection? 

(Snowdrifts  are  melting,  and  spring  cometh 
slow.) 

Banish  the  thought  with  its  gloomy  connec- 
tion, 

Satan  and  sin  for  me;  let  the  world  go. 

CHORUS. 

O,  perfect  days  of  youth. 
When  lite  was  love  and  truth. 
You  gleam  again  in  Memor3's  lambent  light; 
1  drop  on  you  the  veil  — 
For  sin's  bright  sea  I  sail. 
Till  the  gay  ship  Pleasure    anchors   in  the 
night. 

Folly  of  Prophet,  and  fancy  of  dreamer 
(Roses  are  budding  in  Maj-'s  tender  glow.) 
All  of  this  rant  of  the  terrible  gleaner; 
Here's  to  their  vagaries!    Let  the  world  go. 
Pledge  me  again  in  those  moments  of  glad- 
ness 
(Flowers  are  nodding  their  heads  to  and  fro.) 
Ere  we  go  down  in  a  vortex  of  madness. 
Life,  love  and  license  rule.  Let  the  world  go. 

CHORUS. 

My  skies  are  growing  dim. 
And  a  spectre  gray  and  grim  — 
Slain  Purity's  sad  phantom— blurs  my  sight. 
The  sunny  days  are  gone: 
While  the  bitter  ones  come  on. 
And  the  doomed  ship  Pleasure  drifts  into  the 
night. 

EXTRACT. 
What  is  my  love  like';'    I  hear  you  ask ; 
Give  me,  I  pray  you,  a  different  tusk. 
Let  me  tell  you  instead  of  the  pearl-gemmed 

cove 
'Neath  the  crystalline  sweep  of  the  ocean 

wave. 
Where  amber  and  amethyst  cross  the  sight 
Like  fairy  visions  from  realms  of  light. 
Where    strange-shaped    monsters  move  or 

sleep 
In  their  home  in  the  bed  of  the  mighty  deep. 
Where  the  witching  mermaid  with  sparkling 

eye 
Beckons  tue  dolphin  flashing  by. 
1  will  tell  you  a  story  of  the  sea. 
But  not  what  my  love  is  like  to  me. 


*- 


902 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


WARD  D.  MUNHOLLAND. 

Born:  Delhi,  La.,  Nov.  29,  1865. 
Commencing  to  practice  law  at  the  age  of 
nineteen,  Mr.  Munholland  now  has  a  growing 


V,  VUD  D.  MUNHOLLAND 

practice  at  Farmerville.    A  few  of  his  poems 
have  occasionally  appeared  in  the  local  press. 


THE  SUNSET. 
A  gentle  zephyr  shook  the  trees. 

That  spring  had  donn'd  anew.    The  breeze 
Seemed  wafted  from  a  western  cloud. 

That  strove  to  hide  beneath  its  shroud: 
The  waning  Sunlight's  ling'ring  ray. 

That  ling'ring  strove  to  hglit  the  day. 

The  zephyr  touch'd  me  on  the  cheek 
And  bade  me,  (though  it  did  not  speak). 

Gaze  on  its  path,  (a  western  course) 
And  view  tlie  grandeur  of  its  source; 

I  turning  looked,  and  there  descried. 
Fair  Sunlight  shrouded,  as  he  died. 

The  zephyr  seemed  the  struggling  breath 
Of  Sunliglit,  as  lie  sank  in  death. 

Around  him  peace  did  rest,  and  while 
That  peace  remained,  a  placid  smile 

Did  light  hi.s  face  and  then  unfold 
To  view  his  couch  of  burnished  gold. 

And  on  his  couch  thus  bright  h(!  lay. 
Still  peeping  through  the  cloud  with  day; 

His  cheeks  did  glow  with  fever's  Hush, 
Or  crimson  grow  witli  beauty's  blush; 

Which  iidded  light  unto  his  eyes. 
And  spread  its  gold  thro'  western  skies. 

But  weaker,  paler,  doth  he  grow. 

His  breath  the  zephyrs  cease  to  blow; 
The  blacken'd  cloud  hath  hid  his  eync, 


Tir  etherial  orb  no  more  doth  shine: 
In  death  he  sheds  no  ray  of  light. 
And  earth  is  cloak'd  with  sable  night. 


FALSE  LOVE. 

'Tisdone!  'Tisdone!  Alas,  tisdonel 
1  know  not  how,  nor  whj' ;  but  know 

As  drag  the  moments  one  by  one. 
They  bear  me  where  I  would  not  go. 

I  seem  to  walk  'mid  haunted  shades, 
Where  dwell  the  manes  of  despair! 

Where  sorrows  thicken,  mem'ry  fades. 
And  shrieks  of  torture  rend  the  air. 

Where  Trouble  spreads  its  gloomy  veil ; 

Where  Anguish  wears  its  darker  cloak; 
Where  mingle  Pain  and  Grief  their  wail  — 

They  say,  >•  the  vows  of  love  are  broke." 

Oh,  Mem'ry !  thy  undying  ray. 
But  faintly  dawns  around  me  now; 

Ah!  leave;  I  would  not  have  you  stay. 
You  mock  with  death,  a  living  vow. 

No,  come;  yet  lend  me  brighter  beams. 
Even  tho'  thy  brightest  be  my  last. 

And  show  me  Hope,and  Love's  young  dreams. 
That  thrilled  my  pulses  in  the  past. 

Lend  Fancy,  thy  divinest  light. 
That  it  again  the  path  may  tread. 

Where  first  we  met;  where  blinded  sight 
Did  vow  the  love  that  now  is  dead. 

I  felt,  but  one  love  could  I  know; 

I  swore  I'd  be  to  that  most  true. 
And  where  I  wandered  it  should  go. 

And  where  it  slept,  I'd  rest  me  too: 

Alas!  I  yet  have  known  but  one; 

To  it,  alas!  I've  been  too  true, 
I  felt  its  light,  but  now  'tis  done; 

'Twas  false,  and  vanished  as  the  dew: 

It  set,  as  does  the  orb  of  day 
When  yielding  unto  Nature's  night; 

But  when  my  staT'  of  love's  last  ray 
Withdrew,  it  left  a  darker  blight. 

Its  sable  mantle,  icy  cold. 

Has  chilled  the  life-blood  of  my  heart; 
I  cannot  rend  its  double  fold,— 

My  anguish,  words  cannot  impart. 

I've  known  but  one,  ah !  let  me  know 

No  other;  for  I  could  not.  bear, 
A  second  love  to  undergo. 

E'en  now  I  sink  beneath  despair. 

I  vowed  to  follow,  but  'tis  dead. 
Another  world  it-wan<h'rs  through. 

But  since  my  love,  from  this  liad  (led 
E'en  tho'  to  death,  I'd  Hee  nietoo. 


«- 


*- 


LOCAL  AND  ISTATIONAL  POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


903 


-* 


BESSIE  BLAND. 

Born:  Lynn,  Mass.,  Dec.  8,  IStvS. 

This  lady  graduated  from  the  Lynn  Cobbet 
school  in  1880.  Three  j'ears  later  her  poem.s 
befran   to   appear  in    the   periodical   press. 


BESSIE   HI, AM). 

Bessie  Bland  is  represented  in  the  work  en- 
titled Poets  of  Massachusetts,  a  valuable 
collection  of  poets  of  that  state. 


A  FACTORY  GIRL. 

A  youthful  maiden,  fair  to  see, 
With  sweet  blue  eyes,  and  lily  face. 
With  slender  form  of  perfect  grace. 
And  voice  of  softest  melody. 

While  young  companions  gayly  jest. 
She,  sitting  'mid  the  rest  unheard 
Wears,  with  each  softly  spoken  word. 
The  gentle  smile  that  suits  her  best. 

As  o'er  her  work  she  bends  her  head 
She  seems  a  princess  in  disguise; 
The  clear  light  of  her  azure  eyes 
Might  well  on  royal  scenes  be  shed. 

There  seems  to  rest  a  crown  unseen 
Upon  her  brow,  as  through  the  room 
She  goes,— a  lovely  flower  in  bloom; 
A  ray  of  moonlight,  fair,  serene. 

In  purity  and  gentleness 

Her  spirit  walks  from  dfty  to  day 


Along  the  toiler's  quiet  way. 
The  hours  to  beautify  and  bless. 

God  scatters  thus  His  flowers  fair 
By  lowly  paths  as  well  as  high; 
Tliey  charm  and  cheer  tiie  passer-by. 
And  lift  to  a  diviner  air. 

They  'mind  us  of  the  Garden  bright 
Where  God  shall  gather  all  His  own. 
Alike  from  work-room  and  from  throne; 
For  all  are  equal  in  His  .sight. 

O  Father !  may  Thy  tender  care, 
May  Thy  almighty  love  and  grace. 
In  station  high,  and  lowly  i)lace, 
Defend  Thy  pure  ones  everywhere. 


FAITHFUL    IN    LITTLE,   FAITHFUL    IN 

MUCH. 
Oh,  tell  me  not  that  wealth  and  power 

Must  needs  deprive  the  soul  of  grace, 
A  truly  noble  heart  will  keep 

Its  nobleness  in  everyplace. 
How  many  pure,  unselfish  ones 

In  earth's  high  places  we  behold. 
Who  walkthrough  favored  paths, unspoiled 

By  blazoned  name,  or  gleaming  gold. 

A  noble  and  unselfish  mind 

In  any  station  can  be  seen; 
Alike  in  peasant  and  in  lord 

Appears  its  fair,  benignant  mien. 
And  one  who,  from  a  slender  store 

Gives  willingly  to  greater  need. 
Is  one  who,  given  wealth  and  power. 

Would  be  to  man  a  friend  indeed. 

The  fame  and  fortune  fairly  won. 

Without  oppression  or  deceit. 
And  used  with  measure  just  and  kind, 

The  favor  of  the  world  will  meet. 
But  in  whatever  walk  of  life. 

Among  the  low,  among  the  high. 
The  one  who  seeketh  all  iiis  own 

Unloved  will  live,  unloved  will  die. 


EXTRACT. 
Heavy  and  still  is  the  air;  the  lake 
Lies  silent  and  smooth  as  glass. 
Tiie  ringing  voice  of  tlie  locust  sounds 
From  the  depths  of  the  way.side  grass. 
The  flowers  that  woke  in  the  dewy  morn. 
And  lifted  their  heads  in  bliss. 
Deprived  of  the  zephyr's  cooling  touch. 
Droop  under  tlie  noontide's  kiss. 
The  birds  are  silent  witliin  the  wood. 
In  shadow  the  cattle  lie;  ' 

And  Nature  faints,  while  the  burning  sun 
Looks  down  from  the  sultry  sky. 


*- 


904 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


REV.  JOHN  HARDENi' 

Born:  Near  Dublin,  Ind.,  May  29,  18.54. 
At  the  age  of  nineteen  Mr.  Harden  was  mar- 
ried to  Miss  Viola  Witt,  and  now  has  quite  a 
family.  Rev.  John  Harden  has  filled  pastor- 
ates in  the  Free  Methodist  Chiiroli  atPaxton, 
111. ;  Ft.  Wayne  a  I M  I  l-;\  .■in-.\  ill.  .  I  ml.:  .■mil  in 


Till  joyful  sounds  shall  rend  the  sky; 

Let  this  inspire 

The  blood-washed  choir  — 
Behold,  his  advent  drawetli  nigii! 


REV.  JOHN  HARDEN. 

1881-84  preached  in  the  Congreg-ational 
Church  on  California  Ave.,  Chicago.  He  has 
also  held  pastorates  in  St.  Cliarles,  111.,  Ko- 
koma  and  Hammond,  Ind.  For  awhile  lie 
filled  the  editorial  chai  'in  a  Chicago  pub- 
lishing house  and  has  contributed  from  time 
to  time  both  prose  and  verse  to  the  press. 

CHRISTMAS  GREETING. 
A  merry,  merry  Christmas 
To  every  girl  and  boy ; 
The  Savior's  richest  blessing  — 
Eternal  life  and  joy! 
Your  voices  raise, 
To  sing  his  praise 
Whose  birth  we  celebrate  to-day; 
Join  angel  choirs, 
Witli  golden  lyres. 
And  to  his  name  your  triliute  pay! 
A  merry,  merry  Cliristmas 

To  every  children's  friend; 
A  share  of  Christmas  blessings. 

And  jileasures  witliout  cad! 
Join  in  tlieir  song; 
The  strain  prolong. 


BREAD  OF  LIFE  AND    FOUNT   OP  JOY. 
Hallelujah! 
God  the  Father,  from  above, 
Sends  the  object  of  his  love;    • 
Sends  his  Son,  the  living  bread, 
Savior  of  the  quick  and  dead.  ■ 

Hallelujah! 
Son  of  God,  my  priest  and  king. 
In  his  flesh  has  deigned  to  bring 
Bread  that  mortals  cannot  buy, 
Bread  to  eat  and  never  die. 

Hallelujah ! 
Bread  of  heaven,  flesh  divine, 
Food  of  angels,  thou  art  mine; 
I  have  feasted.  Lord,  on  thee; 
Death  I  never  more  shall  see 

Hallelujah ! 
Holy  Spirit,  living  fount. 
High  thy  healing  waters  mount; 
From  the  smitten  rock  they  burst; 
In  thy  stream  I  quench  my  thirst. 

Hallelujali  ! 
Bread  of  life  and  Fount  of  joy. 
Both  are  mine  without  alloy; 
All  I  need  in  tliese  abound; 
All  I  want  I  now  have  found. 


JESUS  OUR  CITY  OF  REFUGE. 
Blessed  Jesus!  thou  our  Kedesh, 

In  tlie  land  of  Naphtali; 
Clothe  us  with  thy  Holiness, 

Soul  and  body  sanctify. 
Prince  of  life!  tliou  art  our  Shechem, 

In  the  mount  of  Gerizim; 
Ephraim's'right-liandl)lessing  grant  us  — 

Govern  us  as  thou  didst  liini. 

Friend  of  sinners!  thou  our  Hebron, 

In  the  land  of  Judali  strong, 
Abram,  friend  of  God  and  Caleb; 

To  this  friendship  we  belong. 
Mighty  Sa\ior!   thou  onr  l^czcr; 

Reuben  found  in  tliy  SlroiiKhold, 
Refuge  from  the  blood  avenger; 

In  thy  power  make  us  bold. 
Christ  exalted!   thou  our  Kanioth, 

Dan's  defense  in  Gilead's  height; 
We  have  waited  thy  salvation, 

O,  redeem  us  by  thy  miglit. 
King  exultant!  thou  our  Golan, 

In  Manas.-^eh's  sandy  soil; 
Fill  us  with  thine  own  rejoicing- 
Grant  us  passage  from  our  toil 


*- 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


905 


REV.  T.  S.  OADAMS. 

Most  of  tbe  composition  of  the  Rev.  T.  S. 
Oadams  have  been  hymns  and  such  as  relate 
and  nre  helpful  to  him  iu  his  religious  work. 


HEV.  T.  S.  OADAMS. 

He  is  a  Congregational  minister  of  quite  a 
little  prominence,  and  has  held  pastorates  iu 
many  prominent  churches. 


THE  WREKIN. 
Across  the  broad  Atlantic's  waves. 

In  England's  sea-girt  home. 

Away  'mid  Shropshire's  lovely  vales. 
There  stands  a  stately  dome. 
Nature  lierself  liath  planted  it. 

Hath  fixed  it  with  her  hand. 
And  like  a  lofty  beacon 

It  overlooks  the  land. 
The  mind  of  Salop's  sons  to  it. 
Will  turn  where'er  thej-  roam. 
And  memories  of  bygone  days. 
Will  ever,  ever  come. 
In  childhood  they  its  crags  have  climbed. 

And  danced  witli  childish  glee. 
Around  the  ivied  cottage. 
Which  they  no  longer  see. 
Parties  innumerable  tlioy  joined 
As  years  have  quickly  run : 

From  "Needle's  Eye"  and  "Raven's  Cup, 
They  watched  the  setting  sun. 

They  gazed  on  landscape  far  and  wide. 

With  abbeys,  woods,  and  vales; 
The  Severn's  rolling  torrent. 

And  the  towering  hills  of  Wales. 


Tlie  lordly  lionies  and  lowly  cots, 

Witli  farms  and  towns  between. 

With  Shrewsbury's  towers  and  monument. 

Together  have  been  seen. 

They  rambled  down  the  hill-side 

To  tlie  "Lower  Cottage"  fair; 

Lovers  liave  told  their  many  tales 

And  friends  have  parted  there. 

And  when  the  day  they'd  gladly  spent 

And  night  was  setting  in. 

They  gathered  in  the  twilight 

And  sung  their  evening  hymn. 

Many  liave  gone  to  other  climes 

Their  lot  with  others  cast. 

For  reasons  varied  as  the  times 

Of  present  and  of  past. 

Some  of  these  in  the  far-off  West 

Have  found  another  home 

And  with  our  Brother  Jonathan 

They  are  content  to  roam. 

Yet  'mid  the  beauty  of  western  lands, 

Noble  forests  and  prairies  still; 

They  never  forget  the  days  iliey  spent 

On  Shropshire's  stately  hill. 

ON   VISITING   AN    OLD   RUIN   IN    ENG- 
LAND. 
The  ground  whereon  we  tread 
Entombs  the  mighty  past, 
O  shades  of  mighty  heroes  dead. 
Your  visions  on  us  cast. 
Tlic  chivalry  and  might  in  arms, 
Tlie  castle,  lord,  and  kniglit. 
The  squires  and  ladies,  war's  alarms, 
They  will  not  back  to  sight. 
The  mantling  ivy  on  the  wall. 
The  sobbing  wind  that  breathes 
Its  whispers  through  decaying  hulls. 
And  rustles  through  the  leaves. 
Of  trees,  colossal  in  their  growth. 
The  cedars,  centuries  old; 
Each  bear  the  impress  of  the  past. 
And  the  historj-  of  the  liold. 
The  halls  once  filled  with  mirth. 
And  guests,  and  feasting  great. 
Are  vacant  now;  around  the  hearth. 
No  voice  of  love  or  hate. 
'The  lonely  bird  builds  here  its  nest 
Among  these  ruins  rare. 
Its  plaintive  note,  the  only  sound 
That  breaks  ui)on  the  air. 
The  glory  gone,  the  voices  hushed 
In  courts  and  ca.stle  gay. 
Tlie  crumbling  arch,  tlie  falling  stone. 
Speaks  of  the  swift  decay. 
Witli  saddened  heart  we  pause  — 
We  tliink  of  those  now  gone,— 
Of  life,— and  slowly  molderiiig  years,— 
How  long  —  ere  ours  is  done  ? 


-* 


*- 


906 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


JOHN  OLIVER  BELLVILLE. 

Born:  Spencek  Co.,  Ind.,  Sept.  .5, 1861. 
Nearly  two  huudred  poems  have  appeared 
from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Bellville,  many  of  which 
have  found  their  way    into   the  periodical 


JOHN  OLIVER  BELLVILLE. 

press.  He  has  spent  a  greater  portion  of  his 
life  on  liis  father's  farm,  but  is  now  residing 
in  Evausville,  Ind. 


*- 


THE  FARMER'S  LIFE. 
The  farmer's  life,  the  farmer's  wife. 
The  toil  and  care,  and  even  strife, 
They  have  to  share  in  this  life. 
At  set  of  sun  his  day's  work  done 
He  craves  the  rest  his  labor's  won  — 
That  he  has  won  in  this  life. 

And  when  at  last  the  day  has  passed 
He's  g-lad  to  see  night's  shadow  cast 
Across  his  cares  in  this  life. 
Sweet  sleep  the  drowsy  goddess  brings 
Unconscious  to  earth's  natural  things - 
To  all  the  things  in  this  life. 

He  rests  'til  four,  when  the  alarm 
Walces  him  to  duties  on  the  farm. 
And  that  he  owes  in  tliis  life. 
Drowsy  reluctance  'tis  indeed. 
He  thinks  a  sin  to  be  in  need 
And  works  so  hard  in  this  life. 

After  the  plow  he  all  day  plods, 
Over  the  hills  and  rocky  clods  — 


The  hills  and  clods  in  this  life. 
Weary  he  under  the  shade  doth  sit 
To  count  his  cares  and  dry  his  sweat  — 
His  honest  sweat  in  this  life. 

Each  day  grows  warmer  than  the  rest ; 
He  frets  and  swears  he's  never  blest 
With  anything  in  this  life. 
The  summer  is  past;  his  crop  is  made; 
Here's  winter's  cold  and  autumn's  shade. 
Now  to  enjoy  in  this  life. 

He  looks  back  o'er  the  fields  he's  tilled. 
And  sees  how  rich  liis  barns  are  filled 
By  summer's  toil  in  this  life. 
And  when  the  winter's  rain  and  freeze 
Sets  in  he  gently  takes  his  ease  — 
The  ease  he's  earned  in  this  life. 

And  as  he  sits  before  his  fire, 

"The  farmers  life,"  says  he,  "by  far 

Is  most  enjoyed  in  t'lis  life. 

And  it  is  true  he's  nobly  blest 

With  clotliing,  food,  and  winter's  rest, 

Bj'  summer's  toil  in  this  life." 


A  MATTER  OF  FASHION. 
This  world  is  a  matter  of  fashion 

A  flimsy  nonsensical  show. 
And  differs  so  slightlj'  in  question 

No  matter  wherever  you  go 
You'll  find  a  few  leaders  of  mammon. 

Society's  primal  red  tape, 
Wliich  the  multitude  struggle  to  follow 

Attempting  to  monkey  and  ape. 

"The  fool  and  his  money  soon  parted," 

How  wisely  the  poet  hath  said. 
For  fashion  now  argues  a  conquest 

Against  home,  and  comfort  and  bread. 
The  tinsel  and  show  that  is  fostered 

Leaves  homeless  the  aged  and  gray. 
And  turns  on  our  streets  and  our  higliwiiys 

The  lort'est  of  beggars  each  day, 

Who  once  held  the  dust  of  the  mountains 

And  spent  it  with  sumptuous  ease, 
Wlio  reveled  witli  luxury's  minions 

And  took  little  note  if  you  please. 
Of  the  trutli  that  is  found  in  this  saying, 

"Prepare  for  a  cold  rainy  day." 
Man's  days  lengthen  out  to  a  resting. 

And  Oh,  then  a  comfort  and  stay. 

How  many  are  forfeiting  comforts 

To  follow  the  rich  in  their  tracks. 
By  spending  their  soul's  only  dollar 

To  place  simple  show  on  their  backs? 
How  many  are  sighing  for  waters 

To  give  the  old  mill-wheel  a  blast. 
Still  swung  by  the  forebay  of  fortune. 

Alas!  but  the  waters  have  i)assed. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


907 


-* 


JACK  CLARY. 

Born:  Fayette  Co.,  Ind.,  June  1.5.  1868. 

The  subject  of  this  sketch  is  a  druggist  by 
profession,    but    has    found    time  to  write 


■JACK  CLAHY. 


quite  a  few  poems  for  the  press,  although  he 
is  known  more  as  a  prose  writer. 


SEASIDE  MUSINGS. 
I  stood  on  the  pier  at  sunset 
On  the  shore  of  the  boisterous  sea. 
But  in  no  wise  was  1  happy 
Because  Nellie  was  not  with  me. 
The  sea  was  full  of  bathers 
Enjoying  the  close  of  the  day. 
But  I  couldn't  be  happy  while  Nellie 
Was  a  thousand  miles  away. 

The  waves  rolled  liigh  on  the  beach 

f5etokening  a  storm  at  sea. 

The  petrels  shrieked  their  dismal  cries 

As  if  they  sympathized  with  me. 
The  sun  sunk  slowly  from  sight. 
It  seemed  in  a  watery  grave 
And  cast  his  last  pale  golden  rays 
Across  the  storm-tossed  wave. 

The  plea.sure  seekers  homeward  went 
As  the  evening  shades  stole  'round. 
Leaving  me  to  lonely  musings 
And  the  ocean's  mournful  sound. 


And  there  amid  the  falling  darkness. 
Which  made  the  scene  lonesiimeandweird 
I  fancied  in  cverj-  sliadow 
Her  sweet  face  before  me  appeared. 

And  then  in  fancy  I  took  her 

In  my  arms  egaiii  as  of  yore. 

And  I  kissed  lier  again  and  again. 

As  I  had  many  times  before. 

Tlien  I  thought  of  what  slie  tried  to  say. 
But   the  words    I    had  kissed  from  her 

mouth; 
•  •  I  know  you'll  soon  forget  me  Jack, 
For  some  little  girl  in  the  south." 

But  nay  Nellie  this  Tie'er  will  be 

Now  forgive  me  if  you  will; 

But  the  girl  that's  all  the  world  to  me. 

Is  in  far  away  Fayetteville. 

And  now  this  much  I'll  tell  you 
—So  give  your  close  attention— 
That  the  name  of  this  lovely  maiden; 
Is  —  Ah  well  — too  dear  to  mention. 


FAUEWELL. 

When  leaving  scenes  we  so  long  have  known 
That  to  our   minds  may  liave  grown  quite 

dear. 
We  think  we  will  never  forget 
That  which  to  our  hearts  is  so  dear 
And  friends  in  whose  bosom 
We  b}'  kindness  have  sown 
The  seeds  of  friendshiji  and  love; 
Their  mem'ry  to  us  ere  long  have  grown 
And  are  cherished  as  gifts  from  above. 
However,  to  the  scenes  where  we  go. 
Fond  ties  soon  or  later  bind  us 
And  by  them  we  soon  are  taught  to  know; 
All  joys  were  ntit  left  behind  us. 


TWILIGHT  HOUR. 
'Tis  pleasant  to  loiter  at  twilight  hour 
Beneath  the  .somber  old  church  tower. 
And  list  to  the  murmuring  evening  breeze 
Whispering  love  in  the  Linden  trees. 

Lying  wrapped  in  youth's  sweet  dreams 
And  the  silver  flood  of  pale  m<H>n  beams, 
I'ree  from  thoughts  of  the  bu.sy  day; 
Where  none  are  likely  to  pjiss  tliat  way. 

And  'tis  pleasant  to  roam  at  twilight  hour 
Till  you  find  yourself  near  the  old  church 

tower. 
And  wonder  to  jourself   how  much   you'd 

care 
If  bv  chance  another  had  wandered  there. 


*- 


908 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


REV. JOHN  SAMUEL  NORRIS. 

Born  :  England,  Dec.  4, 1844. 
Emigrating  with  Lis  parents  to  Canada 
when  nine  years  of  age,  Mr.  Norris  there 
received  his  education  and  was  ordained  to 
the  Christian  ministry.  After  preaching- 
four  vears  in  Canadii  he  was  called  to  fill  the 


REV.  JOHN   SAMUEL,  NOKRIS. 


pastorate  of  the  churcli  in  Rochester,  N.  Y. 
Since  Mien  he  has  had  pastoral  charge  of 
churches  in  many  of  the  western  states. 
Mr.  Norris  has  always  been  interested  in 
music  and  is  tlie  author  of  Songs  of  the  Soul, 
a  volume  of  nearly  two  hundred  pages  of 
original  and  selected  songs.  He  was  married 
in  1870  to  Miss  E.  A.  flurd,  and  now  has  a 
large  family.  Tlie  poems  of  Mr.  Norris  have 
appeared  in  the  leading  religious  publica- 
tions of  America. 


CHIME  ON  SWEET  BELLS. 
Let  the  bells  chime  on  in  the  inorniTig, 
When  the  shadows  flee  away; 
At  tlie  throne  of  grace  seek  tlie  Father's  face 
He  will  keep  thee  through  tlie  day. 

CHORUS. 

Chime  on  sweet  bells,  let  .ioy  notes  ring. 
Chime  on,  chinu;  on  sweet  bells; 

Your  praises  bring  to  Christ  our  King, 
Chime  on,  chime  on  sweet  bells. 


Let  the  bells  chime  on  in  the  noontide. 
When  the  earth  is  glad  and  bright; 
Let  the  day  so  fair,  with  its  beautj-  rare, 
Fill  thy  soul  with  sweet  deliglit. 

Let  the  bells  chime  on  in  the  evening. 
When  tlie  deep'ning  shadows  tall; 
Sing  a  joyful  lij^mn  of  j'our  trust  in  Him, 
Who  Is  watching  over  all. 


AGES  GONE  BY. 
Ages  gone  by,  Bethlehem's  plains 
Echoed  with  joy  heavenly  strains; 
Wise  men  from  far,  travelling  by  night, 
Followed  a  star,  wondrously  briglit. 

CHORUS. 

Rejoice!  rejoice!  let  bells  of  gladness  ring. 
Rejoice!  rejoice  I  and  cheerful  Anthems  sing; 
O  shout  for  joy  this  Christmas  morn. 
For  us,  for  all,  the  Christ  was  born. 

Angelic  choirs,  flaming  with  light. 
Swept  their  sweet  lyres,  sang  with  delight; 
From  heaven  above  tidings  they  bore, 
Tidings  of  love,  love  evermore. 


SOLDIERS  BELOVED. 

Soldiers  beloved,  we  come  to-day. 
Bringing  bright  blosoms,   sweet  flowers  of 

May; 
Here  you  are  resting,  since  your  release; 
Yours  be  the  glory,  ours  blessed  peace. 

Sad  was  the  carnage,  fearful  the  flght; 
Bravely  ye  battled  for  God  and  right. 
For  home  and  country,  for  friends  so  true; 
God  gave  you  victory,  soldiers  in  blue. 

We  sadly  miss  you,  tears  fall  like  rain. 
For  we  can  never  meet  here  again; 
Still  hope  upspringing  soothes  all  our  pain; 
Hearts  ever  loving  shall  meet  again. 


WE  COME  WITH  BEAUTIFUL  FLOWERS. 

EXTRACT. 

We  come  with  beautiful  flowers. 

The  sweetest  and  brightest  and  best; 
And  tearfully,  tenderly  strew  them 

Where  our  heroes  now  quietly  rest; 
No  more  do  the  bugle  notes  call  them 

To  the  carnage  and  dim  of  the  flght; 
They  sleep  who  once  fought  for  their  country 

For  home  and  for  freedom  and  right. 
They  sleep  who  once  fought  for  their  couutr.v 

For  home  and  for  freedom  and  right. 


*- 


LOCAIi   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


--i* 


f«M) 


JOSEPH  DWIGHT  STRONG. 

Born:  Granby,  Conn.,  June  5, 1823. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  graduated  from 
Williams  College  in  1849,  and  after  a  full 
course  of  professional  studies  he  was  or- 
dained iiastor  of  the  Congregational  church 
in  Westport,  Couu.     In  1853  he  married  Miss 


JOSEPH  DWIGHT  STRONG. 

Margaret  D.  Bixljy,  by  wliom  he  has  seven 
children,  two  of  whom  have  wou  distinction 
as  brilliant  artists.  In  1854  Mr.  Strong  re- 
moved to  California,  and  subsequently  to  the 
Hawaiian  Island,  where  he  ministered  to  the 
Church  of  Foreign  Residents  in  Honolulu. 
Four  years  later  he  was  pastor  of  the  First 
Presbyterian  church  in  Oakland,  where  he 
now  resides.  Mr.  Strong  has  filled  many  im- 
portant positions  in  his  adopted  state,  and 
for  a  wliile  was  editor  and  publisher  of  a 
monthly  magazine.  Since  the  death  of  his 
wife  in  1866  he  has  been  engaged  principally 
in  literary  work. 


UNDER  THE  SHADOW. 

Where  thick  oaks  the  rocks  were  sheathing. 

And  the  bay -tree  fragrance  breathing- 
There  we  sat,  and  hand  sought  hand; 

How  the  little  leaves  were  hushing! 

How  the  soft,  sweet  sun  was  gushing  — 
Gushing  up  from  all  the  land  ! 

Hearts  brimmed  o'er  with  love,  and  treasure 

Great  beyond  the  great  earth's  measure  — 

qf 


Every  depth  of  being  filled; 
What  deft  speech  might  give  revealing. 
Or  what  tones  could  voice  the  feeling. 

Every  chord  within  us  thrilled! 

Not  a  look  or  breath  mistaken. 
Not  a  doubt  could  word  awaken. 

Not  a  thouglitof  ill  was  there; 
Oh  from  speaking  eyes  wliat  blisses! 
Oh  from  sweetest  lips  wliat  kisses' 

In  what  heaven  we  each  had  share ! 

But  now  no  oaks  the  rocks  arc  sheathing. 
And  no  fragrant  bay-tree  breathing, 

And  the  little  leaves  make  moan : 
•  >  Oh  the  eyes  that  yield  no  blisses ! 
Oh  the  lips  that  give  no  kisses! 

Oh  the  love  that  sits  alone !  " 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  MEN. 

These  bending  skies  that  close  earth  round 
As  barred  and  mystic  prison-ground. 

Are  wider  far  tlian  all  our  kin; 
For  mind  is  here  the  soul  of  things, 
And  truth  in  endless  anthem  sings. 

And  God  Himself  hath  school  for  men, 

Brave  hearts  reach  ont  their  little  hands 
And  take  the  book  that  open  stands. 

As  oracles  and  leaves  of  life; 
They  con  the  mystic  lesson  o'er 
And  read  the  word  of  things,  nor  more 

Waste  all  their  day  in  bigot  strife. 

They  break  the  clasp  of  strata-folds 
And  find  the  stony  page  that  liolds 

The  buried  jiast  of  men  and  things; 
They  see  in  rock  and  tree  and  flowers 
The  holy  truth,  the  eternal  powers  — 

The  thought  from  wliich  all  order  springs. 

Sweet  sunbeams  paint  the  art  of  God 
On  all  that  dots  the  springing  sod 

In  colors  each  divinely  mi.xed; 
And  their  entangled  lines  reveal 
The  truths  that  grosser  foims  conceal 

In  lines  eternal  law  hath  fixed. 

And  force  in  myriad  wonder-ways. 
Now  slow  as  years,  now  swift  as  days. 

Is  shai)ing  out  the  eternal  plan; 
Breathes  in  the  winds  and  moves  in  storms. 
And  tlirobs  in  all  earth's  vital  forms. 

And,  God-like,  thinks  and  feels  in  man. 

In  things  we  thus  find  holy  books  — 
Vedas  in  stones.  Bibles  in  Ijrooks  — 

The  light  is  wise  old  Hermes'  pen; 
Sweet  jisalms  from  every  tree  resound. 
And  in  each  clod  the  Word  is  found, 

For  God  hath  here  liis  school  for  men. 


-* 


p 


*- 


910 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF    AMERICA- 


JOHN  W.  BEEBE. 

Born:  Georgetown,  Del.,  Aug.  2, 1853. 
Removing  to  Elwood,  Indiana,  in  1873,  Mr. 
Beebe  was  married  the  followlug'  year  to  Miss 
Ella  Thorpe.  For  a  while  he  worked  at  the 
trade  of  house. carpenter,  and  also  taught 
school   in    Indiana  liuring'  several   winters. 


JOHN  W.  BEEBE. 

Mr.  Beebe  then  attended  the  Normal  school 
at  Ladoga,  Indiana.  In  1880  lie  removed  to 
Kansas  and  is  now  located  at  Kingman, 
where  he  has  taught  school  and  had  charge 
of  two  newspapers.  In  1886  he  became  deputy 
county  treasurer,  which  position  he  still  fills. 


OLD  AGE. 

Speak  to  them  gentlj'. 

Treat  them  with  care; 
Give  them  the  fireside's 

Easiest  chair. 
They  wept  for  you  once. 

Parental  tears; 
Don't  let  them  weep  now- 

Smooth  the  gray  hairs. 
Age  has  its  childhood. 

Weakness  and  ills; 
O  liow  a  kind  word 

(irandmotlicr  thrills. 
Grandfather  totters 

By  on  his  crutch; 
How  warm  his  old  lieart 

At  friendly  iDuch. 
Speak  to  tliem  kindly, 

Banisli  their  fears; 


Their  eyes,  tliough  dim,  are 
Quick  to  shed  tears. 

Make  their  life  easy 
Down  the  incline; 

So  shall  thy  children 
Make  for  thee  thine. 


MY  WEST  COUNTRY  LOVE. 
I  love  a  maiden,  oh,  so  fair. 

Out  in  the  West  Countrie; 
She  has  blue  eyes  and  g:olden  hair, 
Out  in  the  West  Countrie,— 
The  bonny  West, 
The  g-ayest,  best. 
The  bonny  West  Countrie. 
Her  song  is  sweet  as  the  nightingale, 

Ovit  in  the  West  Countrie, 

Her  cheek  would  malce  the  roses  pale. 

Out  in  the  West  Countrie, 

And  shame  the  tint 

Of  sunset  in't  — 

The  bonny  West  Countrie. 

I  love  this  maid,  and  she  loves  me. 

Out  in  the  West  Countrie; 

Mayhap,  you  wonder  who  she  be, 

Out  in  the  West  Countrie, 

Whose  love,  I  know. 

Is  pure  as  snow. 

Out  in  the  West  Countrie. 

Well  may  I  sing  of  this  fair  maid. 

Out  in  the  West  Countrie; 

She's  three  years  old,  the  little  jade, 

Out  in  tlie  West  Countrie, 

And  cries  ••  papa," 

And  liiughs  ha-ha! 

Out  in  the  West  Countrie. 


I  loni 


A  TWILIGHT  SONG, 
to  go  and  be  witli  tliee. 

Be  witli  thee 
Under  the  shade  o'  tlie  greenwood  tree. 

Greenwood  tree; 
Close  by  the  fountain  side. 
Close  by  the  mountain  side. 

Under  the  sliade  of  the  Greenwood  tree. 
There  we  loved  in  tlic  long  ago. 

Long  ago; 
There  primrose  and  violets  grew, 

Violets  grew. 
Where  the  world  upon  us  smiled. 
Where  we  wereliy  lovo  beguiled. 

Loved  we  there,  and  loved  so  true. 
I  was  young,  and  you  were  fair. 

You  were  fair. 
How  I  longed  to  tarry  there. 

Tarry  there; 
I>o()kitig  in  your  eyes  so  sweet, 
Itesting  in  your  lovo  complete, 

I  was  young:  and  you  were  fair. 


*- 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


!)11 


MRS.  EDITH  F.WALCOTT. 

Born:  Hoi.den,  Mass.,  June  6,  1856. 
This  lady  has  lived  in  many  states  of  the 
union,  and  is  now  living'  in  Oxford,  Mass. 
She  devotes  to  litenatnre  whatever  time  can 


MKS.  EDITH   V.  WALCOTT. 

be  spared  from  family  duties,  and  has  found 
time  to  write  many  flue  poems  and  sketches, 
some  of  which  have  appeared  in  the  Boston 
Transcript,  Grand  Army  Record  and  others. 

THE  AUTOCRAT. 
Shudder,  O  ruler  of  thy  millions !    Draw 

Into  thy  secret  chamber,  pale  with  fear, 
0  thou  embodiment  of  unrighteous  law! 

Dost  there  not  rise  unto  thy  shrinking-  ear 
The  groans  and  prayers  that  sound  from 
year  to  year 
Along  thy  highways  unto  regions  dim? 
Tremble,  O  tyrant!  All  shall  be  made  clear 
When  thy  dark  soul  shall  go  forth   unto 

Him 
Who  notes  and  sees  all  things  to  Time's  re- 
motest rim. 
Aye,  shiver  in  thy  palace!    Turn  tliine  eye 
From  her,  thy  frenzied  consort!  Thoushalt 
know 
The  lieight,  the  depth,  the  breadth  of  misery. 
Dealt  thee  for  every  maddened  e.xile's  woe. 
Thou  Shalt  feel  all  the  weight  of  that  fell 

blow 
I     That  rent  a  mother's  anguished  heart  in 
twain. 


When,  on  her  dawning  senses,  sure,  though 

slow,  [slain. 

Was  borne  the  knowledge  of  her  last  hope 

And  that  dear  baV)c,  cold,  dead,  unheeding 

her  wild  pain. 

Tremble,  imperial  Czar!  God's  justice  dwells 

Immeasurable,  secure,  outlasting  time. 
'T  will  lower  thee  to  Remorse's  eternal  hells. 

To  expiate  the  measure  of  thy  crime. 
Oh!  thou  shalt  feel  how  awful,  how  sul)lime 
The  judgment  of  that  outraged  jiower  shall 
be 
When,  in  that  silent,  shadowy,  mystic  clime 
Thou  shalt  do  penance  for  eternity  — 
Praying,  but  all  in  vain,  one  brief  hour  to 
be  free. 
O  thou  accursed!    Canst  thou   close  thine 
heart  [prayer? 

To    mercy    'gainst    a    mother's     frenzied 
Against  youth,  child  and  inaideii  who  depart 
To  awful  exiie  and  lifelong  despair?    [P'l''' 
What  thousand,  million   years  will  e'er  re- 

The  ruin  of  thy  dread  and  fearful  reign? 
Nay,   nay!    Think  not  a  despot  hand    will 
spare 
Till  it  has  ceased  to  guide  the  tyrant  train- 
Till,  spoiled  by  Time,  it  rots  among   fin-- 
gotten  slain! 

And  thou,  O  hero!  Thou,  whose  pen  sublime 
Hath  traced    in  words  of  fire  the  awful 
truth  — 
Down  through  the  ages,  while  endureth  time. 
Thy    name    shall    live    in    grand,    eternal 
youth ! 
Thou  hast  won  from  all  hearts  their  tender- 
est  ruth,  [veil. 

Tliou   hast  uplifted    the  dark,   shrouding 
Heedless  of  danger,  thinking  but,  in  sooth. 
How  best  thou  couldst  unfold  the  fearful 
tale,  [ful  wail. 

And  open  all  earth's  ears  to  Russia's  mourn- 

God  bless  thee,  Kennan!    Bless  the  manly 
heart 
That  scorned  not  to  weei>  tearsof  pity  when 
Unto  thee  that  pale  mother  did  impart 

A  woe  to  wring  the  hardest  hearts  of  men! 
The  tyrant  and  the  teaclier!    Judge  ye,  then 

O  ye  who  preach  us  a  Redeemer  sl.iin ! 
Which  shall  rank  higher?  Which,  in  heaven's 
ken, 
Will  stand  exultant  in  the  angel  train. 
And  cast  his  shining  glance  o'er  valley, 
hill  and  plain? 
O  exiled  mother !    Last,  not  leiist,  art  thou  — 

The  victim,  the  poor  sacrifice  for  sin. 
O  mother!  with  thy  pained-crowned,  girdled 
brow  — 
Whose  soul  so  deep  the  iron  entered  in ! 


*- 


912 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


Exiled.heart-broken !  When  there  doth  begin 
That  otlier  life  —  so  sweet,  so  rich,  so  blest! 
Oh!  thou  shalt  find  beyond  these  shadows 
dim. 
Full  recompense  for  all— calm,  endless  rest. 
And  those,  thy  loved  and  lost,  shall  cling- 
close  to  thy  breast. 
Rather  be  what  thou  art  —  poor  sad,  forlorn. 
Than  he,  the  despot,  who  doth  dread  the 
light.  [dawn. 

When  thou  art  judged,  in  heaven's  crystal 
Who  could  but  choose  thy  lot?  For  him  the 
night 
Of  pain,  remorse  eternal!  While  more  bright 
Than  all  the  stars  of  evening  shall  thou 
shine,  [flight 

Girt  by  the  gleaming  robes  of  those  whose 
Left  angel  tracks   for  those  tired  feet  of 
thine—  [scenes  divine! 

Traces  that  thou  shalt  press  to  heights,  to 


MRS.  L.  H.  HAMMOND. 

Born:  Solan,  N.Y.,  Jan.  8, 1840. 
This  ladj'  has  written  more  tlian  a  hundred 
poems  which  have  received  publication  in 


MRS.  T.TTRANAH  H.  HAMMOND. 

1-lie  ,ocal  press.  Slie  wiis  married  in  1864  to 
Marion  Hammond  and  now  resides  with  her 
husband  and  children  in  Strong's  Prairie,  Wis 


THE  SWEET  LONG  AGO. 
Far  away  on  an  evergreen  shore. 
Lies  tlie  land  of  the  Sweet  long  ago 
Where  the  blossoms  of  spi'ing  never  fade 
And  the  fierce  winds  of  winter  ne'er  blow. 
Cho.— Oh  thou  Sweet  Long  ago! 
We  have  -wandered  so  far  from  thy  shore; 
Oh  sweet  land  of  our  youth '. 
We  can  never  go  back  any  more. 


There  is  naught  in  that  land  to  annoy ; 
Dissolved  are  its  sorrows  in  mists. 
That  afloat  o'er  the  hill-tops  appear 
Like  the  dewdrops  the  sun  beams  have  kissed 
There  are  friends.  Oh  so  tender  and  true  1 
Whose  brows  are  ne'er  shadowed  by  care. 
And  their  voices  in  melody  sweet. 
Echo  yet  from  that  land  over  there. 
We  have  wandered  afar  from  that  shore. 
And  our  footsteps  are  weary  and  slow; 
But  we  cannot  return  on  that  path. 
To  the  Land  of  Sweet  Long  ago. 


A  SONG  OF  GLADNESS. 
Oh  sing  a  song  of  gladness. 
Ye  travelers  on  the  way ; 
Sing  with  the  birds  tliat  warble 
Their  thanks  at  break  of  day. 
Through  pleasant  ways  and  sunny 

At  morning  lies  the  road; 
Then  hasten  on  rejoicing. 
And  blithely  bear  your  load. 
Haste  on  toward  home. 
If  you  do  not  reach  it  in  the  morn. 
We  maj'  at  noon. 
If  noon-time  finds  us  weary 

We  will  not  stop  to  sigh. 
For  home  is  just  l)ef(jre  us, 
We'll  reach  it  by  and  by; 
Then  sing  a  song  of  gladness. 

Although  the  way  looks  drear 
Above  the  clouds  of  sadness 
Tlie  sun  is  shining  clear. 
Then  do  not  grieve; 
]f  home  is  not  in  sight  at  noon, 
"Twill  be  at  eve. 
Though  rougher  grows  our  pathway, 

And  steep  the  hills  we  climb, 
We'll  murnuir  not  at  trials 
That  last  but  for  a  time; 
Nor  will  it  keep  our  footsteps 

From  straying  by  the  way. 
To  dwell  upon  the  sorrows 
And  sins  of  yesterday. 
Tlien  weep  no  more; 
But  keep  your  ejes  upon  the  road 
That  lies  before. 
When  evening  shadows  gather. 
The  lights  of  homo  will  glow. 
To  light  the  darkening  pathway 

Our  tired  feet  must  go; 
Oil  sweet  will  be  the  welcome 

That  meets  us  at  the  door! 
And  glad  we'll  pass  the  i>ortals 
To  wander  never  more. 
Oil  Home  so  bright! 
We'll  reach  the  land  of  jH-rfect  day 
When  comes  the  night. 


*- 


gf 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEHICA. 


913 


-* 


MEL  VI N  LIN  WOOD  SEVERY. 

Born:  Melrose,  Mass.,  Aug.  5, 1863. 
FoK  a  while  Melvin  studied  law,  but  discon- 
tinued its  study  on  account  of  ill  health.  He 
then  took  a  tliree  years'  course  at  the  Mon- 
roe College  of  Oratory  in  Boston,  after  which 
he  went  upon  the  stage.     In  1888  he  became 


MEIjN  l.N    LlNW(JUl)   SEVERY. 

assistant  editor  and  special  correspondent 
for  several  publications,  and  subsequently 
edited  a  Boston  Magazine.  He  has  written 
ten  plays  and  published  a  worli  entitled 
Fleur-de-Lis.  For  the  past  few  years  Mr. 
Severy  has  given  lectures  and  instructions 
in  that  art,  at  the  same  time  devoting  a  por- 
tion of  liis  time  to  literary  pursuits.  He  was 
married  in  1884  to  Miss  Mina  Howard,  with 
whom  he  now  resides  at  Boston,  Mass. 


FLEUR-DE-LIS. 
Bluer  than  Andalusian  seraph  eyes 
Are  the  lips  of  thy  petals,  O  Fleur-de-Lis! 
Sweeter  tlian  breath  of  a  maiden's  sighs. 
As  fragile  as  thought  of  paradise 
Art  thou,  trembling  child  of  the  sea. 

0,  fairer  by  far  than  Beauty's  soft  grace 
Is  the  passion-pulse  of  thy  stalk.  Fleur-de- 
Lis! 
Thou  art  a  thought  from  a  holy  place. 
Dropped  like  a  tear  from  an  angel  face 
On  the  weeping  sands  of  the  lea. 
Ah,  worthy  art  thou  of  a  saint's  white  breast. 
Or  the  cestus  of  Venus,  sweet  Fleur-de-Lis! 


And  e'er  shouldst  thine  l)c  tlie  name  of  rest, — 
Balm  to  the  heart  that's  sorely  oppressed,— 
And  never  a  pang  shouldst  thou  see. 

O  fickle  Life!  thy  chain  discordant  drags 
Its  tedious,  linked  length  of  gold  and  lead 
O'er   fields    of    Pleasure,   and   Pain's  sharp 

crags. 
Fraying  Joy's  silks  to  Sorrow's  dull  rags, 
Whicli  serve  for  the  pall  of  the  dead ! 

Oh !  weep  on  ye  sands  at  the  tangled  strings 
That  Ijind  the  aching  heart  of  life's  mystery, 
Where  evil  depravest  the  noblest  things, 
Making  to  moan  the  light  heart  that  sings, 
And  filling  with  woe  its  history. 

O  child  of  the  sea  thou  sufferest  too! 
For  the  shoulder  of  pain  wears  the  Fleur-de- 
Lis! 
Whose  petals  give  off  the  scent  of  rue. 
Whose  thriving  is  of  the  eye's  sad  dew. 
At  Toulon,  frowning  at  the  sea. 


BEATRICE. 

All  that  is  fair  wert  thou,  and  chaster 
Than  the  dewdrop  on  the  lily's  lip; 
Than  the  grass-hid  violet  more  modest,  or 
Ermine  jealous  of  its  fur.    The  pale  pearl 
In  its  satin  cradle  rocked  by  the  Sea's 
Rough  hand,  or  the  trembling  tear  on  an 

angel's  cheek  — 
Nothing,  O  heart  of  vestal  fire !  that  thou 
E'er  said'st.  but  lips  of  golden  altar-urns 
Hidden  in  Easter's  lilies  might  resound. 
Nymph  who  explainedst  poets'  ideal  dreams. 
When  thej'  on   spirit   wings    have  left  the 

flesh. 
Ordained  prophets  of  the  coming  life. 
Reach  out  across  the  years  with  Memory's 

hand. 
Bringing  me  fruit  that  ripens,  yet  ne'er  falls. 


LOST. 
A  sunb'eam  fell  across  my  soul, 
And  every  blossoming  thought 
Its  bright  face  turned  unto  its  goal, 
And  its  grateful  radiance  caught. 
A  shadow  —  Death  —  that  lustre  drank. 
And  smote  with  f  ullsome  breath  each  flower. 
Wliile  Hope,  with  eyelids  drooped  and  dank. 
Sobbed  off  the  minutes  of  my  hour. 
O  liard  is  it  from  glare  to  gloom ! 
And  bitter  'tis  from  gold  to  lead! 
Sob  off  by  hours  mj'  .sad  doom. 
And  lay  me,  Hope,  beside  my  dead. 
From  thee,  my  love,  shall  flowers  spring. 
And  turn  to  sun  as  I  to  thee; 
Yet  they'll  to  me  no  brightness  bring  — 
My  soul  put  out  its  light  with  thee! 


-* 


*- 


914 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


CLARENCE  HENRY  URNER. 

Born:  New  Market,  Va.,  April  V.i,  1856. 
After  receiving-  his    education  at  tlie  New 
Market  Polytechnic  Institute,  Mr.  Urner  en- 
g-ag-ed  in  teaching,  whicli  profession    he  fol- 
lowed for  fifteen  years.    He  has  written  sev- 


CliARENCE  HENRY  TJRNER. 

eral  hundred  poenis,  many  of  which  have 
appeared  in  the  American  Magazine,  Out- 
ing, Peterson's,  Cottage  Hearth,  Arthur's 
Magazine  and  other  periodicals.  Mr.  Urner 
was  married  in  1883  to  Miss  Ella  V.  Manor, 
and  now  resides  with  his  wife  and  family  at 
Kichmond,  Va.,  where  he  is  first  clerk  in  the 
Virginia  treasury. 

SUMMER  AFTERNOON. 
The  summer  afternoon,  in  splendor  dressed. 
Slopes  slowly  down  the  g-olden  hills  of  day; 
So  listless  does  she  drag  her   measured  way. 
The  world  has  almost  ceased  to  sue  for  rest. 
Wide  swings  the  portal  of  the  patient  west. 
Where  dewy  shades  their  balmy  charms  por- 
tray. 
In  hope  to  liaste  the  steps  that  long  delay, 
Yet, wonders  whathelates  the  laggard  guest. 
With  burnished  hair  and  linibs,aiid  fiery  eyes 
Still  creeps  the  afternoon  adown  the  slope. 
Where  palpitates  with    heat  the  languid  air. 
And  streams  the  brilliance  of  the  burning 

skies; 
Still  gapes  the  eager  west  with  sinking  hope. 
Still    mourns  the  wretched  world  in    calm 
despair. 


LOVE. 

Long  ere  thy  presence,  like  a  radiant  morn, 
Dawned  on  these  eager  eyes  thou  wert  my 

own; 
My  heart  had  reared  itself  a  peerless  throne, 
Which  all  aside  from  thee  could  ill  adorn; 
Witliout  its  love,  this  empty   breast  forlorn 
Was  once  a  shattered  kingdom  overthrown; 
Now    I    may    look    where    thou    and   thou 

alone. 
Art  all  that  lives  above  its  old-time  scorn. 
So  much  of  life  and  inspiration  dwell 
Within  thy  form,  I  scarce  can  deem  it  clay; 
The  texture  of  thy  thought  reveals  a  soul 
Enshrined  within  its  kindred  citadel; 
Now,  e  en  thine  eyes  may  hold  a  will  at  bay 
Which  never  felt  a  less  divine  control. 


Our 


HATE. 

is    now 


olden    path    is    now  grass-grown   and 

mossed,  [one, 

The  distance  which  divides  the  hearts,  once 
Is  greater  than  the  line  from  earth  to  sun. 
For  eye  can  measure  that  and  not  be  lost, 
^'he  impulse  of  our  separate  stars  is  crossed. 
E'en  fancy  cannot  point  the  paths  they  run; 
Thine  whither"?     Whither  mine  —  race  never 

done? 
Both    like    the   down   of     thistles   tempest 

tossed !  [eyes. 

If  e'er  thy  bliss    should  fall   beneath   these 
Since  Fate  ordains  that  much  is  possible, 
'Twere  as  the  lost,  when  one  brief  glance  is 

given 
Of  earth-born  foes,  now  blessed  in  Paradise, 
And  on  a  trumpet  blast  this  last  farewell  — 
Think    of    the    hate    perdition     holds    for 

heaven ! 


NO  LOSS. 
The  Past    comes    up    to  muse  beside    the 

hearth. 
Where    every  ember  speaks   witli  saddened 

tongue; 
The  Golden  Age's  knell  has  long  been  rung, 
The  world    has    grown    too   old    for   fairy 

mirth ;  [earth. 

No  line  of  sapient   gods    now    liaunts  the 
As  in  the  days  of  old,  wlien  Time  was  young; 
No  more  the  Muse's  tuneful  harp  is  strung. 
And  Song  below  has  now  no  second  birth, 
i'et.    Truth    and    Beauty    have    not  passed 

away 
To  other  cUmes  beyond  this  earthly  sphere, 
To  leave  it  darkling    on    some   downward 

slope ; 
For  earth  is  just  as  fair  and  bright  to-day. 
As  when  the  race  emerged  from  Caves  of 

Fear.  CH°P^; 

And  forward  looked  from  golden  Hills  of 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMEUICA. 


* 

915 


RP:V.  AMOS  B.  RUSSELL. 

Born:  vvoodstock,  N.  H.,  Feb.  'M,  IS'^o. 

After  taking-  a  Theological  course,  Mr. 
Russell  in  due  time  became  a  minister,  and 
is  uow  pastor  of  the  M.  E.  cliurch  at  Gil- 
manton,  N.  H,     His  poems  have  appeared  in 


REV.  AMOS  BRYANT  RUSSELL. 

the  Boston  Zion's  Herald,  Baltimore  Gospel 
Light,  Concord  Independent  Statesman,  the 
Boston  Christian  Witness,  and  in  other 
prominent  relijrious  puhlications.  He  was 
married  in  1849  to  Miss  Kuth  S.  Watson,  and 
now  has  a  family  grown  to  maturity. 


CHARACTER. 
A  character  is  built  of  deeds. 

Proclaimed,  or  never  told; 
Built  up  of  stubble,  worthless  weeds, 

Or  silver  gems  and  gold. 

A  word  of  prayer,  a  kindly  deed. 

Or  alms  in  plenty  given 
To  friendless  poor  who  stand  in  need. 

Will  meet  reward  in  heaven. 

A  tender  word,  a  silent  tear. 
Heartfelt  and  well  applied. 


Will  lift  the  fallen,  quell  each  fe;ir 
And  break  the  rising-  tide, 

Or  pluck  a  friend  f  I'om  out  the  flame, 

A  gem  from  arid  sand; 
A  trophy  won  in  Jesus'  name 

And  graven  on  his  hand. 


THE  INNOCENCE. 
I  saw,  when  walking  through  a  glade 
Encircled  l)y  a  leafy  shade 
In  hiunble  modesty  arrayed  — 

The  innocence. 

They  stood  in  robes  of  purest  white 
And  seemed  enraptured  with  deligiit 
Turning  their  faces  to  the  light  — 

The  innocence. 

In  quiet  grace  these  groups  of  flowers. 
Which  owe  their  lives  to  sun  and  showers, 
Soon  wax  ard  wan  in  golden  liours  — 

The  innocence. 

Fn  uniform  they  stood  arrayed. 
In  silent  corps  in  field  and  glade. 
Like  armies  when  on  dress  parade  — 

The  innocence. 


THE  COMET. 
••  Have  you  seen  the  comet?  "  wrote  a  friend 

to  me; 
To  be  sure  'tis  a  wonderful  sight  to  see; 
Dashing  along  through  realms  of  stars. 
Talked  more  aljout  than  Juno  or  Mars; 
From  tlie  north,  spread  out  o'er  the  empty 

space. 
His  soutiiward  cour.s(!  you  can  easily  trace. 
As  along  the  Orient  skies,  his  tail 
Bears  him  along  like  a  mammoth  sail. 
From  whence  he  comes  and  whither  he  goes. 
Tell  me  ye  sages,  if  any  one  knows; 
For  the  council  he  keeps  is  wholly  his  own. 
Roving  at  large  tlirough  worlds  unknown; 
Level  3'our  telescope,  follow  liis  raj-s. 
After  the  wondering  traveler's  gaze. 
Though  I  fear  in  the  west  infinitude. 
He  will  hide  liimself.  and  your  search  illude. 
He  that  holdeth  the  stars  in  his  hand. 
And  loosens  old  Orion's  mystic  band. 
Has  marked  out  the  path  of  this  wonderful 

star 
As  he  travels  through  space  to  realms  afar. 


-* 


916 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


ALICE  EDWARDS  PRATT. 

Born  :  Freeport,  Me.,  Jan.  9, 1860. 

In  1881  this  lady  graduated  from  the  State 
University  at  Berlieley,  Cal.,  with  the  de- 
gree of  Ph.  B.     Since  that  time  she  has  been 


ALICE  EDWARDS  PRATT. 

the  principal  of  the  Santa  Rosa  Seminary^ 
In  person  she  is  petite,  with  black  hair  and 
brown  eyes.  Her  poems  has  received  ex- 
tensive publication  in  the  periodical  press. 


THE  EVERLASTING  HILLS. 

Above  tlie  tumult  and  bustle 

Of  the  feverish,  restless  town, 
Over  the  heads  of  the  people 

Who  are  hurrying  up  and  down. 
Away  in  the  hazy  distance 

Against  the  noonday  sky. 
I  can  see  the  purple  mountains 

In  peaceful  quiet  lie. 

And  as  for  a  moment  I  linger 

To  gaze  at  their  beauty  sweet, 
My  ears  are  deaf  to  the  clatter 

Of  hoofs  in  the  noisy  street; 
And  to  faces  of  friend  or  of  sti"Uiger 

My  eyes  for  tlie  moment  are  blind, 
For  in  "that  unchangeable  stillness 

A  blissful  content  I  flntl; 


And  a  feeling  of  inspiration 
And  courage  my  whole  heart  fills. 

As  I  gaze  at  the  distant  outlines 
Of  the  beautiful  templed  hills. 

So,  often,  above  the  worries. 

The  mistakes  and  the  sins  of  my  heart. 
Past  tlie  wearying  toils  and  troubles, 

Tlirough  the  teardrops  that  will  start, 
I  catch  a  sight  of  tlie  glory 

Of  God's  eternal  hills. 
And  the  glimpse  brings  a  benediction 

That  every  murmur  stills. 

Though  a  task  seem  almost  harder 

And  a  Inirden  heavier  to  bear. 
Than  I  could  endure  unaided; 

From  the  sacred  summits  there 
Cometh  help  for  every  trial; 

In  time  of  distress  a  song; 
Instead  of  complaint  thanksgiving; 

For  doubtings,  a  faitli  glad  and  strong. 

And  my  ears  grow  deaf  to  the  jangle 

Of  a  world  that  is  out  of  tune. 
My  eyes  are  blind  to  its  sorrows, 

For  I  know  that  soon  —  aye,  soon  — 
The  mists  that  envelope  those  hilltops 

Will  lift  and  we  then  shall  rest 
Forever  amidst  that  glory 

Which  now  is  but  dimly  guessed. 


AS  THROUGH  A  GLASS.  \ 

A  queer  gray  roll  as  wing  on  slender  threiicJI 

From   yonder   rose-twig;    but   to-morrow  I 

A  wondrous  butterfly  that  skims  the  air.    | 

A  small  brown  seed  asleep  in  earthly  bed,     • 

But  ere  the  summer  days  their  course  have 

sped,  I 

A  dainty  flower's  snowy  petals  fair,  : 

By  heaven's  sun  kissed.     To-day    a  robii, 

where 

Last  month  a  blue  egg  only.    Overhead        ■ 

A    sapphire   curtnin     sifts    the    noontid.. 

glare;  .  ' 

But  midnight    lays  tlu-  swingled   welkn. 

And  worlds  are  thus  reveaUd   when  day  hn 

fled. 
The  chrysalis,  day's  l.llndi.ig  light  do«r 

I       Theegg,Vhe    see,l,-thy   life  o.i  earth  (1.| 

clare.  ' 

Thy  dearest  hopes  are  in  these  symbols  rca( , 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


-* 


917 


WILL  EHRHARDT. 

Born:  Greensburg,  Ind.,  Jan.  31, 1867. 

The  subject  of  this  sketch  has  written  quite 
a  few  poems  that  have  received  publication 


WILL   EURHAHUT. 

in  tlie  periodical  press.  He  is  still  a  resident 
of  Greensburg-,  Ind„  where  he  is  well  and 
favorably  known. 


JESUS  LOVER  OF  MY  SOUL. 
In  my  fancy  I  can  see  Him, 

High  on  Calvary's  cruel  spot, 
Agonizing' tortures,  bearing; 

To  redeem  our  sinful  lot. 
E  irthly  friends  may  love  and  cherish 

From  the  cradle  to  the  groal ; 
Cut  upon  the  Cross  is  spoken, 

"Jesus  lover  of  my  soul." 

Oft  in  sorrow  we  are  sinking. 

All  the  world  seems  dull  and  drear. 
Pleasures  once  — now  gone  and  fleeting 

Bring  no  more  their  happy  cheer; 
Rut  the  tho't  of  our  dear  Savior 

Suffering,  on  Golgotha  high; 
Thoughts  that  echo  come  returning  — 

"  Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly." 

N"ot  a  week  or  day  is  passing, 
But  some  cloud  of  life  appears; 

To  dispel  our  hopes  and  fancies 
And  bring  forth  imprisoned  tears. 


How  temptations  'round  us  gather. 

Often  far  beyond  control; 
How  the  passions  toil  for  mast'ry — 

"  While  the  nearer  waters  roll." 

How  His  care  is  watcliiug  o'er  us 

Lest  we  stray  bejond  the  fold ; 
For  He  knows  how  weak  and  meagre 

Is  our  strength  in  sin's  stronghold. 
Once  our  name  upon  those  pages 

In  that  books  so  fair  on  high; 
Christ  will  watch  our  every  movement, 

•'  While  the  tempest  still  is  nigli." 

When  the  vice,  that  once  seemed  pleasure. 

Threatens  to  besiege  our  soul; 
And  our  trembling  limbs  are  useless  — 

Limbs  that  once  had  full  control; 
How  we  yearn  to  leave  the  pathway 

That  for  years  was  love  and  pride 
And  to  Him  we  turn  our  voices; 

"  Hide  me  Oh  my  Savior  hide." 

Tho'  for  years  of  life  mistaken 

We  have  tried  to  make  success. 
Time  has  come,  when  error  floundered 

On  the  sea  of  year's  excess; 
Now  tho'  ship  has  lost  her  rudder. 

And  deprived  of  sail  and  mast. 
We  can  look  to  Christ  our  Captain 

"  Till  the  storm  of  life  is  past.' 

After  we  have  lost  the  victory 

That  we  tried  to  win  on  earth. 
How  we  realize  the  Treasure, 

God  has  sent  in  priceless  worth; 
Yes,  HeUeft  his  throne  in  Heaven; 

Cause  to  calm  the  restless  tide 
And  to  lead  our  feet  in  pathway, 

"  Safe  within  the  Haven  guide." 

Heavenly  Father  in  thy  mercy, 

Give  us  grace  and  strength  to  bear; 
All  that  Thou  hast  laid  before  us, 

In  our  sorrows  take  a  share; 
So  when  we  have  trod  our  journey 

And  our  earthly  years  have  passed. 
This  we  ask  in  Jesus'  memory, 

"Oh  receive  my  soul  at  last." 


SHE  IS  MOTHER  STILL. 

EXTH.\CT. 

The  voice  that  soothed  the  brow  of  care 

Has  ceased  its  mission  here; 
No  more  can  it  our  trial  share 

No  more  our  pathway  cheer 
But  yet  we  know,  when  the  mind  reverts. 

That  it  helped  o'er  many  a  hill. 
And  tho'  her  absence  must  often  hurt 

We  know  she  is  mother  still. 


* 


*- 


918 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


LEMUEL  DUNHAM. 

Born:  Hartford,  Me.,  Aug.  26, 1830. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Dunham  have  appeared  in 
the  Oxford  Democrat,  Advertiser,  Record, 
Maine  Evangelist,  Canton  Telephone,  Villag-e 


LEMUEL  DUNHAM. 

Church,  Chase's  Clironicle  and  other  publi- 
calions.  He  was  married  in  1859  to  Miss 
Lydia  A.Cummings,  and  still  resides  with  his 
family  in  his  native  state  at  Bryant's  Pond. 


*- 


THE  CATS  THAT  WENT  TO  LAW. 
Dark  and  foreboding  was  the  night. 
With  clouds  from  o'er  the  stormy  seas, 
When  two  sly  cats  together  str.iyed. 
And,  in  their  ramble,  stole  some  cheese. 
But  jealous  is  the  feline  race. 
And  thus  it  happened  then,  you  see. 
That  when  dividing  time  arrived. 
Between  themselves  could  not  agree; 
So,  Justice  Monkey  living  near. 
The  stolen  prize  to  him  did  bring; 
Thinking,  of  course,  that  he  for  them 
Would  do  the  fair  and  honest  thing; 
Divide  it  equally  for  both. 
And,  pleased  to  have  a  friendly  call. 
Would  charge  them  nothing  for  his  time, 
And  give  his  labor,  fee  and  all. 
With  lawyer's  dignity  he  sat. 
And,  smiling,  heard  their  story  through, — 
I'm  just  the  gentleman,  said  he, 
To  rectify  this  thing  for  you. 


So  he  produced  a  pair  of  scales. 
Without  the  least  ado  or  bother. 
Into  one  of  which  he  threw  a  piece. 
And  what  remained  into  the  other. 
Well,  I  declare!  this  lump  outweighs 
That  one,  and  no  mistake,  said  he; 
Then  took  a  bite,  as  lawyers  do, 
Because  they  did  not  thus  agree. 
But  now  the  other  scale  went  down. 
Just  as  the  first  had  done  before; 
And  then  to  that  he  did  the  same. 
Feigning  to  make  an  even  score. 

Hold !  said  the  cats,  who  now  could  see 
What  modern  law  for  them  was  doing, 
Give  us  the  cheese  that  yet  remains. 
And  we'll  be  satisfied,  and  going. 
Not  quite  so  fast,  the  'Squire  replied, 
My  fee,  as  yet,  remains  unpaid. 
Each  one  owes  justice  to  himself. 
That  rule  hoids  good  in  every  trade. 
Thus  on  the  problem  still  he  worked. 
Yet  failed  to  make  the  balance  true; 
At  length,  with  gravity  he  said 
The  case  is  lost  to  both  of  you. 
What  crumbs  remain  are  mine  by  right 
Of  honesty,  and  good  report; 
Then  crammed  the  whole  into  his  mouth. 
And,  bowing  low,  dismissed  the  court. 

MORAL. 

'Tis  seldom  that  the  scales  of  law  will  to  a 

balance  come,  [one. 

While  yet  a  solitary  dime  remains  in  either 

CONCLUSION. 

Take  my  advice  and  heed  this  story  well; 
All    lawsuits    have,  at  least,  a  sulphurous 

smell ; 
Employ  wisdom  to  defend  your  cause. 
And  keep  your  cheese  out  of  the  monkey's 

paws. 

EXTRACT. 
A  little  up  the  stream,  a  small  cascade 
To  Naiads  sang,  and  fairy  bubbles  made; 
True  hemispheres    in    form,   with    rainbow 

hue. 
As  oft  beheld  in  pearly  drops  of  dew ; 
Then  each  one  started  down  upon  the  stream, 
Danced  on  the  wave,  and  smiled  in  sunlit 

gleam. 
All  sizes  here  were  seen,  from  large  to  small, 
Some  floated  on,  while  others  near  the  fall 
Soon  vanished,  and  were  lost  to  human  view. 
While  onward  others  rose  to  start  anew. 
But  although  millions  thus  the  race  began. 
None  reached  the  goal  to  which  the  stream- 
let ra  n ;  . 
So  transient  were  tliey  all,  and  brief  their 

stay  — 
By  magic  came,  like  magic  passed  away. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


* 


919 


ADELAIDE  M.  FULTON. 

BoKN :  Nova  Scotia,  Jan.  7,  1851. 
After  teaeliing'  for  six  years  in  the  public 
schools,  this  hidy  entered  the  University  of 
California  at  Berkeley  in   1881,   graduating 
with  the  degree  of  Ph.  B.  in  188.5.    Since  that 


ISt. 


!  l,AIIlK    M.     Fri,TOX. 

time  slie  Ikis  taught  in  Harmon  Seminary 
at  Berkeley;  and  at  Miss  West's  school  for 
girls,  in  San  Francisco.  Adelaide  M.  Fultou 
has  also  translated  many  fine  poems  from 
the  German. 


NATURE  AND  MAN, 
Before  me  lie  in  freedom  spread, 

Tlie  sparkling  waters  of  the  bay. 
The  calm  blue  sky  is  overhead; 

Among-  the  trees  the  breezes  play. 
Hard  by  we  see  the  great  round  hills 

Their  watchful,  quiet  vigils  keep. 
Tliey  cannot  cure  our  many  ills; 

Tiiey  laugh  not;   neither  do  they  weep. 
Upon  the  sea  a  white-winged  boat 

Moves  swiftly  by,  a  happy  sight ; 
Far  out  the  ocean  steamers  float. 

On  shimmering  waters,  dazzling  bright. 
All  nature  is  at  peace  —  at  rest. 

She  whispers  of  a  love  Divine. 
Within  the  strife-torn  h.uman  breast 

Shall  there  no  calm  be,  such  as  thine? 
We  should  not  always  seek  the  shade: 

For  light  and  warmth  we  need  the  sun. 


Our  choicest  blessings  here  were  made 

For  earnest  seeking;  not  to  shun. 
If  yesterday  the  sky  was  gray 

And  heavy  mists  rolled  slowly  on. 
Is  that  a  reason  why  to-day 

We  see  no  sunshine:  hear  no  song? 
Into  our  darkness  comes  a  light  — 

Upon  our  sight  a  vision  clear. 
Faith,  Hope  and  Love  are  sliining  bright, 

A  noble  trio,  win  them  here. 

EVENING  SONG. 
Now  evening  is  creeping 

On  forest  and  field. 
Peace  softlj'  descending. 

Brings  rest  to  the  world. 
Only  tlie  bi-ook  gushes 

From  j'onder  rock. 
And  it  roars  and  it  rushes 

Ever,  ever  forth. 
And  no  evening  brings 

To  it  rest  and  repose; 
No  bell  for  it  rings 

Songs  of  rest  as  it  flows. 
Ah,  my  heart  I  Even  thou 

Art  thus  in  thj-  strife; 
True  repose  to  thee  now 

God  only  can  give. 


NATURE   AND  ART. 
Nature  nnd  art  from  one  another  fleeing. 
Appear,  but  ere  one  knows  it  they  have  met; 
Against  them,  now,  no  more  my  heart  is  set. 
Each  equally  attractive  to  me  being. 
Only  an  honest  effort  it  re(iuires! 

If  we,  at  certain  times  with  earnest    heart 

And  diligence  apply  ()\irsclves  to  .\rt, 
Freclj-  the    soul    may    glow    with    Nature's 
fires. 

Culture  must  ever  such  conditions  take; 

Toward  the  attainment  of  the  purest  hights 

Vainly  the  lawless,  unrestrained  strive. 

Who  will  excel,  must  greatest  elTort  make; 

The    master   shows    liimself   best   in    re- 
straints. 

And  law  alone  to  us  can  freedom  give. 


UPON   HIGH    MOUNTAINS. 
Upon  the  high  mountains  lies  eternal  snow. 
Upon  the  high  souls  lies  everlasting  woe. 
The  snow,  the  sadness  melts  no  sun  away. 
Across  the  gleaming  iceberg  lies  no  flowery 

way. 
What  about  the  ice  like  rosy-purple  burns. 
Is  a  dying  sunbeam,  as  it  backward  turns? 
And  what  as  radiant  lustre  a  glorious  head 

illumes. 
Reflection  of  the  flre  is,  which  the  heart  con- 
sumes. 


* 


*- 


920 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


REV.  JOHN   WESLEY  KING. 

Born:  Hancock  Co.,  III,.,  March  11,  1860. 

At  the  age  of  seventeen  Mr.  King  was  li- 
censed to  preach,  and  two  years  later  was 
appointed  assistant  pastor  of  the  Jauesvllle 
cireuir.    Later  on  he  spent  tliree    years  in 


REV.  JOHN  WESLEY  KING. 

college  and  was  ordained  in  1887  at  Eaton, 
Colorado.  Rev.  John  King  was  married  in 
1888  to  Miss  Eva  Brundige,  with  whom  he 
now  resides  at  Eaton,  Colorado,  where  hois 
pastor  of  the  Congregational  Cluirch. 


DEATH. 

Onr  friends  of  earth  to  us  seem  dear. 
Bound  by  the  ties  of  nature  near; 
And  to  us  they  do  truly  pro%'e 
Their  love  to  us  while  here  they  move. 
'Tis  hard  indeed  for  us  to  part 
With  those  we  love  and  those  who  art 
Our  friends,  so  true  while  liere  below. 
Before  they  from  this  world  do  go. 

We  weep,  we  mourn,  our  anguish  flows. 
And  none,  perhaps,  our  sorrow  knows. 
As  p;irting  friends  bid  us  f;irewell. 
Ere  they  on  earth  do  cease  to  dwell. 
We  look  into  the  faces  pale. 
And  then  iiur  hearts  do  almost  fail; 


*- 


For  we  must  know  our  friends  so  dear. 
Can  stay  with  us  no  longer  here. 

They  bid  adieu;  their  spirits  fly 
To  God,  to  dwell  beyond  the  sky; 
Their  bodies  only  now  remain. 
And  they  must  soon  away  be  lain; 
We  follow  them  e'en  to  the  grave; 
And  as  it  were  in  earth's  dark  cave 
We  lay  their  bodies  down  to  rest. 
As  though  it  were  our  friend's  request. 

It  seems  we  could  not  give  them  up. 

As  drink  we  from  the  bitter  cup 

Of  sorrow  and  untold  grief. 

Without  God's  grace,  that  gives  relief; 

But  by  the  grace  of  God  we  say. 

Thou  art,  O  God!  the  Living  Way; 

And  those  who  trust  Thee,  though  they  die, 

Pliall  rest  in  peace  with  Thee  on  high. 

De.ath  conquers  one,  it  conquers  all; 
Has  conquered  man  ever  since  the  fall: 
A  conqueror  it  still  will  be 
Until  the  final  victory. 
And  though  these  feeble  bodies  die. 
And  for  awhile  in  graves  may  lie. 
The  time  will  come  when  they  shall  be. 
Forever  from  their  graves  set  free. 

When  Gabriel  with  trump  shall  sound 
The  joyful  news  the  world  around. 
That  all  the  dead  will  now  be  raised. 
And  God  shall  thereby  ere  be  praised. 
The  dead  will  hear  this  trumpet  call. 
Which  calls  forth  saints  and  sinners,  all. 
That  they  may  rise  to  meet  a  change 
Which    seems     to    us,     while    here,   quite 
strange. 

However  strange  the  change  may  seem. 
We  know  it  is  a  Bible  theme. 
And  that  our  bodies  then  will  bo 
Immortalized,  O,  God!  by  Thee; 
United  then  body  and  soul 
Will  be  but  one  while  ages  roll. 
United  as  they  then  will  be. 
They'll  dwell  Ihrougli  all  eternity. 

In  life  and  death  we  then  may  sing. 
Oh  death  !  ;'.read  death  !  where  is  thy  sting; 
Since  Christ,  the  conqueror,  has  come 
To  saffly  guide  His  people  home; 
Since  life  it  is  the  Christ  to  know. 
Why  should  poor  nu)rtals  fear  to  go 
From  sin  and  pain  to  mansions  bright 
To  dwell  with  God  in  realms  of  light. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


921 


-* 


MRS.  ELLEN  HOYT. 

Born:  Port  Clinton,  Ohio,  June  3,  1840. 

For  about  twenty  years  Mrs.  Hoyt  taug-ht 
school.  She  has  written  euough  poems  to 
fill  a  voliiiuc, which  have  received  publication 


MRS.  ELLEN    HOYT. 


in  current  literature.  She  is  a  pen  artist  of 
considerable  ability,  and  resides  at  Gallon, 
Ohio. 


*— 


EIGHTEENTH  BIRTHDAY. 
Our  coming'  here,  as  you  surmise. 
Is  affording  to  you  surprise. 
But  more  surprised  are  you  we  ween 
To  And  your  years  are  now  eighteen. 

Childhood  years  are  going  fast 
And  soon  are  numbered  with  the  past. 
Soon  we  must  need  to  change  the  scene 
When  we  have  reached  the  year  eighteen. 

Many  bright  scenes  of  life  have  fled 
When  we  have  reached  young  womanhood. 
Many  are  yet  in  store  we  deem 
When  we  are  only  yet  eighteen. 

Safe  in  our  anchorage  we  lie 
As  year  by  year  the  hours  will  fly. 
If  wisdom's  ways  enchantment  seen 
And  chosen  at  the  age  eighteen. 


Our  jears  have  with  us  kindly  been, 
Nothing  of  life's  cares  have  we  known. 
Its  future  seems  all  verdure  green 
As  seen  by  us  at  sweet  eighteen. 

So  Time  receive  our  thanks  and  know 
As  onward  in  the  race  we  go. 
Bright  promises  our  years  redeem 
If  we're  allowed  three  times  eighteen. 


TO  A  BACHELOR  FRIEND. 
I  have  looked,  vainly  looked. 
For  a  time,  Oh  so  long. 
For  a  nice,  social  letter 
My  mail  matter  among. 
From  your  pen  freshly  written 
With  something  to  saj- 
Of  courts,  cases,  and  clients. 
And  the  news  of  the  day. 

But  vain,  vain  the  looking. 

Your  pen  must  be  broken. 

Your  hopes  all  demolished. 

Your  friends  all  foreaken. 

Your  anchors  cut  loose  with  the  tide  to  be 

drifting, 
Forsakening  old  fields  and  to  green  pastures 

shifting. 

Are  you  sick?  sour,  or  smitten,  ill,  idle  or  old. 
Mad,  married,  or  murdered?  the  truth  must 

be  told. 
Bent,  battered,  or  broken,  if  that  is  not  right 
Are  you  starting  anew  with  life's  battle  to 
fight? 

Am  afraid  I've  not  guessed  it  though  trying 

so  much. 
It  has  all  proved  a  failure,  life's  hopes  are 

just  such. 
But  the  trust  in  this  case  must  be  that  'tis 

all  well. 
And  the  fault  is  gross  negligence  to  your 

friend  ever,  Nell. 


EXTRACT. 
That  fine  old  place  now  in  decay 

Has  little  semblance  of  the  home 
Where  parents  taught  us  to  obey 

And  fit  us  for  a  life  to  come. 

When  youth's  bright  sunlight  would  be  past 
And  life  puts  on  more  somber  hue. 

When  parents  take  the  sleep  that  lasts 
And  earthly  dreams  seem  all  untrue. 


-« 


*- 


922 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  JESSIE  M.  BREWER. 

Born:  Baltimore,  Md.,  Feb.  20, 1860. 
In  Wtl  this  lady  was  a  disting-uished  gradu- 
ate of  the  high  and  normal  college  of  Phila- 
delphia.   Five  years  later  she  was  married 
to  the  Rev.  David  H.  Brewer,  a  congrega- 


MHS.  JESSIE   M.  HItEWKU. 

tional  minister,  and  now  resides  with  her 
husband  and  two  children  at  Maynard,  Mass. 
Her  poems  have  appeared  in  the  New  York 
Observer,  the  Cottage  Hearth  of  Boston,  and 
the  Philadelphia  Evening-  Star  and  other 
prominent  daily  and  weekly  publications. 
In  1890  Mrs.  Brewer  spent  several  months 
travelling  in  Europe. 

CLOVER  BLOSSOMS. 
Treading,  tripping-,  trudging  through 

The  fields  of  blowing  grasses, 
Clover  blossoms  everywhere, 

How  merrily  time  passes  I 
Clover  blossoms  white  and  red 

Swaying  with  the  grasses. 
See  the  summer's  mimic  snow, 

The  daisy  petals  flying! 
Hither,  thither,  everywhere. 

Upon  the  grasses  lying; 
O'er  the  clover  white  and  red 

Daisy  petals  flying. 
What  is  now  the  time  of  day? 

Ask  yon  gray  heads  olden. 
Who  would  guess  that  ever  they 

Were  dandelions  golden? 


'Mong  the  clover  white  and  red 

Blow  the  gray  heads  olden. 
Buttercups  your  story  tell 

And  say  who's  fond  of  butter! 
Violets  arise  and  dance 

For  all  the  fields  aflutter! 
See  the  clover,  white  and  red 

Swaying  with  the  grasses. 

JUNE. 
Hail  gentle  June !  all  nature  waits  thee  here, 
The  royal  rose  and  all  her  court  appear 

To  give  thee  brilliant  welcome! 
Their  dewy  jewels  flash  in  golden  light 
And  fragrant  incense  marks  each   zephyr's 
flight. 

To  honor  thy  dominion ! 
The  music  of  the  wedding-cliime  swells  sweet 
The  lily-bells  and  echoes  soft  repeat 

Glad  strains  of  love  and  rapture! 
Thou  art  a  foretaste  bright  of  Heav'nly  bliss, 
Forgot  are  worldly  woes,  when  thou  dost  kiss 

The  earth  in  benediction!  [stream, 

For   then    the  bird,   the  rustling  leaf,  the 
The  winged  things,  that  'mongst  the  grasses 

gleam. 
All  lend  their  sep'rate  notes  of  harmony. 
In  grandly  sweet,  exultant  melody. 

To  greet  thy  gracious  coming! 
Fair  June,  God's  yearly  blessing,  bright  and 

sweet ! 
Let  mortals  join  in  nature's  praises  meet. 

And  do  thee  liappy  homage! 


A  CENTENNIAL  CHORUS. 
Arouse,  arouse,  ye  patriots! 

Let  fervent  praise  ascend. 
Until  yon  lofty  heaven's  arch. 

With  ecstasy  shall  rend! 
Proclaim  the  joys  of  liberty. 

Till  stealing  o'er  the  seas. 
Far-distant  lands  may  hear  the  cry 

Then  wafted  on  each  breeze! 
One  hundred  years  of  liberty! 

A  century  of  pride! 
Bequeathed  ye  by  your  sires  by 

The  heroes  who  have  died! 
Again  your  voice  like  tliuiuier's  peal. 

Shall  honor  freedom's  name! 
The  glory  of  your  n;ition  and 

Her  fair  unsullied  fame! 
Arouse,  arouse,  ye  patriots! 

The  winds  shall  heralds  be! 
And  (!Choes  shall  prolong  the  tale: 

"  America  is  free!" 
Oh  may  she  ever  proudly  stand 

In  freedom's  bright  .-ii'i-ay. 
And  n»!ver  may  be  dimmed  the  li^ht 

Which  shines  supreme  to-day! 


*- 


— * 


*- 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


923 


CMAUNCY  A.  JOHNSON. 

Born:  Dariex,  N.Y..  March  1,  1818. 
This  gentleman  for  maiii'  years  followed  tlie 
profession  of  an  artist  with  an  office  in  Des 
Moines,  Iowa.    Ho  has  written  quite  a  num- 
ber of  poems  which  have  received  extensive 


CHAUNCY  ACKLEY  JOHNSON. 

publication  in  the  periodical  press.  Mr. 
Johnson  has  in  preparation  a  Genealogical 
Album  which  he  hopes  to  place  on  the 
market  at  an  early  date. 


THE  LOST  ONES. 
One  by  one  the  tendrils  perished 

That  were  binding  heart  to  heart ; 
And  the  thoughts  that  once  we  cherished 

Only  sorrow  now  impart. 

"Voices  sweet  and  tongues  that  clatter. 

Dimpled  hands  and  golden  hair; 
Little  feet  that  pounce  and  patter. 

Twine  no  more  around  our  chair. 
Some  have  wandered,  some  are  sleeping. 

Some  have  strayed  we  know  not  where; 
All  are  hushed  in  silent  keeping 

With  our  empty  rocking  chair.— 
Hopes  and  joys  of  life  that  linger,— 

Are  they  doomed  to  pass  away?  — 
Touched  by  Autumn's  blighting  finger. 

Will  they  fade  some  other  day?  — 
Let  us  hope  there's  joy  in  hoping. 

Though  we  wade  in  silent  tears; 
In  the  orient  golden  coping. 

Let  us  liope  the  dawn  appears. 


VOICE  OF  SPUING. 
Calmly  and  softly  the  zephyrs  are  playing  — 
Bearing  their  music  o'er  liealher  and  glen; 
And  as  they  press  forward  they  seem  to  be 

saying 
"The  Dark  Cloud  of  Winter  has  vanislied 

again." 

The  torrent  comes  tumbling  adown  from  the 
mountain. 

And  dashing  its  foam  to  the  deiitiis  of  the 
seas; 

O  listen  and  hear!  — from   the  midst  of  the 
fountain  — 

The   song   of   its  freedom  is  borne  on  the 
breeze. 

And  listen  again  to  the  notes  in  yon  bower. 

As  varied  and  strange  as  the  muse  can  im- 
part ; 

They  speak  to  our  senses  of  Spring's  happy 
hour. 

And  touch  with  enchantment  the  ••  Harp  of 
the  Heart." 

The  garden,  the  wild-wood,  the  streamlet  and 
ocean. 

Uniting  their  voices  the  louder  to  sing; 

To  this  season  of  life  then  we  grant  a  devo- 
tion, 

And  joyfully  hail  the  sweet   presents    of 
Spring. 
I    1  ^  » — • 

MRS.  PHILOMELA  T.  LAMB. 

Born:  Freetown,  N.Y.,  Jcne  7,18.32. 
At  the  age  of  seventeen  this  lady  taught 
school,  which  she  contiiuied  until  her  marri- 
age in  18.59  to  Hiram  W.  Lamb.  About  a 
hundred  of  her  poems  have  appeared  in  the 
periodical  press.  Mrs.  Lamb  is  very  fond  of 
art,  and  has  painted  many  fine  pictures  that 
have  been  highly  praised. 

SENTIMENT. 
Tlioy  dug  a  giave  between  them. 

So  cold  and  dark  and  deep; 
And  as  they  stood  beside  it. 

Both  were  too  proud  to  weep. 
.\n  inward  shrudder  chill'd  them 

With  a  momentary  i);dn. 
But  they  came  to  bury  sentiment 

And  be  themselves  again. 
In  silence  then  each  turned  away. 

But  Oh  !  it  was  not  grief; 
To  be  released  from  sentiment 

Would  be  a  great  relief. 
.\ll  unawares  they  buried  love 

Within  that  cruel  grave. 
And  w^hen  too  late  would  givin  worlds 

The  little  >•  god  "  to  save. 


*- 


924 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.   MARY   P.   S.   ARMS. 

BORN :  Gibson  Co.,  Ind.,  Oct.  6, 1847. 
Fob  many  years  the  subject  of  this  sketch 
taught  school  in  Ohio  and  Kansas,  and  in 
1870  went  to  live  with  her  sister  in  Kansas. 

In   ISVl    --li''    "n-,    iiiai'i'icd   t(i   Willimii   Arms 


MKS.  MARY  P.  S.  ARMS. 

and  is  now  a  resident  of  Beckwith,  Cala., 
where  for  nearly  twenty  years  she  has 
resided  in  a  valley  where  the  scenery  is 
grand.  The  poems  of  Mrs.  Arms  have  ap- 
peared chiefly  in  the  California  press.  She 
has  a  family  of  several  children. 


"Poppies  for  beauty,"  the  poets  may  tell, 
Surely  a  lesson  they  teach  us  so  well. 
From  mountain  to  ocean  all  the  way  along 
They  gladden  the  world  like  the  notes  of  a 
song. 

They  gather  the  sunshine  their   cups   will 

hold, 
And  freely  they  give  us  their  gifts  of  gold, 
From  sage-grown  plains  from  aisles  of  grass, 
They  look  smilingly  up  at  all  who  pass. 


CALIFORNIA  POPPIES. 

Born  of  the  sunshine  and  born  of  the  dew. 
Lifting  bright  faces  up  toward  tlie  blue, 
Drinking  life's  fullness  unmindful  of  gloom. 
Radiant  in  color,  lavish  in  bloom. 

Blooming  in  May  and  blooming  in  June, 
As  iM-ight  as  a  mid-summer  day  at  noon. 
Blooming  at  spring-tide  and  tlirough  sum- 
mer days. 
Blooming  when  Autumn  wraps    nature  in 

haze. 
Bordering  the  fields,  mingling  with  the  grain, 
Laughingin  ourdoor-yards.dottiiigthe  plain 
Down  in  the  valleys  with  orange  and  vines. 
I   Fringing  the  hills  smiling  up  at  the  pines. 


TWO  ARE  BETTER  THAN  ONE. 
Only  one  bud  on  a  bending  twig. 

One  bee  on  its  honeyed  quest. 
Just  one  child  at  play  on  the  green. 

One  bird  in  its  feathered  nest. 

Glad  is  the  life  that  is  throbbing 
In  the  child  without  thought  of  care. 

And  the  bird  in  its  nest  has  fashioned 
With  its  treasures  of  straw  and  bair. 

And  the  bee  who  knows  the  secret 
Of  the  buds  which  swell  in  the  sun, 

But  in  our  heart  of  hearts  we  know 
This,  that  two  are  better  than  one. 

One  laborer  toiling  homeward. 
Aweary  when  the  day  is  done. 

To  the  solitary  hearthstone. 
When  there  is  but  room  for  one. 

It  is  sad  to  labor  alone 

From  the  rise  to  the  set  of  sun. 
And  sad  indeed  is  the  hearthstone, 

That  offers  a  home  but  for  one. 

A  child  asleep  in  the  cradle. 
Another  at  play  in  the  sun. 

Joyously  sings  the  mother 
Surely  two  are  better  than  one. 

A  laborer  briskly  turning 

To  his  home  when  the  day  is  done. 
Thinking  of  wifely  welcome  sings 

Gladly,  two  are  better  than  one. 

And  all  of  our  hearts  make  echo 
Surely,  two  are  better  than  one. 

Whether  birds  in  feathered  nest. 
Or  children  at  play  in  the  sun. 

Or  a  man  and  a  woman  toiling 
Till  days  and  tlioir  toil  are  done. 

If  they  work  and  wait  together, 
Truly,  two  are  better  than  one. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


92o 


-l^^ 


MRS.  SARAH  PROCTOR  BEL. 

Born:  Milford,  N.  H.,  Feb.  15,  1850. 
In  1868  this  lady  became  a  teacher,  and' in 
1880  she  met  and  inarrird  in  California  Prof. 
Alphonso  T'.i  1.    Tlic  i)oems  and  sketches  of 


MUs.    SAUAH  F.    PKOCTOU  UEL. 

Mrs.  Sarah  F.  Bel  have  appeared  in  the 
Overland  Monthly  and  the  periodical  press 
generally.  Her  poems  will  soon  appear  in 
book-form  under  the  title  of  Ornaments  of 
Rhyme.    She  now  resides  in  Middletown,  Ct. 

TO   SOME  POD  Y. 
Wlien  the  rosy  light  of  tlie  sunset 

Is  fading-  away  from  the  sky, 

I  look  from  my  western  window; 

And  the  breeze  blowing-  lightly  by 

Seems  bringing-  to  me. 

Sweet  thoughts  of  thee. 

For  the  twiliglit  hour  is  the  best  one 

For  dreaming- of  absent  friends; 
And  the  darkening-  light  after  sunset 
A  dreamy  quietness  lends. 
My  thoughts  fly  away, 
As  flietli  the  day. 
Perhaps  at  this  hour,  my  loved  one. 

Afar  over  river  and  plain, 
You  are  wishing-  that  time  would  hasten 
And  bring  the  day  ag-ain, 
Tliat  yt)u  may  tell 
How  you  lo%'e  me  well. 
But  you  do  not  need  to  tell  me. 

You  love  me  and  you  love  me  true; 
I  know  the  proverb  that  ••  Actions 


Speak  louder  tlian  words  "  ever  do. 
God  bless  you,  I  pray! 
Forever  and  aj-o  I 


THE  BOVV  OF  PROMISE. 
At  the  close  of  a  long  and  weary  day 
The  rain  came  falling-  down  ; 
The  clouds  were  dark  and  the  sun  was  hid. 
The  fields  looked  dry  and  brown. 
My  heart  had  been  sad  with  thoughts  of  care 
And  my  eyes  were  hea\-y  witli  tears: 
The  clouds  are  weeping-,  I  said  to  myself. 
And  smiled  as  I  thought  of  my  fears. 
Because  all  day  I  had  prayed  for  streng-th 
And  tried  to  hope  for  the  best,  [vain, 

My  work  seemed  hopeless;  my  prayers  in 
My  life  seemed  losing  its  zest. 
But  then  above  and  over  the  drops 
Which  were  falling  thick  and  fast, 
A  beautiful  arch  of  colors  burst  forth 
To  saj- :     "  The  storm  will  not  last." 
So  just  as  the  "bow  of  promise"  lig-hts  up 
The  landscape  bare  and  brown,  [heart. 

The   promise  of   God    brings    cheer  to  my 
As  the  rain  comes  falling-  down. 


THE  BIRDS. 
I  thre-w  a  handful  of  crumbs  to  the  birds. 
The  little  brown  birds,  one  winter  morn. 

No  time  to  waste. 

They  came  in  haste,  [gone. 

And    eagerly  pecked  till  the  crumbs  were 
They  seemed  so  happy  and  seemed  so  gay. 
In  spite  of  all  the  green  things  dead; 

They  hopped  and  flew, 

(My  story  is  true). 
So  glad  to  find  their  breakfast  spread. 
They  would  fly  away,  a  dozen  or  so. 
Startled  at  something  or  otlier,  who  knows? 

Then  back  to  tlie  feast, 

Witli  twenty,  at  least,  [pose. 

Some  friends  or  neighbors  of  theirs,  I  sup- 
Going  and  coming  so  merry  and  free,[spared 
They  flnislied,    at   last,  the    crumbs  I  had 

From  my  pantry  shelf; 

And  as  for  myself,  [shared. 

I  watched  them  with  pleasure,  glad   I  had 
The  crumbs  all  gone,  my  birdies  flew 
And  one  came  straight  to  my  window  pane. 

As  much  as  to  say, 

..  We  thank  you  to-day. 
And  liope  you'll  remember  to  feed  us  again." 
As  the  little  bird  came  with  a  message  ot 
A  joyful  chirp  and  flutter  of  wing:    [thanks. 

May  we  boar  in  mind. 

Our  Father  kind. 
And  always  remember  our  thanks  to  slug 


-* 


9- 


926 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


EMMA  A.  LEHMAN. 

Born:  Bethania,  N.  C.  1841. 

The  poem  Sunset  on  Pilot  Mouutaiu,  first 
appeared  in  tlie  New  York  Observer,  thence 
extensively  copied  all  over  the  country.  She 
has  published  Sketches  of  European  Travel, 


EMMA  A.  LEHMAN. 

a  book  of  great  interest,  which  has  been  fa- 
vored with  extensive  notices  from  the  press. 
This  lady  is  now  Professor  of  English  Liter- 
ature and  Composition  in  tlie  oldest  Female 
College  of  the  South,  at  Salem,  N.  C,  which 
position  she  has  filled  for  twenty-five  years. 


SUNSET  ON  PILOT  MOUNTAIN. 
The  shadows  slanting  westward  now  assume 
A  liazy  outline  e'er  the  evening  gloom 
Engulfs  and  closely  wraps  yon  rising  moon. 
The  crimson  flashes  of  the  sotting  sun 
Glow  from  the  windows  of  the  mighty  dome. 
As  if  the  giant  of  the  castle  lighted  up 
His  evening  fires,  and  quaffed  liis  evening 

cup. 
Fantastic  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro. 
As  fancy  mist-wreaths,   curling,  come  and 

go. 
The  grand  old  Pilot  stands,  majestic  and  sub- 
lime, 
A  kingly  presence,  frowning  o'er  the  hills  of 
time; 


He  reigned  supreme,  father  of  myriad  rills, 
When  Judah's  star  arose  on  Orient  hills; 
He  stood  a  dread  ambassador  to  heaven  from 

earth. 
When    morning   stars   sang  chorals  to  her 

birth; 
His  purple  shadows  frowned  o'er  rocky  dell, 
E're  Tyre  arose,  or  Priam's  city  fell ! 
While  Old  World  splendor  faded  into  night, 
Or  New   World   forests  hailed  the  dawning 

light; 
He  stood  alone,  a  mighty  beacon  high. 
Telling  the  weary  wanderer  "  Home  is  nigh." 

A  hoary  priest  he  sits  —  enthroned  in  state  — 
With  sacerdotal  stole  and  jeweled  plate; 
Ruby,  carnelian.  topaz,  amethyst, 
Jasper,  chalcedony  and  sardonyx. 
Rich  tints  commingled,  until,  all  aglow, 
A  violet  splendor  covered  all  below; 

While  far-up  rocky  steeps  reflect  the  light. 
And  lambent  tongue-flames  leap  fromhight 

to  hight. 
Upon  his  castellated  brow  the  evening  star 
Beams  clear  and  bright,   with   glory  from 

afar. 
The   mist-robed  hills    kneel    to  their  great 

High  Priest, 
In  dim  confessional,  from  great  to  least; 

And  nature's    choral    anthem  rings  mean- 
while. 
Through  every  woodland  nook   and  forest 

aisle. 
The  wailing  minor  of  the  sad-voiced  pines 
"  In  Kyrie  Eleison"  sweetly  chimes,— 
Until  the  moon's  soft   benediction   gently 

falls. 
And  night's  dark  mantle  shrouds  them  in  a 
pall. 

The  moon  now  beams  queen  regnant  of  the 

sky, 
A.ssumes  the  sceptre  which  the  sun  lays  by; 
Orion  leads  the  brilliant,  starry  host , 
With  stately  tread   they  climb  the  shining 

cope. 
While,  in  the  center  of  this  star-lit  dome. 
Thou  stand'st,  oh   Mount!  grand,  beautiful. 

alone. 

The  calm  and  restful  strength  thy  presence 

gives 
Imbues nie  with  a  now-born  strength  to  live. 
The  everlast  ing  hills !  with  soothing  art. 
E'er  still  the  pulses  of  my  restless  lieart,- 
And  I  am  raised  from  earth  to  lieaven. 
By  strength  and  calm  endurance  through 

thee  given. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


927 


MRS.  LOUISA  C.  SMYTH. 

Born:  Union  Co.,  O.,  1&31. 
The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  in  the 
Dresden  Transcript  and  the  local  press.    She 
is  a  member  of  the  W.  C.  T.  U.,  and   takes 


MKS.  LOUISA  C.  S.MYTH. 

frreat  interest  in  temperance  worls.  She  was 
married  in  1851  to  W.  C.  Smyth,  and  still  re- 
sides at  Dresden,  Ohio. 


AUTUMN. 
The  leaves  are  falling  one  by  one 

Upon  the  frosty  ground, 
Their  mission  here  seems  scarce  begun 

Until  in  the  darlsened  woods  them  found 
Nestling  beneath  the  fallen  trees 

Or  in  the  shady  dell ; 
O'er  which  they  flitted  in  the  breeze 

And  loved  their  music  well. 
Nature  puts  on  her  sombre  hue 

I     As  her  brightness  fades  away. 
And  I  that  have  a  work  to  do 
Must  make  no  more  delay. 
For  soon  our  time  will  end  below 
I     And  wc  must  then  go  home 
To  meet  our  Sa^-ior  dear,  or  go 
I     Down  to  our  Eternal  doom. 

HEAVEN. 

The  land  of  rest  and  peace, 
The  ho;ne  for  which  we  strive, 

How  we  long  to  be  released 
And  go  to  our  home  on  high. 


This  lite  is  full  of  cares 

And  sickness  and  unrest. 
But  every  hour  still  leaves 

Our  longing  souls  to  re.st. 
But  we  will  bide  our  time 

And  wait  our  Father's  caU, 
We  that  to  Him  resign 

Who  is  our  all  in  all. 
When  this  short  life  is  spent. 

And  our  feeble  bodies  fail; 
With  joy  we  will  ascend 

To  the  realms  of  endless  day. 

FRANK  D.  ALLKX. 

Born  :  Wyoming,  1a.,  Nov.  1867. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Allen  have  appeared  in 
manj-  of  the  leading  publications.  He  is  a 
thorough  business  man,  and  an  active  and 
prominent  journalist,  and  editor  and  pro- 
prietor of  the, Audubon  County  Advocate  of 
Audubon,  Iowa.  He  has  traveled  for  lead- 
ing Omaha  Dailies  in  capacity  ot  special  cor 
respondent,  having  visited  the  Pacific  Ocean 
four  times'and  viewed  the  principal  places 
of  interest  in  this  country. 


THREE  VIEWS  OF  LIFE. 
"Life,"  cries  the  youthful  mind,  happy  with 

glee, 
"  Is  a  haven  of  pleasure.boundless  and  free, 
A  journey  'mongst  blessings,  comforts  and 

ease, 
Almost  endless  it  looks  across  its  fair  seas. 
I  will  glide  for  long  years  in  rapture's  de- 
light. 
Aye  long  will  it  be  till  my  sun  sets  at  night. 
Two  score  years  have  greeted  the  once  happy 
youth,  truth: 

He  looks  o'er  the  past,  is  impressed  with  a 
■•  Life,  I  have  found  is  not  what  it  seemeti, 
Nor  has  it  gave  forth  the   blessings  I  dream- 
ed. 
But  I'll  live  in  the  future  and  calm  may  it 

be. 
Till  I  finish   my  journey  o'er  Ufe's  shallow 

sea." 
'Tis  cow  an  old  man  that  looks  o'er  the  past. 
Aged,  wrinkled  and  gray,  his  sun  goes  down 
fast,  [tears, 

Witli  hands  to  liis  brow  and  eyes  filled  with 
He   despairingly  speaks  of   the  past  bitter 
years;  [a  gleam, 

"Youth's  visions  are  baseless,  its  hopes  l)ut 
Life's  staff  but  a  reed  and  life  but  a  dream. 
But  perhaps  o'er  the  river,  on  yon  shining 

sliore, 
I  will  meet  all  those  pleasures  that  I  ne'er 
found  before. 


*- 


928 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF    AMERICA. 


MRS.  LAURA  E.  NEWELL. 

Born:  New MAKLBOKOUGH,MASS.,rEB.5,1854 

This  lady  is  a  song  writer  of  national  repu- 
tation. Slie  has  a  passionate  fondness  for 
music.and  furnishes  songs  to  music  for  many 
eminent  American  composers,  and  her  songs 
and  poems  are  read  and  sung  all  over  the 


LAURA   E.  NEWELL. 


country.  Mrs.  Newell  has  written  over  a 
thousand  poems,  which  have  appeared  in  the 
Youth's  Companion,  Arthurs's  Magazine 
and  the  leading  publications  of  America. 
She  was  married  in  1871  to  Mr.  L.  Newell  of 
Denver,  Colo.,  and  now  resides  in  a  beauti- 
ful country  home  in  Zeandale,  Kansas, which 
has  been  her  adopted  state  for  nearly  forty 
years. 


AT  NIGHT  IT  SHALL  BE  CALM. 
At  night  it  shall  be  calm 
And  peace,  sweet  peace  prevail. 
All,  all  shall  be  serene. 
E'en  tho'  my  senses  fail, 
As  benedictive  psalm. 
At  night  it  shall  be  calm. 

At  night  it  shall  be  calm, 
'Though  through  the  livelong  day 
I  strive  with  hardest  fate. 


More  grievous  grows  the  way. 
As  laden  with  a  balm. 
At  night  it  shall  be  calm. 

Perchance  the  toil  and  heat 
And  din  that  comes  of  day 
Shall  fret  my  weary  soul. 
As  through  the  wilds  I  stray. 
And  troubled  and  distressed 
My  longing  lieart  would  rest. 

Then  o'er  life's  stormy  sea 
A  sweet  voice  calls  to  me: 
.'  A  little  way  of  care. 
Be  brave,  thy  burden  bear. 
Rest  cometh  with  its  balm. 
At  night  it  shall  be  calm."' 

No  pent-up  grief,  nor  woe. 
Shall  dim  the  sunset's  glow; 
No  future  griefs  to  bear, 
No  weight  of  want  or  care. 
To  some  the  victor's  palm. 
With  peace  at  twilight's  calm. 

To  me  who  through  the  day 
Have  borne  the  toil  and  pain. 
Have  striven  for  an  end. 
And  counted  losses  gain; 
How  sweet  the  night  will  be. 
From  care  and  trial  free. 

Oh!  welcome  then  the  night 
With  shadows  deep  and  long; 
I'd  greet  the  fading  light 
With  prayer  and  vesper  song. 
In  sweet  repose  to  sleep. 
No  more  to  wake  nor  weep. 

I'd  close  my  weary  eyes 

To  never  wake  again 

Until  in  Paradise. 

I'd  join  the  sweet  refrain 

Where  none  a  care  may  know. 

And  flowers  unfading  grow. 

And  as  a  trusting  child 
I'd  lay  me  down  to  rest, 
Apast  earth's  dreary  waste 
I'd  slumber  on  His  breast. 
With  all  the  storms  asleep 
While  stars  their  vigils  keep. 

At  night  it  shall  be  calm. 

And  peace,  sweet  peace  prevail. 

All,  all  shall  be  serene, 

E'en  tlunigh  my  senses  fail, 

As  benedictive  psalm. 

At  night  it  shall  be  calm. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


* 

929 


LILLA  GIBBS. 

Born:  Illinois,  1866. 
At  the  ag^eof  fourteen  her  parents  removed 
to  Kansas,  where  slie  now  resides  at  Clierrj-- 
vale.        For  several    j'ears    she    has  taught 


LILI>A  GIBBS. 

school  successfully.  The  poems  of  Miss 
Gibbs  have  received  extensive  publication 
in  her  adopted  state  under  the  nom  de  plume 
of  Edelweiss. 


BROWN  AND  GOLD 
A  brown  head  and  a  g-olden  one 
By  the  western  wmdow  in  the  sun. 
Bending  low  above  the  page 
Chronicled  by  many  a  sage. 
Eager  to  discern  the  part 
Each  one  left  to  future  art, 
Heedless  of  the  perfume  sweet 
Showered  at  their  very  feet 
By  the  scented  summer  air; 
And  of  the  meadow  stretching  fair 
And  giving  of  its  precious  grain 
Loads  for  the  farmer's  creaking  wain. 
And  in  the  sunlight's  molten  gold 
Their  book,  the  white  hands  listless  hold, 
As  two  eyes  of  earnest  blue  look  down 
Into  the  laughing  ones  of  brown, 
And  the  old,  old  story  is  told  again; 
Hearts,  no  longer  content  with  friend 
Claim  those  deeper,  purer  ties 
For  which  naught  is  considered  a  sacrifice. 


In  the  language  lovers  under.sland 
Eye  answers  eye  and  hand  clasps  hand 
As  they  read  from  Nature's  spotless  page 
The  story  as  old  as  creation's  age. 

And,  fraught  with  all  its  sacred  trust, 
With  all  its  freedom-hallowed,  ju.st, 
With  all  its  wealth  of  smiles  and  tears. 
With  all  the  hopes  of  earlier  years. 
With  all  the  good  that  Heaven  may  send. 
With  all  she  is  or  might  have  been; 
With  that  appalling  faith  in  man 
Which  she  has  shown  since  t  ime  began  — 
Upon  the  altar-fires  of  love. 
Sanctioned  by  the  throne  above. 
For  weal  or  woe,  for  sun  or  sliade. 
Another  woman's  soul  is  laid. 

Oh,  angels  pure  should  now  look  down 
'I'o  render  spotless  the  victor's  crown. 
May  all  the  good  his  life  ere  knew 
Combine  to  make  him  good  and  true. 
May  care  sit  lightly  on  his  brow 
Who  dares  to  take  that  sacred  vow. 
With  blessings  rare  since  time  began 
Conspire  to  make  a  perfect  man. 
May  Heaven  weave  for  them  their  fate 
And  tlie  bold  transaction  consecrate. 
When  that  heart  is  wooed  and  won 
By  the  western  window  in  the  sun 


LIFE'S  LESSON. 
Oh  life!  I  have  learned  thy  lesson 
From  thy  stern  schoolmaster  Time, 
As  step  by  step  advancing 
Up  thy  thorny  path  I  climb. 
And  find  in  my  onward  journey 
Thatexiierience  teaches  more 
In  one  little  practical  lesson 
Thau  years  of  classic  lore. 

Oh  Plato!  grand  thy  teaching 

But  more  thy  soul  has  learned 

In  that  sweet  immortality 

For  which  thy  spirit  j-earned. 

For  what  were  the  heights  of  reasoning 

W'hich  thy  patient  zeal  hath  trod. 

Did  we  not  see  in  God-built  nature 

The  love  of  nature's  God? 

Oh,  pure  in  frosty  beauty 

The  whole  earth  lies  to-day 

With  not  one  spot  on  her  bosom. 

But  every  jeweled  spray 

Tinkles  its  tiny  cymbal 

Red  with  the  sunrise  fire. 

And  not  one  discordant  tone  is  heard 

In  the  grand  terresttrial  choir 

Save  as  man  makes  it.    Alone  he  stands 

Upon  the  crag  of  doubt 

And  vainly  strives  with  puzzled  brow 

To  study  the  mystery  out. 


-* 


*- 


930 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


DANIEL  F.  HODGES. 

Born:  Belfast,  Me.,  Feb.  17, 1835. 
Between  the  yeur.s  1869  uiid  1878  Mr.  Hodges 
edited  six  music  boolis  published  by  Lee  aud 
Shepard  of  Bostou,  Mass.,  and  the  next  five 
years  lie  edited  five  music  books  published 
by  White-Smith  Music  Pub.  Co.  of  the  same 


DANIEL  F.  HODGES. 

city.  Mr.  Hodges  lias  also  written  words 
and  music  for  a  dramatic  cantata,  and  music 
for  two  operettas,  published  by  Oliver  Dit- 
son  &  Co.,  Boston.  He  has  composed  more 
than  two  thousand  pages  of  music,  and  has 
written  over  a  hundred  poems  that  have  ap- 
peared in  the  periodical  press.  Mr.  Hodges 
has  traveled  extensively  in  the  United  Stales, 
but  is  now  taking  a  needed  rest  and  is  at 
work  on  a  historical  poem.  He  was  married 
in  1859  to  Miss  Margaret  A.  Calden,  and  now 
resides  at  Pliillips,  Maine,  with  his  wife  and 
children. 


*- 


SIMILE. 
The  sunset  falls  upon  the  boundless  main 
Whose  tireless  pulse-beats  throb  upon   tlie 

shore 
In  minor  cadence  low.    The  summer  breeze 
To  which  the  flowers  have  offered   incense 

rare, 
Tliroughout  the  golden  day,  echoes  the  strain 
In  softened  repetitions  o'er  the  hills. 
Inland,  and  many  weary  leagues  away. 
Upon  a  sterile  hill  alone  pine  stands; 


The  storms  of  fifty  winters  have  been  cast 
Upon  its  rugged  form,  which,  l)owedby  force. 
Gave  back  discordant  echoes  to  the  gale. 
As  if  in  indignation,  at  the  blow.        [strains 
To-night  the  sea  breeze  which  had  heard  the 
Of  murm'ring  music  on  the  ocean's  shore. 
Came  wand'riug  where  the  lone  pine  stands 
And  touched  its  craggy  arms;  and  lo!    the 

tree 
In  sympathy,  responsive,  gave  the  tones, 
Of  unlieiird  music  from  the  distant  sea.— 
And  thus  with  me  mj-  darling:    rough  at 

best. 
And  lonely  since  thou  sailed  away  across' 
Death's    silent  sea:    I  struggle  'gainst  the 

storms  [steals 

Of  ill-starred    life;    but  when  thy  mem'ry 
Across  me,  from  the  home  beside  the  sea 
Of  grand  eternity;  my  soul  responsive 
Goeth    out    in    hope,  and  all   life's   rudest 

thoughts  are  laid  at  rest. 

NOW. 
Kisses  which  fall  upon  the  dead's  mute  lips. 
Like  dew  on  roses  which  the  first  frost  nips. 
Come  all  too  late:  [spe;ik: 

'Tis  better  far  to  give  them  while  the  lips  can 
The  golden  chord  of  life  at  best  is  weak! 

Ah !  do  not  wait. 
Kind  words  in  ears  whose   earthly  powers 

are  spent. 
Like  sunshine  on  the  tree  by  lightning  rent. 

Can  give  no  balm: 
'Tis  better  far  to  give  them  wliile  those  ears 

can  hear; 
For  life  has  much  of  woe,  and  much  of  fear! 

And  love  brings  calm. 
It  is  too  late  when  life's  lamp  burnetii  low- 
When  hands  once  warm  are  chill  as  winter's 
snow 

To  do  kind  deeds: 
•Tis  better  here,  where  feet  are  prone  to  slide; 
'Tis  better  now  —  than  wait  till  eventide 

To  help  their  needs. 
Ah,  friends :  dear  friends  —  if  any  such  there 
be-  tme 

Keep  not  your  loving  thoughts  aivay  from 

Till  I  am  gone : 
I  want  them  now  to  help  me  on  my  way. 
As  lonely  watchers  want  the  light  of  day 

Ere  it  is  moi'n. 
And  though  sometimes  my  heart  o'er  some 

sore  wrong- 
Long  brooding,  weaves  some  bitterness  in 
song; 

'Tis  but  a  shade 
Within  life's  text  iiri-  where  the  best  are  poor 
O,  close  not  up  to  many  faults  Love's  doorl 
I  need  your  aid. 


I.OCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEIUCA. 


9:^1 


SOPHIE  REIN  HART. 

Born:  New  Yokk  Citv,  July  29,  1808. 
When  a  child  she  was  taken  to  Europe  by 
her  parents,  and  on  their  return  to  America, 
went  to  San  Francisco,  California,  and  later 


SOPHIE   KEINHART. 

to  Oakland,  where  they  resided  for  eight 
years.  The  poems  of  Miss  Sophie  Reinhart 
have  appeared  in  the  Overland  Monthly  and 
other  publications.  She  now  resides  in  Port- 
land, Oregon. 


A  TWILIGHT  FANCY. 
No  sound  disturbed  tlie  evening-'s  stillness, 
AH  nature  lay  in  calm  repose. 
And  as  my  glance  swept  o'er  tlie  prospect. 
Strange  fancies  to  mj'  vision  rose. 
I  saw  the  golden  sun  wliilst  setting 
Throw  long,  deep  shadows  'cross  the  sea, 
That,  stirred  as  by  some  deep  emotion, 
Wiis  heaving,  panting  restlessly. 
And  hills  and  trees  in  verdant  splendor,— 
Stretched  out  as  far  as  eye  could  reach  — 
Seemed,  by  their  lordly  iieight  and  bearing, 
Heroic  fortitude  to  preach. 
And,  as  I  gazed,  my  vision  clouded, 
E.\istence  seemed  a  dream  obscure. 
My  fancy  tauglit  the  simplest  object. 
In  dress  fantastic,  to  allure. 
A  boat  came  sailing  o'er  the  waters; 
So  smoothly,  gently  did  it  glide. 


Tliat  it  awoke  but  timid  ripples 

Upon  the  surface  of  the  tide. 

'Twas  charming  thus  to  watch  it  dimple 

The  sun-gilt  mazes  of  the  sea. 

Whilst  playful  litlli;  wavehas  frolicked 

Al)out  the  bark  in  mirthful  glee. 

Ensconced  within,  a  youthful  couple 

Steered  dreamily  across  the  tide. 

And  whilst  he  i)liod  the  oars,  the  bark 

Did  swiftly  o'er  the  waters  glide. 

I  gazed  until  from  out  the  heavens 

A  glittering  star  beamed  o'er  the  scene. 

And  blossoms,  kissed  by  balmy  zephyrs. 

Shed  perfume  on  the  air  serene. 

But  woe  unto  the  tranquil  waters! 

An  angry  storm  has  rou.sed  the  sea. 

And  startled,  as  with  flash  of  lightning. 

The  j'oung  pair  from  their  reverie. 

And  as  against  the  tide  they  battle. 

It  riots  at  these  warlike  signs. 

And  tosses  high  with  angry  howl 

The  boat  into  the  dark,  deep  lines. 

Yet  storms  may  rage  and  billows  threaten. 

The  bark  keeps  bravely  on  its  course; 

Nor  e'er  where  hope  and  courage  mingle 

Can  Ijoat  be  sunk  by  such  a  force. 

And  see!  it's  not  long  hid  in  darkness. 

E'en  in  the  light  again  it  stands; 

Then  ever  on  the  boat  keeps  shifting. 

Shifting  through  the  colored  bands. 

Now  rapidly  the  sun  is  sinking 

Her  image  mirrored  in  the  deep. 

While  slowly  from  behind  the  liilltops 

The  twilight  gray  begins  to  peep. 

Then    through    the   gloom    the  land-breeze 

greets  them. 
They  know  they've  reached  their  home  at 

last. 
The  lamp  of  safety,  beaming  briglitly. 
Assures  them  that  all  danger's  past. 

But,  as  T  watched  them  disappearing. 
My  lieart  with  .sorrow  pierced,  sank  low; 
For  fancy,  e'er  alert  and  active. 
Portray "d  this  death,— light,  joy— dark,  woe. 
All's  past.    The  waves  no  more  arc  dancing', 
The  dream  has  fled  from  Fancy's  Hall. 
The  sun  has  set  in  all  his  splendor. 
And  darkness  once  more  reigns  o'er  all. 
Yet  one  light,  which  my  dream  lias  kindled. 
Shall  teach  us,  .sailing  o'er  life's  tide. 
To  steer  alike  througli  light  .and  shadow. 
With  courage,  liope,  and  manly  pride. 
For  no  life's  drawn  without  some  shading. 
And  well  it  is  it  is  not  so. 
Had  we  the  joys  and  not  the  sorrows. 
Grief  would  be  bliss,  and  bliss  be  woe. 


^- 


932 


l.OCAL   AMD   NATIONAL  POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


BRAINERDP.  EMERY. 

Born:  Southport,  Conn.,  March  35, 1865. 

As  A  journalist  Mr.  Emery  is  well  known  in 
the  East,  and  resides  in  Newburgh,  New 
York.  He  has  written  about  two  hundred 
poems  which   have  appeared  in  the  Judge, 


BRAINERD  PRESCOTT  EMERY. 

Century  Magazine,  Texas  Siftings,  Peter- 
son's Mag-aziue,  and  other  well  known  maga- 
zines and  newspapers.  Mr.  Emery  is  the 
author  of  two  books  —  In  Sunshine  and 
Shadow,  and  In  the  Haunts  of  Bloom  and 
Bird,  both  of  which  have  received  an  ex- 
tensive circulation. 


ALADDIN. 
His  minions  change  green  into  gold, 
They  tint  with  crimson  wood  and  wold; 

They  deck  the  forest  in  the  sheen 
Of  dusky  amber,  and  the  green 

Is  made  a  carpet  wide  unrolled 

Of  leaves  of  purple,  brown  and  gold! 

He  rubs  his  lamp,  his  minions  Hy 
To  do  his  bidding  far  and  nigh. 

Ho  riiles  the  world  when  Summer's  lost, 
Aladdin  he  —  white-armored  Frost! 


UNANSWERED. 
What  hand  doth  pluck  the  roses  which  at 

dawn 
Ate  scattered  in  the  dewy  Eastern  sky. 
And  there  in  pink  and  golden  masses  lie 
Until  the  sun's  bright  glow  proclaims  full 

morn? 
O,  from  what  heavenly  garden  are  they  torn? 
Have  they  been  nurtured  by  Love's  smile  or 

sigh. 
That  they  so  soon  will  lose  their  sheen,  and 

die. 
And   as    they    fade,  become   the   morrow's 

scorn? 
Alas!  unanswered  are  my  thoughts,  and  yet 
I  cannot  still  their  promptings  when  I  see 

The  pink  and  golden  roses  flee, 
To  hide  till  eve,  when  o'er  their  petals  falls 
Night's  footstep  echoing  along  her  lialls. 
And  stars  shine  faintly  where  the  sun  has 

set! 


O  THAT  HEARTS  MIGHT  FOLLOW. 

Where  the  swift-winged  swallow 

Flies,  his  mate  may  follow, 

Over  land  and  over  sea 

To  the  plains  where  peacefully 

Summer  reigns  with  fruit  and  flower, 

Not  for  days  nor  for  an  hour. 

But  is  ever  throned  tliere 

In  the  balmy,  song-fllled  air; 

Where  the  swift-winged  swallow 

Flies,  his  mate  m;iy  follow. 

Nesting  on  the  self-same  bough 

White  with  blossoms  as  with  snow: 

But  when  to  the  unknown  land  — 

Land  of  sleep  whose  wondrous  strand 

Meets  a  sea  forever  sleeping. 

Sea  whose  waves  are  only  weeping!  — 

Thou,  my  love,  hast  fled,  I  follow 

Never,  never,  like  the  swallow; 

But  amid  these  fields  so  sweet. 

Where  the  clover  blossoms  meet 

In  a  maze  of  splendid  flame. 

Here  alone  1  call  your  name 

With  an  empty  echo  crying 

Back  my  words,  and  no  replying 

From  the  lips  1  used  to  kiss  — 

Lost  one,  this  and  only  this! 

I  am  left  alone  to  grieve 

While  the  niemoi'ics  never  leave 

Of  the  days  when  we  logetlier 

Wandered  through  the  sunny  weather. 

O  tliat  I  had  wings  to  follow 

Like  thy  strong  wings,  happy  swallow; 

But,  my  heart,  take  courage  now. 

Though  thy  mate  has  left  the  bough. 

Yet  some  dny,  as  flies  the  swallow. 

Thou,  true  heart,  thy  mate  will  foUowl 


^~ 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMKUICA. 


933 


-* 


REV.   JOHN  WELLS  BRIER. 

Born:  Michigan,  1843. 
First  Mr.  Brier  studied  law,  but  subse- 
quently entered  the  miuistry  and  was  or- 
dained as  a  Cougregatioual  minister  in  1873. 
He  has  lectured  extensively  in  California,  of 
wliipb  state  he  li;i«  been  a  resident  since  a 

r 


KEV.  JOHN  WELLS  BKIEK. 

Child.  The  Rev.  John  W.  Brier  has  written 
more  than  a  hundred  poems,  many  of  which 
have  appeared  in  current  publications.  He 
was  married  in  1882  to  Miss  Mersey  A. 
Switzerand  resides  witli  liis  wife  and  chil- 
dren in  Lodi,  California,  of  which  city  he  is 
a  prominent  clergyman. 


SONG  TO  THE  SEA. 
Ah!  ocean!  thou  art  very  old. 
Thy  voice  is  hoarse,  thy  name  is  lioar. 
But  youth  is  tliine  forever  more. 
And  all  thy  streng-th  can  ne'er  be  told. 
And,  Oh,  liow  long-,  how  deep  and  wide. 
The  rolling  of  thy  heavy  tide! 
We  count  the  measure  of  our  gain 
Three  tiiousand  miles  of  hill  and  pl.ain; 
Yet  three  times  three  is  thy  domain. 
Thy  mountains  rise  and  fall  at  will; 
Thy  heaving  breast  is  never  still; 
Thy  throbbing  heart  would  more  than  fill 
A  planet's  bosom.     Pluto's  fire 
Could  never  brook  tliy  chillingire. 
Nor  all  his  tongues  of  parching  sip 
The  foam  that  gathers  on  thy  lip. 


Heaving  afar,  or  sporting  nigh, 

How  awful  is  thy  majesty! 

Who  treads  familiar  on  thy  strand? 

Who  lays  on  thee  familiar  hand? 

What  fool  essays  to  understand 

Why  the  round  world  thy  billows  bind. 

Why  thou  wert  born  to  awe  mankind? 

Subservient  thunders  o'er  thee  tread 

Quell'd  by  thy  voice,  more  deep  and  dread; 

And  thou  hast  gathered  in  thy  dead. 

Since  the  first  daring  sail  was  spread. 

The  wind  be  raw,  the  black'uing  sky. 

The  moan,  the  groan,  the  weary  sigh. 

And  all  the  sails  that  o'er  thee  fly. 

Belong  to  thee. 

Thou  sounding  sea? 

Tliy  hungry  billows  lick  the  sand 
And  hiss  their  anger  at  the  shore; 
Thy  jaws  prolong  a  sullen  roar; 
Thy  huge  folds  writhe  beneath  the  hand 
That  binds  thee  ever  to  thy  strand. 
And  yet  the  mist  upon  the  hills. 
The  crowns  of  iris  tinted  gray 
That  bind  the  golden  locks  of  day 

Are  all  of  thee. 

Thou  sounding  sea! 

The  tropic  isles  where  cor.al  walls 
Enclose  the  tranquil  azure  bay. 
And  holds  besieging  tides  away; 
Where  gently  rises,  gently  falls 
The  chiming  wave  at  close  of  day; 
The  South  Sea's  passioned  roundelay; 
The  isles  where  spicy  breezes  blow. 
And  gifts  to  man  spontaneous  flow; 
Fruits  cultured  by  no  hand  of  toil; 
The  wine  of  jialm  and  cocoa  oil : 
The  caverns  stored  with  ancient  gold, 
Gems  that  adorned  the  kings  of  old. 
Pearls,  glowing  in  the  mermaid's  hair. 
And  jewels  in  the  sea-wolf's  lair; 
The  emerald  isles,  the  sun-lit  deeps. 
The  tombs  where  buried  grandeur  sleeps. 
And  all  the  worlds  that  yet  shall  rise. 
To  make  thy  waste  a  paradise. 

Are  all  of  thee. 

Thou  sounding  sea  I 
Wlien  I  behold  thee  T  am  glai; 
Vet  in  thy  blue  is  something  sad. 
When  forth  tliou  drawest  all  the  mind. 
To  dare  the  wave  and  trust  the  wind, 
A  nd  tempt  a  voyage  to  that  clime. 
That  lies  beyond  the  marge  of  time- 
So  strange  the  voyage,  passing  far. 
Beyond  the  world's  brief,  broken  day. 
Beyond  the  sun's  far-reaching  r;iy. 
And  twilight  blazoned  with  its  star! 
And  so  thou  art  the  dreg,  the  lee. 
Of  tiie  great  mystic,  boundless  sea. 
And  sometimes  mariners  are  we. 


-* 


*- 


934 


LOCAT.   AMD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  CAROLINE  W.  D.  RICH. 

Born:  Byron,  Maine. 
This  lady  gruduated  from  the  Cambridge 
High  School,  then  eutered  the  Seminary  for 
Young  Ladies  in  Charleston,  Mass.,  from 
which  she  graduated  in  1850.  She  has  writ- 
ten many  beautiful  poems  and  stories, 
wliieh  luive  been   ;i   valuable  aequisitiou  to 


MRS.  CAROt^INE  W.  D.  RICH. 

current  literature.  Mrs.  Rich  is  tlie  author 
of  several  books,  two  of  which  were  souve- 
nirs in  verse.  The  residence  of  Mrs.  Rich  is 
in  Lewistoii,  Me.,  where  her  husband.  Prof. 
Thos.  Hill  Ricli  is  teacher  of  Hebrew  and 
Biblical  Literature  in  Cobb  Divinity  School, 
connected  with  Bates  College. 


MEMORIAL  DAY. 
We  gather  again. 

With  wreaths  for  the  dead. 
Fit  honors  for  them 

Who  for  freedom  have  bled; 
While  the  fragrance  of  flowers. 

Forever  shall  be. 
Like  incense  of  glory, 

Fi'om  Liberty's  tree. 

Ah,  little  they  reck. 

Who  stoop  to  entwine 
The  gift  of  bright  flowers. 

With  the  wild,  trailing  vine  I 
Earth  knows  not  a  Nation, 

Whose  warriors  so  keep 


A  vigil  of  love 
Over  comrades  who  sleep. 

Martial  music,  each  spring-time. 

With  tributes  so  sweet 
And  phalanx,  slow-moving. 

And  drums'  mutfled  beat. 
And  veterans,  war-scarred. 

With  their  standard  above  — 
Such  pageants  repeat 

Freedom's  undying  love. 

Though  mosses  may  creep 

Over  names  carved  with  care. 
The  grasses  grow  tangled. 

Neglect  everywhere; 
O'er  hillocks  where  only 

The  epitaphs  tell 
The  legend  of  him. 

Who  for  Liberty  fell. 

Aye,  these  names  all  may  perish: 

This  granite,  decay; 
The  mounds  become  shapeless. 

Where  children  will  play: 
But  the  ransom  our  nation 

For  freedom  has  paid 
Will  never,  no,  never. 

From  history  fade. 


MUSINGS, 
The  evening's  zephyrs  softly  blow. 
By  brooklets  where  the  harebells  grow. 
While  through  the  sunset's  afterglow. 

Soft  and  low. 
The  whispering  pines  sway  to  and  fro. 

O.  dying  day;  O,  fading  light. 

Thy  purple  tints,  now  dark,  now  bright. 

Like  joys  and  sorrows  in  their  might. 

Come  to-night; 
While  beckoning. spirits  charmmy  sight. 

Night's  curtains  shroud  the  pearly  west; 
The  vision  fades  —  yet  am  I  blest  — 
Sweet  peace,  once  more,  within  my  breast. 

Giving  rest. 
Abides  with  me,  a  heavenly  guest. 


WHO  KNOWS. 
Who  knows  how  soon  a  rose  will  fade. 
How  soon  a  birdling  first  will  fly? 
Who  knows  how  soon  the  dew  will  dry 
Upon  the  grasses  in  the  glade. 
Where  flickering  shadows  fitful  lie? 
Who  knows  where  thistle-down  will  lodge 
When  once  by  zephyrs  lightly  tossed; 
Or  how  a  word  breathed  on  the  air. 
Across  the  lake  returns  again 
From  echoing  hills,  a  sweet  refrain? 
Amid  life's  wear  so  much  is  lost; 
Will  love  and  truth  abide?    Who  knows? 


*- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


935 


-* 


FRED  D.  BLOOMFIELD. 

Bokn:  Sphingville,  N.Y.,  1865. 
The   subject   of    this    sketch    received    his 
eduratiori  at  tlio  fdimiKiii  schools  and  gradu- 
ated fiiim  III!'  liud'.ild  Business  College.     He 


FUEU   D.  lJL<Jl).Ml'lErjD. 

is  the  author  of  ten  songs,  which  have  been 
issued  by  prominent  music  publishers.  Mr. 
Bloomfleld  is  at  present  engaged  as  salesman 
with  headquarters  at  Jamestown,  N.  Y. 


THE   PICTURE   THAT    HANGS   ON   THE 
WALL. 

There's  a  picture  at  home  that  hangs  on  tlie 
'Tis  a  picture  of  mother  we  love,  [wall. 

And  her  dear,  smiling  face,  ever  sweet  wliilo 

on  earth, 
Has  now  gone  to  the  angels  above;       [while 
I  remember  tiie  songs  she  would  sing  to  us 
We  would  listen  to  eaeh  one  and  all. 
And  the  tears  fill  my  eyes,  while  my  love 

never  dies. 
For  the  picture  that  hangs  on  the  wall. 

CHORUS. 

We  will  keep  this  dear  token  whatever  betide, 

For  memories  sweet  it  recalls. 

And  the  tears  fill  my  eyes,  while  my  love 

never  dies, 
For  the  picture  that  bangs  on  the  wall. 
Many  years  liave  gone  by  since  we  last  heard 

her  voice. 
And  a  stone  marks  the  spot  on  the  ground; 
& 


There  we  laid  her  to  rest  on  the  side  of  the 

hill 
Where  the  roses  and  lilacs  abound. 
Yes,  her  spirit  is  .safe  in  tliat  liavon  of  rest. 
Though  no  more  will  we  hear  her  sweet  call. 
And  the  tears  fill  my  eyes,  while  my  love 

never  dies. 
For  the  picture  tliat  hangs  on  the  wall. 

SLEEP  AND  REST  LULLABY. 
Go  to  sleep  my  little  baby. 

Close  your  pretty,  sweet  blue  eyes. 
For  thy  mother  watches  o'er  thee. 

Darling  in  the  cradle  lies. 
How  we  love  the  little  angel. 

Resting  in  his  cosy  nest. 
Lulled  to  sleep  by  song  from  mother. 

Bye-bye,  baby,  sleep  and  rest. 
Cho.— Go  to  sleep  my  little  baby. 

Darling  one  we  all  love  best. 
Lulled  to  sleep  by  song  from  mother. 

Bye-bye,  baby,  sleep  and  rest. 
Locks  of  curly,  golden  tresses. 

On  the  pillow  sleeps  so  fair. 
And  our  eyes  will  ofttimes  wander. 

To  the  cradle  while  he's  there. 
Evening  prayers  for  him  breathed  softly. 

Treasure  babj'  we  love  best. 
Care  for  him.  Oh  God  in  heaven. 

Bye-bye,  baby,  sleep  and  rest. 


MRS,  HARRIET  HOWE. 

Born:  Etna,  Me.,  Aprii.  19, 1866. 
Left  motherless  at  the  age  of  nine.  Harriet 
two  years  later  went  to  live  with  her  elder 
sister  in  California.  She  received  her  educa- 
tion at  the  Oakland  High  School,  and  later 
accepted  a  posit  ion  as  stenographer  in  a  well- 
know  wliolesale  house  in  Los  Angeles.  In 
1888  slie  was  married  to  George  E.  Howe, who 
is  engagedln  business  in  Los  Angeles. 


A  BAY  SHORE. 
A  lonjj-,  low-lying  stretch  of  marshy  land 
Cut  into  Titan  lace-work  here  and  there 
By  pools  and  straits  whose  silent  lifeless 
glare  [stand,— 

Moves  not:  — the  menials  of  the  tide,  they 
Rising  or  falling  ;it  its  sole  command. 
A  shining  gleam  of  shore  lies  yonder  where 
The  restless  wavestheir  rnurtnured  mysteries 
Unto  the  borders  of  the  golden  sand,      [bear 
Beyond,  and  stn-tching  far  into  the  West 
The  changeful  sea,  with  liglit  and  shade  be- 
decked. 
Tosses  its  arms  and  tears  itself  to  spray 
With  surging  melodies  of  wild  unrest: 
While  golden  blaze  and  em'rald  dark,  foam- 
Are  melting  all  in  one  to  mist  away. [flocked. 


-* 


936 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKKICA. 


BYRON  R.  WILLIAMS. 

Born:  Charles  City,  Ia.,  March  16,  18T2. 
Ukder  the  nom  de  plume  of  Wm.   R.   Byron 
the  subject  of  tbis  sketch  has  contributed 
extensively  to  the  press  of  his  native  state. 


BVKrtX   R.  WILLIAMS. 

He  is  now  connected  with  the  Floyd  County 
Advocate,  wliich  is  published  in  his  native 
city,  but  intends  to  take  a  literary  course  in 
some  of  the  leading'  colleges. 


THE  OLD  WATERING  TROUGH. 
The  old  trough  stands  beside  the  road 
In  a  shady,  g-rassy,  g-reen  abode; 
For  many  a  j'ear  through  cloud  and  sun 
Has  the  water  from  out  the  old  spout  run. 
And  splashing- over  the  trough's  green  brink 
It  merrily  cries,  "Come  drink  1  Comedruikl" 
In  the  roadside  shade  the  thirsty  sheep 
Plunge  neath  its  waters  their  noses  deep. 
And,  as  they  pause  from  a  cooling  draught, 
'Mid  the  perfume  of  flower  and  clover  waft. 
Beside  the  water  to  doze  and  blink,  [drink  I" 
The  spout  keeps  urging,  "Come drink!  Come 
The  shepherd  dog,  fatigued  and  gaunt. 
Laps  the  sweet  water  witli  hasty  pant ; 
The  while  he  watches  with  careful  eye 
The  bleating- sheep  which  graze  near  by. 
And,  as  he  turns  from  the  nectared  sink. 
The  spout  calls    sweetly,    "Come   drink!" 

"  Come  drink!" 
The  wearied  tramp  with  quickened  pace 
Turns  from  the  road  with  smiling  face. 
And  from  the  spout  with  parched  lips 
The  pure  cold  water  he  gladly  sips       [thirst 
As   he   quits   the   trough  with    a  slakened 
A  song  from  out  his  throat  doth  burst. 


"  Would  men  were  so  kind  "  lie  sadly  thinks, 

To    say  from  their  store,    "Come  drink!" 

"Come  drink!" 

I 
The  noble  horse  with  hurrying  feet 

Swerves  to  the  right  to  the  waters  sweet,       ' 

And  dwells  so  long  in  the  nectar  bright  j 

That  the  waiting  rider  with  spur-touch  light,  [ 

Reminds  the  beast  of  his  onward  flight;  , 

He  turns,  as  the  water  with  fresh  delight. 

In  mimic  time  with  the  spur's  loose  clink. 

Calls  after,  "  Come  drink!"  "Comedrinkl" 

Forever  stand,  thou  cool  old  trough. 

To  gladden  hearts  again  aud  oft;  ' 

Forever  stand  mid  passing  years,  : 

Through  peace  and  sunshine,  war  and  tears, 

And  may  the  water  o'er  thy  brink 

Forever  cry,  "  Come  drink!  "  "Come drink !"  I 


THE  ABANDONED  MILL. 
Abandoned  mill,  thy  work  is  done. 
As  o'er  thy  wheel  the  waters  lightly  run. 
They  grind  no  grist,  they  drive  no  power; 
The  time  is  past  when  thou  each  hour 
Did'st  grind  the  golden  grain. 
No  more  the  farmer's  jovial  call 
Doth  light  reverberate  against  thy  wall. 
Which  now  grown  green  with  mossy  age. 
Doth  serve  but  as  an  audience 
To  the  foaming  water's  angry  rage. 
Thy  shingles  green  from  eaves  to  peak,         1 
But  serve  the  raindrops  hide-and-seek;  i 

The  swallows  build  beneath  thy  eaves. 
The  brown-thrush  'neath  thy  door-sill  weavesi' 
A  home  for  wife  and  young; 
The  outcast  'neath  thy  roof  doth  find 
A  shelter  from  the  piercing  wind;  ; 

Or  yet,  perchance,  doth  happen  fain,  ' 

A  laughing  party  of  young  folk 
Await  within  the  threatening  rain. 
Thy  road  which  teemed  with  travel  rife. 
Which  led'st  thee  once  a  changeful  life, 
Is  bordered  now  by  flowers  sweet 
Disturbed  not  by  the  steel-shod  feet 
Wliich  once'did  clatter  by; 
The  blood-root  and  the  snowdrop  fair 
Do  mingle  pureness  through  the  air. 
While  fragrance  lends  the  violet, 
Faint^tinged  with  the  cedar's  scent; 
All  make  thee  now  a  nature's  jewel-set, 
Tliou  art,  old  mill,  a  picture  fair, 
A  treasured  place  of  beauty  rare. 
And  if,  indeed,  thy  work  be  done. 
Thou  may'st  yet  gl.adden  many  a  one. 
So  picturesque  art  thou; 
And  if  thy  wheel  now  useless  turns. 
Thy  abandoned  road  be  decked  with  ferns. 
Thou  teachest  if  we  do  our  best 
Each  day  in  honest,  humble  toil, 
'Twill  give  us  in  the  end  — sweet  rest. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


937 


:;f 


LUCY  WILSON. 

Boun:  DovKii,  Mich.,  March  13,  1855. 
The  nidther  of  Miss  Lucy  Wilson  was  jios- 
sessed  of  qiiito  a  little  literary  ability,  and 
was  the  author  of   many  fine   prose  artit-les 

ITT" 


LL'CY  WILSON. 

and  sketches.  The  poems  of  Lucj'  Wilson 
have  appeared  in  the  Cincinnati  Enquirer, 
Sandusky  Republican  and  the  local  press 
generally.  Tliis  author  and  newspaper  cor- 
respondent is  a  resident  of  Vanlue,  Ohio. 


CHKISTMAS  MEMORIES. 
Of  tlie  dear  home  grathering- 
On  the  Liirthday  of  our  Lord, 
Of  loving-,  kindly  voices 
Blending  in  one  sweet  accord. 
Of  Bethleiiem's  wondrous  star 
Sliining  on  the  same  as  when 
The  angels  sang  the  cliorus, 
"Peace  on  cartli  good  will  to  men." 
Of  wreaths  of  lovely  flowers 
And  garliinds  of  fragrant  jiiue. 
Beauteous  wreaths  and  garlands. 
All  were  brought  to  the  shrine. 
The  slirine  of  the  Holy  Cliild 
As  children  their  carols  sang. 
And  angels  watch  were  keeping. 
While  the  world  with  anthems  rang. 

^^VE  LA  COURIER! 
Full  fifty  years  ago  to-day,  where  now 
Our  fair  Gas  City  lifts  licr  statelv  liead, 
J — '- 


(A  city  world-renowned  before  whoso  name 
All  nations  bow  in  silent  reverence,, 
There  stood  "a  .straggling  hamlet  of  cabins" 
Where  winds  tlio  purling  Blancliard,  whose 

banks 
Are  sacred  made  by  tramp  of  children's  feet 
And  sound  of  childisii  laughter.    Issuing 
Out  from  this  hamlet  upon  tlie  broad  sea 
Of  journalism  a  tinj-  craft  set  sail; 
Her  walcliword  ••  Democracy  "  ami  her  care 
"Tiie  Rights  and  Liberties  of  the  People." 
Tills  the  attempt  primeval  and  onward. 
Steadily  buffeting  the  waves,  .she  moved. 
Ambitious  of  success.    Opposition 
Swayed  her  not  from  off   her  course,  but 

tended. 
Rather,  all  sail  to  crowd  and  leave  behind. 
Opposing  forces  that  liad  dared  assail. 
Faithful  chrcniclerof  currents  events 
A  history  unto  herself  she  pi-oves. 
From  the  cause  of  the  Party  she  espoused 
Never  in  allegiance  wavering. 
And  now,  as.  broadened  in  dimensions. 
On  the  full  tide  of  prosperitj'  sails. 


LINES  AUTOGRAPHIC. 

TO  A  FniENU. 

Accept  my  friendship  faithful,  true. 
In  pledge  whereof  I  give  my  hand. 

And  maj-  I  hope  the  same  from  you 
As  all  like  friendships  do  demand. 

TO  A  TKACHER. 

Your's  is  a  life  full  fraught  witli  power. 
For  good;  you  liave  chosen  nobly,  well. 

May  the  work  you  accomplish  be  a  tower 
Of  strength  of  wliich  tongue  can  not  tell. 

TO  MY   BOY    FKIEND,  C.  P. 

Child  of  the  Summer  sunlight! 

I,  a  glorious  promise  see 
In  thj-  dear  blue  eyes  so  bright 

Of  a  future  that  is  to  be  — 
Of  happiness,  love,  and  fame. 

Of  a  life  nobly,  truly  spent. 
Of  a  great  and  honored  name,— 

And  thy  full  success  heaven  sent. 

TO  A  LADY   FRIEND. 

I  see  before  me  a  woman's  face 

Fraught  with  beauteous  got )dnes8,  grace — 

A  form  of  ((ueenly  bearing. 
The  face  of  fair  patrician  mold. 
And  one  to  win,  and  wear,  and  hold 

You  safe  in  love's  dear  keeping. 
May  God  protect  Iier;  may  he  defend. 
And  keep  lier  safe,  my  gracious  friend. 

Safe  in  His  tenderest  care. 


*- 


938 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


DANIEL  J.  SWEET. 

Born:  Berlin,  N.Y.,  April  3, 1847. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  was  in  business  in 
New  York  City  for  fourteen  years,  and  re- 
moved to  Williamstown  in  1873.    Five  years 
later  he  was  appointed  postmaster,  which 


DANIEL  J.  SWEET. 

position  he  still  fills  at  Sweet's  Corners,  Mass. 
Mr.  Sweet  was  married  to  Miss  Alice  A. 
Bulkeley  in  1869,  and  now  has  a  family  of 
several  children.  The  poems  of  Mr.  Sweet 
have  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the  peri- 
odical press,  and  the  song.  The  Driver^s 
Trip,  was  set  to  music  and  published  in  1887. 


WHAT  PLEASURE  IT  GIVES. 
What  pleasure  it  gives  to  us  all. 

As  we  gather  with  you  to-night. 
Meeting  here  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hall, 

With  hearts  feeling  merry  and  lij 


:ht. 


*- 


We  all  gather  here  at  your  home 
To  show  you  our  friendship  and  love 

Of  the  purest  inspiration. 
Fresh  from  the  fountain  above. 

And  wishes  that  your  pathway 

May  bo  serene  and  bright, 
Are  the  tributes  of  affection 

We  bring  to  you  to-night. 

Six  years  have  passed  swiftly  by; 
Death  has  come  and  iileasures  too; 


A  babe  in  the  grave  does  lie; 
Leila's  left  to  comfort  you. 

Nature  says  we'll  pass  away. 
In  our  graves  soon  we  shall  He. 

On  the  resurrection  day 
We  will  come  forth  ne'er  to  die. 

You  have  walked  in  paths  of  love. 
Together  as  husband  and  wife; 

You  have  looked  to  the  Lord  above 
To  guide  and  help  you  in  life. 

The  Lord  being  your  friend  and  guide. 
Your  faith  is  anchored  there  deep; 

He  will  ever  be  at  your  side; 
At  death  on  his  bosom  you'll  sleep. 

In  your  walks  may  flowers  be  strewn. 
Happiness  and  pleasure  appear. 

May  your  life  be  like  lovely  June, 
Are  the  wishes  of  many  friends  here. 


THE  DRIVER'S  TRIP. 
I  hitch'd  up  one  day  my  four-in-hand 

To  a  sleigh  built  light  and  nobby; 
I  had  a  time  to  make  them  stand 

In  front  of  the  "  Transcript "  lobby. 
And  there  I  sat  up  on  my  seat. 

My  heart  light  as  a  feather: 
I  whipp'd  my  hands  and  rubb'd  my  feet. 

For  bitter  was  the  weather. 

But  nevertheless,  I  felt  so  nice. 

That  I  began  to  laugh; 
The  order  was  giv'n  ••  to  Paradise! " 

With  the  Hon'rable  Judge  and  Staff. 
They  finally  came  upon  the  street. 

Oh!  didn't  they  look  g;iy? 
1  at  once  alighted  from  my  seat. 

And  led  them  to  the  sleigh. 

I  took  up  the  reigns  and  crack'd  my  whip, 

(The  Bards  look'd  like  a  daisy) 
But  one  of  the  leaders  tried  to  kick. 

While  tlie  other  was  somewliat  lazy. 
At  last  I  got  tliem  into  gear. 

And  started  for  the  street; 
1  tell  you,  the  Bards  began  to  fear 

Their  driver.  D.  J.  Sweet, 

On  the  street,  on  the  corner  of  Eagle'n  Mani. 

I  puU'd  in  on  the  reins; 
I  passed  tiie  Super,  of  much  fame. 

The  happy  C.  B.  Haynes. 
We  rode  up  to  the  Stamford  heights, 

Of  fame  and  poet  power; 
We  reached  the  place  at  candle-light. 

The  time  was  just  one  liour 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


939 


FLAVIUS  E.  MCFADDEN. 

Bokn:  Embuen,  Me.,  Oct.  30,  1845. 
After  rocciviiiK-  hi.s  education,  this  gentle- 
man followed  mercantile  pursuits  for  sev- 
eral years;  lie  then  read  law  with  his  father, 
and  was  admitted  to  practice  in  1872,  which 
profession   lie   lias   followed  over  since.     He 


FLAVII    -    I       \l    I    MUH.N. 

has  also  a  natural  tal.  la  loi  inintiiig,  and  as 
a  poet  he  is  the  author  of  many  fine  gems, 
which  have  appeared  in  tlie  Portland  Trans- 
cript and  the  periodical  press.  He  was  mar- 
ried in  1866  to  Miss  Harriet  Atwood,  and  has 
a  daughter  Maude,  horn  in  1870. 

';  VOICES  OF  NATURE. 

The  sun  and  moon,  tlie  winds  and  waves. 
The  countless  lives  on  land  and  sea. 
The  mountain  hights,  the  ocean  caves. 

All  tell,  O  God,  of  Thee. 
The  seething,  surging  ocean  roars, 
'And  calmly  swell  the  peaceful  seas; 
jrhey  lash  or  lave  tlieir  rocky  shores. 
j  As  Thou  dost  please. 

I'Vith  uncovered  heads  the  mountains  stand, 
JMlent  worshipers  in  halcyon  air, 
|lowed  -neath  Thine  all-protecting  hand. 

As  if  in  prayer. 
!'he  bursting  buds,  the  flowers  in  bloom, 
[lie  tender  leafage  of  the  fields, 
|"ieh  in  its  wealth  of  rich  perfume 
A  grateful  incense  yields. 

lie  meekest  flower  in  loneliest  nook, 

'.looms  but  by  Thy  supernal  care; 


Lo!  every  page  of  Nature's  book 

Thy  loving  truths  declare. 
The  innumerous  song-birds  of  the  air 
Ope  to  Thy  praise  tlieir  tiny  throats. 
Filling  the  wild-wood  everywhere 

With  silvery  notes. 
The  wakeful  brook  when  hushed  at  night. 
The  merry  songsters  of  the  air. 
Breathes,  rippling  in  the  moon's  pale  light. 

Its  fervent  prayer. 
So  Nature  speaks,  and  all  her  train 
From  deep  dark  caverns  of  the  sea 
Up  to  the  loftiest  serai)irs  plane 

Turn  reverently  to  Thee. 

TO  A  WATER  LILY. 
Fair  lily,  o'er  thy  watery  bed 
All  nature  smiled  when  thou  wert  born. 
So  lovingly  thou  rear'dst  thy  head 

To  greet  the  morn. 
Thy  lovely  form  of  spotless  white 
In  soft  unrest,  like  a  twinkling  star 
Dropped  from  the  dome  of  Heaven  at  night, 

Is  pure  as  angels  are. 
The  pearly  dewdrop  chooseth  well 
Thy  spotless  chalice  for  its  bower. 
Close  to  thy  heart  in  mystic  spell 

To  spend  its  hour. 
Pale  guardian  of  the  lowlier  flowers, 
Thou'rt  lovelier  blooming  here,  by  far, 
Than  in  their  richest,  rarest  bowers. 

Thy  gaudy  sisters  are. 
Sweet  lily,  thou  shalt  wither  here 
In  this  foul  place  with  odors  rife. 
That  humbler  flowers  about  thy  bier. 

May  drink  thy  life. 
Thy  bloom  upon  the  shores  of  Time 
Shall  soon  bedeck  the  hal's  above, 
Wliere  angels'  cliaplets  grace  the  shrine 
Of  perfect  love. 


BE  TRUE. 

In  the  spring-time  of  life  when  the  queen  of 

the  morning  [dew. 

Bathes  all  her  liright  blossoms  in  glittering 

And  strews  them  about  thee,  life's  pathway 

adorning.  Be  true,  be  true. 

When  life's  restless  tide  bears  thee  out  o'er 

its  ocean,  [view ; 

Keep    love's    beacon    star  ever  proudly  in 

Fondly    kneel    at   the  shrine    of   the    pure 

heart's  devotion ;        Be  true,  be  true. 
In  the  evening  of  life  when  in  beauty  de- 
clining, [blue. 
The  star  of  thy  being  slopes  adown  the  deep 
And  death's  withered  leaves  with  life's  blos- 
soms are  twining. 

Be  true,  be  true. 
1^ 


*- 


940 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  LILLIAN  BUSHNELL. 

Born:  Quincy,  III.,  March  24, 1863. 

The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  in  the 
Hampton  Gazette,  the  Riverside  Valley  Echo 


MUS.  LILMAN  H.  P.  BUSHNELL. 

Southern  California  Baptist  and  other  publi- 
cations. She  was  married  in  1887  to  Frank 
M.  Bushnell,  and  resides  at  Riverside,  Cal. 


DRIFT-WOOD. 
Down  through  the  spring--elad  valley 

The  river  ran,  deep  and  wide; 
Whirling-  withered  branches 

Away  with  its  turbid  tide. 
And,  as  I  watched  them  floating. 

Helpless  and  hopeless  tos't. 
Like  unto  some  shipwrecked  mariner 

Till  they  in  the  mist  were  lost. 
I  remembered  having  read 

That  life  was  like  a  stream. 
With  here  and  there  a  shadow. 

And  anon  a  sunny  gleam. 
And,  'twas  said  that  joy  and  sorrow 

With  its  ripples  fled  away. 
Even  as  this  blackened  driftwood 

Floated  down  to  meet  the  bay. 
And  my  mind  was  puzzled  much; 

I  could  not  understand ; 
For  1  had  seen  no  shadows 

In  youth,  life's  "summerland." 
Hut,  in  later  years,  I've  read 

Those  words,  with  eyes  of  truth; 
With  eyes  tliat  were  not  dazzled 

By  the  rosy  dawn  of  youth. 


Yes,  life  is  like  a  stream. 

And  we  that  float  along 
Over  its  waves  or  ripples. 

With  either  a  sigh  or  song,— 
'Twixt  banks  all  green  and  grassy, 

With  many  a  sunny  slope; 
Or,  strown  with  blackened  driftwood 

From  many  a  shipwrecked  Hope. 
Are  leaving  behind  us,  scenes 

We  never  may  visit  again; 
The  landscape  fair  of  peace. 

Or  years  of  weary  pain . 
But  pleasant  the  voyage,  albeit; 

Clouds  along  the  horizon  lie; 
If  Hope's  bright  bow  of  promise 

Is  hung  athwart  our  sky. 
And  we  know,  with  the  loved  and  lovingones 

Who  drift  from  our  clasp  away; 
We  shall  be  anchored  safely 

Beyond  the  Crystal  Bay. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  LEAVES. 
The  day  is  bright,  and  golden 

Fall  the  leaves  about  my  feet;  — 
While  fancies,  strange  and  olden. 

Throng  my  memory,  sad,  yet  sweet. 

There's  music  in  the  wind's  low  sigh. 
As  the  dead  leaves  flutter  down; 

All  meekly  at  my  feet  to  lie; 
Golden,  red  and  brown. 

When  Hope  folds  her  pale,  cold  hands 

Above  her  pulseless  breast; 
And  lies  down  calmly. 

In  her  sombre  garments  drcs't; 
Then  1  cry,  "To  love  there's  not  one;" 
Life  seemed  too  short. 

When  blooming  Hope  was  young; 
But  now  with  the  bitter  Past 

My  thoughts  are  wed; 
And  life  is  far  too  long 

When  Hope  is  dead. 


AUGUST. 
The  hour  is  sultry  and  the  breeze 
Steals  so  slowly  'mong  tlie  trees 
That  it  scarcely  stirs  tlie  leaves. 

And  thou  are  shad'owy  clouds  that  lie 

Like  snowdrifts  'gainst  the  August  sky 
And  even  tide  is  drawing  nigh. 

When  silent  is  the  streets  and  mill 

And  ujion  the  woody  hill 
Sings  the  lonely  whip-poor-will. 

Then  the  dew  shall  bathe  the  feet 

Of  the  flowers  as  they  sleep 
And  the  moon  beams  guard  shall  keep. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


941 


MRS.  MARYJ.CARTWRIGHT 

Bokn:  Portland,  Ind.,  Feb.  5,  1856. 
After   atteiidintr  coUeg-e  this  lady  taug-ht 
school,   wlieti    she   was    married  iu  1875   to 
William  C.  Cartwriffht,   by  whom    she    has 


-MRS.  MARY  J.  CARXWKIGHT. 

several  childieii.  About  a  hundred  of  the 
poems  of  Mrs.  Cartwrig-ht  have  appeared  in 
the  periodical  press,  and  in  Sunday  School 
and  Singing  Books,  and  in  slieet  music  form. 
She  is  still  a  resident  of  the  place  of  her 
nativity. 


THE  NAMELESS  GRAVE. 
When  golden-rod  and  asters  wild 
Were  nodding  in  the  breeze. 
And  lying-  thickly  all  around. 
Beneath  the  half-bare  trees. 
Were  leaves  of  many  a  gorgeous  hue  - 
Bronze,  yellow,  red  and  green  — 
(Making  a  mantle  rich,  to  robe 
The  reigning  Autumn  Queenj, 
I  visited  a  graveyard  old; 
And  looking  here  and  there. 
My  eyes  fell  on  a  nameless  grave. 
Round  which,  with  loving  care. 
Was  built  a  simple  low  board  fence  — 
A  somewhat  rude  affair. 
No  granite  headstone  marked  that  spot. 
Nor  aught  that  could  disclose 
The  name  of  him  who  slept  beneath. 
In  his  long,  last  repose. 


Nor  could  aught  tell  me  where  he  died, 

I  fancied  'twas  'midst  foes. 

For  there  a  little  emblem  stood 

Which  threw  a  shining  ray 

Of  light  upon  the  history 

Of  that  entombed  clay. 

And  though  of  wars  and  battle  fields. 

Not  e'en  the  slightest  trace 

Could  tliere  be  seen,  save  that  one  thing  — 

I  knew  that  narrow  space 

Before  me  held  a  soldier  brave 

Within  its  cold  embrace. 

What  was  it  made  the  hot  tears  flow 

And  fall  upon  the  ground? 

What  was  it  caused  me  thus  to  weep  — 

What  clue,  think  you,  I  found. 

To  tell  me  that  a  soldier  now 

Was  resting  'neath  that  mound? 

'Twas  but  a  little  faded  flag 

That  told  the  tale  to  me ; 

But  "  Oh,  my  country's  flag!  "  I  cried, 

"  Thou  banner  of  the  free  1 

This  hero  in  his  blanket  shroud 

Left  all  things  dear  for  thee  I 

He  guarded  thee  when  all  around' 

Were  enemies  and  strife: 

To  rescue  thee  marched  nobly  forth 

To  sound  of  drum  and  flfe. 

And  in  the  'midst  of  shot  and  shell 

For  thee  lay  down  his  life! 

He  saved  thy  honor,  glorious  flag. 

And  now  in  peace  serene 

'Tis  fitting  that  thy  stars  and  stripes 

Should  o'er  his  grave  be  seen ; 

'Tis  fitting  thou  should  guard  him  now 

And  keep  his  memory  green  1 " 


SOMNAMBULISTIC  SAMBO. 
"  Hold  on  there !  Stop!  You  Sambo! 
You're  pretty  slick  I  know. 
But  I  have  caught  you  this  time: 
Just  let  that  chicken  go!  " 
(Sambo  rubbing  liis  eyes  and  trembling) 
"  My !  goodness,  gracious,  Massa, 
You  .skeers  me  half  to  def. 
You  waked  me  up  so  suddent. 
Hit  almos'  takes  my  href. 
Hit  do  look  son  o'  s'picious. 
To  come  dis  time  o'  night, 
A  snoopin'  'roun'  your  hen-coop. 
But  den.  I  means  all  right. 
Jes  listen  while  I  'splains  it. 
An'  den  you'll  unde'stan': 
Dis  niggah  haint  no  snenk-tief 
But  an  hones'  Christian  man. 
Ise  been  a  havin'  nightmare. 
An'  dreamin'  in  my  sleep. 
An'  so,  sometimes  'fn'  mornin' 
I  wanders  'round  a  lieap. 


-* 


*- 


942 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


LEROY  TITUS  WEEKS. 

Born:  Mt.  Veknon,  Ia.,  Feb.  1, 1854. 
Graduating  trom  the  Cornell  College  in  1883, 
LeRoy  then  took  up  the  profession  of  leach- 
ing. In  1886  he  was  elected  to  the  professor- 
ship of  Greek  and  Latin  in  Wilbur  College, 
Lewiston,  Idaho,  and  later  took  work  in  the 
mission  field  at  Grangeville,  preaching  a  year 


LEROY  TTTUS  WEEKS. 

in  that  section.  In  1887  Mr.  Weeks  taught 
two  years  at  the  Colurabia  River  Academy  of 
Grangeville,  and  is  now  city  superintendent 
of  the  Osborne  High  School  of  Osborne,  Kan, 

SLEEPY  TIME. 
How  still  the  trees. 
The  air  how  still. 
While  tvith  dew 
The  roses  fill. 
Darker  grow 
The  sleepy  clouds. 
While  starbcams  peep 
Through  sombre  shrouds. 
My  soul 's  at  rest. 
Hushed  on  the  sea 
Of  undisturbed 
Tranquility. 
A  dreamy  peace 
Swims  through  my  brain 
Like  breath  of  woodland 
After  rain. 


1  hear  the  dreambells 

From  afar. 

My  eyelids  droop. 

All  burdens  lift. 

My  hands  relax. 

My  soul 's  adrift. 

Dieam  crowds  on  dream 

While  Love  and  Hope 

Shift  the  bright 

Kaleidoscope. 

Now  I  ply 

Arachne's  loom. 

Now  fold  me  in 

A  lotos  bloom ; 

Now  float  on  Lethe's 

Posora  deep, 

A  wanderer  in 

The  land  of  sleep. 


*- 


Time's  roaring  wheels 
No  longer  jar. 


THE  OAK. 
Strong  armed  and  tough  fibred. 
No  bay  window  hybrid. 
But    rugged    and    able    for   bearing  world' 

weight ; 
Rough  barked  and  deep  rooted. 
Storm  tested  and  suited 
To  timber  three-deckers  and  pillar  the  state. 

Give  us  a  faith  like  tliine  | 

That  knows  no  doubt,  i 

Unchanging  from  of  old ;  ' 

That  trusts  Grief's  hand  divine 

Ry  which  God  mines  the  human  out 
To  get  the  gold. 

Give  us  of  thy  sturdy  strength. 

Steadfast  old  Oak, 
Thy  stern  unfaltering  will; 
That  lets  no  angel  go  until  at  length 
The  dawn  of  victory  "s  clay  be  broke 

On  field  and  hill.  j 

Beget  in  us  thy  beauty,  | 

Inly  fine:  ] 

Beneath  a  bark  uncouth  kept  fair;  ' 

Souls  grown  sweet  by  doing  duty. 
Hearts  whose  jewels  best  shall  shine 

By  century  wear. 
Give  us  of  thy  soothing  shade. 

Proud  tree. 
The  Sun's  fierce,  burning  ray 
Has  withered  many  a  tender  blade 
That  cooled  the  ivith  in  dewy  glee 

At  break  of  day. 
And  when  we've  done  a  warrior's  jiart. 

Endured  each  blast. 
And  Earth  her  own  receives; 
Still  keep  us  near  thy  mighty  heart 
And  let  us  rest  at  last 

'Neath  the  slielter  of  thy  loaves. 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


943 


-* 


ROBERT  B.  NICOL. 

Born:  Hammond,  N.Y.,  Aug.  18,  1831. 
The  subject  of  tliis  sketcli  is  the  editor  and 
publisher  of   the  Milford  Mail,  of   Milford, 
Iowa,  where    lie  resides  with  his  wife  and 

IF 


ItOBEKT  B.  MUOL. 

family.  He  has  written  quite  a  number  of 
poems  on  popular  subjects,  which  have  ap- 
peared from  time  to  time  in  the  periodical 
press. 


OUR  CAVALRY. 
This  famous  band,  our  Nation's  pride. 

And  Liberty's,  fair  Liberty's, 
How  boldly  to  the  strife  they  ride 

For  victory !  the  world  can  see. 
The  Goddess  proudly  waves  her  hand 
To  waft  the  praise  to  every  land 
Of  this  heroic  veteran  band 

Of  Cavalry,  brave  Cavalry. 

On  Battle  Field  each  g-allant  son 

Of  Liberty,  fair  Liberty. 
A  pair  of  golden  spurs  has  won 

In  victory,  by  fiallantry. 
rhe  world  shall  sing-  their  deeds  of  fame 
jWhich  every  Lyric  will  proclaim 
jAnd  thus  immortalize  the  name 

Of  Cavalry,  Our  Cavalry. 

'Vith  carbines  slung  and  sabres  drawn 

For  Liberty,  fair  Liberty, 
Jruve  Sheridan  has  led  them  on 

To  victory  so  valiantly. 


^i' 


The  rebel  Early's  noted  band 
Is  scattered  far  througli  ..  Dixie's  land  "— 
"The  Chivalry  "  could  not  withstand 
Our  Cavalry,  brave  Cavalry. 

The  Shenandoah  Valley  rang 

For  Liberty,  sweet  Liberty, 
When  every  valiant  trooper  sang 

Of  victory,  with  mirth  and  glee. 
And  North  and  South,  both  far  and  near. 
This  joyous  song  now  greets  our  ear  — 
A  Nation's  voice  is  raised  to  cheer 
Our  Cavalry,  brave  Cavalry. 


THE  BALLADS. 

My  friends,  I've  been  a  soldier, 

But  now  I  roam  at  large; 
I  am  on  the  list  of  cripples. 

For  which  I  was  discharged : 
But  still  to  make  a  living 

I  shall  do  the  best  I  can; 
For  there's  something  yet  for  me  to  do 

Or  any  other  man. 

But  to  succeed  at  labor, 

I  never  can  again ; 
Nor  can  1  wield  the  sabre. 

But  still  can  wield  the  pen; 
So,  to  write  a  lot  of  Ballads 

I  thought  would  be  my  plan, 
To  sell  to  my  old  comrades. 

Or  any  other  man. 

I  shall  keep  a  good  collection. 

Of  the  very  finest  style; 
You  can  make  j-our  own  selection. 

From  the  list  I  have  on  file; 
Some  were  composed  before  the  war  — 

More  since  the  war  began;— 
I'm  bound  to  suit  the  million. 

Or  any  other  man. 

Six  copies  for  a  quarter. 

Fourteen  for  twice  that  sum. 
Or  thirty  for  a  dollar. 

Just  as  your  orders  come: 
So  send  along  your  money  — 

I  will  please  you  if  I  can. 
And  be  your  Iiumble  servant. 

Or  any  other  man. 


THE  LAKEVILLE  MITE. 

Our  bark  wo  launch  again  to-night 

To  take  another  cruise; 
Our  sails  t)r  trimmed,  our  freight  is  light. 

Consisting  most  of  news. 


-* 


*- 


944 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  V.  H.  DOWNES. 

Born:  New  Brunswick,  1832. 
Although    born   in  New   Brunswick,  this 
lady  is  a  daughter  of  American  parents.  For 
a  while  she  was  a  compositor  iu  the  printing- 
office   of   the    Aroostook  Pioneer,   and   her 


*- 


MRS.  V.  H.  DOWNES. 

poems  have  received  extensive  publication 
in  the  local  press.  She  was  married  in  1863 
to  Henry  R.  Downes,  and  is  now  a  resident 
of  Houlton,  Maine. 

THOUGHTS  OF  THE  DEPARTED. 
Come  back!  come  back!  I  cannot  stay, 
'Tis  lonely  since  thou'st  passed  away; 
The  charm  that  made  life  dear  to  me 
Is  broken  now,  and  fled  with  thee! 
The  scenes  that  we  have  loved  before 
Ah!  I  can  visit  them  no  more. 
Since  thou  canst  not  their  pleasure  share. 
To  me  they  only  shadows  wear. 
Come  back !  come  back !  my  heart  is  sad, 
I  cannot  teach  it  to  be  glad, 
I  cannot  teach  it  yet  to  see 
If  blessings  still  are  left  for  me; 
I  sometimes  mingle  with  the  train 
When  mirth  and  merry  voices  reign, 
Perchance  may  linger  some  gay  thought. 
Not  even  then  art  thou  forgot. 

Come  back!  come  back!  I  cannot  sing 
The  songs  we  loved  —but  tears  they  bring, 
Our  chosen  themes  neglected  lie, 
I  only  think  of  tliem  and  sigh. 


The  lines  thy  gentle  fingers  traced. 
And  plans  thy  skillful  hands  have  placed. 
All  these  remain  sacred  and  dear. 
Yet  I  am  sad  — thou  art  not  here! 
Come  back !  come  back !  how  sad  to  part. 
The  ceaseless  murmur  of  my  heart, 
I  know  to  wish  thee  back  is  vain. 
Thou  canst  not  come  to  us  again. 
Live,  gently  soothing  all  grief 
May  bring  at  last  some  sweet  relief; 
Methinks  I  can  no  more  be  blest 
Until  I  am  with  thee  at  rest. 


MY  THREE  LOVES. 
Ere  cliiklhood's  sunny  days  were  passed 

My  heart  had  learned  love's  lore. 
And  on  a  wayward  youth  were  cast 

The  treasures  of  its  store  — 
Not  dreaming  that  a  change  might  come 

Across  my  early  dream; 
I  thought  forever  I'd  love  on. 

While  gliding  down  life's  stream. 
But  fleeting  years  no  traces  left 

Of  that  fair  transient  flame, 
Lo!  at  another  shrine  I  knelt, 

A  worshiper  again. 
The  object  of  my  homage  then 

Was  worthy  of  my  love; 
The  noblest  of  earth's  noblemen 

Permitted  here  to  rove. 
I  thought  my  idol  not  of  earth, 

A  mold  of  common  clay. 
But  one  who  owned  a  Heavenly  birth, 

A  star-gleam  on  my  way ; 
Forgetful  of  all  else  beside 

The  world  was  naught  to  me. 
But  that  bright  object,  thus  I  loved 

With  blind  idolatry. 
But  time  still  quickly  onward  sped, 

This  second  dream  was  o'er. 
All  former  fancies,  hopes  were  fled  — 

And  I  —  I  loved  once  more  — 
An  erring  mortal,  such  as  1, 

Whose  failings  still  I  see. 
Yet  there  is  none  beneath  the  sky 

That's  half  so  dear  to  me. 


MY  LITTLE  FRIEND. 
I  have  a  friend,  faithful  and  true. 
Whose  eyes  are  of  the  mildest  blue 
And  ever  glistening  like  the  dew. 

Whose  brow  is  like  the  winter  snows, 
Whose  cheek  is  rival  with  the  rose, 
Whose  voice  is  like  the  brook  thatflov 

Whose  form  is  graceful  as  the  flowers, 
Whose  presence  is  like  grateful  showe 
Refreshing  the  earth's  drooping  bowci 


9^ 


LOCAT.   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


945 


-* 


GEORGE  LEO  WEBER. 

Born:  St.  Louis,  Mo.,  March  29, 1853. 
After  receiving:  his  education  at  tlie  Christ- 
ian Brotlier  College  and  tlie  Jones  Commer- 
cial College,  Mr.  Weber  entered  mercantile 
pursuits,  and    now    is    the  proprietor  of  a 


GEORGE  LEO  WEBER. 

large  cig'ar  factory.  He  was  married  in  1873 
to  Miss  Bertha  Meyer,  and  has  one  son  and 
twodaug-hters,  and  resides  in  Evansville, 
Ind.  George  Leo  Weber  lias  written  about 
one  hundred  poems,  including-  many  songs, 
which  have  appeared  in  the  Chicago  Cham- 
pion of  Freedom  and  Right  and  the  local 
press  generally. 


DADS  GIRL. 
Dad's  girl,  so  sweet,  so  fair  to  see. 

How  nice  she  can  arrange  each  curl. 
And  if  you'll  read  you'll  find  below 

A  full  description  of  Dad's  Girl. 

•■Her  Cheeks"  full  bloom  and  rosy  red, 

Just  as  fine  as  you  ever  have  seen ; 
She'd  found  out  how  to  make  them  so 

By  u.sing  cosmetics  and  glycerine. 
"Her  Eyes"  they  looked  most  beautiful. 

So  sparkling,  briglit  like  gloss. 
Hut  alas,  that  girl  is  blind  in  one 

And  with  the  other  she's  squinting  cross. 

"Her  Nose,"  from  the  side  it  looks  lovely, 
But  in  front  it  resembles  a  Jap. 


Her  Ears  are  large,  her  face  pockmarked. 
And  her  lips  swoll  up  and  chapped. 

"Her  Mouth,"  when  its  closed  it  looks  charm- 
ing. 
But   when    open,    >'Great  Scott,"   wliat  .-i 
crack. 
Don't    hai)pen    near    when    she    dr;iws    her 
breath. 
Or  you'll  land  right  square  on  your  back. 

"Her  Teetli"  are  white  and  sapolio  clean. 

Tliey  were  set  and  filled  in  with  GTold. 
When  I  paid  forty  dollars  to  the  dentist 

He  said  they're  the  best  I  ever  have  sold. 

"Her  Feet,"  they  were  born  in  Chicago, 
From  a  tannery  she'd  order  iier  shoes. 

The  stores  have  none  that  will  tit  her, 
As  it  took  two  hides  for  her  twos. 

"Her  Walk,"  it  was  never  imitated, 
Everj'  step  that  she  takes  gives  her  pain. 

She's  knock-kneed,  bow-legged  and  P  toed. 
Can  only  walk  with  a  crutch  and  a  cane. 

"Her  Talk"  and  her  facial  expression 
When  abroad  is  like  N>e  or  Von  Brock, 

But  when  home  she'd  get  fits  every  minute, 
And  her  face,  it  would  stop  any  clock. 

"Her  Form"  would  be  a  perfect  Greek  model 
If  it  wasn't  for  the  lump  on  her  neck. 

And  to  dress  her  so  no  one  can  see  it, 
A  thousand  a  j'ear  I  settled  by  check. 

"Her  Ways"  are  not  at  all  like  her  sister, 
Nor  can  she  compare  with  her  mother, 

But  she'll  say  I  surely  can't  help  it 
If  I  take  after  the  Dad  of  my  brother. 

"The  Truth"  is  that  my  girl's  cheek's  full 
bloom. 

Eyes,  nose,  mouth,  teeth  and  her  I'eet, 
Walk,  talk  and  the  rest  are  all  falsehoods. 

In  short,  "Dad's  Girl"  is  perfect,  complete. 


THE  DRUMMER. 

E.\TR.\(T. 

1  used  to  have  a  notion  that  a  drummer's 

life  was  sweet. 
I  believed  to  be  a  drummer  was  happiness 

complete: 
I  have  a  different  notion   now  than  I  had 

eighteen  years  ago. 
I   used  to  think  how   nicf  it   w;is  to  make 

friends  where'er  you'd  go. 
I  knew  not  then  I'd  meet  with  men   who'd 

draw  me  on  and  say, 
I'll  give  you  an  order  next  time,  I'm  sorry  I 

can't  to-tlay. 
. ^ 


*- 


946 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


JOHN  ROLAND COLGAN. 

Born:  Westvilt.e,  C,  Oct.  27,  1830. 
For  several  years  Mr.  Colgan  was  a  teacher, 
but  since  185V  Las  been  constantly  in  the 
ministry  in  central,  western  and  northern 
Ohio.    He  was  married  in  1859  to  Miss  Catlia- 


Go  publish  tlie  news  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile 
Where  Christiau  invention  has  ne'er  cast  her 

smile; 
Go  tell  it  to  India  whose  millions  are  bound 
To  the  gods  they  adore  till  a  better  is  found. 

Let  Britain  be  glad,  and  Columbia  as  well; 
Let  nations  about  them  the  joy  only  swell; 
The  >.Lion"  be  spokesman  to  all  the  great 

powers; 
The  "Eagle"  pipe  forth    "The  invention  is 

ours." 

Rejoice  all  the  world,  for  the  day  seemeth 

nigh 
When  the  peoples  of  earth  shall  all  "see  eye 

to  eye:" 
Each  people  a  power  for  God,  in  its  place; 
All  peoples  united  as  one,  in  the  race. 

When  the  honor  of  one  is  that  of  the  whole; 

International  compact  the  shield  of  each 
soul; 

And  the  serf  of  the  east,  or  the  slave  of  the 
west 

Finds  freedom  backed  up  by  the  public  be- 
hest. 

Speak  on,  new-born  Wonder,  your  whisper 
is  low. 

But  infantile  power  is  destined  to  grow; 

And  soon  the  round  world  will  be  list'ning 
to  thee. 

Thou  child  of  Columbia,  the  land  of  the  free. 


JOHN  ROLAND  COT.OAN. 
rine  Boyers,  and  now  resides  with  his  family 
at  Pioneer,  Ohio.  The  poems  of  the  Rev. 
John  Colgan  have  appeared  in  the  Western 
Christian  Advocate  and  in  various  news- 
papers and  magazines. 

THE  ATLANTIC  CABLE. 
Ho,  blue-mantled  Neptune,  old  god  of  tlie 

sea. 
The  steed  we  call  lightning  is  harnessed  for 

thee. 
Though  long  we  have  waited,  but  waited  in 

vain 
To  be  thus  united  with  land  o'er  the  main. 
To-day  it  is  done !    Let  the  message  go  f (>rth 
From  the  south  polar  sky  to  the  "Bear"  of 

the  north; 
Down  deep  in  old  ocean,  where  sails  are  un- 
known, 
With  electrical  speed  is  tliy  chariot  drawn. 
Go  tell  the  glad  tidinss,  whoever  may  hear. 
Declare  it  afar  and  to  all  who  are  near. 
From  threshold  to  house-top,  from  dungeon 

to  throne. 
Republic  and  kingdom  through  lightning  are 
one. 
« — 


TOBACCO. 
If  you  will,  blind  to  disaster. 

Drain  the  gumption  from  your  brain; 
If  your  appetite  is  master: 

You  a  slave  beneath  its  reign; 
If  no  effort  can  redeem  you 

From  the  plight  you  now  are  in. 
Neither  love  nor  hate  reclaim  you. 

Then  push  onward  in  your  sin. 

If  you  chance  to  liave  a  shilling. 

Find  a  store  without  delay; 
Your  tobacco-box  needs  flUing.— 

Casli  on  hand,  so  you  can  pay. 
Now  you  have  it,  start  the  dripping. 

Let  the  juice  begin  to  flow. 
Incisors  cutting,  cuspids  nipping. 

Molars  grinding  fast  and  slow. 

If  within  a  car  you're  riding. 

Don't  forget  the  "Indian  weed," 
In  its  service  still  abiding, 

Give  your  appetite  its  feed. 
Keep  the  spurtinf;  flow  in  action. 

Spurting  left  and  spurting  right, 
Spurting  on  without  ct)ntraction. 

Spurting  morning,  noon  and  night. 


*— 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEllICA. 


947 


* 


ROSWKLL  DERBY,  JR. 

Born:  Vokk  Township.  O.,  Feb.  4, 1854. 
For  five  years  Mr.  Derby  was  secretary  and 
attorney  at  law  for  tlie  People's  Mutual  Life 
Insurance  company  at  Wakemaii,  Ohio.    He 
is  now  engaged  ia  seed  growing'  at  Florence, 


ROSWELL  DEEiBY,  JK. 

Ohio.  Roswell  Derby  lias  written  several 
liundred  poems,  many  of  which  have  ap- 
I)eared  in  tlie  periodical  press.  He  was  mar- 
ried in  1880  to  Miss  Ella  Grumman,  and  now 
has  a  family  of  several  children.  The  poems 
of  this  gentleman  will  be  published  in  book- 
form  at  an  early  date. 


THE  GOLDEN  CHAIN. 

Now  broken  lies  the  golden  chain 
Around  my  lieart  Love  truly  laid. 
Forever  know  the  endless  pain 
Not  e'er  to  mend  this  cluiin  was  made. 

If  found  another  in  its  stead. 
Know  that  it  is  not  made  of  gold: 
Tis  counterfeit,  not  good  as  lead, 
No  tongue  but  one  true  love  e'er  told. 

Thougli  in  some  dazzling  scene  you  rove, 
Wliere  Art  and  Fancy  truly  glow; 
Know  all  the  dazzling  first  is  love. 
Then  chains  tliat  liind  jour  heart  to  woe. 


MABLE  ROSE. 
In  th'  first  days  of  Autumn 
'Twere  lovely  to  see. 


'.Vheu  hearts  were  made  happy  and  glad; 
My  sweet  Mable  Kose  was  called  from  me. 
And  my  heart  bleeds  lonely  and  sad. 
Vet  Shalt  thou  live  in  the  nieni'ry  of    me, 

sweet  one. 
Thou  slialt  live  in  the  memory  of  nic 

Far  art  tliou  gone  sweet  one. 

Forever  to  stay ; 
Between,  the  Dark  Kiver  rolls. 
Darkness  be  mine  'though  thine  is  the  day. 
And  sorrow  my  heart  deeply  tolls. 
Yet  shalt  thou  live  in  the  mem'ry  of    me, 

sweet  one. 
Thou  shalt  live  in  the  memory  of  me. 

THE  EARLY  FLIGHT. 
Ah!  little  birdie! 
The  ground  is  white; 
Too  soon  tliou  hast  made 
Thy  northeily  Hight; 
As  thinking  of  sunsldne 
That  you  once  saw. 
You  fled  to  the  nortli 
At  the  earliest  thaw. 
Tired  of  your  exile 
You  hast'n'd  away. 
Your  home  in  the  north 
With  loved  ones  to  stay; 
Your  Affections  at  once 
You  flew  to  meet; 
Now  fettered  thy  j)ride 
In  the  rain  and  the  sleet. 
Oft  in  our  window 
We  e>-r  as  thee; 
While  following  Hope 
We  rush  as  blindly 
To  a  mightier  north 
Fond  hopes  to  greet; 
And  as  oft'  our  pride 
We  find  wrapped  in  the  sleet 


SILENCE. 
Silence,  the  secret  d.igger  to  the  soul  I 
More  stern  than  Death  or  dampness  of  tlie 

grave ; 
What    wildness    bring,    what    pain    beyond 

control. 
What  torment  to  the  lite  that  Hope  would 

give! 
Silent,  O  Fate!  .voii  frown  upon  my  Hope; 
No  look,  no  glance  futurity  can  be; 
The  buds  are  set  and  shall  they  tlirive  and 

ope'. 
Or  Silence,  slow,  consume  them  secretly? 
Silence,  most  stern  and  unrelenting!  whence 
And  who  shall  lift  thy  shadow   from   thee, 

whole? 
O  God!  pity  those  who  hold  in  silence. 
Untold,  the  secret  longing  of  the  soul. 


*- 


* 


948 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   ASIERICA. 


MRS.  NARCISSA  I.  SIMMONS. 

Born:  Macomb,  III.,  Sept.  12, 1838. 
The  writings  of  Mrs.  Simmons  have  appeared 
in  tlie  Gospel  Advocate,  Apostolic  Guide  and 


MRS.  NARCISSA  1.  SIMMONS. 

the  local  press.  This  lady  was  married  in 
1860,  has  quite  a  family  and  resides  at  Flip- 
pin,  Kentucky. 

ACROSTIC. 
When  called  of  God  from  friends  and  home. 
Kindred  hearts  and  sacred  ties. 
Dread  not  to  tread  thy  path  alone 
Endure  the  cross  and  win  the  prize. 
Many  trials  may  assail, 
Persecutions  throng  your  way, 
Satan's  hosts  around  you  rail. 
Yet  trust  the  Lord  from  day  to  day. 
And  when  your  message  from  above 
Must  to  a  dying  world  be  told. 
Is  not  the  gospel  peace  and  love  — 
Not  party  spirit  dark  and  cold. 
In  love  and  meekness  then  proclaim 
Sweet  truths  from  God's  own  Holy  word. 
Tell  how  the  Lamb  of  God  was  slain, 
Kntombed  in  death's  lone  dark  abode 
Hose  from  the  dead  our  living  Lord. 
O!  may  the  gospel's  cheering  ray, 
From  earth  to  heaven  light  up  the  way 
Tell  how  fh(!  King  of  glory  gave 
His  life,  poor  fallen  man  to  save 
Kmorged  victorious  from  the  grave. 


Go  where  the  spirit  bids  thee  go. 
Oh!  have  no  doubts:  oh,  have  no  fears! 
Seed  of  the  heavenly  kingdom  sow; 
Plead  with  poor  guilty  man  with  tears. 
Entreat  them  to  believe  his  word. 
Lead  them  to  our  triumphant  Lord. 


BLIGHTED  LOVE. 
Since  first  we  met  long  years  have  flown. 

But  ne'er  can  I  forget 
When  first  on  me  thy  dark  eyes  shone; 

They  haunt  my  memory  yet. 
What  music  in  each  deep  rich  tone! 

Oh  !  how  they  thrilled  my  heart 
With  a  power  till  then  to  me  unknown, — 

But  we  were  doomed  to  part. 

O  do  not  say  that  we  must  part! 

Those  words  I  cannot  bear. 
They  would  only  sink  my  broken  heart 

Still  deeper  in  despair. 
Oh!  must  my  heart  go  desolate! 

Through  this  cold  world  alone. 
And  wilt  thou  say  it  was  too  late 

When  first  we  met,  dear  one ! 
Or  wilt  thou  bind  some  spirit  bright. 

All  loving  to  thine  own. 
Who  like  some  angel  of  delight 

Would  make  thy  heart  her  throne. 
Oh !  let  me  rest  low  in  the  grave. 

Ere  the  trying  moment  come; 
The  evergreen  above  me  wave 

In  token  of  my  home. 
Yet  my  home  shall  not  be  in  the  the  tomb 

When  earthly  ties  are  riven, 
My  spirit  free  from  doubt  and  gloom 

Shall  soar  away  to  heaven. 
And  when  thou  art  done  thy  bright  career 

I  shall  meet  my  heart's  first  love 
Beyond  this  world  so  dark  and  drear, 
In  a  land  of  light  above. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

Tliough  friendship  like  a  genial  ray 

Of  sunshine  on  tlie  morning  dew 
With  sacred  gems  ilhunes  my  way 

And  gilds  my  path  with  roseate  hue  — 
And  though  the  ularioii  notes  of  fame 

Or  wealth  with  subtle  art 
In  halls  of  wisdom  sound  my  name 

Tliis  would  not  satisfy  my  heart. 

Tliere  is  a  bright  eternal  clime. 

All  cloudless  and  serene. 
Beyond  tlie  transcient  scenes  of  time. 

Beyond  death's  cold  turbid  stream. 
'Tis  there  my  treasure  and  my  trust 

In  sacred  keeping  given. 
Are  not  devoured  by  moth  nor  rust 

But  are  secure  in  heaven. 


* 


«- 


LOCAL   AXD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


-* 


!)4y 


JESSIE  EDGERTON. 

BORX:  NEAR  Barxesville,  C,  July  12, 1845. 
Jessie  Edgertox  has  always  taken  pleasure 
in  reading-  and  composing  poetry.  Over  a 
liundred  of  his  poems  have  received  publica- 
tion in  the  periodical  press.  He  is  secretary 
of  the  Columbiana  Handle  Co.,  a  larg-e  firm 


JESSIE   EDHEHTON. 

doing  business  in  Columbiana,  Ohio,  in  wliiuh 
city  he  resides  with  his  wife  and  family.  For 
years  he  has  been  an  active  Prohibitionist. 

NIGHT. 
I  lore  the  quiet  hour  that  flings 
The  twilight  from  its  sable  wings. 
And  stills  the  wild-bird's  carolings. 
The  hour  that  opens  wide  the  gates 
Of  night,  behind  whose  bars  and  grates 
The  dim,  imprisoned  darkness  waits. 
The  hour  when  duskj-  shadows  creep 
Around  rue  growing  dense  and  deep 
Till  over  all  the  l)lack  waves  sweep. 
I  love  the  hour  when  on  my  eye 
Beams  out  in  the  o'erreaching-  sky 
The  lamps  that  God  has  hung  on  high. 
The  liour  that  brings  the  glad  release 
From  day-time  care;  the  world's  surcease 
Of  labor  and  its  hour  of  peace. 
A  breathing  spell  in  the  wild  chase 
Of  pleasure,  the  exciting  race 
For  gold  and  lionor,  power  and  pace. 
A  time  to  brush  the  dust  away 
From  hands  and  feet  that  all  the  day 


Were  toiling  in  the  world's  higiiway. 
A  time  to  rest  the  weary  brain. 
That  worn  with  toil  and  full  of  pain 
Comes  to  the  quiet  night  again. 
The  welcome  night!  how  sweet  and  blest 
To  nature  wearied  and  distressed. 
Comes  her  great  panacea,  rest. 
Deep  be  the  slumber  that  she  brings. 
Bright  be  the  dreams  that  from  her  wings 
Fall  on  us,  sweet  tlie  song  she  sings. 
And  every  grace  the  couch  adorn. 
In  those  dim  chambers  of  tlie  morn 
Where  strength  from  weariness  is  born. 


ONLY  A  TRAMP. 
Only  a  tramp,  in  tlie  glare  and  heat 
Of  the  summer  sun  in  the  dusty  street! 
Only  a  tramp,  with  a  dingy  pack. 
And  a  threadbare  coat  on  his  weary  back. 
Only  a  tramp,  and  soiled  and  brown. 
He  made  his  way  through  the  busy  town. 
Only  a  tramp,  and  wealth  and  pride 
Looked  and  "  passed  on  the  other  side;" 
And  childhood  paused  in  its  merry  play 
And  shrank  from  the  passing  form  away. 
•  Only  a  tramp."  the  housewife  said, 
.\s  she  turned  away  from  his  plea  for  bread. 
I  >nly  a  tramp!  but  he  felt  the  smart 
( »f  the  taunting  words  in  his  human  heart. 
And  bitterly  sighing  he  turned  again 
■Po  liis  heartless  journey  and  life  of  pain. 
But  there  where  the  railroad  meets  the  street 
Was  stayed  the  tide  of  passing  feet; 
And  horror  palsied  the  bravest  limb 
And  eyes  with  fruitless  tears  were  dim. 
For  a  truant  baby  had  strayed 
To  the  railway  track  and  calmly  played 
With  the  rails,  with  the  pebbles  white. 
Piling  tliem  up  in  the  sweet  sunlight; 
And  the  fast  express  was  thundering  down 
At  fearful  speed  to  the  busy  town. 
Fruitless  the  driver's  skill  to  stay 
The  flying  train  on  its  headlong  waj'. 
Fruitless  the  shrill  alarm  to  friglit 
The  little  one  from  his  pebbles  white. 
But  out  from  the  crr)ssing  of  the  street 
Dashes  a  man  with  flying  feet. 
Each,  silent  watcher  held  his  Ijreath, 
In  that  fearful  race  for  life  or  death. 
Till  the  truant  babe  was  safely  thrown 
Beyond  tlie  rails  as  the  train  swept  on. 
The  child  was  safe!  but  rods  away. 
Bleeding  and  lifeless  the  rescuer  lay. 
Only  a  tramp!  but  forever  new 
Is  our  love  of  manhood  brave  and  true. 
And  the  mother,  that  iiight,who  fondly  prest 
The  living  babe  to  her  g-ratef  ul  breast. 
Will  ne'er  forget  as  the  seasons  roll, 
That  hungry  tramp  with  a  hero's  soul. 


-* 


*- 


950 


LOCAT.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  M.  M.  WINESBURG. 

Born:  near  Wheeling, W.Va., April,  15,  55. 
The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  in  the 
New  York  Graphic,  tlie  Illustrated  Com- 
panion and  other  publications.  Many  of  lier 
soiijrs  hiive  been  s^et  to   music,  and  quite  a 


MRS    MAGGIE  M.  WINESBURG. 

few  short  stories  and  sketclies  from  her  ]wn 
have  received  publication.  Slie  was  married 
in  1875  to  Samuel  Witiesburg-,  and  has  one 
child  living.  She  is  now  engaged  on  two 
serial  stories. 


SUNSET. 
Sunset  in  the  western  skies. 
With  crimson  hues  it  the  liorizon  dyes; 
Soft  fleecy  clouds  like  drifts  of  snow 
Is  tinted  witli  a  golden  glow, 
While  clouds  that  towers  like  a   moiintiiin 

gray 
Is  streaked  vitli  a  gold  and  crimson  ray. 

A  beautiful  sight  is  these  sunset  skies; 
A  soft  mystical  glow  on  all  Nature  lies. 
The  floating  clouds  with  tlieir  golden  bands. 
Seem  like  a  glimpse  of  the  heavenly  lands; 
And  we  seem  to  see  the  pearly  gates. 
Behind  whose  portals  our  loved  one  waits. 

When  the  sun  of  our  lives  shall  sink  to  rest. 
May  it  be  as  bright  as  your  golden  West; 
Will  our  clouds  of  sorrow  roll  away? 
Leaving  only  tlie  gold  beliind  the  gray. 
By  the  grace  of  Christ  wlio  died  for  all, 
A  brighter  light  can  around  us  fall. 


EACH  HAS  A  PLACE. 
We  should  not  repine  o'er  our  lot  in  life. 
Nor  yet  boast  of  what  we  have  done; 
For  the  Master  lias  given  a  task  to  each 
Fallen  and  erring  one. 
Has  set  a  task  and  allotted  a  place. 
For  everyone  to  fill. 
And  he  that  pei'forms  his  task  aright. 
But  does  his  Master's  will. 

We  often  wonder  why  that  we 
Must  toil  so  hard  to  attain 
The  chosen  field  of  labor  which 
We  with  a  single  leap  would  gain. 
But  a  wiser  mind  knows  what  is  best. 
And  before  we  climb  up  highci-, 
A  more  important  place  of  trust  to  fill. 
We  must  be  tried  with  fire. 

He  may  have  set  us  humble  tasks. 

So  that  we  might  realize 

The  vastness  of  his  mighty  works. 

Before  we  gain  our  prize; 

And  remember  wlien  we  gain  the  heights 

Tliat  we  have  only  done  his  will. 

And  filled  the  place  on  earth  that  He 

Has  allotted  us  to  fill. 


A  PERFECT  SUMMER  EVE. 

Tlie  sun  has  sank  in  misty  splendor 
Down  behind  yon  mountain  higli; 

A  brooding  stillness  sweet  and  tender 
Seems  to  waft  o'er  earth  and  sky. 

But  listen  o'er  yon  distant  mountain. 
Wrapped  in  mystic  shadows  dim, 

A  gentle  breeze  is  softly  sighing 
Low  and  sweet  an  evening  hymn. 

As  the  gloom  and  shadows  deepen, 
A  tremulous  light  floods  the  valley  wide. 

As  veiled  with  clouds  that  soft  and  fleecy. 
The  queen  of  night  o'er  mountain  glide. 

Fantastic  shadows  dance  and  quiver 
Wliere  the  mystic  moon-lights  fall: 

While  darker  shadows  seem  to  cluster 
Around  the  base  of  yon  mountain  tall. 

The  nu)on-lit;lit  kisses  the  lippliiig  waters 
Till  it  sparkles  like  a  diamond  bright ; 

Wliile  amid  the  grass  that  nod  and  quiver. 
Flash  a  thousand  liny  lights. 

The  only  sound  that  breaks  the  stillness 

Of  llus  i)erfect  dewy  eve. 
Is  the  gentle  breeze,  like  strains  of  music. 

Floating  through  the  leaf y  trees. 


*- 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL  POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


951 


MRS.  BLANCHE  KRUSE. 

Born:  Ithaca,  Ohio,  April  15, 1865. 

Blanche  de  Arches  is  a  pianist  and  has 
written  quite  a  n  umber  of  poems  and  dramas. 
Her  beautiful  waltz  song-.  Softly  Thy  Name 
I'm  Repeating',  was  set  to  music  and  pub- 
lished in  T<S6.  and  has  become  very  popular. 


.MRS.  BLANCHE  KRUSE. 

Thl8  lady  graduated  from  the  Chicago  College 
of  Music  in  1886,  and  the  same  year  she  re- 
ceived the  championship  gold  medal  at  the 
Cincinnati  Exposition  as  the  champion  lady 
pianist  of  tlie  state.  Miss  Bhinche  De  Arches 
was  married  in  1890  to  Geo.  W.  Kruse,  and 
now  resides  in  Fort  Recovery,  Ohio. 


*- 


SOFTLY,  THY  NAME  IM  REPEATING. 

Darling,  the  day  hath  no  gladness. 

While  we  thus  linger  apart. 
Moonlight  and  starHght  bring  sadness. 

Thou  art  the  light  of  my  heart. 
Here  in  the  darkness  entreating. 

Longing,  my  dear  love,  for  thee. 
Chc— Softly,  tliy  name  I"m  repeating. 
Come  tliou  my  love,  come  to  me. 
Come  tliou  my  love,  Oh  come  to  me. 
What  tho'  the  world  be  deceiving, 

Round  us  tho'  sliadows  may  lie! 
Safe  in  eacli  other  believing. 

Bravely,  love  oti  j-ou  and  I! 
Darling,  the  world  thus  defeating, 

Hope  liveth  on  glad  and  free. 


Darling,  the  springtime  and  flowers 

Tell  us  of  liiirvest  to  come. 
Ripening  thro'  long  summer  hours. 

Waiting  tiie  ghid  harvest  liume. 
Hasten!  the  time,  ah  1  'lisfleeliug. 

The  harvest,  love,  waits  for  thee. 
Proudly  as  ever  I'm  dreaming, 

Dreaming  my  darling  of  thee. 
Visions  of  hope  now  are  beaming, 

Bright  as  the  dawn  o'er  the  sea. 
List!  how  my  fond  heart  is  beating. 

With  love  is  beatmg  for  thee. 

IN  MEMORY  OF  MY  SAINTED  MOTHER. 
How  fondly  the  dreams  of  my  hom« 

Come  back  to  my  sorrowing  breast. 
As  I  sit  in  the  twilight  alone. 

And  dream  of  its  love  and  its  rest; 
Of  the  midnight  that  fell  on  my  path. 

As  I  saw  my  life's  guiding  Star 
Like  dew  pass  away  from  the  sun  before  day 

To  that  bright  realm  of  glory  afar. 
In  tlie  midst  of  dear  friends  I'm  alone. 

For  the  shadows  and  darkness  of  night 
Have  shrouded  mj'  pathway  in  gloom. 

And  left  of  its  liope  but  a  blight; 
For  she's  gone,  never  more  to  return. 

The  dearesi  that  God  ever  gave. 
And  all  from  above  now  left  me  to  love 

Are  the  flowers  that  bloom  on  her  grave. 
But  I'll  wait  for  the  breaking  of  day. 

And  wait  till  the  angels  shall  come 
To  bear  me  in  chariots  away. 

To  mother,  my  rest,  and  my  home; 
Yes,  I'll  wait  for  that  glorious  dawn. 

Wait  till  the  morning  shall  come. 
And  there  with  the  loved  ones  aye. 

In  Heaven's  bright  mansions  we'll  roam. 


SAMUEL  BURLEIGH  MILTON 

Born:  Washington.  D.  C,  June  30,  1860. 
While  still  a  youth  Mr.  Milton  published  a 
small  school  paper.  He  has  written  mostly 
prose  and  several  fine  serial  stoi-ies  have  ap- 
peared from  his  pen.  Mr.  Miltoti  has  been  a 
correspondent  for  several  loading  dailies  and 
is  at  present  engaged  in  journalism  and  the 
publishing  business  at  Redfleld,  S.  D 

A  VALENTINE 
Beautiful  Valentine! 

Chosen  by  me; 
Heart  of  my  heart  —  life  of  my  life  — 

Sweetheart  art  thee. 
Sweetest  of  girls! 

W.imaidy  too; 
Pure  as  an  angel  -  heart  just  as  true— 

Sweetlieart  to  woo.  | 


-* 


*- 


952 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


ELIASBOYNTON. 

Born:  Petekboro,  N.  H.,  Nov.  30, 1833. 
After  graduating- at  the  Peterboro  Academy 
Elias  Boynton  taught  school  in  that  city  and 
in  Delevan  and  Lisbon,  Wisconsin.  About  a 
hundred  poems  liave  appeared  from  the  pen 
of  this  poet,  many  of  wliiuh  were  written  by 


ET.IAR  BOYNTON. 

request  and  for  i)ublic  gatherings,  wliich 
have  always  subsequently  ai>peared  in  the 
periodical  press.  Mr.  Boynton  has  been 
justice  of  the  peace,  surpervisor  and  town 
clerk  in  Lisbon,  Wisconsin,  where  he  is  en- 
g-aged  in  mercantile  business.  He  has  also 
been  secretary  of  the  American  Boynton 
Association,  wliich  annually  meets  in  Boston 
or  some  other  eastern  city. 


ACROSTIC. 
Eiirth  takes  back  its  precious  gem, 
Mortality  repeats  itself  by  turn. 
Each  org-anization  must  surely  die. 
Life  at  longest,  is  but  a  sigh 
Industrious, frngiil.  she  done  what  she  could. 
Never  weary  of  doing  good. 
Eternal  rest,  a  rich  reward. 
Heavenly  Element!  Spnik  of  lite! 
Age  seemed  brightening  for  a  useful  strife, 
Little  innocent!  Is  this  your  calling? 
Budding  and  withering,  coming  and  going? 
Eternal  Parent!  thy  goodness  and  worth. 
Reminds  the  wayward  thesuretyof  death! 
Taking  purity  fnim  the  sins  of  eartli. 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  INTELLIGENCE. 
This  Temple  of  Intelligence  is  abandoned  to- 
day; 
A  matchless  soul  enters  the  boundless  wave 
With  suppressed  emotion  at  this  funeral 'ar- 
Our  hearts  recoil  at  the  open  grave!       [ray, 
A  thrilling  voice  hushed!  A  great  mind  van- 
ished! 
Mysterious  death  closes  a  brilliant  career. 
At  the  meridian  of  life  ourliopes  are  banlsh- 
While  a  distant  city  mingles  her  tears,    [ed, 
Speaker,  scholar,  patriot  and  guide; 
Our  city's  champion  in  the  intellectual  field. 
Counselor  and  peacemaker,  with  a  religious 

side ; 
A  wortliy  classmate  of  President  Garfield. 

The  child  and  statesman  his  influence  feit. 
The  church  his  thoughtful  rules;        [dwelt, 
A    vigilant   searcher   where    improvement 
We  tremble  for  our  city  schools. 
The  world  is  better  for  lives  like  this. 
That  separate  evil  from  good; 
Belief  and  Faith  may  be  a  bliss. 
When  lives  develop  this  food. 


JESSE  D.  WALKER. 

Born:  Elkhart  Co.,  Ind.,  May  5,  1852. 
When  two  years  of  age  the  parents  of  Mr. 
Walker  removed  to  Linn  county,  Iowa,  where 
the  subject  of  this  sketch  resided  until  1888, 
when  he  removed  to  Californi.i.  The  poems 
of  Mr.  Walker  have  appeared  in  Literary 
Life,  Ballou's  Magazine  and  other  publica- 
tions. He  was  married  in  1875  to  Miss  L. 
Prescott  Harvey,  grand-niece  of  Prescott, 
the  historian.  Mr.  Walker  is  engaged  in 
mercantile  pursuits  in  Santa  Ana,  California, 
where  he  resides  with  his  wife  and  family. 

FAREWELL  TO  DREAMS. 
Farewell,  O  song  and  vision! 
In  forest  vales  elysian 

I  wandered  far  with  thee; 
Farewell;  O  dreams  of  morning: 
The  storm-cloud  utters  warning. 

And  night  comes  o'er  the  sea. 
We  may  not  dwell  forever 
On  the  islands  in  the  river 

Of  the  lands  of  dreams. 
The  sunlight  of  to-morrow 
Will  cast  on  joy  and  sorrow 

Its  full  and  eipial  beams. 
The  lofty  and  the  lowly 
Shall  be  forgotten  wholly 

In  days  that  are  to  hv. 
O  Time!  thou  art  an  ocean. 
Of  temiiest  and  commotion. 

And  all  are  lost  in  thee. 


•i- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


953 


-* 


HARRY  C,  BURNS. 

This  grentleraan  ht^s  written  many  fine  poems 
for  the  periodical  press.  Many  of  these  po- 
ems were  written  for  Grand  Army  reunions 


HARRY   C.  BURNS. 

and  for  special  occasions.  During-  the  war 
he  .served  in  Company  H,  14th  Pennsylvania 
Cavalry,  of  Pittsburg-,  in  which  city  he  still 
resides. 


NINETEEN  HUNDRED. 
The  year,  perhaps,  we'll  never  see, 

In  nineteen  hundred; 
But  our  fair  land  will  still  be  free. 

In  nineteen  hundred; 
The  world  nia.v  come,  with  Are  and  flame, 
Tliey'U  find  us  ready,  just  the  same; 
We'll  send  them  bacli,  not  as  they  came, 

In  nineteen  hundred. 

Our  starry  flag-  will  float  on  high. 

In  nineteen  hundred. 
O'er  hearts  that  do  not  fear  to  die. 

In  nineteen  hundred; 
Ere  Freedom's  sons  will  take  the  yoke. 
They'll  die  within  the  battle  smoke. 
With  steady  arm  and  sabre  stroke. 

In  nineteen  hundred. 

The  law  shall  rule  our  happy  land. 
In  nineteen  hundred. 


Nor  bow  before  a  traitor  band. 

In  nineteen  liundred; 
The  Nation's  arm  siiall  strike  for  all, 
And  who  oppose  iis  right,  must  fall. 
Their  coward  faces  to  the  wall. 

In  nineteen  hundred. 

Then  give  three  cheers  for  Liberty, 

In  nineteen  hundred. 
And  three  times  three  for  unity. 

In  nineteen  hundred; 
Let  those  who  live  to  see  the  fray. 
Unto  the  God  of  battles  pray. 
For  right,  not  might,  will  win  the  day. 

In  nineteen  hundred. 


THE  EXILES'  FAREWELL. 

See  the  tear-dimmed  eyes 

And  the  pleading  face 
Of  the  parting  friends 

Of  a  noble  race; 
While  they  stand  in  gloom. 

And  Heavenward  gaze 
With  a  silent  prayer. 

And  a  song  of  praise. 

CHORUS. 

As  the  exiles  s.iiled 

From  the  rock-rilibed  shore. 
Many  fona  farewells 

Back  the  breezes  bore 
To  the  long  loved  friends 

Tliey  no  more  might  see. 
For  they  sailed  away 

To  America. 


As  the  noble  ship 

Through  the  waters  flew 
With  the  hero  hearts 

Of  this  exile  crew, 
Tliere  were  willing  hands. 

As  the  sails  unfurled. 
And  the  vessel  sped 

To  another  world. 


Many  lengtliened  days 

And  the  morning-  came. 
While  the  glad  shout  land 

Like  a  leaping  flame 
O'er  tlie  bowed  hearts  rose. 

They  were  slaves  no  more 
And  the  chains  were  cjist 

Upon  freedom's  shore. 


* 


^- 


-* 


954 


LOCAT<   AND   NATIONAL,   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  ANNA  K.THOMAS. 

Born:  Augusta  Co.,  Va..  March  9, 1847. 
This  lady  has  led  an  eventful  life  and  has 
traveled  in  many  of  the  states  of  the  union. 
She  was  married  in  18T3to  Ansell  M.  Thomas, 
and  in  1881  settled  in  Battle  Creek,  Mich., 


MRS.   ANNA  KEAGY  THOMAS. 

where  she  now  resides.  This  lady  has  always 
been  active  in  temperance  work.  Mrs. 
Thomas  has  contributed  both  prose  and 
verse  to  the  Musical  Million,  Gospel  Trum- 
pet, Cincinnati  Christian  Standard  and  in 
many  other  relig-ious  and  temperance  publi- 
cations. 


ODE  TO  A  SPRAY  OF  WILD  ROSES. 
Thou  sweet,  frail  child  of  earth  we  greet 
Thy  smiHng  grace  with  gladsome  heart— 
The  tears,  which  night  weeps  gently  o'er 
The  grave  of  day's  departed  beams. 
Hung  dewy  pearls  about  thy  form. 
And  fresh  with  morning's  early  breath 
They  linger  yet  to  give  us  cheer. 
We  bless  the  little  eyes,  that  sought 
Tliee  in  thy  quiet  bower,  and  looked 
With  pleasure  on  thy  beaut'ous  tint  — 
We  bless  the  little  feet  that  led 
The  way  through  tangled,  trackless  shrub. 
To  reach  the  place  of  tliy  abode  — 
We  bless  the  little  hand  that  snatch'd 
Thee  from  the  thorny  fate  that  bound 
Thy  spotless,  stainless  life  to  earth  — 
God  bless  the  little  heart  that  felt, 
And  loved  thy  modest  worth,  and  paid 
Due  homage  to  the  charms  which  drew 


Her  fondly  to  thy  side,  to  kiss 

Thy  blushing  cheek  —  but  ah.  too  soon. 

Thy  petals,  one  by  one,  shall  fall 

From  out  the  tiny  cup,  which  binds 

Their  fragrant  lives  in  one  grand  scheme. 

And  leave,  at  last,  a  crownless  stem 

To  bloom  again,  no  more—  no  more? 

Aye,  but  thy  mem'ry  dear  shall  live 

Again,  so,  too,  the  love  that  cull'd 

Thee  in  thy  native  dell,  and  placed 

Thee  near  the  couch  of  her  who  gave 

It  birth  shall  glow  a  living  flame 

While  ceaseless  rounds  of  ages  roll  — 

The  cruel  fiend  which  lield  the  cup 

Of  pain,  to  parch'd  and  fever'd  lip 

Dropt  quick,  the  pois'nous  draught  and  fled 

At  thy  approach ;  and  in  his  stead 

A  calm  and  holy  peace  reign'd  o'er 

Tlie  tortur'd  form.    So  not  in  vain 

Is  thy  short  life—  thj-  mission  done. 

Go  rest  thee  in  the  quiet  tomb 

Which  nature  carv'd ;  but  e'er  thou  go'st 

Breathe  into  the  tender  life  of 

Her  who  bore  thee  from  thy  wild-wood 

Haunts  —  nobler  service  to  perform  — 

Thy  own  sweet  spirit's  mystic  pow'r 

That  she  may  tread  with  joyous  step 

The  peaceful  path  of  wisdom's  way 

And  find  at  last,  when  pluck'd  from  earth 

A  grander  sphere,  a  higher  life  I 


A  DECLAMATION. 

These  enchanting  rhetoricals 
And  fine  metaphoricals 

All  tinctured  with  eloquent  lore. 
May  serve  for  embellishment 
To  tliose  who  have  relisli  lent 

To  gilded  belles lettres'  full  store. 

But  a  modest,  shy  school-maiden. 
Coy,  timid  and  blush-laden. 

Bedecked  with  confusion  and  fear. 
Has  not  the  facility 
And  lacks  the  ability 

Delectable  points  to  make  clear. 

Now  decrees  of  the  faculty 
With  seeming  alacrity 

Enlist  lad  and  lassie  perforce; 
So  here's  a  predicament  — 
To  solve  it  I'm  fully  bent, 

We'll  borrow  Ideas  —  of  course. 

So  these  prosy  rhetoricals 
And  dull  metaphoricals 

Compact  in  my  brain  shall  all  be; 
We'll  buy  a  capacity. 
Then  there'.s  no  necessity 

To  trouble  our  neighbor,  you  see. 


*- 


-® 


*- 


-* 


LOCAT,    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


955 


ELISE  BEATTIE. 

Born:  Newbury,  Vt.,  Feb.  37,  1858. 
This  ladj'  received  her  education  at  tlie 
State  Normal  School  at  Trenton,  N.  J.  She 
lost  lier  father  the  first  j-ear  of  her  birth, 
and  was  left  motherless  in  1873.  Since  1876  this 
lady  has  i-esided  in  Athiiita,  Ga.,  where  she 


ELISE  BEATTIE. 

learned  the  profession  of  a  stenogra- 
pher. The  poems  of  Miss  Beattie  have  ap- 
peared in  the  Constitution  and  Atlanta 
Journal  of  Atlanta,  Ga.,  and  various  other 
publications,  and  is  the  author  of  a  volume 
of  poems  entitled  Echoes,  which  was  pub- 
lished in  1873,  and  received  high  praise. 


*- 


SYMPATHY. 
A  clouded  summer  sunset 

Its  broken  radiance  shed 
O'er  ancient  cross  and  column 

In  the  city  of  the  dead. 
It  moved  in  sliadowy  splendor. 

And  lit  with  tender  gold. 
Words  of  love  and  sorrow, 

A  hundred  summers  old; 
Words  half  unseen,  and  hidden. 

Filled  with  the  rotting  mold. 
And  my  heart  was  stirred  witli  pity 

For  griefs  a  century  old; 
When  lo,  a  passionate  weeping 

Jarred  on  the  quiet  way. 
As  a  mother  bent  in  anguish 

O'er  her  baby  who  died  to-day. 


Then  down,  from  tlie  golden  sunset. 
Or  ui)  from  the  lotting  mold. 

There  joined  that  motlier's  weeping. 
Tears  a  century  old. 


A  SIMPLE  STORY. 
The  winter  wind  went  wailing 

Through  the  leafless  trees, 
It  sobbed  upon  the  mountain. 
It  moaned  along  tlie  leas; 
And  we,  all  safely  sheltered 

From  the  "  wolf-month's  "  wrath. 
Pitied  those  so  lonely 

In  the  storm-w  ind's  path. 
The  scene  was  all  of  winter. 

But  winter  at  its  best. 
And  we  welcomed,  laughing, 

A  bright  and  pleasant  guest; 
Yet  he  brought  a  story 

From  fair,  tropic  l)owers, 
A  tale  of  love,  not  glorj-. 

From  tlie  Land  of  Flowers. 
A  sad  and  simple  storj-. 

Doubtless  many  more 
Came  to  that  fair  city 

Ere  the  plague  was  o'er. 
Of  two  lovers  plighted 

In  the  sunii7ier  days. 
And  the  sunlight  blest  them 

In  the  fragrant  ways. 
Then  the  plague  came,  scourging 

The  wretched  and  the  blest, 
And  he  plunged  his  arrow 

Into  love's  warm  breast; 
And  the  lover  languished 

Through  sad  day  and  night. 
Till,  at  last,  recovery 

Made  the  world  all  bright. 
But  brief,  alas,  their  gladness. 

For  the  poison  breath 
Touched  the  maid  —  she  faltered 

In  the  arms  of  death. 
0  rash  and  fated  lover, 

Was  it  worth  thy  while 
To  gain  thine  own  death-pang 

For  a  maiden's  smile? 
True  love  asked  no  questions. 

But  liastened  to  her  side. 
He  saw  her  —  kissed  her  —  faltered  — 

Was  it  fnmi  joy  he  died? 

I.'  ENVOI. 

The  winds  of  winter  wliistled 

All  about  us  still. 
The  winter  sunlight  lingered 

On  the  barren  hill; 
Yet  did  there  tremble  to  us. 

Through  our  careless  ease, 
A  maiden's  plaintive  weeping 

'  Neatlt  blossomed  orange  trees? 


-* 


POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MY    FATHERS  PORTRAIT 

O  youthful,  fair  and  noble  face. 
True  scion  of  a  lofty  race. 
Eves  of  this  same  glorious  hue 
once  swept  the  broad,  empyreal  blue 
In  Scotland's  days  of  old  romance , 
Of  armored  knight,  with  sword  and  lance. 
Or  visor  doffed,  shone  softly  bright. 
On  maideu  face,  with  love  alight. 
Yet  fled  that  gay  and  gallant  scene. 
Years  and  seas  now  intervene; 
Fled,  those  large  ancestral  halls. 
And  now  from  .tern  old  Derry  s  walls. 
They  flash,  these  ejes  of  radiant  brown. 
'   On  foes  a  full  defiance  down. 
And  through  the  years,  whatever  the  cause, 
Tbese  eyes  have  gazed  on  1^°"°^'^  ^'^^^J,  , 
And  drawn  their  glances,  high  and  bught. 
From  steady  eyelids  on  the  right. 
O  youthful,  fair  and  noble  face. 
Eight  hundred  years  have  lent  thee  grace 
Oh  youthful  eyes,  in  full  hope  seeing 
The  glory  and  the  use  of  being- 
Alas,  alas  thy  race  should  close, 
Before  thy  sun  to  zenith  rose. 
Yet  father  not  in  vain  thy  life. 
Not  vain  thy  strong  and  noble  strife. 
No  "  fitful  fever,"  ended  well. 
No  broken  fount,  from  which  upswell 
waters  salt,  and  full  of  tears. 
Wrung  from  the  eyes  of  dying  years. 
A  struggle-but  the  triumph's  sure. 
\  single  night  the  tears  endure, 
ihe  life  vou  gave  will  still  be  true. 

Your  child  is  faithful  unto  you. 
And  on  her  heart  will  ever  bear 
Those  you  loved  with  tender  care. 
Your  work  be  mine,  and,  when  'tis  done, 
When  o-er  my  grave  the  shadows  run 
They  with  thine  own  shall  meet,  and  be. 
In  God's  grace,  changed  happily, 
And    in  the  heavenly  country  bright. 
Behold,  one  ray  of  glorious  hght. 

AS  BONNIE  RUTH  GOES  BY. 
The  day-dawn  pure,  confessing 

Her  love-song  to  the  sky. 
Gives  richer  sense  of  blessing. 

As  bonnie  Ruth  goes  by. 
The  perfume  of  the  Maying. 
The  murmur  of  the  bees, 
And  all  sweet  things  are  staying 

For  bonnie  Ruth's  decrees. 
Azalia  of  the  mountain. 

Sweet  violet  by  the  lake, 
The  lily  of  the  fountain 

For  bonnie  Ruth  awake. 
A  glance  from  brown  eyes  tender. 
Half  daring,  and  half  shy- 


The  morn  has  dearer  splendor. 

As  bonnie  Ruth  goes  by. 
The  red  rose'  pure  completeness 

Of  scarlet  petals'  tips 
Is  dim  beside  the  sweetness 

Of  bonnie  Ruth's  red  lips; 
The  fairies  in  the  gloaming 

Earth's  whitest  thing  do  seek— 
Naught  whiter  find  they,  roaming. 

Than  bonnie  Ruth's  soft  cheek. 
Life's  passing  days  grow  sweeter. 

Its  purposes  more  high. 
And  all  our  life  completer. 

As  bonnie  Ruth  goes  by. 

MY  MOTHERS  FACE. 
The  sunshine  of  the  summer  noon 
Lighted  all  the  quiet  room. 
And  it  touched,  with  tender  grace. 
The  youthful,  fair  and  noble  face. 
That  they  hid  from  human  sight. 
When  my  own  eyes  deemed  the  light 
But  a  plaything  to  be  kist. 
Caught  and  held  in  baby  fist. 
All  unknowing  of  the  time 
When  those  rays,  divine,  sublime. 
My  sad  eyes  would  wish  were  dark. 
In  the  grave-dust  hid.  their  spark. 
Tender  scene,  yet  full  of  power. 
It  lighted  labor's  weary  hour. 
Yet  through  the  toiling  of  to-day. 
I  had  a  dream  of  far  away. 
Beside  that  youthful,  noble  face. 
Rose  another,  full  of  grace. 
Eyes  of  heaven's  softest  blue. 
Just  as  pure,  and  just  as  true. 
And  the  smile  that  in  them  lay 
Lighteth  still  my  path  to  day. 
The  mother's  smile,  divinely  given 
Twas  naught  of  earth, 'twas  all  of  heaven 
(  \n&  still  the  sun  rays  went  and  came. 
On  pictured  face,  on  gilded  frame. 
But  round  her  face,  so  saintly  fair. 
A  halo  trembled  in  the  hallowed  air). 
O  parents  dear,  though  sore  bereft. 
Your  noblest  part  to  me  is  left; 
All  your  goodness,  and  your  truth. 
All  the  sweetness  of  your  youth. 
All  the  struggles  of  your  life. 
Where  you  conquered  in  the  strife; 
All  the  glory  and  delight 
Yours  for  aye  on  heavenly  height. 
AH  the  hope  to  meet  you  there. 
In  that  clearer,  purer  air- 
All  is  mine,  and  only  waits 
Death's  touch  up..n  the  life-barred  gates 
To  bo  mine  without  alloy 
In  a  world  of  perfect  joy. 


*- 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


957 


REV.  G.W.  KILDOW.  JR. 

Born:  Bloomington,  Md.,  Feb.  22, 1866. 
Young  Kildow  has  traveled  extensively  in 
nearlj'  every  state  of  the  union,  and  is  now 
resirliog  at  NashvUle,  Tenri.,  where  he  is  a 

mmmmmmmmmmi 


UEV.  U.  W.  KILDOW,  JK. 

Presbyterian  minister.     His  poems  have  ap- 
peared in  the  Richmond  Herald,  and  others. 


*- 


TO  BEN  A. 

When  Aurora  rises  up. 

Heralding  the  god  of  day. 
Then  up  from  my  couch  I  rise 

And  my  thoughts  flee  far  away. 
Far  away  to  other  lands, 

Where  a  lovely  maiden  dwells. 
With  a  bright  and  happy  smile 

And  a  voice  like  mellow  bells. 
And  when  Phoebus,  in  his  car. 

Drives  Old  Sol  thro'  eastern  sky, 
Then  again  my  soul  desires 

On  the  wings  of  love  to  fly 
To  this  maid  of  tender  heart, 

Far  awaj'  o'er  land  and  sea. 
To  this  maid  of  form  divine 

Who,  I  trust,  loves  only  me. 
And  when  Sol,  down  western  skies 

In  his  robes  of  state  descends. 
Then  again  to  that  fair  clime 

All  my  soul  in  rapture  tends; 
Yes,  desires  its  way  to  wend 

To  this  maid  so  true  and  pure. 
For  in  Cupid's  toils  I'm  bound 

And  her  beauty  doth  allure. 


And  when  Luiui  treads  the  skies 

In  her  robes  of  starry  night, 
Then  again  my  soul  desires 

To  mount  up  and  take  its  flight; 
Thro'  the  regions  ot  llie  air. 

Far  away  o'er  land  and  sea. 
On  the  wings  of  love  to  fly 

And  bow  down,  fair  maid,  to  thee. 


KETHOSPECT. 
I  am  thinking  to-day  of  my  youth. 

And  the  castles  I  built  in  the  air; 
When  the  world  was  a  world  of  truth 

And  deceit  was  a  thing  most  rare. 
Of  the  maiden  I  fondly  loved, 

A  vision  of  beauty  and  light, 
In  whose  presence  I  strangely  was  moved 

And  filled  with  a  sense  of  delight. 
Of  the  men  of  my  youthful  dreams 

Who  were  pillars  of  love  and  truth. 
But  Ah!  I  have  learned  many  things 

Since  those  halcyon  days  of  youth. 
Then  the  world  was  a  world  of  love, 

'Twas  a  Garden  of  Eden  fair, 
Filled  with  flowers,  thro'  which  to  rove. 

Breathing  perfume  upon  the  soft  air. 
But  to-day  as  T  sit  and  dream. 

Under  the  blue  of  the  sky. 
About  me  on  every  hand 

My  youth's  air-castles  lie. 
Shattered  and  sundered  by  time. 

By  the  lapse  of  a  score  of  years. 
By  winds  from  a  stormy  clime. 

By  blasts  from  the  vale  of  tears. 
And  the  maiden  T  fondly  loved 

Is  laid  away  in  the  tomb. 
And  over  her  grass-grown  grave 

The  roses  and  lilies  bloom. 
And  the  years  of  which  I  dreamed 

With  her  as  my  loving  wife 
Have  been  passed  willi  a  heavy  heart. 

And  a  lonely  saddened  life. 
And  the  pillars  of  love  and  truth. 

The  men  of  my  youiliful  dreams. 
Have  swindled  me  oft  since  my  youth. 

With  deceit  and  cunning  schemes. 
And  the  world  of  blooms  and  flowers 

Has  been  filled  with  sneers  and  scorns. 
And  my  beautiful  blossoming  bowers 

Have  been  filled  with  thistles  and  thorns. 
And  instead  of  glory  and  fume 

And  positions  of  honor  and  trust. 
Scarce  any  havi-  heard  of  my  name 

And  I  still  plod  along  in  the  dust. 
But  out  of  the  darkness  and  clouds 

Comes  a  ray  dispelling  my  night 
As  thro'  a  rift  I  perceive 

The  heavens  resplendent  with  light. 


-* 


*- 


958 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   fOETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MATTHIAS  SHEELEIGH.  D.D. 

Born:  Charleston,  Pa.,  Dec.  29,  1821. 
After  teaching-  for  some  years  in  Pennsyl- 
vania and  New  Jersey,  Mr.  Sheeleigh  pur- 
sued   a   course   of   study  in   Pennsylvania 
College,   Gettysburg,  and  in  the  Lutheran 


MATTHIAS  SHEEIiEIGH,  I).  D. 

Theological  Seminary  at  the  same  place.  In 
1852  he  entered  the  ministry  and  has  filled 
pastorates  at  Valatie,  N.Y.,  Minersville,  Pa., 
Philadelphia,  Pa.,  Stewartsville,  N.  J.;  and 
during  the  last  twenty-one  years  at  Fort 
Washington,  Pa.,  in  a  pastorate  consisting  of 
two  congregations  at  Whitemarsh  and 
Upper  Dublin.  In  1859  lie  was  married  to 
Miss  Sabina  M.  Diller,  and  now  has  a  family 
of  several  children.  Dr.  Sheeleigh  lias  writ- 
ten about  one  thousand  poems  which  have 
appeared  from  time  to  time  in  current 
literatnre.  He  has  also  published  several 
works  in  prose  on  various  sub.iects;  and 
since  1860  has  efficiently  edited  the  Lutheran 
Sunday-School  Herald.  Dr.  Sheeleigh  has 
gained  a  national  reputation  as  a  poet  and 
author. 

THE  VAST  WORLD. 
How  grandly  built    this    glorious   circling 

world ! 
Such  breadth  of   vale  and  rolling  hills    in 

view. 
The  snow-capped  heights,  with  clouds  about 
them  furled; 
I  And  lofty  dome  of  bUie! 


And  hence  to  utmost  rim  of  skyey  glass 
Stretched  out  abroad  from    this  extended 

shore, 
Tlie  restless,   heaving  waters  of  the  ocean 

mass. 
With  voice  of  ceaseless  roar. 

All  these  in  endlessness  of  wonder  wrought. 
Of  varied  form  and  grace  of  hue  and  tone, 
Stand  out  before  nie  a  stupendous  thought 
From  Heaven's  exalted  throne! 


A  SUMMER  MORNING. 
I'm  sitting  on  this  beauteous  morn, 

'Mid  fields  of  corn. 
Where  gladsome  hills  all  forest-crowned. 
In  gentle-shaded  summer  hue. 
On  skies  of  blue. 
The  vallej'  clasp  around. 

Astir  the  robes  of  trembling  trees, 

Breaths  of  the  breeze 
Upon  the  cheek  in  fondness  fall. 
And  from  the  spaces  everywhere. 
The  echoing  air 
The  birds  make  musical. 

Amid  such  life  in  this  pure  sun. 

Feeling  as  one 
With  things  of  God's  great  goodness  rife, 
A  pulse  of  joy  and  love  awakes. 
And  music  makes 
Unto  the  source  of  life. 


*- 


THE  SENTINEL  OF  POMPEII. 
There  stood  he  at  his  post  of  duty  fast. 
When  first  was  heard  the  mountain's  warn- 
ing sound; 
As  louder  broke  beneath,  above,  around, 
The  thunder's  voice  and  sheets  of  lightning 

cast 
Tlieir  glare  o'er  all  the  sky  till  shrank  aghast 
The  stoutest  hearts,  yet  steadfast  was  he 

found; 
While  earthquake  throes  rocked  all  the  solid 

ground 
Each  terror  still  surpassing  far  the  last. 
While  from  the  sky  clouds  of  destruction  fell, 
The  very  city  with  its  pomp  and  life, 
To  wrap  and  bury,  like  as  though  the  knell 
Of  time  were  rung,  firm  stood  he  'mid  the 

strife: 
Now,  ages  gone,  as  comes  to  light  his   jiost 

again, 
See    still    his    form   a  tyjie  of   faithfulness 

remain ! 
— * 


*- 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKKICA. 


-* 


959 


TPIOMAS  ROMAN   MORE. 

Bokn:  Saxta  Bakbaka,  Cal  ,  Sept.  27.  It!j6. 
Gkaduating  from  the  Auu  Arbor  High 
Schoul.  young  More  then  atteuded  the 
Michigan  University.  At  the  end  of  a  year, 
however,  he  was  called  home  to  Cahfornia 


TH(>M.\S  ROMAN   MOKE. 

because  of  the  death  of  his  father,  and  he 
had  the  double  misfortune  to  lose  his  mother 
one  year  later.  He  is  now  kept  busy  looking 
after  his  ranches  and  stock;  he  is  very  fond 
of  horses,  on  which  he  is  a  great  authority. 
In  1880  he  was  married  to  Miss  Mary  B.  Den, 
and  now  has  a  family  of  several  children. 


*- 


TO  INEZ. 
Italian  skies  no  longer  soothe  my  heart. 
And  though  they  be  as  l)lue  and  full  of  rest. 
Their  quietness  can  mollify  no  part 
Of  this  deserted  soul,  and  on  my  breast 
No  longer  sleep  sweet  niem'riesonce  so  blest. 
Of  thee  Inez.    When  I  thy  name  recall 
My  soul  with  madness  doth  upstart  in  quest 
And  struggles  to  be  free  from  every  thrall 
That  held  me  once  when  thou  wert  all  to 

me  — my  all. 
Come  wing'ed  spirits  of  the  great  unknown. 
And  take  with  thee  my  soul,  but  leave  be- 
hind 
The  power  of  grief  to  this  deserted,  lone 
And  broken  heart  to  its  had  fate  resign'd. 
That  it  might  wander  like  a  wounded  hind 
That  seeks  the  densest  forest  there  to  die. 
Yet  warning  on  its  way  whom  it  may  find. 


I  call  upon  thee  spirits  of  the  sky 
To  free  me  from  this  world  of  insincerity. 
Perchance  ye  think  that  1  shall  soon  or  late 
Forget  the  love  1  bore  to  sweet  Inez. 
And  once  again  love  stronger  llian  I  hate; 
But  that  can  never  be,  since  dire  distress 
Has  wounded  my  sad  soul  and  happiness 
Is  but  in  heaven,  for  the  magic  wand 
No  longer  comes,  as  once,  to  my  redress. 
So  take  my  restless  soul  to  thy  fair  land. 
Whose  varied  pleasures  are  by  augels  ever 
planned. 

1  seem  to  liear  thy  voice  to-night  Inez, 
And  once  again  with  open  heart  and  soul 
1  stand  before  thee  full  of  happiness. 
And  by  that  magic  spell  that  did  control 
With  wondrous  power,  my  existence  whole, 
I  feel  myself  surrounded.    From  the  skies 
Sweet  spirits  come  and  urge  me  to  be  goal. 
I  kneel  before  thee  and  with  ardent  sighs 
i  do  confess  my  love  and  thou  dost  bid  me 
rise. 


SLEEP. 
Sweet,  living  sleep;  thou  wert  my  constant 

friend. 
What  have  I  done?  wlierein  did  I  offend? 
That  thou  shouldst  now  forsake  me  when  I 

And 
Thou  hast  the  power  to  soothe  my  wandei^ 

ing  mind? 
Forgive  me,  kind  and  tender  friend,  forgive. 
And  if  I  wronged  thee,  let  no  longer  live 
Thine  anger!— for  I  love  thee  as  a  friend 
From  whom  I  would   not  part,  much  less 

offend. 
How  well  do  I  remember  when  a  child, 
I  wandered  through  the  forests  dense  and 

wild; 
And  when  my  limbs  would  ache  thou  cam'st 

to  me 
And  wrapped  in  thj'  mantle  till  I'd  be 
No  longer  weary  and,  from  suffering  free. 


EXTRACT. 
Though  thy  joys  seem  without  end, 
Thou  canst  not  thy  sorn)w  find. 
That  must  come  to  thy  false  lieart 
Ere  thou  from  tliis  world  depart. 
Tliou  shall  feel  thy  friends  forsake  thee, 
And  no  spirit  shall  awake  thee. 
Till  th(ni  art  beyond  that  power 
That  hath  held  thee  to  this  hour. 
I  have  loved  thee  and  would  die 
To  save  thee  from  thy  destiny. 
But  that  power  thatcliained  me  here. 
Loosens  not  its  grasp  of  fear. 
So  intent  is  its  desire. 
So  unmerciful  its  ire. 


*- 


-*<: 


960 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   A3IERICA. 


MRS.MARY  H.HUNTINGTON 

BOBN :  Oswego,  N.Y.,  1840. 
In  1863  this  lady  was  married  to  Capt.  I.  L. 
Huntington.      Mrs.   Huuting-ton    is  in    the 
millinery   business,  but  spends  her  leisure 
nionifiits  in  writing-  poetry,  ;ind  in   jiainting 


MRS.  MARY  H.  HUNTINGTON. 

and  music.  Her  poems  have  been  written 
on  special  subjects,  and  liave  received  ex- 
tensive publication.  Mrs.  Huntington  is  now 
a  resident  of  her  native  state  at  Watertown, 
where  she  is  very  popular. 

LITTLE  ACORN. 
I'm  nothing  but  a  little  acorn, 

Not  much  bigger  than  a  bee; 
But  mama  Oak-tree  tells  me  that 

I  will  grow  as  big  as  she,— 

I  can't  see  how  —but  she  says  some  way 

I  will  pop  out  from  my  shell, 
A  little  sprout  will  greet  the  sunshine, 

Starting  up,  and  down  as  well. 
I'll  keep  growing,  bigger,  higher. 

Spreading  out  my  branches  wide; 
And  will  never  stop  to  wonder 

Till  T  .stand  up  by  her  side. 

Then  I'll  look  down  on  ray  sisters,— 

For  there  were  a  lot  you  see,— 
Some  who  said  they  knew  they  couldn't 

Ever  sprout  and  be  a  tree. 
So  they  never  made  an  effort,— 

Did  not  try  .>and  try  again;" 


There  was  nothing  that  could  make  them, 
Though  nature  taught  their  duty  plain. 

But  I  am  happy  as  I  can  be  — 
Keeping  laws  of  God  and  man  — 

Now,  can't  you  learn  a  lesson  from  me 
Growing  upward  all  you  can? 


CONEMAUGH. 

Pent  up  high,  amid  the  mountains. 

The  death-agent  lay  in  wait. 
Till  with  a  crash  the  miglity  fountain 

Opened  wide  the  fatal  gate. 

High  toward  Heaven  it  leaped  in  madness 

Ere  it  struck  the  mountain  side. 
With  a  voice  of  many  earthquakes. 

All  man's  puny  strength  defied. 
As  the  mighty  waves  plunge  downward, 

Crushing,  smasliing  in  their  flight. 
Gullying  out  their  paths  of  ruin. 

Naught  they  leave  but  death  and  blight. 
Surging  high,  the  angry  waters 

Grasped  our  loved  ones  here  and  there. 
Hurled  them  out  amid  the  wreckage, 

Echo  only  answers  —  where? 
Where's  our  darling,  from  the  cradle? 

Where  the  mother,  wife  and  child? 
Where  the  husband,  son  and  neighbor? 

Where  our  homes  in  which  love  smiled? 
Crushed  and  dying,  torn  and  bleeding. 

Struggling  there  'mid  life  and  death. 
In  the  mass  of  floating  debris  — 

Grasping,  gasping  for  their  breath. 
Calling  vainly  names  of  loved  ones, 

Clinging  to  a  dear  one's  form; 
Prayers  that  ne'er  before  were  uttered 

Rose  amid  the  wreck  and  storm. 
Oh,  that  night  of  awful  horror  I 

Oh.  the  wailings  of  despair  1 
Fire  and  darkness  did  surround  them, 

Shrieks  of  dying  filled  the  air. 
Groans  for  help  when  none  could  succor: 

Prayers  to  God,  who  did  not  save 
From  the  dreadful  death  by  fire. 

Or  the  foaming,  strangling  wave. 
Soon  the  gloom  of  night  o'ershadowed; 

Soon  the  dying  groans  were  liushed; 
Chaos  reigned  thnnigliout  the  valley. 

As  the  waters  on>vard  rushed. 
Leaving  naught  but  desolation, 

Broken  hearts,  and  lost  hearthstones; 
Shattered  lives  without  protection  — 

Father,  hear  their  piteous  moans! 
As  they  look  to  Thee  for  refug-e  — 

The  .sole  source  wlience  aid  can  come  — 
Help  them  bow  in  meek  submission. 

And  humbly  say,  "Thy  will  be  done." 


*- 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


961 


MRS,  BELLE  H.SHORTRIDGE. 

Born:  Cactus  Hill.  Texas. 

This  lady  was  the  first  white  child  horn  in 
Wise  county,  Texas,  and  at  the  reunioti  of 
the  pioneers  she  is  g-enerally  requested  to  be 
present  and  given  a  place  t)f  honor.  She  has 
written  several    hundred  poems  of    merit 


MRS.  BELLE   HUNT  SHORTRIDGE. 

which  have  appeared  in  the  Dallas  News, 
Fort  Worth  Gazette,  Mirror,  Galveston  News, 
Times,  Democrat,  the  New  York  Sun  and 
various  otlier  publications.  As  a  prose 
writer  she  has  gained  a  wide  celebrity.  It  is 
understood  that  Mrs.  Belle  Hunt  Shortridge 
is  engaged  in  recording  the  History  of  Texas 
in  ante  bellum  days. 


* 


FOREBODING. 
Last  night  I  idly  drew  thy  face 
Against  the  lamp-lit  wall; 
Outlined  upon  a  paper  white, 
A  profile  — that  was  all. 
And  yet,  to-day,  as  here  it  lies 
Upon  my  desk,  so  still 
That  calm,  familiar,  silent  face  — 
I  feel  a  sudden  chill  — 
I  think  "  so  would  my  darling  lie 
If  she  were  cold  and  dead." 
The  fine-cut  face,  the  tender  mouth, 
The  broad,  high,  white  forehead, 
So  lie  the  long  dark  lashes  on 
The  pallid  cheek  —  ah  me ! 


It  is  a  gruesome  fancy,  dear, 

And  fraught  with  agony! 

I  cannot  write,  nor  read,  nor  think, 

Witii  tliy  dead  face  so  near. 

I  am  a  foolish  creature  I     Ves  — 

A  woman  is  a  (lueer 

And  utisolvfd  problem,  and  her  nerves 

Sensitively  attuned. 

To  draughts  blown  from  the  spirit  world. 

Too  easy  —  far  —  to  wound. 

But,  easy  too,  to  cheer  and  thrill 

So  — chide  me  not,  for  this, 

It  is  a  foolish  fancy,  well  — 

Dispel  it  —  with  —  a  kiss ! 


LOVES  DEFIANCE. 
What!  here  again  with  tliy  mocking  eyes. 
Thou  beautiful  wraith  of  a  buried  past! 
Thou  half-guessed  breath  of  a  pressed  white 

rose. 
Of  a  summer  too  fleet  and  fair  to  last. 

Ah,  me!  since  then  I  have  learned  so  much 
Of  the  ways  of  the  world  and  the  ways  of 

men, 
I  had  dreamed  I  was  stoical,  worldly-wise, 
I  did  not  think  I  would  stumble  again. 

I  have  told  my  heart  that  it  all  was  best. 
My  heart  has  looked  in  my  eyes  and  smiled — 
A  smile  incredulous,  sensuous,  rare. 
Till  it,  somehow  or  other,  my  faith  beguiled. 

I  had  stood  by  the  bier  of  that  sweet  old  love 
And  watched  it  die  as  a  mortal  may. 
I  had  closed  its  eyes  with  a  reverent  touch. 
And  folded  the  still  white  liands  away; 

And  I  smiled   with  the  death  dew  lingering 

yet 
On  my  finger  tips;  I  was  sore  beset 
With  the  horror  that  some  one  would  see  and 

know 
That  my  idol  was  clay  '.    I  cannot  forget. 

Though  I  have  forgiven.  Ah !  living  or  dead, 
Or  buried,  or  thrilling  with  life's  red  wine. 
Thou  art  my  love  and  my  own  heart's  blood. 
Thou  art  mine  own  and  I  am  tliine! 

See!  'tis  a  miracle,  solve  it  who  can, 
A  woman's  heart  is  a  wonderful  thing! 
The  world  is  its  kingdom,  it  reigneth  su- 
preme. 
And  Love  is  its  vanquished  rose-yoked  king. 

Come  to  thy  throne  in  my  heart's  deep  core. 

Kiss  me  straight  on  tlie  lips  anew; 

Down  on  your  knees  and  homage  pay 

To  the  woman  who  conquers  a  man  like  you. 


-* 


*- 


962 


LOCAI-   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMERICA. 


CHARLES  CASE  PARSONS. 

Born:  Florence,  Ohio,  March  17, 1820. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  was  married  in 
is.VZ.  but  is  now  a  widower  with  a  familj'  of 


LIFE. 
Say  what  is  life  with  all  its  charms. 

Its  beauty  and  its  g:low; 
Say  ye  who  rest  on  pleasure's  arms 

Or  drink  the  stream  of  woe? 

'Tis  like  the  fragrant  rose  of  May 
That  witliers  in  its  bloom. 

For  beauty  ne'er  can  shun  decay 
Nor  triumph  o'er  the  tomb. 

'Tis  like  the  sun  so  bright. 
Cheers  us  through  all  the  day, 

Then  sinking  midst  the  night. 
His  glory  dies  away. 

So  man  in  all  his  gaudy  pride. 
With  haughty  steps  moves  on 

Till  lost  in  life's  o'erflowing  tide, 
His  flattering  hopes  are  gone. 

Life  is  a  scene  of  toil  and  care. 

Of  pleasure  mixed  with  pain, 
'Tis  light  and  fleeting  as  the  air 

And  all  its  joys  are  vain. 


CHARLES  CASE  PARSONS. 


four  living  children.  He  has  written  quite  a 
few  poems  that  liave  appeared  from  time  to 
time  In  the  local  press. 


The  sons  of  wealth  and  power 
Shall  slumber  in  the  grave. 

None  can  escape  the  fatal  hour 
Nor  might  nor  wealth  can  save. 

The  needy  with  the  rich  must  fall 

And  yield  their  gasping  breath, 
The  silent  grave  is  made  lor  all, 

And  all  are  born  in  death. 
Then  why  should  we  aspire  to  wealth 

And  gain  the  gold  we  love, 
Since  we  must  leave  it  all  ourselves. 

And  go  so  pool-  above. 


A  AVOED  TO  THE  BOYS. 
Wake  up  your  thoughts,  wake  up  your  soul, 
Survey  this  globe  from  pole  to  pole. 
To  what  employment  will  you  bow. 
Pursue  the  arts,  or  hold  the  plow? 

By  a  just  and  strict  attention, 
The  plow  appears  a  high  Invention; 
Your  wealth  arises  from  the  clod. 
Your  Independence  from  your  God. 

Now  if  the  plow  supports  the  nation 
And  men  of  every  rank  and  station ; 
Let  high  officials  to  farmers  bow. 
And  never  speak  against  the  plow. 

Let  our  young  men  please  think  of  this, 
For  wheat  and  corn  won't  come  amiss; 
It  will  help  make  a  happy  home. 
And  money  you  will  have  to  loan. 

Too  many  seeking  for  position 
Leaves  the  farm  in  bad  condition. 
I  hope  you'll  see  this  great  mistake 
And  go  to  work,  be  wide  awake. 

Your  wealth  will  come  from  work  and  care, 
And,  if  faithful,  you'll  liave  a  share; 
And  when  you're  laid  away  to  rest. 
You  will  be  counted  'mong  the  best. 


EXTRACT. 
The  spring  of  life  is  past. 

With  its  budding  hopes  and  fears; 
And  the  autumn  time  is  coming, 

With  its  weight  of  weary  years. 
All  our  joys  and  hopes  are  fading. 

Our  hearts  are  dimmed  with  care; 
And  youth's  first  dreams  of  gl.-idnes^. 

Have  perished  darkly  tliore. 
When  bUss  was  blooming  near  us. 

In  the  heart's  first  burst  of  spring; 
While  many  hopes  could  cheer  us, 

Life  scorned  a  glorious  thing. 
Like  the  foam  upon  the  river, 

Wlien  the  breeze  goes  rippling:  e'er; 
Those  hopes  have  fled  forever. 

To  come  to  us  no  more. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF   AMEUICA. 


963 


-* 


CLARA   PIERCE. 

Born:  Wiek  Village,  Mass.,  Sept.  5,  1859. 
In  1875  Clara  removed  with  her  parents  to 
New  Bedford,  Mass.,  where  she  hiis  resided 
ever  since,  with    the  exception    of   a   year 


CLARA  PIERCE. 

spent  in  Florida  for  her  health.  Her  poems 
have  appeared  in  the  Sunday  School  Herald 
of  Dayton,  Ohio,  New  Bedford  Standard  and 
Mercury,  the  Portland  Transcript,  Cottage 
Hearth  and  other  publications. 

TO  MRS.  FRANCES  L.  MACE. 
"Only  waiting-,"  sweet  the  cadence 

Of  the  faitli-inspiring-  words. 
Like  some  low  feolian  measure. 

Thrilling  as  the  song  of  birds. 
Breathing  hope  in  every  sentence; 

Throbbing  pulses  join  the  strain. 
Hearts  bowed  down  with  weight  of  anguish 

Rise  in  rapture  o'er  their  pain. 
"Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 

Are  a  little  longer  grown;  " 
E'er  we  hear  the  longed-for  welcome 

To  our  bright  eternal  home. 
Even  now  we  catch  the  radiance 

Of  the  promised  land  afar. 
And  a  sweet  prophetic  vision 

Rises  up,  as  bar  on  biu-. 
Falls  the  soft  and  plaintive  innsic 

Like  a  benediction  down. 
Till  our  everj'  cross  forgetting. 

We  perceive  the  waiting  crown. 


Jordan's  flood  no  more  a])palls  ifs. 

Undismayed  we  seek  its  tide; 
Straining  eyes  o'erlook  the  billows 

Surging  darkly  at  our  side. 
For  we  only  see  the  glory 

Of  the  Land  beyond  the  wave. 
What  to  us  the  sting  of  dying? 

What  the  victory  of  the  grave? 
Hark!    Tiie  nnisic  throbs  no  longer. 

Trembling  hands  and  tear-wet  eyes 
Pay  their  sweet  and  holy  tribute. 

As  the  liymn  in  silence  dies. 


FANCY'S  VISIONS. 
I  live  in  a  world  of  fancy, 

A  world  that  is  all  nij'  own, 
From  the  emerald  turf  beneath  me 

To  the  blue  of  the  arching  dome. 

Bright  flowers  in  my  pathway  springing, 

The  song-bird's  tuneful  lay. 
The  throb  of  the  music  ringing. 

Glad  all  my  joyous  way. 

The  fountain's  crystal  watei-s 

In  their  marble  basin  dash: 
Each  drop  is  a  tiny  rainbow  — 

Their  brilliant  colors  flash. 

The  waterfall  swift  leaping 

Adowu  the  rocky  heiglit. 
Is  lost  below  in  waters 

Of  sparkling  beauty  bright. 

The  stately  river,  sweeping 

In  majesty  and  pride 
Through  meadows  green,  and  forests. 

Becomes  old  i)ceaii's  bride. 

The  lofty  mountain  lifting 

Its  crested  head  to  heaven. 
Shook  by  the  thunder's  cannonade, 

By  lightning's  flashes  riven. 

The  clouds  that  float  above  me. 

The  very  air  I  breathe. 
Have  power  around  my  iieart-strings. 

And  through  my  life  to  wreathe 

Sweet  thoughts  and  glowing  visions. 

That  never  shall  depart. 
Till  death  with  icy  fingers 
Has  chilled  the  throbbing  heart. 


EXTRACT. 

I  fain  would  grasp  my  idle  pen 

To  wiiile  the  weary  time. 
And  heiigt!  my  wandering  fancy  in 

With  rude  uncertain  rhyme. 
But  what  to-*iay  shall  be  my  theme? 

Whose  praises  shall  I  sing? 
The  knights  of  Arthur's  table  round? 

The  fairies'  magic  ring? 


964 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  BELLA  T.  RUTH. 

Born:  Lone  Tkee,  Iowa,  Aug.  28,  1864. 
In  1883  this  lady  was  married  to  Dr.  C.  E. 
Buth,  an  eminent  physician,  who  for  a  time 
was  professor  of    anatomy  at  the  Keokuk 
Medical  College,  Iowa.    The  poems  of  Mrs. 


MRS.  DELT.A  T.  RUTH. 

Ruth  have  appeared  in  the  Muscatine  Daily 
Journal  and  other  publications.  She  now 
has  a  family  of  three  children,  and  resides 
in  Muscatine,  Iowa. 


RECOLLECTIONS. 
Oh !  for  the  days  of  our  childhood, 

The  days  that  we  ne'er  can  forget. 
And  fondly  we  dream  of  tliem  ever. 

And  sigh  witli  a  lasting  regret. 

Regret  that  we  cannot  live  over 
Those  bright  halcyon  days  of  the  past. 

When  we  thought  not  of  care,but  of  pleasure. 
For  it  seemed  that  joy  always  would  last. 

When  we  dreamed  that  the  beautiful  flowers. 

Strewn    around,   made    our    patliway    so 

bright. 

And  we  thought  not  of  the  trials  and  sorrows 

That  miglit  change  all   its   brightness   to 

night. 

And  we  grasped  witli  a  liand  so  tenacious 
The  treasure  we  deemed  so  secure. 

And  we  wakened  to  find  it  had  vanished 
Like  others  that  were  equally  sure. 


We  think  of  the  hills  and  the  valleys 
Where  we  roamed  with  delight  wlien  a  child 

And  we  tenderly  dwell  on  the  murmurs 
That  we  heard  in  the  forest  so  wild. 

And  we'll  never  forget  the  sweet  songsters 
Where'er  they've  been  seen  or  were  heard, 

Nor  the  brooklet  that  sparkled  so  gaily 
As  it  echoed  the  song  of  the  bird. 


Alas !  for  the  dreams  and  the  fancies 
Of  youth's  morn, when  its  borders  we  reach, 

For  we  dimly  foresee  in  the  distance 
The  duties  and  life-work  of  each. 

We  can  only  distinguish  the  outlines. 
And  we  are  hurried  along  with  the  throng, 

But  we  realize  then  witli  misgivings. 
That  we've  started,  and  must  go  along. 

How  wisely  our  Heavenly  Father, 
Kept  the  future  veiled  safely  from  sight. 

For  the  knowledge  might  slacken  our  labors. 
And  our  souls  left  to  grope  in  the  night. 

So  we  try  to  be  cheerful  and  happy, 
As  poor  mortals  like  we  ever  can. 

And  to  do  as  our  Savior  commanded 
To  work  out  his  glorious  plan. 

But  still  to  our  minds  retrospection, 
(Try  to  do  and  to  hope  as  we  may,) 

Comes  with  childhood's  and  youth's  recollec- , 
tions, 
As  slowly  we  go  on  our  way.  - 


I 


* 


*- 


LIFE. 

EXTRACT. 

The  problem  of  life  is  a  mystified  one. 
Of  ups  and  downs  and  uncertainty  ever. 
And  with  all  we  can  do,  or  might  have  done 
Witli  all  that  others  may  do  and  endeavor. 
The  race  is  still  human,  our  foibles  the  same 
Our  cares  will  be  manifold  and  bear  theoU 
name. 

W'e  may  drift  about  on  tlie  ocean  of  life. 
We  may  float  along  with  the  tide. 
And  seem  to  foi-get  that  our  journey  is  rife 
With  sin  and  dread  sorrow  whicli  go  side  b 

side; 
But    we're   startled  at  last  from  our  dee 

letliargy 
And  realize  more  tlie  perils  at  sea. 
j? 


*- 


LOCAL.   AND    NATIONAL    POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


965 


MRS.  ANN  E.  MAINS. 

Boiin:  Sutton,  Vt.,  June  7, 1840. 
This   lady    tvas  married  in  1863  to  Geo.  H. 
Mains,  the  publislier  of  the  Wakemaii  Press, 
of  which  publication   Mrs.  Mains  was  for  a 
jiumhpr  of  xcais  ;issi.stant  editor.    She  has 


MKS.  ANN  E.  MAINS. 


written  quite  a  few  poems  which  have  ap- 
peared in  the  periodical  press,  and  still  re- 
sides in  Wakemau,  Ohio,  with  her  children. 
Mrs.  Mains  is  very  fond  of  flowers,  of  which 
she  has  quite  a  large  variety. 


DEAD  HOPE. 
I  stood  beside  a  silent  bier. 

Spread  with  a  sable  pall. 
No  other  mourners  gathered  near 

In  the  dim  lighted  hall. 

Friends  of  my  youth  had  tied  away, 
And  all  the  dreams  of  yore 

Were  but  as  idols  made  of  clay. 
Cherished  by  me  no  more. 

Ambition  that  my  bosom  stirred 
When  youth  was  fair  and  bright, 

Down  the  dark  corridors  of  time, 
Had  vanished  from  my  sight. 

And  love  long  since  had  folded  up 
Her  silken  wings  and  tied; 

Now  the  last  drop  had  filled  the  cup. 
For  Hope,  fair  Hope  was  dead. 


CROWN  JEWELS. 

Unto  your  keeping,  mother,  is  lent 

A  casket  of  jewels  r;ire. 
To  wreathe  for  your  head  a  diadem, 

Tliat  no  otlier  brow  may  wear. 

To  your  hand  is  given  the  task  to  shape. 
And  mold  their  form  to  your  rvill, 

Shape  tliem  to  fit  the  place  in  your  crown. 
The  Master  wished  them  to  till. 

Do  well  your  task,  lest  in  other  years. 

Their  radiance  shall  grjw  dim, 
And  the  Master  shall  lake  thy  work  in  hand. 

He  gave  you  too  for  Him. 

Sure  He  will  ask  them  of  you  again. 

It  may  be  later  or  soon. 
Some  He  may  want  at  even-time. 

And  some  before  it  is  noon. 

And  some  in  the  brightness  of  morning, 

He  recalls  ere  scarcely  given. 
To  place  them,  safe,  for  the  tiny  pearls, 

In  your  mother-crown  in  heaven. 


THE  SONGS  OUR  MOTHERS  SUNG. 
The  .songs  our  mothers  used  to  sing. 

In  old  times  long  ago, 
Down  through  the  fleeting  years  will  ring 

In  cadence  soft  and  low. 
We  hear  the  soothing  cradle  hymn 

That  hushed  us  oft  to  rest. 
When  evening  shadows  gathered  dim. 

In  the  fast  fading  west. 
Our  head  was  pillowed  on  her  breast, 

A  sacred  resting  place. 
And  round  our  form  tier  arms  were  pressed. 

In  a  close,  fond  embrace. 
What  memories  the  songs  l)riug  back. 

From  out  the  dreamy  past, 
Sliedding  soft  radiance  on  the  tnick 

Our  feet  are  treading  fast. 
Where'er  our  weary  heads  may  lie. 

On  thorny  pillows  i)ressed. 
We  hear  in  dreams  the  lullaby. 

That  hushed  us  oft  to  rest. 
Then,  mothers,  sing  the  simple  lays 

Your  children  love  to  hear. 
Tliat  they  perchance,  in  other  days 

May  help  sad  hours  to  cheer. 
The  songs  niay  prove  a  bond  to  stay 

Their  feet  from  evil  ways. 
When  tlicj'  have  wandered  far  away 

From  home  and  happy  days. 
Yes,  mothers,  sing  the  songs  again 

You  oft  have  sung  before; 
The  soothing,  cheering,  soft  refrain 

We  fain  woiild  hear  once  more. 


gi- 


« 


5-- 


966 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.LIZZIE  CLARK  HARDY. 

Born:  St.  Lawrence  Co.,  N.  Y. 
At  an  early  age  this  lady  became  a  teacher 
and  voluminous  magazine  and  newspaper 
writer,  and  lier  poems  and  slsetclies  have 
appeared  in  Frank  Leslie's,  Scribner's,  Wav- 
erly,   Chicago    Tribune,    Advance,    House- 


iili>.   I.l/.zn.   (I. AUK    HAliDV. 

keeper,  and  numerous  other  publiciitious. 
Many  of  her  poems  liave  been  used  as  recita- 
tions in  public,  while  others  have  been  sec 
to  music.  In  1871  she  was  married  to  Joseph 
M.  Hardy  and  is  a  resident  of  Red  Cedar,  Wis. 

MY  NEIGHBOR. 
Love  your  neighbor  as  yourself  — 

Thus  the  Good  Book  readeth; 
And  I  glance  across  the  way 

At  my  neighbor  Editli, 
Wlio.  with  garden-hat  and  gloves, 

Til  rough  the  golden  hours 
Of  tlie  sunny  summer-morn, 

Flits  among  hor  flowers. 
Love  your  neighbor  as  yourself  — 

Winsome,  blue-eyed  girlie. 
Golden  gleams  of  sunny  hair, 

Dimpled,  pink  and  pearly. 
As  I  lean  upon  the  stile 

And  watch  her  at  her  labor. 
How  nuich  better  than  myself 

Do  I  love  my  neighbor? 
Love  your  neiglibor  as  yourself  — 

How  devout  I'm  growing! 


*- 


All  my  heart  with  fervent  love 
Toward  my  neighbor  growing. 

Ah !  to  keep  that  blest  command 
Were  the  sweetest  labor. 

For  with  all  my  heart  and  soul 
Do  I  love  my  neighbor  I 

HAUNTED. 
There  are  spirits  abroad  in  the  air  to-night, 
1  can  hear  the  sweep  of  their  wings. 
There's  a  weird  gleam  in  the  moonlight  white 
And  a  whisper  of  wonderful  things. 
You  might  think  perhaps  'twas  a  summer 

breeze 
That  is  murmuring  such  mystical  rhymes; 
Through  the  quivering  sprays  of  the  linden 

trees. 
Or  the  boughs  of  the  sighmg  limes; 
But  I  know  it's  the  rustle  of  spirit  wings. 
For  I  hear  them  whisper  such  wonderful 

things. 
There's  a  faint  perfume  in  the  air  to-night 
That  is  borne  from  the  Isle  of  Dreams, 
On  the  glittering  pinions  and  garments  white 
That  glint  in  the  moonlit  gleams. 
You  might  say  perhaps,  'twas  the  mignonette 
In  its  nook  by  the  garden  wall ; 
Or  the  heliotrope  with  night  dew  wet. 
Or  the  oleander's  ball. 
But  I  know  it  is  wafted  from  fairy  wings 
For  I  hear  them   whisper  such  wonderful 

things. 
There  are  wonderful  spirits  abroad  to-night. 
They  are  telling  me  strange,  sweet  tlungs, 
And  I  dip  my  pen  but  I  cannot  write. 
For  the  sweep  of  their  silver  wings. 
Such  beautiful  poems  and  wordless  psalms. 
Such  symphonies  quaint  and  rare. 
Such  glittering  pinions  and  fragrant  balms 
As  are  borne  on  the  haunted  air. 
For  the  spirits  are  holding  a  revel  to-night, 
And  I  poise  my  pen  but  I  cannot  write. 

ROSES  RED  AND  MIGNONETTE. 
Oftentimes  a  rare,  sweet  memory 

Thrills  me  with  a  vague  unrest. 
As  I  watch  the  purple  shadows 

Drop  from  out  the  amber  west; 
And  I  wander  to  the  garden. 

With  the  night  dew  gleaming  wet. 
Gathering  — in  a  fragrant  cluster- 
Roses  vvd  and  mignonette. 
In  a  fragrant,  dewy  cluster  — 

Just  as  in  the  long-ago 
Dainty  fingers  often  twined  them. 

Wit  h  quaint  words  and  laugliter  low  — 
Quaint,  sweet  words  and  girlish  laughter,— 

Golden  gleams  of  sunny  hair. 
Lustrous  eyes  and  drooping  lashes, 

Star-white  face  — oh,  memory  rare! 
••J 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


967 


REV.  J.  K.  MASON,  D.  D. 

Born:  Bethel,,  Me.,  Sept.  30,  1817. 
This  gentleman  received  his  education  in 
Bowdoin  College  and  Bangor  Theological 
Seminary,  and  was  ordained  a  Congrega- 
tional minister  in  1849.  He  was  married  the 
same  year  to  Miss  Susanna  R.  Twitchell,  by 
whom  lie  has  several  children  now  grown  to 


REV.  JAVAN   K.  MASON,  D.  I>. 

maturity.  The  Rev.  J.  K.  Mason  has  filled  pas- 
torates at  Hamden  Congregational  church 
for  sixteen  years;  Thomaston  for  thirteen 
years;  nine  years  at  Fryeburg,  and  is  now 
pastor  of  the  Congregational  church  at 
Herndon,  Va.  This  minister  has  also  been 
chaplain  of  the  Maine  State  prison;  over- 
seer of  Bowdoin  College  for  twenty-flve 
years,  and  also  one  of  the  class  examiners, 
besides  serving  on  other  important  commit- 
tees. In  18T3  Mr.  Mason  was  tlie  Maine 
commissioner  in  the  International  Peniten- 
tiary Congress  held  in  London,  after  the  ad- 
journment of  which  he  made  the  tour  of 
Europe.  He  has  also  been  honored  with 
other  positions  of  trust. 


AN  IMPROMPTU. 

"  What  IS  Life?" 

'Tis  a  vapor; 

Once  appearing; 

Soon  dispell'd; 
Yet  upon  it  hangs  a  Future, 
Now  but  partialis'  unveil'd. 

Then  improve  it; 

Make  it  n.seful:  — 


Waste  it  not  in  idle  dreams;  — 

For  the  moments  — 

Swiftly  passing. 
Bring  you  to  th'  Eternal  Shore:- 

Near  that  Future, 

Jesus  helps  for  — 
You  will  dwell  in  Evermore. 


RECEPTION  SONG. 
Savior  and  dearest  friend. 
On  whom  mj'  hopes  depend; 

Thou  lamb  divine; 
I  come  to  thee  to-daj'. 
To  follow  as  I  maj\ 
O,  let  me  ever  say. 

Thine  —  wholly  thine  I 

I  take  thy  cross  —  to  bear; 
And  would  thine  image  wear 

Thro'  life's  dark  way. 
Let  me  behold  thy  face. 
And  live  in  thine  embrace; 
Nor  fail  of  thy  rich  grace. 

Be  thou  my  stay  I 

My  heart  to  thee  I  give. 
Help  me  for  thee  to  live. 
Almighty  One! 
Do  thou  my  soul  inspire. 
Fill  me  with  holy  flre. 
To  lift  thy  banner  iiigher. 

Till  victory's  won. 
This  day  I  thee  confess, 
And  humbly  trust  thj'  grace; 

Incarnate  God. 
O  lead  me  on  I  pray ; 
Keep  me  from  sin's  foul  way; 
Wash  all  my  guilt  away. 

In  tliinc  own  blood. 
Accept  the  praise  I  bring. 
While  to  thy  cross  I  cling  — 

Borne  for  a  world ! 
How  gloriv)U3  is  tlie  throne. 
Whereon  ••  Thou  art  sat  down:  " 
O  welcome  me  —  thine  own  I 

Jesus  —  my  Lord. 


FOR  A  LADY'S  ALBUM. 
I'm  a  book !  and  I've  pages  fair. 
Having  lids  tliat  are  tinted  witli  colors  rare; 
T  am  wliite,  nor  black,  nor  red,  nor  green. 
And  shall  afford  no  sanctum  for  anyone's 
spleen. 

Nor  a  line  for  a  flatterer's  pen. 

I'm  a  gift!  and  I've  language  true. 
From  a  heart  transparent  as  crystal  dew. 
lam  yellow,  nor  brown,  nor  gray,  I  weeu. 
And  contain  no  corner  for  anything  mean; 
Nor  a  page  for  what  is  vain 


*- 


-* 


*- 


968 


-« 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


MARY  ELLA  NOBLE. 

Born:  Louisburg,  N.  C,  Jan.  3, 1865. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  follows  the  pro- 
fession of  school  teaching,  and  is  a  resident 
of  Athens,  Ga.  Her  poems  hav.e  appeared  in 


MARY  EliliA  NOBLE. 

the  Atlanta  Constitution,  the  New  Orleans 
Picayune,  the  Richmond  Dispatcli,  and  other 
publications.  Miss  Noble  hopes  to  publish 
her  poems  in  book-form  in  the  near  future. 

A  CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR. 

With  visions  and  fancies, 

Mj-  restless  brain  dances. 
And  builds  me  a  castle  so  fair  and  so  fine : 

Of  hopes  it  is  builded. 

With  dreams  it  is  gilded, 
This  castle  of  air  in  the  summer  sunshine. 

Like  as  perfumed  odors 

Tlirough  ivory  pagodas, 
Tliat  float  from  tlie  gardens  of  spices  and 
myrrh;— 

Are  the  dreams  full  of  glory. 

That  liglit  up  each  story,  [her. 

And  fill  all  my  castle  with  sweet  thouglits  of 

I  see  with  each  vision 

Of  pictures  Elysian,  [blur: 

Just  one  that  is  perfect  without  blemish  or 

It  hangs  on  each  ceiling. 

Of  worshipful  feeling. 
The  glorified  picture  I  paint  me  of  her. 

As  silver  bells  ringing, 

A  sweet  voice  is  singing. 


That  thrills  through  my  bosom  and  all  my 
heart  stirs;  — 

And  the  rapturous  longing 

Says  to  whom  'tis  belonging,      [hers. 
And  I  know  the  sweet  voice  and  its  music  are 

And  I  am  her  vassal 

Who  lives  in  this  castle. 
And  she,  my  dear  sovereign,  whose  rule  can 
not  err: 

Her  wish  is  my  pleasure. 

Her  heart  is  my  treasure, — 
This  castle  >>  Sans-souci  "  is  builded  for  her. 

Will  it  fall  with  the  gloaming? 

With  the  night  that  is  coming? 
Oh !  Prophet  of  Amours,  Oh !  say'twill  not  be. 

For  if  it  fall  over, 

I  pray  that  it  cover, 
I  pray  that  it  cover  my  darling  and  me. 


THE  FAR  PASTURE. 
Tliere  are  Water-cress  and  Brindle  and  Bess, 
But  where  is  my  Bonnie  Kate? 

Though  I  am  to  mind  her, 

Nowliere  can  1  find  her. 
And  now  it  is  growing  late. 
Over   the  meadows  and  through  the  dark 

shadows 
1  have  sought  her  long  and  well. 

At  last  I  have  found  her. 

Tall  grasses  around  her, 
Adown  in  the  fragrant  dell. 
Siie  had  gone  astray,  and  had  lost  her  way 
In  the  clover-blossoms  white: 

The  cool,  sweet  clover 

Had  tempted  her  over 
To  the  pasture  far  to-night. 
I    tenderly    led    her,    through    valley   and 

meadow,— 
(To  lead  and  not  drive  seemed  but  right.) 

'Twas  the  sweet,  white  clover 

That  tempted  her  over. 
And  who  of  us  always  does  right? 
And  the  strangest  feeling  is  over  mestealing. 
And  seems  through  the  shadows  to  come,'  __^ 

As  beneath  the  wide  bars 

And  the  silvery  stars, 
Bonnie  Kate  and  I  go  home. 
The  damp  dew  is  falling,  dear  voices  are 

calling:— 
I  too,  have  strayed  off  from  tlie  right;— 

For  the  sweet,  white  clover 

Has  tempted  her  over, 
I'm  i!i  the  far  jtasture  to-night. 
But  oh!  will  Ho  blame  me,  or  seek  to  reclaim 
If  I  call  to  liim  now  will  He  come?  [me? 

And  over  tlie  meadows. 

And  tlirough  all  the  shadows, 
Lead  His  poor  wanderer  home? 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK    AMEUICA. 


9(i9 


MOLLIE  MARTIN. 

Born:  Knawha  Co.,  W.  Va.,  Jan.  17, 1844. 
This  lady  has  written  poems  on  various  sub- 
jects—sacred hymns,  songs  of  home,  tem- 
perance and  patriotic  sonjis,  which  have  ap- 


MOLLIE  MARTIN. 

peared  in  Peterson's  Magazine  and  the  peri- 
odical press.    She  lias  also  taught  school. 

ODE  TO  CHARITY,  OR  CHRISTIAN  LOVE. 
Sweet  Charity,  fair  angel  guest. 

Come  in  and  bide  with  me. 
Sit  thou  enthroned  within  my  breast. 

Bid  selfish  feelings  flee. 
Cho.— Come  in,  come  in,  come  in. 

Thy  peaceful  reign  begin. 
Come  in,  sweet  Charity,  come  in. 

Come  in  and  bide  with  me. 
Then  chords  of  sympathy  will  wake. 

My  heart  with  pity  glow. 
I'll  freely  give  for  thy  sweet  sake. 

Will  I  thy  alms  bestow. 
I'll  aid  the  suffering,  help  the  weak. 

The  sorrowing  cheer  and  bless. 
Unto  the  erring  kindly  si)eak. 

And  my  own  faults  confess. 

MY  LITTLE  PLAYMATE. 

I'm  thinking  of  a  playmate. 

Who  made  my  childhood  blest 
Within  tlie  fjuiet  cliurchyard 

She  peacefully  doth  rest. 
Light  as  the  winged  zephyr. 

Free  as  the  birds  of  air. 
We  roamed  the  hills  and  valleys 

When  summer  skies  were  fair. 


Sweet  little  brown-eyed  Effle, 

Her  heart  with  love  did  glow. 
She  seemed  to  live  f<jr  others, 

That's  why  I  loved  lier  .so. 
That  sw(>ct  unsc'lflsh  being, 

Was  like  a  cIutuIi  bright. 
That  winged  hei-  llighi  from  Heaven, 

To  guide  my  feet  aright. 
Tliroughout  the  joyous  summer 

She  wandered  by  my  side. 
And  like  a  gleam  of  sunshine 

Into  my  life  did  glide. 
Oh,  friend  so  true  and  faitliful. 

Oh,  playmate  kind  and  dear. 
Blest  with  thy  sunny  presence. 

Heaven  seemed  very  near. 
Her  little  feet  grew  weary 

Along  life's  rugged  way. 
She  laid  her  down  to  slumber. 

One  lovely  autumn  day. 
A  strange  uneartlily  beauty 

Over  her  features  spread. 
Then  up  the  golden  gateway 

On  snowy  wings  she  sped. 
Where  night-winds  softly  whisper. 

And  stars  their  vigil  keep. 
And  streamlets  gently  murmur 

We  laid  her  down  to  sleep; 
While  I  life's  storms  liave  breasted 

Througli  all  these  weary  years. 
My  playmate  dear  has  rested 

Secure  from  grief  and  fears. 


MY  MOTHER. 
My  beloved  Christian  .Mother. 
Who  had  trained  my  feet  to  tread 
In  the  peaceful  patli  of  virtue. 
Now  is  numbered  witli  the  dead; 
What  a  i>ang  tioili  rend  my  Ixisom 
Wlien  I  see  lier  vacant  chair. 
Then  I  turn  my  tlioughts  to  Heaven, 
For  I  know  my  mother's  thert^. 

Now  my  patliway  will  be  lonely, 
Cliords  of  sadness  shade  my  brow; 
None  to  share  my  joys  and  sorrows. 
For  I  have  no  Mother  now. 
Safely  o'er  tlie  waves  of  Jordan 
Thou  was  borne  on  pini>ns  white 
To  tliat  pure  celestial  region 
Where  the  skies  are  always  bright. 

Farewell  kind  and  loving  Mother 
Since  the  Savior  saw  it  best 
For  to  call  thee  home  to  heaven, 
There  to  mingle  with  the  blest. 
When  life's  toils  all  are  over 
Then  I  hope  with  thee  to  meet. 
Where  the  tree  of  life  is  blooming 
We  will  join  In  converse  swevt. 


-* 


*- 


970 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


GARDINERS.  PLUMLEY,D.D. 

Born:  Washington,  D.  C,  Aug.  11, 1827. 
This  gentleman  is  a  clergyman,  well-known 
in  the  relig-ious  world.      He  has  composed 
many  poems  and  also  composed  music  for 
many  of  his  hymns.    Besides  heing-  pastor  at 


GARDINER  SPRING  PLUMLEY,  D.  D. 

Greenfield  Hill,  Conn.,  Dr.  Plumley  writes 
constantly  for  the  press,  and  is  editor  of  the 
Learner  and  Teacher,  an  educational  maga- 
zine published  in  New  York  City.  Tlie  poems 
and  hymns  of  G.  S.  Plumley,  D.  D.,  F.  S.  S., 
have  received  extensive  publication  in  the 
religious  and  secular  press  ot  America.  Mr. 
Plumley  was  married  in  1850  to  Miss  Emily 
Augusta  Fisher,  daughter  of  the  celebrated 
artist  Alvin  Fisher. 


DOLLY. 

LADDIE'S  LETTER. 

Dear  Aunt  Emma:— Papa  and  Mama 
Came  back  from  their  journey  in  May, 
And  they  brought  in  their  carriage  so  far 
A  dear  little  lamb  all  the  way. 

Such  a  beautiful  lamb  you  ne'er  saw. 
Her  fleece  is  as  white  as  can  be ; 
Wlien  she  wants  to  come  in  she  will  paw. 
And  stamp  on  the  door-step  for  me. 

On  her  neck  a  red  collar  she  wears 
With  a  bright  silver  plate  for  her  name: 
It  is  Dolly,  and  quickly  she  hears 
When  we  call  her  to  join  in  our  game. 


She  fears  not  to  eat  from  my  hand 
Oats,  lettuce,  grass,  clover  and  hay. 
And  I  think  you  would  sa}'  it  is  grand 
If  you  could  but  see  us  at  play. 

She  plays  '•  tag  "  with  us  down  by  the  creek. 

But  the  funniest  caper  of  all 

Is  that  as  we  play  "  hide  and  seek  " 

She  hunts  all  around  when  we  call. 

But  this  morning  we've  all  been  so  sad. 

And  crying  to  think  we  must  part; 

I  never  knew  lambs  could  be  bad. 

And  I'm  svire  it  will  quite  break  my  heart. 

For  Dolly  begins  to  grow  wild. 
And  to  knock  down  poor  Rollo  and  me; 
And  acts  like  a  real  naughty  child. 
So  Papa  says  we'll  have  to  agree  — 

To  send  her  away  to  be  sold. 

And  to-morrow  the  farmer  will  come 

To  take  her  away  to  his  fold ; 

With  his  sheep  must  be  Dolly's  new  home. 

AUNT  EMMA'S  REPLY. 

Dear  Laddie:— I'm  sorry  to  hear 
Tliat  Dolly  is  going  away. 
For  from  what  your  note  tells  me,  T  fear 
You  will  all  miss  her  much  in  your  play. 

Besides,  when  one  leaves  a  nice  place 
Where  Ills  home  has  been  pleasant  and  bright 
To  see  him  sent  off  in  disgrace 
Is  surely  a  pitiful  sight. 

But  how  would  you  like  it,  my  child. 
If  Papa  to  dear  Laddie  should  say: 
You  are  growing  so  naughty  and  wild 
That  I'm  going  to  send  you  away. 

I  am  sure  you  are  far  more  to  blame 
Than  Dolly  so  active  and  strong,  [name. 

Though  she  comes  when   you  call  out  her 
She  knows  not,  like  you,  right  from  wrong. 

Were  you  thus  sent  away,  3-ou  would  roam 
Thirsty,  tired  and  hungry  for  food; 
And  if  only  once  more  safe  at  home. 
You  would  promise,  I'm  sure,  to  be  good. 

And  the  reason  you're  not  punished  so 
Is  because  your  dear  parents  are  kind; 
They  hope  that  as  older  you  grow 
You'll  learn  to  do  right  and  to  mind. 

You  ought  then  to  love  them  each  day 
More  and  more  for  their  kindness  to  you. 
And  to  Jesus  sincerely  to  pray 
That  He  all  y(nir  .sins  will  subdue. 

Lamb  of  God!  He  will  prove  to  the  end. 
Ever  gentle,  and  loving,  and  mild. 
The  Refuge,  the  Guide  :uid  the  Friend. 
And  Savior  for  each  little  child. 


*- 


* 


*- 


-* 


LOCAT^   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


!t71 


HORACE  MCINTYRE. 

Quite  a  few  poems  have  appeared  from  the 
pen  of  the  subject  of  this  sketch.    Mr.  Mc- 


HORACE  M'INTYRE. 

Intyre  is  a   resident   of   Ainsworth,    Neb., 
where  he  is  engagred  in  publishing. 


THE  JOY  OF  KNOWING. 
Dark  and  glooms'  were  the  days,   for   sad 

were  liis  surroundings. 
When  an  angel  in   her  ways,  touclied    liis 

heart  to  quick  reboundings, 
He  could  not  tell  from  whence  she  came,  for 

silent  was  her  coming. 
But  he  softly  breathed  her  name  in  his  lieart 

song's  soulful  humming. 

Eagerly  he  sighed  in  wonder  at  the   mystic 

message  pouring. 
Soft  as  zephyrs  —deep  as  thunder  —  from  a 

distant  storm  cloud  roaring. 
Then  again  to  silence  lapsing.    In  his  heait  a 

prayer  upheaving. 
Bore  his  soul  away  enraptured  —  mortal  foi- 

immortal  leaving. 

Back  again,  to  earth  returning,  all,   he  pon- 
dered, is  not  venal- 
Adding  fuel  to  the  burning  yearning  in   liis 

station  regal. 
For,  while  power  to  him  w.as  granted,  all  his 

mandates  would  be  vain. 
Save  his  life  be   all   recanted  and  at  Jesus' 
feet  be  hiin. 


Tenderly  another    message    by    his    angel 

Love  is  given, 
Bearing  unto  Iiim  a  pressage  of  that  iiappi- 

ness  in  heaven. 
That '  twas  given  witli  assurance  of  a  heart 

as  pure  as  rare. 
Pressed   his   life    beyond   endurance,    unto 

bliss  beyond  compare. 

"  Hold,"  lie  cried,  "  your  beauty  smites  me 

with  a  force  I  can't  withstand;  " 
"  Hold,"  my  conscience  almost  blights  me: 

by  your  kindness  I'm  unmanned. 
"  Why  sliould  you  to  me,  a   stranger,   such 

rare  sympathy  reveal?  " 
"  Why  should  you  entail    such    danger   as 

with  wayward  souls  conceal?  " 

But  through  tears  and  smiles  she  beckoneii 
"Come  up  higher,  you're  not  lost!" 

"Time  to  you  my  friend  is  reckoned;  but  a 
dark  vale  must  be  crossed." 

Then  with  innocent  expression  she  explain- 
ed how  it  was  done, 

And  wiih  frankness  and  confession  viewed 
her  Ijattles  lost  and  won. 

Then  a  mist  aro.se  before  him.   for  liis  eyes 

were  dimmed  with  tears. 
And  a  shadow  hovered  o'er    liim,    mingling 

doubt  and  hope  and  fears; 
And  lie i>rostrate  fell  before  her,    "For  my 

joy  I  look  to  thee  — 
"  Be  my  guide,"  did  he  implore  her.     But  to 

Jesus  pointed  she. 

"  All  my  hopes  have  fled."  he  faltered,  "  for 
I  am,  alas,  so  weak;  " 

"AH  my  ways  .she  deftly  altered,  now  I  die- 
she  will  not  speak;  " 

"Weak  and  vile  and  sad,  forsaken,  broken 
hearted,  bruised  and  sore;  " 

"By  her  liand  my  faitli  is  sliaken,  all  her 
kindness  I  deplore." 

"  Chide  me  not,"   slie  faintly  pleaded,   ••  for 

I'm  weak  as  well  as  you; 
"  Moral  strength  I've  sadly  needed-Jesus  is 

my  All.  my  True  — 
"  To  liis  guidance  I  command  you.    turn    to 

him  yet  while  you  may, 
"And  my  fervent  prayers   I   lend  you— will 

you  not?— I  pray  you,  pray." 

Silence  reigned  supreme,  but  in  liis  heart  he 
felt  that  all  was  well; 

On  his  brow  the  warmest  beam  of  angel  sun- 
shine ro.se  and  fel'; 

Tenderly  it  firmly  drew  him  toward  the 
Realm  of  endless  day; 

And  the  very  hand  that  slew  him  tunes  his 
harp  and  lights  his  way. 


*- 


* 


•J.- 


9^ 


LOCAT.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


LOU  VALERIA  WILLSON. 

Born:    Pulaski,  Mich.,  Sept,  23,  1866. 

Many  of  the  poems  of  Miss  Willson  have  ap- 
peared in  Peterson's,  Saturday  Night,  Cot- 
tage Hearth,  Detroit  Free  Press  and  other 


L,Otr  VALERIA  WILLSON. 

publications.  Besides  writing  poems  she  is 
the  author  of  several  stories  and  sketches 
which  have  found  their  way  into  print. 
This  artist  and  writer  resides  with  her  par- 
ents in  Jackson,  Mich. 


IT  NIPS  US  A'. 
At  yester  morn  it  was  nae  cauld. 

At  e'en  it  seemed  nae  caulder; 
But  as  the  mirky  nicht  cam'  on. 

The  frost  it  then  grew  Vjolder, 
An'  nipped  the  bonny  posies  a'. 

Poor,  chittering  posies!  nipped  them  a', 

Ah  weel,  ah  weel !    'Tis  ever  sae 
With  flowers  an'  men.    Sae  surely 
As  days  are  bricht  an'  suns  are  warm. 
An'  we  dwell  maist  securely. 

The  frost  conies  on  an'  nips  us  a'! 
Baith  blooms  an'  men  it  nips  us  a'  1 


*- 


MOTHS,  BEWARE. 
Her  eyes  are  blue,  of  gold  her  hair; 
She  has  a  face  divinely  fair,"— 
Oh  yes,  T  know. 


•'  Her  cheek  just  shows  a  tint   of  rose  I 
Red  lips  the  whitest  pearls  disclose," 

Just  so,  just  sol 
You  love  this  daintj'  maiden  fair? 

Beware ! 
To  be  "  her  slave  "  you're  nothing  loath? 
You'll  singe  your  wings,  my  pretty  moth. 
Take  care ! 


"Her  form  displays  a  witching  grace. 
That  matches  well  her  flower-like  face," 

Oh  yes,  I  know. 
"Her  smile  is  like  a  sunbeam  bright," 
She  is,  you  say,  "your  life  and  light." 

Ho,  ho!  Just  so! 
You  think  to  win  this  maiden  fair, 

Beware  I 
Girls  often  are  such  fickle  things  — 
You  foolish  moth, you'll  Singe  your  wings. 
Take  care ! 


She  smiles,  you  say,  and  smiles  on  you. 
And  love  beams  from  her  eyes  so  true. 

Ho,  ho !  I  know ! 
To  all,  the  candle  gives  its  light, 
All  bask  within  her  smile  so  bright. 

Oh,  j'es,  'tis  so! 
And  though  she  is  divinely  fair, 

Beware ! 
Full  many  a  victim  has  she  slain. 
Think  of  your  wings,  oh  moth,  so  vain. 
Take  care  I 


And  as  to  smiles,  you  silly  elf. 
She's  laughing  at  your  foolish  self— 

Ho,  ho!  'tis  so! 
The  merriment  she  scarcely  tries 
To  keep  from  out  her  laughing  eyes. 

My  friends,  I  know. 
Avoid  those  curls  of  golden  hair- 
Beware  ! 
Avoid  those  merry  eyes  of  blue, 
Or  with  scorched  wings  your  fate  you'll 
rue. 

Take  care  I 


What  now !    What  means  that  look  of  woe? 
And  was  I  right?    And  is  it  so? 

Pray  let  me  know! 
We  liave  not:  met  tliese  many  days. 
The  motli  has  felt  the  candle's  blaze? 

Ho,  lio!  just  so! 
Well,  limp  away,  for  lights  more  fair 

Are  there. 
The  harm  is  slight,  'Us  very  clear. 
Your  wings  will  grow  again,  no  fear. 
And  then,  beware! 


I 


LOCAL,    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMERICA. 


973 


-* 


W.SCOTT  GARNER. 

Born:  Pkeston  Co.,  W.  Va.,  Jan.  16,  1848. 

Mr.  G.\rner  was  educated  at  Kingwood 
Academy  and  is  now  engag-ed  In  the  publish- 
ing business  and  as  editor  of  his  publica- 
tions. Ho  lias  writti'ii  over  ;i  huiulieil  poems. 


W.  SCOTT  GARNER. 

many  of  which  have  appeared  in  the  Pitts- 
burgh Christian  Advocate,  Preston  County 
Journal,  Grafton  Sentinel,  Kingwood  Herald, 
Garner's  Herald  and  other  periodicals.  Mr. 
Garner  was  married  in  1881  to  Miss  Mary  Kay 
of  Niles,  Mich.,  and  now  resides  with  his 
wife  and  children  at  Tunnclton,  W.  Va. 


ONE  POET. 
He  sat  within  his  lonely  room, 

A  prey  to  grief  and  care; 
His  brow  was  veiled  in  deepest  gloom. 

And  stamped  by  wan  despair. 
Yet  on  his  noljle  features  slione 

Tlie  light  of  love  and  truth. 
For  life's  grand  [lassion  he  had  known. 

Though  still  in  manhood's  youth. 

Disease  liad  stolen  from  his  cheek 
Health's  badge  of  roseate  hue. 

And  dimmed  the  luster  of  his  bright 
And  sparkling  eyes  of  blue. 


Yet  intellect  held  firm  her  throne, 

And  genius  wove  her  spell. 
Which  happier  hearts  would  gladly  own 

And  coming  ages  tell. 

Fame's  laurel  wreath  had  ceased  to  charm. 

His  early  hopes  had  tied; 
The  one  bright  being  he  liad  loved 

Was  numbered  with  the  dead; 
Aud  so  he  turned  from  earthly  life 

With  weary  heart  and  brain. 
And  sought  the  rest  that  follows  strife  — 

That  frees  from  care  and  pain. 

Thus  fade  the  poet's  dazzling  dreams 

Of  lionor,  love  and  fame  — 
Shattered  by  Fate,  at  one  fell  stroke, 

The  shrine  that  held  his  name! 
But  in  that  land  unknown  to  men. 

Those  dreams  shall  live  anew  I 
Each  bud  of  thought  shall  bloom  again 

Brighter  than  erst  it  grew! 


FIGHT  BRAVELY. 
Fling  your  banners  on  the  air  I 

You  must  flght  the  battle  through 
Life  is  full  of  an.xious  care  — 

Wonder  not  it  comes  to  you. 

Breathe  your  prayer  for  victory 
Wliile  you're  standing  mid  the  strife! 

Swear  eternal  fealty 
To  the  higher  aims  of  life! 

Step  with  both  eyes  bent  above 
On  the  world's  l)road  battle-fleld; 

Dare  to  do  and  die  for  truth  — 
Never  once  the  battle  yield! 

Heed  not  what  the  world  may  say 

To  your  inner  self  be  true! 
And  when  dawns  that  better  day, 

God  and  men  will  honor  you. 

Let  the  sland'rer's  venomed  tongue 
Do  its  worst  to  blight  your  fame  — 

Scandal's  foulest  drops  be  wrung 
On  the  shrine  that  holds  your  name! 

Still  look  upward !    Heed  them  not ! 

Rally  where  yotir  standard  waves! 
You  shall  live  when  they  .'liall  rot 

In  their  loul,  forgotten  gr.ives. 

Stand  for  truth,  and  do  the  right! 

See!  the  high  command  is  given! 
Join  you  to  this  righteous  flght. 

As  you  value  God  and  Heaven  ! 


9f 


974 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


JENNIE  H.  RASMUSSEN. 

Born  :  Denmark,  Oct.  2, 1867. 
Jennie  was  brought  to  this  country  when  a 
babe,  and    now    follows    the  occupation  of 
bookkeeper  at  Albert  Lea,  Minn.   Her  poems 


JENNTE   HELENA  RASMTTSSEN. 

have  appeared  in  tlie  Interior  of  Minneapo- 
lis, Enterprise  and  Standard  of  Albert  Lea, 
and  other  publications. 


*- 


YOUTH. 
Youth  is  pleasing-,  youth  is  charming. 

There  is  something,  O,  so  free. 
In  its  movements,  in  expression. 

Bubbling  out  from  inward  glee. 
At^G  can  charm  us  for  a  moment. 

When  it  does  itself  forget, 
Bui  it  lacks  the  gentle  lightness. 

Of  a  heart  for  joy  just  set. 
Youth  is  richness,  youth  is  glory, 

Wrapped  witliin,  celestial  bliss. 
Spanned  by  heaven's  and  earth's  affection, 

Circled  by  the  Maker's  kiss. 
Love  and  kindness,  all  spontaneous 

Bursting  out  from  inward  store. 
Has  no  bound,  no  form,  no  measure. 

Empties  out  yet  still  there's  more. 
Youth  where  virtue  reigns  exclusive 

Knows  no  self-created  sin. 
Has  not  reached  to  the  painful  knowledge 

Of  a  rebel  liost  within; 
Freely  acts  from  inward  motives. 

Does  not  stop  to  calculate. 


Often  utt'ring  truths  so  precious. 

Truths  that  chide  and  animate. 
Youth's  a  blessing,  heavenly  blessing 

For  reflection,  dark  and  deep. 
When  the  youtli  matures  to  manhood 

And  the  sins  seem  grim  and  steep. 
Then  O  childhood!  blessed  childhood! 

Wafts  a  peace  naught  else  can  bring, 
Breathes  a  rest  almost  unearthly. 

Borne  as  on  angelic  wing. 

IF  'TIS  ONLY  THEE. 
I  will  not  mind,  dear  Father, 
What  grievings  I  may  meet. 
The  many  thorns  and  briars, 
That  hurt  my  tender  feet. 
If  'tis  only  Thy  hand  that  leads. 
I  will  not  mind  the  suff'ring. 
What  weights  that  o'er  me  roil. 
The  racking  pains  of  body. 
Or  wrestlings  of  the  soul. 
If  only  Thy  will  be  done. 
I  will  not  mind  the  darkness, 
The  cloud  that  liides  Thy  face; 
That  veils  those  loving  smiles. 
And  sends  me  gloom  in  place. 
If  only  Tliou  art  smiling  above. 
E'en  though  the  i-od  be  lifted. 
And  falls  with  crushing  blows, 
I'll  rise  and  call  it  blessed. 
To  feel  these  earthly  woes. 
If  'twas  only  Thy  hand  that  smote. 
The  world  may  try  to  turn  me. 
Lay  snares  for  many  a  fall, 
But  I  will  gain  my  object, 
And  conquer  over  all. 
If  only  Thy  arm  upliold  me. 


GRIEF. 
O,  is  there  a  mortal,  who's  onward  in  years, 
That  does  not  carry  a  grief? 
O,  is  there  a  heart  with  feelings  at  all. 
That  has  not  sighed  for  relief? 
We  look  at  their  faces  —  the  mirror  of  hearts. 
And  what  a  difference  we  see, 
Some  carry  their  sorrows  so  silent  and  calm, 
Approving  it  so  should  be; 
Others  so  lightly  and  carelessly  chase 
Their  grief  and  sorrow  away. 
They  do  not  allow  one  hour  of  their  life. 
To  pass  in  gloom  and  dismay. 
O,  life  is  a  problem  we  can  not  explain. 
Eternity  only  will  tell  [tress, 

The  why  and  tlie  wlierefore  of  mortal's  dis-; 
And  show  'twas  inliniti-ly  well; 
So  wise  is  tlie  mortal  and  nol)le  is  lie, 
Whose  fate  'tis  to  carry  a  grief. 
Who  can  smile  at  the  clouds  that  threaten  i  ^ 
And  in  waiting  find  a  relief.  [storm 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OK   AMERICA. 


975 


ARTHUR  E.SMITH. 

Born:  Granvillk,  N.Y.,  June  15, 1&\H. 

The  poems  of  Mr.  Smith  have  appeared  in 
Peterson's  Magazine,  New  England  Home- 
stead, American  Kiiral  Home,  Cliicago  Led- 
ger, Albany    Journal,    .Arkansas    Traveler, 


ARTHUR  E.  SMITH. 

Christian  Nation  and  numerous  other  pub- 
lications. He  has  written  over  six  hundred 
poems,  manj-  of  which  have  received  very 
high  praise  from  the  press  and  public  gener- 
ally. Mr.  Smith  is  engaged  in  mercantile 
pursuits  in  the  state  of  New  York  at  Belcher. 


THE  BONNY  MAIDEN. 
Sweet  summer  send  your  softest  gale 

To  greet  a  lover's  ear, 
For  there  is  coming  up  the  vale 

A  bonny  little  dear; 
The  daisies  blossom  'neath  her  feet. 

Wild  roses  by  her  path. 
While  thrushes  answer  —  oh,  so  sweet  — 

Her  merry,  merry  laugh. 

Ye  sunbeams  play  across  the  lea; 

Ye  willows  fondly  sigh; 
For  there's  no  fairer  maid  than  she 

Who  now  IS  drawing  nigh. 
Her  sparkling  eyes  are  like  the  dew 

Upon  a  wild-wood's  flow'r. 
And  o'er  her  cheeks  of  crimson  hue 

Aye  smiles  like  sunbeams  pour. 


Sweet  sing  yo  bro<jks  within  yon  glade, 

A  melody  divine. 
For  there's  no  fairer  rural  maid 

Than  bonny  Nellie  mine; 
Ye  zephyrs  kiss  liei'  lips  rose-red 

And  fan  her  lily  brow; 
Ye  gentle  violets  hang  your  heads. 

And  low  before  her  bow. 

Sweet  summer  send  your  softest  gale 

To  greet  a  lover's  ear. 
For  there  is  coming  up  the  vale 

A  bonny  little  dear; 
She's  coming  now  to  meet  her  love 

Beneath  the  trysting-tree. 
While  voices  from  the  maple  grove 

Make  joyful  melody. 


BENEATH  THE  FOREST'S  SHADE. 
Beneatli  the  forest's  shade  I  rest. 

Wearied  by  the  noon's  sultry  heat. 
And  hear  the  br<?ezes  from  the  west 

Amid  the  tall  pines  singing  sweet. 

Above  me  in  the  heated  sky 

Like  a  huge  ball  hangs  the  bright  sun : 
While  over  all  the  mountains  nigh 

The  haze  of  not)n-tide  settles  down ! 

Oh,  glorious  is  the  realm  outspread. 
The  realm  o'er  wliicli  fair  summer  reigns 

The  wooded  hills,  the  skies  o'erhead. 
The  meads  and  broad  extended  plains! 

There  o'er  its  channel  deep  and  wide 
The  streamlet  seeks  the  distant  west; 

And  o'er  it  softly  the  warm  winds  glide. 
Tossing  in  ripples  its  silvere<l  breast. 

I  would  that  life  would  Vie  as  sweet. 
Always  at  this  noon-tide  liour; 

But  joy  must  die  as  at  my  feet 
Must  die  sometime  yon  lovely  tiow'r! 

I  would  that  life  would  glide  :is  smooth 
Betwixt  its  channels  lus  yon  stream. 

And  that  life's  sunset  hour  would  prove 
To  all  more  fair  than  iwet'sdreaui ! 


THE  OLD  THYSTING  TREE. 
When  the  dewdrops  are  falling 

O'er  the  green.  gra>sy  plains. 
And  the  night-birds  are  chanting 

Their  gladstmie  refrains,— 
Then  I  think  of  the  maiden 

So  dear,  dear  to  me,— 
And  I  go  forth  to  meet  her 

'Neath  the  old  trystiugtree! 

Cho.— Oh,  the  maiden  I  love. 
So  loving  is  she ! 
There's  joy  when  I  meet  her 
'Neath  the  old  trysting  tree'. 


*- 


976 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A3IERICA. 


M.  VICTOR  STALEY. 

Born:  Omro,  Wis.,  Dec.  19, 1866. 
In  1880  the  subject  of  this  sketch  removed  to 
Oshkosh,  where  he  received  the  rudiments 
of  his  education.    He  lias  since  studied  at 
Lawrence  University  of  Appleton.Wis.,  earn- 


M.  VICTOR  STALEY. 

ing-  the  necessary  means  to  do  so  during 
vacation  time.  The  poems  of  Mr.  Staley  have 
appeared  in  the  Chicago  Ledger,  Home  Jour- 
nal, the  Oshkosh  and  Appleton  papers. 


THE  AGE  OF  REASON. 
When  this  world  awakes  to  reason. 

Shall  the  worth  of  man  be  told ; 
Not  by  jewels  and  silken  garments. 

Nor  the  glitter  of  his  gold ; 
But  by  noble  deeds  of  kindness, 

Actions  pure,  and  free  from  sin. 
Then  shall  every  wrong  be  righted  — 

Right  shall  conquer,  trutli  shall  win. 

Then  no  more  shall  kings  and  princes. 

Men  of  wealth  and  titled  names. 
Claim  the  homage  of  tlie  people. 

While  they  live  a  life  of  shame; 
Then  no  more  shall  they  be  honored 

As  the  foremost  of  their  time. 
While  their  hearts  are  black  as  midnight. 

And  their  souls  are  steeped  in  crime. 
When  this  world  shall  wake  to  reason. 

He  who  struggles  for  tlie  right, 
Down  wliose  pathway  deeds  of  kindness 

Cast  tlieir  rays  of  golden  liglit; 


He  who  speaketh  words  of  comfort. 
Hearts  to  cheer  when  dark  the  days. 

Shall  receive  the  people's  blessings. 
And  the  world's  unstinted  praise. 

DELORA. 
Oft  have  I  stood  by  the  purling  stream, 
'Neath  the  leafy  shade  of  the  forest  tree. 
Where  warbled  the  birds  in  their  merry  glee, 
And  watched  with  pleasure  the  golden  gleam 
Of  the  waning  sun  as  it  sank  to  rest 
Behind  yon  hill  that  towers  in  the  west  — 
That  rises  just  west  of  Azora. 

Azora,  whose  waves  of  peaceful  blue 
Ripple  gaily  along  the  pebble  shore; 
While  they  whisper  low  of  the  days  of  yore. 
Recalling  to  mind  one  whom  I  knew  — 
One  whom  I  have  watched  as  she  gamboled 

free. 
As  she  laughed  aloud  in  her  childish  glee; 
She,  my  fair-liaired  darling,  Delora. 

But  ten  short  summers  of  added  bloom. 
Had  deftly  imprinted  its  beauty  there. 
On  the  face  and  form  of  that  elfin  fair. 
When  cruelly  dark  yawned  the  silent  tomb; 
And  I  missed  the  form  I  was  wont  to  see. 
And  the  merry  laugliter  of  childish  glee. 
The  innocent  glee  of  Delora. 

My  heart  is  sad  for  'neath  yonder  mound. 
Now,    almost   kissed     by    the    murmuring 

stream. 
Tinged    fair   with  the   glow   of  the  sunset 

gleam. 
Where    the   wildwood     flowers    in    beauty 

abound. 
Lies  the   slender  form  of  that  fair   young 

maid. 
Yet,  never  shall  out  from  my  mem'ry  fade. 
The  remembrance  of  sweet  Delora. 


THE  SPIRIT  QUEEN. 

EXTRACT. 

And  she  did  as  he  had  bade  her. 
Ruled  for  years  the  tribes  around. 
Till  the  Manitou,  her  spirit 
Called  to  happy  hunting-gnninds. 
On  the  shores  of  the  ••  Capole," 
Smiling  in  its  verdure  green. 
There  her  tribe  laid  her  in  splendor. 
As  became  their  Spirit  Queen. 
On  the  night  of  her  interment 
O'er  her  grave  a  storm  arose. 
And  the  spirits  from  the  waters 
Placed  a  rock  o'er  her  repose; 
While,  for  many  years  her  people. 
O'er  her  mound  of  tender  green. 
Said  peace-offerings  to  their  idol, 
Waii-wc-tee,  the  "Spirit  Queen." 


*- 


*- 


-* 


LOCAL.   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


977 


EMERSON  C.  HOUSTON.  M.  D. 

Born  :  Friendship,  Me.,  Feb.  17,  183L 
After  attending'  the  Oxford  Academj",  Mr. 
Houston  studied  medicine  at  Cleveland,  O. 
Dr.  Houston  has  written  about  two  luiiidred 
poems,  many  of  which  have  apjieared  under 


*£^-»f%   J|f^. 


I'll      .-''N     i>'IL.\l\:,     Hi  JT^l  c  i\,  M.  D. 

a  uom  de  plume.  The  title  of  his  longest 
poem  is  Fountain  Dell,  a  romance  in  twelve 
cantos.  Dr.  Houston  follows  his  profession 
of  physician  and  surgeon  at  FuUerlon,  Neb., 
where  he  resides  with  his  wife  and  family. 


*- 


THE  SOLDIER'S  RETURN. 
Sweet  home  of  my  childhood  I  greet  thee  with 

tears, 
How  blest  were  the  hours  at  the  heart  h  1 
Restrospective  views  of  those  innocent  years 
Show  my  happiest  moments  on  earth. 
My  heart  glows  at  sight  of  the  old  house  at 

home 
And  throbs  like  the  waves  of  the  sea ; 
Will   anyone   thinking,    "  1  wish  he  would 

come," 
Be  waiting  and  watching  for  me? 

My  fond  heart  received  its  first  lesson  of  love 
From  a  kind  mother's  eloquent  kiss; 
Nor  do  I  believe  even  angels  above 
Could  have  tasted  more  exquisite  bliss. 
The  crystalline  tears  of  my  infantile  years 
Were  tenderly  soothed  on  her  knee, 


Will  she  in  the  hall,  when  my  footsteps  she 

hears. 
Be  waiting  and  watching  for  me? 

My  venerable  father  who  loved  ine  before 
Mj"  tongue  learned  a  sentence  to  frame  I 
Gave  his  last  blessing  to  me  at  the  door, 
And  tenderly  uttered  my  name  — 
Tho'  burden'd  with  j-ears  will  he  cordially 

come 
With  welcome  familiar  and  free. 
And  say,  he  has  long  at  the  dear  happy  home 
Been  waiting  and  watching  for  me. 

How  sweet  'twere  to  greet  the  glad  group  at 

the  hearth. 
In  childhcod  so  trusting  and  true! 
My  sisters,  whose  hearts  are  as  pure  as  the 

earth 
In  the  days  of  its  infancy  knew; 
My  l)rothers  who  led  me  about  by  the  hand. 
And  shared  in  my  innocent  glee. 
And  know  that  each  one  of  our  family  band 
Were  waiting  and  watching  for  me. 

How  sweet  is  the  thouglit,  1  am  coming  once 

more. 
The  friends  of  my  childhood  to  greet. 
O  say,  will  they  meet  me  as  erst  at  the  door. 
With  welcomes  as  cordially  sweet. 
How  wild  my  heart  tlirobs  with  delicious 

delight  I 
What  objects  familiar  I  .seel 
Will  every  dear  friend  who  expect  me  to-night 
Be  waiting  and  watching  for  me? 


A  STORM  ON  THE  PHAIRIES. 

EXTRACT. 

'Twas  a  wild,  dark  night,  and  the  dreary  blast 
Came  howling  over  the  prairies  vast; 
For  the  storm  king  came  in  his  icy  car. 
O'er  the  Arctic  sea.  fn^n  the  polar  star. 
Like  a  demon  sent  from  the  shades  of  death 
To  congeal  the  heart  with  his  frozen  breath. 

'Twas  a  sudden  change,  when  we  bade  adieu 
To  the  garden  city,  and  glad  withdrew 
From  the  busy  street,  jiav'd  wliite  with  snow. 
Every  heart  was  light,  as  the  bounding  roe. 
Then  the  engineshriek'd  outashrillfarewell. 
Our  laugh  rang  clear  as  a  golden  bell. 

We  had  come  from  where  the  Atlantic  waves 
Have  a  land  that  never  was  curs'd  by  slaves; 
Aud  one  from  the  State  of  the  evergreen 

pine. 
Where    the    "hundred    lakes"    in    her    lap 

recline. 
Who  had  bathed  in  Mansfield's  o'erbanging 

cloud, 
Climb'd  Alleghany  and  the  Alpines  proud. 


-* 


*- 


978 


LOCAL.  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


THOMAS   MOORE  COLEMAN. 

Born:  Parke  Co.,  Ind.,  May  15,  laSO. 

In  1852  Mr.  Coleman  removed  to  Glendon, 
Iowa,  where  lie  has  resided  ever  since.  For 
nine  years  lie  was  a  member  of  tin'  cmitity 


THOMAS  MOORE  COLEMAN. 

board  of  Supervisors,  seven  years  justice  of 
the  peace,  and  has  been  county  surveyor 
and  held  other  positions  of  trust  in  the 
religious  and  political  work  of  his  county. 


REAL  TREASURES. 
How  often  men  fret  over  losses  they  feel. 
And  think  they  are  heavy  and  staggrer  and 
reel, 

And  many  times  fall: 
When  nothing  worth  having  or  keeping  is 

lost. 
Like  a  ship  in  a  storm  they're  driven  and 
tossed. 

For  nothing  at  all. 
Rut  bits  of  dross. 
Exceedingly  small. 

'Tis  not  the  real  loss  that  worry  us  most, 
Many  times  out  of  our  casket  jewels  are  lost, 

And  we  notice  it  not. 
The  heart's  best  affections  so  of  t'n  are  soured 
Impulses  generous  for  good  are  devoured. 

While  anger  is  hot; 

Humanity  lowered  — 

Real  treasures  forgot. 
^ 


Real  treasures  last  ever,willgive  us  real  joy. 
That  nothing  can  sever,  that  nothing  can 

Thy  never  take  wings  [cloy, 

And  leave  us  alone — they  give  sweeter  relief. 
Are  much  better  than  gold,  for  never  a  thief 

Can  rob  us  or  bring 

Sorrow  and  grief ; 

They  give  us  no  sting. 
A   good    deed    or    kind    word,   a    generous 
thought,  [sought 

Is  worth  more  than  money,  had  better  be 

Than  silver  or  gold. 
The  one  who  treasures  these  up  is  richer  far 
Than  the  millionaire  riding  in  mammon's 
bright  car, 

He  sorbid  and  old. 

So  soon  stript  bare. 

Is  poor  witli  his  gold. 

And  yet  the  scramble  for  some  bauble  goes 

on  [throne. 

With  the  beggar  as  well  as  th'  king  on  his 

The  real  is  unsought. 
And  those  jewels  that  shine  as  stars  in  the 

skies. 
By  most  are  considered  too  unworthy  to  prize 

Not  giving  one  thought. 

To  the  flimsy  disguise. 

In  which  evil  is  sought. 

But  give  me  the  real  gems  that  never  will 

fade. 
So  that  when  gold  and  fame  and  wealth  have 
decayed, 

I  shall  have  treasures  in  Heaven. 

For  though  you  siiould  have  all  the  baubles 

of  earth  [birth. 

With  these  only  you  are  poorer  at  death  than 

Your  happiness  riven 

And  nothing  of  worth. 

For  all  you  have  given. 

Strive  for  riches  that  last,  consider  that  best 

Which  strengthens  the  good  and  gives  con- 
science sweet  rest. 

Then  blessings  will  come. 

And  light  to  your  pathway  though  earth  be 
dreary. 

With  Jesus  for  a  guide,  loving  and  cheery. 
Tliough  trials  do  come. 
You  may  be  weary. 
But  will  safely  reach  liome. 

There    safely    lioused    beyond    niortahty's 
shore,  [more 

Where  sickness  and  .sorrow  cati  reach  us  no 
And  deatii  none  can  sever;  [bliss. 

There  with  our  loved  ones  in  perfection  of 

In  a  beautiful  world  tirighter  than  this, 
To  leave  it  never. 
Where  God  our  Savior  is. 
We'll  live  forever  and  ever. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


979 


GEORGE  BUTLER  GRIFFIN. 

Born:  New  Yokk  City,  Sept.  8,  1840. 
Aftkr  receiving  liis  education  at  Columbia 
College,  Mr.  Griffin  studied  engineering. 
After  working  at  tljat  profession  for  several 
years  he  returned  to  his  native  state.'studied 
law  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  WH).  For 
a  time  he  was  employed  as  a  historical  writer 


UEOUGE  BUTLER  GRIFi'IN. 


in  the  Bancroft  Library.  He  has  held  several 
prominent  positions  as  civil  engineer,  and 
was  chief  of  staff  to  James  B.  Eads  while 
getting  a  concession  for  a  ship  railway  across 
the  isthmus  iu  Mexico.  Mr.  Griffin  has  trav- 
eled extensively  in  Europe  as  well  as  in  North 
and  South  America,  and  is  a  profound  classic, 
English,  Spanish  and  French  scholar,  and  a 
thorough  historian.  He  is  first  vice-presi- 
dent of  the  Historical  Society  of  Southern 
California,  of  which  he  was  a  founder.  Mr. 
Griffin  has  a  pleasant  home  in  Los  Angeles, 
with  a  botanical  garden  filled  with  exotics 
and  plants  rare  cand  curious.  He  has  col- 
lected a  choice  and  excellently  selected  libra- 
ry of  more  than  three  thousand  volumes. 
His  eldest  daughter,  Eva,  is  developing  a  re- 
markable talent  for  sculpture,  and  has 
modeled  some  verj-  Une  busts  from  life,  and 
the  portrait  of  Mr.  Griffin,  here  given,  was 
taken  from  a  bust  modeled  by  her. 


LOS  ANGELES. 
O  queen  of  all  the  summer  lands. 
White-gleaming  'mid  the  ebon  bands 


That  filly  wreathe  thy  brow's  swart  tint, 

The  bridal  blossoms  ever  glint  1 

For  thee  the  balmy  western  breeze. 

To  perfume  of  the  orange  trees 

Upon  th.e  verdant  hills  that  stand,      [strand 

Grouped    'round     thy  throne,  of  Ind'a   far 

The  odor  weds.    All  through  the  night. 

With  music  like  the  laughter  light 

Of  merry  girls,  is  frequent  heard 

The  song  of  some  half-dreaming  bird. 

Ah,  who  would  dwell  'mid  Gul's  perfumes, 

Or  where  the  feeble  lotus  bhwms 

Upon  the  wcarietl  senses  pall. 

And  through  an  air  as  lanquid  fall! 

Or  who  that's  free  to  work  his  will 

Would  brave  the  winter's  biting  chill 

In  lands  that  gird  the  farthest  pole. 

Where  icy  terrors  freeze  the  soul! 

Give  me  to  dwell  with  thee,  my  queen ; 

And,  when  to  all  th'  endearing  scene 

I  needs  must  close  these  loving  eyes. 

To  me  the  life  of  paradise. 

Lacking  thy  smile,  will  seem  but  tame  — 

And  Eden  only  iu  the  name. 


A  CRADLE  SONG. 
Far  out  in  the  glowing  west 

The  laughing  waves  of  the  se.n. 
As  the  sun  sinks  to  his  rest. 

For  a  kiss  leap  merrily  : 
And  the  mocking-bird's  low  strain 
From  the  tret^tops  come  again  — 
So  sleep,  my  baby,  sleep. 
The  fiowers  in  the  garden  beds. 

Like  the  children,  are  at  prayer. 
And  their  vesper  odor  spreads 

As  a  benediction  there; 
While  the  night-wind's  tender  sigh 
Ls  my  darling's  lullaby  — 

So  sleep,  my  baby,  sleep. 
Now  the  gentle  harvest  moon 

Climbs  in  the  brigliteningeast. 
And  the  stars  come  one  by  one. 

Afloat  'mid  the  silvery  mist  — 
Angel  wards,  a  watch  to  keep 
O'er  all  little  ones  asleep  — 

So  sleep,  my  baby,  sleep. 


A  GOLDEN-WEDDING-DAY  SONG. 

EXTRACT. 

'Twa-i  then  her  witching  eyes 
With  hues  of  tropic  skies 

Seemed  to  glow; 
Now  wrinkles  hide  them  quite, 
'neath  eyebrows  that  are  white 

As  the  snow. 


*- 


-* 


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980 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OK   AMEKICA. 


THOMAS  ALDIN  CRABTREE, 

Born:  Franklin,  ^Ie.,  March  17, 1830. 
At    the   age   of  twenty-three    Mr.  Crabtree 
commenced  teaching-  school.    He  is  now  en- 


THOMAS  ALDIN    tltABTREE. 

gaged  in  evangelistic  work  and  lecturing-  on 
temperance,  and  resides  in  Bangor,  Maine. 

LEGEND  OF  MT.  DESERT. 

The  chief  stood  on  the  mountain's  height, 

As  shadows  long  betoken  night; 

His  red  riglit  hand  was  raised  high, 

As  if  he  beckon  to  the  sky. 

His  robe  he  wrapped  around  his  breast. 

His  dark  eye  scanned  the  glowing  west, 

Then  in  a  voice  of  thunder  bold. 

The  glory  of  his  nation  told! 

..I'm  Chief  Conaught;  there's  none  so  great. 

My  trusty  braves  my  mandate  wait. 

And  mountains  high  and  rolling  sea. 

Shall  ever  own  my  sovereignty! 

..The  sable's  coat  my  robe  shall  be. 

And  shining  pearls  from  out  tlie  sea 

Shall  gem  the  plume  upon  my  head, 

And  sparkle  on  my  downy  bed ! 

"  My  trusty  arrow,  and  my  bow. 

Shall  send  destruction  to  the  foe,— 

With  thongs  I'll  bind  his  puny  liands, 

And  scar  liis  tlesh  with  burning  brands. 

..His  writhing  form  I'll  huigh  to  see. 

His  dying  song  shall  music  be,— 

His  ashes  with  my  red  right  hand, 

I'll  scatter  on  the  ocean's  sand." 


Just  then,  the  sun,  low  in  the  west. 

His  mantle  drew,  and  sunk  to  rest. 

And  then  like  light  a  rolling  tide 

Of  darkness  wrapped  the  mountain's  sidel 

The  wild  winds  roared,  and  darkness  deep. 

Soon  wrapped  each  vale,  and  craggy  steep. 

While  down  the  rugged  mountain's  side 

Was  heard  the  rolling  rushing  tide! 

Amazed  he  stood,  this  vaunting  chief. 

He  knew  not  why;  but  darkest  grief 

Poured  in  his  soul  a  torrent  deep  — 

He  trembling,  lost  himself  in  sleep! 

In  dreams  he  wandered  sad,  alone, 

His  food  tvas  herbs,  his  rest  a  stone. 

His  kindred  and  his  warrior  band 

Had  wandered  to  the  spirit  land! 

The  green  plot  where  his  children  played. 

The  mountains  green  and  flowery  glade,— 

His  bark  that  fioaied  in  tlie  bay,— 

And  all  things  else  had  passed  away. 

In  dreams  he  saw  a  waving  hand. 

And  kindred  in  the  spirit  land 

Were  calling,  calling,  .'Come  away,— 

Come  to  this  land  of  brightest  day  I" 

..I  come,"  he  cried,  ..behold  your  chief. 

Long  have  I  wandered  here  in  grief."— 

He  leaped  away  in  slumbers  deep 

And  headlong  plunged  the  mountain  steep! 

The  sun  rose  smiling  from  the  sea. 

The  sea-bird  sung  with  wonted  glee. 

The  red  deer  leaped  upon  the  hill. 

But  Chief  Conaught  in  death  was  still! 

MY  OLD,  OLD  HOME. 

My  old,  old  home—  I  love  thee  still  — 
Each  rock,  each  nook,  each  bounding  rill. 
The  wide  old  field,  and  flowery  lea. 
Bring  back  my  youthful  days  to  me. 
Though  other  hands,  thy  bounties  reap. 
And  other  eyes  their  vigils  keep.— 
A  sigh,  I  wipe  the  falling  tears, 
Remembrance  of  receding  years. 
The  little  laughing,  sparkling  brook,— 
Where  oft  I've  dropped  my  line  and  hook. 
Is  laughing  still  --  no  older  grown. 
Though  many,  many  years  have  flown! 
The  old  oak  tree  I  used  to  climb. 
Is  standing  yet;  though  scathed  by  time, 
The  road,  th.at  leads  down  to  the  mead. 
Is  overgrown  with  grass  and  weed. 
My  mother's  voice  no  more  I  hear 
In  tuneful  song.s,  botli  loud  and  clear. 
And  kneeling  at  the  old  arm-chair. 
No  more  1  hear  her  evening  i)rayer. 
But  sometimes,  in  a  fancy  dream. 
Bright  vistas  ope  to  the  unseen,— 
Angelic  songs  float  on  the  air. 
And  mother's  voice  is  mingled  there. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


981 


-* 


MRS.  JULIA  CLARKECHASE. 

Born:  Neosho, Wis.,  April  9, 18.%. 

Julia  and  her  youngest  sister.Medora  Clarke 
published  a  volume  of  poems  called  Drift- 
wood; these  ladies  are  well  kuowu  in  west- 
ern literary  circles  as  the  Sister  Poets  of 
Wisconsin.  At  the  age  of  twenty-two  Miss 
Julia  was  married  to  Lieut.  Geo.  N.  Chase  of 


*- 


MHS.  Jl'LIA  CLARKE  CHASE. 

the  U.  S.  A.,  who  for  the  last  four  years  has 
been  aide  decamp  on  Gen.  Howard's  statf. 
Mrs.  Chase  has  lived  in  Milwaukee,  Chicago, 
New  York  City  and  San  Francisco,  and  has 
constantly  contributed  to  the  press  of  those 
cities.  She  has  had  but  one  child,  Thoring- 
ton  Clarke,  born  in  1879,  who  won  the  West 
Point  class  cup  of  '87,  and  who  promises  to 
be  a  fine  violinist.  Mrs.  Julia  Clarke  Chase 
has  written  about  one  thousand  poems,  be- 
sides a  great  deal  of  prose,  stories  and 
sketches  for  children.  Several  of  her  longer 
poems  have  won  the  highest  praise  from  J. 
G.  Holland,  P.  D.  Aldrichand  literary  critics, 
and  have  received  extensive  publication  in 
the  press.  She  numbers  among  her  ancestors 
Samuel  Huntington,  a  signerof  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence,  and  Theodore  Grace 
Greenwood,  Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  James 
G.  Clarke,  and  other  literary  stars  of  the 
present  day.  Mrs.  Clarke's  residence  in 
future  will  be  Los  Angeles,  Cal. 


DESPOILED. 

Down  in  the  dust  and  Mie  grime  and  the  heat, 
Cruelly  Hung  there  to  die  in  the  street. 
Lies  a  wood-violet  tender  and  sweet. 
Who  in  his  selfishness  bore  thee  away. 
Frightened  and  silent  one  ominous  day, 
Only  to  leave  thee  droop  and  decay? 
No  one  will  cherish  thee  now,  broken  flow'r. 
Recklessly  torn  from  thine  icstival  bow'r 
Only  to  pleasure  some  eye  for  an  hour. 
Up  at  her  window  a  maiden  I  see 
Looking  regretfully  down  upon  thee, 
Feeling  thy  fate  and  her  own  to  agree. 
Innocent  blossom  and  innocent  maid, 
Torn  from  the  woodland,  the  fragrance  and 

shade. 
Thrust  in  the  filth  of  the  city  to  fade. 


NIL  ANXIETAS. 
I've  lived  a  life  of  summer  hours 
Amid  the  butterflies  and  flowers; 
Alike  the  sunshine  and  tlie  rain 
Seem  tuned  to  pleasure's  sweet  refrain. 
My  heart  is  always  light  and  free,— 
The  days  so  glad  and  bright  to  nie. 
Why  should  1  brood  o'er  future  ill 
The  while  for  me  the  gods  distill 
The  sweets  of  life,  in  flowing  draught. 
As  pure  as  moi'tal  ever  quaffed? 
No,  let  my  fate  be  what  it  may, 
I'll  drink  the  nectar  of  to-day. 
No  echo  of  a  minc>r  key 
Shall  haunt  me  with  a  melody 
To  hush  the  music  of  my  soul; 
The  seasons,  in  tlieir  onward  roll. 
Shall  grant  the  only  boon  I  ask. 
Within  the  rays  of  k)ve  to  bask, 
A  life  sincere  to  live  and  die 
Without  one  bitter  tear  or  sigli. 


LITTLE  JACK. 
A  winter  day  hung  o'er  the  earth 
And  filled  our  childish  hearts  with  mirth, 
For  on  the  newly  fallen  snow. 
The  sunbeams  lay  like  gems  aglow- 
Along  the  lake  shore  by  the  mill. 
We  children  coasted  on  the  hill. 

And  with  our  voices  full  of  glee. 
We  woke  the  echoes  plad  and  free. 
My  heart  was  full  of  selfish  pride. 
As  down  the  long  hill's  sunny  side. 
With  merry  shout  I  gayly  sped, 
Upon  my  brightly  painted  sled. 
And  toiling  up  the  hill  once  more, 
I  heard  a  plaintive  voice  implore: 

..  Oh,  Harry !  let  me  have  a  ride?" 
I  rudely  pushed  the  boy  aside. 


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982 


LOCAL.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKHICA. 


SAMUEL  LEANDER  WHITE. 

Born:  Gboton,  Mass.,  ApkilQ,  1828. 
After  taking  a  course  in  penmanship,  ma- 
thematics and  bookkeeping- In  Comer's  Com- 
mercial College  of  Boston,  Mr.  White  entered 
mercantile  pursuits.  In  1859  he  was  married 
to  Miss  Nancy  P.  Barker,  and  soon  after  re- 


SAMHEL  LEANUKK   WHirrJ. 

turned  with  his  wife  to  his  old  liome  in  Gro- 
ton.  Three  years  later  Mr.  White  removed 
to  Leominster,  Mass..  where  he  worked  in  a 
piano  manufactory  for  eiglit  years;  then  re- 
moving to  Boston  he  again  entered  a  piano 
establishment  where  he  worked  for  eleven 
years.  Mr.  White  is  now  residing  in  Wake- 
field, Mass.,  where  he  is  quite  a  prominent 
church  member  and  a  deacon  m  the  First 
Baptist  Churcli. 

THE  BIUDS. 
And  now  the  bluebirds' flute-like  notes  are 

heard. 
While  yet  the  wasting  snowdrifts    can   be 

seen;  [wings. 

Thrice  welcome!  lovely  bird  with  azure 
Thou  bringest  Spring  ere  eartli  is  clotlied 

with  green. 
Perched  on  some  budding  shrub    near   by 

the  door, 
The  sparrow  sings  his  cheerful  little  tune; 
His  dress  is  plain,  and  modest  are  his  ways. 
But  sweet  his  song  as  fragrant  airs  of  June. 
The  "robin-red-breast"  chants  liis  praise  at 

eve. 


In  yonder  tree  toward  the  setting  sun; 
While  flocks  of  blackbirds  on  the  river  bank. 
Their  daily  evening  concerts  ha%'e  begun. 
Fast,    fast    the     feathered    songsters   now 

arrive. 
And  nature's  music  all  the  air  pervades; 
The  mavis  cheers  the  farmer  at  liis  toil. 
The  wood-thrush    sweetly    sings   in    forest 

glades. 

To  me,  in  youthful  days,  this  warbler  seemed 
Like  some  lone  minstrel  from  celestial  plains, 
Wlio,  longing  for  his  angel  home  afar, 
Relieves  his  heart  in  sweet,  yet  plaintive 

strains. 
Down  in  the   mead  M'here  growing  grasses 

wave, 
"Robert  of  Lincoln"  pours  his  joyous  notes; 
Mhile  soaring  far  above  in  morning's  light. 
The  meadow  lark  on  rapid  pinion  floats. 
At   eve   the    night    hawk,    cleaving    azure 

depths, 
Witli    booming    sound,    sweeps    downward 

'neath  the  hill. 
While  yonder  in  the  dusky  woods  is  heard. 
From  eve  till  morn,  the  loud-voiced  whip- 

poorwill. 
How  sweet  to  wander  in  the  quiet  woods. 
And  listen  to  the  thousand  warblers  there; 
To  breathe  the  fragrant  odors  of  the  pines. 
And    lift   our   grateful    hearts   to    God    in 

prayer ! 
How  cheerless  would  the  lovely  spring-time 

be, 
How  silent  all  the  hills,  the  vales,  the  fields. 
Without  the  charming  nuisic  of  the  birds. 
Without  tlie  joy  their  loving  mission  yields! 


VOX  POPULl. 

From  the  cold  wilderness  of  northern  Maine 

To  California's  genial  skies. 

From  Oregon  to  fields  of  sugarcane, 

I  hear  tlie  people's  earnest  voice  arise. 

"O  give  us  honest  men  to  rule,"  tliey  say,— 
"True  men  who  never  can  be  bought  with 

gold  — 
Puie  men  whose  acts  will  bear  the  light  of 

day. 
Whose  noble  aims  their  daily  lives  unfold." 

How  sad,  how  soul-depressitig  is  the  sight 
Of  men  engaged  in   strife  for  office,  or  for 

pelf; 
W^ho  liave  not  moral  st  I'englli  to  do  the  right. 
But  worship  at  the  sordid  shrine  of  self! 

iiWhere  shall  we  find  a  man  of  honest  make," 
The  patient,  suffering  people  still  implore, 
"Shall  we  like  Diogenes  a  candle  take 
And  search  America  from  shore  to  shore?" 


*- 


-« 


*- 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL   I'OETS  OF   AMKKICA. 


•»Si8 


REV.GKORGE  R.KRAMER, 

Bokn:  Baltimore,  Md.,  Mav  »'6,  ISJO. 
The  poems  of  the  Rev.  George  R.  Kramer 
have  appeared  quite  extensively  in  the  Port- 
liind  Arfrns,  Rrooklyi  'rinii'<.  :uiil  the  pcriod- 


HEV.  GEOKGE   KOBEKTS  KKAMEK. 

ical  press  generally.  As  pastor  of  the  Brook- 
lyn CJuion  Ave.  Baptist  church,  this  g-entlj- 
man  has  gained  a  national  reputation  as  an 
eminent  divine.    He  was  married  in  1865. 


SITTING    IN  THE  AUTUMN   TWILIGHT. 

Sitting  in  the  Autumn  twilight 

Of  the  sad  November  day. 
Thinking  of  the  happy  moments 

Which  with  summer  passed  away. 
Thinking  of  the  golden  sunshine 

Of  those  bright  and  blessed  liours, 
Calling  up  that  form  of  radiance 

That  faded  with  the  flowers. 
Gleaming  waves  of  roaring  ocean 

Breaking  on  the  shining  sand, 
Mem'ries  of  the  isles  and  gardens, 

Edens  of  the  sea  and  land. 
Mournful  winds  the  leaves  now  tossing. 

Wail  the  splendor  which  had  fled. 
And  o'er  the  fields  and  through  the  forests 

Hymn  the  requiem  of  the  dead. 
Silver  clouds  in  glory  floating 

Gilded  with  the  sunny  rays. 
Dreaming  as  we  saw  your  beauty 

Of  the  coming  brighter  days. 


Hoping  in  the  fields  of  verdure 

All  our  hopes,  alas,  were  vain  — 
Faded  like  the  leaves  now  scattered 

By  the  cold  Autumnal  rain. 
Singing  yet  of  fadeless  grandeur 

When  the  leaves  shall  never  fall. 
Hearing  voices  of  the  Blessed 

At  the  Resurrection  call  — 
Christian  Hope  sings  of  a  Summer 

That  shall  never  pass  away  — 
Singing  in  the  Autumn  twilight 

Of  the  sad  November  day. 

THE  DEMON  OF  THE  NOON. 
Now  comes  the  hush  of  noon ;  a  sabbath  hush 
In  summer  time;  upon  her  throne  this  hour 
Sweet  silence  sits.    Yet    many  sounds  ate 

beard,  [sounds 

But  such  as  stillness  ne'er  invade;  those 
Which  welcome  find  within  the  realm  of  peace 
And  quietude.  The  dreamy  buzz  of  bees  — 
Hymns  of  the  birds— Harps  of  soft  forest 

winds—  [rocks, 

And  singing  brooks  which  glide  o'er  mossy 
Are  but  the  n:lnister.sof  Silence;  not 
The  rivals  of  her  reign. 
Oh  !  let  me  linger  and  enjoy  this  calm  — 
III  sin  more.    My  soul  is  peaceful,  like 
Yon  lovely  stream.  I  feel  no  tempter  near,- 
No!  darkness  is  the  hour  to  fiends  belongs; 
In  gloom  their  wings  they  flap;  the  light  they 

shun  — 
Their  deeds  of  evil  cannot  stand  the  day. 
Oh!  let  me  while  away,  in  reverie  sweet, 
An  hour.    All  foes  are  far,  I  know  no  fear, 
"At  noon  His  flock  may  surely  rest,"so  sings 
The  royal  Hebrew  bard. 
What  fancies  steal  upon  my  trembling  soul? 
Enchantment  — witchery  around  nu-  creeps. 
Resisting,  passive,  tell  me  wliich  ani  I? 
Now  see  — on  gleaming  boughs  before  me 

swing 
The  gay,  forbidden  fruits! 
I  do  so  well  remember  now,  that  while; 
The  pestilence  in  darkness  walks,  so  grim: 
Destr\iction  in  the  noonday  wastt»s. 
Ah!  yes.  the  life  it  saps  —  thesoul  it  wastes— 
The  fleiid.  indeed,  is  in  the  di  rkness  camped. 
Yet  to  an  angel  of  the  light,  himself     [noon. 
Transforms,  and  thus   he  walks  in  shining 
O,  Christ!  upon  the  verge  of  sin  I  stand. 
And  tremble  o'er  the  deep  ami  awful  gulf. 
Me  keep  in  innocence.     Me  keep  in  life. 
My  will  I  shall  not  praise.     I  look  to  Thee. 
I  whirl  above  the  flood  —  I  have  no  strength ! 
I  reel  above  the  fire  —  I  know  no  will 
Safe!  Now  I  rest  amid  the  pastures  green  — 
A  poor,  weak  sheep;  yet  how  secure  I  am! 
All  honor  to  "the  Everlasting  .\rms." 


*- 


984 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL  POETS   OF  AIMERICA. 


MRS.  OLGA  LOUISA  STURM. 

Born  :  Germany,  Jan.  IS,  1846. 
Mrs.  Olga  Sturm  was  educated  at  Cleveland. 
Ohio,  and  in  1869  was   married   to   Bernard 
Sturm.    She  was  left  a  widow  in  1880,  with  a 


MRS.  OLGA  L0tns.\  STURM. 

family  of  four  children  living-.  The  poems 
of  Mrs.  Sturm  have  appeared  in  the  Cleve- 
land and  Boston  papers,  and  the  periodical 
press  generally. 

THEMES   FOR  SONG. 
Oh,  sing  me  a  song  of  the  morning, 

A  free  and  gladsome  lay ! 
Oh,  sing  of  a  bright  and  glorious  dawn 

That  swept  the  shadows  away ! 
Oh,  sing  of  the  breezes,  gentle  and  mild. 

That  follow  the  winter's  chill. 
Of  the  happy  time  when  the  violet  blooms. 

And  the  woods  with  melody  thrill! 
Oh,  sing  me  a  song  of  triumph, 

A  clear,  exultant  strain. 
Of  faith,  which  could  o'er  shattered  hopes 

To  loftier  heights  attain ! 
Oh.  sing  of  love  which  had  power  to  bless. 

Yet  with  its  latest  breath. 
Of  hearts  that  sank  with  unwavering    trust. 
E'en  into  the  arms  of  death! 

A  POET. 
Among  the  singers  of  the  land. 

You  will  not  find  his  name  enrolled. 
For  how  he  hoped,  aspired,  and  strove. 


Has  never  to  the  world  been  told. 
He  was  a  poet,  though. 
His  life  was  lowly,  full  of  care. 

And  toil  and  hardships  were  his  lot. 
He  had  his  hearth,  his  love,  his  God, 
For  fame  and  honors  cared  he  not 
Yet  was  a  poet  he. 
The  gathering  storm,  the  sunset  glow. 

The  little  flow'ret,  at  his  feet, 
Had  pleasures  for  him,  all  his  own. 
That  made  his  life  of  labor  sweet. 
Was  that  no  poet's  soul? 
Naught  had  he  learned  of  music's  art. 
Yet  tones  to  him  a  language  spoke. 
Which,  deep  in  his  impassioned  soul, 

A  yearning,  lingering  echo  woke. 
He  heard  with  poet's  ear. 
For  him  were  whispers  in  the  brook. 

And  voices  in  the  storm  wind's  moan. 
Soft  breezes  sighing  through  the  trees 

Had  language  for  him,  all  his  own. 
Which  stirred  his  poet's  soul. 
Storms  gathered  round  him  at  the  close, 

And  o'er  his  path,  swept  gale  on  gale. 
Yet,  steadfast,  with  ne'er  faltering  trust 

He  passed  into  the  shadowy  vale. 
His  was  a  poet's  death. 

GO  DRY  THY  TEARS. 
Go,  dry  thy  tears,  be  brave,  and  still  plod  on, 
The  way  is  dark   and   steep,  and    tears   are 

blinding. 
Thy  heart  is  faint,  thy    meagre   strength  18 

gone. 
Thou  flnd'st  thy  path  through  thorny  hedges 

winding. 
And  storms  grow  frequent  with  the    passing 

years. 

But,  dry  thy  tears! 

Yes,  dry  thy  tears,  let    none   thy   weakness 

The  world    is    stern    and    hard,    and     tears 

'   If  in  life's  fight  thou  would'st  victorious  be, 
Put  on  the  semblance,  which  she  recognizes, 
A  sturdy  front,  kept  to  thyself  thy  fears. 
And  dry  thy  tears! 

Ay.  dry  thy  tears!    Thou   hast    not   time  to 

weep. 
Thou  hast  thy    work    to   do,    for   grief   no 

leisure. 
What  though  thy  progress  slow,  but  courage 

keep. 
Thou  Shalt    :it    length   the    weary    distance 

measure. 
And  reach  the  goal  where  thy  horizon  clears, 
So,  dry  thy  tears! 


*- 


:i]| 


*- 


LOCAI.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


986 


GILBERT  S.  BAILEY,  D.  D. 

Born:  Dalton,  Pa.,  Oct.  17,  1822. 

Aftkk  graduating  from  tlio  Oberliii  College 
of  Ohio,  lie  started  a  select  school  at  Waver- 
ly,  Avhich  soon  grew  into  Madison  Academy 
with  one  hundred  students.  Resigning  this 
charge  he  was  ordained  to  the  ministry  and 
the  same  year  married  Mi^s  Saruh  E.Buuuell. 


GrLBERT  S.  BAILEY,  D.  D. 

He  has  one  daughter  and  five  sons  grown  to 
maturity  — Mrs.  Eulalia  A.  Brink,  his  daugh- 
ter, whose  husband  died  in  California,  is  a 
teacher  in  Pomona;  Prof.  G.  E.  Bailey,  Ph. 
D.,  liis  eldest  son,  is  geologist  and  professor 
of  Metallurgy  in  the  South  Dakota  School  of 
Mines,  Rapid  City;  Wayland  Bailey,  A.  M., 
is  in  the  United  States  Signal  Service;  How- 
ard Uailey,  a  civil  engineer,  died  in  Colton, 
Cal..  December  23,  1889;  Charles  A.  Bailey 
lives  iu  Pomona,  engaged  in  musical  pur- 
suits and  fruit  business;  Will  C.  Bailey  is 
editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Colton  News. 
The  Rev.  Gilbert  S.  Bailey  has  filled  pastor- 
ates at  Canterbury,  on  the  Hudson;  Spring- 
field, Tremont,  Pekin,  Metamora  and  Mori-is, 
Ills.,  besides  holding  numerous  other  posi- 
tions of  trust.  Mr.  Bailey  is  the  author  of 
several  volumes,  and  about  twenty  treaties; 
and  he  has  written  numerous  poems  which 
have  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the  peri- 
odical press.  Dr.  Bailey  and  his  wife  live  in 
Pomona,  Cal., and  both  are  very  zealous  Chris- 
tians. 


HERE  AND  THERE. 
Hero  we  toil  and  weep  and  groan. 
There  no  pain  is  ever  known; 
Here  we  languish,  gasp  and  die. 
There  we  dwell  with  Christ  on  high. 
Here  we  grope  in  gloomy  night. 
There  we  shine  in  endless  light; 
Here  life's  deepest  sorrows  bear. 
There  in  Christ's  own  glory  share. 
Here  temptations  sore  annoy. 
There  we  live  in  endless  joy; 
Here  our  sins  and  guilt  distress. 
There  we  have  Christ's  righteousness. 
Here  our  Savior  bled  and  died. 
There  He  reigns,  the  gloritied; 
Here  we  serve  our  Lord  and  King, 
There  His  endless  praises  sing. 

METHUSELAH. 
Methuselah  was  but  a  boj- 

When  he  was  forty-seven; 
I  wonder  if  he  skipi)ed  and  played 

As  boys  do  now  at  'leven ! 
Was  he  liis  mother's  pet  and  pride. 

His  pockets  full  of  candy? 
Did  he  do  chores,  drive  up  the  cows. 

And  whistle  "Doodle  Dandy?" 
Catch  flsh  with  pin-hook  in  the  stream 

That  ran  down  through  the  meadow? 
And  slide  down  hill  in  wintertime 

And  sometimes  bump  his  head?  oh  I 
When  he  chased  squirrels. bares  and  things 

With  sling-stones  on  the  hot  run. 
How  nice  for  him  if  he  had  had 

A  dt)uble-barrelled  shot  suul 
I  wonder  if  he  went  to  school? 

Had  books,  and  pen  and  paper? 
Was  teacher  kind,  or  cross  and  stern 

If  he  once  cut  a  caper? 
Was  Hebrew,  Syria  or  Clialdee 

The  language  of  his  study? 
Did  all  his  thoughts  run  clear  and  bright, 

Or  were  they  sometimes  muddy? 
Did  fractions,  roots  and  puzzling  sums 

Torment  his  brain,  or  lead  on 
To  squares  and  cubes  until  he  found 

The  Parallelopipedon? 
He  did  not  use  the  filthy  weed 

Like  urchins  now  a  puffing 
The  cigarette,  with  strut  and  swell. 

Their  brains  with  smoke  a-stufflng. 
He  did  not  ride  on  railroad  then. 

But  made  his  journeys,  walking; 
Nor  did  he  speak  through  telephone. 

But  did  his  own  pl.-iin  talking. 
The  steamboat  did  not  course  its  way 

Across  the  briny  ocean, 
He  paddled  liis  own  canoe  about 

Where  e'er  be  took  a  notion. 


-* 


*- 


986 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


*- 


His  fattier  uever  paid  a  dime 

For  telegraphic  message, 
Nor  two  cents  postage  when  he  wrote. 

Nor  fifty  cents  expressage. 

His  mother  had  no  queer  machine 

To  mend  his  ragged  breeches, 
Her  loving  Augers  patched  the  hole 

With  just  the  nicest  stitches. 
At  hundred  years,  a  nice  young  man. 

He  thought  he'd  go  a  courting; 
His  beard  was  growing  finely  then ; 

A  mustache  he  was  sporting. 
A  sprightly  lass  of  ninety  years 

Had  set  his  heart  a  flutter; 
But  still  he  wisely  looked  about 

And  thought  of  bread  and  butter. 

No  haste  to  wed,  like  modern  swains, 

He  thought  the  matter  over. 
And  kept  on  courting  eighty  years. 

And  lived  that  time  in  clover. 
The  wedding  came,  no  hasty  match. 

He  though  he'd  take  the  chances: 
The  dudes  slie  did  not  try  to  catch 

Nor  go  to  balls  and  dances. 

At  age  one  hundred  eighty-seven 

He  saw  liis  first  boy  baby. 
He  trotted  Lamech  on  his  knee 

And  sung  "  Hi-doo-da-da'^-." 

Then  at  throe  hundred  sixty-nine 
He  welcomed  grandson  Noah, 

And  lived  vi'ith  him  who  built  the  ark 
About  six  hundred  more. 

How  did  they  get  the  daily  new?? 

Base  bull,  prize  fights  and  'lections? 
No  daily  press  nor  telegram 

To  tell  i:f  bank  defections. 
But  hold  a  bit:  Methuselah 

Could  tell  a  wondrous  story: 
Three  centuries  and  a  third  he  lived 

'Fore  Adam  went  to  glory. 
He  heard  the  tale  from  Adam's  lips 

And  told  each  generation 
Of  man's  creation  and  his  fall! 

How  sad  was  the  narration! 

In  his  last  year  the  work  of  Noah 

On  ark  was  nearly  ended: 
But  he  went  liome  to  glory  just 

Before  the  flood  descended. 

We  live  less  yeiirs  than  men  did  then. 

But  we  are  living  faster; 
Our  years  compress  ten  into  one 

In  service  of  the  Master. 
Then  speed  our  time  and  speed  our  work. 

Till  rest  from  toil  is  given: 
We  hail  the  day  that  calls  us  home 

From  toils  of  earth  to  joys  of  heaven. 


MRS.  ETTIE  C.  STAMBAUGH. 

Bobn:  Ashtabula,  O.,  Nov.  6, 1844. 

In  her  sixteenth  year  this  lady  was  mar- 
ried to  W.  D.  Stambaugh.  She  has  taught 
school    in    Illinois  and    Nebraska,  and  hn^ 


MRS.  ETTiE  CROSS  STAMBAUGH. 

written  about  fifty  poems  which  have  ap- 
peared in  the  local  press.  Mrs.  Stambaugh 
is  now  a  resident  of  Herman,  Neb. 


MAMA'S  PET. 
Mama's  pet  just  one  year  old. 
Eyes  of  blue  and  curls  of  gold, 
Cheeks  with  little  dimples  in. 
Rosy  mouth  and  double  chin; 
Fingers  into  mischief  creoviing. 
Little  feet  their  company  keeping. 
Running  here  and  running  there 
Never  minding  when  nor  where. 
Mama's  i>et  and  Papa's  joy 
Tliis  our  lueeious  darling  boy. 

Savior  Dear,  a  watch  can  keep 
O'er  those  little  tottering  feet. 
Guide  them  safely.  Father  do. 
All  tlieir  weary  journey  through, 
And  at  hist  a  rest  prepare 
In  Thy  Kingdom  bright  and  fair 
For  our  little  darling  boy. 
Mania's  pet  aiiil  Pajia's  jo.v. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF   AMKIIICA. 


987 


MARINER  J.  KENT. 

Born:  Boston,  Mass.,  May  26,  1846. 

When  eighteen  years  of  ag-o  Mr.  Kent  en- 
tered the  United  States  service.  At  tlie 
close  of  the  war  lie  commenced  his  journal- 
istic career,  and  has  since  been  on  the  staff 
of  the  Gazette  and  the  Chronicle,   of    Wash- 


MARINEK  J     KENT. 


Ington,  U.  C. ;  the  Sun,  Times,  Star  aiul 
Bradstreet's  Journal,  of  Now  York  City; 
Times,  of  Chieag-o;  Golden  Era,  Post  and 
Examiner,  of  San  Francisco;  Herald,  and 
Life  of  Los  Ang-eles;  and  he  is  now  known 
in  newspaper  work  as  special  and  edi- 
torial writer.  Mr.  Kent  has  written  (juite  a 
number  of  fugitive  poems,  which  have  been 
a  valuable  acquisition  to  current  literature. 


« 


THE  TRAMP'S  SOLILOQUY. 
Thankss-ivin'  day!    Ah!  yes,  fur  some; 
But  not  for  we'uns  of  th'  slum  — 
Not  for  me,  a  wretched  an'  batter'd  man. 
Tatters  an'  rags,  with  rusty  can 
Drainin'  th'  soured  lees,  in  fear. 
From  til'  emptied  bar'ls  for  beer. 
Great  God!  how  my  sodden  brain  burns, 
As  mem'ry  to  a  bright  an'  past  time  turns; 
Time  when  my  heart  wuz!  light  an'  free, 
When  I  watched,  with  boyish  glee. 


Th'  roastin'  turkey,  as  it  brownin'  glint, 
With  mother's  famous  stufliu'  in't. 

What  ails  me?    T'aint  nouse  to  think 

When  a  feller's  over  th'  brink 

So  fur  that  there's  no  gittin'  back  agin 

When  th'  slough  he's  layin'  in,  of  sin. 

Is  so  deep  an'  wide  an'  so  black. 

There's  no  hope  of  flndin'  th'  right  track. 

Ah!  happy  those  Thaiiksgivin'  days. 

Those   joyous   days   when    with    boyhood's 

amaze. 
When  with  abidin'  appetite, 
I  waited,  longin'  fur  a  bite 
Of  roasted  turkey,  brown  an'  rich  in  tint. 
With  mother's  famous  stuflin'  in't. 

Wl)at's  th'  use  fur  me  to  recall 

Lost  youth's  fair  hopes  an'  manhood's  fall'? 

To  bring  back  th'  days  of  a  better  life 

Before  evil,  weakness  an'  strife. 

Ere  trickery,  debauchery  an'  siiam 

Had  made  me  th'  vile  thing  I  am. 

What,  crying?    Crying  like  a  chit? 

Where's  th'  can?  I  must  drink!  I  must  forgit 

Th'  dear,  th'  olden  pleasant  ways; 

Forgit  th"  old  Thanksgivin'  days, 

Forgit  th'  turkey,  brown  an'  rich  in  tint. 

With  mother's  famous  stuffln'  in't. 


THE  BLACK  FLAG  OF  HUNGER. 

Bathe  poverty  in  bloody  sweat ! 
Lust  of  gain  thy  task  hath  set. 
Reek  at  night;  lot  each  to-morrow 
See  the  faint  and  paliid  rise. 
Drain  the  aloes  of  sacrifice; 
Steep  with  care  thy  soul  and  sense; 
O'er  thy  lowly  home  of  sorrow, 
'Mid  disease  and  pestilence, 
Black  floats  the  flag  of  luinger  — 
Symbol  of  the  woe  and  want. 
Signal  of  the  pauper's  gaunt. 
Oh,  the  binding  and  the  grinding 
Of  the  toilers  starving  under! 

Still  lave  thee,  wealth,  in  pleasures  new! 

In  rich  robes  of  fairest  luic 

Deck  thy  dainty  form  and  tender. 

Safe  from  touch  of  toil  and  strife; 

L^nniixed  with  thy  rod  wine  of  life, 

The  .sour  dregs  and  bitter  lees. 

Yet.  in  the  pall  of  splendor. 

Near  thy  home  of  dreamy  ease. 

Black  floats  the  flag  of  hunger  — 

Token  of  the  people's  woe. 

Harbinger  of  justice  slow. 

Take  ye  warning,  ere  the  dawning. 

O  men  of  might  and  pli.nder. 


* 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


HART  VANCE. 

Born:  Memphis,  Tenn.,  March  7,  1852. 
For  several  years  the  subject  of  this  sketch 
attended  the  Indiana  University,  after  which 
he  took  up  civil  engineering.  For  a  while  he 
was  a  reporter,  and  also  taught  school. 
Since  1873  he  has   filled   many   positions   of 


HART  VANCE. 

trust,  as  civil  engineer  and  surveyor.  Since 
1880  he  has  been  a  member  of  the  American 
Society  of  Civil  Engineers.  He  was  married  in 
1887  to  Miss  Myra  Lomax  and  has  two  children 


IDENTITY. 
A  tender  awe,  an  imminence  of  tears, 
Boded  our  meeting,  and  our  hand-clasp  starts 
The  old  heart-fire,  but  a  formal  i)hrase,  that 

parts 
Our  souls  more  fatally  than  all  the  years. 
Is  either's  greeting.  Placid  wont  inheres 
In  voice  and  aspect,  and  our  very  liearts 
Are  quenched  with  modern  dignities  and  arts. 
Memory  recoils,  and  no  romance  appears. 
A  boy  and  girl  bent  down  at  once  one  day 
To  pluck  one  wildflower,    and    her   bondless 

hair 
Was  softly  blown  across  his  face,  and  lie. 
Lifting  his  eyes  —  love's  blazon  —  caught  a 

ray 
Of  Heaven  through  hers,    and    both   glowed 

spell-bound  there  — 
Are  tve  these    two?    Or   have    they    ceased 

to  be! 


*- 


JOY. 
Through  shadowy  sleep  her  eyes  appear. 

And  heaven  seems  half-bespoken. 
Her  sweet  lips,  warm  and  fond,  drew  near, 

Touch  —  and  the  dream  is  broken. 
Whenever  I  seek  a  dewy  wood 

In  May,  she  flits  thereunder, 
A  spellful  doubt  of  solitude  — 

A  passion  and  a  wonder; — 
Something  escaped  from  happy  dreams. 

Still  nearly  overtaken.— 
Now  here  her  fairy  covert  seems, — 

I  come,  —  and  'tis  forsaken! 
Now  there  she  waits  with  arms  outstretched 

A  phantom  that  the  dew  leaves, 
A  subtler  beauty  somehow  sketched 

In  sunshine  under  new  leaves; 
But  still  the  phantom  will  not  brook 

Pursuit,  approach,  or  beckoning. 
Nor  even  the  shadow  in  my  look 

Of  memory,  doubt,  or  reckoning. 
When  thought,  in  brief  exalted  moods. 

Its  mortal  cumber  loses. 
She  whispers  through  my  solitudes 

The  spells  of  all  the  Muses ; 
But  when  T  turn  for  nearer  bliss 

To  lips  as  sweet  as  dreaming. 
The  mere  conception  of  my  kiss 

Dispels  the  lovely  seeming. 
Anon  I  find  her  at  my  side. 

Amid  some  gay  throng's  shifting, 
And  life's  last  shadow  seen:  s  to  bide 

Just  her  fair  eyelids'  lifting. 
I  bend  above  their  shy  eclipse 

Of  all  my  hopes  and  holies. 
They  rise  and  their  apocals'pse 

Is  greater  than  my  soul  is. 
Surcharged  with  new  delights,  my  heart 

Their  culmination  misses. 
Left  sad  for  some  divinest  part 

Not  compassed  with  its  blisses. 
And  lo !  my  spirits  rallying  while 

Has  dimmed  the  empyreal  presence:— 
The  glowing  of  the  seraph's  smile 

Exhales  the  seraph's  essence. — 
O  phantotn,  have  I  any  good 

Of  thee  with  all  tliy  sweetness? 
Still  leadost  thoi;,  not  understood. 

Toward  some  divine  completeness? 
Am  I  the  stronger  that  pursuit 

Makes  life  one  upward  hastening? 
Is  our  desire,  forever  moot, 

A  true  behoof  of  chastening? 
O  joy,  just  once  with  me  —  and  youth  — 

Transcend  this  mere  suggestion  !— 
Or  is  it,  that  thine  utmost  truth 

Is  an  eternal  question? 
* 


*- 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEIUCA. 


989 


JAMES  M^CAULEY. 

Bohn:    Cecil  Co.,  Md.,  Aug.  2S,  1809. 
This  K^ntleinan  is  a  land   surveyor    by  pro- 
fession, and  now  chief   judge   of   Orphan's 
court.    He  has  contributed  quite  exteusive- 


Up  betimes,  nor  lot  tlie  sun. 

Find  you  sleeping  or  at  play, 
Sleep  enough  when  life  is  done, 

VVor'k  to-day. 
Cull  the  sweets  from  ev'ry  flower. 

Seize  the  moments  wliile  you  may. 
Nor  idly  pass  one  sunny  hour. 
Work  to-day. 


HENKV  CLAY. 
He  needs  no  monument,  no  marble  pile, 
'Tis  vain  thus  to  commemorate  a  name. 
That  must  endure  in  noble  grandeur  while 
His  country  lives—  the  temple  of  his  fame. 


JAMES  M    CAlI.l  1  . 

ly  both  [irose  and  verse  to  current  literature. 
Mr.  McCauley  has  been  county  surveyor, 
register  of  wills,  member  of  the  legislature, 
and  five  times  elected  judge. 


HOPE. 
When  storms  arise,  and  tumults  jar. 

And  wreck  thy  mortal  form, 
There  is  a  bright,  a  lovely  star 

That  shines  above  the  storm. 
'Tis  hope  that  buoys  our  spirits  up. 

Along  the  checkered  way. 
And  when  we  drain  the  bitter  cup. 

It  points  a  brighter  daj\ 
Though  all  the  ills  of  life  stand  by. 

It  proffers  still  to  save. 
And  wlien  the  shades  of  death  are  nigh. 

It  looks  beyond  the  grave. 

WORK  TO-DAY. 

Youth's  the  time,  youth's  the  season, 

Learn  and  labor  wliHe  you  may, 
Hear  the  voice  of  age  and  reason, 

Work  to-day. 
Labor  hard  in  mornings  prime. 

Hasten  on  without  delay. 
Make  the  most  of  early  time. 
Work  to-dav. 


REV.  DAVID  F.PIERCE. 

Born:  South  Britain, Conn., April 2T,184(1. 
In  1871  Mr.  Pierce  was  married  to  Miss  Eliza 
Bradley.  In  1888  he  was  ordained  as  a  Con- 
gregational minister,  but  had  been  a  minister 
for  many  years  prior  to  that  time.  Rev. 
\  David  French  Pierce  has  written  enough 
poems  to  fill  a  large  volume,  which  he  hopes 
to  publish  in  book-form  in  the  near  future. 

NIAGARA. 

O  mighty  scene  of  nature, 

WJiose  solemn-sounding  power 
Rebukes  man's  pride  as  nothingness  — 

The  shadow  of  an  hour. 
The  eye  of  man,  astonished. 

Beholds  the  deep  profound. 
And  the  spirit  melts  with  faintness 

At  the  thvinder  of  thy  sound. 

The  tongue  of  man  is  feeble; 

Words  cannot  paint  tlij'  praise; 
O  tliou  unrivalled  wc)nder. 

Vocal  through  countless  days  — 
The  smoke  of  thy  vast  torrent 

From  the  deep  gulf  ascends. 
On  the  viewless  ether  rising. 

Till  witli  the  sky  it  blends. 
Fit  type  of  a  mighty  soul. 

Whose  giant  power  jiours  forth 
A  never-ceasing  stream  of  thought. 

Resounding  through  the  earth; 
As  roar  of  lesser  torrents 

By  thine  are  cast  in  .shade. 
So  in  his  presence  lesser  lights 

Grow  dimly  i)ale,  and  fade. 
The  soul  of  man  with  .sometliiug 

Of  earth  claims  kinship  here; 
Behold,  what  'tis  most  moves  him, 

And  such  will  be  his  sphere. 
But  thou,  the  lone  and  j>eerless. 

What  soul  of  man  may  claim 
In  thee  a  kindred  emblem. 

To  shadow  forth  his  fame. 


*- 


990 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AilERICA. 


ROLAND  ALBERT  NICHOLS. 

Born:  Shalersville,  O.,  Aug.  1,  1865. 
After  receiving'  his  edueatioa  at  the  Hiram 
College,  Rolaud  has  been  engaged  in  teach- 
ing, and  also  as  a  minister,  which  latter  pro- 
fession  he   intends   to  follow.    His  poems 


ROLAND  ALBERT  NICHOLS. 

have  appeared  in  the  Toledo  Blade,  Cleveland 
Plain  Dealer,  Christian  Standard,  and  the 
local  press.  In  1889  Mr.  Nichols  was  married 
to  Jennie  F.  Sefton,  and  now  resides  in  Hi- 
ram Ohio. 


ALONE. 

Full  many  a  shipwrecked  sailor 

Has  lived  on  a  shore  unknown; 
Full  many  a  desert  traveler 

Has  walked  o'er  the  sands  alone; 
But  of  all  earth's  desolation 

And  bitterness  T  ken. 
The  dregs  are  for  him  who  lives  alone 

Among  his  fellow-men. 


*- 


DRIFTING. 
A  boat  on  Niagara  drifting, 
Merrily  gliding  along. 
See  it  joyously  ride 
O'er  the  silvery  tide. 
How  beautiful,  free  and  strong! 

But  lookl  the  boat's  in  the  current. 
Tossed  at  the  sport  of  tlie  wave. 
By  the  mad  waters  lashed. 


'Gainst  the  cruel  rocks  dashed, 
'Tls  helpless  and  naught  can  save. 
One  moment  it  pauses  and  trembles; 
One  moment  and  all  is  o'er, 
The  short  voyage  ended. 
To  ruin  descended, 
Engulted  'midst  Niagara's  roar. 
O  you  who  are  carelessly  drifting: 
Dark,  treacherous  currents  are  rife. 
Soon  the  rocks  will  appear; 
Soon  will  ruin  be  near; 
Beware  of  an  aimless  life. 


A  PICTURE. 
Only  an  idle  moment. 

Only  a  thoughtless  son. 
Spurning  a  mother's  counsel. 

And  the  work  of  ruin  begun. 
Onlj'  a  small  beginning, 

"A  glass  tor  friendship's  sake," 
That  will  lead  him  on  to  his  ruin. 

And  manj'  a  teardrop  make. 
Only  a  mother  weeping 

For  a  reckless,  wayward  son ; 
All  of  her  bright  hopes  shattered 

And  fading,  one  bj'  one. 
Only  a  bar-room  quarrel; 

A  fight  that  began  in  fun. 
The  fatal  blow  is  given. 

And  the  fearful  work  is  done. 
Only  a  heart-broken  mother. 

Homeless,  and  roaming  the  street. 
Only  a  newly  made  grave. 

And  there  is  the  picture  — complete. 


THE  POSITIVE  MAN. 
I  lionor  the  po.sitive  man. 

The  man  with  a  mind  of  his  own. 
Who,  having  a  thought  will  express  it, 

A  purpose,  will  dare  make  it  known. 

E'en  though  our  opinions  may  differ, 

I  hold  him  a  true,  noble  man. 
Who  stands  for  right  as  lie  views  it. 

And  scorns  to  do  less  than  he  can. 

The  world  rejects  and  despises 
The  man  of  weak  purpose  and  heart, 

Wlioseonly  claim  on  humanity 
Consists  in  his  being  a  part. 

But  he  who  adversity  strengthens. 
Whom  trials  and  hardships  assail. 

Yet  who  stands  for  Tight  and  his  purpose. 
At  last  over  all  will  i)revail. 

And  after  a  life  long  and  useful. 
Spent  in  doing  for  men  what  he  can, 

Tlie  world  will  rcsjiect  and  will  honor 
The  strong  and  the  positive  man. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKRICA. 


991 


-* 


MRS.  IDA  F.  WATERMAN. 

Born:  near  Galesburo,  III.,  May  4,  1855. 

When  sixteen  years  of  age  Ida  began  teach- 
ing scliool,  which  profession  she  followed 
for  eighteen  years  with  great  success  in  the 
public   schdoN   cif    I'lwii    ;ui(l    Dakota.      She 


MRS.  IDA  FEUKIS  W  ATE  R.MAN. 

emigrated  to  Dakota  in  1883,  and  the  follow- 
ing year  was  married  to  F.  B.  Waterman, 
and  now  resides  with  her  husband,  son  and 
daughter  at  Frankfort,  S.  D.  Mrs.  Water- 
man has  written  about  a  hundred  poems, 
which  have  received  extensive  publication 
in  tlie  periodical  press. 


*- 


A  TRIBUTE. 
The  little  home  beyond  the  bridge 

Is  lonely  now  and  still; 
With  saddened  hearts  we  pass  it  by. 

Or  softly  cross  the  sill. 

Our  dear  grandparents  both  are  gone, 
No  snow-white  cap  is  there. 

There's  not  a  picture  on  the  wall. 
Nor  even  his  empty  chair. 

The  liitle  room  where  mother  passed 
Her  days  when  he  was  gone. 

Bears  not  a  trace  of  her  dear  hand. 
For  strangers  fill  the  liome. 


Her  face  was  ever  fair  to  see, 
Her  voice  so  sweet  to  hear. 

No  heart  so  warm  and  tender. 
No  life  so  full  of  cheer. 

A  kind  word  ever  on  her  lips. 
So  full  of  God's  own  grace; 

Our  dear,  old-fashioned  grandmother. 
With  her  sweet  love-ligliteiied  face. 

We  see  her  setting  by  tlie  stove 
With  her  bible  on  iier  knee. 

Or  slowly  tottering  to  the  door. 
To  welcome  you  or  me. 

The  little  hand  so  soft  and  warm. 
With  a  welcome  sougiit  your  own; 

While  lovingly  you  print  a  ki.ss 
On  the  cheek  like  eider-down. 

Her  memory  is  dear  to  us. 

And  sliall  be  to  the  end; 
None  knew  her  but  to  love  her. 

And  be  her  life-loug  friend. 


A  RAMBLE. 
Vvc  been  taking  a  ramble  to-day,  cousin. 

To  the  old  house  on  the  hill, 
AndtowitnessthechangesTime  has  wrought 

It  made  my  heart  stand  still. 

1  cannot  picture  to  you,  cousin. 

A  sight  of  that  dear  old  place. 
With  walls  torn  down  and  roof  sunk  in. 

As  it  stands  there  in  disgrace. 

T  wandered  about  the  yard,  cousin. 
And  climbed  the  old  rickety  stair. 

And  fearful  lest  it  should  tumble  down, 
I  took  each  step  with  care. 

For  they  creaked  and  groaned  beneath  my 
weight. 

And  my  heart  beat  fiister,  too. 
As  T  thought  of  the  many,  many  time 

I  had  climbed  the  same  with  you. 

And  my  thoughts  went  back  to  childhood 
days. 

As  they  oft  had  done  before. 
And  how  I  longed  to  see  your  face 

Appear  in  the  kitchen  door. 

Ah,  never  again,  I  truthfully  said. 

As  a  tear  stood  in  my  ej-e. 
And  slowly  turning  my  steps  away, 

I  bade  the  old  place  good-bye. 


-* 


*- 


992 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MARY  AUGUSTA  M'MAKIN. 

Born:  Philadelphia,  Pa.,  Aug.  30, 1833. 
This  lady  is  the  daughter  of  Andrew  M'Mak- 
in,  formerly  editor  and  proprietor  of  the 
Philadelpliia  Saturday  Courier.  After  gradu- 
ating she  was  for  a  time  associated  with  her 
father  in  editing  the  Woman's  Department 
of  that  publication,  under  the  pen  name  of 


MARY  ATTGUSTA  M'MAKIN. 

Bessie  Beechwood.  She  also  contributed 
occasional  short  stories  to  Peterson's  Maga- 
zine and  Frank  Leslie's  publications.  For 
some  years  this  lady  was  engaged  in  teach- 
ing and  in  literary  work  for  the  American 
Baptist  Publication  Society.  Miss  M'Makin 
was  secretary  to  the  first  Regent  of  the 
Mount  Vernon  Ladies'  Association.  Subse- 
quently she  was  appointed  to  a  position  in 
the  Treasury  Department  at  Washington, 
which  she  still  occupies. 


*- 


WHO  IS  IT? 

A  dainty  maid 

In  freshest  verdure  decked, 
Her  golden  head 

With  flitting  sunbeams  flecked, 
The  fairy  dyes 

Of  apple-blooms  her  cheeks 
And  in  lier  eyes 

Blue  myosotis  speaks. 
Rich  daffodils 

Her  sunny  tresses  crown. 


Frost  lingering  chills 

The  breezes  round  her  blown 
Hope  in  her  mien, 

So  sweetly,  shyly  gay,— 
How  name  her?    Queen? 

No,  only  May,  sweet  May 


COLUMBIA'S  CHOICE. 
There's  a  murmur  and  stir  in  the  garden  bed, 
A  contest  troubles  that  peaceful  nook; 
Pink  and  white  and  j'ellow  and  red 
Shake  their  bright  heads  with  an  anxious 
look. 

Who  shall  win  in  the  coming  choice? 
Who  be  borne  on  the  nation's  shield? 
Who  will  come  at  Columbia's  voice 
From  mountain  or  brook  side,  from  valley 
or  field? 

Whom  will  she  place  in  her  girdle  strong 
When  she  gathers  her  children  for  fun  or 

fray? 
Who  will  bloom  in  the  festal  throng. 
Wreathing  her  banners  with  bud  and  spray? 

Fair  Arbutus,  as  shy  as  sweet. 
Shivers  to  think  of  the  surging  crowd; 
But  sturdy  Daisy  would  fain  compete 
And  the  gaudy  Sunflower  laughs  aloud  I 

The  mountain  Ash,  unawed  by  storms; 
The  Violet  shrinking  beneath  her  shade; 
The  Water  Lily,  whose  vestal  cliarms 
Would  shame  a  nation  for  strife  arrayed. 

Many  and  fair  are  the  buds  and  blooms 
That  national  honors  so  warmly  crave; 
Among  the  proudest  the  sunny  plumes 
Of  the  Golden  Rod  serenely  wave. 

>•  Peace,  rash  blossoms!  "  Columbia  cries, 
"  Nor  like  humanity  waste  your  powers. 
Sliall  we  for  an  emblem  spoil  our  eyes 
Wliile  all  the  flowers  on  earth  are  ours? 

..Tlie  Lily  of  France  and  tlie  English  Rose, 

The  Shamrock,  the  Thistle  (that  strange  de- 
vice ' ) 

The  German  Corn  Flower  and,  from  the 
snows, 

The  Switzer's  Alpine  Edelweiss. 

II  Bind  them  up,  with  a  score  beside. 
And  mingle  sprigs  of  the  Northern  Pine. 
Wlio  dares  question  my  lionest  pride 
In  tliis  bright  cluster,  and  all  are  mine! 

"  Quarrel  who  will  for  a  single  flower. 
No  lance  I  break  in  a  needless  fray; 
The  sweets  of  earth  are  Columbia's  dower; 
She  wears  on  lier  bosom  the  wliole  bouquet." 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


993 


-* 


MRS.  MARY  E.  WARREN. 

Rohn:  Galway,  N.Y.,  March  14.  1829. 
This  lady  lias  beeu  a  member  of  tlie  liaptist 
churc'li  at  Fox  Lake,  Wis.,  for  thirty  years. 
She  is  a  prominent  member  of  the  W.  C.  T. 
U.,  and  has  been  actively  engaged  in  the  In- 
dependent Order  of  Good  Temphirs   fui'  ihir- 


*- 


HARVEST  OER. 
Again  our  harvest  toil  is  o'er. 
The  sheaves  are  garnered  dry. 
Now,  we  may  rest  from  weary  toil 
And  lay  our  reapers  by. 
Our  horses  too  may  rest  again 
And  nip  sweet  clover  tops. 
And  brush  the  flies  with  dignity 
From  off  their  dappled  coats. 
The  farmer  fills  his  easy  chair 
And  looks  upon  his  fields 
With  satisfaction  beaming  forth 
For  what  his  labor  yields. 


The  wheat  and  tares  together  wait 

The  thresher's  noisy  wliis. 

And  thus  the  wheat  he'll  separate, 

The  tares  leave  foi  the  Are. 

God's  harvesters  are  too  at  work. 

His  agents  never  tire. 

Death  always  has  liis  sickle  bright 

When  for  us  he  inquires. 

We  are  God's  sheaves,  his  wheat  and  tares. 

Together  we  are  growing. 

And  when  he  will  us  separate 

Is  not  for  human  knowing. 

Among  the  wheat  let  us  strive  to  be. 

And  wlien  chill  death  shall  come 

We  will  go  with  him  to  meet  our  friends 

In  our  upper  and  better  home. 


MRS.  MARY  EVA  LIN  WARR?;n. 

teen  years,  and  has  heeu  Grand  Vice  Tem- 
plar three  times.  Mrs.  Warren  has  pub- 
lished three  books,  two  in  pamphlet  form 
entitled  Our  Laurels,  and  Little  Jakie;  and 
one  large  volume  entitled  Compensation,  a 
temperance  storj-  founded  on  fact.  This 
lady  was  married  in  1847  to  George  Warren, 
a  farmer,  and  now  resides  at  Fox  Lake,  Wis. 
She  has  three  sons  now  grown  to  manhood. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  Mary  E.  Warren  have  ap- 
peared extensively  in  the  temperance  papers 
and  the  local  press  generally. 


A  BACKWARD  GLANCE. 
We  started  for  home  at  a  brisk  round  trot. 
The  sun  had  gone,  but  we  heeded  it  not. 
The  moon  had  appeared,  and  bright  over  all 
Was  relieving  the  gloom  of  night's  darken- 
ing pall. 
I  turned  around  for  a  backward  glance 
And  gazed  upon  nature's  lovely  expanse, 
A  neat  little  cottage  of  oaken  shade 
Looked  cheeringly  down  from  the  green  hill 

side. 
A  beautiful  orchard,  with  hickories  a  few. 
Lay  back  of  the  cottage  and  full  in  view. 
The  beholder  enraptured  gazed  on  the  fair 

scene 
By  the  aid  of  the  moon  in  liis  silvery  sheen. 
Tall   poplars  in    front  of  this  bright  little 
home  [to  roam 

Seemed  ••  towering  "  their  lieads  as  if  trying 
Amid  the  bright  in  tlie  heavens  so  blue. 
While  drinking  new  life  from  the  perfume 

laden  dew. 
Broad   fields    and    rich   groves  —  proofs    of 

God's  lavish  hand  — 
Encircled  this  home  of  a  bright  happy  band. 
Happy  children  were  sporting  around  in  tlie 

yard  — 
Their  plejisant  "Sire"  stood  watching  as  if 

to  keep  guard. 
Their  dear  mother,  whoever  is  thoughtful 
and  kind,  [in  mind- 

Appeared  cheerful  and  happy  and  contented 
A  blessing  to  all  she  has  proved  lierself  there. 
Ought  she  not  to  be  hai'py  with  her  dear 

ones  all  near  ? 
A  bright  cheerful  daughter,  with  sweet  win- 
ning ways. 
Completed  the  picture,  and  I  ceased  to  gaze. 
I  turned  with  a  sigh  and  left  the  fair  scene. 
While  wishing  each  glance  on  the  past  as 
fair  might  have  been. 


■^ 


MB  PELTON  was  the  first  superintendent  of 
schools  in  San  Francisco,  hut  since  then  he 
has  seen  a  great  deal  of  troubleand  has  been 
very  greatly  harrassed  by  the  loss  of  a  part 
of  hifproperty.     Mr.   Peltnn's  ubihty  as_^ 


L\, 


JOHN   COTTER  PET.TON. 

poet  is  well  known  on  the  ^^^^^^^^ 

ly  gentleman  and  has  res.aea  ^^^^ 

rifvears  on  his  ranch  at   inetrieu-, 
ot  yeais  blessed  with  a  wife 

Diego  county,  Cal.  tie  i^  u  .  ,^.,..„  taken 
If  rare  literary  taste,  who  has  alwaj  s  taKen 
iVrlt  nterest  in  his  poetical  works  Mk 
PeTton  hopes  to  publish  his  poems  tn  book 

form  in  the  near  future^ 

WHAT  THEN? 
uWhatamI?"    1  sigli. 
As  the  world  goes  by. 
But  a  lamp  just  dimly  burning. 
Convenient,  'tis  true. 
For  a  moment  or  two; 
But  the  light  out-blown, 
And  the  spirit  out-flown  - 

What  then? 
Extinguislied  the  flame. 
Forgotten  the  name  — 
Wliat  then? 

With  a  still  reckless  ken. 

The  world  hastens  by. 

Without  tear  or  a  sigh. 
Nor  tarries  to  ask,  "What  then? 


But  hastily  lispeth  ..adieu,-good-bye 
Then  onware  speedeth  its  whirling. 
Aye,  small  is  one  bee. 
In  the  world's  vast  hive. 

Where  each  for  himself, 

(For  lucre  or  pelf,) 
Is  ever  so  eagerly  stirring. 

But  a  sand  is  he '. 

In  the  depths  of  the  sea! 

If  a  billion  were  gone, 
As  many  were  born  — 
While  the  world  whirls  on 
With  its  reckless  ken, 
Nor  thinks  "what  then?" 
But  onward  keeps  its  whirling. 
Nor  with  tear  or  sigh. 
But  still  rushes  by, 
W^ith  a  hasty  good-bye. 
And  on,  and  on  keeps  whirling  — 

And  then  —  What  then? 
Not  the  tongue  of  mortal  — 
Naught  but  infinite  pen 
Shall  answer  this  query 

Quite  safely:  ..What  then?  " 
But  as  time  flits  by 
We  live  and  we  die, 
(We  scarce  know  for  what,  or  why., 
And  then?  God  knows,  what  then? 
Yet  rush  we  along, 
•Mid  the  world's  giddy  throng; 
Nor  tarry  nor  tire 

Till  the  lamp  of  life 
Doth  final  expire; 
Nor  stop  we  for  a  moment 

To  ask  or_to_think-"  What  then? 

NIL  DESPERANDUM. 
Mv  weary,  toil-worn,  murmuring  friend. 
Let  JaUh^nd  hope  with  patience  blend. 

And  keep  your  colors  flymg. 
If  grudging  fate  small  bounties  send. 
And  grov'ling  life  few  pleasures  lend. 

There's  little  use  in  sighing. 
While  'long  life's  thorny  path  you  wend- 

(0ft  rough,  there's  no  denying) - 
No  tears  nor  plaint  will  matters  mend 
Nor  soothe  nor  smooth  its  rugged  trend - 

Then  where's  the  use  in  sighing. 
If  fortune  deals  with  sparing  hand. 
Your  meager  wants  supplying. 
If  she  sore  toil  and  care  demands. 
Nor  yiekls  one  jot  her  stern  den.ands. 
You  nothing  gain  by  sighing. 

If  sorrow  lays  her  heavy  hand 

And  severs  rude  love's  holiest  bands. 

You  gain  no  strength  by  pinmg. 
If  wreck  bestrew  life's  stormy  strand 
And  grief  shall  hasten  out  its  sands. 

You  better  naught  by  sighing. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


995 


-* 


MRS.  FRANCES  REYNOLDS. 

BoKN :  Mt.  Cakmel,  III.,  Dec.  4,  1853. 
In  1879  this  lady  married  Mr.   A.  Reynolds, 
editor  and   publisher  of  the    Mariposa  Ga- 
zette, which  paper  she  has  edited  and  man- 
aeed  «uf  eo^sful' y  since  tlio  death  of  her  hus- 


Mu-    >  I,  1  M_l  -    V     Khi  .Mil  li^ 

baud.  She  has  a  collection  of  about  seventy 
poems  which  have  appeared  in  tlie  Overland 
Monthly,  San  Jose  Mercury,  Mt.  Carmel  Reg-- 
ister,  San  Francisco  Call,  and  other  publica- 
tions. Mrs.  Reynolds  has  a  son  and  daugh- 
ter, aged  ten  and  six  years  respectively. 


REMORSE. 
Cool  blows  the  wind  across  the  lea. 

Low  sings  the  lonely  whippoorwill; 
Soft  flutters  tlie  leaves  on  the  old  oak  tree, 

A  moment  rustling,  a  moment  still. 
I  wait  for  one  wlio  ne'er  will  come 
To  meet  me,  as  in  days  gone  by, 
I  wait  while  she's  dreaming 
Under  the  gleaming 
Stars  of  the  southern  sky. 
The  August  moon  comes  o"er  the  liill. 
Giving  a  radiance,  pure  and  rare. 
More  plaintively  tlie  whip-poor-will 

Breathes  out  his  .song  on  the  soft  air. 
And  "mid  tlie  memories  that  will  rise, 
Of  nights  like  this,  forever  fled. 
My  soul  with  sorrow 
Longs  for  the  morrow 
To  rest  me  with  the  dead. 


A  cloud  hatli  wrapped  the  pure  white  moon 
(As  clouds  so  long  have  wrapped  my  soul,) 
No  ray  of  light  conies  througli  the  gloom, 

And  fearful  peals  of  lliunder  roll. 
Ah!  niemorj-  comes  with  inithl'ul  page, 
M()ie<lrcad  to  me  than  voice  of  doom. 
Of  cruel  words  spoken, 
A  fond  heart  broken, 
A  fair  form  silent  in  the  tomb. 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 
All  the  world  is  warm  and  glowing 

With  the  vivid  gold  and  green. 
And  the  mottled  brown  and  crimson 

Of  the  autumn's  regal  sheen. 
And  the  air  is  filled  with  splendor. 

Music  lading  everj'  breeze. 
Caught  from  rustling  gold-edged  banners. 

Fluttering-  on  the  forest  trees. 

The  hills  are  robed  in  softest  colors. 

Wrapped  in  fllmj',  purple  mist. 
The  vales  are  rosy  hued  and  golden. 

As  downy  peach  by  sun's  rays  kissed. 
Royal  robed  purple  asters. 

By  the  v.-ayside  sway  and  nod. 
With  the  crimson  tufts  of  sumach. 

And  the  flaunting  golden-rod. 

All  the  orchard  trees  are  bending 
With  their  wealtli  of  red  and  gold. 

Giving  more  abundant  fruitage 
Than  the  flowers  of  spring  foretold. 

In  the  field  the  quail  is  whistling. 
With  a  cheerful,  daring  sound. 

And  the  timid,  frightened  rabbit 
Leaps  the  path  with  graceful  bound; 

Apple-cheeked  country  maidens 
Laugh  and  sliout  in  wildwood  free. 

Supple-sinewed  lads  are  shaking 
Treasures  from  the  chestnut  tree. 

Blessed  time  of  Indian  summer. 

Born  from  the  midsummer's  sun. 
Fitting  us  for  blasts  of  winter. 

By  love's  victory  newly  won. 
Giving  us  last,  lingering  visions 

Of  the  golden  warmth  and  light. 
Of  the  summer  and  its  glories. 

Crowned  with  blessings  rich  and  bright. 


A  JUNE  ROSE. 
I  wonder  if  in  thy  tenderest  feeling 
Thou  wilt  guess  the  secret  I  most  dread  re- 
vealing. 
Like  perfume  from  water-lilies  stealing. 

Just  as  they  close. 
Thou  art  fairer  than  the  loveliest  flower. 
And  richest  graces  are  thy  dower. 
On  bended  knee  I  own  thy  power, 

O  sweet  June  rose. 


*- 


-* 


LOCAL   AMD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  ADA  SMITH  NICUM. 

born:  Richmond,  Ind.,  Feb.  8, 1864. 
Mns  NiCUM  is  the  daughter  of  a  noted  phy- 
Mcian      She  was  married  in  1882  to  W.  V.  Nic- 
um!  and  now  resides  in  Cincinnati.  Ohio,  with 


^JL- 


MRS.   ADA  SMITH  NICTTM. 

her  husband  and  daughter.  She  has  written 
many  fine  poems  and  several  prose  articles, 
which  have  appeared  in  the  periodical  press. 

SOLTLOQUY. 
The  lingering  sunset  still  is  bright. 

But  comes  apace  the  tailing  night, 
A  lonely  minstrel  of  the  wood 

Ts  singing  to  the  solitude, 
Through  dogwood  blossoms  late  I  stray. 

Ah!  wonderful  the  charms  of  May  1 
Sing  little  minstrel,  do  thy  best 

To  drown  the  music  of  the  rest. 
Where  violets  flood  tlie  turf  with  blue 

And  evening  fills  their  cups  with  dew. 
I'll  ponder  on  the  wicked  fate 

That  robbed  me  of  my  promised  mate. 
Angel  now  bathed  in  heaven's  rays. 
Gone  with  those  dear  departed  days, 
Could  I  but  reach  thy  realm  sublime 

To  dwell  with  thee,  nor  reckon  tune. 
As  with  one  voice  we'd  praise  our  king. 
And  heaven's  enchanted  carols  sing. 
Lord  of  all  beings,  throned  on  high, 

O  let  thy  dcath-angel  swiftly  fly. 
And  bear  this  btorm-tossed  soul  to  rest, 
Where  it  shall  linger  doubly  blest. 


Ye  laughing  riverlet  bounding  high, 

Why  mockest  thou  my  weary  sigh. 

Thou  art  nigh  bubbling  o'er  with  fun. 

But  I,  my  race  of  joy  have  run; 
Thou  ripplest  on  to  some  great  sea, 

I,  fain  would  reach  eternity. 
Pale,  pale  the  moonbeam's  waning  light. 
That  kisses  the  darkness  of  the  night. 
Soon  o'er  the  hili  and  budding  brake. 

The  morning  light  begins  to  wake. 
For  down  the  vale.chimes  from  the  tower 

Ring  up  to  me  the  midnight  hour. 
Earth  is  wrapped  in  a  vale  of  dreams, 
And  my  bereavement  — jest  it  seems. 

TO  LOUISE  OF  SAVOY. 
Fair,  nobly  fair,  Therese  Louise, 

True  daughter  of  the  blood. 
Thy  eyes  like  bluebells  dropped  in  snow. 

Thy  hair  a  golden  flood. 
Thy  form  so  perfect  in  each  line. 

By  angels  coveted. 
A  child  in  years,  in  stature  tall. 

Lithe  as  a  willow  bough. 
With  heart  full  ripe  in  tender  love 
Would  thou  wert  'mong  us  now. 
That  tender  heart  so  cruelly  crushed. 

Wrecked  by  a  marriage  vow. 
The  chill  of  death  clung  to  thy  gown; 

Thy  tears  fell  all  the  while. 
When  'mid  the  pomp  of  Bourbons  great. 
Thou  wore'st  the  bridal  veil,      [stood. 
Wrapped    in   despair  the    bridegroom 

With  ne'er  a  word  or  smile. 
The  vision  of  f;iir  Genevieve, 

Stood  sadly  by  his  side. 
Forsooth  thou  wert  his  princess,  she. 

His  darling  peasant  bride. 
And  o'er  her  grave,  though  wed  to  thee, 

Prince  Lamballe  wept  and  died. 
Princess  Therese  Louise  de  Lamballe, 

Thy  brave  deeds,  nobly  done,  [heart. 
Have    strengthened  many  a  fainting 

Guided  an  erring  one. 
A  beacon  bright  thy  name  remains. 

Till  time  her  sands  shall  run. 
Tnou  lived'st  in  a  wicked  age 

When  crime  and  carnage  ruled. 
Thy  sweet  young  voice  that  cheered  the 
doomed. 
Thy  haixl  their  temples  cooled. 
Thy  noble  lieart  surrendered  life. 
For  love  as't  had  been  schooled. 
God's  peace  be  with  thy  sainted  dust. 

Though  scattered  far  and  wide. 
E'en  (luiet  grave  denied,  in  wliich 

Thy  broken  heart  to  hide. 
Daughter  of  Savoy,  naught  but  woe 
Thy  portion  as  a  bride 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


997 


-* 


SYLVESTER  FOWLER. 

Born:  Williams  Co..  O.,  March  2,  1S53. 
As  EDITOR  of  the  Pottawatomie  County 
Times  of  Louisville,  Kan.,  Sylvester  Fowler 
has  grained  quite  a  reputation  as  a  forcible 
writer.  He  has  eontrihuted  poems  to  the 
Topeka  Capital,  Kansas  City  Times,  Chicago 


feiLVES.TER  FOWLER. 

Ledger,  New  York  Tribune  and  other  equally 
prominent  publications.  Sex  and  Otlier  Po- 
ems is  a  small  volume  from  the  pen  of  this 
editor  and  poet,  which  has  received  extensive 
notice.  Mr.  Fowler  was  married  in  1880  to 
Miss  EUzabeth  Shaw,  has  three  children,  and 
resides  at  Louisville,  Kansas. 


TWO  PICTURES. 
There  hangs  a  picture  in  ray  room, 

A  battle-clouded  sky. 
Cannon  that  belch  athwart  the  gloom, 

And  charging  cavalry. 

The  field  of  Austerlitz  — the  sun. 
Smoke-swathed,  but  dimly  shines. 

The  peasant-prince,  NajKileon, 
Leads  on  tlie  thinned  lines. 

The  scourge  of  Europe,  on  his  face. 

Implacable  and  stern 
As  hate,  the  excitement  of  the  chase 

Most  clearly  1  discern. 

Blood-tinctured  is  the  battle  plain. 
Gore  streams  a  risiiitr  flood. 

In  the  picture  —  oft  1  fear  'twill  stain 
The  walls  o'  the  room  with  Vilood. 


Another  picture  I  possess  — 

Though  wealth  is  not  my  boast 
I  love  art's  treasures  none  the  less  — 

The  last  I  value  most: 
Pine  woods,  :i  cabin,  (true  such  scenes 

Are  common)  liills  beyond 
A  lake,  and  Thoreaii  hoeing  beans 

By  Walden  Pond. 


MILTON  W.  REYNOLDS. 
O  pioneer! 
Or  there  or  here. 
Or  far  or  near. 
It  seemeth  clear 

Thy  tireless  brain 

Must  still  remain 
Active:  we  liave  no  fear 
For  tliee,  tliough  dark  and  drear 
Thy  path,  and  sad  the  bier. 
And  iiot  the  falling  tear; 
Eternity's  new  year 

Will  find  for  thee  some  work, 

Who  never  yet  didst  shirk, 
O  pioneer! 

Beautiful  was  his  soul. 
And  clean  as  whitest  light  — 

He  never  reached  a  goal 
By  treachery  to  right. 
Or  liomage  paid  to  might; 

No  servile  fawner  lie. 

On  bended  knee. 

He  never  warped  the  truth 

In  any  cause  forsootli. 

Untarnished  on  his  page 

It  shone  to  shame  the  age; 

His  manly  gentleness 

Grew  never  less. 

He  pitied  all  distress. 

And  to  the  needy  gave 
From  out  his  scanty  hoard 
More  than  he  could  afford. 

To  succor  and  to  save. 

Tliouph  folded  are  the  hands. 

In  Oklaiioma  lands; 

Though  closed  the  kindly  eyes, 

Tliat  beamed  with  sympathies; 

Though  idle  the  swift  i)en. 
Keener  at  times  than  saber. 

His  name  so  long  has  been 
.-VUied  with  thou^fhts  of  labor. 

As  student,  satirist. 

Self-poised  diplomalist, 

Eiiuipped  journalist. 

Philosopher,  that  we 

Believe  intuitively 

That  somewhere  still  he  strives. 
For  good  that  shall  incre.ase. 
For  i>rogress,  knowledge,  peace. 

And  better,  nobler  lives. 


*- 


998 


LOCAT.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


LUCIUS  P.  HILLS. 

Bokn:  Bennington,  N.Y.,  June  16, 1844. 
Left  an  orphan  at  the  age  of  eleven,  Lucius 
shortly  afterward  removed  to  a  farm,  when 
in  1861,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  he  enlisted 
in  the  10th  New  York  Cavalry,  going  through 
three  years  of  active  service.    In  1869  Mr. 


LUCIUS  p.  HIliLS. 

Hills  entered  the  law  department  of  the 
University  of  Michigan,  graduating  in  the 
class  of  1871,  and  practiced  successfully  in 
northern  Michigan.  Since  1875  he  has  made 
his  home  in  Atlanta,  Ga.,  where  by  judicious 
investments  he  has  accumulated  quite  a 
little  property.  The  poems  of  Mr.  Hills  have 
appeared  in  the  Buffalo  Express,  the  Atlanta 
papers  and  other  publications,  while  many 
of  them  have  been  written  for  private  reci- 
tations. 

THK  MAID  OF  CHRISTIAN  HILL. 

'Twas  Sabbath  morn,  the  sun  shoue  bright, 
And  sacred  quiet  reign'd  around. 
While  bands  of  worshippers  obeyed 
The  tolling  church-bell's  solemn  sound; 
As  idly  strolling  through  the  town, 
I  crossed  the  river,  passed  the  mill, 
And  wandering  aimlessly  along, 
I  reached  the  foot  of  Christian  Hill. 

As  up  the  slope  I  slowly  strayed, 
1  met  a  maiden,  wonderous  bright. 


In  whose  dark  eyes  the  sunbeams  played 
With  ever  shifting,  changing  light; 
With  form  and  face  of  perfect  mold. 
Displaying  nature's  utmost  skill; 
A  flower  of  rarest  beauty,  formed 
To  deck  the  brow  of  Christian  Hill. 

Often  in  poem  or  romance 

I've  read  of  maids  divinely  fair. 

With  eyes  whose  hue  was  heaven's  own  blue. 

And  sunlit  waves  of  golden  hair; 

Of  these  let  poets  madly  rave. 

And  sing  iheir  praises  as  they  will, 

I'll  ne'er  forget  the  dark  brunette. 

Whom  first  I  met  on  Christian  Hill. 

No  poet's  pen  could  e'er  describe 
The  nameless  magic  of  her  grace. 
No  artist's  pencil  could  portray 
The  charms  that  centered  in  her  face; 
Her  smile  was  bright  as  morning  light. 
Its  witching  beauty  haunts  me  still. 
And  bids  me  ever  bless  the  fate 
That  led  my  feet  toward  Christian  Hill. 

In  happy  visions  of  the  night 

Her  radiant  face  I  often  see. 

And  with  the  morning's  breaking  light 

Her  image  still  revisits  me. 

Or,  when  meandering  through  the  tow 

With  what  wild  joy  my  pulses  thrill. 

If  on  the  street  I  chance  to  meet 

That  dnrk-eyed  girl  of  Christian  Hill. 

I  know  not  what  strange  power  it  is 
Which  thus  my  wayward  lieart  can  move, 
'Tis  surely  more  than  friendship's  spell. 
And  yet,  I  dare  not  name  it  love; 
But  this  1  know,  where'er  I  go 
No  other  love  my  soul  can  fill. 
Since  I  have  seen  fair  beauty's  queen 
Who  sits  enthroned  on  Christian  Hill. 

But  time  is  passing  swiftly  by 
And  these  bright  days  will  soon  be  o'er. 
When  I  shall  leave  these  happy  scenes. 
Perchance  to  visit  them  no  more; 
But  when  in  distant  lands  I  roam. 
Life's  sterner  duties  to  fulfill. 
Fond  memory  will  revisit  oft' 
One  little  cot  on  Christian  Hill. 

Fair  girl,  where'er  my  path  shall  lead, 
Wliile  life  is  mine,  thou  hast  a  friend. 
And  e'en  upon  my  dying  bed 
One  prayer  for  thee  shall  still  ascend; 
And  when  above  my  grave,  shall  sing 
The  nightingale  and  whippoorwill. 
My  lingering  spirit  still  shall  haunt 
Thy  sacred  home  on  Christian  Hill. 


*- 


-1 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKT.S  OF   AMEKK'A. 


i»it9 


MxARY  GRACE  MAHOXEY. 

Born;  Ikkland,  18{i0. 
As  THE  author  of  Murmaduke  Donver  and 
Other  Stories.Miss  Mahoney  ah-eady  occupies 
a  prominent  place  in  the  world  of  literature. 


r 


^tif^  . 


<«?^' 


^ 


MAHV   (iKACl-:    MAIKINEY. 

Her  poems  have  appeared  in  tlie  San  Fran- 
cisco News  Letter,  Arg-us,  and  Call.  She 
emigrated  to  this  country  in  187.5,  and  is  now 
engaged  as  a  typewriter  in  San  Francisco. 


*- 


MY  PICTURE. 

Do  you  want  to  see  my  picture. 

The  one  I  love  the  best? 
It  comes  when  dying  sunbeams 

Lead  nature  to  lier  rest. 
The  bacliground  to  my  picture 

Is  a  movmtain  towering  high, 
Wliose  rugged  peaks  are  softened 

III  outline  'gainst  the  sky. 
Tlie  stars  look  briglitly  downward, 

I  see  them  in  the  lake, 
And  of  its  silvery  whiteness 

A  magic  mirror  make. 
With  giant  limbs  extending. 

Behold  my  noble  trees. 
Their  branches  gentle  bending 

To  softest  perfumed  breeze. 
Tlie  flowers  have  closed  their  dainty  cups 

And  trj'  to  hide  from  sight. 
The  moonbeams  touch  the  tree-tops 

And  i>aint  them  gli.stening  white. 


Oh,  Artist!  ean'st  thou  jiaint  me 
A  scene  like  this  of  mine, 

Can'st  make  the  dewdrops  glisten. 
The  silvery  moon  to  shine? 

Oh,  paint  me  little  flower-cups, 
Whose  perfume  flll  the  air, 

Bedew  their  lovely  petals  — 
Display  their  beauty  rare. 

The  stars  —  my  living  diamonds  — 
Those  brilliant  eyes  of  night— 

Can'st  draw  their  shape.  Oh,  Artist! 
Their  colors,  too—  their  light? 

The  brush  divine  that  painted  this 
Is  not  to  mortals  given  — 

The  colors  and  the  Master  Hand 
Are  only  I'ound  in  Heaven. 


FLOWERS  FOR  THE  FAIR. 

Flowers  are  fit  for  the  young  and  fair, 
Roses  and  lilies  and  jasmine, 
Blue  forget-me-nots,  daisies  bright, 
Wreatlie  them  together  with  golden  hair. 
Match  young  eyes  with  those  blue-bells  sweet 
Shade  the  cheeks  with  carnations  bright. 
Take  those  blossoms  of  satiny  white 
And  lay  them  against  some  bosom  fair. 
Take  them  away,  for  I  would  not  place  them 
Over  a  heart  that  is  chill  and  dr(>ar. 
Ivy  is  fittest  to  wreathe  with  ruin  — 
And  wreck  of  a  life  that  is  soulless  here. 
Take  them  away  for  they  breathe  a  tale 
In  soft,  low  accents  that  cruelly  steal 
Into  veins  that  are  cold  and  chill  — 
Opening  wounds  that  I  fain  would  heal. 
Know  you  a  peaily  dewdrop  lies 
Deep  in  the  heitrl  of  that  fair  white  rose? 
Oh,  could  it  but  fall  on  my  weary  heart 
Like  rain  to  the  burned  and  parched  sod. 
For  my  i)ain  is  that  of  a  banished  soul 
That  thirsteth  for  a  sight  of  God. 


VENICE. 
In  Venice,  when  the  sinking  sun 
In  blushing  beauty  seeks  the  West, 
When  purple  sh;idows  softly  blend 
Their  colors  with  the  deep  blue  sea, 
A  sound  conies  stealing  near  and  near. 
Until  it  rests  within  my  heart. 
And  of  its  pulses  seems  a  part  — 
The  singing  of  the  Gondolier. 

When  tender  flowers  droop  and  swoon 
Beneath  tiie  perfumed  pall  of  night. 
And  trembling  trees  show  leaflets  white. 
All  silvered  by  the  pale  moonlight; 
Now  faint  and  far,  now  deep  and  clear, 
A  lingering  memory  ever  dear  — 
The  music  of  the  Gondolier. 


-* 


1000 


LOCAI-    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


REV.  STEPHEN   B.CARTER. 

Born:  Brooklyn,  Conn.,  Sept.  2, 1839. 
FOR  three  years  Mr.  Carter  worked  as  an 
iron  molder  in  one  of  the  foundries  of  West- 
minster, when    he    resumed   the    work    of 
teaching.    In  1879  he  was  ordained  a  min- 


REV.  STEPHEN  B.  CARTER. 


isterof  the  Congregational  church,  and  luis 
filled  pastorates  at  Bkonk.  and  at  Westmin- 
ster where  he  is  still  engagred  in  preaching. 
TheRev.  Stephen  B.  Carter  was  married  in 
186.5  to  Miss  Louisa  Button,  and  now  has  two 
children -Edwin,  born  in  1870;  and  Annie, 
in  1873. 

HOPE. 

Glorious  Hope!  forever  cheering 
Wanderers  o'er  life's  thorny  way. 

By  its  pure  and  holy  gleaming 
Pointing  to  a  better  day. 

Often  to  the  heart  when  riven. 
When  naught  else  can  give  relief; 

Does  it  tell  us  of  a  future. 
Free  from  trials,  pain  and  grief. 

How  it  cheers  the  soul  when  smitten 
Rudely  by  atHiction's  hand. 

Or  when  cast  by  howling  tempest 
Lonely  on  some  foreign  strand. 


'Tis  the  star  which  breaks  the  darkness 
Of  lone  sorrow's  cheerless  night. 

Telling  us  a  bright  to-morrow 
Waits  us  with  its  cheering  light. 

What  tho'  clouds  may  round  thee  gather. 
Trials  cluster  round  life's  way; 

Still  it  bids  us  hope  to-morrow. 
May  be  brighter  than  to-day. 

Let  its  pure  celestial  radiance. 
Though  dark  storms  of  trouble  rise. 

Point  us  all  when  life  is  ended 
To  that  home  beyond  the  skies. 


THE  HARVEST  GOD. 

Hark!  The  harvest  call  is  ringing, 
Sounding  loud  from  God  and  man; 

Bidding  us  to  grasp  the  sickle, 
And  be  reapers  in  the  van. 

'Tis  God's  harvest  and  His  vineyard, 
Will  ye  not  be  helpers  there? 

Can  ye,  can  ye  idly  slumber. 
Deaf  to  every  frantic  prayer? 

See  the  tyrant  waves  his  banner. 
Filling  earth  with  fear  and  dread; 

Blasting  peace,  dethroning  virtue, 
Laying  thousands  with  the  dead. 

Onwiird  still  the  demon  marches. 
Blighting  earth  with  sin  and  shame. 

While  his  ruthless  hands  are  dripping 
With  the  blood  of  victims  slain. 

Aye,  behold  them  gashed  and  wounded, 
Steeped  in  infamy  and  vice; 

On  the  wine-god's  altar  bleeding 
Lays  the  broken  sacrifice. 

All  along  our  country's  borders. 
From  across  the  briny  wave. 

Comes  one  wild,  deep  wail  of  anguish. 
Calling  upon  us  to  save. 

'Tis  the  cry  of  orphans  sobbing. 
Wild  with  agony  and  pain; 

And  the  widow's  wail  grows  wilder 
Over  every  victim  slain. 

Rise  to  crush  the  demon  monarch. 
Be  to  earth  his  scepter  Hung; 

Broken  be  his  cn)wn  which  glitters 
With  the  hearts  by  sorrow  wrung. 

Haste  to  gather  up  the  harvest. 
Let  no  sheaf  neglected  be. 

Till  as  reapers  home  returning. 
Ye  can  shout  mankind  is  free. 


*- 


LOCAT.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1001 


EDWIN   MOORE   BRYANT. 

Born:  Gai,veston,  Texas.  Nov.  27,  184.5. 

The  poems  of  Mr.  Rryant,  wliicli  number 
about  a  huii'Jred,  bave  appeared  in  tbe  Hous- 
ton Transcript,  Galveston  News, and  tlie  local 


EDWIN    MOOUK    BHVANT. 

papers  of  Texas  generally.  For  a  while  he 
was  a  sailor,  but  is  now  engaged  on  a  farm 
at  Corpus  Christi,  Texas. 


MOONLIGHT  OF  THE  WEST. 
In  the  silent  midnight. 

Watching  wci\k  and  weary. 
In  the  lonely  sick  room. 

All  was  dark  and  dreary. 
To  tbe  patient  watcher. 

Thus  deprived  of  rest. 
But  for  the  bright  moonlight. 

Of  our  lovely  west. 

Oh  indeed  'tis  cheering. 

All  is  briglit  as  day. 
As  tlie  silvery  moonbeams 

Kiss  our  lovely  bay. 
Shine  o'er  hills  and  vallej's, 

In  their  verdant  dress. 
Universal  comfort. 

Moonlight  of  the  west. 


Through  her  cloudy  canopy. 

Brightness  ever  bringing. 
While  the  murmuring  night  wind. 

Music  sweet  is  singing; 
Sad  a,nd  weary  mortals, 

With  their  cares  oppressed. 
Bless  tbe  silvery  moonlight, 

Moonlight  of  the  west. 

On  joy  and  sorrow  shining. 

Alike  on  bond  and  free. 
Upon  the  lonely  mariner. 

Tossed  on  the  stormy  sea. 
And  gives  the  lonely  traveler. 

Sweet  dreams  of  home  and  rest. 
Cheered  by  the  silver  moonlight 

Of  our  lovely  west. 

Oh  indeed  I  prize  it. 

And  wiien  1  shall  be 
From  eartldy  troubles  summoned 

To  dread  eternity. 
The  wind,  my  only  requiem. 

In  some  wild  grove  I'd  rest. 
Beneath  the  silvery  moonlight, 

Moonlight  of  the  west. 


A  LITTLE  PUAIRIE  FLOWER. 
Accept  my  winsome  friend  of  me. 

My  thanks  for  this  sweet  flower  — 
So  tyi)ical  of  youth,  and  thee. 


(Emblem  of  childhood's  hour 
No  costly  garden-bed,  I  ween. 

Could  give  it  greater  power; 
Unrivaled  on  its  native  green, 

A  simple  Prairie  flower. 


Plucked  from  the  prairie  everywhere, 

Ad<irne<l  with  crimson  liues. 
The  glorious  colors  that  compare 

With  art's  most  costly  views: 
No  hand  of  man  bestowed  on  them 

Simplicity  or  power  — 
Sweet  nature's  simplest  diadem. 

The  lovely  Prairie  flower. 

Soon  will  its  fragrance  fade  and  be 

With  life's  brief  season  o'er: 
But  may  1  liope  long  life  for  thee. 

To  gather  many  more  — 
And  may  swiH't  innocence  ;ind  truth 

Attend  your  latest  hour. 
Renewing  each  bright  charm  of  youtli. 

Sweet,  lovely  Prairie  flower. 


*- 


-* 


*- 


1002 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


REV.KIAH  B.  GLIDDEN. 

Born:  New  Castle,  Me.,  April  19, 1819. 
In  1857  Mr.  Gliddeu  decided  to  take  a  theolo- 
gical course  at  Bangor  Theological  Seminary, 
whicli  h»>  foinplptoil  in  1860.  and  was  ordained 

a    (■(.iiur'-ij:iiiun;il    iiiii!i>tfi  •     H'-   has  tilled 


REV.  KIAH  B.  GLIDDEN. 

pastorates  at  Westmoreland,  N.  H.,  Enfleld, 
Conn.,  Redding,  Conn.,  and  Mansfield  Center, 
Conn.  In  1884  Mr.  Glidden  was  a  member  of 
the  state  legislature.  He  has  contributed 
numerous  articles  of  literary,  religious  and 
historical  nature  to  the  periodical  press,  to- 
gether with  several  short  stories  which  have 
always  been  well  received.  He  was  married 
in  1842  to  Miss  Caroline  A.  Hitchcock,  by 
whom  he  has  several  children. 


AUTUMNAL  EMBLEMS. 

A  thousand  bright  and  pleasing  tints 

Adorn  the  autumn  painted  leaves, 
As  sparkle  stars  in  varied  glints  — 

Emblems  of  life's  ripened  sheaves; 
For  many  pure  and  shining  gems 

Of  love  adorn  our  earthly  way. 
And  shimmer  in  tlie  diadems 

Of  heaven's  bright  eternal  day. 

But  if  like  the  first  stricken  leaf. 
We  often  bear  the  Master's  rod, 

Know  we  well  tliat  all  our  grief 
Comes  from  a  loving,  gracious  God. 

He  tries  us  oidy  to  refine. 


As  roughly  taken  from  the  earth 
Lapidarians  cut  the  gems 
Before  the  owner  knows  their  worth. 

If  as  the  leaf  we  all  must  fade. 

If  strength  and  beauty  both  must  wane. 
Brighter  glory  shall  crown  each  head 

When  freed  from  sorrow,  care  and  pain, 
For  Autumn's  colors  rich  and  rare. 

Are  emblems  of  the  life  above. 
Where  every  soul  is  young  and  fair, 

And  every  thought  is  tinged  with  love. 

REV.  C.  P.  FLANDERS. 

Born  :  New  Hampshire,  Nov.  25, 1834. 
After  graduatingin  1861  Mr.  Flanders  spent 
some  years  in  teaching,  first  at  the  Spring- 
field Wesleyan  seminary  and  Female  college, 
and  afterward  at  Bellows  Falls:  then  at 
Passaic,  N.  J.,  and  finally  at  the  New  Hamp- 
shire Conference  seminary.  Rev.  C.  P. 
Flanders  has  been  preaching  since  1867  and 
is  now  pastor  at  North  Truro,  Mass.  He  was 
married  in  1864  to  Miss  Mary  M.  Barrows,  and 
has  three  children  living  now  grown  to 
maturity. 

THE  TWO  ARTISTS. 

A  famous  artist  day  by  day 
Wrought  carefully  and  patiently: 
Sometimes  in  hope,  sometimes  in  fear. 
He  wrouglit  for  many  a  weary  year. 
Till  on  a  canvas  blank  and  bare 
He  limned  a  face,  so  sweet,  so  fair. 
So  pure,  it  seemed  to  mortal  eyes 
A  visitant  from  Paradise. 
As  came  the  wise  men  from  afar 
To  Bethlehem,  led  by  a  star. 
To  see  the  Christ,  drawn  by  its  fame. 
So  men  to  see  this  picture  came: 
And  while  they  gazed,  upon  them  fell 
A  lioly  influence  like  a  spell. 

Another  artist  day  by  day 
Wrought  carefully  and  patiently. 
His  instruments  were  vi)ice  and  peu. 
And  generous  deeds;  iu  liope  and  fear 
He  wrought  for  many  a  weary  year. 
At  last  he  won  the  liearts  of  men. 
Through  him  the  wicked  changed  their  ways; 
From  i)rofaM(^  lips  rose  songs  of  praise: 
Doubt,  greed,  ;ind  envy  slirunk  away 
Like  snow  before  tlie  breath  of  May; 
And  Christian  graces  grew  like  fiowcrs 
Refreslied  by  summer's  genial  sliowers; 
And  all  around  fear  and  distress 
Gave  place  to  hope  and  hajipiness. 
These  men  were  gifted  ai'tists.    Well, 
Wliicii  was  the  greater,  who  can  tell? 


*- 


-* 


m- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMERICA. 


]()03 


-* 


REV.AMOSJUDSON  BAILEY. 

Born:  Chicago,  Ills.,  June  9, 1843. 
At  AN  early  ag-e  the  subject  of  this  sketcli 
removed  with  his  parents  to  Palatine,  wliero 
he  learned  telegraphy.  He  then  spent  Ave 
years  in  Wbeaton  College,  and  three  years  in 
the  Chicag-o  Theological  Seminary.    Mr.  Bai- 


REV.  AMOS  JUD80N   IJAILEY. 

ley  was  ordained  as  a  Congreg-ational  min- 
ister in  1871,  and  has  since  filled  pastorates 
at  Bloomingdale,  Union  Grove,  Hennepin, 
Waukeg-an,  Lalie  View,  Illinois;  and  at  Mon- 
roe, Wis.;  and  Og-den,  Utah,  where  he  is  at 
present  located.  The  Rev.  Amos  J.  Bailey 
has  been  eminently  successful  in  his  religious 
labors,  and  has  many  warm  friends  and  ad- 
mirers.   He  has  a  wife  and  several  cliildren. 


*- 


AN  ADDRESS  OF  WELCOME. 
Every  life  needs  some  refreshing 

From  the  springs  of  other  lives; 
And  to  eacli  there  comes  a  blessing. 

Who  another  soul  revives. 
True,  thn'  seeming  contradiction. 

Giving  most  is  getting  most; 
And  liy  facts  more  strange  than  fiction. 

Every  guest  may  jn-ove  a  host. 
Witli  the  jesting  and  the  laughter. 

Or  with  logic  grand  and  grave. 
As  with  wheels,  or  'neatli  church  rafter. 

Honest  he  who  prov(>s  a  knave. 
Tlie  fools  are  wi.sest  keeping  still. 

The  wise  by  silence  may  be  fools; 


Convictions  having,  conscience,  will. 
Use  who  can,  but  be  not  tools. 

On  the  Utah  field  of  battle. 

In  this  bivouac  of  life; 
Truth  must  be  for  cannon's  rattle. 

Love  the  hero  in  this  strife. 
Days  or  years  it  may  not  matter, 

Harvest  comes  where  seed  is  s(jwn. 
Other  harvests,  rich,  may  flutter; 

Patient  wait  —  as  rich  our  own. 
Wit  and  wisdom  —  let  them  mingle. 

Care  forgotten  by  to-day. 
Those  are  stnnigest  whose  hearts  tingle 

With  the  pleasure  of  the  way. 
Clieery  hearts  are  much  the  strongest,— 

And  the  work  demands  full  strength; 
Sunny  days  are  far  the  longest. 

Clouds  to-night  do  add  their  length. 
Of  thy  knowledge  liiing  the  gravest, 

Wiien  the  hour  to  bring  be  come, 
Of  thy  wisdom  if  thou  savest. 

Thou  has  made  e-xperience  dnmb. 
Harvest  hours  we  only  s„dden 

Wlien  we  pluck  the  bud  ere  blown ; 
Other  liearts  we  help  to  gladden 

By  the  sunshine  of  our  own. 
Bring  your  light  and  let  it  glisten. 

Bring  yinir  logic  and  your  lore; 
If  you  speak  of  if  you  listen. 

Welcome  to  this  council  floor. 


CLOSE  OF  AN  EASTER  SERMON. 
O  world  withdraw;  O  heaven  come  near; 

Decay  and  deatli  depart  forever. 
My  Lord  is  risen.    I  need  not  fear. 

No  death  from  me  my  Christ  can  sever. 
The  dust  of  earth  to  earth  may  f;ill 

As  leaves  that  on  tlie  trees  do  qtiiver; 
My  soul  shall  answer  to  God's  call. 

And  rise  again  to  meet  life's  Giver. 
New  life  in  Christ  my  soul  hath  found, 

A  life  no  cold  of  death  can  sliiver; 
Some  leaves  may  tremble  to  the  ground  — 

Life's  tree  grows  either  side  the  river. 
Tlie  liand  that  reached  my  soul  in  death, 

Reached  from  a  tlirone  forever  vernal; 
The  God  who  gives  the  body  l)reath. 

Gives  to  tlie  spirit  life  eternal. 
Tlie  grave  may  claim  its  little  clod. 

And  yet  to  die  is  no  disaster; 
We  rise  again  to  he  with  God 

Since  death  is  conquered  by  our  Master. 
O  death  to  .sin  !  O  life  in  Thee! 

O  freedom  from  sin's  power  and  prison ! 
'Tis  life  alone  in  Christ  to  be; 

With  Him  who  die,  with  Him  are  risen. 


-* 


*- 


1004 


m 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  FLORENCE  G.VARNEY. 

Born:  New  Sharon,  Me.,  March  5, 1854. 
After  graduating  from  the  Wendell  Insti- 
tute in  1874  Florence  continued  as  assistant 
in  the  same  school  until  her  marriage  in  1876 
to  Tli<)iuas  Varnej',  of   Windham,  Mu.,  where 


MRS.  FLORENCE  O.  VARNEY. 

she  now  resides  with  her  husband  and  fam- 
ily. Some  of  Mrs.  Florence  Varney's  unpub- 
lished Lullabies  have  been  set  to  music  by 
M.  B.  Sargent,a  well  known  music  composer. 


*- 


AN  EARLY  PICTURE. 
One  picture  sketched  by  Memory's  pea 
So  on  my  heart  has  grown. 
That  though  I  walk  the  ways  of  men 
I  see  this  path  alone  — 
It  crosses  o'er  a  sandy  stream 
Through  bridge  with  covered  dome, 
Until  it  leads  —  as  in  a  dream  — 
Up  to  my  early  home. 
No  stone  is  missing  from  the  wall 
Where  once  the  squirrel  frisked. 
Ready  I  answer  to  my  name 
By  baby  sister  lisped ! 
The  maples  by  the  picket  gate 
Are  standing  just  the  same; 
A  school  boy  iiasses  all  too  late 
To  answer  to  his  name. 
The  very  school-house;  where  the  girls, 
Or  boys  —  now  grown-up  men  — 
Rejoiced  to  pull  my  snarly  curls  — 
But  I  forgave  them  then. 


I  see  the  busy  swallow  search 

A  place  to  build  her  home. 

And  find  it  by  the  Belfried  church '. 

Too  soon,  alas,  she'll  roam  — 

For  merry  lads  and  lassies,  dare 

That  dizzy  height  to  climb; 

And  by  then-  careless  mirth,  to  scare 

This  bird  of  Summer  time. 

And  if  from  out  that  country  home 

Comes  no  familiar  form; 

Yet  clearly  on  my  heart  has  grown. 

The  place  where  I  was  born. 


DO  WE  FORGET? 
Although  the  winter  nights  are  long. 

And  hushed  the  sound  of  silver  stream; 
Do  we  forget  the  wild  bird's  song. 

Or  Summer  noon-time's  golden  gleam? 
'Though  long  the  path  from  youth  to  prime, 

And  seldom  blows  the  cardinal  flower; 
Do  we  forget  Love's  Summer-time 

Because  of  storms  or  passing  shower? 
Then  not  of  Lenten  eves  we'll  sing. 

While  slowlj'  grows  the  violet; 
Each  winter  brings  a  fragrant  Spring; 

Life's  Easter  comes?  Do  we  forget? 


WHEN  WILLOW-TKEES  BLOOM. 
A  memory  sweet  of  other  days 

Comes  back  with  the  willow-tree's  bloom; 
My  little  child  with  grown-up  ways 

Plays  agaui  in  my  silent  room. 
She  rocks  "kitty-willows"  to  sleep 

With  the  words  of  that  childish  tune, 
"  Praying  the  Lord  her  soul  to  keep  " 

Softlj-  sounds  her  motherly  croon. 
So  now  when  the  graceful  willows  bloom, 

I  remember  her  answered  prayer, 
I  whisper  low,  with  smiles,  "Ah  soon 

Sweet  child,  I  will  meet  you  up  there." 


SEVEN  TIMES  THREE. 
The  buttercups  glint  in  the  sunlight. 

Tall  daisies  sway  forward  andtro; 
The  mother-bird  croons  in  the  twilight 

A  lullaby  gentle  and  low. 
The  breath  of  the  clover  and  grasses 

Comes  sweet  on  tlie  breezes  of  June; 
A  school  boy  sings  as  lie  passes 

Tlie  first  line  of  an  olden  tune. 
Do  they  tell  us  the  roses  will  wither? 

The  nibin  forget  her  soft  nest? 
Cold  winds  sweep  up  from  the  river      [rest? 

On  whose  green   tianks  we   once  loved  to 
Each  season  hath  joy  in  its  dawning,— 

Tlie  dear  Lord  sendetli  to  each; 
And  the  hope  of  girlhood's  bright  morning 

Finds  in  womanhood  utterance  of  speech. 


* — 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMKKICA. 


Km 


REV.  JOHN  WAUGII. 

Born  :  Enoland,  Makch  ~1,  1814. 
This  g-entlcman  is  a  Presbyterian  niiiiistor 
and  resides  in  Cohocton,  N.  Y.     He  was  mar- 
ried in  1843  to  Miss  Charlotte  Kogers.    In  1888 
lie  published   a  volume  entitled    Messiah's 


i;i;v.  .loHN  WAUtiii. 
Mission,  a  similar  work  to  Paradise  Lost. 
The  poem  is  an  Epic  of  the  Savior's  mission 
and  deeds,  unique  in  its  desig-n  and  execu- 
tion. It  is  in  nine  boolss  and  exhibits  a 
wealth  of  erudition,  geological,  methologi- 
cal,  and  biblical  learning. 


*- 


ABODES     OF    WEAKNESS. 

FROM  MESSIAH'S   MISSION. 

The  air  is  tainted  as  we  pass  along 

With  fetid  odors  on  its  wings,  and  sounds 

As  from  Lazar-house  of  pain,  are  borne 

In  still  increasing  meaning  to  tlic  ear; 

As  near  at  liand  and  through  a  battered  door 

The  Abodes  of  Weakness  meet  the  half  closed 

ej'e; 
On  narrow  couches,  which  Indulgence  laid, 
The  victims  lie  in  utter  helplessness. 
Where  Vain  Regret,  Weak  Purpose  and  False 

Trust, 
Followed  by  Lying  Hope,  obsequeous  wait; 
Wliero  wakeful  Memory,  with  broken  vows. 
Offended  Right,  and  Conscience  stirred  to 

wrath. 
Glide  after  them,  executors  of  law. 
With  soft,  yet  steady  and  unfalt'ring  tread. 


Here  lie  tlie  former  heroes  of  the  world. 
The  men  of  might,  the  Anaks  of  their  age. 
The  mighty  hunters  of  renown  and  power. 
Whose  breath  was  empire;  whose  ambition 
gain;  [^«lf. 

Whose  motive,  pleasure;  and  who  worsliiped 
As  if  'twas  man's  sole  mission  in  the  world 
To  feed  his  senses,  pamper  every  lust. 
And  serve  all  other  deities  but  God. 

Here  sighs  arise— not  from  devotion's  search ; 
Here  tears  are  shed  —  not  from  repentance's 

pain ; 
Here  prayers  are  ofTcrcd— not  for  innocence; 
Laughter    is    liere  — but    not   of    conscious 

mirth;  [God; 

Thought  wanders  everywhere  — but  not  to 
Sorrow  is  here  — but  not  for  guiltiness; 
And  change  is  here  —  but  not  from  wrong  to 

right 
Made  hence  unchangeable  in  rectitude. 
Amid  the  gloom's  repulsiveness,  we  see 
Foreboding  shadows  bounding  every  life. 
Passing  from  couch  to  couch  of  woe-struck 

forms. 
The  eye  is  pained  by  what  it  would  not  view. 
Sons  of  the  morning  cast  to  deepest  night. 

Jubals  are  here,  who  can  no  longer  touch 
The  harp  or  organ  with  a  cunning  hand: 
Nimrods,  whocan  no  further  speed  the  chase 
Or  near  proud  Babels  on  wide  Shinar's  plain; 
Samsons,  whose  eyes  are  out,  and  cannot 

bring 
The  mocking  pillars  of  their  Dagon  down; 
Asahels,  whose  feet,  once  like  the  iKuinding 
Refuse  their  office,  weak  as  infancy;       [roe, 
Ahithophels,  in  counsel  .sought  as  gods. 
Neglected  lie  with  no  consulting  throng; 
The  Absaloms,  that  stole  the  hearts  of  pride. 
Receive  no  recognition  and  no  praise; 
Goliaths  mighty  once  in  Shocho's  vail.  • 
Rest  with  their  giant  sons  unmeet  for  war. 
Swords,  shields  ;ind  spears  and  breastplates 

cast  away  — 
Authority  is  here,  but  gives  no  sign 
Which  waiting  minions  understand  or  fear; 
And   Enteri)rise,    with    glowing    eyes,    now 
Finds  no  advent  urers  to  lieed  liis  call,    [dim, 
Ambitiot),  wearied  hiis  laid  down  his  roll. 
And  zeal,  and  courage,  baffled,  t-ink  to  i-est. 
Dim  are  those  eyes  once  set  upon  the  jirize; 
The  voluntary  nerves  are  quite  unstrung 
And  late  obedient  muscles  will  not  move; 
The    wills,    once   strong,  are  paralyzed    in 

power. 
And  what  was  will  not,  is  made  cannot  now! 
There  as  they  lie,  an  un.seen  hand  is  seen 
Inscribing  on  tlie  walls  portentously, 
..  Ye  sold  yourselves  for  nothing,  yet  the  pay 
Though  long  delayed,was  ever  sure  to  come." 
* 


*- 


1006 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


J.  MALCOLMSON   DUKES. 

Bokn:  Charleston,  S.  C,  Sept.  37, 1856. 
In  his   youth    Mr.  Dukes    studied  law  and 
was    elected    county   attorney   of    Bandera 
county.  Since  that  time  Mr.  Dukes  has  been 


J.   MALCOLMSON  DUKE'S 

principally  engaged  in  real  estate  and  mort- 
gage loaning.  He  has  written  more  than  a 
liundred  commendable  poems,  and  in  1885 
won  a  money  prize  from  the  dailies  of  Sau 
Antonio,  for  best  Carrier's  Address  in  verse. 
In  1888  he  was  married  to  Miss  Lula  Smith. 


*- 


THE  THANKSGIVING  LAY. 

To-day  I  shall  die ;  my  last  gobbling 

In  life  I  must  use  to  inveigh 

Ag.iinst  man. who 'too  long  has  been  hobbling 

Witli  death  and  destruction  our  way ! 

We  are  birds  of  great  worth  to  our  nation; 

Sliall  we  let  this  extinguisliment  last? 

We  are  needing  strict  class-legislation 

Or  must  soon  become  birds  of  the  past! 

To-day  is  the  Nation's  Thanksgiving, 

And  mankind  all  over  the  land 

Will  return,  for  the  blessings  of  living 

Their  praise  to  the  Bountiful  Hand. 

Tliey  are  gleefully  counting  their  blessings 

And  running  them  over  like  beads,— 

While  their  cooks  are  preparing  the  dressings 

For  the  day's  diabolical  deeds! 

The  Saint  in  his  closet  is  praying. 

His  eyes  scarcely  lifted  on  high; 

And  the  Sinner  at  church  is  a-saying 

His  prayers,  with  a  spurious  sigh; 

They  are  making  fine  show  to  be  grateful 


And  good  —  but  I  know  the  deep  sin 
of  their  hearts,  for  to-day  by  the  plateful 
They'll  devour  the  choice  of  my  kin ! 
I  have  seen  them — theliypocrites! — kneeling 
With  faces  all  unctuously  sad! 
But  I  know,  while  to  Heaven  appealing 
That  their  hearts  are  resolved  on  the  bad! 
For  from  President  down  to  poor  cobbler. 
While  dev(mtly  to  Heaven  thej-  pray. 
They've  but    bloodthirsty    thoughts  for  the 
They  ruthlessly  murder  to-day !        [gobbler 
They  beseech  that  the  choice  gifts  of  heaven 
Descend  like  a  dew  on  their  path 
And  fill  up  their  souls  with  sweet  leaven- 
But  mercy  not  one  of  them  hath! — 
For  after  they've  sent  up  a  good  pile 
Of  prayers,  they  will  cruellj-  tread- 
Each  one —  with  his  ax,  to  the  wood-pile 
And  chop  off  the  poor  turkey's  head  1 
Tliey  will  pray  an  eternal  prolonging 
Of  lives  much  more  harmful  tlianours; 
That  Heaven  preserve   them  from  roasting 
When  death  shall  determine  tlieir  powers- 
While  the  cooks  in  the  kitchens  are  seated 
In  houses  all  over  the  town 
To  see  that  the  ovens  are  heated 
And  the  turkeys  all  done  to  a  brown! 
Should  anhcathen  — desiring  dinner  — 
Devour  a  cliristian  or  two. 
He's  pronounced  a  most  damnable  sinner 
And  decried  for  his  criminal  gout! 
Yes !  they  hold  up  their  hands  in  great  horror 
At  the  deptli  of  the  cannibal's  sin. 
Yet  instantly  turn  round  and  Ijorrow 
His  taste  —  when  the  turkey's  brought  in ! 
They  ■will  all  against  Woodshed  and  killing 
Their  kind  most  indignantly  howl- 
But  when'  tis  the  turkey  in  question 
Commit  all  these  murders  so  fowl! 
And  wiU— with  liypocrisy  able! 
In  soft  sanctimonious  tones. 
Even  offer  a  grace  o'er  the  table 
At  wliich  they  are  crunching  our  bones! 
They  profess  to  subdue  every  passion, 
(And  probably  do  where  that  tends 
To  offer  no  check  to  >•  the  fashion," 
The  palate,  or  personal  ends.) 
They're  above  all  morality  murky, 
From  selfishness  utterly  free- 
Yet  should  they  want  turkey,  its  turkey  ! 
(Though  they  "never  .say  turkey'i""  tome!) 
Alas  that  such  people  are  living! 
That  turkeys  must  suffer  such  cross 
As  the  fraud  of  the  people's  Thanksgiving, 
Its  crime  and  its  cranberry  sauce! 
1  sigli  forthe  day  when  the  Nation- 
No  longer  as  heartless  as  stone- 
May  hold  its  Thanksgiving  oblation 
And  let  the  pooi-  turkey  alone! 
_ * 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


-* 


1007 


MRS.  LIZZIE  UNDERWOOD. 

Bokn:  FoiiT  Madison,  Iowa,  April  I,  1845. 
In  1873  iliis  lady  was  married  to  Rev.  I.  M. 
Underwood,  and  now  resides  at  Payton,  Va., 
with  lier  family.     Over  a  hundred  of  her  po- 


MRS.  LIZZIE  HARDING  UNDERWOOD. 

ems  have  been  published  —  some  in  music 
books  and  others  in  the  Religious  Telescope 
of  Dayton,  Ohio,  and  the  periodical  press  gen- 
erally. 

TO-DAY  AND  TO-MORROW. 

One  sweet  thought  comes  o'er  me  gently 
stealing. 

As  I  sit  alone; 
Thoughts  of  home  and  home's  bright  joys  re- 
vealing. 

Sorrow's  unknown. 

I'm  a  pilgrim  here;  my  days  are  fleeting  — 

Flying  swiftly  by. 
To-day  with  pain  or  pleasure  hearts  are  beat- 
ing. 

To-morrow  we  die. 

To-day  we  waste  our  time  and  talent  sighing 
O'er  joys  that's  past; 

To-miirrow  in  our  winding  sheet  be  lying  — 
Taste  joys  that  last. 

To-day  with  tireless  watch  we're  weeping 

O'er  our  silent  dead; 
To-morrow  friends  bend  o'er  us  sleeping. 
Weep  in  our  stead. 


To-day  with  friends  of  earth  we're  meeting. 
Meeting  but  to  p:irt; 

To-morrow  frleuds  in  heaven  be  greeting. 
Ever  licart  to  heart. 


AFTER. 

After  the  darkness,  cometh  the  light. 
After  the  shadows,  the  sunshine  bright. 

After  the  storm-cloud,  beautiful  calm. 
After  the  wounding,  the  healing  balm. 

After  the  sorrow,  pleasure's  adorn; 
After  the  weeping,  joy's  blessed  morn. 

After  the  false  one,  sweet  friendship  true; 
After  the  frost-king,  heaven's  own  dew. 
After  the  winter,  summer's  glad  hours, 
After  the  sharp  thorns,   love's  sweet 
flowers. 
After  the  river,  the  gate  of  gold, 

After  the  dying  —  the  bliss  untold. 
After  the  battle  —  vict'ry  will  come; 
After  the  death-sleep  —  waking  at  home ; 
After  the  parting,  meeting  above; 
After  tliat  meeting,  nothing  but  love. 


FRIENDSHIP'S  WREATH. 
Friendship  twines  a  wreath  for  thee, 

Beauteous  may  the  wreathing  be. 
Unsurpassed  in  Flora's  bowers. 

Humility's  sweet-hued  flowers  — 
Richly  dwell  in  thy  young  heart. 

Myrtle  (love)  a  generous  part. 
Adorn  thy  pathway  to  the  tomb. 

Nor  then  forget,  for  thee,  to  blcMim. 


*- 


WHY? 

Why  is  it  in  this  world  of  ours. 
Sunshine,  then  shade? 

Wliy  is  it  that  the  sweetest  flowers 
Bloom  but  to  fade? 

Why  is  it  that  the  best-h>ved  friends 

Meet  but  to  i>art? 
Wiiy  is  it  that  these  partings  here 

Pain  each  true  heart? 

Ah!  were  it  in  this  world  of  ours 

Sunshine  ever. 
If  earth's  fairest,  sweetest  flowers 

Faded  never; 

If  f lieudship's  closest,  fondest  ties 

Need  never  part ; 
Or  If  these  weary  partings  here 

Paln'd  not  the  heart ; 

Then  might  we  not  forget  and  stay, 

Content  with  this. 
And  by  our  lovely  dreams  of  c;irth 

Miss  perfect  blis-;. 


* 


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1008 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


LIZZIE  EVELYN  FLORENCE. 

Born:  Edom,  Texas,  Feb.  4, 1866. 

This  lady  received  her  education  at  the  Mills 
Point  High  School,  and  the  Baylor  Universi- 
ty at  Waco,  Texas.  She  has  written  ahout 
fifty  poems,  many  of  which  have  appeared  in 
the  Guardian,  of  Waco,  Texas;  Texas  Baptist 


LIZZIE  EVELYN  FLORENCE. 

and  Herald,  of  Dallas,  Texas;  Mills  Point 
Chronicle,  and  many  other  publications. 
Personally  Miss  Florence  is  very  petite,  with 
golden  brown  hair  and  dark  blue  eyes.  She 
is  now  residing  at  Grand  Salina,  Texas. 


CAN  THIS  BE  LIFE? 

This  ceaseless  struggle  from  day  to  day — 

This  striving  for  what  we  ne'er  attain; 

Watching  the  years  p:iss  slowly  away. 

And  bearing  a  heavy  weight  of  pain: 

Can  this  be  life? 

This  burial  of  fond  liopes,  once  bright  — 
This  i)lacing  of  all  things  sweet  away; 

This  bitterness,  far  darker  than  night  — 
This  bidding  farewell,  the  last  bright  ray: 
Can  this  be  life? 

Gazing  into  eyes  —  like  cornflower's,  blue; 
Finding  your  ideal  — your  king  'mongst 
men; 


The  dreaming  of  dreams  that  ne'er  prove 

true. 
And  winning  only  the"  might  have  been:" 
Can  tills  be  life? 

Watching  the  sun  go  down  in  the  west; 
Thinking  sad  thoughts  when  the  shadows 
fall; 
Growing  so  weary  —  longing  for  rest; 
Enduring  the  common  lot  of  all: 
Can  this  be  life? 

Fighting  a  battle  with  your  own  heart; 

Bearing  the  woe  of  a  woman's  lot; 
Striving,  so  bravely,  to  act  your  part. 

And  learning  to  ••  wait  and  murmur  not:" 
Can  this  be  life? 

O,  can  this  be  the  •>  fair  summer  day," 
That  the  poet  so  blindly  called  life? 

Tliis  sorrow  and  pain,  from  day  to  day, 
And  a  constant,  inward,  bitter  strife  — 
Can  this  be  life? 


THE  PURPOSE. 

Behold,  how  bare  are  the  bushes  to-day! 

With  no  hint  of  the  flowers  they  bore; 
Nothing  to  tell  how  gorgeous  and  gay 

Were  spring  time  roses,  in  days  of  yore. 

These  old,  brown  stems  —  how  little  they 
tell 

Of  days  that  are  gone.'days  that  were  fair; 
Of  the  flowers  that  I  loved  so  well. 

And  fragrance  that  once  ladened  the  air; 

Only  thorns—  where  once  the  roses  grew; 

Winter's  cold  instead  of  summer  rain; 
Chilling    winds  —  where    wooing  breezes 
blew; 

In  my  heart  ades'late  sense  of  pain: 

For  my  life  is  cold  and  bare  and  sere, 
And  filled  with  the  woe  of  winter's  blight: 

Nothing  is  left  of  the  old  dreams  dear. 
Or  of  the  old  days  l)eautiful  light. 

But  'tis  best  that  youth  passes  away 
After  one  lingering  moment's  bliss; 

That  night  speedily  follows  the  day. 
And  morn's  freshness,  at  evening,  I  miss; 

Best  tliat  spring-time  roses  do  not  last; 

For  death,  I  know,  must  come  to  us  all; 
And,  maybe,  with  life's  fragrance  all  past, 

I'll  not  mind  to  respond  to  the  call. 


*- 


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LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKK  A 


1()U9 


JOSEPH  LAY  STEVENS. 

Born:  Mapleton,  Minn.,  April  4,  1860. 
The  poems  of   Mr.  Stevens    liavo  received 

Iiublii-;itinii    in    the    inTiudiciil   ju'css.     He  is 


.JOSEPH   LAY   STEVENS. 

still  a  resideut  of  Mapleton,  where  he  is  en- 
gaged in  farming. 


LONGING  FOR  SUMMER. 
Ah  my  heart  is  full  of  longing. 
Longing  for  the  summer; 
For  the  sunshine  and  the  showers. 
For  the  green  leaves  and  the  flowers, 
Gladdening  all  the  fleeting  hours 
With  the  charm  to  them  belonging. 
Thoughts  of  tliese  come  o'er  me  thronging. 
Till  I'm  weary  with  the  longing. 

Longing  for  the  summer. 
Ah  my  heart  is  weary  wail  ing. 

Waiting  for  the  summei'; 
Blow  March  winds  witli  frantic  fury. 
Break  old  Winter's  icy  glory. 
Tell  (mce  more  the  old,  old  story. 
How  the  birds  again  are  mating. 
Merrily  their  homes  creating; 
Yes  I'm  weary  with  the  waiting. 

Waiting  for  the  summer. 
Ever  I  am  thinking,  dreaming. 

Dreaming  of  the  summer; 
Then  no  breezes  drear  and  biting. 
No  bleak  prairies  uninviting 
With  the  gray  of  winters  blighting, 
I   But  the  joy  of  song  is  beaming 


On  the  face  of  nature,  .seeming 
All  to  me  but  dreaming. 

Dreaming  of  the  summer. 
Why  should  I  be  thus  repining 

For  the  days  of  summer';' 
Even  now  the  sk.\  grows  lii'igliter, 
Day  by  day  the  snows  are  lighter, 
And  the  winding  river's  wliiter; 
Now  the  sun  is  undermining 
All  the  landscape's  winter  lining. 
Yet  I  cannot  help  repining 

For  the  days  of  sunnner. 


HAPPY  NEW  YEAR. 
With  the  dawn  we  give  the  greeting, 

Happy  New  Vear! 
With  the  old  year  yet  retreating, 

Happy  New  Year  I 
Laughing,  sliouting,  each  one  trying 
First  to  give  and  last  replying. 
Mingled  with  the  old  year's  dying, 

Happy  New  Yearl 
Dear  old  homes  to-day  united, 

Happy  New  Year! 
Kindred  love  to-day  requited, 

Happy  New  Year ! 
Enemies  to-day  forgiving. 
Prodigals  to-day  returning. 
Hearts  for  love  and  home  are  yearning, 

Happy  New  Year! 
Bring  ns  hope  and  peace  and  gladness, 

Happy  New  Year! 
Banish  pain  and  care  and  sadness, 

Happy  New  Year! 
Let  once  more  a  firm  endeavor 
Turn  our  waj's  from  evil  ever. 
All  the  world  a  leaf  turn  over, 

Happy  New  Year! 

SPRING. 
Oh  joyous  Spring!  wlien  fleeting  clouds  and 

silver  rain 
Bring   back   green    leaves  and  flow'rs  and 

wake  the  birds  again. 
When  echoes  .sound,  and  bursting  buds  i>er- 

fume  the  air,  [midnight  fair; 

When  dews  are  on  and  motmlight  makes  the 
Oh  time  of  promise!  scattered  seeds  in  fur- 
rows lie.  [on  high. 
We  plow,  we  sow.  then  wait  and  trust  in  Him 
Oh  quiet  wood!  oh  varieil  landscape,  fen  and 

field ! 
What  charms  are  there,  what  sweet  delights 

their  haunts  do  yield! 
There   on    the    hillside  feed  the  meek -eyed 

cows  and  sheep,  [keep 

And  in   the  valley   by,  the   frogs  in  chorus 
Tiieir  revels  In  the  nijiht,  undaunted  by  the 

howl  [the  owl. 

Of  some  lone  cur,  or  startling  challenge  of 


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-•£ 


*- 


1010 


LOCAT.  AND  NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


CHARLES  H.SCHROEDER. 

Born:  Boeuf  Creek,  Mo.,  March  16, 1858. 
After  studying-  the  normal  course  at  the 
University  of  Missouri  for  thi-ee  years, 
Charles  first  taujilit  at  New  Haven  in  1884  as 
principal,  and  later  at  Augusta,  :M(i.,  fur  four 


CHARLES   H.  SCIIROEDF.R. 

years,  and  has  since  been  principal  of  vari- 
ous schools.  He  is  the  author  of  a  pastoral 
tale  entitled  Enos  and  Aurelia.  Mr.  Schroe- 
der  can  compose  in  German  as  well  as  in 
English,  and  his  poems  have  appeared  in  the 
leading  publications  of  his  state.  He  was 
married  in  1885  to  Miss  Delphine  Kenish,  and 
now  has  two  children —Blanche  and  Kalph. 

THE  EVERLASTING  MONUMENT. 

To  make  a  monument  that  lasts  for  aye. 
Brush  but  the  dust  of  selflsliiiess  away, 
Remove  the  sod  of  avarice  and  gain. 
And  all  the  clods  of  envy  cut  in  twain; 
Through  discontent's  deep  loam,  with  busy 
liand,  [black  sand; 

Now   clear  a  way,  .and  dig  through    hate's 
The  flinty  rock  of  m.alicc  cleave  in  two: 
And  see!  love's  pure,  white   marble  shim- 
mers tlu-ough. 
With  noble  deeds  now  ornament  tliis  bright, 
And  many  !i  picture  on  this  marble  write: 
First  sketch  with    precepts    on   its  surface 

raw. 
Then  with  good  actions  deeply  in  it  draw. 
And  witli  love's  chisel  deeply  in  it  hew: 
This  moiuiment  will  keep  forever  new. 


SONNET  TO  J.  G.  WHITTIER. 
The  clover  and  the  hazel-blossoms  long 
Had  slept,  lulled  into  sleep  by  cries  and  yells 
Of  our  poetic  Indians  in  the  dells 
And  fields  of  pastoral  and  lyric  song; 
But  when  thou,  Whittier,  wert  born  among 
The   hills    of   Massachusetts,    there   where 

dwells 
The  odor  of  the  new-mown  hay  'round  wells 
That,   each  one,  sing  "Maud  MuUer"  in  a 

tongue 
Which  taught  thy  lyre  the  accent  of  the  sky — 
Lo!  then  each  clover  and  each  hazel-bloom, 
A  princess,  spell-bound,  wooed  by  the  right 

groom. 
In  the  right  way,  did  ope  its  tiny  eye 
To  listen  to  that  sweet,  melodious  thrill. 
That  freedom's  land  with    freedom's   song 

should  fill. 


TO  DELPHINE. 
Since  I  have   seen  thee,   beauty's  favorite 

mold 
Seems  blushing  when  compared   with   thy 
mild  beaming-,  Lstreaming 

While  from  thy  limbs  mute  harmony  is 
Into  my  pleased  eye,  all  the  rest  seems  cold 
And  trite,  like  stories    that  have  oft  been 

told: 
But  thou  the  kernel  of  the  world  art  seeming, 
With  all  the  universe  around  thee  teeming. 
Like  ornaments  or  a  mere  shell  to  hold 
Thee,  essence,  core,  and  soul  of  all  emotion: 
Thus  stand  the  servants,  eager  for  employ- 
ment. 
Around  their  queen  in  vigilant  devotion  — 
Not  thinking  of  their  own,  but  her  enjoy- 
ment; 
And  thus  the  stars  stand  round  tlie  sun  in 

duty. 
To  be  eclipsed,  and  thus  augment  liis  beauty. 

SONNET  ON  SHAKESPEARE. 
When  Sliakespeare  stepped    forth    into  na- 
ture's light. 
She  smiled  to  see  witliin  liis  nature  shine, 
Like  in  a  mirror,  ground  and  polished  tine. 
Her  form  with  all  its  shapes  depicted  biijrlit; 
And  proud,  she  bade  him  of  her  beaut  y  write; 
Dictated  word  for  word,  till  every  line 
llore  of  her  glowing  form  a  glowing  sign; 
Tlien  did  she  doom  him  to  the  grave's  dark 

night: 
Tlius  llings  the  .Irtist,  when  liis  work  is  done, 
His  negative  into  some  darkling-  chest; 
Tims,  too,   the    warrior,  when    tlio  battle's 

won, 
Ifesigns  his  sword  and  stei'd  to  endless  rest; 
And  thus  the  sun  dries  up  the  friendly  lake. 
In  which  so  oft  he  saw  his  imago  shake. 


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LOCAT,    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1011 


DEXTER  SMITH. 

Born  Salem,  Mass.,  1842. 

More  than  one  thousand  poems  from  tlio 
pen  of  this  poet  have  been  set  to  music, 
some  of  wliich  songs  have  attained  circuhi- 
tions  running  well  into  millions  of  copies, 
notably  the  lyrics:    Ring  the    Bell    Softly, 


DEXTEK  SMITH. 

There's  Crape  on  the  Door,  Cross  and  Crown, 
Put  me  in  my  Little  Bed,  Darling  Minnie 
Lee,  and  others.  Dexter  Smith  is  essentially 
the  poet  of  the  people  — of  the  heart  and 
home.  Ring  the  Bell  Softly  has  been  trans- 
lated into  several  foreign  languages.  Since 
1865  Dexter  Smith  has  edited  continuously 
various  musical  journals,  among  them  the 
Orpheus  and  the  Boston  Musical  Record, 
which  he  now  conducts.  A  volume  of  his 
poems  appeared  in  1867.  He  has  also  been 
successful  in  his  writing  plays,  Zanita  being 
performed  for  nearly  three  months  at  the 
Boston  theater.  The  titles  alone  of  Dexter 
Smith's  writings  fill  twelve  large  pages  in  the 
catalogue  of  the  British  Museum  in  London. 


BROKEN  THREADS. 
As  the  shuttle  swiftly  flies 
Back  and  forth  before  our  eyes. 
Blending  with  its  fingers  light. 
Warp  and  woof,  till  they  unite 
In  a  fabric  good  and  strong. 
Let  us  hear  the  weaver's  song:- 


Weaving  ever  day  by  day. 
As  the  sliuttles  briskly  play. 
Broken  threads  how  oft  annoy. 
And  our  precious  time  employ; 
Warning  us  by  sharp  reproof, 
We  must  watcli  the  warp  and  woof. 
Weaving  in  life's  busy  loom. 
Mingling  sunshine  with  the  gloom,— 
Warp  and  woof  of  deeds  wc  blend 
Till  life's  fabric  has  an  end;— 
iJroken  threads  we  often  find 
Burdening  the  noble  mind. 
Broken  threads  in  life  abound. 
In  each  station  are  they  found; 
May  Faith's  kind  and  friendly  hand 
Help  us  to  adjust  the  strand. 
That,  when  life's  last  tide  shall  ebb. 
There  shall  be  a  perfect  web. 


BABY'S  GONE  TO  SLEEP. 
There's  a  pair  of  little  hands 

Laid  to  rest  forever  more, 
.\nd  two  pearly,  dimpled  cheeks. 

Whose  rich  blossoming  is  o'er. 
Death  has  sealed  two  little  eyes 

That  will  no  more  smile  nor  weep,— 
Tiny  windows  of  the  soul;— 

Little  baby's  gone  to  sleep. 
There's  another  bud  removed. 

Ere  it  felt  the  blight  of  sin ; 
Through  the  door  the  angels  made. 

Darling  baby  has  passed  in. 
Far  beyond  the  azure  skies 

Where  the  tiny  star-eyes  peep. 
From  all  earth's  sad  doubts  and  fears. 

Little  baby's  gone  to  sleep. 
She  will  wake  in  fairer  land 

Where  the  angel  voices  sing. 
There  the  tiow'ret  will  expatid  — 

There  shall  love  perfection  bring: 
She  has  reached  the  golden  shore. 

Through  the  river  cold  and  deep; 
Angels  bore  her  safely  there; 

Baby's  only  gone  to  sleep. 


SUMMER  SONGS. 
On  rosy  wings  the  Sununer  comes, 

.A  gleeful  creature  young  and  fair. 
While  by  lier  side  the  wild  bee  hums, 

.■\ud  cherry-blossoms  deck  her  hair. 
The  blue-bird  echoes  her  sweet  voice. 

The  clover  nods  her  path  along. 
While  all  in  life  with  lier  rejoice, 

Wliose  step  is  music  —  %-oice  is  song. 
O  Summer!  slowlj-  pass  the  hours 

Before  thy  silv'ry  voice  is  mute; 
And  teach  my  heart, with  thy  bright  tiowers 

To  wait  for  life's  autumnal  fruit. 


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1012 


LOCAL   AKD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


FRANCIS     M.    BEHYMER. 

Born  :  Browning,  III.,  Nov.  21, 1858. 
Living  in  his  nativestute  until  his  nineteenth 
year,Francis  then  emigrated  with  his  parents 
to  Missouri  and  then  to  Arkansas  in  1877. 
Since  then  he  has  traveled  in  many  of  the 


FRANCIS  M.  BEHYMER. 

western  states,  and  has  lived  in  Little  Rock 
for  nine  years.  He  is  a  fair  artist  in  crayon, 
water  color  and  oil,  and  intends  to  make  that 
his  profession,  although  he  is  at  present  en- 
gaged as  a  contractor  and  builder. 

OCTOBER. 
The  brilliant  crown  of  all  the  year, 
October's  golden  month  in  here. 

Uncounted  riches  bearing. 
Nature  her  storehouse  opens  wide. 
And  calls  October  to  her  side. 

For  her  rich  gifts  preparing. 

Abroad  she  comes  o'er  all  the  land. 
And  scatters  with  a  lavish  liand 

Kind  nature's  hoarded  treasure. 
She  spreads  her  table  in  the  fields, 
Laden  witli  all  her  bounty  yields 

In  unexhausted  measure. 

The  earth  in  holiday  attire. 
With  forests  flaming  red  as  flre. 

Or  golden,  brown  and  yellow. 
The  mountain  tops  seem  all  ablaze. 
While  struggles  through  tlie  purple  haze 

The  sunshine  soft  and  mellow. 


In  stubble  fields  the  quail  is  heard. 
The  hardy,  self-reliant  bird. 

His  mate  is  loudly  calling 
The  cricket  chirps  his  notes  so  shrill. 
The  jaybird  screams  upon  the  hill. 

While  autumn  leaves  are  falling. 

The  aster  and  the  golden-rod. 

And  yellow  sunflowers  bow  and  nod. 

The  last  of  summer  flowers. 
The  odor-laden  southern  breeze. 
Is  gently  stirring,  and  the  trees 

Send  down  their  golden  showers. 

The  crow  sits  cawing  in  his  tree. 
Gone  are  the  butterfly  and  bee. 

The  summer's  slowly  dying. 
While  mirrored  in  the  placid  lake. 
The  trees  and  rocks  their  shadows  make, 

Witliin  it  'oosom  lying. 

Jack  Frost  has  come,  the  nights  are  cold. 
And  nuts  and  acorns  loose  their  hold. 

Which  are  the  squirrels  treasures. 
And  many  a  hollow  tree  is  stored. 
While  busy  with  their  winter's  board. 

To  watch  them  is  a  pleasure. 

The  farmer  gathers  in  his  grain. 
Before  the  cold  November  rain. 

Proclaims  the  summer  perished. 
Until  the  springtime  comes  again. 
Of  summer's  joys  their  will  remain 

But  memories  fondly  cherished. 

And  when  our  lives  reach  the  decline. 
And  conies  the  golden  harvest  time. 

May  good  deeds  be  recorded. 
Then  as  we  near  its  setting  sun. 
We'll  hear  the  Master  say,  ••  well  done," 

And  we  shall  be  remembered. 


ATLANTIS. 

»:xTRArT. 
was    young    and 


Rome  un- 


When    Greece 

thought  of  yet. 
Beyond  those  pillars  in  the  farthest  west. 
Where  broad  Atlantic's  swelling  billows  roll. 
An  island  lay  within  the  ocean's  breast. 

This  island  to  the  world  was  little  known. 
Except  by  dim  tradition's  stories  told, 
Phoenician  niiirineis  had  seen  its  shores 
While  voyaging  to  Africa  for  gold. 

'Twas  here  the  Atlantides  dwelt  so  remote. 
And  waged  their  distant  wars  with  ancient 

Greece; 
They  built  strong  cities,  sailed  the  stormy 

main. 
And  understood  the  arts  of  w.-ir  and  iieace. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL  POKTS  OF   AMERICA. 


1018 


MARY  STICKNEY  HUSE. 

Boun:  Damakiscotta,  Me..  Jan.  23, 18.58. 
Since  the  age  of  seventeen   Miss  Huse  has 
taught  school:  for  two  years  in  a  Kinder- 
garten school   at  St.  Paul,  and  now  in  the 


« 


MARY  STICKNEY  HUSE. 

primary  department  at  Princeton,  Mitin. 
Her  poems  liave  appeared  in  tlie  Portland 
Transcript,  Princeton  Union,  Minneapolis 
School  Education,  Chicago  Ledger  and  the 
local  press. 

A  MESSAGE. 
Tumble,  cascade, 
And  toss  thy  spray. 
Tinted  with  gold  by  the  sun's  last  ra}' 
Over  my  blue-eyed  maid! 
Murmur  the  song 
My  heart  doth  tell 
Over  and  over 
•'I  love  thee  well!  " 

Warble,  sweet  wren. 
And  merrily  soar 
On  the  ocean  of  ether  a  melody  pour, 
Till  my  loved  one  lists  again 
To  the  wavelets  of  sound 
As  they  rise  and  swell. 
Fraught  with  tlie  burden 
"I  love  thee  well!  " 

Fly,  fleet  breeze 
With  the  wings  of  air. 


On  thy  perfutned  breath  this  message  bear, 
And  repeat  'neath  the  list'ning  trees 
Till  the  grim  gray  rocks 
Shall  receive  the  spell 
And  resound  with  the  echo 
"I  love  thee  well!  " 

.  Nature  rejoice! 
Let  tliy  songsters  raise 
A  hymn  of  triumphant,  resounding  praise; 
Li.st,  away  o'er  the  meadows  a  voice 
Like  the  faint,  sweet  tones 
Of  a  crystal  bell  — 
'Tis  the  voice  of  my  loved  one, 
'■  I  love  thee  well!  " 


KEST. 
On  the  bosom  of  the  prairie  where  nature's 

verdant  dress 
Is  touched  by  passing  breezes  with  asoft  and 

sweet  caress. 
Lies  a  little  silver    lakelet  in  an  emerald 

frame  enshrined ; 
Tis   the    resting    place    of     waters    which 

through  meads  have  ceased  to  wind. 

A  drop  of  liquid  crystal,  it  rests  ui)on  the 
green. 

Reflecting  heaven's  :izure  with  its  ever- 
changing  scene. 

Till  in  its  depths  of  brightness  a  mimic  sky 
we  meet. 

One  "Arch  Triumphal  "  o'er  our  heads,  an- 
other 'neath  our  feet. 

Full  many  little  streamlets  have  wandoreil 
far  and  wide. 

Refreshing  wood  and  meadow  with  a  cooling 
crystal  tide. 

And  flowing  ever  onward  till  at  last  all  toil- 
ing o'er. 

They've  met  in  peaceful  union  here  to  dwell 
forevermore. 

Thus  must  we  — Earth's  Itum.-in  streams- 
be  ever  moving  on. 

Never  ceasing  in  our  labors  till  at  last  our 
journey's  done. 

We  shall  hear  the  ••  Ma.ster's  accents  in  the 
regions  of  the  ble.st, 

"  Well  dotie,  thou  g<K)d  And  faithful,  enter 
into  i>erfect  rest." 


EXTRACT. 
I  would  find  thee  fairy  queen: 
Dreamest  thou  thine  azure  sliecn 
May  conceal  beneath  its  fold 
Blusliing  dii'ek  and  hair  of  gold? 
Nature's  briglitest,  fairest  dame, 
I  would  And  and  fltiding  claim. 
Fairy  queen. 


-* 


*- 


1014 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKRICA. 


MRS.  LIZZIE  DAVIS  FIELDER 

Born:  Wytheville,  Va.,  Jan.  20,  1866. 
From  an  early  age  this  lady  has  contributed 
both  prose  and  verse  to  the  periodical  press, 
including  the  Courier  Journal,  Franli  Les- 


*■ 


MRS.   IAZ7.1K    DAVIS    KIKMUCH. 

lie's,  Nashville  Christian  Advocate  and  the 
Southern  Methodist  Review.  She  was  mar- 
ried in  1884  to  Rev.  B.  W.  Fielder,  pastor  of 
the  Methodist  church  at  Monroe  City,  Mo., 
and  now  has  two  cliildren. 

NOVEMBER. 

Now  stays  the  steps  of  the  departing'  year, 
A  rest-place  in  its  swift  and  noiseless  flight; 
As  if  she  paused  a  moment  here  in  fear 
Of  early  breaking-  Winter's  sluml)ers  white. 
Soft  fell  her  steps  as  liglit  as  blossoms  sweet 
From  flowering- trees;  and  April   tears  too 

soon 
Were  dried  away  in  smih>s  where  roses  meet 
Their  scarlet  lips  beneath  the  skies  of  June. 
And  now  the  skies  late  veiled  with  g-olden 
haze  [they  bear. 

Grow  dull   and  gray  with  weight  of  snows 
And  leaves  wliose  falling:  filled  the  Autumn 
days  [air. 

With  music,  whirl  like  snowbirds  thro'  the 
November's chillingr  rainfall  blows  and  beats 
Upon  the  birdling:'s  empty  nest  to-day; 
The  clinging-  leaves  that  hid  their  snug- re- 
treat, 
Unpitying  winds  tear  off  and  bear  away. 


A  sudden  gust    of    snowflakes  fleck    with 
white  [bare: 

The  sodden  earth  now  grown  so  bleak  and 
And  then  upon  November's  blank  we  write 
The  first  sweet  lines  of  Winter's  poem  fair. 


HELP  ME  TO  WAIT. 
Help  me  to  wait  Thy  time,  O  blessed  Father! 
It  may  be  long  but  1  would  patient  be, 
Until  Thy  will  be  done  and  there  be  opened 
The  doors  of  love,  and  joy,  and  light  to  me. 
I  wait  for  things  that  might  have  been,  but 

were  not; 
For  holier  joys  than  yet  tliis  hearth  hath 
known ;  [waiting. 

They  are  my  own  by  right  of  prayer  and 
And  in  God's  time  1  yet  shall  claim  nij-  own. 
Help  me  to  wait,  my  prayers  are  not  un- 
heeded. 
The  wordless  cry  which  goeth  up  to  Thee 
Shall  answer  bring  in  all  the  blessing  needed. 
If  I  but  wait  Thy  time  and  patient  be. 
1  wait  to  look  on  lialf-forgotten  faces, 
To  hold  the  lost  ones  to  my  heart  again. 
To  clasp  their  hands,  to  hear  their  voice  in 

gi-eeting. 
And  all  the  years  have  taken  to  reclaim. 
Thy  better  day !  Help  me  to  wait  its  coming. 
When  all  these  yearnings  shall  be  satisfied; 
When  once  again  with  loved  ones  reunited, 
1  shall  forever  linger  at  Tliy  side. 


HE  WALKS  WITH  US. 

He  walks  with  us,  altho'  to  eyes  beclouded 

LTnseen,  'mid  cares  that  throng  life's  narrow 
space. 

Apart  we  walk,  in  selfish  grief  enshrouded. 

And  in  the  work  with  which  our  days  are 
crowded. 

Unrecognized,  we  look  upon  His  face. 

He  walks  with  us,  though  'mid  the  din  un- 
heeded 

His  patient  footsteps  fall  beside  our  own. 

Unknown  we  take  the  good  for  wliich  we 
pleaded  [ness  needed. 

Thankless,  receive  the  strengtb  our  weak- 

And  weep  that  we  have  borne  so  nuich  alone! 

He  walks  with  us,  too  oft  tlie  stranger  goinj; 

Unbidden,  as  he  first  unbidden  came. 

And  wlien  the  lieart  is  sometimes  strangely 
glowing 

With  holy  fire,  we  wt)nder  never  knowing 

The  stranger  voice  tliat  fatuied  tlie  heavenly 
flame. 

Walk  witb  us  still!  for  ofl  we  journey  sadly; 

We  need  Thy  presence  all  the  way  upon. 

Talk  witli  us  too,  fen-  while  we  listen  gladly. 

Our  sorrows  melt  like  night  before  the  dawn! 


*- 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1015 


* 


REV.  JACOB  FLOOR. 

Born:  England,  April  18, 185.5. 

Graduating  in  1877  this  geutlemaii  ■was 
married  the  year  following  to  Miss  Ruth 
Parker,  and  now  has  a  family  of  five  children. 
In  1883  lie  emigrated  to  America,  and  lias 


REV.  JACCB  FLOOR. 

filled  pastorates  in  the  Congregational  church 
at  New  Haven,  Mich.,  Atlanta,  Ga.,  Cam- 
bridge, 111.,  and  Indianola,  Neb.,  where  be  is 
at  present  officiating. 


*- 


BLEST  STAR  DIVINE. 
Blest  star  divine  I  so  sweet  and  bright. 

Shine  on  the  nations  thy  pure  ligiit : 
Let  all  mankind  thy  glory  sec. 

And  sinful  hearts  be  drawn  to  thee. 

In  thy  majestic  orb  rise  high. 
And  reacli  the  zenith  of  thy  sky; 

Chase  sin,  and  want,  and  pain  away; 
Bring  iu  tlie  •'  Everlasting  Day." 

Into  our  hearts  tliy  influence  jiour; 

Inspire  us  all  to  love  thee  more; 
Transform  us  by  thy  power  divine. 

And  let  each  soul  be  wholly  thine. 


REV.  JOSEPH  RICIvER. 

Born:  Parsonsfield,  Me.,  June  :i7,  1814. 

This  gentleman  is  a  graduate  of  the  Colby 
University,  and  h;is  been  a  minister  of  the 
gospel  for  fifty  years.  Mr.  Ricker  was  editor 
of  Zion's  Advocate,  Portland,  Me.,  for  nearly 
five  years.  In  1868  he  was  made  Doctor  of 
Divinity  by  Colby  University,  and  has  been 
trustee  of  that  college  since  1849.  Kicker 
Classical  Institute  of  Houlton,  Me.,  was  so 
named  by  legislative  enactment  because  of 
the  aid  Rev.  Joseph  Ricker  liad  given  it  and 
done  for  that  institution. 


POWER  OF  SOLITUDE. 

Lone  Solitude!  how  awful  is  her  form 
When  gliding  o'er  the  heath,  or  moaning  in 

the  storm. 
Or  bending  from  the  cliff  at  dawn  of  day. 
To  weave  her  toilet  in  the  mountain  spray  1 
Hut  would  you    know  her    soul-subduing 

power. 
Go  tread  the  streets  where  hoary  ruins  lower. 
See  here  a  temple,  there  a  marble  dome, 
SVhere  night  birds  flit  and  beasts  of  prey  do 

roam; 
'Neath  broken  arches  grope  your  lonely  way. 
And  in  the  vacant  square  prolong  your  stay; 

W'ith  wondering  eye  and  palpitating  heart, 
Survej-  the  proudest  works  of  ancient  art. 
The  crumbling  buttress  and  the  frescoed  wall 
The  blackened  tower  just  nodding  to  its  fall, 
The  ruined  moat,  the  moss-clad  colonnade. 
The  gateway  frowning  in  the  musky  shade. 
The  oak  and  hawthorn  o'er  the   threshold 

sprung. 
The  crazy  casement  from  its  hinges  flung, 
Tlie  fern  and  bramble  swaying  in  the  breeze. 
And  night's  lone  spirit  sighing  through  the 

trees. 

Bethink  you  of  the  men  who  reared  those 

piles, 
Who  breathed  this  air  and  trod  these  dusky 

aisles; 
Bethink  you  of  the  surging  tide  of  life 
That  filled  these  streets  and  lanes  with  busy 

strife 
Long  time  ago,  in  palmy  days  of  yore,— 
Now  .still  as  death  I  — now  trod  by  men  no 

more. 
Bethink  you,  while  the  wild  flowers  'round 

you  wave. 
You  stand  alone  upon  a  city's  grave! 
This  do,  and  sure  you  cannot  lack  the  mood 
To  feel  the  weird-like  power  of  Solitude. 


-* 


*- 


1016 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF    AMERICA. 


MRS.  MARIAM  J.BREHM. 

Born:  Hindsbukgh,  N.  Y.,  Sept.  6,  1845. 
In  ISVS  this  lady  was  married  to  G.  W.  Brehm, 
an  attorney  of  prominence  who  has  been 
mayor  of  his  city.    The  poems  of  Mrs.  Brehm 
have   appeared   in  the  MidiUeldwii   &i?ns  of 


MRS.  MAKIAM  J.  BUEHM. 

the  Times,  Ohio  Democrat,  and  the  religious 
and  secular  press  generally.  Mrs.  Brehm 
has  a  family  of  several  children. 

BEE'S  SOLILOQUY. 
I  am  a  busy  lioney  bee. 

Culling  sweets  from  flower  and  clover; 
Then  homeward  fly  laden  with  my  fee, 

Searching  yards  and  fields  all  over. 
Perhaps  some  child  attempts  to  catch. 

And  tightly  hold  me  in  their  hand; 
Soon  learn  they  have  more  than  their  match, 

Such  ill  treatment  1  will  not  stand. 
To  protect  myself  T  go  armed. 

But  seldom  sting  unless  abused; 
Wlien  unmolested  none  are  liarmed. 

My  honeyed  toil  is  ne'er  refused. 
Buzz  — buzz  —  all  day  T  lively  work. 

Thus  'tis  said  "  busy  as  a  bee;" 
Our  hives  don't  liavbor  drones  to  shirk. 

Bo  up  and  doing  —  work  like  me! 
I  can't,  a  little  bird  replies, 

1  can't,  I  hear  some  people  say; 
Buzz!  the  humming-bird  gently  cries. 
Learn  to  labor  while  it  is  day! 


REV.  JOHN  OTIS  BARROWS. 

Bobn:  Mansfield,  Conn.,  Aug.  4, 18.33. 

This  minister  and  poet  worked  his  way 
through  college  and  seminary,  graduating 
from  Amherst  College  in  1860,  and  from  An- 
dover  Theological  Seminary  in  1863.  After 
laboring  six  years  in  North  Hampton  and  in 
Exeter,  N.  H.,  Mr  Barrows  resigned  and 
entered  upon  foreign  missionary  work  in 
Western  Turkey,  and  for  nearly  eleven  years 
labored  there.  He  then  returned  with  his 
family  to  America,  and  has  since  held  past- 
orates in  Atkinson,  N.  H..  and  Newington, 
where  he  is  now  located.  He  is  the  author 
of  On  Horseback  in  Cappadocia,  which  has 
had  a  very  large  sale.  Mr.  Barrows  is  the 
author  of  numerous  popular  hymns  and 
poems  that  have  been  a  valuable  addition  to 
current  literature.  He  was  married  in  1864 
to  Miss  Clara  Storrs  Freeman,  and  has  a 
family  of  live  children  grown  to  maturity. 


THE  KISS  I  WOULD  NOT  GIVE. 
'Twas  one  of  summer's  brighest  days. 
When  coming  eager  from  my  plays. 
My  sister  called  me  to  her  side ; 
Within  her  hand  I  quick  espied 
My  little  trousers,  finished  quite. 
Of  checkered  blue,  and  buttons  bright. 
All  ready  sure  for  me  to  wear. 
I  instant  stood  before  her  chair. 
With  outstretched  hand  to  take  the  prize. 
When  in  her  large,  blue,  loving  eyes, 
I  saw  a  tear;  her  cheek  it  wet. 
As  she  began,  .■  My  little  pet, 
I'm  very  glad  to  make  you  these. 
And  now  a  kiss;  oh,  won't  you,  please?" 
But  for  that  I  would  not  stay  — 
The  trousers  seized  and  ran  away. 

Two  months  had  passed,  and  autumns  sua 

Much  earlier  set,  as  day  was  done: 

And  when  the  leaves  began  to  fall, 

A  shadow  fell  as  of  a  pall. 

Upon  our  home;  the  noonday  light 

Now  seemed  o'ercast  with  shades  of  night. 

No  play  for  me;  with  silent  feet 

They  bade  me  pass;  and  quicker  beat 

My  Wondering  heart.    Awaked,  with  dread, 

At  midnight  hour,  betide  a  bed 

I  stood;  and  there,  with  bated  breath, 

I  heard  them  whisper,  "This  is  death." 

And  from  the  pain  of  that  night's  grief 

The  passing  years  bring  no  relief; 

1  think  my  sister,  e'en  in  bliss. 

Remembers  1  refused  the  kiss. 


*- 


9 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKKICA. 


1017 


MRS.  FANNIE  H.  FOWLER. 

Born:  Will  Co.,  III.,  Jan.  19, 1838. 
Since  the  age  of  sixteen  this  ladj-  has  writ- 
ten poems  and  articles  for  magazines  and 
papers,  and  has  rect^ntly  pnblislied  a  small 
volume  of  Society  Poems.  For  several  years 
Mrs.  Fowler  edited  Ihi;  Woman's  Department 


MRS.  FANNIE  HOLDEN  FOWLER. 

of  one  of  the  leading  papers  of  Manistee, 
Micli.,  where  she  now  resides.  She  is  al.so 
secretary  of  the  E.  S.  A.  of  Micliigan,  wliich 
position  she  has  lield  for  the  past  five  years. 
In  1868  this  poetical  writer  was  married  to 
Col.  S.  W.  Fowler,  and  now'  has  three  chil- 
dren—Frank  Lincoln,  born  iu  1870:  Angelina 
Holden,  born  in  1873;  and  S.  Willie,  born  in 
1875. 


SHADOWS. 

Walks  by  mj'  side  a  spirit  briglit 

With  eyes  of  clearest  blue, 
All  glowing  witli  celestial  liglit. 
Though  veiled  indeed  from  mortal  sight, 

They  shine  my  being  through. 

So  far,  so  near,—  I  almost  meet 

That  faint  and  thrilling  breath. 

And  listen  for  the  accents  sweet 

That  now,  alas!  I  may  not  greet. 

Hushed  by  the  touch  of  Death! 

Oh,  shadows,  passing  to  and  fro. 
Our  sundered  hopes  between; 


How  least  of  life,  wc  may  not  know. 
Is  in  our  sojourn  here  below. 
To  what  there  is  unseen. 


RESPICE  FINEM. 
When  the  stars  l)fgiii  to  pale. 

And  the  dawn  is  breaking  clear; 
When  the  shadows  of  the  vale, 

(Ju.'iking,  creep  away  in  fear. 
Then  my  heart  its  sadness  Hies 

From  the  depths  of  sorrow  grim; 
To  the  morn  I  lift  mine  eyes. 

To  the  heavens  I  raise  my  hynui. 

How  we  love  the  blessed  light. 

Streaming  with  auroral  beams; 
All  oblivious  of  the  niglit 

Erstwhile  clothed  in  saddest  dreams. 
Thus  uiH>n  the  shore  of  time 

We  arc  looking  for  the  dawn 
Of  eternity  sublime  — 

Waiting,  as  our  days  go  on. 

How  the  faces  of  the  lost  — 

Lost  to  us,  but  gained  above. 
Dimly  shine  from  yonder  coast: 

From  the  haven  i)f  our  love. 
Tender  hands  are  reaching  down; 

Blessed  feet  are  gliding  nigh; 
Heavenly  voices  come  to  drown 

Earth's  sad  chorus,  moan  and  sigh. 

Wait  nig,  then,  for  life's  declitu>; 

Hoi)ing  for  the  l)lissful  -rest 
That  remaineth  "—  pledge  divine, 

To  the  souls  He  lovelh  best. 
When  the  night  of  sorrow  dies 

In  the  splendor  of  that  dawn. 
Buried  hopes  again  will  rise 

Buoyant,  as  the  days  go  on. 


WHEN  ART  THOU  COMING. 

EXTRACT. 

When  art  thou  coming  love?    Summer  has 

come. 
Eventide's  zephyrs  are  cooling  my  brow; 
Art  thou  not  dreaming  of    friendship  and 

home. 
Lingers  thy  sad  heart  with  mine  even  now? 
Songs  thou  ha.st  sung  to  me, 
Liki'  a  sweet  melody. 
Haunt  me  at  twilight  in  symphonies  low. 

When    art    thou  coming?    The  winter  has 

flown. 
Spring  with  its  breezy-like  zephyrs  gone  by; 
Midsununer's  golden  days  drop  one  by  one 
Into  the  past  where  my  buried  hopes  lie. 
Songs  thou  hast  sung  to  me. 
Like  a  weird  melody. 
Float  through  my  brain  and  in  loneliness  die 


« 


*- 


1018 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


REV.  CHARLES  BINGHAM. 

Born:  Geneseo,  N.  Y.,  June  16,  1828. 
This  minister  was  ordained  in  1870,  and  has 
lield  pastorates  at  Udina,  III.,  Monroe,  la., 
Millburn,  111.,   and  in  1880  Mr.  Bingham  re- 
ceived a  call  from  the  First  Congregational 


REV.  CHART.BS  M.  BINGHAJtf. 

church  in  Day  tona,  Florida,  of  which  church 
he  is  still  pastor.  He  was  married  in  1864  to 
Miss  Myra  P.  Osborne,  and  has  a  familj'  of 
two  children,  Charles  and  Grace,  born  in  1865 
and  1869  respectively. 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 

With  joy  to-day  we  stand  before 
The  New  Year's  opening  portal; 

And  in  advance  wo  take  a  glance 
Toward  the  life  immortal. 

Good-bye  old  Yeai',  thou  faithful  friend. 
We  say  with  sigh  and  sorrow ; 

Wc  often  the  best  wishes  send. 
Then  wait  for  glad  to-morrow. 

You  dear  old  Year,  we  truly  say. 
You  brought  us  many  a  gladness; 

But  then  you  brought  us  day  by  day 
Full  many  a  cause  of  sadness. 

At\d  so  the  new  comes  on  ai)ace. 
With  step  of  spjightly  lightness; 

A  look  of  gladness  in  his  face. 
And  beaming  naught  but  brightness. 


What  bringest  thou,  O  young  New  Year— 

To  those  who  hailthj'  coming? 
What  of  sorrow,  what  of  cheer? 
We  see  them  through  the  gloaming. 

And  when  twelve  months  shall  roll  about. 
We'll  say  farewell  with  sadness. 

And  greet  the  next  one  with  a  shout. 
Expressive  our  gladness. 

For  so  it  is  all  through  our  lives. 
We  say  good-bye  with  sorrow; 

Then  hopefully  look  forward  to 
The  gladness  of  the  morrow. 

And  well  'tis,  so  for  were  it  not 
Our  hearts  would  break  with  pain, 

And  hope  be  driven  from  the  earth. 
Ne'er  to  return  again. 

Thanks  be  to  God  for  heaven  made  known 

To  us  by  conflict  driven. 
Earth  hath  no  sorrow  of  its  own 

But  finds  relief  in  heaven. 


CLARENCE  D.  GREELEY. 

Born:  Clymer,  N.Y.,  May  19,  1855. 

In  1883  Mr.  Greeley  graduated  from  Wash- 
burn College  of  Topeka,  Kan.;  and  from 
Yale  Divinity  School  in  1886.  Tlie  following 
year  he  becamo  a  Fellow  of  Harvard  Univer- 
sity, and  member  of  Howard  Phil.  Club, 
liev.  Clarence  DeVere  Greeley  was  ordained 
in  1889  as  a  minister  of  the  Congregational 
church,  and  is  now  pastor  at  Mt.  Carmel, 
Conn.  He  has  written  numerous  scientific 
papers  and  poems  which  have  been  widely 
published  iti  leading  newspapers  and  maga- 
zines. 


FREEDOM. 

As  child  of  heaven,  not  alone  of  earth. 

The  ocean  lifts  the  giant  tree; 
Or  brook  fulfills  with  song  and  mirth 

The  gracious  mandate  of  the  sea. 

Not  as  the  slaves  of  drearj  night 
Tlie  orbs  of  heaven  their  coui-ses  run: 

The  sun  nujst  needs  pour  fortli  its  liglit. 
Or  else  it  would  not  be  the  sun. 

So  brook  and  tlowor  and  star  and  tree. 
Obey  the  archetypal  thought; 

For  freedom  God  liatli  made  us  free  — 
"  I  am  "  anticipates  •>  1  ought." 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


1019 


FLORENCE  AUGUSTA  JONES 

Bohn:  NKA15  Madison,  Wis.,  Aug.,  1861. 
SiNCK  si.xteen  years  ol  age  this  liuly  liiis 
taught  school.  She  is  very  fond  of  music 
and  lias  a  flue  contralto  voice.  Miss  Jones 
lias  written  enough  poems  to  fill  a  volume, 
which  she  hopes  to  publish  in  book-form  at 


PtiORENCE  AUGUSTA  JONES, 
an  early  date.  Her  poems  liave  appeared  in 
nearly  all  the  prominent  daily  ;ind  weekly 
periodicals  of  America,  among  which  might 
be  mentioned  Church's  Musical  Visitor, 
Pioneer  Press,  Des  Moines  Register,  Good 
Housekeeping,  Godoy's.lnierior  and  the  New 
York  Home  Journal.  Several  of  her  poems 
have  been  set  to  music,  notably  that  of  Bylo 
Land. 


BYLO  LAND. 

When  out  of  the  west  long  shadows  creep. 
And  the  stars  peep  out,  a  shining  band, 
Our  baby,  weary  of  fun  and  play. 
Goes  out  thro'  the  gates  of  Hylo  Land. 
O  which  is  the  road  to  Hylo  Land? 
By  the  way  of  Grandpa's  easy  chair, 
Or  better,  by  Mother's  loving  arms 
With  kisses  pressed  on  the  shining  hair. 
She  nestles  down  with  a  weary  sigh. 
While  the  lashes  touch  the  rounded  cheek. 
With  her  arms  clasped  close  'round  mother'a 

neck. 
Who  kisses  the  love  she  cannot  speak. 


A  wonderful  lami  is  Bylo  Land, 

To  judge  by  the  smiles  on  baViy's  face. 

The  angels  must  surely  weave  herdream!- 

And  lend  to  her  of  their  winsome  grace. 

O  baby,  we  envy  thy  sunny  lot. 

For  we  that  are  older  seldom  see 

The  tlowery  path  to  Bylo  Land, 

Or  meet  the  angels  that  talk  with  thee. 


MY  WISH. 
What  would  1  wish  for  thee,  dear  heart,  dear 

heart: 
Not  joy  alone,  not  sunshine  clear,  undimmed 
Nor  fair,  blue  skies,   unflecked  by  passing 

clouds. 
Tis  not  alone  the  sunshine,  fierce  and  bright. 
That  brings  the  bud  and  fruit  to   perfect 

form. 
But  dew,  and  rain,  and  frost,  these  all  unite 
To  rouse  the  dormant  beauty  to  complete- 

ne  ss.  [stars. 

The  rainne'er  fell  from  skies  bedecked  with 
Unveiled  by  clouds,  and  j-et  the  rain  must 

come.  [rain, 

Tliis  I   would  wish   for  thee,  that  sorrows 
When  it  shall  come,  may  fall  upon  thy  heart 
As  raindrops  fall  upon  the  folded  bud. 
And  by  its  gentle  force,  expose  the  heart 
Of  gold  that  lies  within. 

A  PLEA. 

Such  tiny,  restless  hands. 

So  ready  to  reacli  out  and  grasp 

The  newness 'nmnd  them.  Life  holds  much. 

.so  much. 
And  each  day  brings  to   light   some    new, 

strange  thing 
That  they  are  tempted  liardto  touch, 
Those  little  hands.     Be  kind. 

Such  little,  tireless  feet. 
So  eager  to  explore  the  world 
That  lies  beyond   their  threshold.    Do  not 

chide. 
If  they  in  wonder  go  too  fast  and  far. 
The  years  that  meet  them  will  do    much  to 

make  [kind 

Their  steps  both  .slow  and  careful.  Then  be 
If  they  o'erstep  the  bounds  that  we  have  set. 
Those  little,  restless  fe?t. 

Such  dear,  fond  trusting  eyes. 
How  oft  they  judge  us  and  we  know  It  not. 
No  thought  of  guile  dims   their  pure  iniu>- 

cenec 
In   their  clear  depths  are  mirrored  spotless 

souls 
Fresh  from  the  hand  of  God.    O  see  to  It. 
That  no  wrong  word  of  ours,  no  hasty  act. 
Shall  leave  such  stains  that  all  the  years  to 

come 
Shall  not  efface  tliem. 


*- 


* 


*- 


1020 


T.OCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


JOHN  HENRY  YATES. 

Born:  Batavia,  N.Y.,  Nov.  31,  1837. 
As  A  ballad  writer  the  name  of  John  Henrj' 
Yates  la  becoming  very  popular  throughout 
America.  He  has  a  collection  of  two  hun- 
dred excellent  poems  that  will  soon  be  pub- 
lished in  book-form  under  tlie  title  of  Bal- 


JOHN   HENRY   YATES. 

lads  of  the  Old  Man.  His  poems  have  ap- 
peared in  Harper's  Weekly,  Harper's  Bazar, 
Rochester  Times  and  otlier  papers  of  equal 
prominence.  Mr.  Yates  still  resides  in  the 
place  of  his  nativitj-,  wliere  he  is  a  local 
preacher  of  the  M.  E.  churcli,  and  city  editor 
of  the  Batavian.  Mr.  Yates  is  married  and 
has  quite  an  interesting  family  of  children. 


*- 


THE  MODEL  CHURCH 

Well  wife.  I've  found  the  model  church, 

I  worshipped  there  to-day; 
It  made  me  think  of  good  old  times 

Before  my  hair  was  gray ; 
Themeetin'  liouse  was  fixed  up  more 

Than  tliey  were  years  ago, 
But  then  I  felt  when  I  went  in 

It  wasn't  built  for  show. 
The  sexton  didn't  seat  me 

Away  b.ack  by  tlie  door. 
He  knew  that  I  was  old  and  deaf 

As  well  as  old  and  poor. 
He  mu.st  have  been  a  Christian, 

For  he  led  me  boldly  tlirough 


The  long  aisle  of  that  crowded  church 

To  find  a  pleasant  pew. 
I  wish  you'd  heard  the  singin'. 

It  had  the  old-time  ring; 
The  pastor  said  with  truini)et -voice, 

"  Let  all  the  people  sing." 
The  tune  was  "Coronation," 

And  the  music  upward  rolled. 
Till  I  thought  I  lieard  the  angels 

Striking  ali  their  harps  of  gold. 

My  deafness  seemed  to  melt  away, 

I  seemed  to  feel  the  fire, 
I  joined  my  feeble,  trembling  voice. 

With  that  melodious  choir. 
And  sang  as  in  mj-  youthful  days, 

"Let  angels  prostrate  fall. 
Bring  forth  tlie  royal  diadem 

And  crown  Him  Lord  of  all." 
I  tell  you  wife  it  did  me  good 

To  sing  that  hymn  once  more; 
I  felt  like  some  wrecked  mariner 

Who  gets  a  glimpse  of  shore. 
I  almost  wanted  to  lay  down 

This  weather-beaten  form. 
And  anchor  in  that  blessed  port. 

Forever  from  the  storm. 
The  preachin'?  Well,  I  can't  just  tell 

All  that  the  preacher  said, 
I  know  it  wasn't  written, 

I  know  it  wasn't  read. 
He  liadn't  time  to  read  it 

For  the  liglitnin'  of  his  eye 
Went  flashin'  'long  from  pew  to  pew, 

Nor  passed  a  sinner  by. 
The  sermon  wasn't  flowery, 

'Twas  simple  gospel  truth; 
It  fitted  poor  old  men  like  me. 

It  fitted  liopeful  youth. 
'Twas  full  of  consolation 

For  weary  liearts  that  bleed, 
'Twas  full  of  invitation 

To  Christ  and  not  to  creed. 
The  preacher  made  sin  hideous 

In  Gentiles  and  in  Jews; 
He  shot  the  golden  sentences 

Down  in  the  finest  pews. 
And  though  I  can't  see  very  well, 

I  saw  the  falling  tear 
That  told  me  hell  was  some  ways  off 

And  heaven  very  near. 
How  swift  the  golden  moments  fled 

Within  that  lioly  place. 
How  brightly  be:imed  the  light  of  heaven 

From  (>v('ry  hapjiy  face. 
Again  I  longed  for  that  sweet  time, 

Wlien  friend  shall  meet  with  friend. 
When  congregations  ne'er  break  up. 

And  Sabbath  lias  no  end. 


*- 


LOCAL   AXD   XATIOXAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


1021 


I  liopp  to  meet  that  minister. 

That  congregation,  too. 
In  that  dear  home  beyond  tiie  stars 

That  shine  in  lioaveii's  blue. 
I  doubt  not  I'll  remember 

Beyond  life's  evening:  gray 
That  liappy  hour  of  worship. 

In  that  model  church  to-day. 
Dear  wife,  the  flg-ht  will  soon  be  fought, 

Tlie  victory  soon  be  won. 
Tlie  sinning  goal  is  just  ahead. 

The  race  is  uearly  run. 
O'er  the  river  we  are  nearing 

They  are  thronging  to  the  shore. 
To  shout  our  safe  arrival 

Where  the  weary  weep  no  more. 

. « — ^^^-v « 

xVRTHUR    C.   GRISSOM. 

Born:  Payson,  111.,  Jan.  21.  ISfiO. 
In  1888  this   young    editor  and    litterateur 
called  tlieflrst  meetingof  the  Western  Auth- 
ors'   and    Artists'  Club,  of  whicli    he     was 
unanimously  elected  president,  and  was  re- 


ARTHUU    C.  r.KISSOM. 

elected  again  to  the  same  office  a  year  later. 
Arthur  C.  Grissom  has  gained  quite  a  reini- 
tation  in  Kansas  City  as  a  newspaper  man 
and  all  around  writer,  and  he  is  now  pcrma- 
neutly  located  in  New  York  City,  as  edit<^)r 
of  Spirit  and  of  the  American  Home  Graphic. 


*- 


BALLADE   OF  LOST  FORTUNE. 
Economy,  where  is  thy  tlirone? 

Long  t  liave  sought  thoo  in  vain. 
Aged  and  gray  I  have  grown. 

Meekly  toslave  for  tliee  fain. 

Thy  castle  is  surely  in  Spain  — 
Or  artfhou.  in  truth,  but  a  fay? 


If  a  King,  hear  this  pleading  of  pain  — 
Where  are  the  pennies,  I  pray? 
I  am  friendless,  and  poor,  and  alone, 

A  prodigal  fit  for  disdain; 
Alas,  foi' the  wealth  that  lias  flown  I 

Alas,  for  my  i)ledgc  to  al)staiu! 

Nor  dollar  nor  dime  niv  refrain  — 
I  mourn  not  tlie  week  or  tlie  day, 

'Tis  the  loss  of  the  minutes  my  bane  — 
Wliere  are  the  pennies,  I  pray? 
I  li.ave  wasted  my  substance,  I  own. 

My  pennies  liave  perished  like  rain; 
O,  the  wild  oats  Ihave  sownl 

And  O,  the  harvest  of  pain ! 

Remorse  will  drive  nie  insane  1 
Now  I  am  old  and  I'm  pray. 

Please,  where  does  ecoiionij' reign? 
Where  are  the  pennies.  I  pray? 

l'envoy. 
Beloved  one.  beware  of  the  chain 

That  fetters  the  thriftless al way; 
O,  heed,  as  I  cr}-  and  complain. 

Where  are  the  pennies,  I  pray? 


THE  COQUETTE. 
A  jasmine  flower  at  her  breast, 

A  gem  in  her  dusky  hair, 
A  smile  on  her  lips,  and  in  her  eyes 

A  light  tliat  is  sweet  and  rare; 
A  wondrously  tender  light  in  her  eyes. 

And  oh,  she  is  more  than  fair! 
How  brilliant  the  dancing  throng! 

How  fragrant  the  balmy  room! 
And  lier  cheeks  are  flushed  like  l>oppy  buds 

That  have  burst  in  blood-red  bhxjm. 
Or   a    flame  — the    flame  that    moths   wing 
round. 

And  are  drawn  therein  to  doom. 
Whoso  are  the  faces  nigh? 

What  is  the  waltz  I  hear? 
What  tlte  event,  tiie  place,  the  hour. 

Where  are  the  foes  I  fear? 
I  know  not:  all  that  I  care  to  know 

Is  that  my  love  is  near; 
Her  fluttering  fan  I  fold, 

I  bend  with  my  face  aglow, 
.\iid  I  speak  my  love,  and  she  replies 

In  accents  sweet  and  low; 
But  oh,  the  pain  of  a  murmured  ••  yes," 

When  youknow  that  it  means  '.no!" 
Alone,  and  the  night  is  cold. 

I  blindly  reel  through  the  gl(X)m, 
I  seem  older  now  by  a  score  of  years. 

Than  I  was  in  that  brilliant  room. 
What  was  it  that  set  my  bliMxl  aflre. 

And  made  me  mad  for  nn  hour? 
Was  it  word,  or  look,  or  moaning  smile. 

Or  the  breath  of  a  jasmine  flower? 


*- 


1022 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  R.  SHEPARD  LILLIE. 

Bokn:  Ekie  Co.,  N.Y. 
In  1889  appeared  a  magnificent  volume  of 
poems  entitled  Rays  of  Light,  from  the  psn 
of  Mrs.  K.  Shepard  Lillie,  a  poet  of  rare  ex- 


MUS.    I!.    SlIKl'AIUI    I. II. UK. 

cellence,  now  residing-  in  Melrose,  Mass. 
This  work  also  contains  her  portrait  and  two 
chapters  from  the  book  of  her  life. 


THE  WARP  AND  WOOF  OF  LIFE. 
Spinning  its  web  on  a  sunny  strand. 
As  thougli  on  ver.v  air  it  could  stand, 
I  watched  a  little  spider  one  day 
Backward  and  forward  swinging  away. 
Till  the  mystical  web  grew  in  my  sight. 
Glistened  and  gleamed  in  tlie  morning  light. 

I  asked,  as  I  saw  its  wonderful  plan. 
Could  its  design  be  excelled  by  maul' 
As  though  't  were  measured  by  compass  or 

square. 
He  threw  out  his  threads,  and  they  caught 

on  air; 
Then  wove  in  for  warp  a  thread  so  fine 
That  the  web  complete  was  a  thing  divine. 
And  I  was  watching  him  closely  now. 
For  whence  tlie  niatei'ial  cann',  and  how; 
And  saw  that  ho  carried  it  all  within. 
For  tlie  golden  web  whicli  1  saw  him  spin. 
Nature  had  placed  in  tlie  tiny  form 
Something  he  carried  through  sunshine  and 

storm. 


Which  he  could  throw  out  as  a  thing  of  light, 
On  which  he  could  climb  to  a  greater  height. 
So  we  are  weaving  our  web  each  day. 
Bear  our  material  in  the  same  way. 
Just  within  is  the  power  we  find 
To  weave  the  web  of  the  human  mind, 
And  to  make  it  beautiful,  clear,  and  bright, 
xVs  it  liangs  suspended  in  heaven's  light. 
Like  tlie  spider's  web  that  I  saw  that  day 
That  it  may  reflect  the  sun's  bright  ray, 
We  must  keep  the  material  that 's  within 
Spotless  and  pure,  and  free  from  sin. 
The  spider's  web  was  perfect  in  plan. 
1  can  but  applj'  this  lesson  to  man. 
And  believe  that  God  has  given  each  one 
Something  as  perfect  to  j-et  be  done. 
It  may  be  years  as  they  slowly  roll, 
But  God  has  placed  it  in  eveiy  soul. 
As  the  spider  threw  out  its  tiny  line. 
Steadily  upward  I  saw  it  climb ; 
15 J-  its  own  power  it  rose  above: 
So  must  we  rise  by  the  power  of  love. 
We  throw  it  forth  from  the  soul  within, 
And  rising  upon  it  are  saved  from  sin. 
In  our  warp  and  woof  of  life  we  find 
There  are  colors  dark  with  light  combined, 
.Viid  the  lines  of  dark  and  cheerless  gray, 
It  may  be,  we  're  weaving  in  to-day! 
Tliey  '11  mar  its  beauty,  and,  we  are  told, 
Must  all  be  exchanged  for  threads  of  gold. 
We  shall  want  them  all  out,  by  and  by. 
In  the  clearer  light  of  the  home  on  high.Lgro: 
So  let 's  weave  the  threads  that  shall  brighte 
Tiirough  the  countless  ages  our  souls  sha 
For  we  carry  with  us  to  realms  above  [know 
Our  warp  and  woof  of  the  web  of  love. 

LOVIE. 
Such  a  gay,  winsome,  bright  little  spirit 
Appears  to  be  hovering  neai% 

With  such  a  bright  smile 

The  sad  hours  to  beguile. 
And  many  lone  moments  to  cheer. 
When  I  think  for  a  moment  I'm  surely  alon  : 
And  am  working  away  with  a  might. 

With  her  nods  and  her  winks  ' 

Comes  this  queer  little  niin:^. 
To  tell  me  what  she  tliinks  is  right! 
Oft  I  see  her  at  break  of  the  morning, 
Or  at  night  when  alone  in  my  bed; 

O'er  the  iiillow  she  '11  peep 

When  I  'm  trying  to  sleep, — 
Tills  (jiieer  little  miscliievous  head. 
All  her  motions  so  sylph-like,  so  funny  is  si 
My  pen  her  but  poorly  jiortrays;  | 

So  mj'  prayer  is  to-night 

That  some  spirit  as  bright 
Ever  after  may  gladden  my  days. 


\ 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL    l'OKl>   OK    AMKKUA. 


u>-2:i 


JOHN  TALMAX, 

Bohn:  Peuintun,  N.V.,  Jii-v  'M,  lt<5L 
At  the  age  of  ninoteen  John  Talman  oii- 
tered  journalisni.  In  1H72  lie  was  telograpli 
editor  of  the  Rochester  Democrat  and  Chron- 
icle, which  position  ho  left  after  nearly  two 
years'  service  to  accept  a  position  as  cilltori- 


.JOIIN  TAI,MAN. 

al  writer  on  the  Albimy  Aigus,  which  posi- 
tion he  held  until  1878.  In  1879  lie  entered  the 
employ  of  the  St.  Paul  Pioneer  Press,  of 
which  publication  he  is  now  iiiKrht  editor  and 
editorial  writer.  Mr.  Talman  has  written 
more  than  five  liundred  poems  which  have 
received  publication  in  the  Chicago  Herald, 
St.PaulPioueerl'ressand  other  jiublications. 


THE  RUINED  CASTLE. 
Wliere  mountains  nprear  tlieni   from  sun- 
flecked  mead, 
A  treasure-trove  guarding  of  richest  green : 
Where  loth  do  the  day-god's  .smiles  recede 
The  shifting  forms  of  the  hills  between; 
Where  nature  as  goodly  a  feast  hath  spread 
As  ever  the  artist  eye  liath  fed; 
Where  the  fancy  can  revel,  the  soul  renew 
Its  youth  in  a  nurturing  spiritual  dew- 
Mine  eye  descries 
An  antiquecastle  of  grandeur  rise.  . 
A  contour  of  blended  harmonies, 
A  contour  of  rugged  strength  unsurpassed. 
It  gives  to  the  breath  of  the  fondling  breeze 
As  it  gives  to  the  rage  of  the  smiting  blast. 
All  vainly  have  clashing  elements  spent 


Their  fury  on  tower  and  battlement; 
Still  far  overbuttre.ss  and  sliadowc<l  moat 
The  folds  of  the  l>road  ducal  l)anner  float. 

In  all  the  grai-e 
And  the  kingly  i)ride  of  an  ancient  race. 
'Neat  h  the  flare  and  the  flicker  of  torches  high 
That  (juicken  the  halls  of  the  castle  old. 
I  see.  when  the  midnight  hour  is  nigli, 
A  tlii'ong  of  fair  ladies  .and  chieftains  Ixijd, 
Wit  si)arkles  and  laughter  peals  rouiul   the 

bi  )a  rd ; 
Blithe  folly  rains  as  the  wine  is  poured. 
I  see  the  portcullis  fall  into  jilace,    < 
Vowing  death  to  theeneiriies  of  their  race. 

With  lance  and  shield 
Brave  knights  ride  forth  lo  tlie  l)attlofleld. 

I  gaze  once  more  on  i\h:  castle  old. 

After  the  lai)se  of  centuries  dim; 

A  cerement  enwoven  of  weetls  anti  mold 

F'ncases  the  cii'Cle  of  bastions  grim. 

While  the  mold  cori'upts,  the  rank  iv>-  twines 

A  chaplet  of  ruins  ot  upas  vines 

For  the  roofless  and  humidly  crumbling  walls 

Where  thelizard  luiksand  thesi>ider  crawls; 

Where  jackals  prowl 
To  the  whirr  or  the  shriek  of  the  bat  or  owl. 
The  bat  takes  wing  and  the  owl  is  heard 
Thro'  a  pall  of  old  Time's  pestilential  l)reath ; 
The  musings  of  silence  liy  ghouls  are  stirred 
As  they  hasten  to  join  in  tlieir  feast  of  death. 
Where  now  is  the  ancient  glory'/     WluTe 
The  chieftains  liold  and  the  ladies  fair'/ 
Through  the  misty  centuries'  rime  and  rust 
They  have  slumberd  where  in  the  parent  dust 

Abidt- the  germ  [worm. 

And  tlie  growth  mature  of  the  conquering 
The  owl  is  heard  and  the  bat  takes  wing. 
And  the  jackal  prowls  the  damp  walls  among. 
While  the  vampire  glee  and  t  lie  scor])ioii  sting 
Their  horrors  wed  to  the  serjient  tongui'. 
Thro'  the  gent  ler  shei-n  of   the  white  m<H)n's 
Shine  the  awful  eyes  of  tlie  basilisk,        [disc 
To  comjiassit)!!  as  dead  as  the  vengeful  fate 
That  swept  tln»  lords  fn>m  their  high  estate. 

And  brought  decay 
To  the  laws  and  the  caste  of  that  feud:il  day. 

Where   mountains  uprear   them   fnan   sun- 
flecked  mead. 
A  treasnii-troveguanlingof  richest  green. 
Sweet  liberty  reigns;  and  tlie  serf  shall  lUeetl 
No  more  as  in  days  of  old.  I  ween. 
Where  nature  as  ginnlly  a  feast  liatli  spread 
As  ever  the  artist  eye  hath  fed. 
The  spirit  of  medieval  times  [crimes; 

Is  (iueiiche<l  in  blixKl  with   its  wrongs  and 

And  one  tle>cries 
A  dynasty  fashioninl  of  c«iiii'l^  '"•''e. 


*- 


1024 


LOCAI-   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


AT  VESPERS. 
Mother  of  peace  and  light, 

It  is  to  thee  mb  sing; 
Spread  o'er  our  lives  to-night 

The  shelter  of  thy  wing. 
With  heaven's  divinest  ray 

The  o'erwrought  soul  illume; 
Be  with  us  till  the  day 

Breaks  through  the  midnight  gloom. 
Ills  to  which  man  is  born. 

Thy  sacred  presence  fly, 
As  the  dank  mists  at  noon 

Fade  from  the  earth  and  sky. 


A  RE-AWAKENING. 

Frost-woven  gyves  and  snowy  drifts 

Glad  sunshine  melts  from  stream  and 
In  vernal  warmth  her  head  uplifts  [hill; 

The  queenly  daftodil. 
In  thankfulness  that  from  the  sod 

Tlie  bloom  of  f ruitfulness  returns. 
Creation's  heart  to  Nature's  god. 

Its  mead  of  inoense  burns. 
Thus  human  hearts  by  sin  and  guilt 

Made  all  but  sterile,  may  rejoice 
In  fructifying  good  rebuilt. 

And  lift  a  praiseful  voice. 


REV.  HORACE  C.  HOVEY. 

Born:  Fou>fTAiN  Co.,  Ind.,  Jan.  28, 1833. 
This  Congregational  minister  was  ordained 
in  IS.W  and  lins  filled  paRtorate?  at   Florence, 


*■ 


liEV.  HOliACK  ('.  HOVEV. 

Mass.,  New  Albany,   Ind.,  Peoria,  111.,    Kan- 


sas City,  Mo.,  New  Haven,  Conn.,  Minneapo- 
lis, Minn.,  Bridgeport,  Conn.,  where  he  is 
now  oflBciating.  He  was  married  in  1858  to 
Miss  Ellen  L.  Blatchlej',  and  now  has  a  fami- 
ly of  four  children  grown  to  manhood  and 
womanhood.  His  j'oungest  daughter,  Clara 
Louise,  early  evinced  quite  a  little  poetical 
talent,  and  at  the  age  of  six  composed  the 
following  verse: 

Take  a  pound 

Of  fly-around. 
And  mix  it  in  with  fat; 

Stir  in  some  purr. 

And  cover  with  fur. 
And  you  have  a  pussy  cat. 
The  Rev.  Horace  C.  Hovey  has  written  and 
published  an  liistorical  poem  entitled,  On  the 
Banks  of  the  Quinnipiac.  He  also  deliv- 
ers a  series  of  lectures  on  Caverns,  Moun- 
tains and  Tornadoes,  which  are  brilliantly  il- 
lustrated with  wonderful  views. 


A  FLORAL  TRIBUTE. 

Gather  gay  flowers  for  decoration. 

Bind  them  in  gailands  of  vernal  bloom; 
Roses  and  lilies  and  spicy  carnation. 

Lilacs,  wistaria's  purple  plume. 
Ransack    tlie  garden,    search  through  the 
meadow. 
Strip    from  the    woodland    its  scented 
boughs. 
Laurel  and  hawthorne,  under  whose  shadow. 

The  wild  honeysuckle  in  beautj^  grows. 
Weave,  gentle  fingers,  the  chaplet  perfumed, 
Cull  the  sweet  blossoms  of  joyous  spring; 
Then  where  our  soldiers  are  sleeping  en- 
tombed. 
Scatter  them  freely  while  songs  you  sing 
Warriors  departed,  your  names  we  cherish! 
Memory  will  build  in  our  hearts  ashrine. 
Treasuring  the  glorj'  that  never  can  perish. 
As  wither  the  gailandstliat  now  wetwine.i 


EXTKACT  FROM    "QUINNIPIAC." 
And  now  may  Heaven's  benediction  rest 
On  you  wliom  we,  unskilled  in  lyric  power, 
Hav(>led  to-day  in  verse  historic;  you  [mow, 
Who  till  these  fields,  these  meadows  deftly 
Who  dwell  along  this  briny  rim,  or  sail 
O'er  sapphire  seas,  or  'mid  tempestu(ni.s 

waves ; 
May  veterans  and  children,  matrons,  maids. 
May  all  to  whom  tliis  church  of  Clirist  is  deai 
And  v.-'hn  are  thrilled  by  its  beloved  name. 
As  by  the  name  of  mother,  all  wlio  bend 
Around  its  altar  in  communion  sweet 
Obedientr  1(>  tlu-  Savior's  voice  — may  all 
Uf  that  immortal  l)an(]uet  Taste  tliat  waii^ 
Us  in  the  blest  Fair  Haven  of  Hislove! 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


102-5 


MRS.  ELBE  M.  M.  TASCHER. 

BOKN:  WlNTERPOHT,  Me.,  Nov.  21,  1843. 

This  huiy  is  tlic  youngest  daughter  of  Capt. 
John  B.  Morrill.  At  the  age  of  eighteen  she 
was  married  to  William  H.  Tascher,  and  lias 
flvo  oliildren.     TTor  oldest  daughter,  .TiiliaM. 


MRS.  ELBE  MARIE  M.  TASCHER. 

Tascher,  Is  the  author  of  Arbutus  and  Dan- 
delions, a  work  of  four  hundred  pages  that 
has  been  highly  recommended.  Mrs.  Tas- 
cher has  contributed  to  many  of  the  leading 
papers  and  magazines,  which  will  appear  in 
book-form  at  some  future  time.  She  is  als(5 
quite  an  artist  in  portrait  and  flgvire  paint- 
ing, and  now  a  resident  of  Stephens  Point, 
Wisconsin. 


GENEVIEVE. 

Sylph-like  fairy  Genevieve, 
Dark-eyed,  airy  Genevieve, 

Springtime  brought  her. 
Our  May  daughter. 
Smiling,  singing  Genevieve. 

Deft  her  nimble  fingers. 

In  her  chin  a  dimple  lingers. 

Now  retreating. 

Then  repeating. 
Gleaming,  glittering  Genevieve. 
On  her  shining  dusky  tresses. 
Sunshine  glances  with  caresses. 

Like  a  sjirite. 

Quick  and  light. 
Here  and  there  is  Genevieve. 


May  the  loving  Father  guide  her. 
Safe  from  wrong  and  sorrow  hide  her. 

And  at  last. 

Earth's  shadows  past. 
Crown  her  augel  Genevieve. 


LIFE'S  ELIXIR. 
Oh,  life's  pure  elixir. 
Oh,  precious  gold, 
Which  laughs  at  your  footsteps 
Of  changing  decay; 
Where!  where  art  thou. 
With  thy  treasures  untold? 
If  we  find  thee  not. 
Life's  a  long,  cold  day. 
Oh,  why  may  not  all. 
While  on  earth,  inherit 
Love's  ])owerful  aleln'my. 
That  doth  chtinge 
Even  dross  of  body 
And  dregs  of  spirit 
Into  mystical  sanctities. 
Rare  and  strange. 

Harms  of  the  woild 
Will  oft  come  to  us. 
Bitter  cups  of  sorrow 
We  all  must  drain; 
If  we  have  Love's  secret. 
It  will  show  us 
Wonderful  rainbows 
In  the  rain. 

Though  we  hear  the  tread 
Of  the  years  go  by. 
Life's  Autumn  may  come 
With  its  falling  leaves. 
No  fear  can  touch  us. 
Not  even  to  die. 
If  only  we  gather 
Love's  goldeu  slieaves. 
Then  gatlier,  O,  gather 
Love's  golden  sheaves. 
While  yet  on  the  shores 
Of  time  you  wait. 
Soon,  soon  the  icicles 
Hang  on  the  eaves; 
Winter  winds  blow  cold. 
It  is  growing  late. 


AFAR. 

EXTUACT. 

Memory,  unfurl  thy  silver  sails 

And  take  me  l)ack  to  waters  blue. 
That  I  may  bathe  my  lonely  soul 

In  love  forever  fond  and  true. 
There  in  the  home,  benignant  bends. 

With  grave  and  thoughtful  mien. 
The  father,  aye  in  childlnHid  hours 

My  tower  of  strength  whereon  to  lean. 


*- 


-* 


*- 


1026 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  HANNAH  VAN  LOON. 

Born  :  Frenchtown,  Pa.,  Aug.  13, 1839. 
Fob  five  years  this  lady  taught  school  in  her 
native  county,  and  was  married  at  the  age 
of  twenty-one  to  Joshua  L.  Van  Lnon.     Mrs. 
Van    Loon   lias   Iwo   smi-   \v]i<>   t:r:iilu:if cil   ;it 


MRS.  HANNAH  VAN  LOON. 

the  Susquehanna  Collegiate  Institute  in 
Towanda,  Pa.,  and  who  later  graduated  at 
the  La  Fayette  College,  one  as  a  civil  engi- 
neer and  the  other  in  the  Latin  scientific 
course.  The  Philadelphia  Times  calls  this 
lady  the  sweet  poetess  of  the  Susquehanna 
Valley,  and  writes  in  warmest  terms  of  praise 
of  her  productions.  In  1880  a  volume  ap- 
peared from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Van  Loon  en- 
titled Miscellaneous  Poems,  a  work  contain- 
ing over  one  hundred  very  fine  produc- 
tions.   She  is  now  a  resident  of  Philadelphia. 


*- 


MY  MAGICIAN. 

Wliile  the  purple  twilight  lingers, 
Midway  'twixt  the  dark  and  bright; 

Reaching  out  with  shadowy  fingers. 
Toward  the  day  and  toward  the  night. 

Come  magician,  'tis  the  hour 

Sacred  to  sweet  minstrelsy; 
Come,  and  with  a  heav"n-born  power 

Wake  thy  harp's  sweet  melody. 

Strike  no  note  of  joy  and  gladness. 
For  my  heart  is  sick  with  fears; 


Touch  some  key  of  plaintive  sadness. 
To  unlock  the  fount  of  tears. 

All  my  soul  is  dark  within  me, 
All  my  hopes  are  stricken  bare. 

And  the  powers  of  sin  enchain  me. 
In  the  prison  of  despair. 

O  the  blessed  power  of  healing. 
Minstrel,  in  thy  tender  strain ! 

Thou  the  fount  of  tears  unsealing, 
I  have  wept  away  my  pain. 


PRESENTIMENT. 

Darkened  mounds  are  dimly  blending 

With  my  shadowed  path  to-night, 
Where  ihe  cypress  lowly  bending 

Whispercth  to  head-stones  white. 
Is  it  only  fancy's  weaving 

That,  ere  the  young  moon  shall  wane. 
Nevermore  to  joy  or  grieving. 

My  still  heart  shall  throb  again'/ 

Oh!  this  strange,  strange  thought  of  dying. 

Oh!  this  mystic  dreamless  sleep  — 
Oh!  this  dumb  and  helpless  lying 

In  a  silence  long  and  deep; 
Deaf  to  call  of  those  who  love  me. 

Friends  my  heart  to-night  holds  dear. 
Friends  whose  joy  or  grief  shall  move  me 

Nevermore  to  smile  or  tear. 

Ere  the  chimes  for  holy  vespers 

Many  times  shall  pulse  the  air. 
Will  one  voice  be  dumb  that  whispers 

Low,  to-night,  the  evening  prayer? 
Pale  moon,  tell  me,  ere  thy  waning. 

Will  the  pearly  dewdrops  lave 
Tender  grasses,  fresh  up-springing. 

On  a  lowly,  new-made  grave? 

Cypress,  when  witli  gentle  whispers 

Low  thou  droopest  o'er  my  bed, 
Thinkest  thou  at  hour  of  vespers 

One  prayer  will  for  me  be  said? 
Tliinkest  thou  the  sod  above  me 

Will  by  grieving  eyes  be  wet? 
Thinkest  thou  the  liearts  that  love  me 

Ever,  ever  will  forget? 


SUMMER. 
Cometh  now  a  subtle  sense. 
How  I  wist  not,  nor  from  whence, 
But  with  worUMi'ss  eloquence. 

Nature  worshijis  at  the  shrine. 
High  the  fleecy  clouds  are  climbing, 
Tenderly  the  whids  arc  timing, 
With  my  thoughts  that  run  to  rhymiug, 

Fitting  to  a  pleasant  tune. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


w: 


-* 


MRS.  LINDA  W. SLAUGHTER 

Bokn:  Hahkison  Co.,  0.,  Feb.  1,  18i>0. 
Afteh  completing-  her  education  tiiis  lady 
was  employed  l>y  the  American  Missionary 
Association,  and  later  by  the  Presbyterian 
Board  of  Missions.    In  18t)8  slie  resifriied  and 


iMHS.  LINDA  W.   SL.VUGHTEIf . 

was  married  to  Dr.  B.  F.  Slaug-hter,  surg-eou 
U.  S.  A.  Mrs.  Slaughter  lias  published 
several  prose  books,  and  a  poetical  work  en- 
titled. Early  Efforts.  For  a  while  this  lady  was 
vice-president  of  the  Woman's  National  Press 
Association  at  Washington,  D.  C,  besides 
being'  honored  with  other  positions  of  trust. 


*- 


JEWELS  FOR  A  BRIDE. 

Pearls  —  p-littering-  pearls  — 
Binding-  the  g-old  of  g-littering-  curls, 
Clasi)ing  the  wealth  of  a  woman's  hair, 
In  tangled  meshes  of  sunlight  fair; 

Beautiful  pearls. 

Under  the  curls 
Briglit  tlioughts  are  gleaming,  in  beauty  rare 

Fairer  than  curls, 

Brigliter  than  pearls. 
The  fair  dreams  flashing  in  splendor  there. 

Curls  —  glittering  curls  — 
Lulu,  our  darling,  the  sweetest  of  girls, 
With  her  stainless  forehead  and  sinless  soul. 
Bearing  the  weight  of  your  aureole 

In  the  gleaming  light 

Of  her  marriage  night; 


Purer  than  cloud-gems,  seen  from  af;ir. 

In  her  robes  of  white. 

On  the  dazzled  sight. 
Is  sliining  and  trembling  a  radiant  star. 

Pearls  —  brigliter  tlian  pearls  — 
The  gleaming  ligiit  of  lier  golden  curls; 
Vet,  purer  than  light,  and  brighter,  by  far. 
The  lovelit  ray  of  her  soul's  new  stsir. 

The  Star  of  Love, 

Like  a  white-winged  dove 
Arisen,  and  pure  as  our  darling's  life. 

Shines  in  her  soul 

A  glad  aureole 
To  the  one  lover  who  claims  hor  ••  wife." 

Bride  — beautiful  bride  — 
Stamless  and  pure  in  your  stately  pride. 
The  pearls  arc  born  in  the  cold,  dark  sea; 
From  its  gloomy  caves  were  they  wrung  for 
thee. 

By  aching  liands. 

From  the  dull  sea  sands  — 
With  a  jianting  heart  and  a  weary  arm. 

Culled  from  the  graves, 

'Neatli  the  ocean  caves  — 
To  strengthen  the  spell  of    your  beauty's 
charm. 

Pearls  —  costlier  pearls 
Than  bright  gems  kxiping  the  liair  of  girls. 
Born  in  the  heart  from  this  life's  dull  needs. 
Fashioned   and   shai)ed   into  thoughts    and 
deeds  — 

Jewels  of  light, 

Born  in  the  night, 
Are  gathered  in  sorrow  and  polished  in  pain 

From  the  soul's  deep  caves. 

And  the  hidden  graves 
Of  buried  hopes  that  each  year  has  slain. 

Bride- beautiful  bride  — 
Gather  life's  pearls  from  its  ocean  wide: 
Seek  for  the  jewels  that  gem  the  sands. 
Awaiting  the  touch  of  your  willing  h:inds  — 

Fadeless  their  light 

When  your  beauty  bright 
Has  paled,  atid  paled  in  the  years  and  years. 

The  earth  has  graves, 

And  the  ocean  caves. 
And  each  is  showered  witli  crystal  tears. 

Tears  —  crysUilline  tears  — 
Strewing  the  sands  of  the  ebbing  years; 
Marking  the  course  of  their  onward  tlight. 
Fostered  in  sorrow  and  nourished  by  night. 

Staining  young  eyes 

With  a  sad  disguise- 
Chilling  young  hearts  with  their  freezing  cold 

Till  the  Star  of  Ix)vo 

lias  faded  alxive. 
And  sunlight  streatns  on  the  streets  of  gold. 


*- 


1028 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


-* 


Pearls  —  lowlier  pearls  — 
Fairest  of  womeu  and  sweetest  of  girls, 
Biud  on  your  forehead  and  clasp  in  your  soul 
A  fadeless  wreath  for  your  aureole  — 

Ornaments  meek 

For  your  stainless  cheek. 
Lulu,  our  darling:,  our  beautiful  bride. 

On  your  marriage  night 

In  the  soft  lovelight, 
Stately  and  pure  in  your  robes  of  pride ! 

Pearls  — holier  pearls- 
Caught  from  the  eddies  in  life's  swift  whirls. 
Radiant  gems,  from  the  sands  above. 
Gather  on  earth  for  your  crown  of  love; 

Jewels  of  light. 

Fadeless  and  bright. 
Purer  than  cloud-gems,  seen  from  afar 

On  the  brow  of  night, 

Through  the  waning  light. 
Lulu,  our  darling-,  our  pale,  sweet  star! 


JAMES  JACKSON  M.  SMITH. 

Born:  Oxford,  Ga.,  Nov. 4, 1839. 
This  gentleman  is  an  architect  and  builder, 
doing-  business  at  Burnet,  Texas.    His  poems 
hav<'  iipiHsn-fd  (piiif  i-xtt'ii-ivelyin  the  peri- 


JAMES  JACKSON  M.  SMITH. 


odical  press,  and  have  received  favorable 
mention.  Mr.  Smith  was  married  in  18(11  to 
Miss  Catherine  O.  Browne,  and  now  has  quite 
a  large  family. 


HOW     SISTER    TELLS    THE     STORY    TO 

BROTHER  WHEN  PAPPA  IS  GONE. 
Believe  me  dear  brother,  I  tell  you  a  truth, 
It  was  long  ago  when  our  papa  in  youth. 
Inherited  a  jewel:  more  precious  tlian  gold. 
Bought  by  our  ancestors  in  the  days  of  old; 
That  jewel,  so  I  have  been  told. 
Was  a  precious  right  ever  to  hold. 
Bought  by  our  ancestors  in  blood  and  goal, 
In  the  days  that  tried  men  to  the  soul. 

The  right  to  think,  to  enjoy  that  freedom. 
Granted  to  us  by  our  Father  in  heaven. 
If  only  his  laws  we  would  properly  obey,— 
Not  degrade  His  laws. 
The  purity  of  blood  was  his  first  decree, 
When  he  commanded  man  to  live  and  be. 
Proud  Caucasians !  the  noblest  of  all  the  races 
Teachers  of  the  arts,  virtue  and  sciences. 

The  founders  of  civilization,  christian  con- 
quest. 
Keep  square.  —  obey  his  holy  behest, 
I'll  make  you  ruler  of  all  the  races 
If  you'll  obey  my  law  and  christian  graces. 
Heed  it  not  your  fall  is  sure!  — 
When  the  vandal  hords  envied  us. 
They  came  as  a  whirlwind  tempest  tossed, 
Stood  our  fathers  on  Manassa's  plain. 

Hurling  back  with  might  and  main 

The  minions  that  dare  invade 

Long  years  of  strife  in  gory  laid. 

When  the  gory  weapon  in  glory  laid. 

The  pen,  mightier  than  the  sword 

Tells  of  the  truth  fearless  and  bold. 

And  now  the  truth  reveals  to  us; 

Our  fathers  were  right  in  that  mighty  fuss. 

Tlie  dearest  rights  left  to  man, 
They  lingered  to  old  age  to  defend. 
Decades  after  the  combat  ceased 
Striving  to  eradicate  The  Cunning  Tale, 
The  relentless  victorious  foe  did  weave. 
Presumed  to  tell  as  truth  (?)  you  know. 
His  hoary  hairs,  to  the  portals  of  the  grave, 
Proclaitned  the  truth  they  dare  would  brave, 

And  peacefully  folded   himself  in  the  silent 

grave, 
A  calm  assurance  if  our  country's  saved. 
It  was  the  arm  of  him  who  wore  tiie  gray, 
And  looked  to  God  and  did  liumbly  pray 
That  His  omnipotent  hand  would  ever  stay. 
The  hand  of  him  who  would  wantonly 
Ignore  his  laws  —  degrade  our  race. 
By  yoking  his  brother  to  the  negro  race. 


*- 


*- 


* 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKKIC'A. 


1029 


WILLIAM    I).    GALLAGIIKR. 

Bokn:  Philadelphia,  Pa.,  Aug.  2L  1808. 
At  the  age  of  eiglit  the  subject  of  this 
sketch  removed  west  with  his  widowed 
motlier,  settled  iu  Cincinnati,  wlicre  he  re- 
ceived liis  education  at  tlie  Lancasterian 
Seminary  of  that  city.  After  graduating, 
William  h>arn('il  type-setting.  Then  l)ecame  a 


\\  1  I   I.M  M    '    ■,  ■   ;  -  '.ALLAGHER. 

proof-reader  in  a  large  printing  and  pnldisli- 
ing  establisliment,  and  subsequently  was 
promoted  to  the  editorship  of  a  Cincinnati 
daily  paper.  Mr.  Gallagher  tlien  entered  the 
publishing  business  on  liis  own  account  and 
started  a  Quarterly  Review.  He  then  becaiBc 
interested  in  politics  and  was  an  office  holder 
for  several  years  iu  various  states  and  finally 
a  traveling  agent  for  the  National  Govern- 
ment. During  all  his  long,  active  and  varied 
occupations,  private  and  public,  it  must  be 
said  of  Mr.  Gallagher  that  literature  was  al- 
ways, as  it  still  is,  liis  love  and  pride.  In  18K1 
I  lie  published  a  volume  of  nearlj-  two  hund- 
red pages  entitled  Miami  Woods  and  Other 
Poems,  and  he  now  has  another  volume  of 
his  collected  poems  of  nearly  tliree  hundred 
pages,  whicli  will  be  published  in  the  near 
future.  Mr.  Gallagher  was  married  in  1850 
to  Miss  Emma  R.  Adamson,  daughter  of  Cajit. 
Jolin  Adamson  of  Boston,  Mass.,  by  whom 
he  has  had  a  large  family.  A  few  years  ago 
Mr.  Gallagher  received  a  severe  run-over  ac- 
cident, from  which  he  has  not  yet  recovered. 
« 


rONSEKVATISM. 
The  Owl,  lie  faretii  well 

In  tlie  shadows  of  the  night; 
And  it  puzzleth  liim  to  tell 

Why  tlie  Eagle  loves  the  light. 

Away  he  floats  —  ;iway. 
From  tlie  forest  dim  and  old. 

Where  he  pass'd  tlic  garisli  day:— 
The  niglitdoth  make  liim  bold! 

The  wave  of  his  downj-  wing. 

As  he  courses  round  about. 
Disturbs  no  sleeping  tiling 

That  he  flndeth  in  his  route. 

The  moon  looks  o'er  the  hill. 
And  the  vale  grows  softly  light ; 

And  the  cock,  with  greeting  shrill. 
Wakes  the  echoes  of  the  night. 

But  the  moon  —  he  knoweth  well 

Its  old  familiar  face; 
And  the  cock  — it  doth  but  tell. 

Poor  fool!  its  resting  place. 

And  as  still  as  the  spirit  of  Death 
On  the  air  his  pinions  play;  — 

There's  not  the  noise  of  a  breath 
As  he  grapples  with  his  prey. 

t)h,  the  shadowy  Night  for  him! 

It  bringetli  him  fare  and  glee; 
And  wliat  cares  he  how  dim 

For  the  Eagle  it  may  be? 

It  clothes  him  from  the  cold. 

It  keeps  his  larders  full; 
And  he  loves  the  darkness  old, 

To  the  Eagle  all  so  duU. 

But  the  dawn  is  in  the  East  — 

And  the  shadows  disappear; 
And  at  once  his  timid  breast 

Feels  the  presence  of  a  fear. 

He  resists;— but  all  in  vain  ! 

The  clear  Liglit  is  not  for  him; 
So  he  hastens  back  again 

To  the  forest  old  and  dim. 

Through  his  head  strange  fancies  run; 

For  he  cannot  eoinpreliend 
Why  tlie  moon  and  then  the  sun. 

Up  the  heavens  should  ascend,— 

When  the  old  and  quiet  Night, 
With  its  shadows  dark  and  deep. 

And  the  half-revealing  light 
Of  its  stars,  he'd  ever  keep. 

And  he  hooteth  loud  and  long:— 
But  the  Eagle  greets  the  day, 

And,  on  pinions  bold  and  strong. 
Like  a  roused  Thought,  sweeps  away  I 


*- 


1030 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEPICA. 


L.  BELLE  VAN  NADA. 

Born:  Southern  Indiana. 
This  lady  spent  more  than  ten  years  as  a 
teacher   in    the   public   schools.       She   has 
spoken  in  public  upon  different  topics,  and 
is    a   great   advocate     of    temperance    and 


L.  BELLE  VAN  NADA. 

women's  rights.  Miss  Van  Nada's  poems 
have  appeared  in  a  book  entitled  Poems,  and 
in  tlie  periodical  press  generally.  She  is  the 
proprietor  and  manager  of  the  Van  Nada 
House  in  Petersburg,  Indiana. 


*- 


IN  MEMORIAM. 
Ten  years  in  heaven,  darling  mother,  thou 

liast  been ; 
Ten  years  thou  hast  walked  the  pearly  streets 

within 

The  New  Jerusalem  above. 
The  city  of  God's  eternal  love, 
With  friends  of  high  and  humble  birth 
Ye  knew  in  days  of  yore  upon  the  earth; 
How  the  blissful  smiles  light  their  happy 

faces ! 
How  pure  heaven's  unchanging  love  ei'ases 
Earth's  distinctive,  undeviatiiig  traces 
Of   her  children  born    in    high    and    lowly 

places. 
Methinks,   O    darling    mother,   in    heaven's 

gilded  sunlight 
How  beautifully  thou  and  tliy  fair-winged 

friends  to-niglit 


Are  walking  the  gold-paved  sliiets 
In  the  city's  calm  retreats, 

Passing  and  repassing  up  and  down  the 
pearly  strands 

Of  life's  eternal  river,  list'nlngto  th'  heaven- 
appointed  minstrel  bands 

That  play  their  heaven-instructed  hymns  of 
praise 

Upon  the  celestial  plains  always; 

How  sweet,  O  darling  mother,  to  live  up  1 1  lere 

Among  tliy  kith  and  kindred  angels  fair. 

Ten  years !  How  long  to  us,  how  short  to  thee! 

For  every  day  on  halcyon  wings  so  glad  and 
free 

Perchance  away  ye  lightly  glide, 
Some  wanderer  home  to  guide. 

How  oft  in  glad  surprise  ye  find  some  well 
remembered  friend. 

For  every  day  th'  earth  her  wanderers  home- 
ward send. 

How  oft,  no  doubt,  ye  meet  them  in  th* 
sacred  portals  fair. 

Just  ushering  into  th'  royal  fields  up  there. 

Methinks  I  hear  in  thy 'soft  low  voice  a 
"  welcome  home !" 

Then  ye  turn  again  th'  elysian  fields  of 
heaven  to  roam. 


LISTENING  AND  WATCHING. 
We're  listening  to  the  thunder  roll 

Thro'  th'  sullen  clouds; 
We  watch  th'  lightnings  tear 

The  sky's  gray  folded  shrouds. 
We're  listening  to  the  soft,  low  dripping 

Of  th'  rain  upon  th'  rose  leaves; 
We  watch  them  bend  and  tremble, 

'Neath  th'  dribble  from  th'  eaves. 

We're  listening  to  th'  light  winds, 

Mourning  thro'  th'  ferns; 
We  watch  tliem  bowing  back  and  forth. 

As  a  wave  o'er  each  returns. 
We  watch  the  foaming  billows 

Upward  rise  and  swell; 
As  they  greet  th'  silvered  streamlets 

Tinkling  thro'  the  shady  dell. 

We're  listening,  but  we  do  not  hear 

The  humble  songs  of  love; 
From  throats  of  feathered  songster.s. 

Wafting  on  the  breeze  above. 
But  we're  watching  and  we  see  them, 

Huddling  in  the  shady  nooks. 
Looking  down  with  jiiercing  eye 

O'er  the  babbling  brooks. 


LOCAL,  AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKKICA. 


1031 


GEORGE  H.  WALSER. 

Uokn:  Deakbokn  Co.,  Ind.,  May  26,  1834. 

In  1857  George  H.  Walser  began  the  practice 
of  law  in  Miildleport,  111.  In  1861  lie  was  tlie 
first  man  to  volunteer  as  a  sukiier,  and  was 
elected  Captain  of  Company  I.  ~'Oth  Ue<rt.  Ills. 
Vols.  Inf.      Failing  healtli  caused  liis  resi^"-- 


f.,\ ' 

**%     ^l^x. 

% 

x-' 

gg^^B|L    ><te^ 

4'"-'^^ 

[?*! 

v1 

\1^ 

GEOUGE   H.  WALSEK. 

nation,  and  in  186.3  he  settled  in  Missouri,  and 
tliree  years  later  resumed  the  practice  of  his 
profession,  and  lias  had  great  success  as  a 
lawyer  in  the  circuit  and  supremo  courts. 
He  has  written  a  volume  entitled  Poems  of 
Leisure,  which  was  published  in  1891.  Mr. 
Walser  has  a  wife  and  two  cliildren,  and  is 
still  a  resident  of  Liberal,  Mo.,  wliich  town 
he  laid  out  in  18S0. 


MOUNT .ArfN   HOME. 
I  love  my  grand  old  mountain  home, 

I  love  its  breath,  I  love  its  looks, 
Tlie  bloom  that  smiles  on  it  alone 

I  love  as  do  I  love  its  Ijrooks. 

The  rocks  that  rib  its  furrowed  sides, 
I  love  them  for  their  noble  state. 

As  well  the  rill  which  down  it  glides. 
The  streams  neat  kirtled  at  its  feet. 

The  trees  that  shade  its  aged  brow, 
Wliich  sheltered  me  when  but  a  youtli, 

I  loved  them  then  as  do  I  now, 
I  love  its  gray  and  rocky  roof. 


I  love  its  moan  in  breezes  high, 

1  love  it  when  the  storm  winds  blow, 
I  love  from  it  to  ken  tlie  sky. 

Which  kisses  nieadlands  far  below. 
The  oreole  I  line  to  liear. 

And  see  the  roeliuck  on  the  bound; 
1  love  the  blitlie  and  nimble  deer, 

I  love  to  hear  the  laruni  sound. 
The  chase  deliglits  my  heart  as  well. 

The  bugle  and  the  scented  pack. 
As  coursing  tlirougii  the  copse  and  dell. 

As  Uy  the  hounds  on  heated  track. 
The  eagle  plants  her  ivric  high. 

To  catch  the  glimpse  of  morning  sun. 
Who  paints  its  streamlets  on  the  sky 

In  golden  shreds  so  deftly  spun. 
I  love  it  for  itself  alone, 

I  love  its  glens,  its  gorges  deep. 
I  love  my  grand  old  mountain  home, 

In  sweet  repose  there  let  me  sleep. 


THE  SUNSET  OF  LIFE. 
1  wonder,  often  wonder,  who 

Can  remain  unmoved  witli  feelings 
Of  grand  eniotitin  at  eventide 

As  the  old  sun  sets  aglow 
The  placid  bosom  of  the  west. 

And  smiling,  sends  his  golden  greeting 
To  the  outspread  wings  of  heaven, 
Tlien  sinking  calmly  down  to  rest. 
Whispers  softly,  sweetly  and  low. 
Good  night. 
Fair  world. 
Fair  world. 
Good  night; 
I'll  come  again  to-morrow. 
I  saw  that  old  sun  die  last  night 

In  his  golden  luster  of  age. 
And  slowly  sinking  out  of  sight. 

He  spread  upon  the  vermiel  page 
Of  heaven  a  smile 

Of  e.\quisite  gr:ice  and  richness. 
I  watched  him  awhile. 

As  he  spread  his  tinted  dye. 
And  gave  the  last  strokes,  with  serial  brush. 

On  the  canvas  of  the  sky ; 
Then  fading,  fading  away  to  blend 

Into  star  life,  cliaste,  pure  and  bright- 
Impressed  me  of  that  sweeter  end, 

Sublimer  look,  last  good  niglit, 
Loving  smile,  cheerful  words  and  depart- 
ing breath. 
Of  silver  Age  sinking,  sinking  Into  death. 
••Good  night. 
Dear  friends. 
Dear  friends, 
GihkI  night; 
We'll  meet  again  to-morrow." 


*- 


*- 


1032 


LOCAL   A>JD   NATIONAL    POKTS   OF   A3IEKICA. 


READ  THEIR  FATE  BETWEEN    THE 
LINES. 
We  are  living,  we  are  acting 

In  a  grand  and  glorious  time, 
And  the  ages  we  are  molding 
Will  bring  their  ultimates  sublime. 

We  are  reaping  from  the  ages. 

Reaching  back  to  long  ago; 
We  are  reading  from  the  pages, 

Wrote  in  words  of  human  woe. 

Pages  that  portray  the  actions 

Of  the  ruling  spirits  then; 
Of  the  grim  tumultuous  factions. 

And  the  crimes  of  many  men. 

Of  the  wars  and  revolutions, 
Failures  and  successes  grand; 

Of  contentions  and  commotions 
That  for  aye  have  filled  the  land. 

But  there  is  a  sadder  reading, 
Of  those  dark  and  gloomy  times; 

Which  is  worthy  of  our  heeding; 
'Tis  read  between  the  written  lines. 

'Tis  the  reading  of  the  anguish 
Wrung  from  bleeding  hearts  and  sad; 

Hearts  that  grieve  unknown  and  lan- 
guish, 
With  the  living  and  the  dead. 

'Tis  the  anguish  of  the  lone  one, 
'Tis  the  wailing  of  the  weak. 

It  is  the  patient,  helpless  throng 
That  of  their  wrong  never  speak. 

Tliose  that  struggle  on  in  sorrow 
With  no  other  hope  in  view; 

Moil  to-day  and  mourn  to-morrow; 
'Tis  the  millions  for  the  few. 

Tt  is  the  millions  for  the  few, 
'Twas  the  same  in  ancienttimes; 

Which  facts  are  veil'd  from  public  view ; 
Are  only  read  between  the  lines. 

We  are  living,  we  are  acting. 

In  an  age  and  nt  a  time. 
And  if  we  are  up  and  doing 

We  can  make  our  lives  sublime. 

We  can  change  the  wheel  of  power 
And  its  weight  on  these  dark  times ; 

We  can  make  oppression  cower. 
And  read  his  fate  between  tlie  lines. 


*- 


THERE  IS  NO  PLACE  LIKE  HOME. 
There  is  no  place  on  earth  like  home 

When  it  is  true  and  cheerful, 
But  home  lias  fled  when  one  alone 

Remains  in  grief  and  tearful. 


There  is  no  place  on  earth  like  home 
When  love  and  concord  rule  It, 

But  home  has  fled  its  sacred  dome 
When  one,  but  one,  can  useit. 

There  is  no  place  on  earth  like  home 
When  converse  social  cheers  it. 

But  home  has  lost  the  charms  of  home 
When  there's  but  one  who  shares  it 

There  is  no  place  on  earth  like  home 
When  smiles  and  pet  words  thrill  it, 

But  home  with  all  its  sweets  are  flown 
If  there's  but  one  to  fill  it. 

There  is  no  place  on  earth  like  home, 
The  gods,  I  ween,  thus  will  it, 

As  well  they  will  to  make  a  home 
There  must  be  two  to  fill  it. 


ETERNITT. 

Oh !  thou  eternity,  in  vain 

I  sti'ive  to  fathom  thee; 
Could  I  count  the  sands,  grain  by  grain. 

That  gird  the  mighty  sea, 
A  thousand  years  might  roll  between. 

Each  number  of  a  sand. 
Which  under  grand  old  ocean  gleam 

And  glisten  in  the  strand. 
Then  could  I  take  them  one  by  one. 

And  bear  them  from  the  sea. 
One  moment  will  not  have  begun  — 

Such  is  eternity. 


THE  RIVER  OF  LO^'~E. 

I  walked  'neath  the  boughs  of  a  willow, 

Where  the  currents  of  two  rivers  meet; 
1  stood  in  the  depths  of  its  shadow. 

That  fell  like  a  veil  at  my  feet; 
I  saw  the  two  rivers  flow  onward. 

In  union  toward  the  deep  sea; 
I  watched  their  two  currents  flow  downward. 

And  mingle  in  felicity. 

I  thought,  as  I  stood  by  that  river. 

Made  whole  by  the  union  of  two. 
Of  the  rivers  that  flow  on  together; 

Of  hearts  that  are  faithful  and  true. 
I  thought  of  the  deep  seated  pleasure, 

Tlie  la.sting  accord  and  esteem; 
That  bless  the  two  hearts  without  measure, 

When  love  rules  the  course  of  the  stream. 

I  thought  of  the  lives  that  flow  onward. 

As  rivers  flow  on  to  the  sea: 
'Mid  flowers  and  foliage  savored, 

With  smiles  born  of  sweet  linrmony. 
1  thought  of  the  flow  of  that  river; 

How  placid  its  deep  waters  move; 
Full  freiglited  with  smiles  for  each  other. 

On  borne  to  the  ocean  of  love. 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


1033 


-* 


MRS.  MARY   H   YOUNG. 

Born:  nkau  Sahatoga.  N.Y. 
This  lady  was  educated  in  New  England.  In 
1854  she  was  married  to  Hon.  G.  A.  Greene,  a 
probate  judge  of  Cliautauqua  County,  N.  Y. 
In  1887  appeared  a  volume  of  twt)  liundred 
and  tliii'ty  iiO'Miis  eiilitli'd.  Fdi'cst    Leaves,  a 


MKS.  MARY  HULETT  YOl Mi. 

work  of  great  excellence  and  poetic  power. 
This  lady  has  received  friendly  letters  from 
Henry  W.  Longfellow,  Dr.  O.  W.  Holmes, 
Paul  H.  Hayiie,  E.  C.  Steadman  and  others. 
Mrs.  Mary  Hulett  Young  has  also  written  a 
prose  story  of  three  hundred  and  fifty  pages, 
and  is  engaged  on  a  work  entitled  Walu-lieit. 


*- 


CONSTANTINE  THE  ELEVENTH. 

Alone  in  a  winter  midnight 

Which  solitude  made  drear, 
I  read  from  history's  volume 

With  the  frequent  starting  tear. 
Without  my  studj-  windows 

The  pine-trees,  sighing  low. 
Kept  time  to  mj'  mournful  musing 

O'er  a  page  of  human  woe. 
It  told  of  him,  the  latest. 

The  brave,  sad  Constantine, 
Whose  briglit  imperial  eagles 

Veiled  low  their  golden  sign. 
Whose  crown  of  unmeasured  sorrow 

Came  to  his  brow  unsought, — 
Its  splendor,  its  shame,  and  its  torture. 

In  the  shadows  of  destiny  wrought. 


Oh!  grand  were  the  forms  lowly  kneeling. 

The  last  of  the  worthy  and  brave, 
In  the  Church  of  St.  Sophia, 

Faith's  emblems  that  last  niglit  to  crave. 
Oh  I  the  wail  of  despair  from  his  palace  1 

Ohl  the  grief  of  iiis  deep-heaving  breast. 
As  Constantine  rode  through  the  darkness, 

The  lost  one  —  the  doomed,—  yet  the  blest ! 
His  Georgian  princess  is  waiting 

For  his  gallej's  to  come  o'er  the  sea 
And  bear  her  in  joy  and  in  beauty 

His  empress  bride  to  be; 
And  noble  hearts  gather  around  him, 

feteel-true  to  liis  latest  breath,— 
No  change  can  seal  him  a  tyrant. 

And  ages  shall  iionor  his  death. 
I  started  —  ;ny  lamp  burned  no  longer. 

Raindrops  splashed  without  on  the  snow, — 
I  blessed  them  that  they  were  weeping 

For  a  grief  of  long  ago. 


ENDYMTON  SLEEPING. 
—  A  scene  most  fair,  the  Latmos  hill 
From  which  the  trees  drcjop  'ow  and  still 
Upon  a  crystal  gleaming  lake  — 
No  softest  sounds  the  silence  break 

Where  lies  Endyniioti  sleeping. 
A  white  swan  dreams  ui»on  the  wave 
That  loves  her  snowy  breast  to  lave,— 
A  temple  whiter  than  her  wing. 
Stands  where  the  palm-tree  shadows  cling. 

And  lies  Endyinion  sleeping. 

The  temple's  marble  stops  are  near. 
The  moonlight  waters  shining  clear. 
The  palm-leaf  shadows  softy  lie,— 
A  soundless-soft  voice  calms  its  sigh 

To  leave  Endyniion  sleeping. 
The  flowers  are  clustered  at  his  feet. 
Narcissus  fair  and  red  rose  sweet. 
The  hyacinth  dark-i)urpling  lies  — 
And  shine  above  the  sad  pure  eyes 

That  light  Endyniion  sleeping 
His  dark  curls  on  the  marble  rest. 
His  wliite  hands  on  a  peaceful  breast. 
His  lips  of  matchless  god-like  mold 
Smile  with  a  joy  for  earth  too  bold.— 

Ah,  leave  Endyniion  sleei>ingl 


WITHERED  LEAVES. 
Ye  withered  leaves  of  long  ago. 

Strange  is  the  tale  ye  tell.— 
Why  come  ye  from  your  hiding-place 

To  break  time's  Lethean  spell? 
O  blue  deep  smiling  eyes  of  love, 

O  waxen  white  hands  crossed, — 
Alas,  that  these  frail  leaves  are  here 

.\nd  ye  to  me  so  lost! 


*- 


1034 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL,   POETS   OF    AMERICA. 


MRS.  JEAN  E.  U.  NEALIS. 

Born  :  Fredebicton,  N.  B.,  Sept.  25, 1842. 
The  present  residence  of  tliis  lady  is  at  Sun- 
set Slope,  Fort  Dufferin,  N.  B.,  where  she  re- 
sides with  her  husband^  Hugh  Nealis,  whom 
she  married  in   1864    Mrs.  Nealis  has  pub- 


MRS.  JEAN  E.  V.  NEALIS. 

lished  a  volume  of  poems  entitled  Drift, 
wliich  contains  some  magnificent  verses. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  Nealis  have  constantly 
appeared  in  the  press  of  the  United  States 
and  Canada.  She  has  a  very  fine  family  of 
children,  a  pretty  seaside  home,  and  many 
warm  friends. 


IN  UMBRA  MORTIS. 

0  mine  own  brother,  let  me  hold  your  hand. 
The  day  so  strangely  cold    and   dark   has 

grown, 

1  feel  the  end  is  near,  so  long  desired, 
And  I  am  glad,— for  I  am  weak  and  tired, 
Yet  fear  to  tread  Death's  awful  Pass  alone! 

So  hold  my  hand  a  little  longer  still,      [o'er; 
In  soft,  close  clasp,  and  warm;  'twill  soon  be 
To-morrow  you  may  fold  them  as  you  will. 
For  I,  beyond  man's  judgment,  good  or  ill, 
Shall  have  passed  out,  thank  God,  forever- 
more  ! 
So,  hold  my  hand;  it  is  the  one  last  thing 
I  need,  of  human  love,  to  comfort  me. 
Just  hold   my  hand,   until   the  night  shall 
bring 


Eternal  rest,  for  which  I'm  hungering,— 
Eternal  rest,  beyond  life's  stormy  sea! 

Then,  fold  these  hands  that  never  more  shall 

crave 
Aught  that  they  should  not  ask,  or  asking 

have; 
Close  in  the  blinds,  and,  thro'  the  darkened 

room. 
Let  blessed  candles  lighten  up  its  gloom. 
And  pray  thou  for  my  soul,  gone  to  its  doom, 
For  there  is  no  remembrance  in  the  grave. 


FROZEN  FLOWERS. 
Poor  little  flowers!  are  you  all 

Blasted  with  the  frost's  cold  breath? 
So  green  and  fair  you  were  yesterday, 

Now  —  touched  by  the  hand  of  Death. 
Poor  little  flowers!  Gifts  j'ou  were 

From  the  friends  of  a  summer's  day. 
But  the  summer  is  gone  and  — dearer  things 

Than  flowers  must  fade  away. 
Poor  little  flowers!  Your  drooping  leaves 

Tell  of  hopes  that  can  die  in  a  nigbt. 
Of  a  colder  frost  and  a  bitterer  death, 

And  a  darker,  ghastlier  blight! 
Poor  little  flowers!  I  will  bring  you  in. 

And  hide  your  dead  beauty  away  — 
I  have  hidden  a  blacker  death  than  this 

In  the  grave  of  my  heart  — to-day. 


ALL. 

O  mothers,  over  all  the  earth. 

To  you  I  make  my  moan: 
You  have  your  burdens,  all  of  you. 
And  each  one  knows  her  own ; 
But  you  around  whose  necks  a  babe's  arms 

twine 
Pity  me,  desolate,—  God  took  all  minel 

i  know  the  most  of  you  have  graves 
Where  some  sweet  flower  lies. 
That  droop'd  too  soon.  Yet  you  may  look 
With  loving  happy  eyes 
On  others,  playing  in  the  Spring  sunshine. 

0  pray  for  me  to-night,—  God  took  all  niinel 

Perhaps,  losing  many,  you  have  Isept, 
Tliro'  God's  kind  iiieroy,  one, 

O  when  you  kiss  lier,  say  "God  help 
The  mothers  who  have  none!" 

1  li;ul  four,—  V)ut  trailing  mosses  twine 
About  his  grave  and   theirs!    God  took  all 

mine? 
Not  sparing  one,  altliough  I  prayed 

So  hard  to  keep  this  last. 
My  little  Mary,— one  sweet  flower! 
But,— 'tis  a  prayer  gone  past. 
Mr  God!  not  my  will,  anymore, but  Thine! 
All  Thou  hast  done  was  best— for  me  and 
mine! 


*- 


*- 


L<)CAT>   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


l()3o 


* 


DAVID  EDWARD  COLLINS. 

Born:  Scotland,  Mav  8,  1850. 

The  subject  of  this  sketch  >;riidii:ited  from 
the  California  Military  Academy  and  the 
University  of  California.  After  graduating: 
Mr.  Collins  spent  six  years  in  Europe  at 
Edinborouph.  London,  Paris  and  Lcipsic  in 
the   study   of   jihilosophy   and  scit-iicc.      Of 


DAVID   EDWAUD  COr.t.INS. 

late  years,  however,  lie  has  been  much  ab- 
sorbed In  business,  and  is  a  man  of  integrity 
and  business  ability,  and  a  banker  of  high 
standing  in  Oakland,  Cat.,  where  he  now  re- 
sides. He  was  married  in  1888  to  Miss  Emma 
M.  Gieschen,  and  now  lias  one  daughter 
named  Vlda  C.  Collins.  Mr.  Collins  has  writ- 
ten more  th.an  a  hundred  commendable 
poems  that  have  received  extensive  publica- 
tion in  the  University  Journal  and  the  peri- 
odical press  generally. 


*- 


ON  PARTING. 
We  run,  and  we  must  read  as  well 
Below  the  surface  lives  of  men ; 
We  live  two  lives,  and  yet  again 
Those  lives  are  one  when  blended  well. 

Some  effluence  still  our  souls  outpour 
When  least  we  play  a  conscious  part : 
Some  subtle  power  but  stills  the  heart 
And  doffs  the  garments  that  it  wore. 


Whatc'er  good  iuUuence  we  may  knmv 
In  tresses  fair  let  memory  weave. 
And  in  our  souls  its  network  leave 
A  relic  of  the  long  ago. 

But  we  may  meet;  this  thought  remains; 
And  Hope  her  fancied  joys  will  raise 
To  keep  thy  memory  green  always 
Till  death  shall  silence  care  and  pain. 


BRIDAL  VEIL  FALLS. 
Tliou  gentle  stream,  canst  say. 

Where  beauty  holds  her  festive  day. 
And  how  with  potent  sway 

She  clothes  thee  for  this  holiday? 

Hast  never  seen  her  hold 

Her  magic  pencil  chased  with  gold. 
Tracing  with  speed  untold 

The  paintings  that  the  world  enfoldV 

The  crystal  drops  appear. 
The  simpler  efforts  of  hersphere; 

But  with  thee  she  doth  rear 
The  wonders  of  the  rainbow  here. 

Then  whence  that  joyous  power 

That  beauty  doth  upon  thee  shower- 
Some  wealth  of  sunset  liour  — 
An  earnest  of  her  priceless  dower? 

O  wind,  canst  thou  not  tell 

Whence  that  beauty  thou  lov'st  so  well? 
Stays  it  with  the  ocean  swell. 

Or  does  it  with  thee  ever  dwell? 

Hast  thou  brought  her  here  perchance 
To  flaunt  her  charms  in  the  mazy  diince. 

And  from  tlie  broad  e.xininse 
To  localize  each  human  glance? 

O  wilt  thou  not  reveal 

The  secret  which  thou  dost  conceal? 
Must  I  in  vain  appeal 

To  know  the  source  of  what  I  feel? 

To  beauty  men  must  needs 

Pay  homage  botli  in  wortls  and  di  eds. 
While  she  her  suppliant  speeds 

To  noble  aims  and  generous  creeds. 

O  Bridal  Veil.  I  see 

This  swathing  beauty  wrapt  'round  thee; 
And  whither  sh.all  men  flee 

Where  scenes  of  greater  beauty  bf? 

Does  the  Orient  wear 

A  lovelier  gem?    Nowliere.  Nowhere. 
Whither  then  shall  men  repair? 

The  echo  comes,  ••  No  otherwhere." 


-9 


*- 


1036 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


VERNAL  FALLS. 

O  Vernal  Fall!  thy  grand  orchestral  strains 

To  rapturous  music  in  the  distance  wane, 

And  fall  in  softness  on  my  ravished  ear, 

Melting  me  into  a  devout  worshipper. 

Set  'mid  grim-visaged  cUtts  and  nature's 
wild 

With  stern-faced  features.  Oh,  thou  dearest 
child 

Of  nature!  thou  art  wrapt  in  awful  grace. 

While  golden  laughter  lightens  up  thy  face. 

The  changing  air  a  tender  quiet  holds 

That  it  may  fashion  into  Orphic  molds 

Tliy  music;  as  Orpheus  of  old  did  charm. 

So  now  the  rocks,  the  trees,  the  waters  warm 

Witli  thy  time-measured  pulse,  and  now  ex- 
press. 

With  mocliing  sweetness,  all  thy  tenderness. 

And  then  the  waters  in  silver  dimples 

Glance  in  pleasure  gay, 

And  ripples  that  seem  in  a  hazy  dream 

Are  fashioning  all  the  day. 

The  spray  is  curling  and  ever  whirling 

At  pleasuie  and  at  will; 

And  the  trees  have  grown  and  the  flowers 
have  blown. 

With  never  a  blight  to  liill. 

And  Iris  bold  doth  communion  hold, 

While  the  waters  are  imbued; 

And  the  solar  rays  in  magical  ways 

Paint  rainbows  Iris-hued. 

And  the  trees  and  grass  as  the  stranger  pass 

Stand  out  in  richest  green; 

And  the  dewy  leaves  in  the  morns  and  eves 

Make  springtime  of  the  scene. 


MAY. 

Of  all  the  months  throughout  the  year, 

Which  is  the  dearest,  say ! 
For  there's  none  that  seemeth  so  dear  to  me 

As  the  merry  month  of  May. 

On  Scotia's  brave  and  blessed  soil 

It  was  a  glorious  day. 
When  I  bade  farewell  to  the  land  of  my  birth 

In  the  happy  month  of  May. 

The  fields  were  covered  o'erwitli  green. 

The  streamlet's  dasliing  spray, 
And  the  sunbeams  glanced  on  the  glittering 
sheen 

In  the  joj'ous  month  of  May. 

My  heart  was  filled  with  tender  joy 

In  youth's  untroublt>(l  day. 
And  many  the  mouths  that  have  come  and 


O  dearest  month  of  all  the  year. 
Rich  pleasures  still  are  they 

That  come  to  me  and  so  merrily  come 
With  the  coming  of  the  May. 


gone. 
But  none  like  the  month  of  May. 


A  FRAGMENT  OF  A  POEM. 
The  moon  was  climbing  up  the  east. 

The  stars  did  fade  away, 
W  hile  nature  slept  the  sleep  of  peace 

Worn  out  with  the  toils  of  day. 

With  frowning  brow  and  flashing  eye, 

'Mid  silence  deeply  prized. 
Poor  Walter  stood  a  serious  man 

And  thus  soliloquized: 

"  Aye,  this  is  life:  for  joy  and  grief 
Are  partners  of  our  daily  walk; 

Through  richest  fields  that  Fancy  form 
Some  hellish  phantoms  stalk. 

•t  I  see  those  phantoms  dance  with  glee 
Upon  the  wreck  of  ruined  hopes; 

Sin  plays  its  tricks,  and  others  be: 
With  me  despair  elopes. 

•'  Dark  with  me,  this  trembling  heart 

1  lay  upon  the  shrine 
Of  hopes  all  gone  that  had  inspired 

And  made  my  aims  divine. 

"  Age  bath  not  marked  her  furrows  here; 

The  warmth  of  blood  my  youth  declares. 
But  still  unnumbered  years  1  feel 

A  nd  weighted  am  with  cares. 

»•  Old  age  before  her  time  has  come, 
And  landmarks  in  my  heart  uprears: 

Our  sufferings  and  our  toils  do  mark 
The  passage  of  the  years. 

"O  Agnes!  Thou,  whom  years  had  made 
Sole  idol  of  this  trusting  heart. 

Art  lost  —  liast  left  of  life  for  me 
The  solitary  part. 

..O  wert  tliou  false?  Thou  knewest  not 
What  tender  love  for  thee  I  bore; 

O  fool,  that  I  should  e'er  have  kept 
Such  mystery  in  store. 

..  Go  back  ye  tide  of  years,  and  bear 
On  Lethe's  stream  tliis  stern  regret; 

For  I  .shall  carry  to  my  grave 
Our  love  wheti  last  we  met." 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1037 


* 


MARTIN  V.  MOORE. 

Born:  Johnson  Co.,  Tenn.,  April,  12,  IKJ". 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Moore  have  appeared  in 
Harper's  Mag-azine,  Frauk  Leslie's  Sunday 
Magazine,  Godey's  Lady's  Book,  Fireside 
Companion,  tlie  Atlanta  Constitution,  Sunny 
Siiiitli,  .Vnu'viea,  and  other  papers  and  mag-a- 


.MAKi'l.\    V.  MUOKE. 

zines  of  the  South.  The  literary  work  of 
Martin  V.  Moore  has  been  confined  chieliy 
to  prose  writing,  and  he  has  done  much  i:i 
the  line  of  editorial  work,  and  in  misccll.i- 
neous  short  stories,  sketches,  magazine  arti- 
cles, book  reviews,  scientific  papers,  political 
and  historical  works,  and  is  tlie  author  of 
several  large  prose  works.  Mr.  Moore  was 
married  in  1864  to  Miss  Sallie  E.  Lenoir,  but 
is  now  a  widower,  residing  with  his  family 
in  Auburn,  Ala. 


THE  UNANSWERED  CRY. 
Allah,  allah,  tell  me,  pray. 
Is  there  aught  of  us  shall  stay 
When  the  thing  called  life  is  ended 
And  the  bones  with  dust  are  blended?  — 
Allah  in  the  heart  replies  — 
There's  a  spirit  that  never  dies. 
Allah,  tell  me  how  shall  I, 
When  the  journey's  over,  die? 
When  the  tongue  shall  cease  its  clatter. 
And  when  the  feet  shall  quit  their  patter  — 
Where  shall  then  the  spirit  go?  — 
Tell  me,  Allah,  thou  dost  know. 


Allah  gives  me  no  reply  — 

Sends  no  answer  to  my  cry  — 
When  the  bowl  is  to  be  broken 
Allah  gives  us  word  or  token  — 

Where  the  loosened  spirit  goes 

Only  Allah  ever  knows:— 

Only  Allah,— great,  sublime,— 
Knows  the  place,  the  how,  the  time; 
Mercy  holds  the  darkened  portal 
From  tlie  ken  of  prying  mortal  — 
Only  Allah  e'er  should  know 
When  and  where  the  spirits  go. 


THE  LOVE-LINK. 
We  met  —  a  gentle  maid  and  I  — 

One  far-off  summer  wlien 
A  simple  flower  told  my  love. 

And  told  mo  her's  again  : 
She  gave  to  me  a  promise  true 

And  I  was  happy  then. 

We  met  again;  the  maiden  was 

My  sweet  bride.  O  so  fair: 
Tiie  same  dear  flowers  wore  she  then 

In  clusters  in  her  hair; 
We  laid  our  licaris  upon  one  shrine. 

And  I  was  happy  there. 
We  went  into  the  widening  world; 

Care  hath  our  lives  beset. 
And  often  over  buried  joys 

The  tear  our  cheeks  hath  wet ; 
Rut  still  the  love-link  binds  our  hearts 

And  I  am  happy  yet. 
And  far  out  in  the  narrowing  sky 

I  see  the  faith-light  quiver; 
And  underneath  it  beckoning  ray 

Our  barque  upon  the  river; 
And  in  the  Heaven  read  that  we 

May  happy  be  forever. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  ROSE. 

EXTU.^CT. 

The  summers  came  to  Paradise 

A  thousand  years  perhaps  and  more. 
But  still  the  summer  winds  that  went 

No  rose-scent  up  to  Heaven  bore. 
Till  man  to  Eden's  garden  came, 

.And  Cain  his  brotlier  snu'te  and  slew: 
Tlien  where  tlie  earth  drank  up  tlie  bkHxi 

The  primal  rose-busli  sprang  and  grew. 
Sweet  incense  from  the  ruined  shrine 

Was  then  unto  tlie  flower  given; 
And  it  with  the  prayer  of  the  righteous  dead 

The  carrier  winds  took  up  to  Heaven. 
Now  in  the  blossom's  hue  we  see 

The  flesh  and  bkxKl  the  martyr  bore:  — 
While  In  the  thorn  —  lo  iliere's  the  curse 

Affixed  by  God  fon>verniore 
_ lil 


*- 


1038 


LOCAT>   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


MRS.  ELLEN  J.  MCHENRY. 

Born:  Chardon,  O.,  Nov.  23,  1827. 
In  1847  this  lady  was  married  to  Hon.  John 
McHeury,  judge  of  the  first  district  court  of 
New  Orleans,  La.    Four  years  later  she  re- 
moved to  California,  where  she  now  resides 


MRS.  EI.T,KN  .J.  M'HENRY. 

at  Berkeley,  witli  her  husband  and  children. 
Mrs.  McHeury  lias  published  au  epic  poem 
entitled  Legend  of  the  Wandering  Jew,  and 
also  a  prose  work  entitled  Our  Boys.  Tlie 
poems  of  Mrs.  McHenry  have  appeared  from 
time  to  time  in  current  literature. 

THE  OLD  MISSION  BELLS. 
Oh!  don't  melt  up  the  bells! 
The  dear  old  bells  have  hung  so  long, 
And  called  so  many  to  prayer  and  song 
Who   have  joined  the   great   unnumbered 

throng. 
On  their  way  to  the  silent  shore. 
The  peaceful  fathers  with  their  beads  all  told. 
The  Indians  gathered  in  the  Christian  fold. 
The  Argonauts  and  their  comrades  bold 
Will  hear  those  bells  no  more. 
Oh !  don't  take  down  the  bells ! 
But  let  them  hang  for  the  days  gone  by, 
And  as  you  pass  them,  breathe  a  sigh. 
For  the  old  pioneers,  wlio  silent  lie. 
In  their  graves  on  the  busy  street; 
Could  they  see  the  rush  and  hear  the  roar. 
Of  commerce  and  toil  on  this  Golden  shore. 
Would  they  wish  to  be  again  once  more. 
Where  their  friends  and  children  meet? 


Oh!  don't  melt  up  the  bells! 
The  dear  old  bells  have  hung  so  long. 
And  called  so  many  to  prayer  and  song. 
Who   have   joined   the    great    unnumbered 
On  their  waj'  to  the  silent  shore.        [throng. 
In  the  coming  years,  then  let  them  hang, 
To  remind  us  all  by  their  feeble  clang. 
Scarce  heard  with  the  new  bell's  ponderous 
Of  the  days  that  will  come  no  more.     Ll><iDg, 

ONLY  A  SISTER. 
Ah  why  is  this?  my  brother  never 
Spoke  so  polite  to  me  before. 
As  when  to-day  Miss  E.  McEvor 
Came  tripping  through  the  parlor  door. 
He  did  not  say,  "give  me  some  grub," 
•'  Why  don't  you  make  up  my  bed  ? 
Or  hang  it  all,  do  shut  the  door," 
But  this  is  what  he  kindlj'  said: 
'•  Now,  sis,  I'd  like  some  dinner  quick, 
1  know  I'm  rather  late. 
To-day  I  felt  a  little  sick. 
Just  hand  me,  sis,  a  cup  and  plate." 
Astonished  then  I  looked  at  him, 
And  could  not  think  just  what  to  say. 
He  spoke  so  kind  and  looked  so  trim;  — 
His  sweetheart  dined  with  us  to-day! 


POOR  POLLYS  LAMENT. 

0  how  1  long  once  more  to  go 

To  the  sun-bright  plains  of  Mexico!         [sky, 
Where  my  mate  flies  free  through  the  tropic 
And  screams  at  her  will,  in  the  palm  trees 
While  I  swing  here  in  myjnarrow  cage,  [hiF''.' 
And  gnaw  the  bars  in  my  helpless  rage. 
The  cold  west  wind  sweeps  down  the  street, 
And  chills  me  through,  from  head  to  feet. 
As  on  my  lonesome  perch  I  stand. 
And  sigh  and  sigh  for  my  native  land. 
They  forget  I  came  from  a  sun-briglit  clinic. 
The  land  of  the  orange,  the  olive  and  lime. 
Oh  how  I  hate  the  sight  and  sound 
Of  all  I  see  and  hear  around. 
When  the  urchins  utter  the  hateful  cry 
Of  "Polly  want  a  cracker,"  as  they  go  by; 
And  taunting,  speak  of  my  crooked  nose, 
And  mocking  laugh  at  my  "turned  in"  toes 
A  dark-eyed  Senorita  stood 
By  my  cage,  one  day,  in  pensive  mood, 
Slie  drew  her  "Trebosa  "  'round  her  head. 
And  "Pobre  Pahai'ita,"  she  sweetly  .said; 
My  heart  gave  one  tumultuous  bound. 
For  my  ear  had  caught  the  old  sweet  sound 
But  alas!  my  tongue  forgot  to  say, 
AVhat  I  learned  in  my  own  land  far  away, 
And  she  passed  on  with  the  hurrying  crowd , 
And  'though  I  fluttered   and   screamed  si^ 

1  never  have  chanced  lier  face  to  see,    [louc 
For  she  never  came  back  to  speak  to  me. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   I'OKTS   OF   AMKUICA. 


lO.'iiJ 


JAMES  LOCKHART  GOODLOE 

Houx:  Madison  Co.,  Miss.,  Sept.  3, 1840. 
As  soiiDiEK,  lawyer  and  poi't  James  Lock- 
hart  Goodloe  has  gained  an  eviablc  reputa- 
tion in  tlie  soutliern  states,  and  liis  poems 
have  appeared  in  tlie  Nashville  Home  Circle, 
Galveston  News,  Vicksburs-  Whijr,  Mt'inpliis 
Appeal,  Meiiipliis  Avalanche,  Mobile  Kegis- 


•JAMES    LOCKHAltT   <!l)<)I)LOE. 

ter,  Hunlsville  Times,  Atlanta  Sunny  South, 
from  which  they  have  been  copied  by  tlio 
I)eriodical  press  throughout  America.  Mr. 
Goodloe  delivered  the  poem  of  graduation  in 
18()0,  and  was  elected  annual  poet.  Delta  Psi 
Fraternity  for  1861,  and  Alumni  poet  in  1890 
at  tlie  University  of  Mississippi.  He  served 
through  the  war  and  was  slightly  wounded. 


*- 


A  TRILOGY. 

PAN   SLEEPS  — YOUTH. 

Asliadowy  vale,  between  two  sloping  hills 
Where  sprays  of  sunlight  fall,  and  no  broad 
Of  brilliance  glare  and  shine.  [bars 

Ry  slight  decline 
Tlie  sylvan  patli  descends  this  peaceful  grove 
Until  a  valley  opens  wide  and  still. 
Rough  Wintry  storms    have    torn    earth's 
bosom  liere,  [roots. 

And    underneath  the  crumpled  oak  tree's 
Winding,  entangled,  like  great  .serpent  folds. 
Scaly,  and  thick  and  strong,  — a  dark  ravine 
Lies  half  revealed,  long  spiral  vines,  above, 
Lean  down  and  curious,  peer  into  its  deeps; 


And,  In  tiie  noiseless  cover  of  its  shades, 
A  meek  hare  fills  her  form,  and  busy  wrens 
Hold  quiet  liousewife  conclave  near  a  nest. 
Hither,  in  early  youth,  he  often  came  — 
A  brown-eyed,  sun-burned   l)oj',  of  thought- 
ful moods. 
Who, dreanung listlessly,  his  youngsoul  rapt 
And  borne  resistlcssly  into  Alieu  skies. 
Cast  himself  prone  upon  tlie  fostering  earth. 

No  sound  of  axe  or  hunter;  no  kine  lowed. 
The  forest  tlirilled   not  with   shrill   reed  of 

birds,  [breeze 

liut   silence    reigned;    the    gently    moving 
Soft  swept  the  beech  and  maples,  and  low 

sounds, 
Asof  some  solemn,  slumberous  genius  [balm. 
Breathed  on  his  ear  and  lieart  witli  nature's 
Enraptured,  thougli  he  knew  not  why,  he  lay 
H.alf  dreaming;  musing;  liappj-,  and  yet  sad. 

A  restless  crow  M-ent  —  crying  not  —  above; 
Whither  he  knew  not,  cared  not;  but  away; 
And  one  soft  note  of  wood-thrusli  wliispering 
made;  [oak, 

The  half-heard  whisk  and  mutter  from  tin 
Where  dozed   an  owl,  and  wiiere  a  scjuirrel 
lay;  [world; 

And  then.  Ids  musing  on  the  glorious,  happy 
And  liis  own  wandering  thoughts  of  play- 
mates, maids,  [hope; 
And  boys,  and  home,  an  untold  years  of 
The  living  consciousness  in  liim,  of  both 
His  own   and  nature's  growing,  throbbing 

pulse. — 
All  swept,  melodiously,  upon  his  of  life. 

Then,  full  of  peace,  and  stilly,  quiet  rest,— 
Untouched  by  rush  of  trade  or  jealous  love. 
Or  caiikeriiig,co!d  anibitioii— slept  the  youth. 
So  young  Pan  sleeps  throughout  the  sultry 

noon. 
Until  the  evening  zephyr  conies  and  sighs  — 
Growing  vehement,  as  it  bhists  Ids  e;irs  — 
"Up!  "  to  the  linnet,  cicada,  and  liare;— 
••Up!"    to  the  elm  and  maple  leaves  and 

boughs ; 
And,  soon  tlie  concert  of  the  wood  begins; 
The  vale  enlivens,  and  all  nature  culls. 
From  ravine  to  the  hills:  and  all  the  air 
Is  resonant  with  joy;  the  boy  is  thrille<l. 
He  wakes,  he  leaps  and  smiles.     He  shouts 

and  sings. 
As  atone  with  himself,  the  world  and  God. 

PHANTOMS—  MATriUTV. 

A  passing  vision  haunts  by  day. 
Or  wakes  me  out  of  slumber, 
As  when  some  second  sight  expels 
Things  which  the  soul  encumber. 
Out  of  this  oft-recurring  dream 
The  impress  conies  to  me 


— « 


*— 


1040 


LOCAl.   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OV  AMERICA. 


All  sweeter,  dearer,  deeper  far 

Than  waking  thoughts  can  he. 

My  soul  then  casts  her  fetters  down 

And  hies  to  meet  some  lover, 

In  fields  all  green  and  golden,  where 

The  kindly  angels  hover.— 

I've  pondered  often,  welcoming 

The  argosies  she  bore : 

No  message  seems  so  pierced  with  light. 

No  vision  glowed  so  purely  bright. 

As  those  her  tokens  wore. 

Yet  not  of  song  or  loving  word. 

But  feelings  sweetest  bars. 

And  images  of  Heaven's  love 

Dropped,  earthward,  from  the  stars. 

Then,  wafted  to  some  eminence, 

O'er-shadowed  by  the  night, 

I  see  the  pictured  landscape  lie 

Soft  in  the  dim  starlight. 

The  gardens,  fields  and  woodlands  dim, 

The  stream  marked  by  the  shades 

Of  over-hanging  willow  boughs. 

And  quiet  everglades. 

I  hear  a  dreamy  chattering. 

The  thousand  pipes  of  Pan, 

From  throats  and  wings  of  little  things 

That  wisseu  not  of  man; 

Of  night  bird,  as  with  startled  note 

She  leaves  her  dewy  cover. 

And  drops  into  the  shallow  strea-n 

To  greet  her  happy  lover. 

And  great-eyed  kine,with  length'ning  reach 

The  darkling  by-ways  threading. 

Precede  their  young,  near  break  of  dawn. 

To  flowery  meadows  leading. 

They  halt  not  to  beware  of  me; 

They  know  not  of  my  dreaming. 

Nor  of  the  soul's  rapt  minstrelsy 

From  shadowy  starlight  streaming. 

But  now  an  Eidolon  comes  down 

In  half  shade  from  the  ether, 

A  soulful  panorama  falls 

And  spreads  o'er  wood  and  heather. 

It  knows  not  me;  but  I  divine 

Its  restful  dreamy  story. 

I  feel  a  loving  spirit  brood 

On  this  phantasmagory. 

I  know  not  how  it  is,  but  oft 

In  childhood's  half-wild  reasons, 

And  in  the  calmer  years  of  age 

It  calls  me  at  all  seasons. 

It  wakes  me  in  the  silent  night. 

And  no  surprise  succeedcth, 

But  lovingly  I  answer  it 

And  follow  where  itleadeth. 

Its  mute  control  o'erwhelmeth  me      


With  deep  and  earnest  feeling, 

Its  pure  effulgence  softly  beams. 

Into  my  bosom  stealing. 

So,  gazing  into  the  river's  flood. 

Deep  in  its  bosom  lying, 

A  new  creation  greets  our  view 

With  Heaven's  beauty  vicing. 

I  shed  soft  tears,  suppressing  hope  i 

Of  word  or  look  or  story. 

Except  the  brooding  soundless  sense 

Of  this  phantasmagory. 

And  in  the  still  night's  darkling  rest. 

In  half-shade,  there,  before  it. 

The  soulful  panorama  lies 

Nestless,  and  night  broods  o'er  it. 

Ah !  would  that  I  might  change  the  cast 

And,  to  its  sphinx-like  gazing. 

Infuse  a  thrilling  sound  or  word  — 

This  dreamy  scene  amazing. 

But  no!  the  dream  is  mine  alone. 

And  no  phantasmal  seeming 

Can  dissipate  the  rising  fear 

That  this  is  only  dreaming. 

And  yet,  perhaps,  each  heart's  low  moan 

Is  void  of  consolation. 

perhaps  the  plaint  of  every  soul 

Is  full  of  desolation. 

But  still  amid  the  bosom's  pain 

A  joyous  angel  singing. 

Reveals  the  happy  fount  of  life 

To  heights  supernal  springing!  , 

HUMILITY  —  AGE. 

The  Deity  whom  we  adore  as  great. 
And  good  and  glorious,  and  pitying. 
Is  all  that  they  have  said;  he  pities  us, 
But  forces  us  to  teach  ourselves.  We  spring 
East  to  our  hearts'  desires.  The  gilded  things 
Which  we  pursue  are  caught  and  crushed. 

They  burn. 
Or  bite,  or  sting  us;  and  we  slowly  learn 
To  choose;  or  else  we  turn  away  surprised 

or  jaded  — 
Wondering  if  life  is  false.  [presents 

He.^ven,- waiting  calmly -some  fresh  am 
We  scan  the  ends  of  flesh  and  earthly  ponip 
Experience  proves  them  futile,  lifeless  tasks 
Leaving  the  dross  we  seek  a  higher  plane. 
Then  we  look  upward  ;there  sits  wisdom  near 
Silent,  observant,  calm;  and  all  the  while. 
Awaiting  this  first  bell-  one  labor  closed. 
Now  armed  with  this,  a  shield  invisible- 
The  soul  goes  onward,  sighing  for  lost  time: 
And  fearing,  knowing  life  is  all  too  short 
For  reverence  and  art,  we  grasp  the  light 
Of  immortality.    So,  huml)led  thus. 
We  yield  our  spirits  to  that  Deity      [tears  - 
Whom  men -when  learned  in  trials  and  i 
Adore  as  wise,  and  kind,  and  pitying 


•i«- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMKKICA. 


1041 


DANIEL  KISSAM  YOUNG. 

Born:  Brooklyn,  N.\'.,  Dec.  2,  lis.">l. 
During  the  college  course  of  the  subject  of 
this  sketch  lie  was  president  of  the  Phreuocos- 
miiin  Literary  Society  and  received  honors  at 
his  graduation.  In  1871  he  graduated  from  the 
collopeof  tlie  City  of  New  York,  taking  the 

pr 


DANIEL  KISSAM  YOUNG,  B.  S. 

defrree  of  Bachelor  of  Sciences.  He  is  now 
a  member  of  the  Graduate  Association  and 
Alpha  Delta  Phi  and  has  read  a  number  of 
papers  before  that  Association.  Mr.  Young 
has  written  over  a  hundred  poems,  many  of 
which  have  appeared  in  the  Hempstead 
Sentinel,  The  Methodist,  The  Budget.  Tlie 
Advertiser,  Journal  of  Commerce  and  other 
periodicals.  This  gentleman  was  married  in 
1890  to  Miss  Mary  Mclnnis,  and  is  now  en- 
gaged in  coffee  importation  in  NewY'ork  Cit  y . 


*- 


AWAKENING. 
Long  wondered  I  at  her  most  perfect  art. 
Ami  strangely  felt  her  skill  enthniU  my  soul 
Until  suspicion  she  but  played  a  part. 
Roused  in  my  heart  a  conflict  with  her  role 
At  seeing  art  monopolize  the  whole. 
Soon  said  I  then  she  is  a  sorceress, 
Each  day  she  draws  me  all  against  my  will. 
Deep  in  my  heart  I  feel  a  sore  distress. 
Gone  is  my  peace,  a  tribute  to  her  skill 
Which  naught  withstands.    Wliatshe  will  do 
I  know  not  butjl  hear  her  siren  song  [witli  uie 
Cull  sweetly,  softly  o'er  life's  stormy  sea. 


Know'st  not  weak  lieart  she  means  thee  dire- 
ful wrougV 
Content  at  last  to  ho  a  captive  hound 
On  any  lernis,  so  could  1  feel  her  power. 
Like  lialos  tlien  she  slied  her  smiles  around. 
Led  was  1  in  her  heart's  ecstatic  bower. 
In  raptured  trance  I  tread  life's  stony  ground 
Now  knowing,  thro'  her  siren  song,  her  art. 
Shone  but  tlie  woman  in  lier  loving  heart. 

A  LOVE  DREAM. 
I'm  dreaming  love  of  thee. 

And  of  tiiy  sunny  face. 
To  me  it  hath  more  charm 

Than  thoughts  of  Heav'n's  grace. 
To  win  thy  loving  smile. 

To  slum  thy  enmity. 
To  bring  tliee  peace  andjoy 

I'd  risk  eternity. 

I'm  dreaming  love  of  thee. 

And  of  thy  wondrous  hand. 
It  smootlies  life's  rugged  path 

Like  a  magician's  wand. 
Its  touch  upon  my  brow 

Drives  care  and  pain  aw;iy, 
And  turns  life's  darkest  night 

To  bright  and  radiant  day. 

I'm  dreaming  love  of  thee. 

And  of  thy  snow-white  breast, 
A  pillow  soft  and  dear 

WlK-reon  I  long  to  rest. 
Ah,  what  a  rest  were  there 

Upon  tiiy  Venus'  form. 
Ah,  ne'er  found  sailor  yet 

Such  haven  after  storm. 
I'm  dreaming  love  of  thee 

And  of  thy  fairy  arm. 
'Tis  not  as  strong  as  mine. 

And  yet  has  done  me  harm. 
For  when  1  tliink  of  it 

.\mbition  flies  away. 
And  all  my  aim  lies  liere. 

To  find  it  evry  day 
Around  my  throbbing  neck, 

.And  feel  the  Heav'nly  blis8 
Thy  lips  alone  can  give 

When  pressed  in  passionate  kiss. 
Were  ev'ry  moment  then 

To  pay  an  :ige  of  pain, 
I'd  gladly  welcome  all 

And  fly  to  thee  again. 
Where  are  the  joys  of  wealth? 

Where  learning's  lKi;isted  charms'/ 
Oh.  give  me  but  for  once 

.\  place  in  my  love's  arms. 
Tlie  thirsty  passionate  sigh. 

The  hot  pulse  beating  fast; 
Dear  Cora,  my  heart's  love. 

Shall  these  be  mine  at  last? 


-* 


*- 


1042 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


*- 


GOD  IS  LOVE. 
What  art  thou  God?  mj-  soul  enquires, 

What  is  thy  form?    How  looks  thy  face? 

Art  but  an  essence  filling'  space. 
Before  whose  power  all  power  retires? 
Hast  any  form?    Hast  any  face? 

Thou'rt  here,  thou'rt  there,  thou'rt  every- 
where ; 

Mine  eyes  are  strained  thy  voice  to  hear, 
Mine  aching-  eyes  see  not  thy  place. 
My  weak  hands  vainly  search  for  thee, 

I  know  thou  art,  I  see  thy  works, 

Which  sliow  behind  some  power  lurks. 
But  whence,  or  how,  I  cannot  see. 
Can  man  when  robed  in  this  dull  clay 

Love  that  whicli  merely  essence  is? 

And  has  no  form,  no  shape  like  his? 
But  yet  he  feels  it  day  by  day. 
Can  I  be  said  to  love  a  man 

Who  is  not,  tho'  he  was  like  me. 

But  now  has  gone  to  live  with  thee. 
To  live  of  life  a  larger  plan ? 
Oh,  God,  and  do  I  love  thee  now? 

Thou  are  so  great,  so  far  above; 

Is  this  I  feel  within  me  love? 
1  love  not  so  aught  here  below. 
I  study  perfect  human  forms. 

But  fancy  none  as  like  to  thine; 

Imagination  draws  no  line 
More  like  to  thee  than  to  the  worms. 
My  mind  surmounts  this  little  world 

And  pierces  thro'  its  circling  dome; 

To  view  thy  features,  find  thy  home, 
I  wander  oft  thro'  vapors  curled. 
Exhausted  soon  my  spirit  falls. 

And  sinks  once  more  to  present  care  — 

To  duties  here,  how  dear  ones  fare. 
Which  all  my  soul's  attention  calls. 
And  soon  witliin,  yet  from  above, 

A  gentle  voice  dispels  my  fear; 

"No  matter  what  my  form,  or  where 
I  am,  remember  God  is  love." 

MIDNIGHT. 
When  oft  I  used,  before  the  crackling  logs 
Which  burn  so  cheerly  in  my  bach'lor's  den, 
To  idly  muse  on  what  lay  in  the  fogs 
Of  future  years,  on  strife  witli  fate  and  men. 
The  flames  would  rear  themselves  to  dreams 

of  pride, 
And  visions  rise  of  honor,  fame  and  books. 
Of  how  I  should  sweep  singly  down  life's 

tide,  [looks. 

With  high  indiff'rence  of    the  world's  cold 
But  now  how  changed.    My  books  neglected 

lie;  [thought; 

Wealth,  power,  fame  can  charm  no  more  my 
Thy  features,  sweet,  are  painted  on  mj' eye. 


Turn  when  I  will  thine  image  there  Is  caught. 
The  tongued  flames,  the  pictures  on  the  wall, 
All  look  like  thee,  my  joy,  my  all  in  all. 


A  TRIBUTE. 
Think  I  of  thee?  Ay,  that  I  do  my  friend. 
As  pines  upon  cloud-piercing  Tahwa's  brow 
Think  of    the  sunbeams,  whence  their  life 

doth  flow. 
As  rosebuds  wither'd  by  the  heat  wiU  lend 
Their  thoughts  to  dewdrops,  which  their  sad- 
ness end. 
And  lift  their  heads  in  mirth  and  gladness 

now. 
As  the  full  moon  the  seeds  of  thought  will 
sow  [lend 

In  th'  hearts  of   wand'rers  whom  it  doth 
Its  silver  rays  to  light  their  dang'rous  way. 
I  think  of  thee,  as  clouds  of  night  do  think 
Of  day's  full  orb,  which  clothes  their  life 

with  gold— 

As  shipwrecked  sailors  of  the  rock  weU.  may. 

When  now  secure,  they  trembling  view  the 

brink  [old. 

Thmk  I  of  thee?  such  thoughts  as  ne'er  grow 

HE  WAS  A  MAN. 
I  call  him  a  man  who  walks  upon  the  brink 
Of  that  dark  precipice  which  doth  divide 
This  life  from  death,  where  one  step  doth 

decide 
His  triumph  or  liis  fall;  yet  doth  not  shrink 
Aghast  in  dizzy  agony  to  think 
What  danger  hides  in  that  wild,  surging  tide 
Of  passion,  sin  and  death,  where  none  can 

ride. 
Where  many  in  despair  and  mis'ry  sink. 
I  call  liim  man,  who  ev'ry  step  doth  take 
With  thought,  secure  in  his  God-given  miglit; 
Who  knows  liis  peril  and  yet  walks  serene; 
Who  at  the  howls  of  anguish  doth  not  quake; 
Who  knows  his  strength  and  knows  liis  path 

is  right, 
And  calmly  gazes  on  the  troubled  scene. 
Yea,  tho'  the  gusty  winds  of  passion  blow. 
He  doth  not  totter  at  that  reeling  lieijrlit, 
Nor  mantle  liis  proud  head  in  dcadlj-  fright,' 
Nordolli  his  way  pursue  one  jot  more  slow. 
Tho'  soft  temptation's  clouds  may  glow. 
He  is  not  raiitured  :it  the  glitt'ring  sight. 
Nor  doth  lie  walk  by  their  deceitful  light. 
When  slaiid'rous  tongues  their  venom  wouli 

bestow 
He  heeds  them  not  for  he  is  cased  in  steel; 
False  friendship  and  faLse  love  move  not  hi 

soul,  securi 

Ho  treads  their  loose  and  treach'rous  groun 
Oh,  such  a  man  to  God  and  Heav'n's  leal; 
He  hath  his  heart  and  hand  in  full  control: 
To  friend,  to  self,  e'en  to  liis  God  is  pure,     i 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMEUICA. 


hm 


MRS.  EMMA  ROOD  TUTTLE. 

Born:  BkaceviLle.  0.,  1839. 
Eauly  in  life  this  lady  contributed  botli 
prose  and  verso  to  tlie  jicriodical  press.  In 
1857  slie  was  married  to  Hudson  Tuttle,  a 
profound  and  versatile  author,  jioet  and  lec- 
turer. He  took  his  young  wife  to  live  in  his 
native  home  In  Berlin  Heights,  Ohio;  where 


*- 


she  still  resides  as  wife  and  mother.  Seven 
years  after  their  marriage,  Mrs.  Tuttle,  Joint- 
ly with  her  husband,  published  Blossoms  of 
Our  Spring;  and  two  years  later  Gazelle,  a 
story  of  the  great  rebellion,  also  in  verse. 
Mrs.  Tuttle  was  chief  editor  of  the  Lyceum 
Guide,  a  book  for  the  use  of  progressive  Sun- 
day Schools.  Many  of  the  poems  of  this  great 
poet  have  been  set  to  music  and  sung  all  over 
the  land,  notably  that  of  Claribel,  The  Un- 
seen City,  and  My  Lost  Darling.  In  1890  ap- 
peared From  Soul  to  Soul,  a  volume  of  over 
two  hundred  pages  of  beautiful  poems  from 
the  pen  of  this  lady.  As  an  actress  and  dram- 
atic reader  Mrs.  Tultle  lias  liad  striking  suc- 
cess, especially  in  tragic  i)arts,  such  as  Lady 
Audley's  Secret  and  Macauley's  Virginia. 
Mrs.  Emma  Rood  Tuttle  is  vers' sympathetic, 
fond  of  animals,  and  in  fact  a  prot-octor  of 
the  weak,  a  friend  of  the  friendless,  and  a 
lover  of  all  things  living. 


TAKK  THK  WOULD  SWEETLY. 
Years  and  years,  tojjother,  lovo, 

Tlirough  the  wide  world  going, 
Ilapiiy  if  the  .season  be 

Blooming  time  or  snowing. 

We  are  not  the  ones  to  cry 
"  Dear  old  year,  stay  by  usl  " 

For  we  know  the  soul  of  things, 
LauMhing,  would  deny  us. 

And  we  know  the  end  would  be 

Quite  too  many  losses. 
Killing  all  the  vigorous  wreaths 

Garlanding  life's  crosses. 

So  we  let  the  bright  things  go 

As  we  do  the  cold  ones. 
Welcoming  things  fresh  and  new,— 

They  will  soon  be  old  ones. 

What,  if  when  we  dreaming  sat 

'Mong  the  red  spring  roses. 
We  had  said  -This  is  enough  1 

Day  breaks  and  day  closes. 

"Tarry !  Not  another  year 

Can  be  bright  us  this  is," 
And  tlie  diiy-  had  heeded  us?  — 

We  had  forbade  blisses. 

God's  creations  throb  and  turn  — 

Know  it  and  accept  it; 
Every  heart  must  learn  this  truth. 

As  the  years  have  kept  it. 

Disappointment,  wild  and  wan. 

Knows  what  pain  is  in  it; 
Grirf,  in  wreaths  of  sweet  dead  flowers. 

Tells  it  every  minute. 

Yet  'tis  best  we  take  the  world 

Sweetly,  as  we  find  it ; 
If  it  take  us  sweetly,  well! 

If  not,  we  ought  not  mind  it. 


DELUSION:    WHO  SHALL  DECLARE  IT? 
Well,  maybe  it  is  delusion 

That  tlic  soul  lives  after  death ; 
But,  if  so,  it  is  far  the  dearest 

Which  the  tongue  of  mortal  salth. 
And,  since  so  much  of  life's  pleasure 

Is  wrought  of  iinreiil  tilings, 
I  shall  always  hold  to  the  riches 

Which  the  -dear  delusion"  brings. 

Delusions  of  earth  ;iro  mocking 

Wherever  we  mortals  go. 
And  finding  so  nuich  uiin'al 

Has  cost  me  a  deal  of  woe. 
But  the  dream  of  life  immortal 

Will  never  bring  mo  pain: 
For,  when  it  is  proven  error, 

I  shall  count  not  loss  nor  gain. 


1044 


LOCAL   AMD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


I  shall  never  live  to  know  it. 

If  my  darlings  are  onlj-  dust; 
And  all  which  the  weakest  and  wisest 

Can  do  is  to  hope  and  trust. 
I  may  reason  and  doubt,  but  ever 

They  seem  to  speak  from  tlie  sky; 
Then,  it  seems  but  a  cold  delusion 

To  dream  that  a  soul  can  die. 

You  may  shower  me  with  dust  and  ashes, 

You  may  give  me  a  wreath  of  rue, 
You  may  dream  you  have  truth  and  wisdom 

And  I  am  less  brave  than  you ; 
But,  still,  I  shall  never  yield  it 

For  a  thing-  you  say  or  do ; 
You  cannot  make  it  an  error, 

And  I  cannot  make  It  true. 

We  all  must  wait  and  wonder 

What  the  chang-c  of  death  will  bring-; 
Your  sketches  arc  skulls  and  cross-bones, 

Which  I  to  the  winds  would  fling-. 
And  picture  immortal  faces 

Brow-girt  with  asphodels, 
And  hands  which  are  reaching  earthward 

Bunches  of  immortelles. 

But  neither  your  wise  conclusions. 

Nor  mine,  with  their  rainbow   rings. 
Can  alter  one  jot  or  tittle 

The  eternal  law  of  things! 
Yet,  ah,  in  the  world  that  this  is 

1 1  were  all  too  sad  to  stay, 
I  f  we  could  not  have  our  fancies 

Of  "The  Ever-so-far-away." 


BABY'S  SERMON. 

The  full  moon  shines  in  the  East  to-night 
Bound  and  bright  as  a  plate  of  gold, 

And  a  memory  haunts  me,  pure  and  white. 
Which  I  long  to  tell,  yet  I  wish  were  told. 

It  is  not  long  since  a  baby-girl 
Made  our  liousehold  supremely  glad  — 

A  heavenly  light  in  a  shrine  of  pearl, 
Which  God  recalled,  and  our  hearts  are  sad. 

One  night  when  the  fair  full  moon  came  up 
Out  of  darkness  —  a  welcome  boon  — 

I  called,  "  If  the  baby  has  done  her  sup 
Bring  her  out  here  to  see  the  Moon !  " 

Jumping  and  laughing,  out  she  came, 
In  her  mama's  arms. for  she  could  not  walk. 

And  save  she  could  utter  her  mother's  name 
And  say,  "Tee  da!  "  she  could  neither  talk. 

From  the  edge  of  the  porch  she  saw  the  moon. 
We  who  loved  her  stood  watcliing  by; 

She  stretched  her  arms,  with  a  .joyous  croon. 
To  take  it  down  from  the  evening  sky  1 

But  failing,  turned,  and  l>er  eyes  grew  round. 
Round  and  bright  as  the  wonder  seen. 


"  Tee  da!  "  she^^cried,  oh,  the  sweetest  sound  I 
And  I  pointed  up  to  the  silver  queen. 

"Oo !  Oo  I  Tee  da ! "  Then  we  hugged  her  close, 
Kissed  and  kissed  her  over  again. 

With  what  affection  our  Father  knows. 
Who  measures  loss  and  its  nameless  pain. 

"  Oo !  Oo !  Tee  da !  "  As  we  march  along. 
Faint  with  pain  and  the  wounds  we  bear. 

The  baby's  words  are  a  silver  song. 
Which  comes  to  us  as  an  angel's  prayer. 

"  Oo!  Oo!  Tee  da!  "  To  the  whitest  deeds 
Which  a  faulty  human  hand  can  do. 

Her  voice  calls  stronger  than  laws  and  creeds 
Heavenward  ever,  "Tee  da!    Oo!  Oo!  " 


TWO  PICTURES. 
One  beautiful  day  in  springtime 

A  youth  sought  the  ocean  side. 
And  crossed,  on  an  out-bound  vessel, 

The  waters  vast  and  wide. 
The  pleasant  home  of  his  childhood 

He  bade  with  a  tear  good-bye. 
But  said,  as  he  kissed  each  weeper, 

"I'll  come  again  bye  and  bye!  " 

But  when,  after  months  of  travel. 
And  longing  to'see  them  all. 
He  came  witli  his  store  of  knowledge. 

Back  to  the  dear  old  hall. 
The  inmates  were  sore  affrighted. 

And  trembled  about  the  place; 
Remembering  not  his  promise. 

They  shut  the  door  in  his  face ! 

One  eve  as  a  sweet  June  twilight 

Was  dying  out  of  the  West, 
A  pale-faced  jirl  on  her  pillow. 

Lay,  sinking  to  dreamless  rest. 
The  angels  wei'e  waiting  to  bear  her 

To  their  mansions  white  and  liigh. 
But  she  said  as  she  kissed  her  dear  ones, 

"I'll  come  again  bye  and  bye!  " 

And  when  from  her  home  in  Heaven. 

Longing  to  see  them  all. 
She  came  with  her  deep  affection 

Back  to  the  dear  old  hall ; 
Her  kindred  were  sore  affrightoil. 

And,  pallid,  fled  back  apace; 
Remembering-  not  her  promise. 

They  shut  the  door  in  her  face! 

You  would  censure  the  cruel  parents 

Who  would  not  welcome  a  son. 
For  fear,  when  lu,- turned  him  liomeward 

After  his  journey  was  done; 
But  you  say  no  word  of  wi)nder 

Wlien,  with  hearts  as  cold  as  stoi.es, 
Thej'  bar  the  doors  of  communion 

To  their  dear  immortal  ones. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF    AMERICA. 


1046 


T.  H.C.  MALONEY. 

Born:  Ikeland,  June  16, 18511. 
The  subject  of  tliis  sketch  went  lliroug-b  tlie 
Egyptian  war  of  1882,  aad  has  served  twelve 
years  in  various  battles  and  skirmishes  un- 
der Gen.  Sir  Garnet  Wolseley,  the  great  Brit- 
ish commander.  Ill  1888  he  was  corrrespon- 
dent  at  Halifax.  Nova  Scotia,  for  the  Gazette, 


T.  H.  C.  MALO.NEV. 

Evening  Mail,  and  Catholic  Times  while  still 
a  soldier.  In  188"  Mr.  Maloney  was  married 
to  Miss  Theresa  Anna  O'Hara,  and  the  fol- 
lowing year  located  in  Scranton,  where  he 
was  engaged  on  the  Times.  In  1889  Mr.  Ma- 
loney was  engaged  on  the  Catholic  Herald, 
and  the  following  3-ear  lie  assumed  editorial 
management  of  that  paper,  which  changed 
its  name  to  the  Diocesan  Record.  During  his 
twelve  years  of  military  service,  Mr.  Maloney 
traversed  the  four  continents  of  Europe,  Asia, 
Africa,  and  North  and  South  America. 


A  VALENTINE. 

The  winsome  maid  begins  to  sing. 
The  snow  has  fled  away: 

St.  Valentine  i.s  wandering 
Through  wood  and  field  to-day : 

Blue  violets  with  fragrance  faint 
Welcome  the  footsteps  of  the  Saint. 

He  may  grow  old,  but  never  cold- 
Such  fate  is  yours  and  mine:  [told, 

Though  troubles  come,  though  years  are 
We'll  hail  St.  Valentine. 


That  jirclate  of  the  primrose  weutlier 
Who  brings  the  boys  and  girls  together. 

While  bright  tho'ts  fade,  bright  hopes  grow 
One  thing  your  poet  knows  is,         [vain 

We  shall  be  boys  and  girls  again 
In  some  metempsychosis. 

I  wonder  where,  O  mistress  mine! 
We  next  shall  meet  Saint  Valentine. 


MOTHERLAND. 
There  is  an  island  in  the  sea 

'Tis  Motherland,  dear  Motherland; 
Land  of  the  brave,  though  not  yet  free, 

'Tis  Motherland,  dear  Motherland. 
And  by  our  n)anh(X)d  now  we  swear. 

It  shall  not  long  its  bondage  wear. 
For  we  are  bound  liie  cords  to  tear. 

From  Motherland,  dear  Motlierland. 
With  hearts  and  hands  in  Erin's  cause. 

Motherland,  dear  Motherland, 
We'll  trample  down  the  tyrant's  law  s 

In  Motherland,  dear  Motherland. 
And  then,  a  nation  once  again. 

Shall  be  our  manhood's  proud  refrain. 
For  we  will  wii»eopi)ression's  strain 

From  Motherland,  dear  Motherland. 

Shall  the  tyrant  safely  reign 

In  Motherland,  dear  Motherland. 
On  tbrt)nes  built  up  of  slaves  and  slain. 

In  Motherland,  dear  Motherland':' 
No!  once  again  our  oath  we  plight 

To  watch  and  labor  and  unite. 
Till  banded  be  a  nation's  might 

For  Motherland,  dear  Motherland. 

Oh  I  how  our  hearts  do  heat  with  joy, 

Motherliind,  dear  Motlierland, 
For  one  such  day  as  Fontenoy 

In  Motherland,  dear  Motherland. 
And  grant,  O  Lord,  that  day  may  come 

When  crossing  o'er  the  ocean  foam. 
Wo  freedom  bring  to  every  home 

In  Motherland,  dear  Motherland. 
We  vow  thy  brilliant  flag  of  green. 

Motherland,  dear  Motherland, 
Yet  proudly  floating  shall  be  seen 

In  Motherland,  dear  Motherland. 
And  then  a  freeman  bold  and  brave. 

Shall  scribe  the  lines  on  Emmet's  grave. 
Which  were  not  to  he  writ  by  slave 

In  Motherland,  dejir  Motherland. 
We  here  agiiin  renew  our  vow. 

Motherland,  dear  Motherland, 
To  be  as  firm  and  true  as  now 

For  Motherland,  ilear  Motherland. 
The  Harp  of  Tara  is  not  dead. 

Its  "  Soul  of  Music  "  yet  'twill  shed. 
We'll  plant  the  green  above  the  red 

In  Motherland,  dear  Motherland. 


*- 


1046 


-* 


LOCAI-   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OK   AMERICA. 


WILLIAM  LEWIS  MILLER. 

Born:  Decatur,  III.,  Sept.  8, 1848. 
In  his  youth  the  subject  of  this  sketch  de- 
veloped quite  a  little  musical  talent,  and  for 
a  few  years  was  exhibited  as  a  child  sing-er. 
He  wrote  v(M-se  fioin  itii  early  ntxe,  niiiny  fif 


WILLIAM  LEWIS  MILLER. 

which  have  appeared  in  some  of  the  leading 
publications.  Mr.  Miller  follows  the  occupa- 
tion of  a  bricklayer  and  contractor,  and  re- 
sides in  Ukiah,  California. 

LITTLE  SWEET-EYES. 
Sweet  eyes  at  the  window  peepicg. 

Waiting  her  papa  to  come, 
How  th«  pretty  bright  eyes  gladden 

As  she  gives  her  welcome  home. 
How  she  pulls  my  long,  brown  whiskers 

With  her  dimpled,  chubby  hand. 
Giving  me  the  sweetest  kisses 
To  be  had  in  all  the  land. 
Cho.— Little  sweet-eyes  at  tlie  window, 
Laughing  in  the  wildest  glee. 
Clapping  hands  so  white  and  dainty, 
As  she  smiles  and  waits  for  nie. 
On  the  stair-steps,  in  the  hallway 

Patter  oft  the  little  feet; 
Everywhere  from  roof  to  basement. 

Sounds  her  little  voice  so  sweet. 
Sweet-eyes  shine  like  gentle  sunbeams 

All  the  long  and  happy  day. 
Closing  in  the  sweetest  slumber 
After  slie  is  tired  of  play. 


Ah,  the  little  feet  so  busj'. 

On  the  stairway  —  in  the  hall, 
No  more  patter  on  the  carpet  — 

No  more  now  we  hear  them  fall! 
Tears  steal  from  our  eyelids  often, 

Sorrow  ever  shades  the  brow, 
Gone  the  sound  of  gleeful  laughter — 
Baby  is  not  with  us  now! 
Cho.— Underneath  the  growing  grasses. 
Where  the  gentle  daisies  start. 
Baby's  sleeping  long  and  sweetly - 
Still,  her  little  beating  heart! 


TO  MY  UNKNOWN. 

Where  should  I  seek  thee,  my  unknown. 

Thou  ideal  of  my  heart? 
Amid  the  forests  overgrown 

Or  in  the  busy  mart? 
Or  yet  beneath  the  fervid  sun 

Of  Orient's  amorous  clime. 
Or  where  mountain's  torrents  run 

Amid  the  great  sublime ! 
Or  does  Aurora's  cold,  keen  air 

Plant  roses  on  thy  cheek? 
Ah,  is  it  here,  or  there  or  where 

My  loved  one  would  I  seek? 
Perhaps  in  some  sweet  odorous  glade, 

Where  flowers  are  wont  to  grow, 
I'd  find  her  wandering  in  the  shade 

Quite  pensively  and  slow. 
But  ah,  I  know  not  where  tbou  art. 

Whether  on  land  or  sea, 
But  somewhere  there's  a  fond  true  heart, 

That  only  beats  for  me. 
None  other's  kiss  can  ever  mean 

The  same  to  her,— my  own, 
I  am  her  king,  she  is  my  queen 

And  true-love  is  our  throne. 
Sometime,  in  summer's  golden  hour. 

My  love  will  come  to  me; 
I'll  find  her  as  a  hidden  flower. 

Grown  sweet  and  silently; 
The  music  of  my  voice  will  thrill 

Her  with  a  wild  delight; 
The  brightest  day,  without  me,  will 

Be^to  her,  darkest  night. 

EXTRACTS. 

Now  blooms  the  f i-agrant  burst-bud  — 
And  springing  from  tlieir  tiny  bed 
Sweet-smiling,  as  a  waking  child. 
We  see  the  flowers  we  thougiit  were  dead. 
The  hidden  gems  of  flower  and  bud 
Arise  again  with  beauty  rife; 
They  raise  their  blnsliing-  clieek  to  Spring. 
And  smile  to  think  how  sweet  is  life. 
The  pretty  bird-notes  of  the  wood 
Play  sweetly  to  the  dancing  flowers, 
While  tree  and  shrub  nod  to  the  tune  — 
Thus  nature  whiles  the  i>assing  hours. 


*- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


1()47 


* 


ANNA    MAUDE    HOXSIE. 

Born:  BurrALO.  N.Y.,  July  30, 1869. 
This  l;ic]yis  thedaug-liter  of  Aug'ustusCliap- 
niaii  lloxsie,  an  eminent  physician  of  Buffa- 
lo. She  lias  received  a  koo<^1  education  at  a 
private  school  and  friven  special  ailvantayos 
in  Italian,  French  and  music.     At  the  age  of 


ANNA    MAUDE    HIIXSIK. 

fifteen  she  accompanied  her  mother— a 
woman  of  higU  musical  talent  and  social  po- 
sition—  to  Europe,  whence  she  was  called 
home  by  the  death  of  her  father.  Subse- 
quently Miss  Hoxsie  attended  the  best  of 
schools  in  lauguag-e  and  art.  She  again  spent 
the  summer  of  188"  in  Europe.  The  following 
year  Miss  Hoxsie  began  given  lectures  with 
stereopticon  illustrations,  and  has  met  witli 
flattering  success.  The  poems  of  Miss  Hoxsie 
liave  been  a  valuable  acquisition  to  current 
literature. 


*- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  SPHINX. 

As  1  travelled  over  Egypt 

To  Nubia,  up  the  Nile, 
I  noted  the  sad-faced  peasants 

Who  seldom  seemed  to  smile. 

I  saw  not  the  swarthy  Bedouin 

On  his  dromedary  tall. 
Nor  looked  at  tlie  Turkish  merchants. 

With  their  wares  and  beckoning  call. 

I  only  saw  the  last  remains 
Of  the  old  Egyptian  race, 


Who  bear  the  shadow  of  the  Sphinx 
Stamped  on  each  toil-worn  face. 

The  legacy  ancestors  left 

These  peasants  of  today. 
Was  degradation's  galling  yoke. 

Gained  by  desjKJtic  sway. 

The  oppression  of  stern  Pharaohs 
Gave  them  that  saddened  mien. 

While  that  faint,  sad  smile,  so  Sphinx-like, 
Is  now  but  rarely  seen. 

They  have  borne  their  unconscious  burden 
Since  first  the  Sphinx  was  made. 

For  in  that  veil  of  mystic  grief 
Its  features  are  arrayed. 

They  bear  the  sorrows  of  the  pa.st 
Since  from  Chaos  came  the  world. 

But  the  reason  why  they  thus  must  grlevo 
The  gods  have  not  unfurled. 

Conquered  by  Persia.  Greece  and  Rome. 

By  divers  nations  since, 
With  the  same  sad  face  they  smile  on  fate. 

Nor  change,  nor  weep,  nor  wince. 

I  111  ancient  heart  in  new  disguise! 

Why  all  this  weight  of  bitter  woe? 
Is't  retribution  from  the  skies? 
Did  gods  see  fit  to  have  it  so 
When  the  world  was  young. 
And  bad  deeds  done. 
The  hand-mark  of  the  great  All-wise? 
But  a  faint,  small  voice  from  thedesertcries: 
..  'Tis  the  Shadow  of  the  Sphinx  '.  " 


FOOLS  SONG. 
Its  the  lay  of  an  insolent  Fool: 

Ha!  Ha! 
I  dance  in  my  jingling  dress, 
A  dance  the  priests  hardly  bless  — 
Funtjistic, 
S;ircastic. 

Ho!  Ho! 

Its  the  lay  of  an  insolent  Fool; 

Ha!  Hal 
I  fill  the  largest  cup  — 
The  wine  to  the  dregs  I  snp; 
Daring. 
Unsparing. 

Ho!  Ho! 

Ne'ertheless  Its  the  lay  of  a  man; 

..  Pooh :  Pooh ! ' 
Say  ye.  ••  'tis  but  the  dog  of  a  Jester, 
'Tis  his  profession  us  to  poster- 
Sneering, 
Leering. 

Ho!  Hoi- 


*- 


1048 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


THE  DEBUTANTE. 

She  is  always  full  of  life. 

The  charmiug- debutante; 
There  are  few  things  that  she  won't  do, 

And  nothing  that  she  can't. 

She  can  take  In  luncheon,  tea. 

Without  the  least  dismay; 
Then  dance  from  ten  till  morning  light, 

And  call  it  all  child's  play. 

She  can  sleep  till  nearly  noon; 

Then  clad  in  Redfern  gown. 
Her  small  dog  by  her  side, 

A-walking  goes  down  town. 

She  hurries  home  to  dress  — 

The  day  is  but  a  whirl  — 
It  is  "  button  that,  lace  this," 

And  a  pretty  head  to  curl. 

The  night  is  full  of  conquests. 

With  many  a  heart  to  break; 
The  beauty  spreads  her  silken  skirts 

And  gives  her  curls  a  shake. 

Does  she  ever  think,  I  wonder. 

Of  life's  mission  here  below? 
Is  her  only  aim  in  living 

To  be  always  on  the  go? 

Stop  and  think,  young  debutante. 

In  a  turn  of  Strauss's  waltz. 
What  you  might  do  for  others; 

And  you  might  correct  sopjie  faults. 

Stop  and  think  of  some  poor  mortal  — 
(You  are  warm  with  the  dance's  glow) 

To  wliom  you  might  give  comfort, 
Wlio  is  shivering  in  the  snow. 

Take  not  my  words  in  anger, 

Oh  blushing  debutante; 
You  know  they're  fraught  with  truth, 

Tliough  you're  prone  to  call  it  cant. 

VOICES  OF  THE  SEA. 

I  gently  float 

Tn  my  shell-like  boat. 
With  its  sail  like  a  white  dove's  wing; 

And  as  1  glide 

On  the  rippling  tide, 
T  hear  the  wavelets  sing. 

Each  wave  is  a  maid 

In  foam  arrayed. 
Quick  caught  from  the  white-capp'd  sea; 

As  they  float  along, 

I  hear  the  song 
Of  each  wave  singing  to  me. 

"Come,  use  my  eyes 

To  note  the  size 
Of  the  wonders  of  the  deep; 

Come,  close  each  eye, 


And  I  will  try 
To  sing  tliy  soul  asleep. 

Dost  see  yon  ship 

Sedately  dip 
With  the  billows'  even  sway? 

With  cargo  rare. 

And  fabrics  fair. 
She  comes  from  far  away. 

Laden  with  gold 

In  her  massive  hold. 
With  jewels  and  Indian  spice. 

With  sailors  dark. 

She  came,  this  barque, 
From  the  land  of  sacrifice. 

Another  ship 

Doth  rise  and  dip 
Within  my  vision's  ken; 

Its  dark  shrouds  frown; 

Tis  laden  down 
With  scores  of  boughten  men. 

Oh  shame!  Oh  shame! 

This  slaver  came 
From  Afric's  ancient  shore; 

These  dark-browed  men 

Shall  ne'er  again 
See  loved  ones  any  more. 

Come,  dreaming  one. 

Come  greet  the  sun. 
And  ope  thy  sleeping  eyes; 

Or  thy  little  boac 

May  sink,  and  float 
Far  into  Paradise." 

I  wake,  I  wake  I 

The  oars  I  take. 
And  get  me  to  the  shore; 

But  the  voices  sweet 

T  fear  will  greet 
My  fond  day  dreams  no  more. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SIROCCO. 

EXTRACT. 

I  am  the  wind  of  the  desert, 

I  am  the  swain  of  the  palm, 
I  am  the  fear  of  the  Arab, 

And  startle  his  indolent  calm. 
I  am  the  wind  of  the  desert, 

I  hide  in  the  billows  of  sand. 
Till  a  mood  bids  me  open  my  wide  wingrs 

And  rusli  through  the  terrified  land. 

I  am  the  wind  of  the  desert, 

I  am  the  scourge  of  tlic  land; 
Dost  know  tlie  dread  plain  of  far  Libya, 

With  its  leagues  of  liot  arid  sand? 
Dost  know  tliat  great  Sahara, 

Wliero  no  flowers  or  trees  abound, 
And  never  a  pool  or  brooklet 

To  cool  the  sun-dried  ground? 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


um 


* 


FREDRIC  ALLISON  TUPPLR. 

Bokn:  Holliston,  Mass.,  Aug.  17, 1890. 
This  gentleman  is  a  gr.-uluato  of  the  Roxbiiry 
Latiii  School  and  at  Harvard,  and  a  member 
of  tlie  Plii  Beta  Kappa  Society.  Since  gradu- 
ation he  has  taught  school  at  Worcester  one 
year;  vice-principal  of  tlie  New  Brunswick 


IKKDERIC  ALLISON  TUPPEK. 

Higli  School  of  New  Jersey  for  five  years, 
and  is  now  Principal  of  Arms  Academy, 
Slielburne  Falls,  Mass.,  which  position  he 
hiis  filled  since  1877.  Mr.  Tupper  is  the  author 
of  a  volume  of  poems  entitled  Echoes  from 
Dreamland,  and  his  poems  and  slietches  have 
appeared  in  many  of  the  leading  publications 
of  America.  He  has  also  delivered  many  ad- 
dresses on  public  occasions.  Frederic  Allison 
Tupper  was  married  to  Miss  Mary  Isabel  Van 
Buskirk,  with  whom  he  now  resides  at  Shel- 
burne  Falls,  Mass. 

GOOD-NIGHT. 
Good-night!  and  may  Northampton  skies 

Their  vigils  o"er  thee  keep ! 
Good-night  I  till  morning  splendors  rise, 

May  naught  disturb  thy  sleep. 
Sweet  sleep,  dear  heart,  sweet  sleep  for  thee. 

While  night  broods  o'er  thy  rest; 
Sweet  sleep  thy  leal  attendant  be. 

To  come  at  thy  behest. 
And  pleasant  dreams  attend  thee,  dear. 

If  they  be  of  me. 
Of  me  be  all  thy  visions  clear, 

As  mine  are  still  of  thee. 


CONTRAST. 
An  Avenue  of  dusky  pines 

Leads  grimly  to  tlie  castle  door; 
The  moonbeams  gild  the  .sculptured  linos. 

Mine  eyes  shall  gaze  upon  no  more. 

The  casements  gleam  withflasliingligiits 
And  music  eclioes  through  the  halls; 

I  mark  the  whirling  dancers'  liights, 
While  distance-softened  laughter  falls. 

For  them  the  battlemented  hall. 
For  them  the  laugh. the  dance,  the  light ; 

For  me  wild  ocean's  ceaseless  call, 
For  me  the  blackiu'ssof  the  night! 


ONLY  THREE  WORDS. 

Only  three  words,  now,  darling,  my  darling. 
Surely  three  words  I  will  now  ask  of  thee; 

Sweet  words  and  tender,  sweet  words  and 
tender. 
Dearest  of  all,  those  words  would  be  to  me. 

Say  but  "I  love  thee,"  darling  my  darling. 

Say  but  "  I  love  thee,"  gently  to  me; 
Sweetest  of  music,  sweetest  of  music. 

Dear  words  "I  love  thee,  "whispered  by  thee. 


THREE  .«ONGS. 
TO-DAY  AND  VESTEItD.VY. 

The  perfume  of  the  orange-flowers 
Steals  through  the  church  ttxlay, 

The  splendid  walls  re-echo  loud 
With  sounds  of  music  gay. 

But  yesterday  a  sorrowing  one 

Left  here  her  only  child, 
Mid  kindly  weeping  comforters, 

Mid  music  sad  and  wild. 

MOTUEll-Oi'-PE.\RL. 

The  sunbeams  ever  waken 

To  life  thy  paleness  rare; 
And  changing  colors  all  trembling 

Dispel  thy  cold,  dumb  care. 

O  maiden,  thy  pale,  pale  beauty. 
Could  love  but  clieer  thy  gloom. 

Would  vie  with  the  blushing  loveliness 
Of  May-born  apple-bloom! 

FLOWEK   AND    KllflT. 

A  sea  of  fair  white  blossoms 
Doth  surge  in  the  morning  breeze, 

And  a  song  like  old-time  Mcmnon's, 
Comes  stealing  through  the  trees. 

Countless,  in  sooth,  are  the  blossoms. 
And  sweet  is  the  murnturotis  song: 

But  the  fruit,  alas  1  will  it  meet  our  hopes? 
Can  that  music  echo  long? 


-* 


*- 


1050 


LOCAL   AMD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA , 


BLONDE  AND  BRUNETTE. 
The  weeping  darkness  is  inoanin;r. 

And  its  tears  fall  's'ainst  the  pane. 
While  the  flickering  flrehght  iaugheth 

At  the  sound  of  the  driving  rain. 

Within  a  fair-haired  maiden 

Is  playing  an  old  refrain, 
While  fiercely  without  in  the  blackness 

A  dark  face  presseth  the  pane ! 


THE  MIST. 
The  silent  mist  comes  stealing 

Adown  the  gray  old  tower ; 
The  minster  hells  are  pealing, - 

It  is  the  bridal  hour ! 

I  looked  upon  the  maiden. 
And  tears  were  in  her  eyes; 

With  mist  her  lids  were  laden. 
With  mist  the  gloomy  skies. 


A  NEGLECTED  GRAVE. 
Tlie  grass  grows  rank  and  the  grass  grows 
high. 
And  the  weeds  grow  too  apace  —  apace  — 
Till  a  name  on  a  stone  is  hid  from  the  sky. 
And  a  cold  neglect  seems  to  rule  the  place. 

Why,  even  the  stone  bends  lowly  down. 
Like  one  in  grief  to  earth  —  to  earth; 

And  closely  the  mosses  g-reeu  and  brown 
Cling  to  the  dates  of  death  and  birth. 

The  hedge  untrimmed  and  the  grass  uncut, 
Tlie  violets  clicked  once  blue— so  blue! 

The  path  is  gone,  and  the  gate  that  shut 
With  an  iron  clank  has  vanished  too. 

But  a  red  wild  rose  that  no  neglect 
Or  winter's  storm  could  blight  or  kill,— 

More  kind  than  thou  to  recollect, 
Thou  son  or  daughter  —  blooms  there  still. 

I  tear  the  moss  from  the  sacred  name. 
And  hold  the  grass  from  the  crumbling 
stone. 

What  name  is  this?    The  very  same 
I  love  more  fondly  than  my  own. 

Only  a  Avord  was  hidden  there, 

'Mid  weeds  and  grass  and  clinging  moss, 
•'Mother"  it  was,  of  names  most  fair. 

The  loss  of  whom  is  the  greatest  loss. 

I  smoothed  the  grass  on  the  sunken  mound, 
I  pulled  the  weeds  from  the  violets  weak. 

And  as  I  passed  from  the  burial-ground, 
I  felt  the  teardrops  on  my  check. 


*- 


DISTANT  MUSIC. 
Distan    music,  distant  music. 
Oh,  how  sweet  each  cadence  falls! 


Bass  and  tenor,  air  and  alto, 
Blending,  blending,  spirit  calls. 

Distant  music,  distant  music. 
Oh,  what  recollections  throng! 

Sacrifice  and  trust  and  beautj'. 
Blending,  blending  in  love's  song. 

Eyes  once  bright  no  longer  sparkle. 

Merry  lips  are  silent  now. 
Cheeks  that  flushed  no  longer  brighten. 

Broken,  broken  every  vow. 

Yet,  in  distant  music's  beauty. 
In  the  drip  of  autumn  rain. 

In  the  winter  evening's  embers, 
Lurketh,  lurketh  olden  pain. 

Roses,  roses,  red  as  rubies. 
Lilies  pale  as  snow  I've  seen; 

Lilies  of  the  past  were  fairest. 
Fairer,  fairer  garden's  queen. 

Distant  music,  distant  music. 
Sweet,  yet  sad,  each  cadence  falls. 

And  my  heart  must  still  keep  beating 
Answer,  answer  to  love's  calls. 


ANEMONE. 
Pale  art  thou,  floweret  fair! 
::ut  when  the  wind,  type  of  the  soul. 
Blows  softly  through  the  leafy  vistas 
Of  the  wood,  yet  ever  lingering 
At  Uiy  lowly  bower,  brings  message  sweet 
Of  everlasting  love;  then  thy  pale  cheek 
Takes  on  the  soft  pink  flush,and  ever  deeper 
Glows  at  thought  of  having  blushed. 


WOMAN. 
A  woman's  word! 
Most  musical  of  all  the  sounds  of  heaven  oi 

earth. 
To  what  sweet  joy  doth  it  give  birth  — 
A  woman's  wordl 

A  woman's  thought ! 
The  purest  thing  within  the  reach  of  mortaV 

ken. 
More  delicate  than  that  of  men  — 

A  woman's  thought ! 

A  wom.an's  deed! 
The  wondrous  art  of  ceaseless  goodness  al 

the  while. 
That  asks  no  guerdon  but  a  smile  — 
A  woman's  deed! 

A  woman's  heart! 
Oh,  mystery  of  tenderness  that  ever  wakes, 
That  loves  and  loves  and  loving  breaks  — 

A  woman's  heart! 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMEUICA. 


lOol 


* 


P:DWIN  ARTHUR  WELTY. 

Bohn:  Canal  Dovek.  O.,  Dec.  5, 1853. 
At  the  ago  of  eighteen  Edwiu  crossed  the 
plains  and  spent  six  months  in  the  Kocky 
mountains,  and  afterward  engaged  in  tlio  at- 
tack and  massacre  of  Major  Thornburg's 
command.     Kcturning    from  Colorado  and 

IS 


EUWIN   AKTHUR  WELTY. 

New  Mexico  after  some  years  of  desultory 
roving  he  settled  into  business  life  as  broker 
In  St.  Joseph,  Mo.,  and  filially  in  Oregon,  Mo., 
where  he  now  resides.  He  has  held  several 
political  positions  of  trust,  and  was  a  candi- 
date for  state  senator.  Mr.  Weltywas  mar- 
ried in  1878  to  Miss  Bessie  M.  O'Donnell,  by 
whom  he  has  a  daughter  named  Ethel.  The 
poems  of  Mr.  Welty  have  apjieared  in  Lippin- 
cott's,  St.  Louis  Magazine,  Aldine,  Brooklyn 
Magiizine,  and  other  publications. 


THE  HOLLOW  OAK. 
Where  the  peaks  of  the  Sierras 

Melt  into  an  endless  blue. 
And  the  San  Juan's  fierce  current 

Bursts  upon  the  startled  view; 

Where  the  dashing  mountain  t(jrreats 
Through  the  misty  gorges  gleam, 

And  the  canon's  surging  waters 
Join  the  river's  swollen  stream; 

Where  the  tall  and  tapering  pine-trees 
Rear  tlieir  crests  toward  the  skies. 


And  the  snow  upon  the  mountains 
In  its  dazzling  whiteness  lies; 

There,  beneath  the  threatening  shadow 
Of  a  high,  o'erhanging  peak. 

Stood  a  cabin,  which  a  trapper 
Built  there,  from  some  sudden  freak. 

It  was  made  of  heavy  pine- logs. 

From  the  forest  cut  away, 
While  the  cracks  and  interstices 

Had  been  chinked  with  yellow  clay. 

In  one  corner  stood  a  fire-place; 

O'er  it,  hooks  for  rifles  hung; 
While  beneath  a  grimy  camp-kettle 

From  its  heavy  liaudle  swung. 

On  the  hearth  a  glowing  fire 
Crackled  with  a  merry  sound. 

Lighting  up  the  sun-browned  faces 
Of  the  trappers  grouped  around. 

They  had  gathered  at  the  cabin. 
As  night's  shadows  darker  grew; 

For  tlie  i)lace  had  long  been  noted 
As  a  hunters'  rendezvous. 

Some  were  burnishing  their  rifles. 
Others  filling  pouch  and  horn. 

Wishing  to  be  up  and  ready 
For  an  early  start  at  morn. 

Thus  engaged  they  soon  were  telling 

Stories  of  their  earlier  days. 
Such  as  only  have  their  being 

In  the  wild  frontiersmen's  lays:— 

Of  the  chaparral  and  the  prairie; 

Of  some  daring  deed  -well  done- 
How  the  panther  bad  been  bunted. 

Or  some  hard-fought  battle  won:- 

Of  the  fierce  and  bloody  savage. 
And  the  still  more  bloody  aid. 

Which  he  found  ujion  the  border 
In  the  reckless  renegade. 

Each  in  turn  had  told  some  story 
Of  the  forest  and  tlie  cli.-ise  — 

All,  save  one,  a  gray  old  trapper. 
Backward  from  the  rest,  apace. 

Silence  fell  upon  the  circle; 

All  sat  quiet—  no  one  spoke: 
Then  the  old  man  laid  his  pipe  down. 

And  he  thus  the  silence  broke: 

••  Near  the  town  of  the  Miami, 
With  my  brother  —  1  was  there. 

When  St.  Clair's  lll-fate<l  legions 
Fell  Into  the  Mohawk's  snare; 


*- 


*— 


1052 


LOCAL,   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


II  When  the  war-whoop  of  the  savage 
Rang  througliout  the  forest  glade. 

Blanching  cheeks  whose  ruddy  color 
Had  ne'er  known  a  paler  shade; 

i<  When  from  every  tree  and  thicket 
Dashed  and  poured  a  deadly  rain. 

And  the  keen  and  well-aimed  hatchet 
Pierced  the  warm  and  quivering  brain; 

•>  Through  the  whole  of  that  dread  conflict 
Fought  we  stoutly,  side  by  side. 

Till  the  grass  around  was  watered 
By  a  dark  and  crimson  tide. 

'.  Fell  our  comrades  fast  around  us, 
And  we  saw  'twould  be  in  vain 

Up  to  urge  our  shattered  columns 
'Gainst  their  hidden  foe  agam. 

"  Fled  we  then  with  hurried  footsteps, 
Through  the  forest's  leafy  dale, 

While  a  score  of  angry  Shawriees 
Followed  on  our  fresh-made  trail. 

I.  We  were  weary  and  exhausted 
By  the  morning's  bloody  fight. 

And  we  Iziiew  that  they  were  gaining 
Fast  upon  uc  in  our  flight. 

"  We  had  neared  an  old  oak,  stricken 
By  the  lightning's  ruthless  blast. 

And  its  leafless,  withered  branches 
Round  about  the  ground  were  cast. 

• 

••Turned  my  brother  to  me  quickly; 

And  he  said:  •  Were  it  not  best 
That  we  part?    For  by  so  doing 

Each  may  be  less  hotly  pressed ! ' 

••  I  assented;  and  we  parted. 

Promising  whate'er  befell, 
We  would  meet  upon  the  morrow 

At  a  spot  both  noted  well. 

..  Plunged  I  deeper  in  the  forest. 
With  its  many  dangers  fraught. 

Till  I'd  baffled  my  pursuers, 
When  the  rendezvous  I  sougiit. 

••  Tliere  I  waited  for  my  brother, 
All  that  long  and  dreary  day? 

Trusting  tliat  he  yet  miglit  join  me, 
If  he  had  but  missed  his  way. 

••  But  lie  came  not  there  to  meet  me, 
And  my  fears  In  waiting  grew; 

So  I  thought,  that  to  dispel  them, 
I  would  search  the  woodland  througli. 
* 


"Then  with  quick  and  wary  footsteps 

Threaded  I  the  lonely  wood. 
While  the  gaunt  and  hungry  gray-wolf, 

Wondering,  on  my  pathwaj-  stood. 

"O'er  Iient  muskets,  broken  sword-hilts. 
And  the  mangled  heaps  of  slain. 

Searched  I  long  to  find  his  body. 
Or  at  least  some  clue  to  gain. 

•'  Days  T  hunted  in  the  forest. 

Some  jioor  trace  of  him  to  find; 
But  at  last  all  hope  had  left  me. 

And  I  then  my  search  resigned. 

"  Years  had  passed;  and  I  was  clearing 

Off  a  narrow  strip  of  wood ; 
For  I  wished  to  place  my  cabin 

Where  the  forest  trees  had  stood. 

•  •  One  by  one,  the  leafy  giants 

B<nved  beneath  my  axe's  stroke. 
Till  at  length  all  lay  before  me. 
Save  a  hollow  shattered  oak. 

'•  'Twas  the  old  oak  I  had  noticed 
On  that  wild  night,  years  before, 

When  I,  panting,  fled  the  Shawnees 
From  Miami's  field  of  gore. 

••Thoughtfully  I  gazed  upon  it; 

Then  my  axe  swung  high  and  well. 
Till  it  swayed  awhile,  and  tottering. 

At  my  very  feet  it  fell. 

•  •  \\hcn  it  fell,  it  burst  asunder, 

A  tul  exposed  some  bones  to  sight, 
Wliile  a  ring,  of  curious  settmg. 
Flashed  and  sparkled  in  the  light. 

•■  'Twas  my  brother's  ring  I  saw  there  — 
Then  I  knew  his  awful  doom; 

For  he  must  have  died  of  hunger 
1 II  that  narrow,  living  tomb ! 

•  .  He  had  doubtless  entered,  hoping 

To  elude  the  savage  foe; 
And  was  fastened,  starving,  dying. 
In  the  gloomy  depths  below. 

••Gathered  I  the  crumbling  fragments, 
Then  a  grave  for  them  I  made; 

And  beneath  a  spreading  chestnut 
My  poor  brother's  bones  I  laid." 

He  had  finished;  and  the  teardrops 
Stole  o'er  many  a  hardened  face. 

That,  perhaps,  since  early  childhood, 
Ne'er  had  felt  such  tender  grace. 


1 


* 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


1058 


MRS.  ANNA  M.  ROGERS. 

Bohn:  Canada,  1847. 
This  poet  of  the  Golden  stato  lias  a  volume 
almost  complete  for  publieatioii.    Herpoems 
have  appeared  in  the  Cliii-npo  Current,  Clil- 
eajro  Litprnry  Life,  and  in  the  le.idinir  jvipir^ 


una.  ANNA  M.  KOGEKS. 

of  California.  After  receiving  her  education 
in  private  seminaries,  this  lady  became  a 
teacher,  and  has  taught  French  in  the  public 
schools  of  San  Francisco,  where  she  resides. 
In  1874  slie  was  married  to  Henry  O.  Rogers, 
Supl.  P.  R.  V.  R.  R.,  and  lias  a  son  and  a 
daughter  living. 


*- 


CHESTNUTS. 
The  chestnuts  brown  are  falling  down 

Where  long,  rich  grass  is  deeply  green ; 
The  light  is  clear,  the  sky  seems  near 

Where  far-off  purple  hills  are  seen; 
Wild  hedge-flowers  make  shady  bowers, 

Shading  the  warm  sun's  amber  light; 
A  fleecy  veil,  transparent  pale. 

Melts  away  in  the  blue  so  bright. 
The  ivy's  shade  is  softly  laid 

On  the  old  wall  where  lichens  grow, 
Where  soaring  swallows'  nests  are  made 

In  cliestnut  branches  bending  low 
Dreaming  I  lie  beneath  the  sky, 

Listening  to  the  linnet's  tune. 
While  soft,  white  clouds  above  me  fly, 

And  bees  on  thistles  softly  croon. 
Like  Robin  Hood,  in  leafy  wood, 

I  am  sole  monarch  here  to-day. 


For  Nature's  subjects  kind  and  good. 
No  liarsh,  rebellious  sounds  display. 

My  monarch's  crown,  the  chestnuts  brown, 
That  lightly  fall  upon  my  head, 

The  dewdrops  here,  on  roses  near, 
Are  all  the  tears  my  subjects  shed. 

A  JACQUEMINOT  ROSE. 
It  fell  from  lace  at  her  throat  at  night. 

Deepest  crimson  on  spotless  snow, 
The  virgin  snow  of  her  neck  so  white. 

As  she  swayed  to  the  music's  flow. 
One  look  in  her  eyes,  the  dance  wjis  done. 

Dark,  sweet  eyes  of  a  melting  brown — 
Under  their  light,  as  under  the  sun. 

My  own  fell  dazzled,  drooping  down. 
The  shimmering  satin  rose  and  fell, 

Like  a  bird  fluttering  gladly. 
Her  heart  like  mine  could  a  story  tell 

As  tlie  music  died  out  sadly. 
Dare  I  lei'  her  now,  thus  risking  all, 

liut  not  this  my  Jacqueminot  rose? 
I  know  that  slie  has  not  seen  it  fall. 

You  and  my  heart  the  secret  knows. 
And  I  wonder  if  in  coming  days 

Orange  blossoms  will  take  your  place. 
Then  a  bridal  wreath,  no  crimson  blaze. 

Only  buds  near  her  perfect  face. 

A  DAY  DREAM  BY  THE  REEDS. 
The  tall  reeds  were  swaying  in  tlie  breeze. 
With  a  .sedgy  murmur  througli  them; 
Like  a  Dryad's  song  'mid  forest  trees. 
And  like  Pan  once  more  I  blew  them. 
I  listened,  and  methought  I  heard 
A  faint  sound  like  low  words  spoken. 
With  beating  heart,  and  quick  pulse  stirred, 
I  knew  'twas  wonderland's  sure  token. 
When  through  the  reeds,  as  in  old  Greek  days. 
Fell  a  cadence  dreamj-,  tender. 
Such  music  as  intoned  the  plays 
Of  JEschylus  in  his  splendor. 
Perhaps  'twas  a  bittern's  ghostly  wall, 
Or  the  sound  of  the  sobbing  sea; 
That  brought  Diana,  clear  and  pale 
Sighing  between  the  reeds  and  nic. 
I  saw  Endymion  sleeping  there. 
His  face  lialf-hidden  by  the  n'eds; 
And  Venus  rising  roseate  fair. 
Smiling  out  from  old  Neptune's  weeds. 
With  startled  eyes  she  looked  annind. 
Hearing  nineteenth  century  noises; 
And  seeing  a  stranger  on  Attic  ground. 
For  instant  flight  her  spirit  poises. 
Then  came  a  faint  jubilate  hymn 
From  Saint  John,  on  dreary  Patmos, 
.\nd  a  living  crown  not  faint  nor  dim. 
Far  outshone  the  dream  of  Latmos. 


*- 


1054 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


*- 


A  LEGEND  OF  SANTA  BARBARA. 

A  brown  old  Spaniard,  wrinkled  and  gray, 

Rested  lightly  on  his  dripping  oar; 
Whilst  the  sea  gulls  were  drifting  away 

From  the  Maiiyanita  shaded  shore. 
He  told  me  a  tale  of  long  ago 

In  his  own  melodious  tongue 
As  our  boat  was  swaying  to  and  fro 

Near  branches  where  wild  linnets  sung. 

Then  the  ripples,  lapping  on  the  reeds. 

Were    beating    measures,    like    tuneful 
rhyme, 
The  water-lilies  through  waving  weeds 

Nodded  response  in  the  evening  time. 
Then  he  deftly  rolled  his  cigarite 

And  began  in  accents  low  and  clear. 
Faint  smoke-wreaths    rising,   the   sky    to 
meet. 

From  an  old  adobe-dwelling  near. 

Tt  is  more  than  eighty  years  ago, 

A  Russian  ship  in  this  water  lay, 
She  had  come  from  shores  of  ice  and  snow. 

To  this  land  which  seemed  forever  May. 
Bulwark  and  rigging  needed  repair. 

Ere  homeward  they  could  sail  away. 
To  their  sea-wearied  eyes  the  scene  was  fair. 

From  banks  flower-starred  in  rich  display. 

Three  months  and  more  the  ship  lay  at  ease, 

To  some  full  swiftly  the  time  had  fled: 
But  now  they  are  ready  for  the  seas, 

Their  vessel  to  new-born  beauty  wed. 
But  there  is  one,  who  with  sinking  heart 

Hears  the  command  to  sail  next  day; 
'Tis  young  Basiloff  who  fears  to  part 

With  Donna  Maria,  coquettish  and  gay. 

Bugler!  blow  your  clearest,  loudest  blast ! 

See,  yonder  sinks  the  setting  sun; 
Strange !  that  Basiloff  should  be  the  last, 

To  delay  us  when  our  work  is  done. 
Angrily  spake  the  captain,  glass  in  hand. 
As  he  narrowly  scanned  the  shore: 

But  no  answer  came  to  the  bugler's  com- 
mand- 
Only  a  faint  echo  as  before. 

A  day  they  waited,  he  never  came, 
The  young  lieutenant  was  missing  still, 

And  the  sun  sank  in  a  yellow  flame 
Behind  the  oak-crowned  purple  hill. 

Then  slowly  the  strong  ship  sailed  away, 
With  her  flag  aloft  in  full  display, 

Sailing  on  toward  tlie  rising  sun. 
Firing  toward  shore  her  farewell  gun. 

Through  the  Manyanita's  leafy  screen 
Young  Basiloff  peered  with  burning  eyes 

As  dimly  her  pennon's  silky  sheen 
Faded  slowly  out  'twixt  sea  and  skies. 


For  .a  woman's  love  he  had  left  behind. 
Fortune  and  kindred,  home  and  friends, 

Soft  dark  eyes  glancing  had  made  him  blind. 
They  had  compassed  their  baleful  ends. 

Senora  Maria's  witching  eyes. 

Shaded  bj-  long  lashes  darkly  brown. 
Were  lustrous  and  deep  as  twilight  skies, 

With  soft,  limpid  glances  drooping  down. 
But  her  heart  was  false  and  light  as  foam. 

Restless  as  the  sea  sand  shifting  there. 
Luring  him  on  from  his  friends  and  home. 

Skillfully  laying  her  woman's  snare. 

The  hour  soon  came  when  her  glance  grew 
cold, 

And  weariness  crept  into  her  face. 
When  he  saw  her  love  he  could  not  hold. 

Then  he  haunted  this  lonely  place. 
He  awaited  not  the  ship's  return; 

But  grew  weary  of  this  placid  sea. 
Ah !  how  his  despairing  heart  did  burn 

With  sharp,  poignant  throes  of  misery. 

One  eve  he  lay  lifeless  on  the  sand, 

With  a  haggard  face  turned  out  to  sea, 
Dying  with  the  pistol  in  his  hand. 

Just  beyond  that  sand-dune  on  our  lea. 
The  good  Padre  dare  not  bless  the  place. 

Where  a  suicide  was  laid  away;  ' 

But  his  tears  fell  on  the  dead  man's  face, 

Pitiful  kindness  gaining  the  day- 
Mad  re  de  Dios,  Ah!  intercede,  — 

Prayed  the  Padre  in  broken  tones. 
Cast  not  away  a  broken  reed; 

Pity  this  poor  sinner's  soul,  he  moans. 
He  who  judges  the  quick  and  the  dead        ' 

Surely  heard  the  good  Padre's  prayer, 
A  faint,  bright  light  seemed  'round  his  head, 

As  he  knelt  by  the  sea  sand  there. 

Yonder  his  gravestone,  'tis  old  and  gray, 

Where  the  Manyanita  thickly  grows. 
Birds  croon  above  it  at  close  of  day; 

The  sea  chants  an  anthem  ;is  it  flows; 
The  convent  bells  rang  peacefully  clear 

As  the  old  Spaniard  finished  his  tale; 
The  past  and  present  seemed  .so  near. 

As  we  dx'ifted  out  in  the  twilight  pale. 

I  shivered,  for  the  breeze  seemed  cold. 

Where    the   drooping   branches    lightlj 
stirred 
Of  an  alder  tree,  in  outline  bold. 

Seeming  to  conceal  scmie  hoarse  night 
bird. 
And  a  dark  ship  sailing  far  away 

Blended  in  with  the  evening  mist. 
As  we  dipped  our  oars  at  evening  gray, 

Night  and  darkness  the  waters  kissed. 


*- 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL   TOKTS   OF    AMEKICA. 


lO'y) 


MRS.  BELLE  B.  BARRY. 

This  lady  was  written  some  very  flne  poems, 
nnry  of  wliioli  liave  rpccivort  pnVilioatioii  in 


MRS.  BELLE  B.  BAUIiY. 

the  periodical  press.  She  is  tlie  wife  of  Isaac 
E.  Harry,  a  well-kuown  business  man  of 
Knoxville,  Tenn. 


THE  TWO  CHIMNEYS. 
Like  dear  old  sentinels  towering-  there. 
To  guard  the  spot  where  home  liath  been. 
My  childliood'sliome  — where  once  were  seen 
Sweet  forms  of  loved  ones  lingering  near. 
Our  lives  from  ill  to  screen  I 

O,  let  me  view  thee  as  thou  art, 
Grand  and  most  nobly  strong. 
Dear  remnant  cherished,  of  mj'  home  so  long , 
While  holiest  awe  doth  flU  my  hoarti 
Once  glad  in  childlike  song! 

I  seem  to  see  thee  as  the  soul 
Of  house  much  loved,  where  once  I  dwelt; 
Imperishing!    Thou  it  was  ne'er  felt— 
The  sc'i)rehing  breath  of  Fire's  control— 
Nor  to  liis  bidding  knelt! 

O,  guard  thee  well  that  precious  spot, 
Familiar  once  to  pattering  feet 
Of  mine  who  there  did  meet 
Kind  parents  dear;  now  one  is  not  — 
May  we  in  Heaven  greet  him  I 

Though  winds  may  come  and  bear  away 
The  ashes  'round  thee  cast. 


Oh,  may  eacli  breeze  l)ut  be  the  blast 
To  strengthen  thee  and  make  thee  stay 
So  long  as  Time  shall  hist ! 

Ves,  upward  iioint  thee,  as  of  yore. 
Did  jiarents  once  who  dwelt  below. 
Unto  our  youtiif  ul  lives  bestow 
fJright  star  of  llui)e  forevermore, 
IJidding  us  ui)ward  go! 

Though  hours   and    days  and  weeks  have 

passed. 
And  months  now  many  years  have  made. 
Since  I,  with  sisters,  'neatli  thee  played  — 
Yet  love  of  mine  for  thee  doth  last. 

By  thee  was  ne'er  betrayed! 

While  memory  sweet  doth  lend  a  charm 
To  fairest  scene  — this  far-olT  day, 
I  see  us  cross  o'er  graveled  way, 
Hipe  berries  red  to  pluck  from  farm. 
In  sweetest  month  of  May ! 

(,)uite  safe,  hearts  young  did  joyous  feel. 
With  towering  Monitors  in  view, 
Us  home  to  guide,  when  evening  drew 
Its  curtains  'round,  night  to  revesil. 
Bedecked  witli  glittering  dew! 

And  thou  sweet  honeysuckle  wild. 
And  ferns  designed  by  Maker's  iiower. 
Which  I  have  plucked  hour  after  hour  — 
Feeling  myself  kind  Nature's  cliild. 
In  love  with  field  and  Mower! 

Oh,  could  you  speak  you'd  tell  a  tale 
Of  sisters  happy,  blithe  and  gay. 
Who  over  hills  of  moss  did  stray, 
Home  chimneys  i)eering  o'er  the  vale. 
Us  guarding  on  our  way ! 

And  rippling  streams  whose  waters  flow 
Long  meadows  through,  o'er  rocks  and  moss. 
Meandering  near  and  far  across 
The  cresses  green  as  on  j'on  go  — 
Oh,  hear  me  iis  you  pass! 

Could  you  in  rhythmic  voice  but  tell. 
Of  Summers  past  and  twilight  dear, 
Methinks  my  spirit  would  draw  near 
To  list  the  story  loved  so  well. 
Of  Cliildhood  sweet  to  liear! 

Ye  oaken  trees,  wliose  branches  wide 
Oft  me  did  screen  from  suti's  warm  rays. 
In  Summer's  long  and  dreamy  days. 
Oh,  could  ye  now  a  speech  provide  — 
Would  joy  my  soul  always! 

In  trutliful  whisperings  would  you  say 
That  dear  was  life  in  home  rich  blest. 
With  father,  mother,  sisters.  Ix'st. 
Would  such  a  home  might  hust  alway, 
Atid  cliimneys  —  like  defy  decay ! 


*- 


-* 


*- 


1056 


LOCAT-  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 
Oh!  dearest  one  and  best  whose  fond  love 

taught 
My  tottering  feet  to  walk  at  thy  dear  side, 
And  all  my  thoughts,  in  embryo  did  guide 
To  childish  utterance,  and  whose  ceaseless 

thought 
Was  ever  with  my  highest  welfare  fraught— 
Who  for  my  good  had  suffered,  yea  had  died. 
As  martyr  burnt  at  stalie  or  crucified  — 
Oh!  talie  this  tribute  my  heart's  love  hath 

brought. 
Know,  dearest  one,  the  love  to  thee  I  owe, 
All  bankrupt  though  I  am.  1  do  repay 
With  u  devotion  deathless  as  my  soul; 
For  thy  dear  sake  all  ills  would  undergo. 
All  perils  brave;  and  foes,  though  they  might 

slay. 
Could  not  my  deathless  love  for  thee  control  1 

TO  MT  LITTLE  DAUGHTER. 
Bright  angel,  dropped  from   Heaven's    ex- 
alted sphere 
Earthward  to  dwell  with  us  a  while  below, 
Like  sun-gleam  when  it  comes  with  glorious 

glow. 
Lighting  dim  earth,  comes  now  thy  smile  to 

cheer 
And  gladden  loving  hearts !  O,  may  each  year 
Revolving,  bring  thee  all  life  can  bestow  [so 
On  mortals  here  — hclth,  wealth  and  beauty 
Supreme  that  not  one  rival  shall  appear! 
All  that  on  history's  page  hath  been  of  old 
Bestowed,  of  bliss  on  women  of  renown  — 
All  good  (their  woes  and  evils  all  unknown), 
'Round  thee  by  God's  all-loving  hand  con- 
trolled. 
Rest  like  a  heavenly  halo  without  frown 
Your    sky  beclouding  — earth   and    lieaven 
your  own! 

GOLDEN  WEDDING  DAV. 

TO  MR.  AND  MBS.  E.  N.  PARHAM. 

The  heavens  themselves  were  shedding  joy- 
ous tears 
At  contemplating  bliss  for  fifty  years 
Of  happiest  mortals  twain,  whose  Autumn 

golden 
Has  crowned  with  bliss  each  glorious  yearn- 
ing olden. 
O,  spring  of  love,  O,  summer-time  of  joys— 
O,  autumn  raptures  age  not  yet  destroys  — 
Vain  here  your  potent  oftentime  endeavor 
BUss  from  the  pure,  the  true,  the  good  to 

sever. 
These  lives  no  longer  sparkle  in  the  sun, 
As  streamlets  dashing  down  the  hillside  run ; 
Youth's  gay  exuberance  gradually  hath  sub- 
sided —  [glided ! 
The  rill  twixt  mightier  shores  at  last  hath 
* ^ 


Upon  the  shores    no  springtime  flowerets 

bloom. 
But  day's  resplendent  evening  doth  illume, 
Calm,  broad,  deep-flowing  current  on  wliose 

glowing 
Are  seen  two  freiglited  lives  to  glory  going! 

O,  let  us  watch  them,  as  they  grandly  sweep 
On,  onward  toward  the  everlasting  deep. 
Toward  which  our  youthful  crafts  on  earth 

are  tending 
Unto  the  spacious  shore  of  life  unending! 
Theirs,  grand  exemplars  I    Not  one  channel 

missed ! 
No  fatal  shoals  encountered  in  a  mist; 
No  fierce  tornado  ol  excess  destroying. 
Or  life's  most  pure  and  noble  instincts  cloy- 
ing. 
The  happy  mean, the  temperance  in  all  things 
Preached  by  the  Apostle  of  the  king  of  kings; 
The  fear  and  love  of  God  — hke  .^gis  guard- 
ing. 
Two  lives  in  one  — see  now  this  eve's   re- 
warding! 
Lo,  these  the  happy  offspring  —  children  lov- 
ing, [proving 
And    children's   children,    each   one   nobly 
The  force  of  good  exemplars  heredispliiying 
Lives  with  just  pride  these  hearts  most  nobly 

swaying! 
Thank  God  that  good  hath  sometime  such 
reward  [scarred, 

On  this  sad  world,  where  sore  and  battle- 
The  just  and  upright  ofttimes  flglit  in  vain. 
Not  joys  of  earth,  but  bliss  of  heaven  to  gain! 
And  now  we  part!  Alas  such  other  meeting 
Shall  no  more  come  in  this  existence  fleeting! 
But  on  the  shore  where  parting  is  not  known, 
O,  let  us  meet  in  bliss  around  God's  throne! 


MEMORY. 

O,  fair  Mnemosyne,  who  smilest  kindly 
On  that  sweet  past  by  me  so  fondly  cherished! 
Should  vision  natural  be,  like  Milton's,  per- 
ished. 
Methinks  mine  inner  eyes,  like  his  benignly 
Could  revel  in  tlie  glorious,  and  not  blindly 
Grope  in  despair.    O,  by  thee  goddess,  nour- 
ished, ['sl'ed. 
Unto  that  power  whereby  old  Homer  flour- 
My  soul  in  thought's  grand  realm   should 

feast  divinely 
Sweet  goddess  of  delights  so  often  tried  — 
Dear  confidant  so  trusty  and  consoling  — 
Oft  to  my  lonely,  sad  and  aching  heart 
Thou  comest  in  robes  celestial  by  my  side  — 
Thou  breathest  tones  like  far-off  antliems 

rolling. 
Transmuting  woe  to  bliss  with  magic  art! 
"i 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1057 


-* 


MILO  JENKINS  HARRIS. 

Born:  Edinburgh,  Ind.,  May  23, 1862. 
Mk.  Harris  is  editor  of    the  Nonpareil,  a 
monthly  paper  published  at  Camclen.  Ohio, 
where  he  resides.    Many  of  his  poems  have 


MILD  JJkNKUSS  HARRIS. 

appeared  in  the  periodical  press,  under  the 
noin  de  plume  of  Jenkins.  Mr.  Harris  has 
also  written  many  prose  articles  and  stories, 
which  have  been  well  received.  He  was  mar- 
ried in  1886  to  Miss  Ida  S.  Bunnell,  but  is  now 
a  widower,  with  one  daug'hter. 

A  REFLECTION. 
On  a  Idte  outgoing  train 

Sat  the  twain. 
Right  directly  opposite  me, 

(Do  you  seeV^ 
And  I  knew  them  newly  wed; 
For  she  yawned  once,  and  he  said, 
"On  my  shoulder  lay  your  head.' 

It  was  red. 
It  was  red,  as  I  have  told  — 

Red  and  gold ; 
And  I  looked  for  a  white  horse. 

But,  of  course, 
I  could  find  none  in  the  night 
Dark  as  Egypt.    (Black  or  white 
Would  have  looked  the  same,  I  might 

As  well  write.) 
But  I  gazed  out  in  the  dark, 

(Do  you  hark?) 
Looking  for  that  snow-white  horse 

And  saw  worse ! 
Plainly  saw  reflected  there. 
In  my  pane,  this  spoony  pair. 


'T would  have  made  me  turn  and  stare. 
Did  I  dare. 

But  I  saw  they  saw  me  not ; 

Had  forgot 
That  tliey  were  aboard  a  train. 

And  in  plaiii 
View  of  something  like  a  score 
Pair  of  eyes  (should  those  before 
Turn  to  "  view  the  landscape  o'er  "\, 

Maj'be  more. 
So  I  let  them  sweetly  be. 

Don't  you  see? 
And  I  gazed  out  in  the  night 

(Which  was  right): 
Gazed  with  an  encliain-ed  stare; 
Saw  him  fondle  her  red  hair. 
Saw  she  didn't  seem  to  care. 

Happy  pair! 
Saw  him  lift  her  dimpled  chin 

(With  a  grill); 
Saw  hira  give  a  lingering  kissi  . 

And  such  bliss 
Emanated,  that  the  swain 
Did  it  o'er,  and  o'er  again  — 
Tbougli  it  ever  seemed  in  vain. 

In  my  pane. 

Tlieii  she  put  her  little  hand, 

Lily  band. 
Up  and  'cross  his  shoulder  broad 

(On  my  word^: 
And  she  whispered,  "  I  love  you. 
Oh!  So  dearly!  Love  me  too?" 
Another  kiss—  ••  You  bet  I  do!  " 

(Honest,  true!) 

Then  the  kisses  came  again  — 

Sweet  refrain ; 
Just  as  they  had  come  before. 

O'er  and  o'er; 
And  they  sang  tlie  sixteenth  verse 
(1  will  wager  you  my  purse). 
With  the  chorus  each  time  worsel 

Worse  and  worse ! 
And  I  wrote  ty\z  !'.ttle  song 

Cominc:  'long: 
•  •  Happy  hcr.rts  of  happy  pair. 

Free  Tro:  I  c:'.re! 
Let  the  \;orld  'jiit  let  you  spoon 
While  you :  lay;  for  all  too  soon. 
Morning  oT  your  honeymoon 

Will  be  noon. 
••Then  will  quickly  come  Its  nigbt; 

And  the  fight 
Of  real  life  wi".  be  begun  — 

Spooning  clone. 
You  may  love  each  other  still; 
.\nd  I  truly  hope  you  will  — 
You  will  need  to:  for  life's  liill 

Tries  the  skill.  " 


-* 


*- 


1058 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


METTA  HORTON. 

Born:  Southold,  N.Y.,  1851. 
This  lady  attended  the  Southold  Academy, 
was  a  graduate  of   the  New  England  Con- 
servatory, and  has  been  a  music  teacher  in 
tlio  Seminnry.    Her  poems  have  appeared  in 


METTA   HORTON. 

the  Long  Island  Traveler,  and  the  Boston 
Musical  Herald,  and  several  of  her  songs 
have  been  set  to  music.  She  is  a  thorough 
musician  and  a  teacher  of  the  pipe  organ, 
musical  composition,  liarmony  and  the  piano. 


THE  THEATRE. 
I've  been  to  the  theatre  for  the  first  time, 
'Tis  rather  a  wonderful  show; 
And  liere  in  Boston  lollss  *em  to  believe 
That  it's  quite  tlie  tiling  to  go. 
I  had  always  supposed  it  rather  a  place 
Which  students  at  college  would  seek 
Surreptitiously  often  at  evening.  Instead 
Of  studying  Latin  or  Greek. 
Or  that  only  the  gayest  of  votaries,  they 
In  fashion's  swift  clianges  wJiirled, 
Whose  only  aim  in  life  it  would  seem 
Is  to  be  amused  in  the  world. 
Were  such  as  frequented  the  dramatic  play; 
But  I'm  told  now-a-days  'tis  n't  so,— 
That  people  arc  growing  "progressive  "  and 

Inroad, 
.\nd  "  need  the  artistic  "  you  know. 


And  men  of  position  and  influence  too. 

Now  boldly  proclaim  it  is  right, 

Wagner's  theatre  at  Beireuth  to  attend 

Even  on  Sunday  night. 

The  papers  are  filled  these  cold  wintry  days. 

Concerning  "A  Winter's  Tale," 

Ana  people    are  saying  "  you  surely  must 

hear 
Mary  Anderson  without  fail." 
"  She  is  perfectly  grand,  a  model  of  grace 
And  beauty,  and  'tis  well  understood 
Slie  entered  the  stage  to  work  a  reform 
And  make  its  influence  good." 
I  was  asked  to  attend  with  a  most  honored 

friend. 
And  did  n't  know  ,iust  what  to  do. 
For  he  always  did  what  seemed  to  be  right, 
And  was  brought  up  orthodox  too. 
So  I  yielded  my  points  and  decided  to  go, 
It  was  rather  a  curious  sight; 
And  I  some  moral  lesson  would  draw 
From  what  I  witnessed  that  night. 
The  kings  looked  dignified,  stately  and  grand. 
The  men  pictured  beauty  and  grace; 
The     "attendants"     were    all     beamingly 

dressed. 
And  the  little  prince  had  a  sweet  face. 
Each  shepherdess  danced  with  simplicity's 

ease, 
And  modest  their  costumes  you'd  call, 
But   the   shepherd's  apparel  was  really  so 

scant 
'Twould  hardly  bear  mention  at  all. 
Perhaps  it  was  purely  historical  art, 
I  felt  that  I  must  n't  inquire; 
Or  the  manager  for  the  queen's  costly  array 
Accounts  balanced  with  the  male  attire. 
The  wooing  was  most  artistically  done. 
Perhaps  'tis  better  that  waj- ; 
But  I  guess  that  most  discover  a  plan 
Satisfactory,  anj'way. 
The  music  was  wretched,  the  soloist  flat, 
And  instruments  out  of  tune. 
And  when  it  was  over  the  audience  felt 
That  'twas  ended  none  too  soon. 
I  do  not  believe  the  influence  good 
On  the  .actor  nor  those  who  attend;         [out, 
That  subjects  in  public   be  boldly  brought 
We  would  hardly  discuss  with  a  friend. 
I  cannot  see  why  it  is  proper  and  right 
To  appear  on  the  stage  in  array,  [blush 

That    would   cause    embarrassment   and   :i 
In  a  i)arlor,  dressed  that  way. 
But  people  must  be  entertained  and  amused, 
And  fashion  we  must  not  resist, 
And  morals  and  decency  must  give  way. 
Or  the  theatre  can't  exist. 


*- 


* — ^ 


* 


LOCAL.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


lUo9 


CLARENCE  T.STEELE. 

Born:  Brooklyn,  N.Y. 
This  g-entlcnian  is  rapidly  coming'  to  the 
front  as  a  composer,  and  is  already  well- 
known  in  the  east  as  a  tenor  siuger  and 
musical  director.  He  is  also  a  teacher  of 
Toeal  music  and  sijrlit  reading- in  the  public 


CLARENCE  T.  STEELE. 

schot)ls  of  New  York  City.  Mr.  Steele  is 
director  of  the  Zethus  Male  Quartette,  %vliich 
he  orgranized  in  1886.  As  an  author  and  i>oct 
he  has  been  very  successful.  Many  of  liis 
poems  have  been  set  to  music;  and  he  has 
contributed  a  series  of  Norwegian  stories  to 
the  Christian  at  Work. 


THE  LOST  SONG. 

At  noontide,  'neath  the  elm  tree  shade 
I  sat,  and  all  art)und  was  still. 
Save  when  tlie  breeze  from  o'er  the  hill 

Among'  the  leafy  tree-toi>s  played. 

Anon  the  chirping  of  some  bird 
Or  distant  cow-bell,  or  the  hum 
Of  busy  bee  perchance,  would  come 

Across  the  fields;  naught  else  was  heard, 

Till  all  at  once  a  little  song- 
Across  the  quiet  scene  was  borne. 
As  clear  as  lark  at  early  morn ; 

It  seemed  to  Hoat  the  clouds  among. 

'Twas  some  fair  singer,  and  her  lay 
So  mingled  with  the  sounds  of  noon. 
It  seemed  that  nature  did  attune 

Them  all  to  suit  the  melody. 


I  was  as  one  beneath  a  si)ell. 
All  Nature  seemed  so  woud'rous  sweet. 
And  everything  seemed  so  complete, 

I  longed  forever  there  to  dwell. 

Anon  the  breeze  its  course  would  sliift. 
The  song,  'twould  seem,  ha<l  passed  away. 
Until,  again  toward  me  'twould  stray, 

And  in  my  ears  the  song  would  drift. 

And  so  I  sat  in  sweet  content. 
Until  the  little  song  had  ceased. 
And  then  my  loneliness  increased. 

For  with  the  song  my  rapture  went. 

The  noonday  sounds  less  soothing  fell. 
Upon  the  ears  they'd  held  enthralled. 
Until  from  heaven,  it  seemed,  was  called 

The  voice,  on  earth  so  short  to  dwell. 

The  leaves,  whose  rustling  in  the  breeze 
Had  erstwhile  charmed  nie,  charmed  no 
'Twas  but  a  rustling,  when  before     [more, 

A  thousand  voices  filled  the  trees. 

And  so  I  lonely  sat ;  in  vain 
I  waited,  patiently  and  long. 
But  still  the  charming  little  song 

Fell  not  upon  my  ears  again. 

TO  AN  OLD  VIOLIN. 
Thou  friend  whose  weird  sweet  tones  so  oft 

Have  calmed  my  restless  mood. 
Whose  sympathetic  voice,  and  soft. 

Hath  waked  in  me  all  good 
And  i)eacefiil  thoughts,  whene'er  downcast. 

When  angry  or  alone 
And  melancholy  held  me  fast. 

And  '.claimed  me  for  her  own." 

I  love  thee,  and  thou  speak'st  to  me 

In  words  distinct  and  clear. 
My  thoughts  finds  iztterauce  through  thee. 

Thou  frienii  I  ln)ld  so  dear. 
As  oft  at  hour  of  toil's  surcease, 

I  press  thee  to  my  l)re!ist. 
And  sit  me  down  in  perfect  peace, 

When  all  mankind's  at  rest. 

Aye,  though  not  fair  to  outward  sight, 

liut  rough,  and  crackt-d  and  stainetl. 
Still,  thou'rt  to  me  agreat  delight, 

Wlio  knowest  that,  coniained 
Within  thy  homely  frame  tliere  lies 

A  voice,  that  can  impart 
Unto  the  ear  the  joys  and  sighs 

That  sj)ring  up  in  the  licart. 
I'll  ever  cherish  thee,  sweet  friend. 

Who  ne'er  can'st  i>rove  untrue. 
Hut  who  wilt  comfort  to  the  end, 

Whate'er  mankind  may  do. 
And  oft,  when  weary,  sad  or  lone, 

I'll  take  thee  from  thy  case. 
And  soon,  perforce,  all  sadness  flown, 

I'll  have  a  smiling  face. 


-* 


*- 


1060 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  M.  A.  B.  MARTIN. 

The  poetical  productions  of  Mrs.  Martin 
have  received  extensive  publication  in  the 
press,  and  many  of  them  have  been  written 
for  special  occasions  and  read  before  the  W. 


MRS.  M.  A.  B.  MARTIN. 

R.  C.  and  G.  A.  R.  societies  of  Grand  Island 
and  other  cities.  Mrs.  Martin  was  an  alter- 
nate lady  manager  from  Nebraska  of  the 
Women's  Commission  for  the  World's  Fair. 


THE  OLD  SALOON. 
The  poor  boy  started  for  the  old  saloon  — 
It  was  his  nightly  task 
To  go  to  the  keeper  at  the  bar 
And  for  his  father  ask. 
His  mother  was  very  sick  at  home; 
His  little  sister,  too, 
Had  cried  for  bread  that  very  night 
And  begged  dear  brother  to 
Just  go  once  more  to  the  old  saloon 
And  bring  poor  father  home: 
Mamma  is  dying,  and  his  poor  little  girl 
Will  soon  be  left  alone. 
Poor  papa  was  once  so  good  and  kind 
Till  the  saloons  were  started  here, 
But  now  he  spends  all  his  eanungs 
To  buy  vile  whisky  and  beer. 
And  every  night  when  his  day's  work's  d6nc 
He  stops  at  the  old  saloon, 
Forgetting  the  promise  he  makes  each  morn : 
..  To-night  I'll  come  home  soon." 
Won't  the  temperance  folks  help  papa 
To  keep  his  promise  to  me  ? 
Won't  they  kindly  invite  him  to  go  to  church? 
Where  it's  so  pleasant  atid  nice  to  be. 


Won't  they  gently  take  him  by  the  liand 

And  tell  him  of  better  things  — 

How  the  christian's  heart  rejoices 

When  his  cause  to  Christ  he  brings? 

Won"t  the  temperance  men,  dear  brother, 

Go  to  the  saloon  with  you 

And  bring  poor  papa  home  oncQ  more 

And  tell  him  to  be  true  ? 

To  the  children  God  has  given. 

To  dying  mama  dear. 

To  be  no  more  a  drunkard. 

And  God's  commands  to  fear. 

Will  you  be  a  drunkard,  brother  ? 

When  to  manhood  you  have  grown  ? 

Poor  papa  was  once  as  pure  as  you. 

Now  he  leaves  us  all  alone, 

.And  seeks  companionship  with  men 

Over  tlie  whisky  bowl. 

Neglects  his  home  and  children, 

Neglects  his  precious  soul. 

Poor  mama  is  dying,  brother. 

And  we  are  starving  too; 

Go  just  once  more  and  bring  him  homo 

And  God  will  keep  him  true. 


FORSAKEN. 
Oh!  desolate  heart,  thy  throbbing  can  never 
Bring  back  the  true  love  that  is  gone  from 

it  now;  [but  sever. 

Though  despondent,  forsaken  you  cannot 
Why  repine  at  thy  lot?  to  thy  fate  meekly 

bow,  [another, 

When  every  kind  thought  thou  hast  given 
Brings  back  to  thy  heart  echoes  empty  as  air. 
Though  thy  truest  heart-throbs  are  used  but 

to  smother 
The  love  of  a  life-time,  you  must  not  despair. 
Omnipotence  rules  us,  fate  plays  a  sad  part. 
When  forging  the  chains  where  love  cannot 

dAvell,  [heart. 

Cease  wasting  thy  life-blood.  Oh!  generous 
For  those  that  smile  at  thy  funeral  knell. 
Then  turn  from  tliy  wanderings.  Oh  heart 

bruised  and  broken,  [wings 

The  angel  of  peace  has  spread  her  bright 
To  shield  thee  from  tempest  and  point  to  the 

token  [sings. 

Where  love  ever  whispers  and  harmony 
Of  thy  past  life  forgetting,  the  cruel  unrest 
That  taunted  thy  memory  ere  peace  came  to 

greet  [))reast. 

And  fortell  the  new  love  that  awoke  in  thy 
Hope  and  joy  are  entwined  and  laid  at  thy 

feet,  [liidden. 

Accept  it,  and  waste  not  love's  gift.    All  un- 
it came  like  a  dream,  it  cannot  depart. 
Bright  vislOiis  of  joy  tliat  long  liave  been 

hidden  [heart. 

Will  blossom  and  grow  in  thy  true  loving 


*- 


LOCAL   AMD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


lOfil 


* 


WILLIAM  L.  VISSCHER. 

Born:  Owingsville,  Ky.,  Nov.  25,  1842. 
During  the  war  the  subject  of  this  sketch 
was  corresiJotideiit  of  the  Louisville  Journal, 
and  gradu.ated  in  law  at  the  University  of 
Louisville  shortly  after.  He  was  shipwrecked 
while  on  a  voyage  to  the  West  Indias,  and 
iias  spent  rn:iii\-  years  on  tho  iil.iiii-;.     He  is 


WILLIAM    l,li;|[TF()()T    VI  SSI  1 1 1;  IJ. 

also  well  known  as  a  lecturer.  lu  journalism 
Mr.  Visscher  was  brouirht  up  on  the  old 
Louisville  Journal,  beginning' as  amanuensis 
and  private  secretary  of  George  D.  Prentice. 
We  next  find  him  publisliitig  a  daily  news- 
paper on  a  steamer  plying  between  Louis- 
ville and  New  Orleans.  He  was  then  suc- 
cessively engaged  by  many  prominent  pub- 
lications of  America.  Mr.  Vissclier  has  writ- 
ten more  than  a  thousand  poems,  and  his 
masterpiece  entitled  Black  Mammy,  a  song 
of  tlie  sunny  south,  appeared  in  book-form 
in  1SS6,  together  with  other  miscellaneous 
poems  from  his  pen.  Mr.  Visscher  was  mar- 
ried in  1876  to  Miss  Emma  Blanche  Mason, 
and  has  one  daugliter. 


*- 


A  COMING  MASTER. 
I  sit  upon  my  vine-clad  porch  — 

'Tis  summer's  ardent  weather  — 
And  watch  the  breezes  toying  with 

The  thistle's  downy  feather. 


My  once  brown  hair  is  white  as  snow; 

My  liands  are  thin  and  wrinkled. 
But  better  eyes  liave  never  yet 

In  such  an  old  iiead  twinkled. 
A  mile  away  and  uj)  the  road 

I  see  a  horseman  riding; 
He's  hand.some,  even  thus  afar. 

His  noble  beast  bestriding; 
I  see  mj'  daughter's  tender  look. 

As  wistfully  slie  gazes. 
And  motlier  watching,  'neath  her  lids 

The  blush  the  rider  raises. 
That  gallant  horseman  coming  here 

So  often  at  sun-setting. 
And  mother's  an.xious  looks  with  tears 

Tliat  oft  her  cheeks  arc  wetting. 
Are  signs  to  me,  that  growing  old, 

Some  day  I  will  awaken 
To  find  my  place  as  master  here 

By  that  young  hoiseman  takea. 


THE  POET  KING. 
A  quiet  man,  of  gentle  face. 
Yet  noble  mien  and  courtly  grace. 

To  need  and  sorrow  wed; 
For  lack  of  gold  his  worth  untold. 
And  jealous  Fame  speaks  not  his  name. 

But  waits  till  he  is  dead. 
He  sat  beside  a  limpid  stream 
And  saw  its  lucent  waters  gleam 

In  jewels,  rich  and  rare; 
And  in  tlie  hue  of  Heaven's  blue 
An  angel  face  of  gentle  grace 

Was  sweetly  mirrored  there. 
He  saw  the  flowers  bloom  and  blush 
From  cordial  morn  till  evening's  hush, 

And  listened  to  the  lay 
Of  cooing  dove,  so  full  of  love. 
And  drank  tlie  breeze  tliat  kissed  the  trees, 

In  happj',  hoideu  pluy. 

He  lived  in  contemplation  high. 
Of  all  the  glories  of  the  sky. 

And  sweetest  lessons  took 
From  earth  and  air;  the  bright  and  fair 
Of  every  place  and  age  and  race; 

And  read  from  Nature's  book. 
And  now  he  sits  upon  a  throne, 
A  monarch  in  a  realm,  his  own. 

And  holds  the  universe 
Within  his  grasp,  with  tender  clasp 
A  regal  king  with  soul  to  sing; 

But  stript  of  scrip  and  purse. 
Now  list  the  music  of  his  shell. 
And  liear  Ins  raptured  accents  tell 

Of  pure  and  noble  things. 
With  minstrel's  art.  and  poet's  heart. 
He  fills  the  bowl  th.it  soothes  the  soul. 

And  plavs  upon  its  strings. 
« 


«- 


1062 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF   AMEKICA. 


-« 


MRS.  EMILY  M.  B.  BOYDEX. 

Born;  Mobrisville,  N.Y.,  Dec.  14, 1828. 
This  lady  now  resides  in  Cliicago,  engaged 

as  needle  painting  artist;    ;ii    the   Woi'ld's 
IT 


MRS.  EMILY  M.  B.  BOYBEN. 

Fair  at  New  Orleans  she  took  the  first  premi- 
um for  needle  painting.  To  the  Birds  in  the 
Woods  is  set  to  music  and  copyrighted. 

PIKES  PEAK. 
O,  thou  Most  High,  wilt  deign  draw  nigh  and 

fill  V,        ^ 

Me  with  Thy  presence  whilst  I  bow  my  head 
In  humble  adoration?    When  from  off 
This  lofty  peak  I  view  the  vastness  of 
The  panorama  spread  before  me,  thoughts 
Come  over  me  of  those   who've  question  d 

Thee. 
The  Godhead  right,  as  'twere  an  idle  tale. 
And  yet,  could  they  have  view'd  this  land- 
scape —  this 
So  full  of  beauty  of  sublimost  form, 
Bestowing  e'en  a  single  thought  on  one 
Grand    portion    that   Thou  hast   conceiv  d 

brought  forth, 
How  could  they  longer   doubt  that   Tliou 

O,  God,  omnipotent  who  form'd  the  earth? 

Most  noted  Peak,  upon  thy  top  I  sit 
In  wrapt  amazement.    When  along  thy  side 
I  rode,  I  gaz'd  in  wonder  at  thy  grand 
Imposing  height  nnd  vast  immensity. 


Butlo!  upon  thy  crown  as  one  entranc'd. 
With  awe  I  view  the  vari'd  fancies  of 
The  artist  true,  aye,  God's  own  handiwork. 
In  word  could  I  give  vent  to  thought.I'd  write 
It  here,  but  ah !  so  meager  effort  Is 
That's  human,  words  inadequate  t  find 
T'  express  from  depth  of  soul  so  wrapt  in 

thought 
Of  God's  Sovereignty  —  o'erpow'ring  all. 
Thou  grand  and  lofty  Peak,  as  morn  illumes 
Thy  brow,  and  shadows  fall  around  on  rucks 
Of  lesser  mold,  thy  greatness  to  enhance, 
The  mem'ry  wanders  back  to  days  long  past. 
When  searchers  sallied  forth  for  gold  within 
Thy  breast;    who  fell  by  savage   hand  or 

gaunt 
Despair;  their  expectations  unfill'd,    [locks 
Whose  bones  now  lie  all  bleach'd  among  the 
And  sage  brush  on  the  plains,  their  names 

unknown. 
In  silence  standeth  thou  regardless  of 
Their  fate.   As  I  look  down  from  off  thy  crest 
Of   stones,  and  view  the  endless  landscape 
Thy  grandeur  into  insignificance  [o'er. 

Doth  sink  beside  the  wisdom  His  who  made 
Both  thee  and  all  I  see  before  me  now. 
To  view  this    scene    sublimest   thought  is 

reach'd. 
And  all  1  hat's  human  naught,  beside  our  God. 

TO  HELEN. 
Pansies  for  thee,  O,  my  darling. 
Freighted  with  perfume  so  sweet. 
Mingling  with  rarest  of  blossoms. 
Lovingly,  laid  at  thy  feet. 
Why  do'st  thou  smile,  O,  my  darling, 
Cupid  not  yet  ope'd  thine  eyes? 
Stories  my  heart  now  would  tell  tlieo  — 
Language  of  flowers  implies. 

TO  THE  BIRDS  IN  THE  WOODS. 

Sing  sweet  bonniebird.thy  matin  notes  clear. 
As  high  soar'st  above  with  birdlings  so  near; 
Yes  warble  together,  trill  little  words. 
Thou  sweetest  of  singers -beauteous  birds. 
All  nature  '11  be  silent,  cheer  with  your  song. 
His  presence  seems  near  who's  given  this 

throng; 
We  feel  to  rejoice  and  praise  ever  more. 
Our  Father  in  heav'n,  yes,  ever  more. 
As  floats  e'er  aloft  the  soothing  sweet  lay 
While  idly  we  sit  the  long  summer  day; 
Aye!  dreaming  and  list'ning,  hearts  full  ot 

love.  t*^'^"'"''' 

To   echoes   from  heav'n.  those  notes  from 
Such  melodies  pure,  harmonious  strains. 
That  angels  might  listen,  join  in  refram 
Then  cease  not  thy  song  all  thro'  the  long  .ay. 
But  cheer  us  with  music's  sweet  soothing  lay. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   I'OKTS   OF   AMEUICA. 


IWS 


MRS.  LOUISE  F.  SUDDICK. 

Bokn:  Farmington,  Mo.,  Oct.  21, 1856." 
Since  licr  ohildhood  this  Infly  lias  written 
vcrsL',  iuid  luT  iwcms  liave  Cdiisiantly  ap- 


MRS.  LOUISE   F.  SLDDICK. 

peared  iu  the  periodical  press.  She  is  the 
wife  of  Dr.  S.  T.  Suddick,  a  well-known 
physician,  and  she  now  resides  at  Cuba,  Mo. 


A  DREAM. 
T  dreamed  I  liad  hard  words  with  you 
Last  night,  dear  love,  1  know  not  why; 
Some  trivial  word  or  act  of  yours 
Had  roused  my  anger,  and  when  I 
Awoke  my  heart  and  brain 
Were  smarting  with  the  wrong  and  pain. 
I  dreamed  your  eyes  —  those  tender  eyes. 
Looked  coldly,  sternly  into  mine, 
And  in  the  accents  of  your  voice 
Was  no  conciliating  sign; 
And  j'et,  'tis  strange  1  do  not  know 
What  'twas  that  chafed  and  vexed  us  so. 
Forgive  me  love!  I  had  forgot; 
Dreams  are  as  treacherous  as  our  joys. 
And  dreaming,  I  remembered  not 
That  for  tliree  years  your  blessed  voice 
H;is  silent  been;  and  daisies  white 
Have  hid  your  sweet  eyes  from  my  sight. 


MORNING  GLORIES. 

Why  were  ye  so  quick  to  witlier. 
Morning  glories? 


Like  encliantcd  Uowers,  in  the 

Fabled  stories. 
For  the  summer  scarce  is  gone. 
Golden-rods  are  yet  in  bloom; 
Ye  too  early  souglit  your  tomb, 

Morning  glories. 
Whitlier  did  your  beauty  vanish. 

Morning  glories? 
Out  into  the  unknown  spaces 

Bending  o'er  us? 
Like  a  spirit  wlien  it  goes. 
Whither  —  wherefore?  no  one  knows. 
So  your  bloom  at  summer's  close. 

Morning  glories. 
Common  flowers  we  call  you,  too. 

Morning  glories. 
Not  like  those  that  grow  In  rare 

Conservatories; 
But  like  common  friends  we  meet 
Daily,  on  the  well-trod  street. 
Yet  whose  souls,  like  yours,  are  sweet. 

Morning  glories. 
Faded  now,  each  blue  and  crimson 

Morning  glory. 
Like  the  prophet's  withered  gourd  in 

Hebrew  story. 
Frost  and  bliglit  ye  could  not  bear. 
Flowers  so  common  yet,  so  fair; 
Human  hearts  are  like  you  there. 

Morning  glories. 


UNFULFILLED. 
She  sat  from  morn  till  gathering  eve 
Beside  the  vine-clad  window  there, 
Sewing  on  something  small  and  rare; 
While  June's  red  roses  were  in  bloom. 
Their  fragrance  filled  the  dainty  rtwm  — 
Filled  all  the  lanjiuid  summer  air. 
Wliile  she  sat  stitching  constantly. 
Soft  lace  and  frail  embroidery. 

Dreamily  stitcliing  there. 
What  vague  hope  filled  her  girlish  breast. 
This  bride  of  scarce  a  year  ago? 
Her  tender  eyes  were  all  aglow; 
While  he,  with  more  th;tn  lover's  bliss. 
Bent  over  her  to  claim  a  kiss 
Slie'd  hardly  time  to  give.  I  know. 
So  busy  was  she  fasliiouing 
Each  dainty,  white,  mysterious  thing  — 

So  very  busy  there. 
When  maple  leaves  were  tinged  with  gold, 
And  autumn  sunset  flushing  red. 
He  stood  with  grave,  uncovered  liead 
Bowed  low,  beside  a  tiny  pall  — 
A  broken  rose-bud-  that  was  all. 
From  wliich  all  eartlily  bloom  was  fled; 
While  she,  pale,  feeble,  lily-wliite. 
Her  weak  eyes  shaded  from  the  light. 

Lay  softly  weeping  there. 


1064 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


-* 


REV.  HENRY  C.  CRANE. 

Born:  Norton,  Mass.,  Nov.  30,  IS-iS. 
This  gentleman  was  ordained  in  ISTS  as  a 
Congregational  miuister,and  has  filled  pasto- 
rates at  Franklin,  Mass.,  Allegheny  City,  Pa., 
Spruiyt-ld,  Mo.,  and  Hillside,  Omaha,  Neb. 


i;i:\  ,  II  I. MM  I  M.\  IN  I  i;.\  n  k 
He  married  Miss  Emii\'  K.  'i'aylor,  and  now 
has  two  children,  born  m  1874  and  1878  re- 
spectively. The  poems  of  Mr.  Crane  have 
appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the  religious 
and  secular  press. 


KEEP  OFF  THE  GRASS. 

Half  crazed  by  the  hub-bub  that  governs  the 

Hub, 
We  happened  one  day  through  tlfe  common 

to  pass. 
When,  clad  in  the  blue,  with  a  star  and  a  club, 
A  stranger  besought  us. 

Keep  oflf  the  grass. 

Like  Lot  out  of  Sodom  we  fled  at  the  word. 
Apologies  speaking,  we  muttered,  Alas! 
In  life's  joyous  hey-day  how  often  is  heard 
By  those  out  of  their  places. 

Keep  off  the  grass. 

Tliere  are  men  at  the  bar  and  men  at  the  bars. 
The  young  bloods  of  fashion,  going  en  masse, 
Aflash -with  their  diamonds,  twirling  cigars, 
To  whom  sense  is  hinting, 

Keep  off  the  grass. 


Some  think  they've  a  call  to  govern  the  race, 
When  calls  such  as  these  are  tolerably  scarce; 
While  wiring   and  logging  themselves  into 

place. 
Miss  Modesty's  saying. 

Keep  off  the  grass. 

Some  talents  are  hidden,  which  ought  to  be 

used. 
Wrap  not  in  a  napkin,  my  laddie  or  lass, 
For  bright  and  true  coinage  is  never  refused. 
You  guess  how  we'll  end  it. 

Keep  off  the  grass. 

In  fact  to  be  frank  we've  little -of  doubt 
But  what  in  the  slang  well  known  to  the  mass 
If  we  the  ten  tables  were  asked  to  write  out, 
'Twould  be  in  a  sentence, 

Keep  off  the  grass. 

Perhaps  you  will  say  with  a  neighborly  wink, 
Ha,  ha,   my  good  fellow,  you've  plenty  of 

brass. 
Come  mind  jour  own  teaching  and  leave  us 

to  think. 
Your  muse  don't  amuse  us. 

Keep  off  the  grass. 

Yes,  oft  doth  Apollo  arouse  from  his  ease. 
To  fright  with  his  bow  the  metering  class, 
To  pierce  with  his  arrows  the  raw  Niobes, 
And  shout  from  Olymjius, 

Keep  off'  the  grass. 


RULES  FOR  TRAVELERS. 

If  briers  thorn  thy  feet. 
And  lious  crouch. 
And  mountains  rise. 
Look  on ! 

If  mists  condense, 
And  wild  winds  blow. 
And  night  grows  dark, 
Look  up ! 

Beyond  the  mountain  ridge. 
Above  the  mist  and  niglit, 
Are  Heaven  and  God. 

Look  on!    Lookup! 


EXTRACT. 

Since  'noath  the  shade  of  Eden's  trees 

The  wail  of  grief  began. 

The  race  of  mortal  man 
In  sliadow  walks,  and  never  flees 

Beyond  that  gloomy  span. 

The  golden  bells  of  fairy  t;ile. 
In  God's  first  temples  chime; 
In  sickness,  grief  and  grime, 

'Neath  cyjiress,  yew  and  aspen  pale. 
We  dream  of  sunnier  clime. 


*- 


*- 


♦LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF   AMKlilCA. 


1(H)0 


JOSEPH  B.  SxVLISBURY. 

Born:  Clarendon,  N.Y.,  Sept.  11, 1838. 
This  author  and  poet  has  contributed  exten- 
sively to    the  periodical    press,  and  has  a 
volume  of  iioems  ready  for   iiublit'atiou,  be- 


JOSEPH  B.  SALISBURY. 

sides  having-  written  three  novels.  Mr.  Salis- 
bury is  also  the  author  of  several  vocal  com- 
positions which  liave  been  set  to  music  by 
the  well-known  firm  of  Oliver  Ditson  &  Co. 
He  is  still  a  resident  of  his  native  state. 


*- 


WEARY. 

HE. 

Weary  sister,  oh,  so  weary  — 
E'en  the  gems  that  around  us  shine 
Adding-  luster,  inaketh  dreary 
Loneliness  like  thine  and  iiiiue. 
Wing-less  are  the  souls  that  ponder 
O'er  life's  curious  hidden  springs. 
Being  wingless  we  must  wander 
Paths  beset  with  nameless  stings. 

SHE. 

Out  of  tribulations,  brother, 
Cometh puiity  and  love. 
Out  of  sorrow,  meekness  cometli. 
Framing  souls  for  realms  above. 
Garner  every  ray  of  glory, 
Crossing  oft  the  path  we  tread. 
Falling  from  the  cross  in  story  ;• 
We  but  follow,— others  led  I 


SONG  OF  A  THOLG HT. 
A  thought  came  trip|)ing  down  the  lane 
Of  fancy,  in  liie  gloatning. 
'Twas  rather  sad,  than  otherwise. 
Like  seas  a  requiem  moaning, 
"  I  opened  wide  a  tiny  gate, 
And  'scaped  from  thought's  great  ocean. 
To  shine  across  your  fancy  Are, 
And  wake  new  life,  my  notion." 
Thus  s-ang  the  thought,  but  whence  it  came, 
Which  route,  and  cross  which  river 
It  had  leaped  lo  meet  me  here, — 
When  arrow  left  tlie  quiver? 
>•  I  am  a  child  of  si)ace,"  it  sang, 
••  I  cleave  the  mist  around  thee; 
I  come  from  lloral  gardens  fair. 
Their  perfumes  wrap'd  around  me. 
"  I  come  from  kingdoms  in  the  sea. 
From  mermaids'  pearly  chamber; 
No  words  1  bring,  nor  statf,  nor  sword, 
I  neitlier  fly  nor  clamber. 
The  feeble  words  you  now  invoke 
As  cloak  to  wrap  around  me. 
Scarce  cast  a  shadow  of  myself;— 
In  poverty  they've  l)ouiid  me." 

MY  DARLINGS. 
Little  Toot  with  blue  eyes. 
Merry  Ned  with  brown, 
Gyp's  with  nameless  color 
'Neath  her  golden  crown. 
Little  hands  in  mischief. 
Morning,  noon  and  niglit. 
Dresses  in  disorder. 
Alia  wondrous  fright. 
How  can  mama's  two  bands. 
Out  of  chaos  1)riiig 
Order  to  the  liousehold? 
'Tis  no  easy  tiling. 
Six  hands  sowing  discord 
In  the  homing  .song. 
Till  I  scarce  can  tell  you. 
Where  the  chords  belong. 
But  if  baby  fingers. 
Should  lie  still  and  cold. 
Closed  were  sweetest  eyelids. 
Covered  by  the  mold? 
Sorrow  would  be  deeper,— 
Mischief  then  undone 
Would  rise  up  a  specter,— 
Dark  would  be  my  sun. 
Work  your  ways  my  darliniis, 
Maina'll  help  you  play. 
We'll  enjoy  tlie  moments 
Passing  swift  away. 
Hop  and  skip,  my  treasures. 
Be  not  fearful,  run. 
Sail  not  white-winged  pleasure 
Pray,  till  work  is  done. 


*- 


-* 


1066 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  MARY  E.  CORLISS. 

Born:  Great  Falls,  N.  H.,  Dec.  22, 1832. 
This  lady  is  the  daughter  of  a  Methodist 
clergyman.    After  receiving  her  education 
she  taught  school  for  ten  years,  when  she 

was  married  to  David  M.  Curliss,  ami   iiow 


resides  with  lier  liusband  and  children  on  a 
farm  near  Washburn,  Maine.  Mrs.  Corliss 
is  collecting  her  poems  and  will  publish  them 
in  book-form  at  an  early  date. 


ONE  YEAR  AGO  TO-DAY. 
'Tis  just  one  year  ago  to-day  Minnie, 
Since  we  laid  thee  down  to  rest, 
Since  you  gave  that  last  loving-  looli 
Ere  you  entered  the  realms  of  the  blest. 
Thou  wert  beautiful,  my  angel  child, 
And  to  us  wert  lent,  not  given ; 
Thou  hast  fled  to  thy  native  air. 
To  thy  glorious  home  in  heaven. 

I  wept  as  1  stood  beside  thy  grave; 
It  was  not  that  thou  wert  free. 
But  for  the  terrible  foreboding 
That  was  still  creeping  over  me; 
For  I  felt  as  I  laid  thee  down  to  sleep 
'Mid  the  snow  so  white  and  fair. 
But  a  few  short  months  and  another 
Must  lie  beside  thee  there. 


NETTIE  TALKING  TO  THE  BIRDS. 
Birdies,  are'nt  you  fearful  cold. 

Flitting  around  among  the  trees? 
Wliy  don't  you  fly  to  a  warmer  place. 

Where  you  can  smg  just  as  you  please? 

What  makes  you  stay  awaj'  up  here. 
Where  the  snow  is  so  very  deep ! 

If  I  were  you  I'd  go  down  South 
And  get  some  plums  to  eat. 

Don't  you  know  you'll  freeze  your  feet, 
You  drefful  foolish  little  things? 

How  very  quick  I'd  flj*  away. 
Had  I  your  pretty  little  wings. 

I'll  throw  you  out  some  crumbs. 

So  you  won't  starve  quite  to  death. 
If  I  had  to  stay  out  in  a  storm 

I'm  sure  I'd  lose  my  breath. 
Don't  you  know  when  it  begins  to  be  cold, 

That  winter  is  coming  on? 
If  you  do,  j'ou  ought  to  fly  away 

To  where  it  is  nice  and  warm 
Then  you  could  sing  all  day. 

You  could  build  your  tiny  nest. 
And  choose  a  little  mate  — 

The  one  j'ou  liked  the  best. 
But  I'm  glad  you  do  stay  here; 

I  like  to  see  you  hopping  'round; 
It  would  be  so  very  lonely 

Where  no  birdies  could  be  found. 
I  can  look  out  from  the  window 

In  mamma's  pleasant  room. 
And  see  the  little  foot-prints 

That  you  made  y ester-noon. 


DEPARTED  YEAR. 

EXTRACT. 

The  old  year  lias  fled.    Its  fleering  hours  are 

numbered. 
And  each  hath   brouglit  us  in  its  voiceless 

train 
Some  hope  that  glowed  or  wearying  care  that 

slumbered. 
Or  love  that  sought  for  love  alas!  in  vain. 
The  heart  that  many  a  year  hath  held  its 

motion 
Forfeits,  perchance,  the  magic  to  restore 
That  fond  enthusiasm  and  intense  devotion 
It  kindled  deftly  in  the  days  of  j'ore. 

Yet  what  avails    since    every  moon  bring 

nearer 
Yon  glorious  mansion  of  the  pure  and  Ijlest; 
And  those    who  wait  us  at  its  gates  seem 

dearer, 
That  they  before  us  entered  into  rest. 
So  take  our  adieus,  thou  dear  old  year. 
And  aid  our  pilgrim  feet  to  reach  that  realm 

so  dear. 


*- 


-* 


*- 


-* 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


1UG7 


MRS.  FLORA   C.  WEST. 

Born:  Glean,  N.  Y.,  July  29,  18;5',). 
The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  in  tli(> 
Itiiial  Now  Yorker  aud  other  publications. 


^""^^ 

^ISb^ 

^.      ^ 

JS^ttUI^.' 

^^^^^K^^'                             ■    .  ^^^^H 

p^"    .  ^.■' .   ■             '^^ 

/f- 

f 

MRS.  FLORA  C.  WEST. 

She  was  married  in  1862  to  James  E.  Kent, 
and  now  resides  at  Evansville,  Wis. 


BEAUTIFUL  MAY. 
'Tis  come,  'tis  come!  the  beautiful  May! 

We  greet  it  with  a  song-: 
Its  brightness  vanishes  grief  away 

And  makes  the  faint  heart  strong. 
'Tis  come,  'tis  come!  the  opening  bloom. 

Showers  fragrance  on  the  air; 
Embroidered  o'er  old  winter's  gray  gloom 

Is  greenness  everywhere. 
'Tis  come,  'tis  come!  the  forests  resound, 

Witli  bird-songs  old  yet  new; 
The  streams,  ice-free,  so  joyfully  bound, 

To  meet  the  ocean  blue. 
Where  falls  thy  tread, spring's  loveliest  maid. 

Earth  wakes  in  loveliness; 
Like  fairy  touch,  plain,  hillside  and  glade. 

Are  robed  in  gayest  dress. 
Sweet  prophet  of  the  summer,  thou  art 

With  liope  and  promise  rife. 
Like  th'  unfolding  of  a  fresh  young  soul. 

The  spring-time  of  a  life. 
So  glide  our  lives  like  the  lovely  Ma> 

To  riper  summer-time: 


May  love  and  joy  aud  good  crown  the  way. 
Their  closing  be  sublime. 

MUSINGS. 
'Tis  dying  now  — winter's  last  day; 
Around  me  steals  the  twiliglit  gray. 
While  sitting  sadly  and  alone, 
I'm  musing  o'er  the  loved  by-gone. 
And  sighing  that  its  joys  are  o'er. 
As  many  a  one  has  sighed  before. 
My  past  spans  but  a  few  fleet  years. 
Yet  oft  'tis  marked  with  sorrow's  tears, 
With  hopes  that  faded  out  in  gloom 
As  friends  went  downward  to  the  tomb, 
Witli  brilliant  dreams  that  never  grew 
Into  the  real  aud  the  true, 
With  youthful  laurels,wreaths  and  flowers. 
Worn  proudly  but  a  few  short  hours. 
All !  memory !  vain  thy  sighs  and  tears. 
They  bring  not  back  the  vanished  year.s; 
Forever  gone !  yet  oft  it  seems, 
They  come  again  in  happy  dreams; 
How  sweet  in  fancy  thus  to  hear. 
Remembered  voices  in  the  ear. 
The  smiles,  the  looks  of  old  to  meet 
The  hand  in  loving  clasp  to  greet. 
They  are  but  dreams,  yet  cares  depart. 
As  steals  their  presence  o'er  the  heart. 
I  thank  Thee  Father  for  them  all. 
Nor  would  again  the  past  recall  — 
The  present  hath  its  brightness  too. 
The  f  utui'e  sky  daM'ns  calm  and  blue, 
Hope's  sunshine  gilds  the  corning  day. 
Bright  flowers  bloom  where  falls  its  raj'. 
And  shall  these  blossoms  all  decay. 
As  life  glides  onward  and  away? 
Fade  each  and  all,  if  fade  they  must. 
But  this  shall  be  my  lieart's  deep  trust, 
Be  ever  done,  God's  gracious  will. 
Then  when  the  earth-worn  lieart  lies  still, 
A  band  of  shining  ones  shall  wait, 
To  greet  me  at  the  pearly  gate. 
Forever  there  my  rest  shall  be, 
Forever,  O  my  God  with  Thee. 


LINES  WITH  A  PHOTOGRAPH. 
A  pleasant  good-morning!  I've  come  a  long 

way  — 
Am  happy  to  meet  you  this  beautiful  >[ay ! 
We  parted  in  the  Autumn-time : 
Three  autumns  since  have  rung  their  chime, 
Three  winters  with  their  storms  so  drear. 
Each  ushering  in  the  world's  New  Year: 
Four  springs  have  budded  into  life. 
Three  summers  bloomed  with  bcauiy  rife: 
Three  circling  years!  it  were  not  strange. 
If  they,  in  passing,  wrought  some  cliangc; 
But  only  outward:  hearts  change  not: 
And  still  thou  never  art  forgot. 


*- 


-•H 


*- 


1068 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  ABBIE  H.  DAME. 

Born  :  Lowkll,  Mass.,  July  10, 1847. 

Since  a  child  this  lady  has  courted  the  muse. 
In  1869  she  was  married  to  Mr.  B.  F.  Dame, 
a  prominent  educator  and  professor  of  elo- 
cution, and  resided  for  many  years  at  Man- 


MKS.  ABBIE   H.  DAME. 

Chester.  N.  H.,  but  is  now  living  at  Laurence. 
Mass.,  where  her  husband  is  master  of  the 
g-rammar  school.  Many  of  the  poems  of 
Abbie  Hazelton  Dame  have  been  written  for 
special  occasions  —  one  for  the  dedication  of 
the  Soldier's  Monument;  another  for  the 
public  exercises  of  New  Hampshire  Day  at 
the  New  Orleans  Exposition,  and  many 
others  for  reunions.  Personally  Mrs.  Dame 
is  very  petite,  a  pleasant  lady,  and  has  four 
children. 


*- 


ALONG  THE  MERRIMACK. 

The  winds  are  g-ently  swaying- 

The  elm-boug-hs,  drooping  low, 
And  curling  into  ripples 

The  flowing  waves  below. 
Winds  perfumed  with  the  sweetness 

Of  apple  bloom  and  Hower, 
From  many  a  hillside  orchard. 

And  lonely  forest  bower. 
Along  the  Merrimack. 


The  pines,  though  always  grieving 

And  sobbing  forth  their  plaint. 
Have  bushed  themselves  to  silence. 

Save  for  their  breathing  faint; 
The  maple's  vivid  emerald 

Blends  with  their  deeper  hue. 
While  oaks  and  gleaming  birches 

Enchance  the  regal  view. 
Along  the  Merrimack. 

Yonder,  upon  the  hillside, 

A  shaft  of  granite  gleams, 
Where  rests  a  war-worn  hero  — 

No  more  oppressed  by  dreams 
Of  foe,  or  bitter  carnage. 

He  lieth  there  asleep. 
Where  trees  above  him  waving, 

Tiieir  murmnring  vigils  keep. 
Along  the  Merrimack. 

Rock  Rimmon  in  the  distance 

Uplifts  its  craggy  head. 
As  if  to  view  the  landscape 

So  fair,  around  it  spread. 
Broad  fields  and  rugged  pastures, 

Now  sunlit,  now  in  shade. 
With  here  a  jiatcli  of  woodland. 

And  there  an  open  glade. 
Along  the  Merrimack. 

The  Goffstown  hills  are  outlined 

Against  the  glowing  skies; 
Still  farther  to  the  westward 

The  Uncanoonucs  rise; 
While  over  all  the  sunshine 

Pours  like  a  golden  stream. 
And  touches  with  its  glory. 

The  waves  that  glint  and  gleam, 
Along  the  Merrimack. 

Out  from  the  distant  steeple 

In  yonder  city  fair, 
A  bell  is  faintly  peeling 

Upon  the  fragrant  air; 
Its  sweet  yet  solemn  chimings 

Thrill  softly  on  the  ear. 
And  ring  in  mellow  cadence. 

Now  mulHed,  and  now  clear, 
Along  the  Merrimack. 

Al<mg  the  noble  river. 

That,  swelling  to  the  sea, 
Now  foams  iti  whirling  rapids. 

Now  ripples  broad  and  free. 
Glide  on !  sing  on !  glad  river. 

E'en  as  thou  hast  of  yore. 
Still  .at  thy  shrine  we'll  worship  — 

Fond  subjects  evermore, 
O  i)oerless  Merrimack ! 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMIfiUICA. 


* 


um) 


HAMILTON  CREEO'BLENESS 

Born:  Washington  d).,  O.,  June30,  1846. 
In  ISO-t  Hamilton  comuu-nced  to  learn  tlio 
Art  Preservative  at  Des  Moines.  Five  years 
later  he  went  to  St.  Louis,  where  he  remain- 
ed five  years,  when  he  ag'ain  ri'tiiriicd  to  Des 
Moines.      Tii   IWT  I^fr.  O'RIimkss  \v:is  ni;irri(>d 


HAMILTO.N    CUEi;    O  BLK.NKSS. 

to  Miss  Martha  A.  Kiley,  and  in  lasa  emigrat- 
ed with  his  family  to  Los  Angeles,  Cal., 
where  he  still  resides,  being  connected  with 
the  job  department  of  the  Los  Angeles  Times. 
Although  the  author  of  many  widely-copied 
poems,  Mr.  O'Bleness  is  better  known  from 
his  philosophical  and  metaphysical  writings 
and  sketches  of  nature. 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER. 

Oh,  space  of  mild  enchanted  sea! 
Oh,  space  of  rare  enchanted  sky! 
And  this  enchanted  strand ! 
Tlie  sea  is  blue,  the  sky  is  blue. 

And  both  doth  intermingling  lie 
Beyond  the  reacli  of  land. 
With  thoughts  beyond  the  vale  of  speech  — 
Beyond  the  foam-flakes  lightly  hurl'd— 
T  muse  and  dream  of  thee; 
I  view  the  sea-gulls  as  they  fly 

About  this  shore-way  of  the  world. 
By  this  enchanted  sea. 
And  in  ruy  dream  of  pure  delight 
I  see  thy  form,  thy  face;  thine  eyes  — 
Sweet  rivals  of  the  sky  — 


Are  bluer  far  tlian  this  wide  sea 
Where  wave  on  wave  in  beautj' rise 
Or  windrow'd  fleeces  lie. 
The  sea!  The  sky !  h)st  each  in  each. 
I  fail  to  wonder  at  their  hue 
When  I  thy  dear  eyes  see; 
Hut  oft  I  marvel  in  my  dreams 
Whicii  is  the  fairer  of  the  blue. 
Thine  eyes,  tiie  sky  the  sea. 
Whene'er  tiie  mists  obscure  the  sky. 
Or  darkness,  hiding  in  the  sea. 
At  last  in  sleep  brings  rest, 
I  see  thine  eyes  in  brightness  shine. 
I  feel  thy  soul  will  bring  lo  me 
This  Island  of  tiie  Blest. 


LOVE  IS  A  GE.M. 

Love  is  a  diamond  set  in  gold! 
A  jewel  rare,  yet  all  possess 
Its  brilliant  light;  let  none  repress 

The  virtue  of  this  gem  of  old. 

Love  is  a  pearl  in  shell  of  gold! 
Brought  from  the  depths  of  ev'ry  heart. 
Let  they  who  liave  it  never  part 

From  this  the  i)rice!ess  gem  of  old. 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 
Beyond  to-morrow's  gates  there  lies 
The  fairest  country  'neath  tlie  skies  — 
A  landscape  rich  in  golden  grain 
That  gently  waves  wide  o'er  the  plain. 
The  richest  fruits,  the  sweetest  flowers  — 
Enchantments  of  divinest  hours  — 
Bespeak  a  paradise  on  earth. 
Where  Time  is  young  iind  Love  has  birth. 
Its  crystal  streams  in  beauty  flow 
From  out  the  mount;iins'  mystic  glow. 
And  softly  murmur  of  the  sea 
Toward  which  they  flow  so  happily. 
Each  lias  the  key  that  opes  the  gates 
To  that  fair  land.    There  Time  awaits 
With  willing  hand  to  lead  the  way 
Far  from  the  selfish  wants  of  day. 
O  may  each  pluck  the  fairest  flowers 
Which  deck  the  rosy-spangled  hours; 
And  taste  the  fruits  of  vine  and  tree. 
However  humble  thej"  may  be; 
And  may  they  guard  with  zealous  care 
The  borders  of  that  land  so  fair. 
For  in  its  joyous  precincts  lie 
More  wealth  than  gold  or  fame  can  buy. 
The  New  Year  is  the  land  that  lies 
Beyond  to-morrow's  mystic  skies. 

BIRTHDAY  SOUVENIR. 
Faithful  to  law  thi-  morrow's  sun 
On  its  unswerving  course  will  run; 
Revolving  thus  will  Life  e'er  be 
Till  Time  unveils  Eternity. 


-* 


* 


1070 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  EMMA  B.  S.  DUNHAM. 

Born:  Auburn,  Me.,  1836. 
Soon  after  receiving  her  education  at  the 
Portland  Schools  and  Westbrook  Seminary, 
this  lady  was  married  to  Rufus  Dunham,  a 
prominent  manufacturer.  The  poems  of 
Mrs.  Dunham  hiive  appeared  in  tlit-  jioriodi- 


MKS.   EMAIA  B.  S.  DUNHAM. 

cal  press  from  time  to  time  for  many  years, 
and  she  has  composed  a  number  of  cantatas, 
and  a  few  years  ag-o  wrote  the  Home  Opera 
Margaret,  which  was  successfully  brouglit 
out.  Mrs.  Dunham  has  traveled  extensively 
in  tlie  United  States  and  Canada,  and  now  is 
devoting  much  of  her  attention  to  literary 
work  and  the  education  of  two  little  giand- 
daughters.  This  lady  is  blessed  with  a  hope- 
ful temperament,  great  viud  force,  and  has 
always  rendered  her  environments  cheery 
and  bright. 


* 


OCTOBER. 

The  freshness  of  spring  has  departed, 

Tlie  languor  of  summer  has  fled, 
October  holds  safe  in  her  keeping. 

The  wealth  of  the  days  that  have  sped. 
In  place  of  tlie  mist  of  midsummer. 

Which  held  back  the  sun's  ardent  ray. 
Great  ridges  of  clouds  massed  in  ether, 

Illume  and  make  perfect  the  day. 
The  leaves  of  the  forest,  like  heroes 

Wlio  feel  th(  ir  Inst  hours  drawing  nigh. 


Have  summoned  the  wealth  of  their  being, 

To  grandly  and  gallantly  die. 
The  cricket  shrills  forth  his  loud  chirping, 

The  wind  has  a  tremulous  sound, 
A  flock  of  dead  leaves  from  the  tree-top 

Comes  fluttering  down  to  the  ground. 
The  fields  and  tlie  meadows  have  yielded 

Their  harvest  of  hay  and  of  grain; 
The  orchards  are  fragrant  with  fruitage. 

Good  store  is  on  hill-side  and  plain. 
O  spring-time!  so  full  of  thy  promise; 

O  summer!  so  heavy  with  gain; 
Ye've  stored  in  the  garner  of  autumn 

The  wealth  of  the  sun  and  the  rain. 

Haste,  heart,  tliat  hast  felt  spring's  assur- 
ance. 

Make  growth  in  the  summer  of  life; 
That  when  thy  perfected  days  find  thee. 

Thou  may'st  with  good  fruitage  be  rife. 


THE  BOUQUET. 

Ah !  what  do  I  see  in  this  lovely  bouquet. 

Made  up  of  syringas  and  roses  so  gay. 

Old-fashioned  Sweet-William  Wegelia-rosea? 

All,  what  'mong  the  flowers  do  I  find  written 
here? 

It  is  language,  as  plain  as  language  can  be; 

Though  all  may  not  read;  ('tis  meant  only 
for  me). 

It  glows  in  its  hues,  by  its  breath  is  revealed; 

No,  no;  not  from  me  is  the  meaning  con- 
cealed. 

Secure  in  my  bosom  the  secret  I'll  hold; 

'Tis  fairer  than  jewels,  'tis  richer  than  gold. 

The  audible  message  my  lips  may  not  speak; 

The  heart  it  translates  and  the  secret  will 
keep. 

I  n  lands  far  away  they  hold  converse  with 

flowers 
And  note  by  their  blooming  the  flight  of  the 

hours; 
Thy  shadow  has  fallen  on  this  happy  day 
And    marked    my    life's   dial,  my  precious 

bouquet. 

O,  beautiful  flowers!  Ye  have  spoken  to  me. 
And  flUod  all  my  being  witli  deep  ecstasy. 
Of  all  the  grand  epics  my  mind  can  recall. 
This  sweet  revelation  cxccedeth  them  all. 


BABY  GRACE. 
We  have  lost  our  dear  Jove,  our  own  little 

Gracc^ 
Nevermore  while  on  earth  shall  wc  look  on 

her  face. 
The  liglit  in  her  eyes  so  beautifully  blue 
Was  like  sunlight  tliat  plays  and  sparkles  in 

dew. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   I'OKTS  OK   AMERICA. 


1071 


* 


ERMINA  C.  STRAY. 

Born:  Kirtland,  O.,  April 25, 1847. 
Many  of  the  poems  of  this  lady  have  appear- 
ed in  the  Yaiilvoe  Blade,  Ballou's  Magazine, 
Ladies  Hume  and  various  other  publicatiuus. 


*- 


JiKMl^A  (J.  STRAY. 

Slie  is  also  the  author  of  quite  a  number  of 
serials,  and  is  fast  gaining-  a  reputation  as  an 
author  and  poet. 

UNJUST. 
You  looked  at  me,  with  looks  of  distrust. 

That  have  pierced  my  heart  to  its  core. 
But  the  bitter  pain,  and  the  feeling  unjust. 

You  can  bring  to  my  soul  no  more. 
For  I  know  that  the  wearisome  night  of  life 

For  me  will  not  always  last. 
There  will  come  a  day,  a  certain  day 

Wlien  you  must  redeem  the  past. 

Did  you  think  that  I  was  less  proud  tlian  you, 

To  l)ronk  your  liaughty  scorn. 
As  from  heaven  falls  the  cooling  dew, ' 

From  tlie  night  till  tlie  weary  morn; 
Do  you  think  that  I  do  not  know,  to-day. 

Thai  your  love  is  as  strong  as  mine. 
And  every  dro))  from  the  foam  and  spray. 

Will  sparkle  like  rare  old  wine. 

Do  you  think  that  I  do  not  know  your  heart 

Is  heavier  far  than  mine. 
For  an  unjust  word  and  a  cruel  dart 

Will  come  home  with  a  sharp  repine. 


And  thougli  I  wish  you  to  know,  my  dear. 

That  without,  I  surely  can  live; 
Yet  wlienever  y(ju  wisli  for  the  olden  hours, 

I  am  ready  to  forgi\e. 


FADED  AND  GONE. 

I'^adcd  and  gone  are  the  roses 

Tliat  bloomed  o'er  the  hills  and  the  lea, 
When  we  w.ilked  in  the  .soft  summer  twiliglit. 

And  talked  o(  a  future  to  be. 
And  tlie  roses  you  gave  meat  parting. 

Were  witiiered  and  dead,  in  an  hour, 
lUit  llie  love  vows  we  plighted  that  eveidng 

Were  light  as  the  breath  of  Uower. 
K.uled  and  gone  are  the  roses, 

Like  the  vows  you  pligiited  to  me. 
When  we  walked  o'er  the  hills  and  the  mead- 
ows. 

In  sight  of  the  old  sounding  sea. 
But  the  sea  with  its  treacherous  moaning 

Is  truer  to-day  than  are  you. 
Whose  vows  have  died  like  the  roses. 

ISaptised  in  the  evening  dew. 

Faded  and  gone  are  the  roses. 

And  winter  has  come  dark  and  cold, 
And  the  wind  wliistles  loud  in  the  tree-tops 

Or  moans  for  the  years  growing  old; 
But  your  traitorous  smiles  are  forgotten. 

Or  lliouglit  of  with  scarcely  a  sigh. 
For  love-vows  arc  easily  i)lighted. 

And  like  roses  easily  die. 


THE  COQUETTE'S  LAMENT. 
I  have  had  my  day,  ah  mo,  ah  me! 

That  a  day  should  b(<  so  lirief. 
And  the  night  when  it  conies  is  oftentimes 

lUit  a  iiightof  woe  and  grief. 
They  call  me  a  coquette,  vain  and  i>roud. 

With  scarce  a  heart or.soul; 
But  the  veriest  co<|uette  that  ever  lived 

Will  reach,  at  last,  her  goal. 

They  call  me  a  coquette,  and  bitterly 

I  think  of  tlie  day  and  the  hour, 
Wheno'er  one  heart,  botli  strongand  brave, 

1  trit^l  my  woman's  iK)wor. 
I  tried  my  power  and  failed,  ah  me! 

I  could  not  him  recall. 
I  could  not  humble  my  pride  and  say, 

I  love  you  best  of  all. 
And  now  with  aweary  heart  and  soul 

I  walk  tills  world  alone. 
And  laugh  with  the  gayest  of  the  gay 

My  grief  I  will  not  own. 
And  oft,  in  the  watches  of  the  night, 

1  think  of  one  heart  so  true. 
That  might  have  been  mine,  if  a  coquette's 
life 

I  had  shunned,  and  listened  to  you. 


-* 


*- 


1072 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


REV.  LEVI  F.  BICKFORD. 

Born:  H.uitford,  Ind.,  Jan.  9, 1840. 

At  twenty-one  years  of  age  Mr.  Bickford 
went  to  Wheaton  College,  where  he  spent 
five  years,  and  in  1866  went  to  Oberlin  Col- 
lege for  two  years.  He  then  spent  one  year 
in  the  Chicago  Theological  Seminary,  when 


REV.  LEVI  FRANCIS  BICKFORD. 

he  returned  to  the  Oberlin  College  and  grad- 
uated in  1871.  In  1875  Mr.  Bickford  visited 
England,  Scotland,  Ireland  and  all  the  coun- 
tries of  Europe,  studying  the  history,  art, 
architecture,  and  people  of  those  countries. 
He  was  ordained  as  a  Congregational  minis- 
ter in  1872,  has  filled  pastorates  in  many  lead- 
ing churches,  and  is  now  professor  of  mathe- 
matics and  metaphysics  at  the  Daniel  Baker 
College,  Brownwood,  Texas.  Mr.  Bickford 
was  married  in  1879  to  Miss  Lottie  E.  Patchin, 
by  whom  he  has  three  children  —  Francis, 
Frederic  and  Claribel. 


A  PASTOR'S  FAREWELL. 
Like  birds  of  passage  life's  treasures  fly 
With  messages  freighted  of  the  by  and  by ; 
Like  doves  to  their  windows,  they  will  all 

flock  home 
When  the  dawn  of   God's   great  day  shall 

come. 


Like  Gems  of  Orient,  most  rich  and  rare. 
They  shall  shine  in  the  Savior's  diadem  fair. 
To  tell  of  the  love  of  priceless  worth 
That  took  them  safe  home  from  the  lowly 
earth. 

Safe  sheltered  wiili  Christ  we  shall  find  them 
at  last. 

When  the  pain  and  shadow  of  earth  are  past. 

Let  us  live  with  pure  hearts,  let  us  walk 
with  the  Lord, 

Let  us  trust  with  assurance  His  unchange- 
able Word, 

And  press  on  in  the  race  with  glad  joyous 
feet 

Till  we  stand  in  the  presence  of  Christ  com- 
plete. 

Oh.  wondrous  hour!    Oh,  glorious  day 
Wlien  the  shadows  of  earth  are  passed  away. 
And  we  shall  stand  with  the  sinless  throng 
Hymning  his  praise  in  an  endless  song. 
Who  bought  us  and  brought  us  one  by  one 
To  the  beautiful  land  of  the  fadeless  sun! 

Without  one  lacking  may  we  all  be  there. 
And  the  infinite  wealth  of  his  glory  share. 
So  free  from  all  pain,  so  free  from  all  woe. 
While   the   measureless    ages    shall    come 
and  go. 

And  we'll   not  forget,  shall  we,  friends  so 

dear. 
The  times  gone  by  when  the  Lord  drew  near 
And  touched  our  hearts  with  the  holy  flame, 
As  we  spoke  together  the  sacred  name? 

We'll  not  forget  the  hand  that  led 
Thro'  sorrow's  vale,  and  kindly  shed 
On  our  drooping  spirits  the  healing  balm. 
And  spoke  to  our  hearts  the  word  of  calm, 
And  gave  us  songs  in  the  night  of  pain. 
And  turned  our  grief  into  joy  again? 

Oh  no  1  they  all  shall  remembered  be. 
When  we  gather  at  Heaven's  great  jubilee; 
When  we  stand  together  on  the  sunlit  shore 
We  shall  sing  his  praises  forevermore; 

And  the  song  shall  echo  thro'  the  skies 
To  the  praise  of  the  Lord  of  Paradise. 
We  shall  see  each  other  face  to  face. 
Saved,  brought  home  through  God's  great 
grace. 

We  say  not,  "Farewell,"  but  ..Good-night, 

awhile; " 
May  the  Lord  on  each  of  you  shed  his  smile. 
And  give  you  peace  till  that  day  shall  come 
When,  with  life's  work  done.  He  shall  call  us 

all  home. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKIUCA. 


107.1 


MRS.  IDA  W.  HIBBEN. 

Boun:  Near  Monroe,  Wis.,  June  30,  ]8.').5. 
This  lady  has  lectured   quite  extensi%-ely. 
She  spent  ten  years  teaching-  in  the  .schools 
in  Stei)lietis()n  county.    She  is  a  g-feat  advo- 
cate of  Iciiipi'i'.uirc  and  many  of  her  [luenis 


MRS.  IDA   W.  HIBBEN. 

are  on  that  subject;  and  her  verse  has  ap- 
peared in  the  leading-  publications  of  Amer- 
ica. In  1885  the  subject  (  f  this  sketch  was 
married  to  David  John  Ilibben,  and  Mrs. 
Hibbeu  now  resides  with  her  husband  and 
children  at  Sheridan,  111. 


"THE  LIPS  THAT  TOUCH  LIQUOR  SHALL 

NEVER  TOUCH  MINE." 
You  may  smile  at  my  subject,  and  think  it 

quite  strange. 
But,  if  you'll  be  i)atient,  I'll  try  to  arrange 
In  prose  or  in  rhyme,  though  not  over-nice, 
A  few  simple  thoughts  as  a  pinch  of  advice; 
And  if  they're  too  pointed  to  suit  all  your 

views, 
T  liope  you  will  listen,  and  try  to  excuse; 
For,  as  you  all  know,  I'm  a  foe  to  the  wine. 
And  tlie  lips  that  touch  liquor  shall  never 

touch  minel 

The  tales  of  deep  sorrow  how  often  we've 

read 
Of  a  heart-broken  woman  awaiting  the  tread 
Of  him  who  promised  to  love  and  protect 

lij*- 


When,  a  few  months  before,  as  his  bride  she 

was  decked, 
nut  wiio  now  has  damped  all  the  joys  of  her 

life 
By  that  terrible  blight  —  a  drunkard's  wife  — 
Which  she  would  not  have  been  liad  she  said 

this  in  time: 
"The  lips  that  touch  liquor  shall  never  touch 

minel " 

There  are  hundreds  of  mothers  all  over  our 

land 
Who   are    pleading    to-day,   with    penniless 

hand, 
For  help  to  support  the  children  they  love. 
Whose  fathers  have  left  them  as  beggars  to 

rove. 
Although  it  seems  liard  to  censure  or  blame. 
Yet  'twould  have  been  better,  to  all  'tis  quite 

plain. 
Had  they  said  this  wlien  young:   "I'm  foe  to 

tlie  wine. 
And  the  lips  that  touch  liquor  sh.-ill  ne%'er 

touch  mine;  " 

There  is  many  a  one  who  lias  worked  long 

and  well 
This  terrible  fiend  of  intemperance  to  quell; 
And  many  others  are  working  to-day 
To  lift  up  the  fallen  and  lead  back  the  stray; 
But  what  can  they  do  wlien  young  ladies  will 

wed 
Drunkards  in  spite  of  all  that  is  .said  ? 
Then,  if  you  would  aid  in  this  calling  divine. 
Say,  "The  lips  that  touch  liquor  shall  never 

toucli  minel " 

Oh,  take  this  advice,  young  lady,  from  me: 
No  matter  how  wealthy  a  young  man  may  be; 
No  matter  how  handsome,  how  gay,  or  how 

nice; 
No  matter  how  gnind  be  his  station  in  life; 
No  matter  how  seldom  a  glass  he  may  take  — 
If  he  takes  it  at  all,  lor  your  liappiness'  sake 
Say,  when  you  are  wooed ;    ••  I'm  a  foe  to  the 

wine. 
And  the  lips  tliat  touch  liquor  shall  never 

touch  mine!" 

You  may  say  it's  all  nonsense;  my  heart  is  a 

stone ; 
And,  if  I  act  thus,  I  will  spend  life  alone. 
I  care  not  for  that;  my  mind  is  made  up 
To  do  -what  I  can  'gainst  the  poisonous  cup; 
And,  if  I  must  wed  a  drunkard  or  none. 
Of  the  two  great  evils  I'll  choose  the  less 

one  — 
Yes,  I'll  live  an  old  maid  to  the  end  of  my 

time 
Ere   the  lips  that    touch  liquor   shall  ever 

touch  mine! 


* 


—  * 


THE  CONVERTED  RUMSELLEK, 

A  dram  of  the  best  this  morn  did  you  suy 
TO  tone  up  your  nerves  for  the  work  of  the 

well  T^om,  perhnps  you'll  think  I'm  insane 
Ind    wonder  whate'er  could  have  wrought 
such  a  change  ^^^^ 

But  you've  bought  tne  i.ibc  uiu^ 

me  you  can  buy. 
For  we  are  at  outs,  this  dram  shop  and  T. 
PaL  as  you  went?    I  know  that  is  true. 
It  s  many  a  dime  I've  taken  from  you 
That  had  better  been  iiung  to  the  waves  of 

Than  s^enffor  the  drink  you've  purchased 

Yes,  it's^many  a  nicklc  from  the  starving 

I've  gleaned,  ,  .   ,    «     a. 

And  many  a  father  I've  turned  into  fiend. 
Hot  many  a  tear  o'er  my  work  has  been 

Whilel  have  been  deaf  to  all  that  was  said. 
What  makes  you  stare  -  wi  dly  at  me? 
NO  wonder  though  you  think  i    ^an  t  be 
That  1  am  talking  thus  earnest  and  strange, 
is  easy  almost  for  the  leopard  to  change 
come,  put  up  your  dime  and  step  over  this 

ni  teTyou  the  whole  if  a  moment  you'll 
stay. 


T  feel  just  like  talking  this  morning  you  see, 

sisr^^rtts^-^s:^. 

My  drdTbefore  me  like  mountains  have 
on  t^'S^et  I've  seen  Children  crying  for 
Whose7aters  I  knew  from  drinking  were 

Wome^^ggingforwoi^tc^hav.!^^^^ 
From  whose  husbands,  for  diink, 

Teh  sights  as  these  haunt  me  eacli  day. 

But  then  last  night,  -^--;\!,';£,,re  the 
There  came  to  my  mind  - 1  can     p 

•Twas  d'eadful.    Thank  God  it  was  only  a 
w"lUast«ight.-say  isn't  it  strange 


How  in  a  dream  a  person  will  change 

Such  as  I  was  then,  you  seldom  behold 

I  was  feeble,  gray-headed,  cnppled  and  old, 

It  seemed  I  had  neitlier  friends  nor  home. 

Out  on  the  street  forsaken,  alone. 

All  around  there  seemed  to  be  such  a  stir. 

People  hurrying  by,  I  could  not  tell  where. 

I  was  unnoticed  till  up  stepped  a  man 

Who  said:  "Come  along  with  me  i   you  can. 

I  hobbled  along  as  best  that  I  could 

Till  I  came  where  hundreds  of  people  stood. 

Whose  low  whispered  voices  filled  the  air: 

I  could  find  nothing  to  bring  them  al  there. 

Till  at  last  o'er  their  heads  a  scaffold  I  spied. 

To  see  any  more  'twas  in  vain  that  I  tned. 

A  silence  like  death  fell  over  the  throng. 

,.  What  is  it  ?  "  I  said.  ..  A  man  to  be  hung  ? 

Just  then   the  voice  of  the  Judge  sounded 

.The'^  criminal    speaks,    let    the   audienc. 

All  wasTo  still,  1  could  hear  every  woi-d. 

It  seemed  not  one  in  all  that  throng  stirred     , 

!.  Oirhearken,"  he  said, .-  hear  the  last  words  | ; 

At  the' sound  of  his  voice  I  began  to  grow  j 

.CouW  fshake  earth  with  one  terrible  wm^  I: 
That  all  its  inhabitants  now  might  be  st.rr^^  • 
My  crime  was  murder.    To  the  gallows IWe  , 

come,  i 

The  cause,  O  hear  it,  the  cause  was  rum.  , 

When  a  child    at    borne  I  played  where  it  ,1 

flowed,  ,      .  ,. 

'Twas  there  I  entered  the  downward  ro.id. 
My  father  sold  it,  and  I  was  his  joy.  , 

Oh  how  would  he  feel  could  he  see  his  boy. 
And  know  it  was  now  forever  too  late 
^ot^e  him  from  meeting  this  t.rnb^^  I 
Oh  fathers  take  warning  from  what  )ou  here,; 

And  handle  not.  touch  not.  from  strong! 
BetwrH::randearthIsoonshaUhe, 
Wheify^g-eon  me  there,  remember -tw^s; 

Hcc^^ed!'steppedback.    In  a  few  moment. 

The  r""  was  adjusted,  the  death  scene  ^.^ 

A  shiii^.alf-fron.ied.  pierced  the  stmai.^ 
•Twas  the  voice  of  a  woman  eio«  u  mu 

despair:  ,      j^.  j ; 

..Mybrother.dear  brother,  can  It  be  he.  ^ 

T    .,l/oTmogone!     You  heard  what  he  s.m  ; 
i::i!w^mld  you  cruelly  snatch  from  ni: 

My  o.tlyV.iother,  my  joy  and  no-^P^^l^^  j, 


LOCAL  AND   XATIOXAL   I'OKTS   OF   AMEUICA. 


1075 


-* 


'Twas  not  my  brother  that  cruel  deed  done. 
No,  no,  'twas  tlie  rutliless  hand  of  rum. 
But  uij'  idol  must  die,  wliile  ruin  goes  free. 
Protected  by  law.    Oh  God  can  it  bo 
That  justice  has  llown  from  this,  our  picunl 

land, 
Aud  folded    her   wings   on    some  far  away 

strand  ?" 
'Twas  then  I  caught  the  first  glimpse  of  the 

scene, 
So  great  was  the  crowd  that  swayed  us  be- 
tween. 
"Oh!  Ohl  "  I  cried,  "'tis  my  boy,  my  boy. 
And  my  darling  girl  bereft  of  her  joy." 
Yes,  right  out  in  my  sleep  I  uttered  those 

words. 
It  woke  me  of  course  but  no  one  stirred. 
From  my  coucli  I  bouuded  like  one  that  was 

shot 
To  see  if  I  had  been  dreaming  or  not. 
Through  the  dark  to  tlie  side  of  my  darlings 

I  crept. 
When  I  found  them  asleep  'twas  for  joy  tliat 

I  wept; 
And  there,  bending   o'er  them  in  the  still* 

hours  of  night 
I  promised  to  try  to  lead  them  aright. 
So  come  wluit  maj',  they  shall  never  blame 
Their    father   as   being  the  cause  of    their 

shame.  • 

Now,    Tom,    you've    patiently    heard    me 

through. 
And  know  just  what  I'm  going  to  do; 
You  may  call  me  silly,  foolisli  or  weak 
To  be  scared  by  what  I  saw  in  my  sleep. 
I  care  not  for  that,  there  shall  never  a  drop 
Be  sold  or  dratik  inside  this  shop; 
For  somewhere  I've  read,  it  was  not  in  my 

dreams, 
"Like  a  serpent  it  bites;    like  an  adder  it 

stings." 

RESIGNATION. 

EXTRACT. 

What  have  I  done  to  merit  all 
The  blessings  whicli  around  me  fall? 
Home,  friends  and  health  He  daily  gives. 
What  is  it  He  in  turn  receives? 
Sometimes  I'm  grateful,  it  is  true. 
But  O,  how  oft  I  murmur  too! 
Whene'er  the  fruit  or  flowers  He  sends, 
I  take  them  while  my  praise  ascends; 
But  when  I  find  tlie  flowers  have  thorns. 
My  sinful  heart  so  t)ften  mourns. 
And  I  would  fling  them  all  aside. 
Forgetting,  'mid  my  grief  and  pride. 
The  crown  my  loving  Savior  wore 
Was  made  of  thorns;  and  that  He  bore 
It  all  in  patience,  and  for  me. 


LUMAN  A.  F KRRIS. 

Born:  Constanti.\,  N.  Y.,  Jri,Y29,  Mm. 

For  a  while  after  reci'iviiiL''  liis  iilucitinn 

Mr.  ]■.  I  I  i     ;,   i.L'lit  sclioul  ;in.i  !     • 


rrMAX  A.   FERRIS. 

at  Bernhard'sBay  in  his  native  state,  where 
he  is  very  popular.  He  li;us  written  (juite  a 
few  poems  which  Jiave  always  been  very  fa- 
vorably received. 


TO  MK.  AND  MRS.  H- 
The  j)ietures  came. 
All  safe  and  souiul. 
For  wiiich  accept 
My  tlianks  profound. 
To  say  I'm  pleased. 
Does  not  begin 
To  half  express 
Tlie  pleasure  in 
Having  pictures. 
So  full  of  life. 
Of  Mr.  H  — 
And  little  wife. 
The  children,  Uh\ 
So  nice  and  bright. 
In  looking  at, 
I  take  delight; 
But  time  is  short. 
This  now  must  end. 
With  kind  ngards, 
I  am,  your  friend. 


*- 


1076 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


DR.  A.  WARNER. 

Born:  Lake  Co.,  O.,  Jan.  24, 182.5. 
Dr.  Warner    resides    in    Ainswortli,  Neb., 
where   he    is  engaged  in  the  general  drug 

busill(■-^s.  licsidcs  111  tciidiiii;-   \o   a  m  ixtcii^ive 


DR.  A.  WARNER. 

practice  as  pliysician.  He  lias  written  nu- 
merous fine  poems,  wliich  have  been  well 
received  and  extensively  copied  throughout 
America. 


JACK  FROST. 

As  through  the  chill  wind's  snow  and  sleet 
A  wayfarer  was  doomed  to  meet 
In  dead  winter —  seventy-nine  — 
Jacli  Frost  drawn  up  in  battle  line. 
Ila !  Ha !  says  Jack,  I  have  you  now. 
But  I'll  be  frank  and  tell  you  how 
You  may  resist  me  as  you  please  — 
I  attack  your  extremities. 
Quickly  under  his  cloak  he  wont. 
And  down  his  arms  a  chill  he  sent. 
Finding  liis  wrists  with  mittens  laced  — 
Hied  himself  to  another  place. 
Into  his  boots  he  crawled  to  learn. 
Ensconced  those  toes  in  coats  of  yarn; 
Further  search  put  him  ill  at  ease, 
Lo  they  extended  to  the  knees. 
By  Jove!    My  tricks  are  at  an  end; 
'Tis  no  work  of  a  summer  friend. 
Quoth  Jack  —  research  altogether  — 
Tells  the  fondness  of  a  mother. 


Am  I  a  goose,  thus  casilj- 
Entrapped  by  this  anomaly? 
What  eye  would  peer  for  mother's  hand 
To  shield  from  harm  this  gray-haired  man? 
He  then  withdrew,  chagrined  and  sad. 
Disgusted  —  a  repulse  he'd  had; 
Waved  hand  toward  the  eastern  sky  — 
And  muttered  this  soliloquy  — 
The  yearnings  of  a  mother's  love 
With  benedictions  from  above  — 
From  infancy  to  manhood's  prime 
Pursue  her  son  to  every  clime. 


GO  WEST. 


Go  west,  young  man,  go  west; 

Hast  never  been  by  cares  opprcss'd  — 

No  foes  within  thine  own  household? 

Nor  yet  by  trusted  friend  been  sold? 

Wouldst  thou  life's  vicious  traits  invest? 

Then  hie  thee  to  the  licensed  west. 

Go  west,  fallen  maid,  go  west. 

And  crowd  yourself  among  the  best; 

Brazen,  ignore  refined  disgust. 

And  seek  to  create  love  through  lust: 

Go  gang  the  streets  with  tinted  crest- 

You'll  find  fair  sailing  in  the  west. 

Go  west,  disgusting  dude,  go  west  — 
Come  in  pro  rata  with  the  rest; 
There  find  a  staring,  sillj'  pack 
Of  wanton  girls  at  Rail  Road  track;  — 
Not  man  of  culture  plainly  dressed 
Can  rival  you  —  while  in  the  west. 

Now  money  scalper,  you  go  west. 
And  lull  the  scruples  of  your  breast; 
Exodus  Twenty-two,  Twenty-flfth 
Western  clergy  render  a  myth; 
When  destitution  springs  her  test 
Then  caloused  conscience  echos  — west. 

Go  west,  moral  teacher,  west. 
And  give  your  trust  in  man  a  rest: 
••  Malice  to  none,  charity  for  all," 
Will  sneer  and  mock  your  earnest  call;  — 
When  e'er  you  fondle  that  pseudo  zest. 
The  skeptic  winds  will  liowl—  go  west. 

Go  west,  affluent  man,  go  west  — 
Six  years  will  don  you  rags  at  besl. 
If  you'd  be  scofied  by  man  and  yoiilli, 
Just  dare  advance  a  moral  truth; 
The  same  you'll  get  from  worst  and  besl 
'Tis  epidemic  in  the  west. 

Now  cheery  hopeful  man,  go  west  — 
Thou  child  of  all  creation  blessed; 
There  comes  a  cliange  from  daily  scenes 
Over  the  spirit  of  your  dreams; 
From  dis]iorting  slumber's  b:ilmy  ivst, 
You  wake  with  liorror— in  the  west. 


*- 


LOCAT.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1077 


ABNKR  W.  HARMON. 

Born:  Bdxtox,  Me.,  Sept.  22,  1812. 
This  gentleman  has  written  three  or  four 
hundred   i)oer.is,   msmj'  of   which  were   on 
Iiopular  suhji  ct?:  of  the  day,  and  were  popu- 


ABXER  W.  HARMON. 

hir  througrliout  the  wliole  country.  Mr. 
Harmon  was  married  in  1842,  and  now  resides 
in  Old  Orchard,  Me.,  with  his  fiunily. 


WE  ARE  COMING. 
We're  coming-.  Father  Abram, 

Our  couiitrj'  to  defend. 
To  flght  for  right  and  liberty 

Until  the  war  shall  end  — 
To  crush  the  great  rebellion 

On  old  Virginia's  shore. 
We're  coming.  Father  Abram. 

Three  hundred  thousand  more. 

Wc  leave  our  farms  and  workshops. 

Our  homes  and  families  dear. 
To  save  our  noble  country 

We  gladly  volunteer: 
With  the  banner  of  our  Union 

Wo  gladly  move  along. 
We're  coming.  Father  Abram, 

Three  hundred  thousand  strong. 

Our  sweethearts,  noble  maidens, 
Are  loath  to  let  us  go. 


But  Government  calls  us  loudly 
To  face  the  Southern  foe; 

Our  kindred,  friends  and  townsmen 
Have  gone  the  road  before. 

We're  coming.  Father  Abram, 
Three  hundred  tliousand  more. 

You've  called  for  us.  we're  coming 

With  pistol,  sword  and  gun, 
Our  services  are  needed 

Therefore  we  gladly  come; 
Where  the  drums  are  beating  loudly 

And  the  cannons  they  do  roar, 
We're  coming.  Father  Abram, 

Throe  hundred  thousand  more. 

Cheer  up  ye  sons  of  freedom. 

The  time  is  drawing  nigh 
When  the  Confederate  army 

Shall  lay  their  weapons  by. 
Loud  thundering  of  the  cannon 

Quite  through  the  Southern  shore. 
And  her  musketries'  sharp  rattle 

Be  heard  and  felt  no  more. 


KING  ALCOHOL. 
Death  to  old  King  Alcoliol, 

He  does  the  world  enslave. 
Takes  awaj-  your  money  boys. 

Which  you  had  ought  to  save; 
Breaks  your  constitution  down. 

And  souds  you  to  the  grave. 
Whilst  we  go  on  to  the  rescue. 

Cho.— Hurrah,  hurrah,  we'll  ring  the  jubilee. 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  the  pledge  has  made  us  free. 
So  we'll  sing  the  chorus  from  the  highlands 

to  the  sea. 
Whilst  we  go  on  to  the  rescue. 

Chorus. 
Many  liearts  are  weary  now. 

They've  toiled  for  many  years: 
Many  wives  and  mothers  too 

Have  shed  :i  HchkI  of  tears, 
Birt  we  are  determined  boys 

To  drive  away  their  fears. 
Whilst  we  gi)  on  to  the  rescue. 

Chorus. 

Sign  the  good  old  pledge,  my  boys. 

Here  on  the  table  lain. 
Sign  away  your  bonthige  now 

And  break  the  mother's  chain. 
Join  the  Teini)'ninco  .\rmy  boys. 

And  from  your  drinks  abstain. 
Whilst  we  go  on  to  the  rescue. 


*- 


-* 


ii<- 


1078 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


WILLIAM  GRANT  BROOKS. 

This  poet  and  composer  of  music  has  con- 
tribtilcil  quite  a  few  gems  to  the  periodiciil 

jn-es'i.    The  White-Smith  rulilishiii!;-  Co.,  of 


■WTLt>IAM  GRANT  BROOKS. 

Boston,  Mass.,  liave  published  several  of  his 
songs  in  sheet  music  form.  Mr.  BrooliS  re- 
sides in  the  state  of  Maine  at  Waco. 


MOTHER'S  SWEET  SMILES  ARE  HAUNT- 
ING ME  STILL. 
I've  been  through  the  palace,  I've  seen  crys- 
tal fountains, 
I've  heard  the  low  music  of  pleasure's  sweet 

strain; 
But  it  cannot  compare  with  my  home  in  the 

mountains. 
O  g-ive  me  the  scene  of  my  childhood  again. 
How  often  I've  sat  near  the  old-fashioned 

portal. 
And  watched  the  bright  sun  sink  awity  'neath 

the  hill. 
And  often  I  think  of  my  dear  aged  mother, 
Whose    smiles    all  these    years  have    been 

liauntiugrme  still. 
Oho.— I've  followed  the  plowshare,  I've  sailed 
on  the  river,  [the  hill; 

Heard  the  horn  of  the  hunter  resound  o'er 
But  brighter  by  far  are  the  fond  recollec- 
tions, 
Of  mother's  sweet  smiles,  they  are  haunt- 
ing- me  still. 


In  my  dreams  I  go  back  to  the  old-fashioued 
liomestead, 

And  roam  once  ag-aln  o'er  the  meadows  so 
green. 

Or  gather  the  berries,  that  grow  in  the  wood- 
land. 

Or  sit  by  the  banks  of  tlie  clear  running 
stream. 

How  pleasant  it  was  when  the  day's  work 
was  over. 

The  shadows  of  evening  were  fastcoming  on. 

To  sit  'round  the  organ,  in  one  ftimilj'  circle, 

And  all  of  our  voices  were  blended  in  soug. 

Those  old  happy  moments  have  passed  by 
forever, 

And  all  of  the  dear  ones  have  gone  on  before; 

But  still  in  my  dreams  they  are  hovering 
near  me. 

And  beckoning  me  to  that  Ijeaiitiful  shore. 

I  love  the  old  homestead,  with  all  of  its  mem- 
ories. 

And  never  a  plcasanter  place  shall  I  see. 

Until  I  join  htmds  with  the  dear  ones  in 
heaven. 

Then  that  will  be  sweeter  than  all  else  tome. 


A  MAN  CAN  BE  HONEST  IF  HE'S  EVER 

SO  POOR. 
On  a  cold  winter's  day,  through  the  dcep- 

drificd  snow, 
A  beggar  was  wandering  the  street,  [go, 

He  was  ragged  and  weary,  he'd  no  place  to 
He  was  longing  for  something  to  eat.  [long 
He  had  tried  to  get  food  nearly  all  the  day 
But  they  turned  him  away  from  their  door. 
And  he  rather  would  die  of  starvation  than 

steal. 
He  was  honest  although  he  was  poor. 
With  his  heart  nigh  discouraged,  he  wended 

his  way. 
Unheeded  by  young  or  the  old,     [gar's  eyes, 
When  a  wonderful  sight  met  this  poor  beg- 
On  the  snow  lay  a  purse  full  of  gold. 
The  tempter  said  keep  it,  you're  hungry  you 

know. 
And  the  rich  man  has  got  a  lot  more;     [fliul 
But  the  beggar  said  No!  tlie  right  owner  I'll 
I'll  be  lionest,  although  I  am  poor. 
The  keen  pangs  of  hunger  still  gnawed  at 

his  breast, 
How  he  longed  for  one  mouthful  of  bread, 
But  they  turned  him  away,  tho'  'twas  for  tin 

last  time, 
Ere  the  morning  this  beggar  was  dead. 
Willi  naught  but  the  stars  to  watch  o'crliini, 
He  had  passed  to  that  b^^-autiful  shore. 
Where  the  angels,  with  hearts  full  ol  love 

welcomed  home 
This  beggar,  although  lie  was  poor. 


>J<- 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NAIIONAL    I'OETS   OK   AMKKICA. 


1079 


JOHN   W.  FITZMAURICK. 

Bokn:  Island  ov  Cape  Breton,  18:j;3. 
Coming  to  Micliijraii  in  ISGo,  >[r.  Fitzninurice 
was  the  siiiiie  year  ordaiued  In  the  villag-o  of 
Bedford,  where  ho  served  as  pastor  of  the 
Congrregational  Church  for  three  j'cars. 
Since  tlion  he  has  filled  pastorates  at  Pinck- 
noy  find  r!ri(l<jo)iort,whcn  he  loft  thcmiiiistrj' 


JOHN  W.  FITZMAriilCK. 

to  become  a  journalist.  In  1871  Mr.  Fitzmau- 
rice  was  associate  editor  of  the  Saginaw 
Daily  and  weekly  Courier,  and  four  years 
later  took  charg-e  of  the  city  editorship  of 
tiie  Daily  Enterprise;  he  next  occupied  a 
position  on  the  Daily  Herald.  He  was  very 
prominent  in  tlie  red  ribbon  temperance  re- 
vival of  1879,  and  lectured  for  two  years  in 
Michigan,  Ontario,  Ohio  and  New  York.  Mr. 
Fltzmaurice  returned  to  journalism  in  1888 
:is  editor  of  the  Industrial  News  of  Jackson, 
and  is  now  a  writer  on  the  stafif  of  the  Daily 
Evening  Courier  of  the  same  place.  He  has 
published  a  prose  work  of  four  liundred 
j)ages  and  also  a  series  of  sketches.  He  was 
married  in  1%5  and  has  a  family  grown  to 
maturity. 


*- 


A  MEDITATION. 
Hail:   to  thee,  day  with  precious  memories 

fraught. 
With  thoughts  of  liome  and  reunited  tics; 


Where  grateful  incense  from  all  altars  ri.se— 
Marking  our  countless  blessings  unforgot— 
A  j)eoi)le  at  a  common  altar  bow. 
To  pay  a  Nation's  God  a  Nation"s  heartfelt 

vow. 
Fresh  from  the  heat  of  bloodless  strife  they 

come. 
The  conqueror  with  the  conquered  o"cr  our 

land  - 
The  day  to  honor— hand  warm  clasping  hand; 
The  partisan  shout,  tlie  noisy  clamor  dumb. 
Or  vocal  only  with  Thanksgiving  sung. 
To  whom  to  a  Nation's  thanks  belong. 

Around  the  plenteous  board  in  festive  glee. 
The  loved  ones  in  the  home-nest  gathered  are; 
From  babe  to  white-haired  sire  — from  near 

and  far. 
The  son  or  daughter— from  vocation  free  — 
Stand  grouped  about  home's  holy  hearth- 
stone tires. 
Each  lieart  surcharged  with  joy  the  day  in- 
spires. 
Wise  was  the  edict  from  our  fathers  sent 
To  thus  perpetuate  a  day  of  feast  and  praise, 
Commemorative  of  the  bounteous  harvest 

days  — 
In  pious  hearts  conceived,  where  rigid  cus- 
tom bent. 
To  make  Thanksgiving  all  the  term  implies. 
And  praise  a  loving  Father  with  united  voice. 

If  Ihnnks  could  thus  be  given  years  nsro 

By  pilgrims  isolated  far  from  home  or 
friends;  [fiends. 

Hemmed  in  by  sea  and  storm  and  savage 

How  should  our  hearts  God's  lasting  kind- 
ness show? 

Who  fills  eacli  soul  with  love,  each  home  with 
cheer. 

And  crown'd  with  mercies  arc  each  circling 
year. 

No  voice  of  war's  alarm  disturbs  our  joy; 

No  woe-draped  nation  ours  to  mourn  our 
loss ; 

No  epidemic's  scourge  hath  o'er  our  borders 
crossed. 

But  ours  a  lasting  peace  without  alloy; 

Tuning  each  voice  in  one  Thank.sgiving 
psalm; 

Soothing  each  storm-toss'd  soul  to  peace  and 
calm. 

O  brothers  of  one  common  mother  loved  — 

Sweet  Liberty  — wlio  with  us  finds  lier  home— 

Our  hands  ui>-:irched,  forming  the  mighty 
dome. 

Of  liberty's  grand  temple- never  to  be  moved 

Shall  we  not  meet  to-day  in  brotherly  em- 
brace. 

And  from  each  heart  all  bitterness  efface? 


fb- 


-* 


1080 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF    A3IE1UCA. 


Around  each  board  let    cheerful    welcome 

reign ; 
Within  each  heart  let  kindly  wishes  rest  - 
While  gifts  of  good  things  sent  to  those  less 

bless'd,  [cicclaim- 

Shall  fill  their  saddened  souls  with  glad 
Thanking  the  giver  of  the  timely  gifts, 
To  songless  ones  whose  voice  in  praises  lifts. 
America's  great  day  to  thee  all  hail!  [brown; 
Puddings  robust  with  turkeys  crisp  and 
Mince  pies  and  doughnuts  rich  thy  tables 

crown;  [edale; 

Rosy-cheeked  apples  flanked  by  home  brew- 
While  tale  and  song  steal  swift  the  hours 

away,  t'n^  Day. 

Spanning  the  brief  allotment  of  Thanksgiv- 
Long  may  our  land  thy  hallowed  presence  see 
As  yearly  comes  tliy  advent  to  our  home  — 
Calling  again  to  roof  tree  those  who  roam; 
Bright  in  all  coming  years  thy  presence  be. 
With  golden  memories,  serving  still  to  cheer. 
The  now  unborn  hosts  who  then  may  sojourn 


here. 


ANNA  C.  SCANLON. 

Born:  Mt.  Hope,  Wis.,  Oct.  26, 1864. 
For  a  while  Miss   Scanlon  taught    school. 
She  still    resides  in  lier  native  state  at  Mt. 


ANNA  CATUEKINJ?  SCANLON. 

Ida.  Her  poems  liave  api)eare<l  in  the  Wash- 
ington Post,  Catholic  Mirror.  Church  News 
and  other  publications. 


LIFE  S  HOURS. 
Infant  hours  —  unconscious  hours. 

Feeling  neither  storms  nor  showers. 
Sailing  by  a  sheltered  lea 

Toward  Eternity's  vast  sea! 
All  too  soon  the  pebbly  shore 

Fades  to  reappear  no  more ! 
Soon  the  unconscious  hours  are  gone, 

But  the  bark  glides  smoothly  on. 

Hours  of  childhood  — happy  hours. 

When  our  bark  bedecked  with  flowers 
Keeps  its  course  beside  the  land. 

Rocking  gay  ly  o'er  the  strand! 
Zephyrs  gently  stir  the  sails. 

Forecast  of  the  fitful  gales 
That  its  later  course  annoy. 

And  the  storms  that  may  destroy! 

Hours  of  youth  — more  trying  hours. 

When  from  out  the  scented  bowers. 
First  our  bark  sails  through  the  shades 

And  life's  morning  freshness  fades! 
Then  the  light  more  brightly  glows. 

And  life's  stream  more  quickly  flows. 
Then  its  storms  begin  to  rise 

Darkening  up  the  noon-day  skies. 

Hours  of  manhood  — working  hours. 

When  no  more  are  scented  flowers 
For  to  cast  the  glittering  spray 

Lightly  o'er  the  troubled  way; 
But  the  wild  and  savage  gale 

Fiercely  rends  the  life-boat's  sail. 
And  the  roaring  waters  crave 

A  new  victim  for  their  grave  I 

Hours  of  age  —  triumphant  hours. 

When  we  first  beheld  the  towers 
Of  the  world  from  out  whose  bourne 

Weary  pilgrims  ne'er  return  ! 
On  through  darkness  and  through  gloom 

Glides  the  bark  into  the  tomb! 
And  the  pilgrim  sinks  to  sleep 

On  the  bosom  of  the  deep! 


IITEII! 

n 


IN  THE  CITY. 

EXTRACT. 

Out  of  the  peace  and  the  quiet 

Into  the  noise  and  the  riot. 

Into  the  great  city's  glare. 

Out  of  the  fii'lds  and  the  clover. 

With  the  blue  skii's  hanging  over. 

Into  the  dull  leaden  air! 
This  is  what  men  call  the  city 
Where  live  tlie  learned  and  witty, 
Wliere  dwell  the  rich  and  the  proud 
Here  are  tlie  poor  and  the  lowly. 
Here  are  the  good  and  unholy 
Passing  unknown  in  the  crowd! 


* 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKUK  A. 


1081 


* 


STELLA  TRUMAN. 

Born  :  Opelousas,  La.,  Feb.  3, 1870. 
AFTEn  graduatiiitr  at  the  Female  Institute 

in  1S8S,  Miss  Ti-innni    rniniiicnecd  teacliiiis' 


STELLA  TRCMAN. 

school.    Her  poems  and  sketches  have  ap- 
peared in  many  of  the  local  papers  of  Louls- 


A  SOLDIER'S  MEDITATIONS. 
I  looked  upon  my  old  gray  coat  to-day; 
Its  threads  are  faded,  and  tlie  hungrj"  moth 
Hath  cut  into  its  fabric,  strong-  and  fine. 
Ah  well!  'tis  meet  that  it  should  pass  away; 
For  Mars  no  longer  drives  his  furious  steeds 
Across  our  sunny  land. 
His  chariot  wheels 
Have  ceased  their  revolutions  that  laid  waste 
Our  fields  and  pasture  lands,  and  sank  more 

deep 
Their  furrows  than  are  those  the  plowman 

makes ; 
But  from  them   never  spring's  the  tasseled 

corn. 
To  fill  our  barns  with  g-ladness,  or  the  bloom 
Of  cotton  plant,  producing'  in  due  time 
The  staple  white  —  the  Southland's  heaviest 

snow 
Wliich,  unlike  Arctic  storm,  doth  ever  come 
When  skies  are  blue  and  sunsliine  still   is 

warm 
And  bringeth  plenty  in  the  place  of  want. 


Bellona     shrieks    no    more,    her     piercing' 

screams 
Once  chilled  the  heart-blood  of  our  bravest 

men 
And  blanched  the  tender  cheek  of  woman 

frail; 
Cheeks  erst  so  glowing' wit  h  the  hue  of  health. 
So  lovely  that,  to  keep  them  e'er  thus  fair. 
Our  men  had  e'en  risked  life  itself:  but  war 
Doth  e'er  demand  tlie  fullest  sacrifice. 
Ob,  God  be  thanked!  that  fearful  time  is  o'er 
And  I  ne'er  more  this  faded  coat  must  wear. 

Yet  'tis  with  tear-moist  eyes  I  lay  it  by. 
The  garment  served  aie  well  tlirough  bloody 

years. 
My  old  affection  for  "  the  cause  "  will  rise 
Anew  whene'er  I  view  my  g:arb  of  grray. 
Ah  !  there's  my  musket;  the  sword,  too,  with 

which 
In  battle's  din,  I  sought  my  fellow's  life 
God  pity,  God  forgive  the  North  and  South 
For  thus  eng'ag'ing'  in  such  deadly  strife. 

But  now  the  rust  hath  eaten  the  keen  blade 
That  once  could  pierce  through  human  flesh 

and  bone 
And  sever  joint  and  sinew;  never  more 
'Twill  drink  warm,  living'  blood,  ne'er  more 
Hear  long-drawn  groans  of  mortal  ag'ouy. 
Or  revel  in  the  savage  battle's  roar. 

I  lay  all  these  away  —  the  flag  is  furled 
'Neath  which  we  Southron's  swore  to  "do  or 

die." 
Ah  me!  we  fouglit  like  g'ood  men  and  like 

brave. 
But  naught  could  do  'gainst  numbers  thrice 

our  own. 
Our  Jackson  fell,  he  resteth  ever  more 
In  that  celestial  land  beneath  tlie  trees. 
Whose  shade  his  tired  spirit  saw  while  yet 
In  tenement  of  clay. 
Oh!  When  he  died 
Our  hearts  grew  faint,  but  fainter  they  be- 
came 
When  one  by  one  our  leaders  followed  him. 
And  want  and    cold    attacked  our   ragged 

troops. 
God's  will  be  done;  I  now  can  see  the  good 
That  from  much  evil  has  upsprung.  but  then 
Twas  hard  to  be  submissive  and  to  know 
Our  cherished  hopes  must  die,  the  principles. 
For  wliich  we  gave  our  lives,  must  be  for- 
sworn. 
In  sorrow  deep  we  bowed,  our  hearts  were 

sad 
For  those  beloved  whose  voices  aye  were 

stilled. 
Whose  eyes  no  more  looked  love  into  our 
own. 


-*' 


«<- 


lOSC 


LOCAL   A^-D   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


In  bitterness  we  murmured,  "Life  is  liard 
And  death  is  better,"  was  our  anguislied  cry, 
But  'twas  not,  for  God  kuoweth  best ;      [see 
'Twas  bis  will  tliat  we  should  live  to  feel  and 
The  workings  of  his  All-wise  Providence. 
And  we  have  seen  it,  yes;  the  great  "New 

South,"  ,       ^.  ^, 

Like  Plioenix  bath  from  ashes  bad  her  birth 
And  sitteth  now  in  beauty,  calm,  serene. 
Of  all  earth's  lands  the  fairest  and  the  best. 
SheSloves  the  busy  North,  and  he  to  her 
The  kiss  of  peace  hath  g:iveu;  lorevermore 
One  interest  shall  they  have,  one  nation  be. 
And  I,  with  all  the  veterans  that  remam 
Of  those  who  followed  the  grand  hero,  Lee, 
No  longer  cherish  enmity  'gainst  those 
Who  with  victorious  Grant  our  flag  received. 
And  called  us  conquered.    Now,  instead. 
Our    hands     extended   they    have    warmly 

clasued 
And  all,  as  brethren  fond,  one  country  love. 
One  Ua"-i  be  stars  and  stripes-  all  proudly 
wave.  ts""S- 

One  God  we  serve -to  him  high  praise  bo 
For  all  the  wonders  of  His  love  and  power. 

MRS.  SARAH  E.  WYMAK. 

Born:  Phei.by,  N.  Y..  Nov.  19,  1837. 
IN  1853  this  lady  removed  to  iSIiehigau,  where 


still  resides  in  Michigan  at  Weston.  Mrs. 
Wyman  has  written  more  than  one  thousand 
poems,  many  of  which  have  appeared  in  tho 
Detroit  Free  Press  and  other  prominent 
journals. 

THOUGHTS. 
I  sat  me  down  this  evening 

A  little  while  lorest; 
The  golden  sun  was  setting 

Slowly  in  the  west. 
Methought  my  sun  is  sinking 

For  I  am  growing  old. 
And  every  night  I'm  nearer 

The  city  paved  with  gold. 
The  days  to  me  grow  shorter 

As  time  flies  swiftly  on; 
The  weeks  and  months  seem  moments. 

So  fast  they  pass  along. 
Sweet  childhood  hours  so  pleasant. 
Bright  school  days  all  are  gone; 
Many  dear  loved  schoolmates 

Have  to  their  graves  been  borne. 


MKS.  SAU.VH  ELIZAHETH  WVMAN. 

She  taught  school  for  many  years.    She  was 
married  in  1859  to  James  M.  Wyman.   and 


BABY'S  GONE  TO  SCHOOL. 
Baby's  gone  to  school  to-day, 
How  I  miss  her  in  her  play; 
Out  upon  the  noisy  street 
Sister  guides  her  tiny  feet. 

My  baby's  gone  to  school. 
I  am  lonely,  this  is  why 
I  cannot  work,  tho'  oft  I  try. 
Fori  miss  the  little  face 
And  I  look  for  her  embrace. 

My  baby's  gone  to  school. 
Kitty  is  very  quiet  here, 
No  one  here  to  pull  her  ear; 
Balls  and  strings,  she  cares  for  none. 
Till  our  darling,  home  will  come. 

To-day  she  went  to  school. 
Tell  me  mothers,  tell  me  true. 
Do  you  miss  your  darling  so; 
Do  you  list  for  pattering  feet. 
Out  upon  the  noisy  street? 

When  baby's  gone  to  school. 

ACROSTIC. 

Truth  its  motto,  now  and  ever. 
Heeding  nothing  but  the  right. 
Earnest  ever  too.  and  fearless. 
Only  striving  with  its  might 
Both  to  please  and  to  instruct  us; 
Scorning  every  base  design. 
Ever  searching  for  improvement, 
Ready,  never  to  malign. 
Vaunting,  not  eschewing  evil. 
Eager  to  become  a  friend. 
Heady  nil  the  news  to  lend. 


*i<- 


*- 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   I'OKTS   OK    AMKKICA. 


1083 


RE\'.  MILO  IIOBART. 

UOHN :  Oswego  Co.,  N.  Y.,  Dec.  23. 1831. 
For  tliirty-flvc  jears  Kev.  Milo  Hobart  li:is 
been  aiiiiiiisti'rof  theg-o-^pfl.  and  has  proacli- 
ed  ill  ton  states  ol   tlie  union.     He  was  thrcp 
years  in  Ilie  fedei'.il  aiiiij'  in    llu'  l"J4lh   IJeyl. 


III.  Vol.  Inf.,  part  of  which  time  lie  was  in 
the  hospital  department.  Mr.  Hobart  was 
married  in  1865  to  .Miss  Mary  Johnston,  who 
died  in  1889,  and  he  now  resides  with  his 
family  in  Rogers,  Arkansas. 


THE  HOME. 

Live  we  in  house  of  splendor, 
Or  in  tlie  hut  so  slender, 
So  to  it,  bj'  right,  we  come; 
We  haste  to  it  when  jrlad, 
We  flee  to  it  when  sad, 
Because  it  Is  our  Home. 

Hark  to  the  joyous  chatter 
And  to  the  merry  clatter. 
Of  cliiliiren  so  frolicsome; 
Tliey  are  fray  from  morn  till  niji-ht 
As  they  play  with  will  atid  inifrht. 
In  their  own  precious  Home. 

The  mother  toils,  plans,  contrives. 
And  with  constant  labor  strives. 
Nor  thinks  her  work  burdensome: 


For  wliat  she  thinks,  siiys  or  does. 
Is  for  liappiness  of  tliose 
In  the  dear  happy  Home. 

Father  goes  to  his  daily  toil. 

Nor  from  tusks  docs  he  recoil, 

Yields  not  though  work  is  burdensome; 

In  weather  fair  or  in  storm. 

Until  niglit,  from  early  morn, 

Toils  to  make  a  happy  Home. 

Does  joy,  peace  and  health  abound, 
And  no  bitter  feelings  found. 
As  the  years  go  anil  come; 
When  parents  with  children  vie, 
x^nd  children  with  parents  try 
To  keep  pure  the  happy  Home. 

When  comes  affliction's  liour. 
And  Sorrow's  cup  running  o'er, 
Puts  its  touch  ui>on  some  one; 
Wlien  each  with  the  others  vie. 
And  all  with  their  utmost  try 
To  show  love  in  tliat  Homo. 

What  moaneth  that  bit  tor  cry? 
What  meanoth  that  heaving  sigh? 
Of  orphan  in  his  room. 
We're  sad  indeed  say  tliey. 
And  thus  it  must  truly  be. 
For  they  are  witliout  Home. 

We  all  should  be  good  and  kind 
To  the  need}-  ones  we  find. 
And  help  them  every  one; 
They  will  love  us  the  mure 
When  we  show  the  open  door 
To  a  kind  and  happy  Home. 


THE  MOTHER. 

EXTIIACT. 

A  creature  of  utter  helplessness 

Cast  into  the  lap  of  Time: 

In  this  world  as  if  sent  from  some  other; 

In  darkest  hours  of  midnight. 

In  brightest  day  of  sun^liine,— 

Cared  for  by  a  tender  M  )thcr. 

In  tenderest  years  <  f  childhood. 
When  greatest  watchfulness  needed; 
When  joys  and  sorrows  blend  together. 
When  many  little  iieartachos  do  eomc; 
When  a  .stranger's  care  goes  unheeded 
Then  none  can  take  the  place  of  Mother. 

In  the  slipiiery  paths  of  youth. 

Rent  on  the  gaieties  of  the  world. 

When  wrongall  right  feelings  would  smother, 

When  tlie  tempter's  snai-e  is  laid 

To  entrap  and  beguile  to  evil  ways, 

Then  .1  safe  defender  is  Mother. 


*- 


-* 


5"- 


1084 


*.*  ■ 


LOCATi   AND   NATIONAI.   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


DR.CYRUS  A.BARTOL. 

Born:  Freepoht,  Me.,  April  30, 1813. 
At  tbe  expiration  of  his  theolog-ical  studies 
Mr.  Bartol  at  once  entered  the  ministry.    lu 
1836  ho  was  minister  at  larg-e  in  Boston,  and 

Uic  lonowiii'j' vc:ir   si'ttli'd    at    \Vf<t   Chiircli, 


DR.  (JVKUS    A.  li.\llH)L,. 

which  pulpit  lie  has  filled  for  over  fifty  years. 
Dr.  Bartol  has  always  been  active  in  philan- 
thropic movements.  He  has  given  to  the 
press  several  volumes  of  sermons,  and  has 
also  written  extensively  for  the  periodical 
press.  The  Rev.  Cyrus  A.  Bartol  is  well  be- 
loved by  his  congregation,  and  is  highly  re- 
spected wherever  he  is  known. 

WILD  ROSES. 
On  nature's  clock  that  runs  a  year, 

Wliose  hands  steal  on  to  strike  no  bell, 
Wild  roses  once  again  appear. 

Winsome  as  poets  cannot  tell. 
But  where  is  she  that  loved  these  flowers, 

For  whom  T  plucked  them  every  day? 
Tlie  dial  numbers  all  her  hours; 

Wliat  is  their  charm,  her  bloom  away? 
Do  they  not  miss  their  steadfast  fri(>nd? 

Without  her,  on  each  lonely  stem. 
Their  fragrance  to  the  breeze  they  lend, 

Which  with  them  sings  her  requiem. 
In  vain  does  every  leafy  fold  — 

My  once  fond  sacrifice  —  put  on 
Tints  ruddier  tlian  virgin  gold,— 

Tlie  sanct  ifying  temple  gone ! 


Better  than  Cain  or  Abel  brought 

My  firstlings  from  the  ledgy  field, 
I  miss  the  punctual  shrine  I  sought; 

The  altar  sinks,  the  tomb  is  sealed. 
O  faithless  heart,  the  roses  say. 

As  to  his  band  the  Muster  said. 
The  soul  in  dust  will  never  stay ! 

Have  we  not  risen  from  the  dead? 
Are  there  no  pastures  o'er  my  fence. 

Clearings  and  groves  I  cannot  spy? 
Far  as  may  go  this  glassy  sense, 

Untraveled  windeth  still  the  sky. 
Each  plant's  ascension  here  below 

Foreshows  full  paradise  above: 
An  upper  spring-  for  truth  we  sow, 

A  blossom  from  each  grain  of  love. 


HORTENSE  CORA  JACKSON. 

At  the  ag-e  of  twenty  Miss  Jackson  com- 
menced to  write  for  the  press,  since  which 
time  she  has  contributed  extensively  both 
prose  and  verse  to  current  literature.  Her 
father  was  a  man  of  great  literary  ability, 
and  for  years  was  an  editor  and  publisher. 

BITTER --SWEET. 
O!  dreams  of  the  beautiful  Past, 
Why  haunt  ye  ni3'  memory  still? 
Bright  visions  that  never  could  last 
Whj'  come  ye  my  lone  heart  to  thrill? 
Ah!  if  I  might  always  forget  — 
Or  forever  thy  memory  retain. 
'Tis  sad  to  forget  thee,  and  yet 
Remembrance  but  bringeth  new  pain. 
Bright  dreams  of  the  sunny  ••  Gone  By," 
Fond  hopes  I  liave  cherislied  so  long. 
Why  fade  ye  as  flow'rets  die. 
Crushed  by  the  world's  busy  throng. 
'Tis  only  the  hearts  that  have  bled. 
The  pity  we  ask  can  bestow, 
For  out  of  Hope's  ashes  though  dead 
The  fairest  of  flowers  oft  grow. 
Sometime  in  the  future  I  know 
This  tempest  of  sorrow  will  cease; 
The  turbulent  waters  of  woo 
Give  place  to  the  rivers  of  Peace. 
Sometime  to  my  heart  I  shall  clasp 
My  childhood's,  my  womanhood's  prize, 
No  more  to  be  torn  from  my  grasp, 
No  more  to  be  veiled  from  mine  eyes. 
By  faith  in  the  distance  I  see 
This  storm-cloud  of  grief  roll  awaj'. 
Revealing  in  beauty  to  me 
Tiie  glorious  light  of  new  day. 
No  more  for  the  Past  will  T  weep. 
No  fears  can  the  Future  annoy. 
From  tears  1  liavo  sown  I  shall  reap 
A  bountiful  liai-ve.-st  of  joy. 


>i*- 


*- 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEIIICA. 


1085 


NARCISSA  HARRISON. 

Born:  Shelbyville,  Tenn.,  July  23. 1862. 
After  grmduating'  :it  the  Sliolbyvillc  Fcmiilo 
Institute,   Miss  Niirt-issii   Hurrisoii    entcn-d 

till'   iirdfes^ioii   iif   U'ai-liin^',  and   i>    irnxv  rii- 


NAUCISSA   HARRISON. 

graged  ia  educational  work  at  the  Female 
College  of  Waco,  Texas.  The  poems  of  this 
lady  liave  appeared  iti  many  of  the  best  col- 
lege papers,  and  the  press  of  Texas  and  the 
South. 


*- 


EARTH-LO\'E. 
God  says  to  all:  •>  Love  mo  the  best.'' 

Christ  says  to  each:  ••  Give  me  thy  heart;  " 
I  cannot  lean  upon  God's  breast. 

The  Christ  and  1  are  far  apart. 
If  I  could  only  to\ich  His  hand. 

Or  in  the  night-time  hear  a  tone. 
If  it  were  given  me  to  stand 

And  see  my  God  upon  His  throne. 

Ah  then,  indeed,  there  might  be  born 

Love  large  enough  to  meet  His  will; 
Yet  though  1  watch  until  the  morn. 

The  night  is  empty  and  is  still. 
But  human  hands  are  very  near. 

And  living  hum:in  lips  and  eyes. 
The  tender  earth-tones,  that  I  hear. 

Make  me  forget  the  silent  skies. 

When  I  am  clasped  in  close  embrace. 
When  loving  eyes  look  into  mine. 


I  fear  me  that  dear  human  face 
Shuts  out  the  sight  of  one  divine. 

Wlien  children  play  about  my  knees 
Or  lean  their  bright  heads  on  my  breast. 

Tell  me,  my  heart,  do  I  love  these. 
Or  silent  God,  or  Christ  the  best? 


TWO  MOTHKUS. 
.\  wee  bird  cried  within  its  nest. 

And  lo,  its  mothiT  heard;  [breast. 

With    outstretched    wings,    and    throbbing 

Flew  to  her  baby-bird. 
A  child  wailed  in  the  winter  niglit. 

And  through  a  revel  wild. 
With  fair,  round  arms,  and  bosom  white, 

A  woman  danced,  and  smiled. 


HER  ANCESTRY. 
A  slender  figure,  draped  in  white. 
Within  an  old-time  garden  stood; 
Among  the  other  flowers  bright 
She  smiled  — this  flower  of  maidenhood. 
Her  lissome  figure  bent  and  swayed, 
Like  wind-blown  lilies  growing  there. 
As  much  a  lily  as  a  maid 
Slie  seemed;  as  sweet,  .is  frail,  as  f:ur. 
Her  eyes,  that  knew  no  tearful  mist. 
Held  just  a  lily's  share  of  dew. 
Her  fragrant  lips,  by  zephyrs  kissed. 
Had  all  a  lily's  breath  1  knew. 
And  like  the  flowers,  drooping  down. 
That  each  the  sunliglifs  touch  might  share. 
Her  shy,  bent  head  wore,  too,  it-s  crown  — 
The  golden  glorj'  of  her  hair. 
And  had  I  not  been  half  afraid  — 
Afraid  of  sacred  faiths  undone, 
I  might  have  thought  that  this  white  maid 
Was  once  a  lily  in  the  sun. 
And  then  the  light  thouglit  fluttered  on 
In  spite  of  creed,  that  fancy  biurs: 
How  many  lilies  dead  and  goue 
Had  m:ide  that  flower  face  of  hers? 
How  many  stamens'  dusty  gold 
Had  lielped  to  gild  each  waving  tress? 
How  many  trembling  buds  of  old 
Had  shaped  her  breathing  loveliness? 
And  in  her  eyes  — could  I  not  find 
Their  dew-draughts,  .saved  for  such  as  she? 
Had  not  their  slender  stems  entwined 
To  m:ike  her  figure's  symmetry? 
And  Mother  Eve.  forgive.  I  pray;  — 
Tliis  sight  all  former  lore  belied; 
The  maiden,  1  saw  yesterday. 
Was  but  a  lily  glorified. 
And.  Darwin,  you  are  hardly  fair. 
And  just,  to  such  an  one  as  she  — 
Or  will  you.  sir,  with  me  declare 
The  lilies  are  her  ancestry. 


*- 


1086 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


MAGGIE  D.  WILLIAMS. 

Born:  Abbieville,  Ky.,  Oct.  8,  1863. 
For   many    years    Miss   Williams  lias  con- 
tributed fine  prose  articles  to  the  local  pi  ess, 
and  also  maiij'  gems  of  poetry.    She  follows 
the  profession  of  teaching-,  and  resides  in  lier 


MAGGIE  D.  WILLIAMS. 

native  state  at  Livermore.  Her  poems  have 
appeared  in  the  Hartford  Herald,  Kentucky 
Reg-ister,  Constitution,  Southerner,  News 
World,  and  various  other  publications. 


WHAT  I  WANT. 
I'm  looking:  for  sometliing'  beautiful. 

Something-  in  nature  to  cheer 
My  heart,  when  it  is  sad  and  lonely, 

And  dreariness  is  everywhere. 
I  want  sunbeams  instead  of  shadows 

To  liang-  ever  on  my  way ; 
I  want  briglit  flowers  to  Inid  and  blossom 

'Midst  dull  November's  gray. 
I  want  g-lad,  beautiful  realities, 

Instead  of  vanished  dreams. 
To  bubble  on  the  dancing  eddies 

Of  life's  meandering  streams. 
I  want  bright  faces  always  near  me, 

And  kind,  loving-  liands  to  take 
The  weariness  out  of  tlie  burd(>ns 

That  life's  grimmest  duties  make. 
I  want  to  find  some  true,  steadfast  hearts 

To  beat  in  concert  with  mine. 


Tho'  I  stand  'neath  the  shadows  of  g:rief 

Or  drink  deep  of  pleasures  wine. 
I  want  somebody  dear  to  love  me. 

Somebody  noble  and  kind, 
Who  has  found  the  beautiful  treasures 

I  am  seeking-  yet  to  find. 
I  want  always  to  remember 

The  dearest  hope  that  has  fled, 
That  is  pointing-  now  with  its  memory 

To  the  brightness  overhead; 
That's  leading-  me  upward  and  onw;:rd 

Through  the  dark  mists  of  despair 
To  that  place  of  the  good  and  beautiful. 

Where  the  hidden  treasures  are. 


MY  ISLAND  GRAVES. 

Alone  on  a  shadowy  isle.  In  a  mystic  sea, 
I  watch,  and  weep,  and  dream; 

No  other  boat  the  white  waves  float. 
Save  the  one  that  silently  bears  me. 
To  weep  where  the  silver  waves  gleam. 
Alone  on  a  shadowy  isle  I  dug-  a  grave. 
On  a  fail-,  still  autumn  day. 

And  I  buried  tliere,  with  a  whisper'd  prayer, 
The  love  of  my  heart,  true  and  brave- 
Now  cold  in  death's  ari-ay. 
Alone  on  the  isle,  I  knelt  by  its  side, 
In  the  anguish  of  a  boundless  woe. 

For  the  poisoned  dart  —  it  pierced  my  heart. 
When  its  truest,  best  love  died, 
In  that  vanished  long  ago. 
Again  I  come  with  hope  and  pride. 
To  lay  in  a  new-made  grave. 

Ambition  sweet  I  now  lay  at  their  feet. 
For  they  drooped  when  dear  love  died. 
For  the  lig-ht  of  life  it  gave. 
And  now,  aimless  my  silent  sail 
Plows  the  mystic,  billowy  waves; 

I  heed  not  the  lig-ht,  the  gloom  of  ihe  nialit. 
Pleasure's  song-  nor  duty's  wail. 
But  guard  alone  my  Island  g•ra^  cs. 
What  matter  tho  wrecks  that  sadly  float  — 
Tlie  frag-ments  of  wasted  years?  — 

I  brush  them  aside,  on  the  rolling  tide, 
From  the  keel  of  my  phantom  boat. 
And  heed  them  not  tlirough  bliiuliiigieais. 


EXTRACT. 

Never  again  will  my  liesirt  find  rest 
From  the  vain  longings,  long  suppressed; 
Oh,  never  again  can  my  life  unfold 
Richer  treasures  by  far  than  gold, 
And  never  again  can  I  bear  to  liear 
Tho  pleasant  fancies  onco  so  dear. 
And  never  again  at  the  sun's  decline 
Will  I  dream  of  ]>leasui-es  to  be  mine  — 
Wlien  llie  king  of  day  again  shall  rise 
And  glorify  both  earth  and  skies. 


^- 


-J*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEUIC,\. 


1087 


JOHN  LEWIS  BEARD. 

Born:  December  29, 1858. 
Mr.   BE.'VRn lins  ■n-rittcn  extensively  fordio 
periodical  press.  imcl<>r  the  mini  fie  phimeof 


JOHN   I.EWI.S  BEARD. 

Mart  Flippin,  for  the  past  ten  years.  He  is 
an  artist  by  profession,  and  resides  at  Win- 
ston, N.  C. 

TO  A  DIAMOND. 
You  come   from  'neatli    the  hills,  oh,  thou 

recluse:  [rays — 

That  tliou  niay'st  drink  tlie  sun's  refulg-ent 
To  blend  thy  grlory  with  the  world's^ay  hues. 
And  thus  the  name  of  thy  creator  praise. 
But  man's  perverted  taste  sets  thee  in  jjold. 
And  iiiiis  thee  on  his  front  to  mark  his  state; 
The  sum  of  money   which  thou  cost  when 

sold. 
Was  paid  by  him  his  foolish  pride  to  sate. 
Why  should'st  thou  be  compelled  to  deck  the 

breasts 
Of  men  devoid  of  wit  or  common  sense? 
It  thou  could'st  speak  and  have  thine  own 

requests,  [peiise. 

Sure  thou  would'st  choose  a  nobler  recom- 
Then  seek  a^ain,  oh  gem,  thy  mountain  home. 
Where  thou  can'st  sparkle  with  the  morning 

dew; 
Or  look  up  to  yon  splendid  star-lit  dome. 
And  there  a  'semblance  of  thy  beauty  view. 


MRS.  MIRIAM  A. CHRISTIAN. 

Born:  Logan  Co.,  W.  Va..  May  a,  1.S59. 
A  FEW  of  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Christian  have 
appeared  in  the  local  i>ress.  She  was  married 
in  1880,  but  is  now  a  widow,  and  resides  at 
Christian,  W.  V'a. 


MIDNIGHT  MUSINGS. 
When  tlie  nujonlifrht's  softly  streaminpr, 

O'er  my  natix'e  hills  iind  vales; 
And  the  whippoorwills  are  drcaniiiij^. 

And  the  owl  has  ceased  his  wails; 
And  the  highest  stars  in  heaven 

Glitter  in  the  streamlets  clear; 
And  the  world  to  rest  is  given. 

Save  some  traveler  on  the  way; 
Then  I  stand  and  view  all  nature. 

In  her  beauty,  by  the  light. 
Of  the  myriail  golden  lanterns. 

Swung  above  the  world  at  night! 
And  I'm  wrapt  again  in  cliiklhood, 

Wlien  I  played  upon  the  lawn  I 
Or  with  friends  I  roam  the  wildwood, 

A  maiden  not  yet  grown  I 
And  tlie  words  of  friends  departed. 

On  the  fragrant  breeze  is  borne- 
Words  of  somt-  who  broken-hearted. 

Left  this  world  sad  and  forlorn  I 
Then  again  I'm  loneb'  wandering 

By  the  crystal  mountain  brooks. 
Where  some  cataract  is  thundering, 

Or  at  school  among  my  books. 
Seeking  knowledge  of  past  ages. 

For  my  heart  had  thirsty  grown. 
And  1  longed  to  drink  from  sages 

And  to  fathom  the  unknown  1 
But  my  life  was  sail  and  weary 

For  an  evil  star  had  shone. 
Which  bespoke  a  life  most  dreary. 

For  the  one  beneath  it  born  I 
Love  then  spied  the  path  1  wended. 

From  his  pearly  throne  sibove. 
Anil  two  dreary  lives  he  blended 

With  his  magic  wan  i  of  love  I 
And  we  took  our  flight  together. 

As  the  sun  sank  in  the  west, 
And  we  comforted  each  other. 

And  1  dreamed  that  I  was  blessed 
But  alas  I  my  dream  .s(H)n  ended. 

And  I  found  that  all  is  woe! 
And  that  joys  and  griefs  are  blended. 

Where  e'er  I  chanced  to  go! 
But  I've  traveled  'neath  love's  bower. 

Past  the  noontide  of  my  life. 
While  death's  plucked  the  sweetest  tlower  , 

Which  grew  "round  rao  as  a  wife. 
Now  my  Star  of  Hope's  descended 

The  horizon  of  the  west. 
And  my  drejims  of  youth  are  ended, 

.^nd  1  fain  would  >ink  to  r^'st. 


•*- 


•*- 


1088 


LOCAL   AMD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


E.  L.  JONES. 

Born:  Crawfoud  Co.,  Ind. 

After  receiving-  his  education  at  Fort 
Branch,  Mr.  Jones  followed  successfully  the 
occupation  of  a  farmer,  iig-ent,  clerk,  lawstu- 


E.  L.  JONES. 

dent,  court  officer  and  teacher,  which  latter 
profession  he  now  follows.  He  has  written 
quite  a  few  poems  of  merit,  many  of  which 
have  received  publication  in  the  press. 


THOUGHTS. 
A  nohle  thought,  a  thoug-ht  sublime. 
Whether  clothed  in  prose  or  dressed  in  rhyme, 
If  hurled  before  the  public  g-aze. 
Will  fan  some  humble  spark  ablaze. 
'Twill help  the  future  in  her  strife. 
Between  the  darkness  and  the  light; 
'Twill  help  some  person,  place  or  thing. 
However  darkly  stained  by  sin. 
A  thought  that  breaks  the  reins  of  sin. 
That  rends  and  wrecks  its  walls  within. 
Is  but  an  angel  clothed  in  words. 
In  garments  of  this  sinful  world. 
A  thought  that's  dressed  in  grarmcnts  white, 
That  lends  the  world  iicllucid  light. 
That  deals  to  error  deadly  blows. 
Is  but  a  .skylight  here  below. 
A  thought  that  .shines  upon  our  eyes. 
That  tends  o\u-  deeds  toward  welkin  skies, 
Is  but  the  truth,  the  truth  alone; 
And  the  truth  itself  can  be  our  own. 


MARCUS  A.  STEWART. 

Born  :  Madison,  Wis.,  Sept.  21, 1852. 
In  1883  Mr.  Stewart  published  a  volume  in 
verse  entitled   Rosita,  which  received  high 
commendation  from  the  press.    His  poems 
have  occasionallj'  appeared  in  the  press. 


AGE  AND  YOUTH. 

In  daj's  of  old  — as  I  have  been  told  — 

There  stood  on  the  brow  of  a  hill 

.\n  oak  tree  lone,  with  moss  overgrown - 

Perhaps  there's  a  trace  of  it  still  — 

An  oak  so  tall,  its  shadow  would  fall 

At  even  I'ar  over  the  vale. 

An  oak  whose  wood  had  gleefully  stood. 

The  fury  of  many  a  gale. 

.\  slender  shoot  sprung  up  at  its  foot, 

And  flourishing  mounted  high. 

Being  sheltered  well  from  frosts  as  they  fell, 

And  wintery  winds  whistling  by; 

For  the  old  tree  hung  above  it  and  sung 

A  lullaby  all  the  year  through. 

And  thus  they  say,  as  time  passed  away. 

Instead  of  one  o.ak  there  were  two. 

And  side  by  side  thej'  towered  in  pride. 

Their  branches  on  high  interlocked. 

The  old  and  young,  together  they  clung, 

Together  the  tempest  they  mocked; 

And  when  decay  tiad  eaten  away 

The  heart  of  the  old  oak  tall. 

Till  low  he  drooped,  the  young  oak  stooped, 

And  lightened  his  parent's  fall. 


MOON-SET. 
Dian's  orb  is  slowlj^  sinking 

Down  behind  the  misty  height. 
And  the  morning  stars  are  winking 

Brighter  in  the  waning  light. 
And  a  thousand  shadows  linking 

Deepen  now  the  gloom  of  night. 
As  those  stars  seem  brighter,  nearer, 

In  the  swiftly  gathering  gloom. 

So  our  youthful  joys  grow  dearer. 

As  we  lose  our  youthful  bloom; 

And  we  see  our  errors  clearer 

In  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 

As  those  stars  but  faintly  glimmer 

In  the  soft,  subduing  rays 
Of  the  moon,  our  faults  grow  dimmer. 

Should  one  virtue  gather  praise; 
Yet  they  shine  out  sharper,  grimmer, 

Wheu  its  honors  cea.se  to  blaze. 
As  the  flitting  shades  before  us 

Seem  to  mock  the  (jueen  of  night. 
Apprehensions  gather  o'er  us 

When  fair  Virtue  takes  her  flight. 
Leaving  nothing  to  restore  us 
Save  the  memory  of  her  light. 


*- 


*- 


* 


LOCAT.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1089 


HARMON  HIATT. 

Born:  Guit.boiid  Co.,  N.  C,  Jan.  20, 1819. 
NE.4RLV  a  hundred  poems  of  Sir.  Hiiitt  have 
appeared  in  the  Grange  Bulletin,  Boston 
Christian  Ileg-ister,  and  the  local  jiapcrs  of 
Indiana.  He  lias  written  numerous  poems 
on  farming  subjects  and  is  known  as  tlie 


HAKMO.V   niATT. 

Farmer  Poet  of  Indiana.  Mr.  Hiatt  is  of 
Quaker  parentage  and  was  married  in  1838  to 
Miss  Mary  Harris,  and  now  resides  at  Craw- 
fordsvillc,  Ind.  Miss  Louise  Hiatt  Brown,  a 
granddaughter  of  the  subject  of  this  sketch, 
is  also  represented  in  this  work. 


*- 


THE  GROWING  CORN. 
I  see  that  on  Parnassus'  height 

The  archers  draw  the  bow. 
And  sing  its  praises  with  delight, 

How  sweet  tlie  measures  flow  — 

Each  knight  now  makes  the  welkin  ring. 

As  loud  as  bugle  horn; 
Be  mine  the  nobler  task  to  sing 

About  the  growing  corn. 

The  lives  that  in  these  germs  liave  lain 

In  silent,  sweet  repose; 
A  graceful  form  and  beauty  gain 

By  Nature's  gentle  throes. 

No  sudden  bound  is  here  displayed 
To  change  the  wond'rous  scene; 


Nor  is  progressive  work  delayed 
Till  all  is  robed  In  green. 

Each  stalk  contains  a  pearly  drop 

Through  all  the  day,  so  dear; 

Nor  will  it  drink  llie  morsel  uf) 

Till  evening  shades  appear. 

Whence  came  this  drop  'mid  burning  sun, 

When  zephyrs  hide  away? 
Or  why  not  rise,  like  mist,  and  rua 

With  silvered  clouds  of  day? 

Perhaps  the  Fairies,  o'er  the  field. 

While  weary  mort.als  slept. 
Had  come  with  store  of  tears  concealed. 

And  stood,  and  sighed,  and  w  ept. 

Perchance,  they  may  have  marked  the  spot. 

In  their  nocturnal  walk. 
And  came  with  tiny  watering  pot 

And  poured  on  every  stalk. 

But  science  comes  to  show  its  worth. 
And  teach  what  brought  them  there; 

'Tis  vajior  from  the  mellowed  earth. 
Condensed  by  cooler  air. 

Each  hill  presents  a  graceful  bow. 

As  through  the  day  I  toil; 
And  seems  to  thank  the  passing  plow 
or  turning  o'er  the  soil. 

These  crackling  sounds  I  often  hear. 

Like  Lilliputian  flght; 
Will  soon  present  the  pendent  ear, 

And  tassled  plume  to  sight. 

The  nodding  plumes  with  parent  dust 

Wave  o'er  the  !-ilkeii  fold; 
And  passing  breeze  or  Midas-touch 

Will  turn  the  ears  to  gold. 

Then  may  the  widow's  heart  rejoice 

If  craven  hunger  worn; 
For  starving  child  with  feeble  voice. 

Will  call  for  golden  corn. 

Put  up  the  bow.  it  tells  a  tale 

That  men  should  love  to  hide; 
When  o'er  the  liill  and  through  the  vale 

He  bore  it  by  his  side. 

And  feeble  women  tilled  the  ground. 

And  labor  laughed  to  scorn; 
And  fed  to  him,  the  worthless  bouud, 

Her  shining  ears  of  corn. 


THE  LITTLE  GIRL'S  SONG. 
We  love  to  join  in  singing. 

When  seated  by  the  Are; 
Our  mirthful  voices  ringing. 

Speak  forth  the  heart's  desire. 


-* 


^- 


1090 


LOCAT.   AXD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF    AMEKICA. 


We  sing  of  all  our  pleasures, 

We  banish  every  care; 
We  ask  no  greater  treasure 

Ttian  have  our  playmates  there. 

We  tell  our  pleasing  stories. 
Of  plays,  and  books,  and  toys; 

And  of  the  girl  that  glories 
In  prattling  with  the  boys. 

Though  mothers  often  tell  us 
To  stop  our  daylight  dreams. 

Our  anxious  hearts  compel  us 
To  lay  our  plans  and  schemes. 

So,  alas,  wc  will  not  blame  you. 
But  think,  when  you  were  young. 

What  sports  the  most  became  you? 
What  songs  were  mostly  sung? 


LOUISE  HIATT  BROWN. 

BORx:  DeWitt,  Neb..  Sept.15,  1873. 

Miss  Bbowx  is  a  granddaughter  of  Mr.  Har- 
mon Hiatt,  who  is  elsewliere   represented  in 

this  work.  Some  of  :hr  iioenis  tif  Mi-ss  Brown 


T  ATT    KROWN. 


have  appeared  in  the  Detroit  Commercial 
Advertiser  and  the  local  press.  She  is  a 
teacher  of  I'lociition,  and  resides  in  Craw- 
fordsville,  Inil. 


THE  MISERS  DREAM. 
Within  a  room  all  dark  and  cold 
There  dwelt  a  miser  gray  and  old; 
And  as  he  sat  thus  all  alone 
With  clouded  brow  and  heart  of  stone, 
He  thought  of  rents  come  due  next  day. 
How  certain  tenants  could  not  pay; 
I  will  not  wait,  aloud  he  cried. 
They'll  find  a  dwelling  place  outside. 
And  at  the  thouglit  lie  slilj'  smiled. 
While,  in  great  heaps,  his  gold  he  piled. 

The  wind  blew  fierce,  the  snow  fell  fast. 

The  miser  dropped  to  sleep  at  last. 

And,  Lo!  in  sorrow  I  am  told 

He  heard  the  angel's  liarps  of  gold, 

Till  through  his  mind  there  seemed  to  ring, 

Peace,  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men, 

The  angels  sang  it  o'er  again. 

Blessed  thrice  blessed  be  the  name 
Of  Him  who  came  to  Bethlehem, 
He  came  to  save  the  world  from  sin. 
Believe  on  him  and  enter  in; 
He  died  for  thee;  He  died  for  thee; 
He  gave  His  life  upon  the  tree. 
All  love  and  lionor  to  the  name 
Of  the  sweet  Babe  of  Bethlehem. 

The  miser  knocked  upon  the  gate, 
Whence  came  the  sound  too  late,  too  late. 
Behold  I  knocked  upon  your  door. 
Ye  bade  me  go  and  come  no  more. 
Oft  did  I  thirst  and  hunger  too. 
Ye  never  bade  me  sup  with  you; 
Naked  was  I.  not  clothed  by  thee. 
Imprisoned,  sick,  ye  visited  not  me; 
The  miser  opened  wide  his  eyes 
And  looked  around  in  great  surprise; 
How  glad  that  I  am  not  too  late. 

Ah !  this  is  what  would  be  my  fate 
Should  I  go  on  in  the  same  old  w;iy; 
I'll  make  a  solemn  vow  to-day 
That  from  henceforth  I'll  mend  my  way. 


On  Cliristmas  morning  fair  and  bright 
The  miser  walked  to  Widow  Gray, 
And  a  riirisimas  present  gave,  they  say 
Of  a  montli's  rent,  and  l)ottor  still 
Than  even  that;  with  hearty  will 
In  many  homes  he  scattered  food. 
Till  all  the  children  called  him  good. 

And  every  year  on  Clu-istmas  night 
The  miser  in  lii.s  room  so  bright. 
Hears  o'er  again  that  sweet  refrain. 
Peace,  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men. 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


um 


HORATIO  DUDLEY  TORREY. 

Born:  Dixfieid,  Me.,  Sept.  7, 1828. 

The  popins  of  >[r.  Dudley  have  appeared  in 
tlio  Portland  Transcript,  Portland  Eclectic, 
Portlanil  Press,  Boston  Carpet  Bag-,  Clirono- 
type.  Home  Sentinel,  Oxford  Democrat  and 
many  other  papers.  The  poems  of  this  geutle- 


HORATIO  DUDLEY  TOIIRETT. 

man  were  principally  written  in  his  youth. 
He  was  a  graduate  of  the  Maine  ^ledical 
School  and  the  Harvard  Medical  School,  and 
still  practices  his  profession  of  physician  at 
South  Bridg-ton,  Maine.  Mr.  Torrcy  h;is  one 
daughter,  Amoret  Dudley  Torrey,  who  is 
represented  elsewhere  in  this  work. 


ANTICIPATION. 

Look  upon  my  Fancy'.i  limning; 

Listen  to  my  Muse's  singing! 
I  will  tell  thee,  wifle  mine, 
Of  our  homo  in  future  time:  — 

Of  our  home,  its  joys  and  pleasures. 

Sunny  nooks  and  priceless  treasures. 

It  shall  be  a  cottage  low. 
By  its  walls  a  brook  shall  flow: 
Trees  shall  wave  their  verdant  heads 
0"er  the  rose,  tliat  perfume  sheds 
Through  the  garden  where  the  ringing 
Notes  proclaim  the  song  birds  singing. 

Leafy  bines  shall  climb  the  door. 
With  fair  clusters  covered  o'er: 

And  the  rustling  leaves  shall  sigh 
Wh  en  the  evening  winds  tloat  l)y. 


Waliing  with  their  airy  pinions 
Music  from  /Eotus'  minions. 

In  the  distance,  mountains  blue 
Shall  uprise  the  ether  through: 
And  the  sun's  last  rays  shall  fold 
Their  dim  tops  in  robes  of  gold. 
Gilding  too  our  brooklet  llowing 
With  a  rosy  radiance  glowing. 

When  at  eve  the  setting  sun 
Warns  me  home,  my  labor  done. 
Then  thine  earnest  eyes  of  blue 
I  shall  catch  the  casement  through; 
W.atchful  eyes!  a  vigil  keeping 
For  the  absent  one's  first  greeting. 

Wifle  mine!  this  home  shall  be 
Dwelling  meet  for  thee  and  me. 

Peace  and  Love  will  prize  its  walls. 

Higher  far  than  wealth's  cold  iiall.i; 
And  at  close  of  life  the  tearful 
Parting  here  will  be  less  tearful. 


FAREWELL. 
Farewell  I  alas,  it  should  be  spoken  I 
That  ties  thus  formed  should  e'er  be  broketi ! 
That  we  should  hopeless  part  forever! 

Yet  fare  tliee  well ! 

Tho"  'tis  a  knell 
To  bearts'that  fain  woukl  sunder  never! 

They're  passed!  those  days  of  joy  and  glad- 
ness. 
Whose  Ijours  the  ebon  wing  of  sadness 
Ne'er  tinged  with  earthly  blight  or  .sorrow! 

Ah,  nevermore. 

On  Time's  dim  shore. 
Shall  Hope  proclaim  a  glad  to-morrow. 

The  dreams  my  ycnithf  ul  fancy  cherished. 
Of  fame  and  glory,  all  iiave  perished! 
And  nevermore  on  earth  shall  brighten 

My  bitter  fate! 

Tlie  leaden  weight 
Of  ruined  hopes  no  power  c:in  lighten. 

To  the  dull  wave  of  Lethe's  river 
Haste  thei\  O,  soul!  and  wash  forever 
From  Memory's  p:ige,  the  last  sad  token 

Of  other  days! 

Whose  sunny  rays 
No  more  can  cheer  this  heart  now  broken! 

As  caverned  streams  with  sullen  motion 
Roll  sunless  to  the  boundless  ocean. 
E'en  so  will  life,  by  .sorrow  molde<l. 

Roll  sunless  by 

WitlKMit  ;i  sigh. 
Until  in  Deatlx's  d.ark  niglit  enfolded  I 


*- 


* 


1092 


LOCAT.   AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


AMORET  DUDLEY  TORREY. 

Born  :  Maine,  1857. 
Miss  TorREY  is  the  daughter   of    Horatio 
Dudley  Torrey,  a  well-laiown   physician    of 
Bridgton,  Maine,   who   is  represented   else- 


AMORKT  DUDLEY  TORHr.Y. 

Where  in  this  %\  oi  Iv.  The  poems  of  Miss  Tor- 
rey have  received  high  commendation  from 
the  press,  and  have  appeared  in  some  of  the 
leading  publications  of  her  native  state. 

SUNSET. 
There's  a  Sabbath  quiet  round  me. 

As  the  sun  descends  once  more 
To  his  home  beyond  the  mountains. 

Where  some  cloud-cave's  dusky  door 
Shuts  him  in  behind  its  portals 

•Till  the  sable  night  be  o'er. 
Ah,  how  many,  many  changes 

Must  he  witness  in  his  round: 
Bising  o'er  a  happy  household. 

Setting  where  grim  Death  is  found! 
Rising  o^er  bright  smiling  faces. 

Setting  o'er  a  new-made  mound. 
Shining  in  its  dawning  splendor 

On  an  infant  newly  born. 
And  at  night,  leaving  in  darkness 

Some  poor  wretch,  unkempt,  forlorn. 
Who  in  drinking  deep  of  Pleasure, 

Finds  its  dregs  are  Want  and  Scorn. 
Shedding  beams  all  rainbow  tinted. 

On  a  youtlif  III.  happy  pair, 
Wlio  are  friends  with  Love's  emotion,- 
Vowed  with  each,  their  lives  to  share;  - 


Will  dull  evening  find  unsundered 
The  bright  cord  at  dawn  so  fair? 
So  the  Sun  of  Life  ariseth 

On  Youth's  aspirations  bright, 
But  to  cast  his  last  rays  setting 

On  Old  Age  in  darkest  night;  — 
Who  has  seen  Youth's  hopes  expiring. 

Slain  by  Disappointment's  blight. 
But  the  Sun  of  Life  immortal 

Sets  not  on  a  struggling  soul, 
That,  each  day  is  true  and  faithful, 

Seeking  strength  through  self-control ;  - 
Where  such  walk  there  is  no  shadow! - 

For  the  sun  shines  to  the  goal! 


L 


AN  OLD  STORY. 
I'm  going  to  tell  a  story 

That's  neither  fresh  nor  new; 
LTubrightened  by  martial  glory. 

Or  lovers  who  court  or  sue. 
No,  there  is  no  beautiful  maiden, 

No  hero  with  heart  on  fire. 
No  millionaire  heavily  laden 

With  jewels  that  maids  admire. 
My  tale  is  of  trial  and  sorrow; 
Of  Poverty  Pain  and  care:  — 
(From  words  there  is  naught  I  can  borrow. 

To  make  the  dark  picture  fair):  — 
Of  wives,  robbed  ot  love  and  protection 

Of  children,  of  liome  and  bread; 
Of  parents  with  endless  aflfection. 

Bereft  of  a  child  that's  not  dead: 
Of  locks  prematurely  whitened; 

And  hearts  a-breaking  with  pain; 
Of  little  ones  left  unenlightened; 
Of  bitter  tears  falling  like  rain: 
Of  homes  that  are  broken  and  scattered; 

Of  intellects  wasted  and  spoiled; 
Of  manly  forms  ruuied  and  shattered; 

Aspirations  and  hopes  that  are  foiled: 
Of  the  drunkard's  idiot  offspring; 

Of  prison  and  scaffold  grim:  — 
(To  the  find  a  worthy  offering; 

A  sacrifice  mete  for  hini). 
Of  the  pinioned  m:iniac  lying 

Tn  darkness,  gasping  for  breath; 
Of  the  wretch  in  tlie  almshouse  dying, 

A  bitter  neglected  death. 
What's  caused  all  the  sin  I'm  describing? 

What  is  it  has  robbed  the  wife! 
'Tis  the  drink  her  liusband's  imbibing, 

'Tis  drink  that's  ruined  his  life! 
He  hears  not  his  dear  ones  calling 

His  name  with  affection  and  tears. 
The  poison  his  senses  enthralling. 
Benumbs  both  heart  and  his  ears. 


*- 


■* 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAr.   I'OETS  OK   AMEUICA. 


WXi 


MRS.  MA  RT 11 A  J  A  N  K  SPA  K  K. 

Born:  Annapolis,  O.,  May  17, 1829. 
This  lad.v  lias  written  a  few  poems  that  have 

apiK'Mri^d  in   tht^  IiumI   i)f(>>is.     Slic  was  niar- 


SIKS.  MAUTHA  JANE  SPAK.E. 

ried  in  1855,  but  is  now  a  widow,  and  resides 
in  Edon,  Ohio,  with  her  children. 


BURIAL. 
Now,  the  slow  moiirnins:  mournful  train 
Returns  to  their  deserted  home  ajirain, 
Leavinjr  mother  in  tlie  grave's  cold  cell  — 
And  take  a  long,  and  lust  sad  farewell. 

Now  the  stormy  voyage  of  life  is  o'er  — 
The  shattered  vessel  gained   her  destined 

shore. 
No  more  to  venture  on  the  boistrous  sea. 
But  anchored  safe  in  immortality. 


EXTRACT. 
'Tis  true  I  gaze  on  heaven's  arch 
And  view  the  jilanets  on  tlieir  march; 
The  ocean  in  its  broad  expanse— 
The  rugged  mount— the  moon-beams  glance— 
The  flowers  sweet  on  plain  and  hill  — 
These,  one  and  all,  my  pulses  thrill. 

Then,  when  I  would  my  thoughts  infuse 
In  meter  sweet,  I  call  my  muse. 
'Tis  vain  my  rliynie  I  fain  must  close  I 
The  ink  drops  off  the  pen  in  prose. 


MRS.  MADGK  M.  WAGNER. 

In  18K1  this  author  and  poet  publislicd  a 
volu'ne  of  poems  which  have  since  had  a 
second  edition.  In  1885  she  went  to  Califor- 
nia to  accept  a  position  as  a.ssociate  editor  on 
the  Golden  Era  Magazine,  in  wliich  slie  pur- 
cliased  an  interest;  and  in  lK8«j  was  married 
to  the  editor  and  proprietor,  Harr  Wagner,  a 
p('!u)larly  and  brilliant  writer  and  a  man  of 
rue  attainments.  Mrs.  Wagner  lias  been  giv- 
t  i;  the  appellation  of  the  California i)oetess, 
and  her  poems  have  appeared  in  the  leading 
newspapers  and  magazines.  She  is  also  tlie 
author  of  several  prose  works— Meric,  Diana, 
A  Titled  Plebeian,  and  others.  Mrs.  Wagner 
resides  happily  with  her  husband  and  cliild- 
ren  at  San  Diego,  Cal.,  where  she  is  very 
popular. 

ROCKING  THE  BABY. 
I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby  — 

Her  room  is  just  next  to  mine  — 
And  I  fancy  I  feel  the  dimpled  arms 

That  'round  her  neck  entwine. 
As  she  rocks  and  rocks  the  baby. 

In  the  room  just  next  to  mine. 

I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby 

Each  day  wlien  the  twilight  comes. 
And  I  know  there's  a  world  of  blessing  and 
love 

In  the  baby -bye  she  hums. 
I  see  the  restless  finger 

Playing  with  mamma's  rings. 
And  the  sweet  little  smiling,  pouting  mouth. 

That  to  hers  in  kissing  clings. 
As  she  rocks  and  sings  to  the  baby. 

And  dreams  as  she  rocks  and  sings. 

I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby. 

Slower  and  slower  now. 
And  I  know  she  is  leaving  her  good-night 
kiss 

On  its  eyes  and  check  and  brow. 
From  her  rocking,  rocking,  rocking, 

I  wonder  would  she  start. 
Could  she  know,  through  the  wall  between 
us. 

She  is  rocking  on  a  heart. 

While  my  empty  arms  arc  aching 

For  a  form  they  may  not  jiress. 
And  my  emptier  heart  is  breaking 

In  its  desolate  loneliness, 
I  list  to  the  rocking,  rocking. 

In  the  room  just  next  to  mine. 
And  brc.ithc  a  prayer  in  silence. 

At  a  mother's  broken  shrine. 
For  the  woman  wlio  roeks  the  baby 

In  the  room  just  next  to  mine. 


*- 


-* 


*- 


1094 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


JOHN  THOMAS. 

Born  :  England,  August  17, 1823. 
About  fifty  poems  liave  appeared  in  various 
piihlicalinns  from  the  pen  of  the  subject  of 


JOHN  THOMAS. 

this  sketch.  For  many  years  Mr.  Thomas 
was  a  sailor,  but  finally  settled  in  Oreg-on  in 
1860,  where  he  now  resides  at  Skipanon. 

THE  BARDS  FAREWELL. 

Adieu,  verdant  spot. 

Fair  meed  of  the  toil. 
Of  lonely  years  spent, 

Reclaiming  thy  soil. 
From  dark  tangled  brushwood 

And  gnarly-limbed  trees, 
And  foul  stagnant  water. 

That  poisoned  thy  leas. 
Forgive  the  blank  look. 

Whilst  the  whisper'd  good-bye 
Sweeps  the  chords  of  the  heart. 

And  sounds  like  a  sigh; 
And  clouded  perchance 

By  a  shade  of  regret, 
Deem  not  that  I  grieve 

For  the  liibor  or  sweat 
That  fitted  thy  breast  for  the 

Mantel  of  green. 
That  waves  with  the  wind 

In  the  sun's  mellow  skies. 
For  each  toilsome  day 

Brought  with  night  sweet  repose. 
The  moral  scijnences, 

Vouchsafe  unto  those 


Of  faithful  endeavor. 

Though  foiled  in  the  fight, 
And  hope  like  a  lever 

Took  part  in  the  weight. 
As  I  bend  my  dim  gaze 

Over  woodland  and  dell. 
Each  familiar  spot 

Has  its  own  tale  to  tell; 
Perchance  of  a  pleasure 

That  leaves  but  a  smart. 
Or  a  hardship  o'ercome 

Which  could  comfort  impart. 
But  the  clamor  of  home 

That  enveloped  the  place. 
With  ideal  charms. 

Are  dissolving  apace; 
And  hope's  flickering  glim 

Sheds  a  ray  on  the  gloom. 
And  whispers  content  is 

The  chief  charm  of  home. 
»  «»>  « 

MRS.  MARAH  L.  CURTIS. 

Born:  February  26, 1858. 
This  lady  is  the  daughter  of  Capt.  Edgar 
Wakeman,  a  well-known  early  Californian. 
Since  her  youth  this  lady  has  written  poems 
which  have  appeared  in  current  newspapers 
and  magazines.  She  was  married  in  1876  to 
W.  B.  Curtis,  and  hastwosons— Edgar  Wake- 
man,  born  in  1877;  and  Waldo  Wakeman, 
born  in  1878.  She  Is  a  resident  of  Oakland, 
California. 


ALONE. 

As  sad  as  winds  that  sound  In  lofty  branches 

Along  the  sky, 
As  lone  as  on  the  salt  and  silent  marslies 

The  sea-bird's  cry. 
As  desolate  as  on  a  far,  wild  billow  — 

The  set  of  sun, 
So  is  the  wasted  life,  and  thus  its  promise, 

When  love  is  done. 


REDFVnOUS. 
The  breezes  are  chasing  the  rose-leaves  by. 
And  shadows  arc  thronging  the  purple  sky. 
As  over  the  valley  and  winding  stream. 
Is  falling  the  last  of  the  sunset's  gleam. 

It  is  twenty  years,  yet  the  moon-bcanis  fall 
In  the  same  pale  lines  on  the  orchard  vail. 
And  I  almost  think  I  can  catch  the  tread 
Of  a  step  that  came  in  the  years  long  dead. 

I  marvel  to  think  that  a  heart  so  old 
Can  thrill  at  the  thought  of  a  tale  long  told: 
While  glimpses  of   visions  that  once  wen- 
bright. 
Are  borne  on  the  breath  of  a  sigh  to-night. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  I'OETS  OF  AMERICA. 


1095 


GAD  W.  GLEASON. 

Born:  Tioga  Co.,  N.  Y.,  Mauch  U,  ia35. 
Mr.  Gleason  is  of  Irish  uiul  f>eotch  descent. 
At  the  age  of  twelve  he  went  to  sea,  wliieh 
occupation  he  followed  until  his  twenty-soc- 
ond  year.  In  1861  Mr.  Gleason  enlisted  in 
Comi)an\"    V.  r.'lst    Oliio    Infantry,   ■.ni(\   later 


GAU   WOUTHINGTCJN   (iLKASON. 

Willi  Companj-  C.  65th  Oliio  Infantry,  and  was 
color-sorji'Pant  until  1863,  wiien  lie  was  trans- 
ferred to  tlie  Mississippi  Marine  Brig-ade. 
In  1878  Mr.  Gleason  commenced  writing  for 
the  press,  and  is  a  regular  correspondent  of 
two  prominent  newspapers;  and  at  the  same 
time  is  engaged  in  business  as  a  iiouse  and 
sign  painter.  Mr.  Gleason  was  married  in 
1857  to  Miss  Jane  Holmes,  and  now  has  ii  fam- 
ily of  several  children. 


*- 


JUST  A  WOODEN  SHOE. 
I  know  its  a  shoe,  a  wooden  shoe ; 
But  it  brings  strange  tlioughts  to  me 
Of  the  castles  grand,  in  the  Vaterlaud, 
And  our  homo  beyond  tlie  sea. 
O'er  tlie  ocean's    brine  from  the    dear  old 

Rhino 
It  lias  wandered  here  to  me. 

I  know  it's  a  shoe,  just  a  wooden  shoe; 
But  if  it  could  speak  'twould  tell 
Of  the  vine-clad  liills.  and  of  shady  rills. 
And  the  cottage  within  the  doll, 


Of  tlie  churchyard  green,  where  graves  are 

seen 
Of  those  that  we  loved  so  well. 
Of  the  motlier  wlio  jiruyed  when  her  cliildren 

strayed 
Away,  and  across  the  sea. 
That  God  would  keep  on  the  stormy  deep. 
And  that  we  in  His  care  niiglit  be, 
Sotiiat  after  the  strife  of  this  stormy  life 
We  sliould  meet  in  eternity. 
It  would  tell, with  a  sigh,  of  the  fond  good-bj-e 
And  the  parting  tears  we  shed. 
Of  the  friends  now  gone,  as  the  years  rolled 

on. 
To  the  land  of  the  silent  dead. 
And  of  otlicrs,  to-day,  who  far  away 
Toil  hard  for  tlieir  daily  bread. 
I  know  it's  a  shoe,  just  a  wooden  shoe; 
But  it  carries  me  back  once  more 
To  tlie  castles  grand  of  llie  Vaterland 
And  to  those  who  have  gone  before 
To  the  golden  strand,  wliere,  with  beckoning 

hand. 
They  are  calling  us  to  that  shore. 


MOTHEU. 
She  is  getting  old  and  feeble. 
She  is  wrinkled  old  and  gray. 
And  her  memory's  growing  weaker 
As  the  long  years  pass  sway. 
But  back  along  life's  pathway 
Her  thoughts  still  sadly  flow. 
And  there  I'ises  on  lier  vision 
The  scenes  of  lung  ago. 
And  back  her  mind  will  wander 
To  the  days  of  si.\ly-one, 
And  the  scenes  that  once  she  witnessed. 
When  tlrst  the  war  begun, 
S.'om  plain  to  rise  before  her, 
And  she's  living  day  by  day. 
In  the  presence  of  the  loved  ones 
Who  have  long  since  passed  away. 
Now  to  her  ear  comes  plainly 
The  rattling  of  the  drum. 
She  sees,  from  farm  and  hamlet. 
The  rallying  heroes  come. 
And  among  them,  young  and  ardent. 
Her  own  loved  son  she  sees. 
Bearing  the  starry  banner 
As  it  floats  upon  the  breeze. 
And  she  listens  at  tlio  twilight. 
When  the  sun  has  gone  to  rest. 
For  the  f(x)tste|)s  of  her  soldier  boy  — 
Of  all  she  loved  the  best. 
Yes,  when  the  dosing  of  t'le  day 
Has  stilled  earth's  busy  liuni. 
She  listens  for  a  footstep 
That  she  knows  can  never  come. 


-* 


*- 


1096 


LOCAL   A^'D   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


Now  she's  thinking-  of  a  letter 
That  was  brought  to  her  oue  day, 
From  one  who  fougiit  beside  him 
Alltlirough  the  bloody  fray. 
And  the  story  of  his  bravery 
Filled  the  mother's  heart  with  pride. 
But  what's  that?    It  tells  her  also 
That  he  bravely  fighting-  died. 

Dead!    Her  brave  boy?    Yes  he's  fallen. 
With  his  face  toward  the  foe. 
And  the  Isnowiedge  so  appalling 
Fills  the  mother's  heart  witli  woe. 
Yes,  he  died  for  liouie  and  country. 
And  she'll  never  see  him  more. 
But  slie  watches,  waits,  and  listens 
For  his  footstep  at  the  door. 

Through  all  these  long  and  weary  years 

That's  past  from  then  till  now, 

Till  raven  hair  lias  turned  to  snow 

Above  her  wrinkled  brow. 

Her  mind  turns  from  tlie  present 

To  days  and  scenes  of  yore. 

And  still  she  waits,  and  listens 

For  his  footsteps  at  the  door. 

1    1  ^  * — ♦ 

GEORGE  PEPPER  JOHNSON. 

Born:  Preemption,  Ii^ii.,  March  31, 1867. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  is  a  resident  of 


Brooklyn,  Iowa,  where  he  is  engaged  in  f arm- 


*- 


GEOROE  PEPPER  JOHNSTON. 

Ingr.    A  few  of  his  poems  have  appeared  in 
the  local  press. 


PROPER  PEOPLE. 

Give  me  the  man  with  the  fibre  of  oak 

To  stiffen  his  spine  for  the  right. 

Mortised  with    courage  and   gained  in   the 

truth. 
Whose  actions  show  best  in  the  light; 
Strong-  to  stand  up  in  the  storm-gales  of  life, 
A  man !  —  not  a  poor  parasite  1 

Give  me  the  woman,  though  fragile  she  be. 
And  bend  for  the  time  to  the  blast. 
Who  lifts  her  head  with  a  smile  on  her  face 
When  the  danger  of  the  storm  is  past ; 
The  oaky  strength  of  whose  spirit  is  faith; 
That  can  all  storms  out-last. 


Give  me  the  boy  and  the  girl  whose  minds 

Are  lit  with  ambition  to  rise. 

To  do  something-  good  for  their  race  and  their 

God  — 
Who  seeks  not  for  the  earth,  but  for  heaven ; 
Whose  affections  flow  pure  as  the  waters  of 

life. 
And  whose  tongue  speaks  truth  in  their  eyes. 


Give  me  the  child  that  is  childish  in  all 
Of  its  kind  and  loving  ways; 
Around  such  a  one  groups  of  angels  I  see 
Through  the  mists  of  a  mystical  maze; 
The  pert  and  precocious  belong  to  the  world. 
And  the  world  shall  consume  all  their  days. 


Give  me  the  laugh  and  the  smile  tliat  pro- 
claim 
A  heart  strong-  and  faithful  behind ; 
The  man  and  woman  with  hand  at  command 
Tiie  wounds  of  misfortune  to  bind; 
Who  find  not  their  principal  cause  for  delight 
In  the  troubles  and  griefs  of  their  kind. 


Give  me  the   man,  who  forgiving    though 

wronged. 
With  no  malice  no  man  will  pursue; 
The  fair-minded  foe  who  has  lionor  enough 
To  give  even  tlie  devil  his  duo  — 
Tiic  man  is  high  who  is  true  to  his  trust 
And  the  judge  who  to  just  ice  is  true. 


And  the  man  wlio  is  honest  to  all  in  all  things 
And  strong  to  make  lionor  liis  guide; 
The  woman  who's  loyal  to  virtue  and  love 
And  whose  "  flold  "  is  her  own  fireside  — 
Oh  tliese  are  tlio  people  God  loves,  and  T  love. 
Andtliey  arc  found  tlirough  the  whole  world 
wide! 


*- 


l.OCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POKTS   OK    AMKUICA. 


1097 


MRS.  ANNIE  W.  WEED. 

Born:  Canada,  June  18, 1833. 
At  ih«  age  of  three  Annie's  parents  removed 
to  Syracuse,  N.  Y.,  and  at  twelve  years  of 
ageshe  wrote  the  poem  entitled Ihe  Captive. 
Duriup  the  rebellion  she  spent  a  part  of  her 
time  at  till'  n:iiiiin;il  Ciiiuldl  ill  adiiiiiiisterint; 


MRS.  ANME  W.  NYEED. 


to  the  sick  and  wounded.  This  lady  was  mar- 
ried ill  1874  to  W.  H.  Weed.  As  the  author  of 
the  beautiful  story  entitled  Tsadore,  Mrs. 
VVeed  has  grained  quite  a  reputation  in  the 
literary  world;  and  she  already  has  another 
volume  entitled  The  Pathway  to  tlie  Rifted 
Rock,  which  will  be  published  at  an  early 
date.  As  a  lecturer  Mr?.  A.  W.  Weed  is  al- 
so becoming-  very  popular  in  the  East. 


THE  CAPTIVE. 
Some  think  the  Captive's  heart  is  stone, 
Wliile  otliers  think  that  he  lias  none; 
But  oh  I  how  wretclied  must  they  feel 
Wlio  think  the  Captive's  heart  is  steel. 
How  oft  lias  he  with  broken  heart 
Gone  to  the  man-depradiiipmart. 
Where  he  has  passed  throufrh  unknown  bands 
Far  distant  from  his  native  lands. 
And  oil !  how  wretched  is  that  form 
That  has  been  left  throusili  many  a  storm 
With  not  a  friend,  nor  jiatron  near. 
To  guide  her  through  this  world's  career. 


The  world-worn  C;iptive  lias  a  Friend. 

And  none  His  power  can  deleiid; 

A  Friend  tiiat  death  can  never  move, 

A  Friend  who  reigns  in  worlds  above. 

Then  set  the  toilsome  Captive  free. 

And  spread  the  folds  of  Liberty, 

For  those  who  have  life's  toils  to  brave, 

Should  live,  and  not  be  called  a  slave. 


ood 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

The  hearts  of  thy  frieniis  are  made  sad 

The  jiarting,  to  us,  seems  severe; 
While  that  of  thine  own  is  made  glad 

With  the  songs  of  the  saints;  and 
cheer 
Resounds  thro'  the  portals  of  Glory  — 

'•  Come,  loved  one,  thy  sins  are  forgiven. 
Sweet  welcome  —  repeat  the  glad  story  — 

'Tis  Jenny's  first  Sabbath  in  heaven." 

Methinks  we  e'en  liear  the  grand  cliorus 
Of  harps,  on  the  bright  golden  shore; 

Her  angelic  form  before  us. 
Though  in  flesh  we  shall  see  her  no  more. 

Still  in  visions  of  fancy  we  see  her 
In  that  home,  wliere  so  long  she  has  stri  vei 

An  entrance  to  gain,  liriglit  and  clear  — 

"  'Tis  Jenny's  first  Sabbath  in  heaven." 


SPRING-TIME. 
The  dark,  dismal  clouds  of  November 
Have  passed,  like  a  funeral  pall; 
And  the  cold  chilling  winds  of  December, 
Alike  unlamented  by  all; 
And  we  welcome  once  more  the  sweet  spring- 
time. 
We  rejoice  at  its  wished-for  return. 
And  we  greet  the  warm  soul-cheering  sun- 
shine. 
As  our  hearts  witli  devotioti  still  burn. 
We  soon  shall  again,  o'er  the  hilltops. 
See  dancing  the  silvery  rain ; 
We  soon  shall  behold  the  briglitdewdrops 
Enlivening  sweet  flowers  o'er  the  plain. 
And  the  wild  birds:  sweet  songsters,  we  love 

them. 
As  oft  o'er  the  me.idows  we  roam. 
At  morning,  at  noon,  or  at  even. 
They  sing  in  their  own  leafy  liomo 
Then  welcome!  thrice  welcome  the  spring- 
time. 
Yes,  welcome  March.  April,  and  May, 
For  they  each  bring  their  charms,  like  the 

sunshine, 
Dispelling  dark  clouds  o'crour  way- 
Bring  beautiful  flowers  tocheer  us. 
The  liawthorn.  the  daisy,  and  rose. 
And  tlnis  may  they  ever  endear  us 
Till  in  death  we  sink  into  repose. 


« 


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1098 


LOCAT<   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMERICA. 


RICHARD  DINE. 

Born:  England,  May  23, 1825. 
Emigrating  to  Nebraska  in  1870  with  his 
wife  and  family,  Mr.  Diue  has  resided  there 
ever  since,  witli  the  exception  of  a  year  spent 


RICHARD  DINE 

in  Florida.  He  became  a  member  of  the 
Odd  Fellows  in  18.58,  and  a  Free  Mason  in  1864, 
and  is  still  an  active  member  in  botli  orders. 


^- 


A  PRESENT  OF  A  TEN  DOLLAR  BILL. 

0  Delia  dear,  it  grieves  my  heart 
That  we  should  be  so  long-  apart, 

1  know  that  you  are  fully  mine, 
I  send  you  this  my  Valentine. 

0  Delia,  shall  we  ever  meet. 

And  interchang-e  our  kisses  sweet; 
Yon  know  that  T  am  fully  thine. 
Then  take  from  me  this  Valentine. 
It  is  not  much  I  do  confess. 
But  it  will  promote  your  happiness; 

1  hope  to  meet  you  thoug-h  In  time 
And  bring  another  Valentine. 

MY  OLD  ARM-CHAIR. 
My  Old  Arm-Chair  as  it  stands  in  the  parlor 

I  almost  revere  it,  I  do  declare, 
I  find  it  a  solace,  a  rest,  and  a  ])loasurc. 

That  broad-se.ited,  hazy-backed.  Old  Arm- 
Chair. 
Tiiat  Old  Arm-Chair  I  hide  as  a  treasure. 

As  often  at  night  I  return  from  my  shop 
I  find  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 

As  into  its  soft-cushioned  bottom  I  drop. 


I  love  it  I  do,  I  love  it  I  say. 

To  question  my  love  for  it  none  shall  dare; 
It  was  the  gift  of  the  boys  on  my  natal  day, 

Then  why  should  I  not  love  that  Old  Arm- 
Chair. 
How  oft  I  regret  the  day  that  we  parted. 

Yea,  tears  of  regret.and  sighs  too  will  share 
My  love  and  respect,you  see  they  have  started 

A  tear  of  regret  for  the  Old  A  rm-Chair. 


DEXTER  C.  WASHBURN. 

Born:  Rockport,  Me  ,  Oct.  9, 1861. 
After  graduating  in  1885  from  the  Bates 
college,  Mr.  Washburn  was  a  reporter  for 
two  years  on  several  New  York  daily  papers, 
but  is  now  engaged  in  mercantile  pursuits  in 
Boston,  Mass.  While  at  college  he  was  a 
constant  writer  to  the  Student  and  was  on  its 
editorial  staff.  Mr.  Washburn  is  the  author 
of  a  volume  of  poems  entitled  Songs  of  the 
Seasons,  and  other  verses,  which  is  now  in 
its  second  edition. 


I  WONDER. 
I  wonder  if  she  guesses  it. 

My  little  baby  fine; 
Her  picture  ne'er  expresses  it. 

This  photograph  of  mine. 
She  sits  up  there  and  looks  at  me. 

Upon  the  mantel  high. 
(Meanwhile  clium's  throwing  books  at  me, 

Because  1  don't  reply.) 
She  little  knows  what  vows  I  make 

Before  this  slirine  of  her's, 
And  could  she  see  the  bows  I  make, 

She  call  me  mad,  or  worse. 
I  wonder  if  she  dreams  of  it. 

If  ever,  tlu-ough  her  mind. 
Go  floating  stray,  faint  gleams  of  it. 

Like  straws  tliat  show  the  wind. 
I  sing  my  little  songs  to  her, 

Poor,  witty,  long,  or  terse; 
Each  trifle  that  belongs  to  her 

I  weave  into  my  verse. 
She  takes  them  all  so  prettily, 

I  think  she  must  have  guessed; 
Then  turns  them  off  as  wittily 

As  though  'twere  all  in  jest. 
I  wonder  if  she  heeds  them  all. 

And  if  she  half  divines 
The  meanings,  as  she  reads  them  all, 

I  write  between  the  lines. 
Would  she  accept  — refuse  it  .all 

If  slie  should  guess,  who  knows? 
And  would  I  gain,  or  lose  it  all. 

If  I  should  speak  in  prose? 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    I'OETS   OK    A.MKlilCA. 


1009 


MRS.  MARY  F.  BEETS. 

Born:  Van  Buren  Co.,  Iowa,  Sept.  7, 18.57. 

Mks.  Beets  taught  school  in  Miania  county, 
Kausas,  and  also  in  Jackson  countj',  Missou- 


MRS.   MARY  F.    BEETS. 

ri.  Married  in  1883  to  Tliomas  J.  Beets,  this 
lady  was  left  n  widow  five  years  later.  Her 
poems  liave  .appeared  extensively  in  the 
local  iiress. 


SING  ME  A  SONG   SWEET  BIRDS. 
Ye  happy  birds  that  hop  about 

From  hough  tohoug-h  in  shady  bowers, 
Come,  sing-  to  me  at  set  of  sun, 
And  cheer  my  solitary  hours 
Yc  blissful  birds. 

Tell  me  a  tale  of  southern  seas, 
•  With  sunny  islands  dotted  o'er. 
Of  the  seagrulls'  crj',  and  storm-tossed  ships. 
Of  waves  that  haunt  the  pcbblj-  shore  — 
lu  rhythmic  words. 

Oh !  tell  1110  of  the  land  of  flowers. 
Of  tlie  sunny  southland  far  away; 

Of  brijrhl-hued  binls  in  taiifrled  nooks. 
That  chirp  all  niifht  and  sing  all  day 
Their  happy  songs. 

Of  the  deep,  dark  forest  .sing  to  me. 
Of  the  flowers  that  grow  by  the  river's  side; 

And  sing  me  the  song  tliat  the  rivers  sang 
To  you  as  they  wandered  on  in  their  pride, 
Through  all  daj-  long. 


Oh  I  tell  iiie  of  your  last  year's  nest; 

And  where  you  liuilt  it,  tell  nie  pray; 
And  are  you  birdies  .safe  from  harm? 

Or  were  they  stolen  on  tlii'  way 
By  cruel  hands? 

If  you  would  build  just  out  of  sight 
High  in  the  fern  trees  by  the  wall. 

And  keep  your  birdies  safe  at  liome, 
You  need  not  wander  far,  at  all. 
In  stranger  lands. 

Sing  me  the  song  that  last  j'ou  Sivng 

Down  in  the  forest  by  the  sea; 
Conii'  iicrch  upon  tlie  window  sill 

And  sing  your  sweetest  song  to  me; 
No  one  is  near. 

'Twas  such  a  ])ri>tty  song  you  sang. 

Now  liy  awaj',  you  tiny  things; 
And  if  when  dayliglit  comes  again. 
You  seek  for  me  witli  tireless  wings. 
You'll  lind  me  lierc. 
« — «^^* — • 

HERBERT  BASIIFORD. 

Born:  Sioux  City,  Ia.,  March  4, 1871. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Bash  ford  have  appeared 
in  Outing,  Northwest  Magazine,  New  York 
Critic,  Journalist, Belford's.Overland  Month- 
ly, Texas  Siftings  and  numerous  other  pub- 
lications. He  is  also  the  author  of  .several 
prose  stories  which  have  appt-ared  in  current 
literature.  Mr.  Bashford  is  engaged  in  lit- 
erary work,  and  resides  at  Tacoma,  Wash- 
ington. 

SUNSET. 
Like  some  huge  bird  that  sinks  to  rest 

The  sun  goes  down  a  weary  thing  — 
And  o'er  the  water's  placid  breast 

It  lays  a  scarlet,  outstretched  wing. 


SUNKISE. 
The  sun  climbs  up  with  burning  feet, 
The  sea  is  like  a  tossing  sheet. 
Fire-fringed,  where  shore  and  water  meet. 
While  on  the  crest  of  yonder  lieight. 
Those  tall,  dead  cedars  shine  s<i  bright 
That  each  one  seems  !i  lance  of  light. 


AFTER  THE  SNOWSTORM. 

Each  tall  pine  stands  in  white  amy. 
A  keen  nortli  wind  is  whistling  I  y. 
The  clouds  take  wing  and  sail  away 
Like  huge  gray  birds  across  the  sky. 
And  through  the  pasture,  bleak  and  cold, 
A  stream's  black  windings  1  can  trace, 
While  o'er  yon  mountain,  rugged,  bold. 
The  new  moon  shows  a  frosty  face. 


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1100 


LOCAL,  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  HARRIET  A.  0.  FOSTER. 

Born:  Boston,  Mass.,  March  26, 1823. 
This  kidy  has  written  nearlj'  two  hundred 
poems,  which  have  appeared  in  the  Boston 
Watchman  and  Reflector,  Nashua  Telegraph, 
Amherst  Cabinet,  Milford  Enterprise,  Wil- 
ton Journal,  Manchester  Mirror,  Greenville 


MRS.  HARRIET  A.  O.  FOSTER. 

Advertiser  and  the  periodical  press  generally. 
She  was  married  in  1854  to  Newell  Dean  Fos 
ler,  and  now  resides  at  Wilton,  N.  H.  Mrs. 
Fosleris  a  descendant  of  the  Jewett  family, 
which  had  a  reunion  at  the  old  Jewett  Home- 
stead at  Rowley  in  1855. 


THE  PLYMOUTH  ROCK. 

Can  this  he  a  piece  of  Plymouth  Rock 
Our  pilgrim  fathers  pressed? 

And  did  their  worn  and  tired  feet 
Find  shelter  here  and  rest? 

This  rock  fit  emblem  of  their  faith 

In  God's  own  power  to  save. 
And  cause  their  little  barque  to  find 

A  home  beyond  the  wave. 

Where,  free  from  tyranny  and  strife, 

God's  altar  they  might  rear. 
And  from  their  pure  and  reverent  hearts 

Their  grateful  offerings  pour. 

How  o'er  that  bare  and  rugged  waste. 
In  accents  loud  and  clear. 


Rose  high  their  songs  of  lofty  praise, 
'Mid  the  wild  forest's  cheer! 

God's  own  peculiar  grace  has  shed 
Rich  blessings  on  our  land. 

And  we,  their  children,  now  enjoy 
The  peace  they  dearly  earned. 

Proud  that  our  ancestors  did  bear 
Good  Bradford's  precious  name. 

And  owned  a  near  relationship, — 
May  we  his  virtues  claim. 

O,  sacred  to  my  heart  shall  be 
This  precious  gem  of  stone. 

Since  God  our  sainted  fathers  sent. 
And  marked  us  for  His  own. 

O,  mighty  Lord,  our  land  protect 
Till  the  last  trump  shall  sound! 

Then  may  we  with  Thy  chosen  ones. 
In  glory  all  be  found. 


AUTUMN. 
We  love  thee!  bright,  golden  Autumn, 

Sweet  lessons  in  thee  we  have  found; 
Though  thy  glory  is  fleeting  and  transient 

Thou  must  queen  of  the  seasons  be  crowned 

Mellow  and  soft  is  thy  sunlight; 

Each  leaf  the  rainbow  outvies. 
And  wide  over  liill-top  and  valley 

All  nature  in  beauty  now  lies. 

Spring,  to  all  hearts  has  its  brightness. 
As  it  wakes  from  the  long  winter's  sleep; 

Sweet  notes  of  birds  bring  us  gladness. 
And  June's  fragrant  flowers  we  greet. 

We  love  the  warm  sunshine  of  summer. 
The  fields  in  the  loveliest  green; 

The  flowers  all  nameless  with  beauty. 
Till  the  wealth  of  October  is  seen. 

Thy  charms  wake  the  deepest  emotion, 
Such  only  as  sweet  Autumn  brings; 

Rest,  peace,  and  a  holy  devotion 
To  God,  and  all  heavenly  things. 

All  hail !  then,  thou  queen  of  the  seasons, 
We  welcome  the  lessons  you  bring. 

Sweet  emblem  of  earth's  fleeting  pleasures 
Like  the  flight  of  a  bird  on  the  wing. 

Ere  the  frost  of  life's  coldest  winter 
The  sunsliino  shall  chill  in  our  breast. 

Guide  us  safely,  our  Friend  and  Redeemer, 
Where  the  weary  shall  find  sweetest  rest. 


*- 


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-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   I'OETS   OF   AMKUICA, 


llUl 


FRANK  S.  FINN. 

Born  :  Boston,  Mass.,  Nov.  10, 1838. 
The  subject  of  tliis  sketch  is  a  son  of  an  em- 
inent comedian,  and  Frank  was  educated  for 
the  stage  and  followed  tlio  theatrical  jirofos- 
siou  for  several  ^■ea^s.    Mr.  Finn  Las  trav- 


FRANK  S.  FINN. 

eled  extensively  and  has  attained  a  promi- 
nent position  as  an  elocutionist  and  humorist. 
As  an  author  and  poet,  wliich  profession  he 
now  follows,  he  is  becoming  very  popular. 


OL'R  BURDENS. 
Well  it  isn't  so  much  of  a  story;  and  I'm  a 

poor  teller,  I  know; 
But  1  think  1  am  right  in  believing  there  is 

really  more  weal  than  there's  woe. 
And,  whenever  I  hear  folks  complaining  at 

the  lot  they  are  forced  to  endure. 
The  blessings  they  have  are  forgotten,  the 

banes  only  counted.  I'm  sure. 
And  yet,  I  know  for  full  certain,  as  we  wear- 
ily travel  Life's  road. 
No  burden  was  ever  so  heavy  but  some  bad  a 

heavier  load. 
You  have  read  in  the  old  Eastern  fables,  how 

every  one  brought  to  the  plains 
Their   crosses,  and  trials,   and   hardships  — 

their  sorrows,  their  grriefs,  and  their 

pains. 


In  exchange  for  others  less  weighty— for 
ones  that  were  less  Iwrd  to  bear; 

And  everyone  said  to  himself:  ••  I  have 
brought  the  most  trouble  and  care; 

How  happy  I'll  be  to  exchange  it  for  whatev- 
er I  happen  to  see, 

For  I  know  every  burden  is  lighter  than  the 
one  that  was  given  to  me." 

The  time  for  exchanging  was  over  and  the 

people  had  ptissed  out  of  sight. 
And    all    took    away    some    great  sorrow, 

though,  seemingly,  it  was  more  light 
Than  the  one  they  had  formerly  carried  — 

and  yet,  'twas  the  same  one  you  know  — 
For  each  took  his  own   burden  homeward; 

and  tliis moral  the  fable  will  show: 
When  we  think  our  own  crosses  are  bitter, 

and  with  never  relief  or  a  cure. 
Yet,  compared  with  the    crosses  of  others, 

they  seem  very  light  to  endure. 

To  me  the  world  was  all  silence,  and  life 

looked  so  barren  and  drear; 
For  the  tones  of  the  loved  and  the  loving 

were  sounds  I  never  could  hear. 
And  1  cried  in   my  anguish  of  spirit,  with  a 

heart  overburdened  with  care: 
"Oh,  exchange  this,  dear    Lord,    for   some 

other!    This  atBietion  I  iievercan  bear! 
For  what  other  I  never  will  murmur,  1  never 

will  grieve  or  repine; 
For  I  know  that  no  cross  is  so  heavy,  no  path 

is  so  rugged,  as  mine!" 

And  I  tliought  that  my  ears  had  been  open- 
ed to  voices  so  gentle  and  kind; 

But  the  exchange  I  had  made  was  most  fear- 
ful —  for  God  had  strickt-n  me  bhnd ! 

Ah !  To  wander  along  the  great  highway,  de- 
prived of  the  l)lessing  of  sight 

Was  a  greater  affliction  than  deafness;  but 
how  could  I  pray  for  the  light? 

Yet  I  had  only  been  dreaming;  but  some- 
times I  think  that  it  seems 

That  God  gives  us  warnings  and  lessons  by 
sending  them  to  us  in  dreams. 

Now  don't  you  think  its  far  better  to  bear 

with  the  ills  that  an'  thine. 
Than  to  say.  that  ••  All  others  havosunshinc, 

while  only  the  shadow  is  ndne?" 
..  Godfltteth  the  back  to  the  burden;"  He 

portions  each  lot  with  great  can>; 
He  noteth  the  fall  of  the  sparrow;  He  num- 

bereth  every  hair. 
A  bit  of  advice  let  me  give  you,  and  then  my 

verses  I'll  end; 
You  will  make  your  own  sorrows  less  hea^T 

by  lightening  those  of  your  friend. 


*- 


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1102 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  IDA  L.  COLLIER. 

Born  :  Dubuque,  Iowa,  Dec.  23, 1844. 

In  1861  Mrs.  Collier  graduated  from  the  city 
high  school  of  Dubuque,  Iowa,  and  later  from 
the  Lasell  Seminary  of  Auburndale,  Mass. 
Id  I8G8  she  was  married  to  Robert  H.  Collier, 
a  gentleman  of  fine  literary  taste  and  a  prom- 


MRS.  IDA  LANGSWORTHY  COLLIER. 

inent  business  man.  In  her  youth  Mrs.  Col- 
lier wrote  for  the  press,  and  in  1885  published 
a  volume  in  verse,  entitled  Lilith,  The  Le- 
gend of  the  First  Woman.  She  lias  written 
many  fine  serials,  short  stories,  sketches  and 
fine  poems,  which  have  already  won  for  her 
an  enviable  reputation.  Mrs.  Collier  has  one 
son,  James  C,  born  in  1869,  and  resides  iu 
Dubuque,  Iowa,  where  she  is  very  popular. 


HOME. 

So  greets  the  weary  wanderer  once  more 
Hisearly  home.    The  lintels  worn,  the  door 
Age  stained;  the  iris  clumps,   in  sheltered 

nook; 
The  mill-wheel   rotting  o'er  the    shrunken 

brook; 
The  sunny  orchard,  sloping  west;  and  far 
And  cold,  above  his  mother's  grave,  a  star  — 
Then  quick  unljidden  tears,  the  heart's  warm 

rain, 
O'erflow  his  soul,  and  leave  it  pure  again. 


HIGH,  HIGH,  BOLD  EAGLE,  SOAK! 

High,  high,  bold  Eagle  soar; 
I  watch  thy  flight  above  the  cragged  rock. 

Below  thee  torrents  roar, 
Down-bursting  wild  with  augrj-  shock 

Upon  the  vales,  O  proud  bird  free! 

My  spirit,  mounting,  follows  thee, 

Still  follows  thee,  still  follows  thee. 

Oh  sea.  Oh  sea  so  wide ! 
Far  roll  thy  waves  ere  yet  they  find  thy  shore. 

I  hear  thy  sullen  tide 
Break  'ueath  the  beetling  cliffs  with  muffled 
roar. 

Afar,  afar.  Oh  moaning  sea. 

My  soaring  soul  still  follows  thee. 

Oh  whirlwind  black.  Oh  strong! 
Thy  scorching  breath  fierce  burns  the  crouch- 
ing land. 

And  thou  dost  sweep  along 
The  raveled  clouds.    Oh  whirlwind  see, 

My  spirit  rising,  follows  thee. 

Still  follows  thee,  still  follows  thee. 

Nay,  nay!    My  dauntless  soul, 
Still  higher  than  thy  wing.  Oh  Eagle,  soars, 

And  wider  still  thou  roll 
Thy  waves,  and  farther  than  tliy  shores 

My  spirit  flees.  Oh  sea.  Oh  sea. 

No  more  it  follows,  follows  thee. 

Whirlwind,  more  strong  than  thou 
!My  soul  that  fearlessleaps  to  thine  embrace, 

And  thy  stern  wrinkled  hrow 
Doth  tender  touch  and  soothingly. 

And  vassal  art  thou  still  to  me. 

That  no  more  Mhirlwiud  follows  thee. 


NATURE. 

All  forms  of  life  she  saw;  with  tenderest  care. 

Uplifting  humblest  sprays,  or  blooms  most 
rare. 

Pierced  the  deep  heart  of  Nature's  subtlest 
love, 

Touciied  highest  knowledge,  probed  the  in- 
most core 

Of  hidden  things.  She  traced  each  circUng 
world, 

And  the  wide  sweep  of  billows  lightly  curled. 

Each  page  tlie  Master  writ  she  read,  close- 
furled 

In  l(Jtus  lilooms,  or  'mong  the  storm-clouds 
whirled 

Or  traced,  star-lettered,  on  theflaniingscroU 

Tlie  night  unwinds  toward  the  southern  pole. 


*- 


* 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEIIICA. 


1108 


JAMES  W.  GIBSON. 

BouN:  Detroit,  jMich.,  Oct.  2G,  1845. 
As  ATTORNEY,  editor  iind  publisher,  James 
W.  Gibson    bus    become    very    prominent 
throughout  the  .state  of  Illinois.    Reserved 
in  the  war  ami  was  married  in  18T0  to  Miss 


J^MLSs  ^^.  GIBSON. 

Vindia  C.  IJiooks,  .iiul  lia->  a  family  of  three 
children.  Mr.  Gibson  has  occupied  the  county 
bench  as  judge  for  nine  years;  has  practiced 
law  successfully  for  twenty-three  years;  and 
is  joint  owner  and  publisher  of  the  Newton 
Weekly  Press  of  Newton,  111. 

TX  THE  HOSPITAL. 
"  Again  the  sharp  crack  of  their  lilies! 
Ah,  God,  why  will  they  not  cease? 
How  hotly  the  fever  is  burning-! 
Oh,  for  one  moment  of  peace! 
Hearken,  the  bray  of  the  trumpet. 
The  blast  of  the  bugle-horn ! 
How  wearily  passes  the  night-hours; 
Oh,  for  one  glimpse  of  the  morn !  " 
"Do  I  see  you,  old  friend  of  my  boyhood? 
Is  tliat  you,  my  warm-hearted  Joe? 
I  thought  I  was  dying-  in  battle; 
It  must  be  j'our  voice  though,  I  know. 
No!  'tis  tlie  crash  of  the  volley; 
The  blast  of  the  bugle-horn ! 
How  fearfully  bleak  is  the  darkness! 
Oh,  for  a  glimpse  of  the  morn!  " 
•'Is  it  you  bending  o'er  me,  niy  darling? 
I  dreamed  I  was  wounded  but  now! 
Kiss  me,  caress  me.  my  sweet  one  I 
Push  back  the  hair  from  my  brow! 


0  cursed  be  the  roar  of  the  cannon. 
The  blast  of  the  bugle-horn! 

1  tiiought  that  my  dear  one  was  near  me! 
How  tardily  comes  on  the  mornl  " 

••  'Tis  the  hospital  walls  tliat  enclose  me; 

I  sec;  the  cloud  moves  from  my  brain; 

It  is  not  the  roar  of  tlic  battle  — 

I  never  shall  hear  tliat  again. 

Better  death  in  the  charge  of  the  squadron 

To  blast  of  the  bugle-liorn 

Than  to  die  thus  alone  in  the  darkness 

Ere  night  shall  be  changed  into  niorn!  " 

The  dawn  flushes  red  to  the  eastward; 

The  light  slowly  over  him  creeps; 

But  the  fever  is  cooled  on  his  forehead; 

He  is  still  now;  it  m;iy  be  he  sleeps. 

He  cares  not  for  clashing  of  sabres. 

Nor  blast  of  the  bugle- horn; 

His  soul  glided  into  the  morrow 

Ere  night-time  had  run  into  morn. 


CHARGE  OF  FHENCH  CUIRASSIERS 
AT  WOEUTH. 

K.\TU.\CT. 

By  tens  and  by  twenties  they  grimly  went 

down. 
With  their  face  to  the  foe  and  no  wound  in 

the  back ; 
Plume,  helmet  and  cuirass,  and  sabre  were 

strown. 
With  rider  and  charger  along  their  red  track. 
The  reaper.  Death,  gathered  the  field's  rip- 
ened grain; 
And  Slaughter  was  slaked  -vvilh  the  blood  of 

the  slain: 
But  of  all  the  brave  hearts  that  went  forth 

in  their  i)ride 
None  ever  came  back  from  that  terrible  ride. 
Pierced  by  the  canister,  bullet  and  shell; 
Crushed  by  the  pitiless  wrath  of  the  ball; 
L'ncunquered   and   calmly    they    lay  where 

they  fell  [their  fall. 

And    hallowed    the    ground    that  witnessed 
They  died,  unsubdued  by  an  enemy's  hand. 
An  offering  of  valor  to  freedom  and  land, 
Defymg  in  dying  the  conqueror's  wrath. 
Mocking  his  victory,  triumphing  in  death. 
Brave  martyrs,  wlio  foil  in  tliat  furious  fray. 
The  nations  of  earth   shall  remember  you 

long!  [ihatdiiy 

The  name  that  you  won  by  your  death  on 
Shall  live  in  the  story,  the  legend  and  song. 
The  soldier  shall  worship,  in  revere:ico  and 

pride. 
On  the  spot  where  the  spirit  of  ohiv:ilr.v  died; 
The  patriot  muse  o'er  tlie  place  where  you 

rest; 
And  your  country  enshrine  you  with   Gtxl 

in  her  breast. 


*- 


•if 


*- 


1104 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  A31EKICA, 


*- 


THE  LOCKET. 

The  sun  had  gone  down  on  the  red  field  of 

war. 
Where  Slaughter  had  reveled  and  Carnage 

was  spread; 
The  groans   of    the  dying  were  heard  from 

afar 
Swelling-    out    o'er    the    forms   of   the    un- 

shrouded  dead. 
The    colors    of     sunset     were    gorgeously 

streamed 
In  beauteous  magnificence  over  the  west; 
A   cold   winter    moou    from    an   azure  sky 

gleamed ; 
Old  trees  darklj-  loomed  like  grim  specters 

unblest. 

The  battle-clouds  bung  like  a  pall  o'er  the 

brave, 
In  places   low-drooping  and  shrouding  the 

ground  — 
A  sulphurous  mist  over  glory's  red  grave 
Which  the  valiant  and  fearless  had  suddenly 

found. 
And  night  with  her  star-lamps  came  down 

on  the  scene, 
As  the  vapors  were  urged  by  the  wind  from 

the  spot, 
Where  the  bursting  volcano  of  combat  hud 

been 
And  thousands  had  died  in  the  tempest  of 

shot. 

Composed  on  the  e;irth  ;is  in  natural  rest 
Was  a  young    soldier-form    iu    confederate 

gray; 
But  the  red  blood,  which  oozed  from  a  wound 

on  his  breast. 
Told  whence  his  brave  spirit  had  winged  its 

free  way. 
Tlio'  his  boyisii  blue  eye  retained  none  of  its 

light. 
Yet  around  his  pale  lips  there  still  played  a 

soft  smile; 
And  his  fair  features  wore,  in  the  gloom  of 

the  night, 
The  aspect  of  one  who  but  slumbers  awliile. 

And  there,  brightly  gleaming,  just  over  his 

heart, 
Was  a  locket  containing  tlic  likeness  of  one 
Whom  nothing  but  death  could  successfully 

part 
From  him  whose  true  soul  iu  the  battle  had 

flown.  [eyes 

Her  exquisite  face  was  the  last  which  his 
Had  beheld  ere  his  ardent  and  chivalrous 

soul 
Had   hastened   to   answer,  beyond  the   far 

skies, 
Tlie  rallying  notes  of  the  angel's  long-roll. 


The  gleam  on  his  breast  caught  a  young  sol- 
dier's eye 
Who  was  carelessly  wandering  over  the  field ; 
A  moment  he  paused  In  liis  course  — then 
drew  nigh  [stilled. 

And  bent  o'er  the  form  which  forever  was 
He  gazed  on  the  picture,  and  over  his  brow 
A  look  of  deep  sympathy  feelingly  crept, 
As  the  smile  of  the  sunbeam  will  tranquilly ' 
glow  [wrathfully  swept. ' 

On   the    place   where   the   storm-cloud  hasj 

It  may  be  the  thought  of  another  as  fair        j 
Had  moved  him  to  pity  the  fallen  one  now, 
As  he  smoothed  back  the  curls  of  the  tanglec 

brown  hair  [ful  brow 

And  wiped  the  death-damps  from  the  beauli 
But  the  brave  and  the  dead,  Ij-inghclplesi 

and  cold,  [less  appea 

Reached  his  bosom  with  strong  and  resist 
To  save  to  its  owner  the  trinket  of  gold; 
And  he  answered  with  heart  that  could  knov 

and  could  feel: 

"  Young  hero,  sleep  on  in  thy  glorious  bed; 
And  with  thee  shall  rest  this  dear  token  o 

love  [thou  art  we' 

Close,  close  on  thy  heart!  Though  to  Deat 
Thou  shalt  meet  thy  loved  idol  in  region 

above;  [shall  breal' 

And,  when  the  last  trumpet  thy  slumbei 
When  the  last  order's  given  to  fall  into  line 
In  the  light  of  lier  eyes  shalt  thou  fondi 

awake 
Possessing  this  token  of  love  half  divine. 

"  She  dreams  not  the  hand  of  a  stranger  ■ 

laid. 
Alone  in  the  moonlight,  upon  thj-  cold  brov 
Nor  thinks  that  the  locks  where  her  flnge 

Lave  strayed 
Are  kissed  by  the  breeze  of  the  battle-fle 

now.  [thy  grav 

Tho',  long  after  verdure  springs  green  o'' 
She  waits  for  thy  voice  and  thy  step  so  wi 

known ;  [bra' 

Yet  calmly  thou'lt  sleep  the  last  sleep  of  tl 
Till   time    to    eternity's    arms    shall    hu' 

flown. 

i.  Wlien,  shrilly,  the  notes  of  the  last  reveil 
Which  nations  may  hear,  by  the  argel  a 

pealed.  [fr< 

Thou'lt  meet  her  again  as,  unsullied  a 
Thou  wingest  thy  heavenward   flight  fr< 

this  field." 
Then,  placing  the  locket  with  tcnderestci 
Out  of  sight  on  the  jiassionless  breast  of  1 

dead,  [a  praj 

The  young  soldier  breathed  o'er  his  foeni 
For  the  peace  of  the  soul  that  too  early  1 

fled. 


LOCAT,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA, 


1105 


MRS.  CARRIE  \V.  HOSTER. 

This  latly  has  contributed  extensively  to  the 
periodiciil  press,  and   intends  to  devote  lier 


/  '^V-sfc.  ^^  ^^•v 

tM 

P^^- 

■  i^  ^ 

^^ 

Nfe,  ■           ^^^ 

■^1 

i 

MRS.  CARRIE  W.  HOSTER. 

time  in  future  more  to  literature.  She  resides 
in  Uluffton,  lud.,  wiiere  she  is  very  popular. 


PARTED. 

Must  this  aching-  heart  always  hunger- 
Ever  silently  bear  its  pain  — 
Wliile  weary  days  —  e'en  long-  years  roll  on. 

Must  it  echo  the  sweet  refrain, 
Of  the  love-song  you  sang  to  nie  years  agone, 

Over  and  over  again? 
You  sang  it  in  strength  of  your  manhood. 

Of  your  life  it  seemed  then  a  part; 
A  minstrel  you  were  — oh  I  .so  kindly, 

1  had  only  a  woman's  heart—  L'"?. 

So  famished  and  yearning,  trustful  and  lov- 

Ah  me!  the  hot  teardrops  start. 
Since  then  you  have  won  worthy  laurels. 

Have  reached  tlie  proud  summit  of  fame; 
The  world  has  proclaimed  you  a  hero, 

Its  heralds  have  blazoned  your  name; 
But  as  husks,  all  lias  been   to  your  starving 
Over  and  over  again.  [heart. 

Halls  lordly  now  echo  your  footsteps  — 

But  when  d:iy  with  its  work  is  done. 
Sad  and  alone  to  your  loveless  home 

Oft  you  walk,  while  the  setting  sun      \\'\to. 
Casts  never  its  sheen  'round  more  desolate 

Although  the  proud  goal  you've  won. 
Vou  have  learned  that  pride,  and  wealth,  and 
fame. 


Are  but  tritles  when  weiglied  with  love; 
All  you'd  gladly  give  could  but  tender  eyes. 

Deep  and  blue  ius  the  skies  above, 
Once  again  hjok  in  yours  as  in  days  ••lang 
You  sadly  life's  problem  prove,     [syne." 
Though  years  may  come  and  long  years  may 

Still  will  linger  the  old-l  ime  pain ;  [go. 

And  memory  e'en  likeu  wind-swept  harp 

Will  oft  echo  the  sweet  refrain, 
Of  the  luve-song  you  sang  to  me  years  agone. 

Over  and  over  agaiu. 
In  the  strife  of  life  and  race  for  gold 

When  threading  the  city's  mart. 
You'll  a  face  and  measureless  love  recall 

That  was  once  of  your  life  a  part; 
And  the  world,  you  will  own,  naught  so  price- 
As  a  woman's  loving  heart,      [less  holds 

MOTHER'S  LAP. 
Tlie  fair,  golden  curls  are  tangled,  and  tear- 

dinmied  the  blue  eyes'  brightness  — 
Tlie  pinafore  white  is  crumi)led,  and  crusheil 

is  the  bonny  straw  hat  — 
Of  my  little  winsome   neighbor  whose  foot- 
steps of  airy  lightness. 
Now  huri-iedly  bear  her  to  bury  all  grief  In 

her  Mother's  lap. 
Soon   with  sunny  hair  of  her  darling  the 

Mother's  dark  locks  mingle. 
And   the  comforting   words   she    whispers 

quickly  soothe  llie  wee  one's  pain  — 
While  the  laughter  that  follows  weeping,  is 

merry  as  sleighbells'  Jingle, 
And  the  smile  that  chases  the  dimples,  bright 

as  sunlight  after  rain. 
How  the  dusky  years  glide  haclrward,  like  a 

silent  ])hantom  army  — 
Till  they  pause  at  a  cottage  threshold  where 

in  years  "lang  syne"  oft  sat 
A  patient  and  sweet-faced  woman,  whether 

days  were  bright  or  stormy. 
Ah!  ne'er  did  we  fail  to  find  solace  in  that 

loving  Mother's  lap. 
Only  a  glimpse  of  n  c.nro-free  past,  and  the 

years   resume  their  marching  — 
Their  movements    reverse<l    yet    noiseless, 

again  I'm  a  child  of  to-day  — 
From  winsome  AUci'  I   linik  away  to  the  sky 

above  me  arching, 
I  dream  of  my  Mother  and  wish  that  I   my 

head  in  her  lap  might  lay; 

And  there  forget  all  the  care-fniught  years, 

know  the  tender  touch  and  loving. 
Of  Mother's  hand  as  in  childhood  days,  when 

in  cottage  door  she  sat  — 
I've  found   no  Lethean  waters,  never  balm 

with  p<iwt'r  of  s(M)thing, 
Like  Mother'.*  hand  and  low-whispered  words 

when  my  head  lay  In  her  lap. 


*■ 


-* 


>^- 


1106 


LOCAL  AND   ISTATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


\V.  H.  VEXABLE,  A.M.,  LL.D. 

BoRx:  Warren  Co.,  O.,  April  29, 1836. 
This  gentleman  is  well  versed  in  Latin, 
Greek  and  German,  and  in  science,  history 
and  literature.  He  is  a  lecturer  of  great 
ability,  and  a  member  of  numerous  societies 
for  the  advancement  of  knowledge  and  civi- 
lization.   Among  Dr.  Vcnable's  first publica- 


WILLIAM  HENRY  V£NABL,E,  A.M.,  LL.D. 

tions  was  a  line  of  books  for  use  in  schools; 
and  his  first  volume  of  poems,  June  on  the 
Miami,  appeared  in  1871;  and  later  appeared 
Melodies  of  the  Heart,  and  Songs  of  School 
Days,  and  he  is  the  author  of  Beginnings  of 
Literary  Culture  in  the  Ohio  Valley.  The  la- 
bors of  this  educater.poet  and  humorist  have 
gained  for  him  a  delightf nl  home  on  a  roman- 
tic hill  at  Tuscnlum,  a  suburb  of  Cincinnati, 
where  dwells  his  charming  family  of  a  wife 
and  a  half-dozen  admirable  children. 


THE  CATBIRD. 
Nightingale  T  never  heard, 
Nor  the  skylark,  poet's  bird; 
But  there  is  an  iT>ther-winger 
So  surpasses  every  singer 
(Thoughuiiknownto  lyric  fame,) 
Tliat  at  morning,  or  at  nooning, 
Wlieii  I  hear  his  pipe  a-tuning, 
Down  I  Hing  Keats,  Shelley,  Wordsworth. 
Sliakcspeare,  too,—  for  what  are  bards  worth, 
Wlien  my  mimus  caroiitiensis 


(That's  his  Latin  namej  — 
When  my  catbird  wild  commences 
Song's  hilarious  rhapsody, 
Just  to  please  himself  and  me! 
Prime  cantante! 
Scherzo!  Andante! 
Piano,  pianissimo! 

Presto,  prestissimo!  [nine? 

Hark!  are  there  nine    birds  or  ninety  and 
And  now  a  miraculous  gurgling  gushes, 
Like  nectar  from  Hebe's  Olj-mpian  bottle, 
The  laughter  of  tune  from  a  rapturous  throt- 
tle! 
Such  melody  must  be  a  hermit-thrush's! 
But  that  other  caroler,  nearer. 
Outrivaling  rivalry  with  clearer 
Sweetness  incredibly  fine! 
Is  it  oriole,  red-bird,  or  blue-bird, 
Or  some  strange,  un-Auduboned  new  bird? 
All  one,  sir,  both  this  bird  and  that  bird, 
The  whole  flight  are  all  the  same  catbird! 
The  whole  visible  and  invisible  choir  you  see 
On  that  little  twig  of  yon  green  tree. 
Flitting,  feathery  Blondell 
Listen  to  his  rondel ! 
To  his  lay  romantical. 
To  his  sacred  canticle. 
Hear  him  lilting! 
See  him  tilting 

His  saucy  head  and  tail,  and  fluttering 
While  uttering 

All  the  diflieult  operas  under  the  sun 
Just  for  fun ; 
Or  in  tipsy  revelry. 
Or  love  devilry, 

Or  disdaining  his  divine  gift  and  art. 
Like  an  inimitable  poet 
Who  captivates  the  world's  heart. 
And  don't  know  it. 
Hear  him  lilt! 
See  him  tilt! 
Tlien  suddenly  he  stops, 
Peers  about,  flirts,  hops. 
As  if  looking  whore  lie  might  gather  up 
The  wasted  ecstasy  just  spilt 
From  the  quivering  cup 
Of  his  bliss  overrun. 
Tlicn,  as  in  mockery  of  all 
The  tuneful  spells  that  e'er  did  fall 
From  vocal  pipe,  or  ever  more  shall  rise. 
He  snarls,  and  mews,  and  flies. 


EXTRACT. 
The  new  moons  come  and  go. 

Stars  rise  and  set. 
Time's  healing  waters  flow 

Across  my  wound,  ;iiid  yet 
Grief  cannot  pay  love's  debt,- 

Love's  solace  is  to  mourn. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKItlCA. 


1107 


-* 


CIIARLESWILLI AM  WILCOX 

noi«x:  Floyd,  N.Y.,  ApniLi"),  is.".). 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  is  a  gnutuute  of 
tlie  Yates  Academy  and   Wilson  CollcB-iato 
Institute,  and  is  now  entrajicd  in  farming  anri 
fruit   culture  at   Somerset,  N.  Y,     He    has 


CHARLES  WILLIAM  WILCOX. 

written  over  flftycommendaljle  poems,  many 
of  whieli  have  appeared  in  tlie  periodical 
press.  Mr.  Wilcox  was  supervisorof  liistown 
for  two  terms,  and  commissioner  to  Auburn 
Theolofrical  Seminary  for  six  years.  In  1864 
he  was  married  to  Miss  Mary  P.  Wilcox,  by 
whom  he  has  two  children. 


SHADOWS. 
Oh!  the  shadows  darkly  creepiiiR 

O'er  the  hearth,  and  o'er  the  wall : 
O'er  the  i)easant,  calmly  sleeping  — 

O'er  the  king-,  in  courtly  liall. 
O'er  the  future's  brifrhtest  dreaming  — 

O'er  the  scenes  alrt^ady  past; 
Wliere  the  polden  liplit  is  beaming-. 

Shadows  thick  are  creeping:  fast. 
Where  the  sun  is  jraily  peepingr  — 

Spreading  glory  over  all; 
Wlicrethe  moon  her  watch  is  keeping. 

Gloom  shadows  soon  will  fail. 
In  the  home  wh(>re  joy  and  gladness. 

Once  like  rays  of  sunlight  played. 
Features  wan  and  tears  of  s.-idncss 

Mark  the  surely  gath'ring  sliaili'. 
I  saw  a  youth  in  manhiv>d's  morning 

Giving  signs  of  promise  fair; 


Who,  neglecting  wis<lom's  warning. 

Sank  in  shades  of  dark  desp.'iir. 
On  his  l)row  where  once  was  beaming. 

Genius'  light  undimined  by  cure; 
Now  a  fitful,  fiery  gleaming. 

Marks  the  tempter's  signet  there. 
I  saw  a  widow  jtale  and  lonely, 

Stand  beside  an  open  gravt;  — 
Her  hopes  had  Ue<l;  her  last,  lieronly 

Affection  vainly  strove  to  save  — 
.Alone  slie  stood  so  worn  and  weary. 

Naught  could  hope  or  joy  imparl ; 
For  cold  the  shadows  dark  auddreary 

Settling  o'er  a  broken  heart. 
Oh!  ye  shadows  must  ye  ever. 

O'er  our  patliway  throw  your  gloom; 
Sliall  the  hopes  of  mortals  never 

Realize  a  fadeless  bUxmi. 
Shall  all  the  bliss  that  life  has  taught. 

All  the  glory  time  has  brought. 
All  the  pomp  of  kingly  state. 

Fade,  aud  perish  —  soon  or  late? 

TO  W.  P.  >r. 

I  think  of  tliee 

When  morning's  ray 
Bids  night's  dark  shadows  Uee  awaj-; 
When  dewdroi)s  gem  the  blushing  day— 

I  think  of  thee! 

I  look  for  thee 

When  in  the  hall. 
Where  friendly  footsteps  frequent  fall; 
Where  mirth  and  jtleasure  brighten  all  — 

I  look  for  thee! 

I  wait  fortheo 

At  close  of  day; 
As  o'er  the  fields  of  new-mown  hay 
I  wander  forth  to  pensive  stray, 

I  wait  for  thee! 

I  watch  for  tliee 

At  setting  sun; 
When  daily  duties  ,ill  are  done; 
And  stars  come  peeping  one  by  one  — 

I  watch  for  thee! 

I  wake  for  thee  — 

At  noon  of  night; 
As  calmly  from  her  he:ivetdy  lielght 
Th»»  moon  is  pnuring  liquid  light  — 

I  wake  for  thee. 

I  dream  of  theo 

When  lovely  things 
Seem  borne  to  me  on  angels'  wings; 
As  hope,  the  smiling  future  brings  — 

I  dream  of  thei'I 

I  think  of  thee! 

Ah  yes!  'tis  true  — 
Anil  when  the  joys  of  life  are  few. 
And  pleasures  vanish  from  my  view, 

I'll  think  of  thee! 


«<- 


1108 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


WILLIAM  ODEL  DIXON. 

Born:  Greene  Co.,  N.  C,  Sept.  15, 1868. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Dixon  have  appeared  in 
tlae    Hooiiertoii    Clipper,  Nortli  Carolinian, 


WITLIVM  ODIT    DIXON 

and  the  soutoeru  press  generally.  Since 
receiving  his  education  Mr.  Dixon  has  been 
engaged  in  mercantile  pursuits. 


*- 


DREAM. 

Tlie  brilliant  sun  liung  o'er  me. 

The  grass  beneath  me  grovs. 
As  I  plowed  on  wearily 

One  summer  long  ago. 
From  the  dusty  rows  there  opened 

A  smoke  that  was  in  my  way, 
And  then  I  plowed  pleasantly. 

As  children  when  at  play. 
Out  in  the  grove  was  I  renting. 

Under  the  shade  of  the  trees. 
Where  the  children  and  travelers  stop. 

Facing-  a  gloiious  breeze. 
In  the  shade  I  sat  sleeping. 

My  dog,  lie  by  me  lay. 
When  happiness  seemed  to  join  me 

And  carry  all  cares  awaj'. 
All  before  was  woodland. 

No  way  I  could  not  load. 
But  by  ihc  grassy  orchard  ground. 

Or  by  the  open  mead. 
At  last  I  reached  a  cottage, 

Walked  straight  into  the  hall. 


And  then  my  dream  was  ended 
As  I  bumped  my  head  on  the 


all. 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH. 

The  Nortli  and  South  is  divided  by  the  Mason 
and  Dixon  line. 

And  never  before  could  such  a  lovely  coun- 
try exist  so  long  a  time, 

And  in  its  borders  I  shall  always  take  my 
rest. 

And  of  the  two  I  will  always  take  the  South 
for  I  think  it  the  best. 

I  am  longing-  for  the  day  when  there'll  be 
harmony  and  peace. 

And  all  ill  feelings  between  the  two  shall 
forever  cease. 

But  politicians  keep  hammering  and  blow- 
ing around. 

And  holds  the  South  when  she  kicks  very 
fast  to  the  ground. 

Sunny  South  rise  up  and  have  courage  to- 
day. 

And  let  all  prejudice  between  you  two  go 
astray, 

For  then  I  shall  in  some  future  time 

Learn  to  love  the  great  North  as  this  South 
of  mine. 

Politicians,  of  both  North  and  South, 

Do  let  us  all  live  peaceably  in  the  same 
House, 

If  not,  some  future  day  an  enemy  might 
strike. 

And  if  we  are  not  united  it  might  be  woe 
unto  our  backs. 

Oh!  great  North  succumb  and  give  way, 

And  let  the  sunny  South  enjoy  her  luxuries 
of  to-day. 

Then  peace  and  prosperity  will  fill  our  land. 

And  then  tlie  North  and  the  South  can  meet 
hand  in  hand. 


MY  GTRL  IN  TOWN. 
Some  are  weary,  some  are  gaj'. 

Some  are  young  and  will  go  astray; 
But  none  on  earth  can  take  me  away. 

For  such  a  lieart  my  love  shall  always  play. 
Some  are  noble,  some  are  great 

Some  are  as  white  as  a  snowHake* 
But  none  on  earth  can  act  lier  part. 

For  in  every  way  she  has  gained  my  lieart. 
Some  are  pretty,  some  are  swi.'et, 

Some  dress  so  nice  and  look  very  neat; 
But  no  where  on  earth  can  be  traced. 

To  find  such  a  one  to  fill  Iter  place. 
Some  are  nauglity,  some  are  plain. 

Some  are  loveo'  and  arc  vain; 
But  none  on  earth  gan  be  found 

For  me  to  love  as  tlic  girl  m  town. 


®- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMKUICA. 


11()9 


-* 


MRS.  ANNA  M.REED. 

Born:  Dubuque,  Iowa. 
While  compnrativelj^  a  child  tlic  subject  of 
this  sketch  contributed  to  the  Golden  Era, 
San  Francisco  Exauiincr,and  the  Sacrament  o 
Rescue.  In  lier  literary  career  this  lady  has 
always  been  financially  and  otherwise  suc- 
cessful, and  in  less  than  three  years,  bj'  her 
writings  and  lectures,  earned  six  thousand 


*- 


sms.  ANNA  M.  HEED. 

dollars.  In  1872  she  was  married  to  John  S. 
Iteed,  and  the  following  year  they  settled  in 
Ukiah,  Cal.  llecently  their  beautiful  homo 
at  that  i)lace  was  swept  away  l)y  fire,  and 
she  now  resides  with  her  husband  and  the 
children  at  Laytonville,  Cal.  In  18^0  Mrs. 
Keed  publislied  a  small  volume  of  poems, 
which  was  given  marked  praise.  Another 
volume  of  poems  will  soon  appear  from  her 
pen.  Mrs.  Reed's  prose  writings  have  been 
pronounced  equal,  if  not  superior,  U)  her 
poetical  essays. 

MY  LIFE  IS  DEVOTED  TO  MEMORIES 
OF  YOU. 
I  sailed  beneath  a  burning  sun, 
Ry  coral  reefs  and  isles  of  balm. 
Where  orange  groves  and  silverj'  palm 
By  faint  spice  winds  were  gentlj'  fanned, 
Until  I  readied  a  tropic  land. 
And  with  three  thousand  miles  between 
The  shores  whereon  two  oceans  fret, 
I  bravely  said,  "I  will  forget." 
And  there  beneath  the  Southern  Cross, 
I  crept  out  in  the  breathless  night. 


My  heart  was  breaking,  and  the  stars 
Shone  dimly  on  my  fevered  siglit  — 
Ah,  vain  Iscliange  of  time  or  place, 
In  heaven  itself  I  see  —  thy  face. 


BROWNING. 
He  died  In  Venice  —  citadel  of  songs. 
To  which  for  ages  all  romance  belongs. 
At  whose  proud  slirine  the  poet  and  the  sage 
Have  left  the  offi'ringof  every  age. 
He  died  in  Venice—  but  with  dreaming  eyes. 
By  tlie  Ri.-iltu,  and  the  Bridge  of  Sighs, 
And  in  and  out  a  hundred  water- ways. 
For  years  lie  glided  through  the  perfect  days. 
He   died    in   Venice  —  but    through    all  ho 

dreamed 
The  golden  sunshine  of  Italia  streamed. 
Where   centered    all   those   memories  that 

endure 
Around  the  home  of  Tasso  and  the  Moor. 
He  died  in  Venice  — but  his  work  was  done 
Long  years  before  his  sands  of  life  were  run; 
So  ideal  days  he  lived  that  did  beseem 
Tlie  closing  visions  of  a  poefs  dream. 
He  died  in  Venice,  where  the  lapping  sea 
Kept  time  to  that  diviner  minstrelsy 
With  which   his  gifted    soul  through  time 

Wiis  fraught. 
To  live  eternal  in  the  world  of  thought. 
But  the  worn  garment  that  is  left  behind 
Tliey  bear  away  to  rest  among  its  kind 
In    that   far  land    where,  in   the  Abbey's 

pliade. 
Beside  congenial  dust  it  will  be  laid. 
A  poet's  love  —  a  poet's  life  —  and  death. 
Blest  from  his  earliest  to  his  latest  breath. 
But  of  all  things  that  could  his  age  befall. 
To  die  in  Venice  seems  the  best  of  all. 


WASTED. 
Not  Time,  that  sacred  heritage  to  all. 
For  in  the  cycles  that  have  piissed  away 
1  cannot  count  me  one  lost,  idle  day. 
Nor  opportunity;  to  fate's  most  meager  gift 
I  have  been  eager  heart  and  hand  to  lift. 
What  waste  could  then  my  faithful  life  be- 
fall? 
A  cheek  whose  roses  bloomed  for  eyes  so 

blind 
They  did  not  see  they  were  the  rarest  kind; 
Words  that  the  world  had  listenetl  for  for 

j-ears. 
Falling  unanswered  on  the  dullest  ears; 
A  heart  worn  out  —  as  fond  as  ever  beat. 
Its  wine  of  life  spilled  at  unworthy  feet; 
A  soul  so  tortureil,  as  years  c<inie  and  go. 
Its  wasted  treasure,  Go<l  alone  can  know. 


<¥ 


^- 


1110 


LOCAl-   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   A31KKICA. 


*- 


MOTHER. 
In  the  brush  fence  by  the  lane 

I  hear  the  storm  birds  crying-, 
And  I  Jinow  the  winter  rain 

Soon  will  beat  where  thou  art  lying; 
For  the  wind  and  raiu  are  near 

When  the  storm  birds  are  a-crying-. 

A  brave,  bright,  winter  rose 
Taps  the  window  where  I'm  sitting. 

Its  head  with  beauty  glows. 
While  the  autumn  hours  are  flitting. 

It  taps  the  silent  pane 
Of  the  window  where  I'm  sitting. 

The  south  wind  iisses  light 

Its  petals  curved  and  folded, 
Like  a  picture  warm  and  bright, 

Close  iu  the  heart  unfolded  — 
Like  a  dream  of  love  and  youth 

In  the  heart  of  age  enfolded. 

And  it  speaks  to  me  of  thee. 

While  the  storm  birds  are  a-crying. 
Though  thy  face  I  cannot  see. 

Thy  memory  is  Ijing 
In  the  winter  of  my  heart. 

Best,  brightest  and  undying. 
I  dream  of  thee  so  dear. 

Before  the  wood-flre  glowing; 
I  hear  the  herd  bells  clear. 

And  the  cattle  softly  lowing; 
The  sounds  foretell  the  rain. 

While  the  flre  is  brightly  glowing. 

In  thought  T  pass  the  lane, 
Where  storm  birds  are  a-crying, 

As  to  some  sacred  fane. 
To  the  grave  where  thou  art  lying. 

Through  fragrant  pine-wood  aisles, 
Where  the  sunset  glow  Is  dying. 

Where  one  cannot  hear  the  noise 

Of  a  footfall  on  the  mosses. 
Where  the  pine  leaves  lightly  poise. 

Like  a  pile  of  russet  flosses. 
Where  the  rabbit  and  the  squirrel 

With  silent  footstep  crosses. 
Where  the  brake  with  quivering  frougs 

Beside  the  grave-stone  whispers 
The  earliest  matin  songs 

And  at  eve  the  saddest  vespers 
That  the  night  wind  softly  taught 

The  leaves  to  chant  in  whispers. 
There  so  quietly  you  sleep, 

While  the  restless  winds  are  sighing, 
In  the  grave  so  dark  and  deep. 

Nor  heed  the  storm  birds  crying. 
Nor  the  tears  that  fall  like  rain. 

And  my  heart  within  me  dying. 
The  rose  taps  on  the  pane. 

And  the  storm  birds  are  a-crying. 


And  I  soon  will  hear  the  rain 

Beat  through  the  wind's  low  sighing, 
While  rose  leaves  flutter  down 

On  the  grave  where  thou  art  lying. 


SUNSET. 
The  evening's   genius    with   his    sword   of 

flame 
Guards  well  the  portal  of  the  dying  day. 
His  lance  of  light  he  strikes    against   the 

hills. 
Upon  the  highest  breaks  its  glancing  ray; 
He  marshals  grandly  on  a  crimson  sea 
His  cloudship  navy's  golden  argosy, 
Whose  flaunting  banner  in  the  sunset  glow 
Bids  brave  defiance  to  the  dark'ning  foe; 
Who,  swift  advancing,  o'er  him  softly  flings 
The  purple  shadow  of  the  twilight's  wings. 
Till  war's  red  flush  before  the  night  wind's 

breath 
Fades  out  into  the  sullen  gray  of  death. 
And  star-eyed  night,  prevailing  all  too  soon, 
Hangs  out  the  silver  sickle  of  the  moon. 


RETROSPECT. 
There  is  a  'witching  mem'ry  my  heart  so  oft 

recalls  — 
A  silver  cornet  ringing   above  the  palace 

walls. 
Where  from  a  drai>eried  window  a  bright 

young  face  looked  down 
Upon  my  lady's  garden  that  graced  Yokaya's 

town. 
Where  passion  flower  and  jasmine  diffused 

a  fragrant  balm; 
Where  shone  the  brilliant  salvia  and  whis- 
pered pine  and  palm; 
The  willow  o'er  the  fountain,  with  fingers 

long  and  slim. 
Reached  to  the  sparkling  water  that  kissed 

the  fretted  brim. 
And  many  a  woodland  songster,  awearied 

with  the  heat. 
Bathed  in  the  cooling  crystal  and  sang  his 

matin  sweet. 
O  days,  whose  dawn's  pink  splendor  waxed 

to  a  golden  noon; 
O  perfume,  sons   and  blossom,  in  life's  Im- 
passioned rune; 
O  south  wind,  blowing  gently  the  petals  at 

my  feet; 
O  twilight,  stealing  over;  O  kisses,  rare  and 

sweet; 
O  little  maiden  singing  beside  the  stately 

hall; 
O  silver  cornet,   ringing  above  the  palace 

wall. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAr,    POETS   OF   AMKKICA. 


nil 


mis.  ALICE  K.  COOLEY. 

Born:  England,  Dec.  31, 1840. 
For  severiil  years  this  Indy  was  an  actress  in 
sucli  plays  as  Fanclioii,  Juliette  and  others, 
and  starred  over  the  United  States  and  Can- 
ada.   She  was  married  in  1869  to  Col.  F.  M. 


MRS.  ALICE  KINGSBURY  COOLEY. 

Cooley,  and  now  resides  with  her  husband 
and  children  in  San  Francisco,  Cal.  Alice 
Kingsbury  Coolej' has  written  and  published 
a  child's  book  entitled  Ho  for  Elflatid;  a 
work  for  grown  persons  entitled  Secrets  Told, 
and  Asaph,  an  historical  novel  of  ancient 
Jerusalem. 


LITTLE  WITCH. 
False  and  fickle,  false  and  fair, 
With  tliy  mystic  eyes  and  hair; 
A  spell  around  ^ny  heart  has  tlirown. 
To  otliers  'tis  no  heart,  but  stone, 
'Tis  bound  so  firmly  to  thine  own. 

Thou  sorceress. 
Raise  thy  spell,  or  love  but  me. 
From  inconstant,  constant  bo. 
Then  we'll  dwell  in  fairy  land. 
Tread  the  diamond  sparkling  sand. 
By  love's  own  wings  our  cheeks  be  fanned. 

Goddess  divine. 


*- 


REQUIESCAT  IN  PACE. 
Soft  let  him  rest,  tho'  born  a  king  to  be. 
Now  dead,  veil  his  faults  witli  sweet  charity; 
For  he  was  only  human,  like  the  rest    Ll>f=''- 
Of  eartli's  poor  children,  neither  worst  nor 


THE  ROOSTER  BOLD. 

One  day  into  a  parl(jr  strolled 

A  rooster  from  the  barnyard  fold. 

He  strutted  here,  lie  strutted  there; 

Examined  sofa,  table,  chair. 

At  length  he  in  tiie  corner  spied 

A  great  tall  tiling,  all  dark  and  wide. 

What  it  could  be  he  could  not  tell. 

The  glass  reflected  liim  so  well, 

He  thought  a  rooster  sure  was  there, 

And  for  a  fight  he  did  prepare. 

He  plumed  his  feathers,  stretched  his  neck. 

And  at  the  gla.ss  began  to  peck. 

He  saw  the  otiier  do  the  same  — 

"  Ha!  ha!  "  he  thought,  "is  that  your  game? 

I'll  fool  you  bj'  a  counter-charge." 

He  crept  behind  the  bookcase  large  — 

"The  other  rooster  gone  away? 

In  barnyard  sports  that's  not  fair  play." 

Again  he  crept  around  in  front 

And  at  the  glass  he  quickly  jumped  — 

The  other  rooster  jumped  as  well  — 

He  bumped  the  glass  and  almost  fell. 

He  shook  himself,  his  wings  he  flai)ped. 

Again  tlie  battle-ground  he  mapped. 

So  cautiously  he  stepped  around 

And  at  the  glass  again  did  bound; 

Astonishment  he  plainly  showed. 

His  pinions  flapped,  and  loudly  crowed. 

The  other  rooster  mocked  him  still  — 

His  rival  gladly  he  would  kill  1 

So,  stealing  round,  he  vainly  tried 

To  see  where  chanticleer  did  hide; 

For  every  time  he  left  the  glass 

His  rival  left,  but  did  not  pass 

Where  he  could  flght  it  out  with  him. 

And  sink  his  spurs,  so  long  and  thin, 

Deep  in  liis  brain  and  kill  him  there 

For  mocking  him  lie  dared  to  dare. 

So  at  the  glass  he  dashed  and  fought. 

But  all  his  fighting  came  to  naught. 

Perplexed  and  stupefied,  he  glared 

At  his  refiectiou  there,  and  stared  — 

The  other  bii"d  stood  still  as  well. 

■•  What  do  you  rcean,  you  boasting  swell?" 

Again  he  made  the  weary  round. 

So  cautiously,  without  a  sound. 

Full  fifty  times  ai-ound  he  went. 

And  even  then  was  not  content  — 

The  bird  would  always  disappear. 

Yet  in  the  glass  he  found  him  there. 

His  patience,  strength  and  even  pluck 

At  last  gave  way  to  such  ill  luck. 

With  deep  dignst,  a  hiok  he  c.nst 

At  his  reflection  as  he  pas.sed; 

A  look  of  liate,  and  scorn,  and  pride, 

As  out  of  dot)rs  he  quickly  hietl. 

All  tired  and  wearj-  with  chagrin. 

Will)  that  bad  fight,  that  had  not  ken. 


*- 


1112 


LOCATj   AMD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A3IERICA. 


MRS.  ELLEN   W.  STEWART. 

Born:  Keating,  Pa.,  May  27, 1851. 
This  lady  has  written  extensively  under  a 
nom  de  plume,  and  over  three  hundred  ot  her 
poems  have  appeared  in  the  Ladies'  World, 
Christian  Evang-elist.  Christian  Oracle.  Jour- 


W^'^^'ii>'' 


^rj-  ^- 

MHb.  KLLLN  W.  SIEWAUT 

nal  of  Agriculture  and  the  periodical  press 
generally.  Mrs.  Stewart  resides  on  a  farm 
at  Aitona,  Colo.,  with  her  husband  and  son. 

QUATRAIN  MUSIC. 
He  wooed  with  love  speech, she  answered  not ; 
He  wooed  with  flowers,   but  she  still  was 
mute;  [thoufiht; 

He  wooed  with  gold,  she  gave  him  not  a 
He  wooed  with  music,  and  he  won  his  suit. 

IF. 

If  we  only  knew  each  other  — 

If  we  could  but  understand 
Half  the  hidden  thoughts  and  feelings 

Of  the  one  who  takes  our  hand.— 
Would  the  world  be  worse  or  better? 

Would  it  cause  more  joy  or  woe. 
If  we  could  but  know  each  other? 

But  we  can  not,  this  we  know. 
•'  Friend  "  I  call  you  as  I  greet  you, 

HeiiT  your  voice  and  meet  your  smile. 
But  I  can  not  know  for  certain 

That  your  heart  is  free  from  guile. 
Tliose  we  pass  with  eyes  averted. 

Whom  wo  f(H'l  so  far  above. 
They  miylit  prove,  if  we  but  knew  them, 


Gentle  friends  whom  we  could  love. 
And  the  one  we  joy  to  honor, 

Though  he  be  of  high  estate. 
May  be,  if  we  knew  him  truly. 

Something  far  beneath  our  hate. 
Here  we  can  not  know  each  other, 

But  before  the  great  white  throne 
All  the  shadows  shall  be  lifted  — 

We  shall  know  as  we  are  known. 


WRITING  LETTERS. 

Would  you  write  a  friendly  letter? 

Do  it  now. 
It  perchance  maj'  drive  a  shadow 

From  the  brow 
Of  the  one  who  will  receive  it. 

And  may  tend 
To  bring  kinder,  happier  feelings 

To  a  friend. 
Would  you  write  an  angry  letter? 

Wait  awhile. 
Do  not  now,  with  cruel  speeches. 

Chase  the  smile 
From  a  face  all  bright  and  sunny. 

Ere  you  drink 
Draughts  from  anger's  bitter  fountain, 

Stop  and  think. 
Would  you  write  a  loving  letter? 

Write  to-day. 
Ere  the  flood  of  tender  feeling 

Rolls  away. 
Catch  the  thought  of  love  and  send  it 

Out  to  bless 
Some  beloved  heart,  and  bring  it 

Happiness. 
Would  you  write  a  wicked  letter. 

Out  of  spite. 
Or  in  wantonness  or  folly? 

Do  not  write. 
Give  no  vile  thought  to  another 

Human  soul. 
Letters  sent  are  passed  forever 

From  control. 
Would  yon  write  a  Christian  letter? 

Write  it  quick. 
Many  souls,  with  sin's  diseases 

Are  most  sick. 
Point  them  to  the  great  Physician; 

It  is  given 
Unto  you  to  show  the  pathway 

LTp  to  heaven. 
So  whene'er  you  write  a  let  tor. 

Watch  your  pen. 
Send  your  purest  thoughts  ami  f;!iicies, 

So  that  when 
Other  eyes  shall  sec  your  writitig. 

They'll  be  blest 
With  your  trusting  hope  of  lieaveii 
And  its  rest. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKKICA. 


my 


HOMER  AUG.  BILLINGS. 

Born:  Pompey,  N.Y.,  Sept.  4, 1826. 
The  Billing-s'  originally  came  from  England, 
and  the  m:itcrn;il  ancestors  from  France. 
They  settled  in  Pompey  in  1.S12,  where  the 
subject  of  tills  .'sketch  was  boru  and  ha.s  je- 
slded  ever  since.    During;  the  ages  of  si.\leen 


HOMEH  AUGUSTUS  BILLING'^ 

and  forty.  Homer  taught  twenty  terms  of 
school,  and  for  five  j'ears  was  a  g-eneral 
tra%-eling-  agent.  In  1863  he  married  Miss 
Helen  Mar  Smith  of  Dublin,  Ind.,  bj'  whom 
he  has  one  daughter,  born  in  1876,  whose 
chief  delight  is  in  sketching'  portraits  and 
scenery  in  pencil,  crayon  and  brush.  Mr. 
Billings  has  written  over  two  hundred  poems, 
the  majority  of  which  have  appeared  in  the 
New  York  Truth  Seeker,  Syracuse  Journal, 
Fayettevillo  Weekly  Recorder,  New  York 
Weekly  World,  and  the  periodical  i>ress 

RETROSPECTION. 
The  banner  school  of  Pompey  was 
Sch(X)l  District  Xo.  8. 
Its  name  and  fame  spread  far  and  wide 
Throughout  our  Empire  State. 
At  first  it  was  a  "backward  school " 
When  you  commenced  your  labors; 
Your  rigid  discipline  was  just: 
It  conquered  wrangling  neighbors: 
And  I  must  say  "Thou  art  the  man  " 
Who  happj'  changes  wrought; 
"  Brought  order  out  of  chaos,"  too. 
By  your  own  timely  thought. 


You  made  us  put  the  liandles  on 
The  words  of  Yes  and  No; 
Some  of  us  don't  forget  them  yet. 
Though  fifty  years  ago. 

But  few  of  us  are  now  alive, 

Wliom  you  instructed  then; 

And  they  are  whitened  out  with  age: 

Old  women  and  old  men  I 

A  few  survive;  the  rest?    Are  dead  I 

They  were  —  but  are  no  more ; 

The  sun  still  shines,  just  iis  it  did 

In  palmy  days  of  yore. 

Those  scliolars'  names  are  ever  dear 

To  us  in  recollection  : 

Sweet  memories,  in  age  renewed  — 

They  live  — in  retrospection! 

Wliile  time  is  speeding  rapidly 

The  steps  of  age  move  slow. 

Age  realizes  Time's  swift  pace  — 

Since  fifty  years  ago. 

The  "Old  schoolhousc"  has  been  removed. 

Another  stands  to-day 

Precisely  where  the  old  one  stood. 

North  side  of  the  highway. 

I  send  my  only  child  to  schxil 

Where  I  received  instruction. 

The  very  spoi  where  you  and  I 

Had  our  first  introduction. 

Oh!  what  a  change  since  then  has  come! 

Your  school  had  scholars  plenty; 

The  district  census  of  to-day 

Will  scarcely  number  twenty. 

We  have  our  pleasant  summers  still. 

In  winter,  banks  of  snow. 

Exactly  as  we  used  to  have 

Some  fifty  years  ago. 

All  nations  have  their  rise  and  fall; 

SchcKil  districts  have  the  same; 

They  have  a  certain  period 

That  marks  their  name  and  fame; 

And  so  with  indivi<lu:ils 

There  is  a  certain  hour 

That  nitirks  their  nionil  excellence 

And  momentary  iM)wcr! 

"Paradise  lost!  "    Is  it  regained? 

John  Milton  thought  so  surt\ 

But  the  "Universal  law  of  change  " 

Renders  that  theme  obscure. 

The  palmiest  days  of  Number  eight 

(As  history  will  show, 

Were  those  when  Arnold  taught  our  school 

Some  fifty  years  ago. 

Two  dozen  teachers  you  sent  forth. 
To  tr:iin  the  youtliful  mind. 
From  District  No.  8  alone. 
And  their  success,  wo  find. 
Was  wonderful  in  tlie  extreme. 


* 


\ 


*- 


1114 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A3IERICA. 


JAMES  O'RIORDAN. 

Born:  Ireland,  about  1840. 
After  receiving  bis  education  in  Dublin, 
the  subject  of  tliis  slsetch  joined  the  National 
Board  of  Education,  and  for  a  wliile  was 
principal  of  a  national  school.  Being-  a  Na- 
tionalist, Feniiai  and  Patriot,  he  was  obliged 
to  leave  his  native  uouuiiy  and  emigrated  to 


JAMES  O'RIORDAN. 


America  in  1866.  Although  by  profession  a 
civil  engineer,  he  has  generally  taught 
school.  For  a  time  he  was  mathematical 
professor  in  Rhineclifl  College  on  the  Hud- 
son; next  he  was  on  the  topographical  and 
water-grant  surveys  alongthe  Hudson  river; 
and  he  is  at  present  principal  of  a  school  in 
Hurley,  N.T.  As  an  author  J:imesO'Riordan 
has  written  a  half  dozen  novels  and  several 
volumes  on  educational  subjects,  besides 
writing  over  five  hundred  poems.  He  is 
also  somewhat  of  an  inventor,  being  the 
patentee  of  many  useful  and  valuable  in- 
ventions. James  Q-Eiordan  was  married  in 
lt<57  to  Miss  Ellen  Forrest  Sliine,  a  poetess  of 
local  fame,  by  whom  he  has  a  large  family. 


* 


OH  EKIN,  DE.\REST  ERIN! 
Oh  Erin,  dearest  Erin, 
Green  island  of  my  birth; 
Alas!  I'm  forced  to  part  from  thee, 
Thou  fairest  spot  on  earth. 
An  exile  Ininted  o'er  the  seas 
By  hellish  laws  and  spleen. 


Because  I  loved  your  liberty 
And  wearing  of  the  green. 

Oh  Erin,  dearest  Erin, 

Thou  sweet  isle  of  the  sea. 

Thy  sons  are  driven  from  thy  shores 

By  England's  tyranny. 

Tliro"  the  world  they  are  widely  spread. 

In  each  country  they  are  seen. 

And  many  numbered  'mong  the  dead 

For  wearing  of  the  green. 

Oh,  Erin  !  thou  hast  suffered  sore 

For  full  seveu  hundred  years, 

Tliy  brave  sons  persecuted, 

And  thy  daughters  still  in  tears. 

But  the  day's  at  hand. 

When  Pat  will  stand 

With  weapon  sharp  and  keen 

And  in  freedom's  cause  will  gain  applause 

For  wearing  of  the  green. 

Oh,  Erin!  thy  brave  sons  have  died 

Of  shot,  of  shell  and  scars 

In  many  a  famed  battlefield 

In  every  nation's  wars; 

At  W^aterloo,  at  Fonteuoy, 

At  Bull  Run  too  I  ween. 

Who  fought  'twas  Pat, 

Be  sure  of  that, 

Tho'  wearing  not  the  green. 

Oh,  Erin,  in  all  lands  and  climes 

Thy  sons  have  valor  sliown. 

For  every  land  they've  fought  and  bled, 

But  alas!  not  for  their  own; 

Now  rally  'round  the  green  old  flag, 

And  show  to  England's  queen, 

Where'er  you  roam 

You  think  of  home 

And  wearing  of  the  green. 

Oh.  Erin,  now  the  hour  is  come, 
Let  tliy  sons  where'er  they  be. 
Cast  off  this  shame,  unite  and  claim 
Thy  rights  and  set  thee  free 
And  raise  thee  'mong  the  nations 
Of  the  earth,  as  thou  hast  been; 
For  Freedom  strike  with  sword  or  pike 
And  wearing  of  the  green. 


THE  SILENT  LONE  CHURCH-YARD. 

EXTH.\CT. 

See!  yonder  ivyiiiantled  walls. 

Where  silence  reigns  around. 
Where  loathsome  worm  slim'ly  crawls 

Whhin  that  s:icri'd  ground. 
'Twas  there  tln^  hymn  to  heaven  arose 

From  hermit,  monk  and  bard, 
"J'is  Ihore  fond  father's  bones  repose 

la  the  silent  lone  church-yard. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIOXAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1115 


>h 


M.  L.  HALL. 

Born:  Ulster  Co.,  N.Y.,  May  IS,  1824. 
At  tlic  ago  of  twcnty-onc  Mr.  Hail  was  mar- 
ried in  Bridgeport,  Conn.,  and  tliere  carried 
on  house  and  ship  iiaintiiig  until  1861,  when 
he  moved  to  a  farm  in  Delaware  county,  N.  Y. 


M.  r .  HALL. 

In  1869  he  moved  to  Nebraska,  where  he  has 
a  farm  at  Elkhorn,  near  Omaha.  He  has 
piiblished  a  little  book  entitled  Eternal  Na- 
ture, which  has  received  high  praise. 


MY  FIRST  LOVE  NOTES. 
[Were  you  to  come,  though  life  had  passed 
away, 

And  smile  so  sweet,  and  touch  this  pulseless 
clay. 

And  press  ag.ain  those  cherry  lips  to  mine, 

My  soul  would  feel  the  glow  —  the  touch  di- 
vine. 

And  back  to  life  and  love  would  wing  its 
way. 

And  heart  and  soul  in  rapturous  bliss  en- 
twine. 

Death  could  not  hold  me  by  his  chains  one 
day 

If  but  my  love  drew  near,  a  heaven-lit  ray 

Would  thrill  my  heart.   In  sweet  response  to 
thine 

'Twould  quickly  burst  from   death's   dark 
cheerless  mine 

And  lead  thee  to  this  dell ;  again  more  gay 

We'd  clasp  anew  and  sip  love's  ruby  wine. 


INVOCATION. 
Loving  spirit,  kindly  hear  it. 
From  the  inmost  soul  the  cry: 
Do  wo  mortals,  at  death's  portals. 
Do  we  really  surely  die, 
While  for  higher  life  we  sigh? 

We  are  anxious,  make  us  conscious. 
Death  is  not  so  dread  a  foe. 
Knowledge  seal  it,  make  us  feel  it 
As  we  pass  this  life  so  low 
To  a  liigher  plane  we  go. 

Now  we  are  here,  with  hope  and  fear. 
Our  loved  messenger  to  come; 
Come  quite  near  us,  comfort,  cheer  us; 
Tell  us  on  life's  othec  shore 
Loved  ones  meet  to  part  no  more. 

Oh!  for  meeting,  fondly  greeting. 
We  have  waited,  wept  in  vain; 
Life  is  dreary,  spirits  weary. 
Since  you  in  the  grave  were  lain ; 
Dear  one,  loved  one,  come  again. 

Will  you  meet  us,  cheer  and  greet  us, 
You  so  loved  now  gone  before, 
We  united,  you  invited. 
Will  you  pull  again  for  shore. 
Will  you  come  to  us  once  more? 

Hearts  most  broken,  for  a  token 
That  you  know  and  love  us  here; 
Are  you  near  us,  do  you  hear  us. 
When  we  call  that  name  so  dear? 


WILL  YOU  LOVINGLY  APPEAR? 
Dear  one,  come  now  I    Sweetly  somehow 
Tell  us  we're  not  hopeless  left. 
By  a  rapping,  gentle  tapping. 
By  some  rock  of  knowledge  cleft. 
Show  us  we  are  not  bereft. 

We  are  waiting,  contemplating, 
Feel  we  cannot  give  tliee  o'er; 
Come,  we're  steady,  all  things  ready. 
Fondly  to  our  arms  once  more  — 
Golden  crown  —  immortal  lore. 


EXTRACT. 
There's  many  Christians  learned  and  smart. 
Who  aim  to  act  a  genen>us  part. 
Yet  at  the  truth  they  stare  and  start. 
And  llineli,  as  from  a  poisoned  dart; 
And  act  it  plain,  and  say  it  iKild. 
'Tis  best  the  truth  wo  should  withhold. 
Preach  up  falsehoods,  stupid  "asses," 
Lest  the  truth  should  spoil  the  masses. 


*- 


1116 


LOCAL   AMD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


GEORGE  MADEIRA. 

Bokn:  Galena,  III.,  Oct.  14, 1836. 
At  the  ag-e  of  fifteen  Georg-e  emigrated  with 
his  parents  to  California,  where  lie  has  re- 
sided for  nearly  fortj'  years.  In  1881  Mr. 
Medeira  accepted  a  position  on  a  mining- 
journal  in  New  York,  and  for  three  years 


GEORGE  MADEIRA. 

was  their  traveling-  correspondent.  He  has 
studied  geolog-y  and  mining-  science.  For  the 
past  six  years  he  has  been  a  special  corre- 
spondent for  the  Associated  Press.  Mr.  Ma- 
deira is  also  a  fine  picture  painter  and  sketch 
artist  as  well  as  quite  a  musician. 


SOTOYOME. 

[VALLEY  OF  FLOWERS.] 

Sotoyomc,  maiden  fair! 

Poppies  in  her  dark  brown  hair. 

Wild  azalea's  starry  crown  decks  thy  head. 

And    for    thy    gown,    the    Ceanotbus,    lilac 

shade! 
In  most  intricate  lace-work  made. 
Arbutus  blossoms  in  her  hand. 
Queen  Goddess  of  the  Flower  Land, 
Whispering-  on  the  perfumed  breeze, 
Tell  of  Knights,  beyond  the  trees, 
Blazing-  in  a  sheen  of  gold 
As  in  feudal  days  of  old, 
Come  to  crown  Sonoma's  Queen  — 
Sotoyomc!    Chosen  Queen. 


Whore,  then,  is  Eden? 

Ah,  why  should  I  tell 

What  every  eye  and  bosom  know  so  well? 

Why    name   the   land  all  other  lands  liavc 

blessed. 
And  traced  for  ag-es  to  the  distant  West? 
Why  search  in  vain  throughout  the  historic 

page 
For  Eden's  g-arden  and  the  Golden  Age? 
Friends,  neighbors,  no  further  let  us  roam; 
This  is  the  Garden;  Eden  is  our  home. 


VALLEY  OF  THE  BIRDS. 

O  radiant  plain,  fair,  sun-kissed  hills, 

Green  mountain  range,  its  crystal  rills 
Flow  ever  onward  to  the  sea; 

How  dear  thy  memories  are  to  me ! 
From  j'on  bold  bluff,  when  but  a  boy. 

First  looked  I  on  your  field  of  joy: 
Looked  out  upon  the  ocean  far. 

Where  nightly  sinks  the  evening  star 
Beneath  the  sunset  sea. 


No  birds  of  passage  these  that  dwell. 
Who  sport  and  build  in  wooded  dell: 

Alw.ays  their  home !    From  day  to  day 
Not  lured  by  southern  climes  away. 

Here,  here  they  love  from  year  to  year, 
Midsummer  sun  —  no  winter  drear 
Comes  to  Pajaro's  vale. 


The  wild  azalea's  fragrant  breeze 
Steals  soft  mid  groves  of  cypress  trees; 

The  oriole  sings,  the  linnet  trills 
Along  the  banks  of  sparkling  streams. 

Where  quiet  nature  sweetly  dreams. 
Entrancing  dream  of  mountain  views! 

Wlicro  tower  tlie  domes  of  Santa  Cruz  — 

0  dream  of  bright  blue  sea  and  strean^s! 
How  oft  in  midnight's  mystic  dreams 

1  visit  thee,  fair  land! 
Thrice  memory  blessed  I 

Where  she,  my  bride,  sleeps— her  last  rest- 
Aud  binds  mc  with  its  cliain. 

O  birds,  that  sing  'neath  azure  skies, 

O  evening  bird,  that  liomeward  flics. 
Where  Loma's  peak,  symmetric,  tall, 

Tlirows  his  cool  .shadow  over  all. 
And  Helios  paints  the  l)ounding  sea 

Far  out  beyond  wlicre  sliadows  flee! 
Tlic  crested  waves  that  beat  the  shore 

Or  fleck  with  foam  the  marble  floor 
Echo  along  Pajaro's  vale. 


*- 


^- 


LOCAL    AND   NAIIOXAL    I'OETS   OK   AMERICA. 


1117 


EDWARD  D.  WRIGHT. 

Boux :  WAYNE  Co.,  Ind.,  Oct.  11,  1859. 
A  COLLECTION  of  beautiful  poems,  ontitlod 
Modern  Poems,  from  tlie  i)eii  of  tins  ■writer, 
have  rcceivotl  tlir  liiL-lir-;t  ciieomunis  from 


EDWAttD  DANVILLE   WIUGHT. 

the  press.  Mr.  Wrijrlit  g'ives  entertaiumeiits 
of  his  own  sonjis  and  poems,  wliicli  always 
meet  with  pi  eat  applause.  He  is  now  a  citi- 
zeaof  Danville,  where  lie  is  very  popular. 


ON  THE  CLIFF. 
Where  the  rock  is  gvay,  and  mossj",  and  steep, 
With  rifts  and  caverns  dark  and  deep; 
Here  and  there  a  rugrged  spray 
Tn  lovely  pride  of  regal  sway. 
Leans  gloomily  over  the  shajrgj-  side 
To  deepen  the  shadows  of  eventide. 
This  sylvan  scene  is  pleasant  to  me. 
My  mind  soars  th'  realms  of  revelry. 
Below  my  feet  some  briers  grew. 
Shut  from  the  sun  and  morning  dew 
By  an  oak's  magnificent  bower. 
The  clifC  its  summit  scarce  can  tower. 
Like  a  boy  of  stature  small. 
Stretching  to  peep  beyond  the  wall. 
The  prickly  pear  here  owes  its  worth 
On  the  rock  to  a  little  lump  of  earth. 
Bettie,  these  scenes  had  pictured  to  me. 
As  we  rode  on  steeds  in  company 
With  Eva  and  Helen  and  Byron,  gay 
As  ever  were  j-ouiigsters  in  chivalry's  day. 
Satiric  jest  sent  tauntingly 
A  tale  of  love  or  of  tragedy. 


Each  in  its  turn  to  cheer  the  liour. 

Breathed  o'er  the  group  its  leal  power. 

Ah,  will  the  f  riendsliip  here  I  gain. 

As  transient  be  as  summer  rain? 

And  when  I  leave  these  rocks  and  bowers 

That's  known  so  many  pleasant  hours  — 

Shall  those  I  leave  beliind  forget 

My  friendshii)'s  lingering  with  them  yet? 

Pure  affection  gahied  from  them 

Is  to  my  heart  life's  sweetest  gem. 

Oh,  may  I  be  when  life's  storms  beat 

As  firm  as  the  rock  beueatii  my  feet. 

Which  over  and  over  and  over  again 

Is  the  theme  of  many  a  poet's  pen. 

Enshrouded  in  moss  as  garbed  for  sleep. 

Peerless  to  Time's  dauntless  sweep. 

To  be  admired  still,  shall  last 

When  I've  gone  down  in  the  fading  past. 

MAN  LITTLE  DREAMED. 
Reverting  memory  leads  man  back 

To  happy  cliildhood  days. 
When  he  was  young  and  happy 

In  childish  sports  and  ways. 
He  little  dreamed  of  future  years 

What  they  in  turn  would  bring; 
IIdw  oft  his  heart  sore  saddened. 

Must  hear  love's  curfew  ring. 
He  little  dreamed  with  griefs  consort 

His  joys  would  facile  be; 
In  constant  ire  twixt  joy  and  fear 

His  barge  glides driftingly. 
He  little  dreamed  as  years  rolled  on 

That  lust  for  wealth  would  rule  — 
That  death  would  end  the  conflict. 

And  man  should  die  a  fool. 


WHY  DID  YOr  DIE? 
They  have  laid  her  to  rest  'noath  the  lilies. 

With  her  white  hands  folded  o'er  her  breast, 
There  my  heart  has  been  slumbering  ever 

Since  the  day  that  they  laid  her  to  rest; 
Long  I  wandered  to  find  recreation. 

For  despondent  and  lonely  .■im  I. 
O  Maggie!  my  darling,  my  loved  one, 

O  why  did  you,  why  did  you  die? 
chorus: 
They  have  laid  her  to  rest  'neath  the  lilies. 

Where  the  sweet  breezes  falter  and  sigh. 
O  Maggie!  my  darling,  my  loved  one, 

0  why  did  you,  why  did  you  die? 
Enshrouded  in  love  I  was  happy. 

With  the  one  I  adored  by  my  side,    [spirit; 
'R.)und  my   soul  had  entwined  your  pure 

1  was  lost  in  that  sweet,  blissful  tide. 
In  that  moment  so  hajipy  yon  left  me, 

To  jewel  the  realms  of  the  sky. 
O  Maggie!  my  darling,  my  lovt-d  one, 
O  why  did  you.  why  did  you  die? 


-* 


1118 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  MAUDE  M.  CLARKE. 

Born:  Des  Moines,  Ta.,  May  11, 18.57. 
This  lady  commenced  teaching  when  sixteen 
years  of  age,  and  in  that  way  earned  enougli 
money  to  take  her  through  college.  She  has 
written  a  number  of  articles  in  prose  for 
various  publications  under  the  nom  de  plume 


SIRS.  MAUDE  M.  CLARKE. 

of  Marguerite.  The  greater  portion  of  her 
life  has  been  spent  in  the  school  room.  In 
18T9  she  was  married  to  Arthur  Clarke,  then 
engaged  in  mercantile  business  in  Lincoln. 
Her  little  daughter  Eva,  born  in  1881,  displays 
great  literary  talent  and  Is  quite  a  singer. 
Mrs.  Clarke  has  a  pleasant  home  in  Sheldahl, 
Iowa,  where  she  is  principal  of  schools. 


*- 


HOME. 
The  earth  is  dotted  o'er  with  homes 

As  thick  as  stars  in  the  skies. 
But  none  to  us  is  ere  so  bright 
As  the  homes  of  our  childhood  joys  and 
sighs. 

The  rod  man  of  mountain  or  plain 

Clings  to  his  wigwam  still; 
While  the  sailor-boy  born  on  the  main 

Claims  the  sea  as  his  home  with  good  will. 

And  many  and  happy  is  the  homo 
That  lies  twixt  our  oceiin  shores. 

Some  high  on  the  mountain  alone. 
Others  in  cities  numbering  scores. 


Thy  home  may  lie  on  a  far  hillside 

Beyond  a  stretch  of  seas; 
A  V]ne-clad  cot  of  old  graj'  stone 

'Mong  heather  and  humming  bees. 

And  thine  may  be  a  farm-house  homo 

With  a  river  running  by. 
Where  the  song  of  birds  is  ever  heard. 

And  oft  the  lampkin's  cry. 

While  yours  may  be  in  the  city  gay. 
Where  the  joj's  and  cares  of  life 

Are  seen  and  knotvn  each  day. 
And  oft  are  saddened  with  untold  strife. 

In  our  childhood's  home.  I  see  it  still. 
Life's  pathway  seems  covered  with  flowers, 

Where  mother's  gentle  hand  cured  all  our  ills, 
Her  love  made  happier  all  the  hours. 

The  years  In  their  mystic  train 
Have  flown  past  unheeded  by  us  ever. 

But  have  wrapped  within  the  golden  chain 
The  memories  of  love  and  home  forever. 

But  whether  our  home  is  where  meadows 
wide. 

Sweet  with  clover  stretch  on  every  side; 
Or  in  the  city  where  wealth  and  pride. 

By  culture,  bright  homes  have  beautified. 

Still  home  is  home,  everywhere  we  roam 
The  memories  linger  yet,  amid  life's  jars. 

Sweet  messengers  of  peace,  ti'l  we  long  for 
home. 
And  them  bej'ond  the  sun  and  stars. 


FACES. 


EXTRACT. 

Ah,  the  faces  we  meet,  how  oft  they  reveal 
The  inward  thoughts,  of  all  creatures  vain; 

Verily  they  are  mirrors  true  and  real. 
Reflecting  our  feelings  of  mirth  or  pain. 

Many  faces  are  so  mournful  and  sad. 
Seemingly  so  full  of  sorrow  and  woo; 

We  ask  ourselves '•  were  their  hearts  ever 
glad. 
Or  is  there  happiness  of  the  long  ago?  " 

The  innocent  smile  of  a  baby's  face 
Is  to  us  all  a  glimpse  of  Heaven, 

Th;it  draweth  us  nearerthe  Throneof  Grace, 
Making  us  thankful  for  the  blessing  given. 

The  school-boy's  face  has  the  imiirint  there 
Of  noble  traits  of  character  that  need 

Only  careful  training  and  earnest  prayer, 
To  reveal  his  nature  in  word  and  deed. 

That  fair  j'oung  girl  with  golden  hair 
Has  only  smiles  upon  lior  face. 

Never  a  sorrow,  not  a  care 
Can  with  her  joj'  and  gaiety  find  a  place, 


I 


-1 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL    POKTS   OF    AMEUICA. 


1119 


-* 


REV.  WILLIAM  T.  BRIGGS. 

BOKN  :    SCITUATE,  MASS.,  DEC.  1,  1815. 

After  gnidii.-iting  at  Oneida  Institute,  tlie 
subject  of  this  sketch  studied  for  two  years 
in  tlie  tlieolofrieal  depart nicutof  tliat  eolle{;e, 
and  one  year  at  Aiidover.  He  was  onlaiiied 
In  1846  as  a  Coiigregatioual  minister  and  has 


RET.  WILLIAM  THOMAS  BRIGGS. 

filled  pastorates  at  North  Andover,  Mass., 
Princeton  and  East  Doug-las,  where  he  serveii 
twenty-one  years,  and  of  whicli  he  is  still 
pastor.  During-  the  war  he  served  for  a 
while  as  chaplain  in  Finley  Hospital  at 
Washington,  D.  C.  Rev.  William  Thomas 
Briggs  has  published  several  sermons,  many 
articles  and  addresses,  and  a  fe-w  poems. 


HERE,  WHERE  OUR  FATHERS  STOOD. 
Here,  where  our  fathers  stood,  we  stand  — 
The  confluence  of  a  mighty  stream; 
And  voices  from  the  far-off  land 
Blend  with  the  day,  the  hour,  the  theme. 

A  century  past!    A  century  hence! 

To-day  the  nuptial  knot  we  tie; 

We  link  them  in  the  noblest  sense 

With  thoughts  and  deeds  which  cannot  die. 

By  all  the  memories  of  this  hour  — 

By  yonder  graves  where  sleep  our  sires, 


By  these  grand  liills  whose  summits  tower 
High  o'er  these  altars,  kindling-  fires;  — 

By  all  the  gleanings  of  the  past. 
By  sacred  earth  and  skies  o'erhead  — 
Here  let  us  vow  wliile  lite  shall  last 
To  emulate  the  pious  dead. 

And  when  we  sleep  beneath  the  sod. 
Where  fathers  and  where  mothers  lie  — 
Come  thou  blest  Savior,  mighty  God, 
And  bear  us  all  to  realms  on  high. 


GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

This  day  we  hail  with  chastened  joy,-. 
This  g-olden  daj'  of  sunset  hues. 
When  youth  has  blossomed  into  age 
'Mid  fruitful  showers  and  g-eutle  dews. 

The  time,  though  long,  seems  very  short 
When  at  the  bridal  altar  fair 
The  marriage  vow  and  i)lighted  love 
Joined  in  one  life  the  aged  pair. 

The  sunshine  and  the  rain  they  shared, 
Their  spring  and  summer  pass'd  away, 
And  now  the  mellow  autumn  comes. 
The  only  sign  of  winter  day. 

Unclouded  be  their  evening  sky  — 
Calm  and  serene  their  setting  sun, 
Glad  in  review  of  life's  great  work, 
That  all  has  been  so  nobly  done. 

Two  noble  sons  have  crossed  the  stream  — 
They  stand  upon  the  shining  shore. 
And  yet  this  fiimily  can  say. 
We  still  remain  not  two  but  four. 

O  God  of  love!  we  ask  thee  now 
To  smile  on  these  advancing  years. 
To  gild  with  light  the  evening  sky 
And  chase  away  all  glo<imy  fears. 

The  hoary  head  —  the  snows  of  time, 
A  crown  of  glory  —  not  of  art. 
The  frosts  of  winter  on  the  brow. 
But  summer  blossoms  in  the  heart. 

And  when   these  twain,  whose  lengthened 

years 
Have  shed  tlieir  fragrance  all  around; 
Whose  children  come  at  this  gl.-id  hour 
To  show  their  love  —  sincere,  profound ;  — 

When  these  shall  pass  to  brighter  scenes 
To  re.'ilnis  of  peace  and  endless  d:iy.— 
Dear  Savior  take  tlieni  in  thine  arms 
And  gently  bear  them  on  their  way. 


« 


»^- 


1120 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   A31EKICA. 


MRS.  MARY  B.  SAGESER, 

Born:  Oxford,  III.,  Oct.  9,  1851. 
This  lady  was  married  in  1868  to  Francis  M. 
Sageser,  and  a  j-ear  later  she  removed  with 
him  to  Afton,  Iowa,  where  they  resided  for 
about  twelve  years.   She  now  lives  at  Stuart, 


MRS.  MARY  B.  SAGESER. 

Neb.,  with  her  husband  and  children.  The 
poems  of  Mrs.  Sagfeser  have  appeared  in  the 
local  press  in  many  of  the  western  states. 


A  SUMMER  SCENE. 
The  sun  was  yet  shining:  on  the  sea 

With  richest  glow  so  fair  to  me, 
Tlie  angry  sky  had  darker  grown. 

The  sky-lark  to  his  nest  had  flown. 

Wlien  all  in  nature  hushed  and  still 
Such  grandeur  seemed  tlie  sky  to  fill; 

The  thunder  rolled,  'twas  grand  to  me 
As  lovely  blue-bells  by  the  sea, 

The  grandeur  of  a  summer  shower 
Cannot  be  told  at  sunset  hour. 

The  gentle  rain  came  pattering  down, 
All  earth  in  richness  it  shall  crown, 

The  leaves  were  waving  on  the  trees 
Sweet  music  in  the  summer  breeze. 

And  when  the  rain  was  hushed  ;iiid  still 
The  bubbling  brook  passed  by  the  mill, 

My  heart  leaped  fast  in  glad  delight. 
Rejoicing  at  the  lovely  sight. 


The  grass  was  greener  than  before. 
The  thirsty  llowers  could  drink  no  more. 

And  all  was  quiet,  rich  and  sweet. 
As  trampled  rose  leaves  'neath  my  feet; 

Revived  were  fields,  the  grain,  the  flowers— 
Ah,  naught  more  fair  than  summer  hours. 


WINTER. 
The  season  of  winter  is  dreary. 

For  me  no  charms  it  can  hold, 
And  yet  some  are  happy  and  cheerful 

And  rejoice  in  the  snow  and  the  cold. 

They  think  of  the  pleasures  of  skating. 
And  rides  and  the  jingling-  of  bells. 

Of  parties,  for  mirth  and  for  pastime. 
The  joy  of  which  old  winter  tells. 

The  trees  then  arrayed  in  rich  diamonds, 
Which  sparkle  and  dance  in  the  sun. 

As  kings  and  queens  in  a  palace. 
Of  crystal  a  weaver  hath  spun. 

And  Santa  Claus  comes  richlj-  laden 
With  toys,  skates,  candy  and  dolls 

For  the  boys  and  girls  in  tliis  season; 
The  reindeer,  his  horses  he  calls. 

A  man  may  prepare  for  the  winter. 
And  yet  he  ne'er  loves  it,  I  know; 

For  who  any  grandeur  or  beauty 
Can  find  in  the  ice  or  the  snow? 

And  then  as  we  think  of  the  seasons, 
When  dreary  old  winter  is  past. 

We  really  are  glad  it  has  left  us. 
And  we  wish  it  was  winter  the  last. 


MOTHER. 
Of  all  the  names  of  monarch 

Or  kings  and  queens  of  fame. 
No  name  I  know  is  half  so  sweet 

As  just  my  mother's  name. 

Her  life  is  long  and  happy. 

Her  age  a  crowning  one; 
She  is  gathering  up  the  garlands. 

For  behold,  the  race  is  won. 

Through  kindness  and  a  tender  heart 
She  hath  endeared  herself  to  all; 

We  shall  know  that  she  is  ready 
When  she  hears  the  Master's  call. 

Let  us  strew  her  path  with  roses. 
Cast  aside  the  worthless  thorn; 

It  is  such  the  Master  crowneth 
On  the  glorious  light  of  morn. 

Long  may  she  live  and  prosper 
To  gather  the  golden  corn. 

To  gather  in  the  hart'est 
She  liath  sown  in  the  early  morn. 


*- 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  A3IEKICA. 


1121 


* 


AUGUSTUS  A.  FOSTER. 

Born:  South  Reading,  Mass.,  May  3, 1833. 
At  the  age  of  tweiitj--tlireo  Mr.  Fostur  re- 
ceived the  nomiiialiou  for  stale  representa- 
tive from  the  repul)liL'aii  party,  aud  has  held 
various  positions  of  trust.  He  served  m  the 
war  of  the  rebelliou,  since  which  time  lie  has 


AUGUSTUS  A.  FOSTER. 

been  connected  with  various  publications  in 
Boston  and  New  York  City.  Ill  health  com- 
pelled him  to  return  to  Colorado,  wliere  he 
is  now  engaged  in  mining  and  stock-raising. 


THE  WITCH'S  SPELL. 
Tell  me  not  that  witchcraft's  dead 

That  the  witch's  spell  is  o'er. 
Sprites  and  goblins  all  are  fled, 

Ghostly  spirits  haunt  no  more. 
lUding  broom-sticks  through  the  air. 

Cantering  crones  no  longer  go; 
Now  a  blushing  damsel  f;iir 

Goes  out  riding  with  her  beau. 
But  with  purpose  all  the  same; 

Smiles  her  radiant  eyes  illume. 
Yet  those  eyes  fiasli  forth  the  flame 

Laving  to  destruction's  doom. 
Now  she  seems  an  angel  made. 

Dazzling  with  her  beauty  bright. 
Fateful  messenger,  arrayed 

As  a  minister  of  light. 
Hell-forged  instruments  of  pain 

In  her  tortures  bear  no  part; 
But  her  victims  still  are  slain, 

Falling  with  a  bleeding  heart. 


Rising  from  life's  battle-ground. 

Groans  aud  wailiugs  till  tlie  air 
Of  her  victims,  prostrate,  bound. 

Wounded,  lielpless,  in  despair. 
And  is  there  kindly  refuge  none, 

No  sootliing  charm  with  potent  spell 
To  remedy  the  evil  done  — 

No  liealiug  balm  tlie  pain  to  quell? 
There  is  a  flower,  its  name  is  Love; 

It  hath  a  wonder-working  power; 
It  is  a  charm  all  charms  above; 

Bewitched  young  victim,  find  that  flower. 
"  How  to  apply  it? "    That  must  be 

A  secret  deep  for  thee  to  find; 
Once  found,  from  thrall  and  panis  .set  free. 

Her  as  thy  victim  thou  mayst  bind. 
And  still  this  charm  has  power  to  throw 

Such  influence  o'er  her,  thou  shalt  see 
She  thinks  she  leads  thee  still,  nor  know, 

Nor  dream  thy  prisoner  is  she; 

Believing  thee  her  prisoner  still. 

To  go  and  come  at  lier  command. 
Yet  bound  to  thy  imi)erious  will 

Bi'  Love's  indissoluble  band. 
From  witch's  spell  no  more  to  fear. 

Angel  or  witch  —deemed  one  by  thee. 
You'll  tliink  an  angel  she's  as  near 

As  mortals  ever  come  to  be. 


LUCRETIA  AND  MARGARET. 
I've  read  their  records  o'er  again  — 
Read  the  effusions  of  their  pen. 
And  doubt  no  more;  1  feel,  I  know 
That  heaven's  own  angels  walk  below; 
Not  spirits  formed  in  fancy's  bowers. 
But  robed  in  mortal  flesli  like  ours. 
Where'er  we  roam,  where'er  we  stay, 
At  home,  abroad,  by  night,  by  day. 
Though  oft,  too  often  undescried. 
They  glide  around,  on  every  side. 
And  such,  Lucretia,  dear,  wert  tliou. 
Maid  of  the  fair  and  thoughtful  brow; 
And  such  wert  thou,  dear  >fargaret,  too. 
So  lovely,  beautiful,  and  true. 
Both  innocent  and  free  front  guile; 
Both  blest  with  beauty's  witching  smile; 
Both  deep-enshrouded  in  the  blaze 
Of  genius'  pure  transcendent  rays; 
Both  loved,  and  fumed,  and  lionored  wide. 
Both  in  tlieir  youthful  beauty  died; 
'Twas  doubtless  well ;  for  why  sliould  they, 
Angels  in  tenements  of  clay. 
Be  kept  from  heaven,  their  native  sphere, 
To  toil,  and  pine,  and  sutTer  here? 
And  other  just  such  souls  are  here; 
Are  round  ns.  ever  lioverlng  near; 
But  blinded  by  the  things  of  earth, 
Wi>  know  not,  value  not  their  worth. 


*- 


1122 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


REV.  JOSEPH  H.  DUBBS,  D.  D. 

Born:  Near  Allentown,  Pa.,  Oct.  5, 1838. 
After  a  course  of  three  years  in  the  Theo- 
log'ical  Seminary  at  Mercersburg,  Mr.  Pubbs 
graduated  iu  1859,  and  was  ordained  the  same 
year.  He  then  became  his  fathers  assistant 
iu  Alleutowu,  and  after  two  years  assumed 


Rev.  JOSEPH   HENRY  DUBBS,  D.  D. 

entire  charjre  of  the  cnngreg-ation,  which 
numbered  twelve  hundred  members.  Since 
then  lie  has  filled  pastorates  in  many  promi- 
nent churches  of  Philadelphia  and  other 
cities.  At  the  same  time  Mr.  Dubbs  devoted 
special  attention  to  literary  and  historical 
studies,  and  contributed  reg-ularly  to  tiie 
Boston  Literary  World,  the  Now  York  In- 
dependent, ;ind  current  literature  generally. 
In  1878  Dr.  Dubbs  visited  Europe,  traveling 
as  far  south  as  Naples  and  Pompeii.  He  is  a 
member  of  the  Historical  Society  of  Penn- 
sylvania, a  Fellow  of  the  Royal  Historical 
Society  of  Great  Britain,  and  President  of 
the  Lancaster  County  Historical  Society.  In 
1887  Dr.  Dubbs  published  The  Founding  of 
Fraidtlin  College:  in  1888  appeared  Home 
BalUids  and  Metrical  "Versions;  and  in  1889 
Wliitehnll  Papers.  This  gentleman  was  mar- 
ried in  ]8fi3  to  Miss  Mary  L.  Wilson,  by  whom 
he  has  four  cliildren. 

ONLY  A  SONG. 
Only  a  boy  that  was  singing, 

Hapi)y  of  lie;irt  and  g;iy. 
Driving  the  cows  from  tlie  pasture 

Home  at  the  close  of  day ; 


Words  he  had  learned  from  his  motlier, 

Sung  in  the  olden  time. 
Strains  that  are  now  forgotten. 

Halting  in  tune  and  rliyme. 

Under  a  tree  by  the  wayside. 

Dusty  his  garments  and  torn. 
Rested  au  aged  pilgrim, 

Weary  of  travel  and  worn ; 
Mourning  o'er  shattered  ideals, 

Beautiful  days  that  had  tied. 
Friends  that  were  parted  forever. 

Garlands  all  withered  and  dead. 

Only  a  boy  that  was  singing, 

Happy  of  heart  and  gay, 
Driving  the  cows  from  the  pasture 

Home  at  the  close  of  day; 
Singing  a  song  that  the  pilgrim 

Wrote  in  the  days  of  youlli. 
Telling  of  hopes  tliat  were  brightest. 

Honor,  and  love,  and  trutli ; 

Bearing  a  message  angelic 

Over  the  waste  of  years. 
Swelling  liis  bosom  with  rapture, 

Filling  Ids  eyes  with  tears: 
"Pilgrim,  be  thankful,  and  cherish 

Honor,  and  love,  and  truth ; 
Seeds  that  the  aged  have  scattered 

Grow  in  the  hearts  of  youth." 


HOPE. 


Hope  within  the  spirit  slumbers, 

As  in  lily-cups  the  dew; 
Hope,  when  tempest's  wrath  has  ended. 

Shows  its  bright  celestial  blue. 
Hope  is  like  a  flow'ret,  springing 

From  a  bleak  and  rocky  wall; 
Hope,  like  diamonds  in  the  waters. 

Gleams  when  tears  of  sorrow  fall. 

Ah !  how  oft  deceived  and  broken. 

Poor,  confiding,  human  heart ! 
Still  thou  turnest  to  the  heavens. 

Seeking  grace  to  heal  the  smart. 
Ever,  like  Arachne,  spinning 

Webs  of  liope,  from  d;iy  to  day, 
Tliough  to-morrow's  sun  should  find  them 

Swept  by  cruel  hands  awaj-. 


IMMORTELLES. 
Joy  and  Beauty 

Pass  away; 
Pain  and  Duty 

Ever  stay. 

Friondshiji's  greeting. 

Virtue  true  — 
Never  fleeting. 

Ever  new. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMERICA. 


112.i 


KATE  NINA  SLATER. 

Born:  Lamont,  Mich.,  Dec.  13,  1871. 
For  a  year  Miss  Slater  taught  school,  and  is 
now  a  student  ot  the  Springfield  High  School 


m^ 


K  \  I  1     MN  V  SLATER. 

at  Spriiigfleltl,  Mo.,  where  she  resides.  Per- 
sonally Miss  Slater  is  rather  slight,  with  light 
brown  hair  and  blue  ej'es. 


WHEN  HOPE  IS  GONE. 
See  yon  quiet  lake  resting  on  earth's  bosom; 
Quiet  and  still  as  in  death's  dreamless  sleep! 
Its  deep,  dark,  dank  waters  knowing  no  flow. 
The   shadows    forever    its    embrace  woulil 

keep. 
Unmoved   by    the    winds    passing   over  its 

breast. 
Covered  with  moss  dark  thick,  and  so  green, 
Pulseless,  whatever  earth's  lips  may  repeat, 
The  silence  and  sadness  of  death  is  there 

seen. 
Round  it  stretch  snowfields  to  east  and  to 

west. 
O'er  it  the  winds  witli  coldness  now  sweep; 
Clothe  all  in  the  twiliglit  gray  and  wan. 
So  would  life  be  when  all  hope  is  gone. 


*- 


LEARNING  TO  COOK. 

How  well  I  remember  the  days  of  my  girl- 
hood, 

My  ill  concealed  frowns  and  my  dejected 
look 

O'er  my  first  batch  of  bread  and  my  flour- 
covered  apron ; 


O,  tlie  grief  of  those  days  I  was  learning  to 

cook ! 
I  arose  from  my  couch  with  expressed  in- 
tention 
Of  seeking  the  region  of  pastry  cook's  art, 
And  learning  to  make  all  tlie  pastry  desired. 
From  the  stall  of  Ilie  ajipetite  down  to  the 

tart. 
I  donned  the  big  apron  of  blue-flgured  calico. 
And  rolled  up  my  sleeves  for   all   work  to 

prepare ; 
Then  with  my  bangs  rolled  uj)  tight  in  curl 

papers. 
My  back  liair  in  a  Psyche,  I  went  down  the 

stair. 
As  bread  was  necessity  that  I  first  sampled, 
I  wanted  it  lender  and  light  as  the  air. 
But  alas!  the  result  was  not  like  the  desire. 
As  a  weapon  'gainst  tramps  'twas  unusually 

fair. 
As  I  was  busy  just  mixing  the  compound. 
My  liands  stuck  with  dcjugli   and    my  face 
I)owdered  white,  [tion. 

Imagine  my  surprise,  my  deep  consterna- 
My  sorrow  and  grief  at  my  desperate  plight ; 
My  heart  standing  still,  my  veins  froze  with 

horror. 

When  I  lieard  a  known  ring  at  that  horrid 

door-bell,  [ble. 

And  flying  at  once  with  my  form  all  a  trem- 

There  stood— oil  what  horror  —  the  d;ishing 

Fred  Melle. 
A  charming  maid's  blush  rose  up  to  my  tem- 
ples. 
Suffusing  my  neck  with  its  reddening  glow, 
1  thouglit  it  extremely  unkind  of  the  fellow 
To  call,  when  my  duty  required  me  below. 

But  the  call,  like  the  mysteries  deep  of  good 
ciH)king,  [end, 

Witii  words  of  regret   reached  a  summary 

I  returned  with  my  blushes  back  into  the 
kitchen. 

To  take  up  the  loaves,  to  mold  and  to  Viend. 

And  then  nicely  shiiped  I  put  them  in  drip- 
pers. 

And  set  them  to  rise  near  the  buck  oven 
door. 

Next  I  proceed  with  dish-cloth  and  cook- 
knife. 

To  clean  up  the  dough  from  the  table  and 
floor. 

The  bread  came  up  lightly,  my  face  uow 
shone  brightly; 

I  set  it  with  pride  in  the  oven  to  bake 

(I  counted  my  chickens  before  they  were 
tienr  hatched), 

Tlie  stuff  was  as  tough  as  au  iron-toothed 
rake. 


-* 


*- 


1124 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


JAMES  ALMERINE  DELKE. 

Born:  Surry  Co.,  Va.,  Sept.  14, 1821. 
In  1841  the  subject  of  this  sketch  graduated 
from  the  North  Carolina  University.  He 
has  taught  school  for  nearlj-  half  a  century 
in  academies,  colleg'es  and  universities  in 
Virginia,   North   Carolina    and   Tennessee. 


*- 


JAMES  ATyMERTNE  DELKE. 

Mr.  Delke  has  been  honored  with  the  degrees 
of  A.B.,  A.M.,  and  LL.D.  The  poems  of 
this  great  educator  have  received  publica- 
tion in  the  North  Carolina  Teacher,  Nashville 
Baptist  Companion,  Riclimond  Religious 
Herald  and  numerous  other  prominent  pub- 
lications. James  Almerine  Delke,  A.B.,  A. 
M.,  LL.D.,  now  resides  at  High  Point,  N.  C. 

THE  EYE. 

Should  hatred  or  love 

Our  sympathies  move, 
'Tis  in  vain  for  our  lips  to  deny; 

We  may  slip  out  a  flb, 

Though  ever  so  glib,— 
The  truth  will  be  seen  in  the  eye. 

Though  sweetly  we  smile. 

And  seek  to  beguile, 
All  in  vain,  the  effort  we  try; 

The  blush  on  the  cheek 

The  truth  may  not  speak,— 
Yet  'tis  seen  in  truth-telling  eye. 

Though  a  secret  we  keep 

In  our  bo.sora  so  deep, 
'Twill  manage  its  prison  to  fly; 


Beyond  all  control. 

In  spite  of  the  soul,— 
The  truth  will  escape  thro'  the  eye. 

Then  do  not  believe 

That  you  can  deceive. 
And  safely  all  watching  defy; 

Your  tongue  you  m;iy  chain, 

Your  lips  bite  in  vain,— 
The  truth  will  be  seen  in  the  eye. 

WINTER'S  RAID. 
Old  Winter  was  storming  in  bitter  distress. 
While  preparing  to  change  his  base. 
His  baggage  all  checked  to  a  northern  ad- 
dress 
He  was  hoping  to  leave  by  the  air-line  ex- 
press 
For  the  sun  was  giving  him  chase. 
At  the  head  of  the  troop  ^olus  loud  blew 
His  summons  to  mount  and  awajM 
The  Boreas  his  icicle  scinietar  drew 
And  onward  with  double-quick  speed  they 

flew  — 
Like  ghosts  at  the  coming  of  day. 
The  white  tents  were  gone,  the  frost  turned 

to  dew. 
The    streams,    ,iust    unlocked    from    their 

chains. 
Were   murmuring    forth    their   glad   songs 

anew. 
While  broader,  more  rapid,  and  deeper  they 

grew. 
In  haste  to  distribute  their  gains. 
The  birds  are  come  out  with  carols  so  gay, 
The  vanguard  of  nature's  sweet  choir; 
The  generous  night  lends  her  time  to  the  day 
Only  asking  his  note  the  loan  to  repay, 
When  Apollo  shall  mount  no  higher. 

Dame  Nature  awoke  from  her  short  winter 

sleep. 
And  gazed  at  the  changes  around, 
Then  smiled  when  she  saw  the  violets  peep. 
And  able  no  longer  their  fragrance  to  keep 
As  "day-stars"  en  jewelled  the  ground. 
But  hark!    in   the   distance   a  murmur  is 

heard  — 
Each  ear  is  expectant  with  dread ;  — 
In  haste  driven  in  flies  the  sentinel  bird 
And    chills    every    heart   with    the  magical 

word  — 
Old  winter  is  making  a  raid ! 
The  sun  darkly  sets  'neath  a  cloud  in  the 

we.st  — 
Slowly  drag  the  long,  weary  hours,— 
And  after  a  night  of  anxious  unrest, 
Damo  Nature  is  seized  with  a  chill   in  th® 

breast! 
And  snow-flakes  are  kissing  tlic  flowers! 


*- 


-* 


LOCAI.  AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


U2.3 


HORACE  L.  HASTINGS. 

Born:  BLAXDrORD,  Mass.,  1831. 
As  AUTHOR  of  Shall  We  Meet  Boiond  the 
River  and  the  work  entitled  Soug-s  of  Pil- 
grimag-e  which  contains  fourliundrcd  hymns, 
Horace  Lorenzo  Hasting-s  has  bocoine  well- 
known  throughout  the  religious  world.    He 


.;r     •^? 


HORACE  LORENZO  HASTINGS. 

is  editor  of  The  Christian,  a  lecturer  on  in- 
fidelity and  an  evangelist,  and  resides  in 
Boston,  Mass.  Mr.  Hastings  is  the  author  of 
more  tlian  a  score  of  standard  works  of  a 
religious  char.-icter,  besides  hundreds  of 
tracts.  He  was  married  in  18.53  to  Miss  Har- 
riet Frances  Barnctt,  and  has  two  sons  and 
one  daughter  grown  to  maturity. 


THE  LORD  IS  MY  SHEPHERD. 
The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd,—  then  I  shall  not 

want. 
He  leads   in   green  pastures  by  waters  of 

peace; 
My  soul  he  restoreth,  when  weary  and  faint. 
And  leads  me  in  righteousness,  wisdom  and 

grace. 
Thro'  th'  valley  of  death-shade  I  walk  with- 
out fear. 
His  rod  and  his  staff  for  my  comfort  abide; 
No  evil  shall    harm  while  my  Sliepherd  is 

near. 
My  gracious    preserver,  my  guardian,  and 

guide. 


Tho'  foes  may  surround  me,  my  board  thou 

dost  spread. 
My  cup  filled  by  thee,  doth  with  blessings 

run  o'er; 
Tliinc  oil  of  rejoicing  upon  my  poor  head. 
In  goodness  and  mercy  thou  daily  dost  pour. 

Tliy  favor  shall  follow  my  steps  to  tlie  end. 

Till  I  in  thy  palace  of  glory  sublime, 

Shall    see   my   Redeemer,    my    Savior   and 

Friend, 
And  dvoll  througli  the  ages  unnumbered  in 

time. 


THE  MOUNTAINS  SHALL  DEPART. 
O   wanderer,    burdened    with    sorrows   and 

fears. 
Look  up  from  thy  darkness,  dejection,  and 

tears ; 
There  is  pity,  and  pardon,  and  gladness  for 

thee. 
There  is  mercy  in  Jesus,— salvation  is  free. 

Your  sins  may  like  mountains  before  you 

arise, 
But  the  mercy  of  God  fills  the  earth  and  the 

skies; 
Ye  weary  and  guilty  give  heed  to  His  call; 
There  is  pardon  for  you, —  there  is  pardon 

for  all. 
The  mountains  shall  shake  and  the  hills  shall 

depart. 
But   nothing   shall   trouble   the    sanctified 

heart; 
For  He  who  hath  loved  us,  our  Savior  and 

Friend, 
Shall  guard  us  and  guide  us  in  love  to  the 

end. 


LOOK  NOT  THOU  UPON  THE  WINE. 
Look  not  on  the  wine  tho'  it  sparkles  and 

smiles. 
It  mocks  with  its  beauty  and  spreads  its 

dark  wiles; 
The  flash  of  its  bubbles  will  lead  thee  iustray, 
It  lures  to  deceive  thee  and  gleams  to  betray. 
Tho'  beauty  and  light  o'er  its  surface  now 

sweeps. 
Dark  monsters  of  horror  lie  hid  in  its  deeps; 
The   cup    that  enchants  you  may  cost  you 

your  blood. 
As  you  drink  in  its  dregs  of  the  wrath  of 

your  God. 
Make  haste  then,  O  mortal,  and  turn  from 

the  cup. 
Shrink  back  from  death's  portal  while  yet 

there  is  hope. 
Resist  all  temptation,  be  bold  in  the  strife. 
That  at  last  you  may  drink  of  the  river  of 

life. 


*- 


1126 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MARTIN  WALLACE. 

Born:  Crawford  Co.,  Ills.,  1838. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Wallsice  have  appeared  in 
the  Texas  Christian  Advocate  of  Dallas,  Hou- 
ston Tribune, and  various  other  publications. 
For  many  years  he  has  been  engaged  in  mill- 
ing  lumber,  and  in  18T4  was  married  to  Miss 
M.  F.  Murray. 

ON  THE  WING. 

While  musing  o'er  the  events  of  Time, 
A  pleasing  sense  of  things  sublime 
Came  o'er  my  thoughts  in  grand  review. 
Of  scenes  with  interest  ever  new. 
First  I  looked  on  childhood's  life, 
With  smiles  of  joy  and  tears  of  grief. 
And  next  the  sports  of  early  youth. 
With  some  deceit  and  much  of  truth. 
Then  riper  life,  with  heavy  cares. 
And  age,  with  all  its  weight  of  years, 
These  every-day  affairs  of  man 
Strew  thickly  o'er  the  path  of  Time. 
But  looking  past  this  business  life, 
Where  love  of  gain  makes  constant  strife. 
The  aged  come  with  trembling  step. 
Life's  weary  journey  nears  its  close. 
Anxious  spirit,  wrestling  with  delay. 
Longs  for  home,  but  here  must  stay 
And  bear  the  cross  till  crown  is  given. 
And  labor  finds  reward  in  Heaven. 
Where  calm  delights  serenely  roll. 
Or  richer  joys  enthuse  the  soul. 
And  happiness  runs  full  and  free 
From  Time  throughout  eternity. 
Love,  the  sweetest  passion  of  the  soul. 
In  Heaven  enjoys  supreme  control. 
And  soft,  sweet  light  and  fragrant  air 
In  rich  refulgence  waving  there. 
But  hark;  what  mean  those  childish  raptures 
In  the  Lord's  reception  rooms; 
A  cherub  infant  looking  out, 
Hails  a  distant  coming  shout. 
Rising  high  o'er  Heaven's  headlands 
Comes  a  shining  angel  convoy. 
Bearing  from  the  stream  of  death 
A  rescued  sinner  saved  by  grace. 
When  first  they  sight  the  plains  of  glory. 
Celestial  beauty's  dazzling  splendor 
Tlirills  with  joy  the  enraptured  mother. 
Looking  o'er  the  Heavenly  mansions. 
In  a  window  waits  her  nursling 
In  flowing  robes  of  Heavenly  brigiitness. 
Waves  starry  crown  and  golden  harp,— 
Tliis  way  mamma,  here's  the  Savior. 
The  Savior  smiles  a  princely  welcome 
To  all  the  joys  a  Heaven  may  know, 
*— 


Mother  from  earth's  low-lands  coming. 
Finds  life's  lost  darlings  saved  in  Heaven. 
A  mother's  soul,  enthused  with  love, 
In  emotion  lost  she  clasps  her  child. 
And  finds  a  long-lost  sainted  daughter, 
Watching  with  the  angel  infant. 
Pleased,  she  gazes  on  their  features, 
Gathering  brightness  on  her  own. 
Until  celestial  light's  reflection 
Gives  resemblance  like  to  all. 
Departed  friends  will  ne'er  return 
From  soul-impi'oving  joys  of  Heaven, 
Where  maturity  expands  their  powers 
And  capacity  o'erflows  with  pleasure. 


PETITION  AND  PRAISE. 
Savior,  near  Thy  Father's  throne. 
For  such  as  I  Thy  blood  atones; 
He  hears  with  love  thy  tender  crj'. 
Plead  merej%  Lord,  for  such  as  I. 
Quicken  with  convincing  power. 
Grant  me  justifying  love; 
Sa%'ior,  let  me  at  Thy  cross 
Find  Thy  full  accepting  grace. 
May  adopting  love  be  given. 
Sweet  assurance,  gift  of  heaven. 
And  sanctifying  grace  bestow 
To  guide  mj'  life  while  here  below. 

PRAISE. 

And  when  I  reach  Thy  home  above. 
In  endless  joy  and  perfect  love, 
I'll  tune  mj'  harp's  eternal  tones 
To  sing  free  grace  and  dying  love. 
And  while  the  eternal  ages  roll. 
And  heaven's  bright  glory  fills  mj'  soul, 
I'll  sing  with  all  the  hosts  above 
Thy  pardoning  grace  and  dying  love. 

ENDLESS  PLEASURE. 

When  million  decades  all  have  fled 
To  lost  oblivion's  silent  shade. 
My  ransomed  soul  may  look  in  vain 
For  glory's  noon  or  eve  unborn. 
Eternal  morn's  high  rising  suu 
Ascends  where  Zenith  ne'er  was  known. 
And  youthful  praise  in  joyful  lays 
Finds  no  nooti  or  close  of  day; 
But  runs  duration's  length'ning  round. 
In  pleasure's  realms  without  a  bound; 
Omiiicience,  looks  in  vain  to  see 
The  boundaries  of  eternity. 


Jesus,  I  would  come  to  Tliee, 
Praying  help  from  sin  to  flee; 
Let  Thy  cleansing  blood  atone 
For  all  tlie  evil  1  have  done. 


*- 


LOCAl.  AND  NATIOXAL   POETS  OF  AMEUICA. 


1127 


MRS.  JUSTELLE  CUMMINGS. 

Born:  Falmouth,  5Ie.,  Dec.  19, 1848. 
This  ladj'  has  generally  resided  ia  Port- 
land, but  now  resides  in  Falmouth,  Me.  Slie 
graduated  from  the  Portland  Higli  Scliool 
and  was  married  to  Dr.  Isaac  I.  Cumniings 
In  1873,  but  is  now  a  widow.    Quite  a  few  of 


MRS.  JUSTELLE  B.  CUMMINGS. 

hor  poems  have  appeared  in  the  periodical 
press,  generally  under  a  nom  de  plume. 
Falthe,  a  story  of  Falmouth,  extracts  of 
which  are  given  herewith,  is  considered  a 
very  fine  production. 


TWO  PATHS. 
No  thorns  grow  iu  your  level  path, 
Tlie  sun  on  flowers  smiling, 
With  all  the  pleasures  nature  hath 
Combine  for  idle-wiling. 
No  sorrows  for  your  heart  are  there 
Nor  tears  of  others,  soothlj' 
To  vex  your  happy  soul,  for  here 
Some  power  makes  things  go  smoothly. 

My  way  is  dark,  uneven,  rough. 

In  sombre  shadow  lying. 

And  at  the  end,  fur,  far  enough. 

There  seems  u  faint  light  flying. 

Which  onward  goes,  too  faint,  loo  far. 

To  give  my  footsteps  guiding; 

'Tis  sometimes  like  a  wandering  star 

Tn  darkness  lost  or  hiding. 

And  still  I  know  the  light  is  there. 

Though  never  smilini:  kindly; 

It  leads  my  f;iltering  footsteps  where 

1  can  but  follow  blindly. 


*- 


FAITHE. 

A  STOUV  OF  FALMOUTH. 

A  thrift}'  town,  a  century  or  more  agone, 

Wa.^  Falmouth  by  the  sea. 
Whose  commerce  In  those  stirring  times  was 
done 
In  ships  built  on  her  shore, 
Where,  in  the  lanes  each  branching  tree  met 
tree 
In  sweei)ing  arch  continuously. 
And  barred  the  burning  rays  of  noonday  sun 

From  falling  iiarshly  o'er 
The  heads  t)f  hai)py  tillers  of  the  soil. 

And    sun-tanned   masters   of    fair    Fal- 
mouth's ships 
Returned  to  her  safe  harbor  after  toil 

And  jieril  in  tiio  sly  and  treaclierous slips 
And  storms  of   ocean's  mad  and   ruthless 
moil. 

Fair  Falmouth  that  I  mind  to  tell  you  of. 
Not  in  the  storied  grandeur  of  a  Rome, 
Nor  yet  in  castled  dwelling  had  she  fame. 
Hut  Nature's  hand  liad  fashioned  here,  a 
liome. 
Fit  dwelling  place  of  Beauty  and  of  Love, 
And  dear  Content  sat  at  her  cottage  doors 
While  wholesome  Comforts  voyaged  to 
her  sliores. 
Where  many  sails  bleached  iu  the  shining 

Sun 
When  he,  as  from  a  bath,  in  the  far  horizon 
Dripping   with    li(iuid  light  proclaimed 

the  morn 
And  heraldes  that  the  joy  of  day  is  born. 

Green  isles,  whose  rugged  headlands  stand 
Abrui)t  like  sentinels  who  bar  the  way 
To  flags  of  duV)ious  dress,  and  bid  them. 
Stay : 
Nor  bring  their  trait'rous  goods  from  alien 
land. 
Green  isles  the  w.aves  enrich,  where  high 
The  soaring  sea-birds  sail  twixt  sea  and 
sky. 
The  story  that  I  mind  to  tell  toj-ou 

Is  of  a  maiden,  brave  and  fair  to  see. 
Whoso  varying  fortunes  and  whose  sorrows, 
few 
Will    find  it  in  their  hearts  to  re.nd  but 
lovingly. 

Born  with  the  people  though  not  of  them  she. 
For  lacked  she  not  of  gentle  ancestry 

Not  so  remote  but  tliat  the  leavening 
Lent  all  her  ways  a  gr:iccful  dignity. 

Faithe's  mother's  motlior,  exiled  in  the 
evening 
Of  a  stormy  life,  bereft  of  liigh  degree. 

Exiled  and  widowed.  Journeyed  to  this 
land 


*- 


1128 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


To  seek  a  place  of  safety  from  the  hand 
Of  tjTauuous  intolerance,  and  here  to  see 
Her  fair  jouug-  daughter  placed  iu  custody 

Of  distant  relatives.    Then,  weary  at  the 
last 

From  all  the    changing   cares    through 
which  her  life  had  passed. 
She  bid  adieu  to  scenes  wliere  sorrows  hide 
The  while  her  daughter  grieving  at  her  side. 
Was  from  both  kin  and  country  severed  wide. 

This  maiden  sorrowed,  stricken  to  the  heart, 
Till  slie  from  life  Itself  was  fain  to  part. 

But  there  was  beauty  in  the  saddened 

face 
And  iu  her  ways  a  kind  of  stately  grace. 
Which  white-rose  beauty  pleased  the  brave 
joung  lieart 
Of   one    whose  farmer's   calling  scarce 
could  dare 
To  seek  a  highly  born  and  proudly  nurtured 

Fair, 
But  win  he  must  for  love's  entrancing  dart 
Had  pierced  liim  to  the  soul  with  fatal 

force 
And  left  no  strength  for  any  other  course. 

I  wish  I'd  space  to  tell  you  what  was  said. 
And  how  the  days  of  wooing  quickly  sped. 
Of  how  at  last  the  Squire  won  his  bride. 
And  how  in  joyous  strength  and  youth- 
ful pride. 
He  led  her  to  the  altar  by  his  side. 
But  it's  of  Faithe  the  story  I'm  to  tell 
And  all  the  crooked  liappenings  there  befell, 
So  T  must  on  to  later  times,  and  so 
Must  leave  to  happier  tale  that  long  ago. 

The  days  were  C(»«ie  when  English  warships 
laid 
Along  these  peaceful  shores 
And  levied  tax,  while  many  a  threat  was 
made 
By  testy  Commodores, 
And  haughty  Captains  loftily  aspired 
To  dictate  terms  to  men  whose  souls  were 
fired 
For  Freedom.    Better  had  it  been 
Had  Britain  saved  her  warships  and  her 
men 
For  nobler  purpose  than  extorting  tithes 
From   hands  that  steered   her  prows   and 
swung  her  scythes. 

Strong  hearts  there  were,  were  hot  with  in- 
dignation. 
And  soon  brave   minds  were  planning 
sharp  redress. 
E'en  then  were  men  convened  in  consultation 
To   shape    a   dawning    Nation's    proud 
success 


While  soon  the  people  follow  with  the  cry: 
Of  "  Liberty !     For  this  we'll  live  or  die." 
The  Squire,  among  the  first  of  all  of  those 
To  whose  stout  courage  Freedom  ever  owes 
Its  victory,  gave  stores  and  proffered  life 
And  marched  within  the  thickest  of  the 
strife. 
Faithe  loved  this  rugged  land  where  she  was 
born. 
And  bravely  saw  her  father  march  away 
To  win  its  Liberty,  nor  did  she  mourn 

When  her   dear  friend  and  schoolmate 
came  to  say 
That  he  too,  boasting  in  youthful  zeal. 
Should   "  ride   a  royal   road  to  naught  but 
weal"  [luief 

And  they'd  •»  return  too  in  a  space  so 
There  would  be  time  to  scarce  begin  to 
grieve." 

Faithe  worshipped  in  her  heart  her  peaceful 

home,  [roam. 

Nor  dreamed  in  fairer  land  one  e'er  could 

She  knew  and  loved  each  beauty  of  the 

place. 

The  ocean  whose  clear  green  and  vivid  blue 

Shine  in  the  sun,  reflected  from  hor  face. 

While  sighing  undines  in  her  deepness  view 

The  hidden  mystery  of  her  fluent  grace. 

She  loved  to  see  those  distant  silver  peaks 
Fade  in  the  ambient  glory  of  that  light 
Where  Phcebus   spreads  his   dazzling 
coverlet 
And  goes  to  rest;  or  restless  seeks 

Another   glorious    day,    while   peaeefu 
night 
Keigns  over  all  where  his  bright  rays 
have  set. 
She  loved  the  wood's  green  banks  and  brooks 
And  often  searched  its  knolls  and  nooks 
For  fragrant  arbutus  and  flowers 
Which  flourish  rarely  in  these  bowers. 
She  loved  to  wander  bj-  the  sea 
Where  boughs  bend  down  so  lovingly 
To  clasp  the  soft,  caressing  waves 
That  linger  in  the  creeks  and  caves, 
And  softly  bathe  the  orchard's  slope 
Where  fruit  and  grass  yield  greedy  crop 
To  realize  the  farmer's  hope. 

Faithe  loved  it  all,  but  deep  and  dearer  yet 

Was  love  of  home  and  kindred  deeply  set. 
And  now  a  shadow  of  unspoken  grief, 
A  sorrow  seeming  almost  past  relief. 

Looks  from  the  darkening  shades  within  b( 
eyes. 

And  in  her  voice  a  hopeless  cadence  lies. 
No  love-tale  this.  Faithe's  youthful  hea 
Was  yet  untouched  save  by  the  tender  t 
Nursed  in  the  cradle  of  Sanguinity.        I 

r 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


1129 


JAMES  A.  DEMOSS.  M.  B. 

Born  in  Indiana,  Feb.  5, 1859. 
Becoming  a  student  of  mediciiio  under  his 
father,  he  received  liis  dcfrreoof  >L  D.  in  18J-'3. 
lu  1884  Dr.  DeMoss  was  married  tuMiss  Anna 
M.  Oliver;  he  now  resides  in  Thayer,  Kausiis, 
with    his  wile    and    liule    ilauylilur.     As   a 


JAMES  A.  D'MOSS,  M.  D. 

■writer.  Dr.  DeMoss  has  been  somewhat  pro- 
lific, altlioug-h  but  little  has  yet  been  given 
to  the  public.  His  contributions  liave  aji- 
peared  in  the  Voice  of  Masonry  and  Family 
Magazine,  as  well  as  many  other  journals  of 
equal  prominence.  He  contemplates  issuing 
a  volume  in  the  near  future. 


THOUGHTS. 
Thoughts  are  flying  inspirations, 

Fleeting  as  the  summer's  cloud; 
Grasp  them,  hold  them,  they  arc  precious. 

Silent,  yet  they  sv>eak  aloud. 
For  the  inspirations  lifting. 

From  the  soul's  deep  silvered  strand. 
Are  the  fresh  and  brilliant  jewels  — 

Tokens  of  the  inner  man. 
Thoughts,  like  rivers,  run  to  oceans  — 

The  great  sea  of  human  lore; 
But  it  first  must  fall  in  showers. 

On  the  mead,  and  marsh,  and  moor. 
Then  refresh  the  fevered  meadows. 

Let  some  dew  fall  in  the  night ; 


If  you  cannot  send  the  sliowcrs, 
Vou  can  lend  your  little  mite. 

Selfish  natures  cannot  broaden 
From  witliout  their  n.-irrow  self; 

Wealth  you  liold  within  your  bosom 
Narrows  more  and  more  yourself. 

Breathe  afar  your  thoughts  of  meaning', 
Like  the  dew  of  Hermou's  jdain; 

"  Cast  your  bread  upon  the  waters  — 
It  will  turn  to  you  again." 


MV  LIFE. 
Life  to  mo  is  as  the  waters 

From  the  mountain  leaping  down, 
Tlirough  the  meadows  and  the  rivers. 

To  the  ocean  onward  bound. 

So  my  life  from  youth's  glad  hill-top. 
Draining  through  a  channeled  worhl. 

Onward  bounding,  smootldy  streaming. 
Cradle  in  the  grave  is  hurled. 

When  absorbed  within  the  bosom 
Of  old  ocean's  peaceful  rest. 

Lost  I  tlicn  shall  be  forever. 
In  divinity  at  rest. 


WOKTIILESSNESS. 
Some  beings  live  from  day  to  day 

Without  a  thought; 
Whose  solemn  moments  pass  away, 

And  soon  forgot. 

Each  day  as  but  an  idle  dream 

Of  little  worth; 
And  to  the  dormant  mind  'twouldscem 

His  life  a  curse. 

It  is  a  fruitless  life  indeed. 

Ah  yes,  'tis  worse 
Tlian  fruitless,  and  of  little  need 

E'er  to  rehearse. 

Not  only  do  they  bear  no  fruit 

Of  value  great. 
Nor  deeds  of  any  g(X)d  repute 

Would  fain  create; 

Hut  worse  by  far  than  fruitless  toil. 

They  sink  at  last 
Into  despair,  a  worthless  spoil. 

Forgotten  past. 

Ah,  sad  to  see  a  wasted  form 

All  ghastly  lay, 
A  victim  to  life's  every  storm  — 

A  helpless  prey. 

All  damned  here  by  his  worthless  self. 

Ignoble  slave; 
A  victim  of  his  hand  bereft. 

His  trust  did  wave. 


*- 


*- 


1130 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS   OF   AJIERICA. 


GUSTAVUS  W.  WICKSTEED. 

Born  :  England,  Dec.  21, 1799. 
GrUSTAvus  W.WiCKSTEED,  Q.C.,  IS  the  author 
of  a  Tolume  of  poems  which  was  published 
ia  1887,  entitled  Waifs  in  Verse,  which  lias 
been  highly  praised  by  the  press  and  public. 
The  poems  of  this  noted  lawyer  and  author 


GUSTAVUS  W.  WICKSTEED. 

have  constantly  appeared  for  tlie  past  half 
century  in  the  Canadian  press.  For  fifty 
years  he  has  been  in  the  civil  service  of  the 
Dominion  of  Canada,  and  in  all  that  time  lias 
maintained  the  highest  respect  of  his  col- 
leagues. 


AN  ALBUM'S  PETITION. 
To  each  dear  friend  and  Ijind  relation 
Of  its  mistress,— of  what  nation 
They  may  be  soe'er,  and  whether 
Known  or  not,— to  all  together, 
Young  or  old,  or  dull  or  witty, 
Rich  or  poor,  or  plain  or  pretty, 
A  modest  begging  book's  memorial 
Humbly  shewetli  — 

That  to  glory,  all 
Wlio  its  pages  will  adorn 
Shall  be  l)y  its  pages  borne. 
And  go  down  to  future  times 
With  tlic  autlior  of  these  rliymes,— 
They  who' re  young  may  write  about 
Love's  sweet  dream  and  anxious  doubt; 
And  they  wlio  have  been  long  on  earth 
May  toll  us  wliat  that  dream  is  worth. 
Tliey  who  have  the  brains  and  Avit 


On  iiiany  a  brilliant  thought  can  hit. 
And  they  who've  not  can  borrow  one 
From  the  good  liing  Solomon. 
Thcj-  who're  ricli  can  pay  at  will. 
For  another  artist's  skill. 
But  they  who're  poor,  unhappy  elves, 
Must  try  to  write  or  draw  themselves. 
Tliey  who're  pretty,  if  they're  wise, 
Tiieir  beauty  will  immortalize 
By  having  each  bewitching-  look. 
Glowingly  copied  in  this  book;  — 
To  those  who're  plain  it  will  be  a  dutj 
To  sliow  how  wit  surpasses  beauty. 
Come  ladies  fair,  and  gentlemen. 
Wield  the  pencil  or  the  pen. 
You  can  fill  me  if  you  trj-;  — 
Write  or  draw,  or  cut  or  buy. 
Verse  or  picture,  prose  or  print. 
Act  on  a  gentle  album's  hint; 
Give  me  mistress  something  clever. 
For  itself  she'll  love  it  ever; 
Or  if  it  be  of  those  that  perish. 
For  your  sake  your  gift  she'll  cherish; 
So  shall  your  production  be 
Made  famous  by  its  place  in  me.— 
Be  of  my  requests  observant 
And  my  lady  is  your  servant; 
Accede  to  them  without  delay. 
And  your  petitioner  shall  pray. 

SONNET. 

TO  MY  WIFE  — WITH  THE  BRITISH  POETS. 

Love  is  like  poetrj-,  botli  lend  vhe  hue 
Peculiar  to  themselves  to  all  they  touch. 
And  clothe  it  with  a  loveliness  all  new, 
A   strange    but   most  delightful  sweetness. 
Such  the  beautyby  the  i)ictured  window  shed 
On  the  cold  walls  as  some  cathedral  aisle. 
Tinting  the  sculptured  relics  of  the  dead, 
Till  marble  dames  and  warriors  seem  to  smile. 
As  love's  first  offering  for  the  new-born  year, 
Tliis  Volume,  ricli  in  Britain's  choicest  song, 
No  inappropriate  tribute  will  appear      [long 
From  him  whose  fondest,  prayer  shall  be.that 
As  life  is  thine,  thy  days  and  years  may  be 
Made  fair  and  bright  by  love's  sweet  poesy. 


TO  MY  PISTER. 
In  joy,  in  grief,  in  laughing  safety's  day, 
In  frowning  danger's  hour,  when  blank  dis- 
may [have  been 
Filled    sterner   hearts    than   ours,— wo  two 
Companions  my  sweet  sister;— tho'  we  part 
In  person,  still  I  know  that  heart  to  heart 
Will  speak  and  answer  ever:  write  and  tell 
All  that  may  grieve  or  please  thee,  knowing 

well 
That  all  that  pains  or  joys  or  interests  thine 
Pains,  joys  or  moves  this  faithful  heart  of 
mine. 


*t- 


« 


LOCAL   AND   NATION  A  I-   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


1131 


JESSIE  VIRGINIA  FREN'CH. 

Born:  McMinnvillk,  Tenn.,  April  2, 1856. 
A  VOLUME  of  poems  eiitillod  Souncliiitrs  and 
Sea  Foam,  from  the  pen  of  Jessie  Virg-iiiiu 
Frencb,  willsliorlly  be  published.  The  poems 
of  this  autlior  have  .-ippoaivd  extensively  in 
the  perii^dical  pro*s  of  the  South,  where  slie 


JESSIK   vine  I  MA  FRENCH. 

resides  at  Nashville,  Tenn.  Mrs.  L.  Virgiuia 
French,  the  mother  of  the  subject  of  this 
sketeli,  was  also  an  autlior  of  frreat  merit 
who  was  very  ])opular  in  the  Soutli.  where 
she  had  endeared  herself  to  tlie  public  by  her 
many  beautiful  poems  and  high  literary  at- 
tainments. 


MY  LOVE  SONG. 
••  Would  I  were  with  thee  — " 
Is  tlio  old  love  song. 
She's  singing  to-nigiit 
To  tiic  listening  tiirong. 

With  tlice  — witli  thee  — 
How  her  words  tlirill  out  — 
"Would  I  were  witli  thee," 
Can  my  stirred  lieart  doubt. 

The  little  singer 
Is  singing  for  me?  — 
"In  joy  or  pain 
By  land  or  sea. 
Would  I  were  with  thee 

Eternallv." 


"Would  I  were  witli  thee 
Every  day  and  hour." 
My  cruel  pride  arose 
In  its  young  tyrant  iKjwer. 
And  this  — and  this  — 
Fur  tlie  gilded  tlirong! 
Slie.  ringing  for  them 
My  favorite  song  I 
And,  f-inging  as  never 

Siie  sang  Ijefore. 
The  old-time  air 
The  old  love  love  — 
"  Wlien  liappy  dreams 
Thy  tlioughts  employ. 
Would  1  were  with  thee 

In  thy  joy." 

"  Would  I  were  with  tliee 
When  tlie  world  forgetting." 
I  found  myself  beside 
Tiie  belle  of  the  evening 

Fretting  —  fretting  — 
"  Wlien  all  thy  thoughts 
Belong  to  me  alone." 
All :  but  once  we  hear 
The  full  soul's  vibrant  tone! 

Tlie  laugii  I  laughed. 
But  stilled  back  a  sigli. 
Had  shining  tears  but  veiled 
The  light  in  Beauty's  eye, 
I  had  not  felt  afraid 
Of  my  old  love  song; 
It  had  not  breathed  so  much 

Of  brilliant  wrong  — 
"  When  all  is  dark 
And  sad  below. 
Would  I  were  with  thee 

In  thv  woe." 


"  Would  I  were  with  thee 
When  no  longer  feigning." 
Rising,  1  wrestled  with 
My  soul's  complaining. 

The  song  rose  with  me  — 
"  As  when  the  moon 
Has  lit  the  lonely  sea. 
Or  when  in  crowds 
Some  careless  note  refraining, 
Speaks  to  thy  heart 
In  memory  of  me." 
I  loft  the  little  singer 

Beside  the  sea: 
The  song  is  never  fluished. 
But  )>egins  agiiiii 

For  me.— 
••  In  joy  or  p:iiii 
By  sea  or  shore. 
Would  I  were  with  thee 

Evermore." 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  EFFIE  G.  SNOW. 

Born:  Bryan,  Ohio,  Nov.  5, 1847. 
Since  a  girl  of  sixteen,  tins  lady  has  taken 
great  pleasure  in   writing  both  prose  and 
verse.  Married  in  1866  to  B.  W.  Snow,  she  has 
since  experienced  much  grief  in  the  loss  of 


MRS.  EFFIE  G.  SNOW. 

loved  ones;  and  in  1889  lost  her  last  child,  a 
young  lady  of  great  literary  promise  and 
musical  culture.  The  poems  of  Mrs.  Snow 
have  appeared  in  the  leading  publications  of 
America. 


AN  UNCROWNED  KING. 
He  may  reign  at  the  East, 

Or  rule  in  the  West; 
I  can  tell  you  at  least. 

This  bald-headed  guest 
Is  of  royal  birth-right. 

Though  unknown  to  fame; 
Why,  the  strange  little  fright, 

As  yet.  has  no  name. 
I  asked  him  in  amaze 

(He  looked  mighty  queer 
With  his  blank,  far-off  gazC), 

Whence  are  yoH.  my  de.ar? 
Though  he  answered  no  word 

To  cheat  or  beguile; 
His  quaint  features  were  stirred 

By  ghost  of  a  smile. 
From  whence  and  to  whither 

This  mite  of  a  man 


That  lately  came  hither  I 
Let  those  say  who  can ; 

True  hearts  will  believe  him 
Direct  from  above; 

Households  will  receive  him 
As  sovereign  of  love. 


LORA  IS  DEAD. 

"  So  like  a  bride,  my  pretty  girl !  " 

With  grief-stricken  tone,  he  said; 
Where  silent,  white,  chaste  as  a  pearl. 

In  burial  robe,  instead 
Of  bridal  garment,  dressed  she  lay; 

Unwedded  form  of  precious  clay. 
With  Love's  best  promise  put  away  — 

Lora  is  de.ad. 
Out  from  the  quaint  old  Mormon  town 

The  electric  message  sped  — 
Where  foot-hills  flank  tlie  mountains  brow: 

With  neutral  tints  and  red; 
Across  the  continent's  grim  crest, 

O'er  Wyoming's  sparkling  quartz  breast 
Fair  Colorado,  in  sad  quest  — 

Lora  is  dead. 
Past  Kansas  sunflowers'  mottled  gold 

By  prairie  leagues  outspread. 
To  far  Missouri  where,  untold. 

We  looked,  dear  Christ!  instead. 
For  her  bright  letters,  wondered  why 

They  ceased,  as  each  new  day  went  by, 
Till  the  stroke  fell  from  a  clear  sky, 

Lora  is  dead. 
Oh,  sweet!  who  left  us  here—  and  there. 

Mourning,  all  uncomforted. 
The  vanished  presence,  good  and  fair. 

From  whence  your  pure  spirit  fled. 
We  strive  to  feel  God  knoweth  best, 
Who  sealed  dark,  brilliant  eyes  to  rest 
In  a  grave  at  the  distant  West; 
Lora  is  dead. 


T  LOVE  MY  LOVE. 
You  ask  me  why  I  love  him? 
Just  why  I  ne'er  can  tell ; 
I  love  because  I  love  liim. 
And  love  him  passing  well. 
It  matters  not  what  others 
Of  good  or  ill  may  see 
In  him.    Above  his  brothers 
He  has  no  peer  for  me. 
Will  he  give  back  full  measure, 
Through  lapse  of  future  years; 
Or  e'en  despise  love's  pleasure? 
Avaunt,  ye  idle  fears ! 
My  heart  yields  full  surrender. 
And  yield  because  it  must. 
T  do  not  doubt  and  wonder; 
I  only  love  and  trust. 


«- 


*- 


LOCAL   AXD    NATIONAL   I'OKTS   OF    AMEUICA. 


1133 


-* 


WILLIAM  H.COOK. 

The  poems  of  Mr.  Cook  are  grencrally  on  pop- 
ular subjects,  and  have  conseiiiiciitly  always 
been  well  recei\L'd.     lie  is  now  a  ro^ideul  of 


■WTI,I,IA5I  H.  COOK. 


Hampton,  New  York,  wliere  he  is  well  known 
and  admired  for  his  many  accomplishments. 
These  poems  Imve  received  extensive  pub- 
lication in  the  periodical  press. 


4f 


MEMORIAL  DAY. 
Sacred  day  of  j<  )j-  and  sorrow. 

Day  of  memory  and  of  tears. 
Time  doth  touch  thee  but  to  hallow 

Throujfh  the  ever-rolling'  years. 
Day  of  tears  —  for  we  lament  thee. 

Soldier  — in  thine  lionored  grave: 
Day  of  joy  — we  hail  the  tiaticm. 

Thou  did'st  give  thy  life  to  save. 

Where  the  white  peaks  of  New  England 

Greet  the  morning's  dazzling  light; 
Where  the  Golden  Gate  of  Sunset 

Bids  the  day  a  fond  "good-night," 
Half  the  world  shall  hear  our  bugles. 

Half  the  world  shall  bow  the  knee. 
Half  the  world  shall  swell  the  anthem, 

Soldier  — that  we  raise  to  thee. 

In  the  beauteous  hind  of  sunshine. 
Where  the  laurel  ever  blooms: 

Where  the  birds,  in  nature's  chorus. 
Chant  a  requiem  o'er  their  tombs. 


There  our  ••  Hoys  in  Blue  "  are  sleeping 
In  the  sunshine  and  the  rain; 

While  the  murnuiring  i>ine-tree  branches 
Wail  a  dirge  above  our  slain. 

Ours,  the  mission  of  remenilirance, 

Tlii'irs,  the  holier  one  to  die; 
Ours,  the  ninsom  of  the  nation. 

Theirs,  the  ransom  of  the  sky: 
Ours,  from  I3eauty's  lovely  fingers 

Flowers  to  scatter  o'er  their  tombs: 
Theirs  to  walk  the  hills  of  glory. 

Where  eternal  summer  blooms. 

Not  alone  earth's  fairy  fingers 

Scatter  llowers  upon  their  biers. 
Not  alone  earth's  sweetest  chorus, 

Not  alone  earth's  holiest  tears; 
Unseen  forms  are  hovering  o'er  us. 

Forms  that  wear  the  martyr's  crown. 
All  unseen  the  hands  of  angels 

Scatter  Eden's  roses  down. 

Teardrops  wrung  from  weary  bondsman. 

Teardrops  shed  above  our  slain, 
By  the  widow  and  the  orphan. 

Falling  like  the  summer's  rain; 
Through  thena  shines  the  sun  of  Promise 

From  the  smiling  heavens  above; 
And  from  Pine  tojfar  P;ilmetto, 

Spans  the  rainbow  arcli  of  Love. 

All  the  flowers  the  years  have  garnered. 

Heaped  upon  the  soldier's  bier. 
From  the  d:iys  of  strife  and  glory 

To  this  grand  centennial  year; 
They  have  filled  the  Bloody  Chasm; 

Thej-  have  bid  the  war-cry  cease; 
For  above  the  soldier's  pillow 

Bends  the  angel-form  of  Peace. 

O,  ye  martyr  sons  of  Freedom! 

Sacred  be  thine  honored  graves; 
O'er  thee,  planted  by  affection. 

Summer's  floral  tribute  waves. 
'Tis  no  single  heart  laments  thee. 

But  a  nation's  te;irs  are  thine; 
For  the  turf  that  shrouds  her  heroes 

Is  Columbia's  holiest  shrine. 

Fallen  heroes!    Fair  Columbia 

Bows  the  head  and  bends  tlie  knee: 
Every  shaft  she  ertjwns  with  chaplets. 

Is  an  arch  of  fame  to  thee. 
When  the  bugle  call  is  sounded 

For  creation's  ••grand  review," 
Tlioy,  wlio  lead  the  shining  cohorts. 

Wear  the  ••  faded  coat  of  blue." 


*- 


1134 


LOCAl-   AND   NATIOXAL   TOETS   OK   AMEKICA. 


JOHN  G.  MATHESEN. 

Born:   Walworth  Co.,  Wis.,  Feb. 27, 1840. 

Mr.  Mathesen  oceasionalb'  writes  poems, 
which  have  appeared  fnim  time  to  time  in 
the  periodical  press.  He  was  married  in  1872, 
and  resides  in  Pilger,  Neb.,  where  he  is  en- 


JOHN   G.  MATHESEN. 

gag-ed  in  farming-  and  stock  raising.  Mr. 
Mathesen  is  Ji  member  of  the  legishiture  of 
his  state,  to  which  ofHce  lie  was  elected  by  a 
large  majority  iu  1890. 


*- 


IN  MEMORY  OF  OUR  DEAD  HEROES. 
To-day  we  meet  to  strew  with  tears 

Flow'rs  o'er  each  fallen  comrade's  grave. 
And  as  we  meet,  let  no  one  here 

Forget  the  ones  who  died  to  save 
Our  country  from  that  awful  fate. 

Which  was  baptised,  at  first,  in  sin, 
And  woven  in  the  golden  chain. 

When  first  our  nation  did  begin. 

Yet  In  the  days  when  great  men's  heart 
Were  tried  as  hard  as  saints  of  yore; 

And  striving  hard  to  leave  to  us 
A  heritage  of  this  lair  shore; 


And  plant  upon  this  western  shore 
A  home  for  us,  where  we'd  be  free: 

And  casting  off  forever  more 
Allegance  to  the  powers  that  be. 

They  then  forgot  there  was  a  God 

To  punish  even  them  for  sin; 
Tho'  hard  they  strove  it  was  in  vain,— 

Yet  wickedness  must  still  crawl  in. 
And  like  the  canker  worm,  or  rust. 

When  once  imbedded  in  the  core, 
Commence  to  eat  its  victim's  heart 

And  clings  to  it  forever  more. 

So  in  the  days  when  God  forebore. 

And  heard  his  children's  woeful  cry. 
And  stretched  his  hand  o'er  this  brightshorc 

To  save  it  ere  this  nation  die; 
They  then  forgot  they  pledged  to  Him 

To  keep  the  country  ever  free; 
Tho'  black  his  face,  perhaps. his  heart 

Was  truer  to  his  God  than  they. 

To  this  has  been  the  nation's  curse  — 

It  was  baptised  with  it  in  sin. 
While  marching  to  its  bridal  morn; 

Then  slavery  with  it  first  began, 
And  there,  to  be  a  nation's  curse, 

It  caused  the  brave  for  it  to  die; 
And  tliere  upon  its  native  soil 

The  blue  and  gray  together  lay. 

Then  don't  forget  to  place  a  flower 

While  passing  by  a  rebel's  grave- 
Remember  though  he  raised  the  spear 

That  he,  too,  had  a  soul^osave. 
And  that  perhaps  it  looked  to  him 

That  he  was  striving  for  t  ho  right. 
And  praying  to  the  God  above 

To  help  the  cause  of  those  that's  right, 

So  as  to  wash  away  the  stain 

It  was  baptised  again  iu  blood. 
And  raanj-  a  noble  heart  was  slain 

To  furnish  for  that  crimson  flood,— 
To  help  appea.se  .a  great  God's  wr;ith 

The  tears  must  flow  from  shore  to  shore. 
The  widows  and  aged,  at  home, 

JSIust  mingle  with  the  heroes'  gore. 

So  let  us  now  in  kindness  pass 

The  heart-iiangs  that  we  all  must  fool, 
And  lei  the  jears  as  they  go  past. 

The  sorrows  of  our  nation  heal. 
And  let  no  word  upon  this  day 

Be  said  to  lacerate  the  sore. 
But  each  one  in  his  bosom  pray 

To  .shield  us  from  it  ever  more. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMEI{U;A. 


1135 


MRS.  AUGUSTA   C.  BRISTOL. 

Born:  Croydon,  N.  H.,  April  17, 183o. 
For  several  years  this  l;idy  t;iug-hi  school 
and  .Viis  married   iiil8t;(ilo  Louis   Bristol,  a 
lawyer.    In  1808  a  voliiineof  i)oeiiis:ippe:ired 

III  her  Di'u,  which  was  favorably  received. 


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MRS.  AUGUST.A.    COOl'KU    11K1.-,1(M.. 

Tliroug-li  theag'eiicy  of  tlie  pen  and  plalforni, 
Mrs.  Bristol  is  a  g-reut  advocate  of  .social 
prog'ress,  and  some  of  her  philosophic  and 
scientific  lectures  liave  been  translated  and 
publislied  in  foreign  couutries.  Tin's  lady  is 
now  a  resident  of  Vinelaud,  N.  J. 


ART-SEKVICK. 
I  wandered  with  an  earnest  lieart. 

Amonor  the  quarried  depths  of  Tliought, 
And,  kindled  by  the  poet's  art, 

I  deftly  wroufe'-lil. 
I  wrought  for  Beauty;  and  the  world 

Grew  very  green  and  smootli  forme. 
And  blossom  banners  liung  unfurled 

On  every  tree. 
Upon  my  heated  forehead  lay 

Tlie  cooling  laurel,  and  my  feet 
Crushed  honied  fragrance  out,  the  Avay 

Had  grown  so  sweet. 
And  Praise  was  servant  of  the  ear. 

And  Love  dropt  kisses  on  the  cheek. 
And  smiled  a  passion-thought  too  dear 

For  tongue  to  speak. 


But  the  day  the  ideal  Good 

BajJtised  nie  witli  immortal  youth. 
And  in  sublimity  of  mood 

I  wrougiit  for  Truth. 
Oh  then,  instead  of  laurel  crown, 

The  world  entwined  a  tiiorny  band. 
And  on  my  forehead  pressed  it  down 

With  heavy  liand. 
And  looks  that  used  to  warm  nic,  froze; 

1  lost  tlie  cheer,  the  odor  sweet. 
The  i)ath  of  velvet;— glaciers  rose 

Before  my  feet. 
Vet  Truth  the  more  divinely  shone. 

As  onward  still  I  souglit  to  press. 
And  gloriously  provetl  lier  own 

Almiglitiness. 
for  girded  in  her  armor  strong. 

And  lifted  bj'  her  matoldcss  arm 
Above  the  frozen  peaks  of  Wrong, 

In  warnitli  and  eahn. 
I  sit,  and  white  thoughts,  lily  i)urc, 

liike  angels  clo.se  my  heart  around, 
.Vnd  fold  megeutl}-  in,  secure 

From  cold  or  wound. 
'  I  kindred  poet-soul,  whose  lays 

Of  sweet  word-music,  set  in  line. 
Are  fasldoned  for  the  world's  poor  praise. 

And  Beauty's  shrine, — 
1  lie  martyr's  spirit-wing  is  strongl 

Clioose  thou  a  pinion  that  can  rise 
Witli  Truth's  full  freight  of  clarion  song 

And  sweep  the  skies! 
Then  shall  the  thoughts  that  in  thee  burn, 

Flame-reacliing.  touch  the  thought  Divine; 
And  man  may  scoff.—  a  world  may  spurn. 

But  Heaven  is  thine. 


THE  OLD.  OLD  STOUT. 
Love  — a  wakened  bird  is  singing, 
Singing  in  tlie  early  dawn; 
Singing  that  the  day  is  coming. 
Singing  t  h:it  the  night  is  gone; 
And  my  heart  sends  back  responses 
To  the  bird  upon  the  lawn. 

Love  —  the  wliile  T  lie  and  listen, 

Am  I  right,  or  am  I  wrong. 

That  two  melodies  seem  ringing 

Like  a  song  witliin  a  song? 

One  informing  all  the  other. 

With  its  meanings  sweet  and  strong. 

Love  —  no  bird  in  wood  or  meadow 

Ever  sang  like  this  before; 

Am  T  foolish,  am  I  sinful. 

That  T  listen  .and  adore? 

That  my  life's  awakened  music 

Moves  responsive,  more  and  more? 


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*- 


1136 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


S.  JENNIE  STOUFFER. 

Born:  Renevola,  Md.,  April,  14,  1869. 
Miss  Stouffeii  graduated  at   Huntingdon 
College  iu  1888,  and  is  at  present  engag-ed  in 
studjing  art.    Her  poems  have  appeared  in 


S.  JENNIE  STOUFFER. 

college  papers  and  the  periodical  press  gen- 
erally. She  is  very  petite  and  is  still  a  resi- 
dent of  the  place  of  her  nativity. 


^- 


BROKEN  RESOLUTIONS. 

Golden  resolutions  broken, 

Lj-ing  shattered  'neatli  my  feet; 
I  will  gather  up  the  fragments. 

Thinking  of  my  gross  defeat. 
True,  I  formed  them  with  a  purpose, 

Just  one  year  ago  to-night; 
Yet  one  by  one  they  have  been  broken 

Though  I  knew  it  was  not  right. 
Ah.  the  future  looked  not  rugged. 

Temptations  then  were  hid  from  sight; 
And  I  dreamed  of  naught  but  victory 

In  the  battle  for  the  right. 
Now  I  pause,  reflect  and  wonder, 

Shall  I  start  again  anew; 
Or  bo  baffled  by  n  failure 

In  a  purpose  good  and  true. 
Now  I  know  that  life  is  earnest, 

And  to  win  is  but  to  fight; 
So  tlie  broken  resolutions 

Are  formed  o'er  again  to-night. 


LIFES  WORK. 
'Tis  a  storj-  told  by  many. 

And  observed  bj'  many  too; 
That  youth  is  the  time  to  accomplish 

Whatever  we  wish  to  do. 
Wait  not  until  the  auburn  tresses 

Have  been  streaked  with  silver  gray. 
And  the  vision  once  perfected 

Is  growing  dimmer  day  bj-  day. 
The  wrinkles  which  show  youth's  decadenci 

Will  stamp  tliemselves  upon  your  brow. 
And  you  feel  that  never  in  life 

Have  you  been  depressed  as  now. 
Say,  what  courage  there  is  left  you 

With  wliich  to  start  a  great  life's  work, 
There  the  duty  lies  before  you, 

But  that  duty  you  must  shirk. 
Opportunities  have  long  vanished. 

No  aim  in  life  was  in  esteem; 
And  you  feel  your  life  a  failure. 

You  have  passed  it  in  a  dream. 
Seize  the  present,  Hope  will  light  you. 

For  obstacles  never  turn  aside; 
For  roughly  o'er  life's  troubled  waters 

Every  one  will  have  to  glide. 


PLEASANT  WORDS. 

Pleasant  words,  how  sweet  the  influence! 

On  a  lonelj'  saddened  heart ; 
See  the  joyous  tears  bow  quickly 

Down  the  sunken  cheeks  they  start. 
Pleasant  words  will  cost  you  nothing. 

But  will  bring  reward  some  day; 
For  there  is  one  who  keeps  a  record 

Of  the  every  word  we  say. 
Have  you  pleasant  words  to  utter? 

Do  not  let  them  be  suppressed! 
For  in  after-years  the  record 

Of  those  words  will  stand  the  test. 


A  PICTURE. 

'Tis  morning,  and  the  sun  shines  bright 
As  we  gaze  upon  a  thrilling  sight; 
Through  the  aged  trees  now  drooping  low 
There  comes  the  thoughts  of  long  ago. 
We  reacli  the  house,  the  honored  iilaee. 
Where  once  could  bo  seen  that  inspiring  fa 
We  see  his  garden  and  his  tiowers. 
And  stand  beneath  his  favorite  bowers. 
His  sword  is  sheathed,  his  work  is  done, 
His  great  life's  race  is  nobly  run; 
He  lies  in  the  tomb  so  lone  and  drear 
Where  all  who  pass  must  shed  a  tear. 
The  birds  still  sing;  the  flowers  bloom 
About  the  entrance  of  liis  tomb. 
But  the  weeping  willow  nods  its  head. 
And  whispers  "  Washington  is  dead.' 


-i 


« 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF    AMKUICA. 


1137 


MRS.  SUSAN  C.  KEEFE. 

Born:  Northwood  Center,  N.  H.,  183". 
For  twenty  years  this  lady  taiig'ht  school. 
In  1877  Miss  Susan  C.  Willey  was  niarriod  to 
Moses  Keefe,  formerly  of  Sycamore,  111.,  witli 
wliom  she  now  resides  at  Oswopo,  Kansas. 


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MKS.  SLSA.N  c.  Ki:i :^  I  . 
For  se%-eral  years  Mrs.  Keul'c  ^\  ua  ihc  I'l..- 
prietor  of  a  stationery  and  book  store,  and 
has  acquired  quite  a  little  property.  Mrs. 
Keefe  is  a  prominent  and  active  member  of 
the  Congregational  church,  and  in  addition 
to  her  literary  abilitios  she  is  quite  a  speaker. 

I'M  GLAD. 

I'm  glad  that  air  is  free  for  j-ou  and  me, 

I'm  glad  that  air  is  free '. 

The  clear,  expansive  air  that  everything  sur- 
rounds, 

That  Ijcars  to  us  nature's  inimitable  sounds. 

Cleft  by  tlie  wings  of  birds,  in  the  blue 
ethereal  space. 

And  through  God  is  living  essence  to  the 
human  race 

From  earth  to  sky,  howe'er  so  high. 

From  shore  to  shore  the  wide  world  o'er. 

It  is  free,  the  boundless  air  is  free  I 

I'm  glad  that  sunlight's  free  for  you  and  mc. 

I'm  glad  that  sunlight  is  free! 

Man  rejoices,  beast,  bird,  butterfly  and  bee. 

Each  blade  of  grass,  each  flower,  bush  and 
tree. 

Ether-waves  of  beauty,  heat  and  light 


That  stamp    tlie  colors  fair  and  mark   daj- 

from  night. 
From  earth  to  sky,  howe'er  so  high. 
From  shore  to  shore  the  wide  world  o'er, 
I'm  glad  tlie  limitless  sunshine's  free  I 
I'm  glad  tliat  water  is  free  for  you  and  me, 
I'm  glad  that  water  is  freel 
The  raindrops  fall,  wide  spread  the  sheets  of 

water;  [and  daughter. 

Sails  are  unfurle<l  for  mnn,  for  wife,  for  son 
From  the  deep  sj)ring's  tree-sheltered  brink. 
We  find  nectar  lit  for  gods  to  drink. 
From  earth  to  sky,  howe'er  so  liigh. 
From  shore  to  shore  the  wide  world  o'er. 
Water  is  free,  unmeasurable  and  free! 
I'm  g!ad  that  truth  is  free  for  j-ou  and  me, 
I'm  glad  that  truth  is  freel 
May  its  spiritual  atmosphere  surround  us; 
Its  pure  sunlight,  the  sunlight  to  crown  us. 
Its  waters  —  which  are  the  river  of  life  — 
Our  anchorage  be,  when  freed  from  mortal 

strife.  [cry. 

From  earth  to  sky  we  raise  one  triumphant 
And  from  shore  to  shore  the  wide  world  o'er, 
Truih,  everlasting  truth  is  free. 


SALES  TO-DAY. 
Times  are  dull,  say  some,  I  have  a  pony  and 

a  chai.se,  [raise. 

I'll  rafllc  them,  the  payment  of  a  debt  to 
All  so  nicely  settled,  so  safely  soldi 
With  twice  their  worth  back  in  gold: 
"Not  a  bit  of  harm,"  says  the  father,  until 

he  sees  his  son  [won. 

Adown  the  current  drifting  for  he's  lost,  not 
All  the  father's  persuasions  can  never  Ituy 

back  [downward  track. 

His  example  which  placed  his  child  upon  the 
Sell  out,  sell  out  the  wrong,  buy  in  the  good. 
Make  of  ourselves  a  royal  brotherhood. 
When  the  truth  you've  bought  sell  it  not- 
Let  others  know  tlie  password  you  have  got. 
Truth  God-given  broad  and  free. 
Rapturous,  enobling,  God-given  to  thee. 
Drink  of  the  deep  inspiration  as  water,  'tis 

clear,  [fear. 

So  strengthened  you  will  have  naught  to 
Raving  thus  sold,  thus  bought,  within  your 

hands 
You  hold  that  which  is  more  precious  tlian 

magician's  wand,  [line. 

The  warranty  detnl  to  an  est.tto  across  the 
Of  trees  and  flowers,  of  fruit  and  vine; 
Of  celestial  bhxim  fi-om  celestial  growth. 
And    a   mansion   many   countless    millions 

worth  [heritanco 

Would  we  ••read  our  titles  clear"  to  an  in- 
Be3'ond  things  perishing,  our  chief  purchases 

must  be  repentance. 


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1138 


LOCAT.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEHICA. 


MRS.  MARION  E.  HARMON. 

At  AN  early  age  tins  lady  was  left  an  orphan, 
and  soon  after  accepted  a  position  as  teacher 
in  the  city  schools  of  Oslikosh  and  Sheboy- 
gan, Wis.  She  was  married  in  1866  to  L.  D. 
Harmon,  by  whom    she    had  a  son    and  a 


MRS.  MARION  E.  HARMON. 

daughter,  botli  of  whom  slie  hud  the  misfor- 
tune to  lose  after  they  liad  grown  to  matur- 
ity. Mrs.  Harmon  has  contributed  to  the 
leading  magazines  and  newspapers  of  Amer- 
ica. She  has  also  been  an  active  and  success- 
ful writer  in  the  fields  of  Puzzledom.  Mrs. 
Harmon  has  published  a  volume,  a  memorial. 

THERES  ONE  DAY  LESS. 

There's  one  day  less 
To  wander,  aimless,  on  life's  clouded  road; 
To  bear,  unsinldng,  life's  sore-pressing  load 
Of  loneliness. 
There's  one  day  less 
To  pine  for  tones  and  glances  gone  for  aye, 
Still  to  exist,  yet  hold  the  dole  away 
Of  mute  distress. 
The  sun  shall  liigh 
In  splendor,  as  of  old,  wlien  day  is  born; 
And  in  its  pristine  glory  flash  the  morn. 
From  orient  sky. 
But  if  that  sky 
Shall  downward   look  upon  my  anguished 

heart. 
Or  I  shall  lie  a  cold,  dead  thing  apart, 
God  knows,  not  I. 


My  only  hope,—  [gal!, 

Since  all  life's  sweetest  wine  is  turned  to 
This.  That  I  may  thus  'neath  grim  Sorrow's  , 

Not  longer  grope.  [pall,  | 

Howe'er  it  be, — 
If  thro'  the  years  my  steps  must  onward  go   ■ 
So  heavily  clogged  down  with  weight  of  woe 

That  crushes  me;  i 

Or  if,  at  day. 
My  f  ranchised  soul  shorn  of  its  earthly  gear. 
Shall,  mounting,  soar  from  this  dull  atmos- 

Afar,—  Away,—  [phere, 

I  can  but  guess: 
Still  as  the  night  comes  on  again,  and  gray 
The  shadows  gather  round  me,  do  I  s:i5% 

There's  one  day  less. 


WHAT  PROFIT? 
t.  The  song  hath  all  been  sung;"—   [be; " 
.'  The  thing  that  hath  been,  is  what  yet  shall 
i>  Beneath  the  sun  is  no  new  thing  to  see. 
Nor  hear,  nor  know !  " 
In  bygone  ages,  so  [day 

Mourned  Israel's  monarch,  and  my  soul  to- 
Takes  up,  and  chants  anew  the  self-same  lay 
With  plaintive  tongue! 
What  profit  that  my  heart    [will  not  die? 
Hold  thoughts  that  burn,  and  hopes  that 
Some  wiser,  mightier,  loftier  one  than  I 
The  whole  hath  said ! 
And  generations  dead, 
And  turned  to  dust  within  forgotten  graves, 
Have  hoped  and  craved  as  my  heart  hopes 
A  better  part !  [and  craves, 

What  I  may  win  is  won  1  [ago! 

What  I  may  think  was  thought  long  yean 
And  all  that  mortal  mind  can  feel  and  know. 
Is  felt  and  known! 
The  sun  itself  that  shone 
Upon  "  The  Preacher,"  shines  on  me  to-diiy 
And  even  this  I  heard  another  say. 
Whose  work  is  done  I 
So  in  a  ceaseless  round 
The  new  is  old,  the  old  is  new  again! 
Then  wherefore  toil  ye  eager  souls  of  men, 
For  such  avail? 
To  hear  an  oft-told  tale, 
Must  I  go  pushing,  crowding  in  the  race? 
Or  tarry  in  some  quiet,  wonted  place 
Where  peace  is  found? 
Oh,  who  can  answer  me?  [t^"' 

Can  point  the  path  that  leads  to  sweet  cor 
Since,  when  the   speeding  iiours  are  wcl 
Regret  is  vain;  [nighspeni 

And  naught  of  strife  and  pain 
Serve  to  recall  one  fit  occasion  past! 
And  that  I  may  not  fail  my  aim  at  last, 
Who  can  forsee? 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF   A.MKIUCA. 


lloJi 


HENRY  TARRING  ECKERT. 

Born  :  Northumberland,  Pa.,  Aug.  20, 1842. 

The  poems  of  Mr.  Eckcrt  have  appeared  in 

the   "Dotroit    Froo   Pro-^s  niul  oilior  pnblica- 


HENRY  TAKllING   ECKEHT. 

tions.    He  follows  the  occupation  of  a  sales- 


DAWN. 
Fly  fair  Aurora  o'er  the  eastern  hills. 
Distill  thy  dews,  flash  in  the  silver  rills. 
Bid  night  and  darkness  flee  before  thy  face, 
And  beauty  dazzle  at  tlij'  touch  of  grace. 
Call  forth  again  the  orient  god  of  day. 
And  bid  him  search  with  brightest  fervid  ray. 
The  darkest  morass,  glade,  or  noxious  fen. 
And  gild  with  silver  light  tlie  gloomiest  glen. 
Blot  out  the  planets,  veil  the  moon    once 

more. 
And  touch  with  pearl  the  waves  on  many  a 

shore ; 
Gild  with  thy  wand  eternal  peaks  of  snow. 
And  flood  with  light  the  grateful  world  be- 

.     low. 
Scatter    the    darkness,    urge    thy    peerless 

steeds. 
Call  on  the  lagging  hours  for  greater  deeds. 
Chase  to    their  gloomy   caverns    shades  of 

night. 
Whisper   the   magic    words    "Let  there  be 

light." 


WHIP-POOU-WILL. 

Up  rose  the  moon  o'er  tlio  towering  moun- 
tain. 

Sparkled  and  danced  in  the  silvery  rill. 

While  forth  from  the  elm  tree  liard  by  the 
fountain 

Floated  the  notes  of  a  lone  whip-poor-will. 

Softly  the  breath  of  the  evening  allured  me 
Away  from  my  couch,  and  I  leaned  on  the 

sill; 
As  the  calm  of  the  hour  again  reassured  me 
I  heard  in  the  distance  the  lone  whip-poor- 

m. 

Sharp  as  the  swirl  of  a  willow  it  sounded,— 
Sharp  on  the  balm  of  the  ev'ning  still; 
Hack  from    the  mountain  the  clear  echoes 

l)i)unded  — 
Hounded  the  wail  of  the  lone  wlujj-poor-will. 

Back  to  my  couch  as  the  evening  star  f.ided. 
Back  as  the  breeze  from  tlie  meadows  blew 

chill; 
While  th'  moon  from  my  visioti  by  cKunls 

was  o'or-shaded. 
Again  broke  the  plaint  of  the  lone  whii)-poor- 

will. 


AUTUMN  MUSINGS. 

When  blackbirds  twitter,  and  tliistle  down 

Floats  feathers*  on  tlie  air. 

And   orchards   are  glinting  with  gold  and 

brown. 
And  tlie  harvest  fields  are  bare. 
And  quails  their  coveys  are  calling 
In  thicket,  and  swamp  and  fen. 
.\nd  leaves  of  autumn  are  falling 
On  mountain,  in  wood  and  glen. 

Then  I  love  to  stroll  by  tlie  meadows, 
'Neath  the  mild  September  sky, 
Witli  its  Hitting  lights  and  slnidows. 
That  call  forth  a  smile  or  sigh  — 
And  resemble  lights  now  shining 
Tlirough  the  misty  lapse  of  time. 
When  each  cloud  had  a  "silver  lining'," 
And  each  bell  had  a  silver  chime. 

For  autumn  time  bringrs  me  remembrance 

Of  sh.adowy  times  long  fled. 

And  I  see  in  its  fadings  n>semblance 

That  calls  back  tlie  Ijuruil  dead. 

Tlie  mother  who  gave  me  being. 

And  "Our  baby  "  my  eyelids  fill. 

And  my  tender  thoughts  are  fleeing 

To  "  the  graveyard  "  on  the  hill. 


-* 


*- 


1140 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS   OF  A51ERICA. 


MRS.  CELIA  THAXTER. 

Born:  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  June  29, 1835. 
This  well-known  and  popular  poet  is  the 
author  of  four  volumes  of  verse,  the  first  of 
which  is  now  in  its  seventeenth  edition.   She 
is  a   regular    contributor    to  the    Atlantic, 


«- 


MRS.  CELIA  THAXTER. 

Century,  Scribner's,  St.  Nicholas  and  other 
leading  magazines.  When  she  was  very 
young  the  father  of  Celia  Thaxter  went  to 
keep  the  lighthouse  on  White  Island,  one  of 
the  Isles  of  Shoals,  in  which  barren  waste 
she  grew  to  womanhood. 

THE  ONLY  FOE. 
Wild,  threatening  sky,  white,  raging  sea, 

Fierce  wind  that  rends  the  rifted  cloud, 
Sets  the  new  moon's  sharp  glitter  free, 

And  thunders  eastward,  roaring  loud! 
A  fury  rides  the  autumn  blast. 

The  hoary  brine  is  torn  and  tossed; 
Great  Nature  tlirough  her  spaces  vast 

Casts  her  keen  javelins  of  the  frost. 
Her  hand  that  through  the  summer  days 

Soothed  us  with  tender  touch  of  joy, 
Deals  death  upon  her  wintry  ways; 

Whom  she  caressed  she  would  destroy. 
Life  shrinks  and  hides;  all  creatures  cower 

While  her  tremendous  bolts  are  hurled, 
That  strike  with  blind,  resistless  power 

The  mighty  shoulder  i  f  the  world. 
Be  still,  my  soul,  thou  hast  no  part 

In  her  black  moods  of  hate  and  fear; 
Lifted  above  her  wr.ath  thou  art 

On  thy  still  heights,  serene  and  clear. 


Remember  this, —  not  all  the  wild. 

Huge,  untamed  elements  have  force 
To  reach  thee,  though  the  seas  were  piled 

In  weltering  mountains  on  thy  course. 
Only  thyself,  thyself  can  harm. 

Forget  it  not!  And  full  of  peace. 
As  if  the  soutli-wind  whispered  warm. 

Wait  thou  till  storm  and  tumult  cease. 


MRS.  E.  ANKIE  S.  PAGE. 

Born  :  Portland,  Maine. 
This  lady  has  contributed  poems  to  numer-  ■ 
ous  magazines  and  literary  publications! 
throughout  the  country,  and  a  volume  of 
her  select  poems  will  be  published  shortly. 
A  poem  entitled  Christmas,  beautifully  illus- 
trated, was  brought  out  as  a  holiday  booklet 
by  Prang  &  Co.,  which  met  with  most  flatter- 
ing success.  She  was  married  in  1863  to  Mr. 
Nathaniel  Page  of  San  Francisco. 

COMPLETENESS. 
The  perfect  day  wears  not  one  lustrous  blaze 
From  morn  to  set  of    sun  —  it   needs  soft 

showers,  [haze. 

Gray  clouds,  and  falling  leaves,  and  purple 
And  swift  winds  beckoning  out  the  laggard 

flowers ;  [west 

Dusk-shadows  chasing  from  the  embattled 
Its  marshalled  splendors,  star-fllled  eve,  and 

rest. 
So  life  —  which  is  at  best  but  one  brief  day 
Of  the  unending  years  —  this  law  mustown; 
Its  golden  moon  be  drenched  with  sudden 
Its  joys  fall  dead  like  roses  overblown  ;[spra5 
And,  fleet  or  far,  its  hours  unhindered  run 
Through  gloom  or  glory  till  the  day  be  done 
Though  Suffering  clouds  the  eflfulgeuce  ol 

life's  morn, 
Fortune  grows  recreant,  and  the  tender  eyes 
Which  sunned  our  hearts  be  suddenly  with 

drawn,  [lies,- 

Till  down  the  sunset  slope  grief's  shadow 
Yet  star-lit  gates  of  peace  shall  end  the  way 
And  life  be  rounded  to  the  perfect  day. 

THE  MIRACLE  .\T  CANA. 

Dear  Lord,  to  me. 
This  is  Thy  lesson,  taught  in  Galileo. 

By  gracious  deeds. 
To  fill  the  chalice  of  another's  needs. 

Within  to  bear  [*a' 

That  beauty  which  transfigures  and  make 

The  paths  of  men. 
Bidding  life's  desolate  places  bloom  again. 

No  heed  to  take 
For  the  uncertain  morrow,  but  to  make 

Life  more  divine. 
Turning  its  simplest  waters  into  wine. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAr,   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1141 


HUGH  ALPHONSO  WETMORE 

Boun:  St.  Louis.  Mo.,  >Lvncn  5, 1C51. 
As  ATTrnou  iind  special  corrospoudont,  Mr. 
Wetinoro  has  met  witli  very  llatlerine:  suc- 
cess. More  than  a  huiidi-cd  of  bis  poems 
liave  appeared  in  tlie  leading-  papers  and 
majraziiics.  At  the  ai^-r  of  (•i;;luiM>ii  lie  simlicd 


HUGH  ALPnONSO  WETMORE. 

law,  and  entered  journalism  at  the  age  of 
twenty-two.  He  was  a  correspondent  in  the 
South  during  reconstruction  days,  and  in 
1878  was  in  New  Orleans  and  Grenada  during 
tlie  yellow  fever  epidemic.  About  tliistimo 
Mr.  Wetmoro  entered  mercantile  pursuits, 
and  for  a  while  was  in  tlie  real  estate  and 
mining'  business.  He  was  made  a  member 
of  the  St.  Paul  Press  Club  on  grounds  of 
authorship.  This  author  and  poet  wrote  tho 
poem  for  the  St.  Paul  Ice  Carnival  of  18T7. 


NEKAMEE. 
The  murliy,  mad,  mellow  Missouri 

Caresses  tlie  bluff  at  Rulo. 

Wliere  on  high  do  wof  ul  weeds  grow 
Round  the  grave  of  the  Indian  houri, 

Nekamee,  the  ••dove  "  and  the  ••doe," 
Who  fell  by  her  fierce  tribe's  fury 

For  loving  :i  pale-face  foe; 
She  braved  to  tlie  last  the  braves'  fury 

Over  hor  loving  their  foe. 
Blind  was  the  passion  she  bore  him. 

Reckless  the  race  at  his  side.— 


Ah,  then,  the  cha.se,  wlien  espied! 
She,  too,  was  dead  \\  hin  thej'  tore  him 

From  nigh  her  heart,  wliere  he  died. 
Dreams  she  liie  water  weeps  o'er  him? 

Kiver  and  r(x;k  tlieni  divide; 
Wailing  weeds  cannot  icslore  him; 

Still  the  height  hurls  back  the  tide. 
Filled  they  his  breast  like  .i  quiver. 

Weighed  iiiin  with  shafts  barbed  of  stone. 

Ere  from  the  cliU'  he  was  thrown 
Into  the  muddy,  mad  river  — 

Even  death  could  not  atone  I 
Till  earth  her  dead  shall  deliver, 

Resting  jilace  may  he  liave  none; 
Nor  will  lior  jieople  forgive  her. 

Though  now  he's  left  her  alone. 
What  of  thy  love,  lone  Nekamee, 

Perished  it  with  thy  last  throe? 

Into  rank  reeds  did  it  grow'/ 
Do  winds  above  moan,  Nekamee, 

That  Heaven  heeds  not  thy  woe? 
Love  needs  no  tombstone,  Nekamee, 

Naught  but  wild  weeds  and  the  snow; 
Vet  lofty  Love's  throne,  Nekamee, 

Bramble-crowned  bluff  at  Rulo. 


THE  SEMAPHORE. 
••I  say.  Jack,  what  is  a  scni:ii)horc?"    [door. 
Asked   the  brakeman's   wife  at  the  slianty 
••  I  heard  they  had  one  at  College  Place  — 
Them  college  fixings  is  a  disgrace  I  " 
"  You're  doubtless  hittin'  the  sophomore," 
Says  .Tack,  .a  trying  to  i)ass  the  door. 
••That  1  liaint,  then."  s.iys  Alice  Jane  — 
As  she  kept  him  standing  in  the  rain. 
••  You  sliant  come  in,  nor  a  bite  shant  eat. 
Till  the  semaphore  you  describe  complete." 
••  'Tis  .a  thing  for  savin'  of  life,"  says  John, 
••  And  all  the  roads  is  puttin'  'em  on." 
••Savin' the  devil!"  shouts  Alice  Jane  [plain. 
—Her  speech  like  lier  face  was  plump  and 
••Where  is  George  Harrity,  I  jusk  j"ou. 
An'  Melvin  Roberts?    Did  it  save  them  two? 
••  You  dare  not  speak,  for  fear  the  road 
Will  give  you  the  bounce,  you  cringing  toadi 

•  •  How  has  tho  road  rewarded  your  merit? 
Jagged  your  hands,  and  broken  your  spirit ! 
••  If  a  crank  comes  along  with  a  crank  to  sell. 
Though  a  sleepy  switchman  may  send  you 

to  hell, 
••The  road  buys  tho  crank,  and  a  little  smoko 
Makes  the  thing  useless.    Horrible  joke ! 
••IxKikat  thishole.where  I  sit  m  a  flutter  [or. 
Expectin' toseeyou  bix)ught  homeon  ashutt- 
••  Is  this  than  the  farm  more  snug  or  fit, 
■Wliicli  you  left,  big  fool,  for  a  rallwjiy  sit?" 

•  •There's  somethin'  excitln'  .'iliout  this  life," 
Says  John.     ••  Especially  to  your  wife." 
Says  Alice.   And  John  walked  from  tho  door. 
Cut  by  her  thrust  at  tlie  semaphore. 


-* 


*- 


1142 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


EDWIN  DEXTER  GEE. 

Born;  Geauga  Co.,  Ohio,  Dec.  2, 1838. 
Mb.  Gee  is  a   ftirmer   at   Tennj-son,    Iiid,, 
where  he  is  also  well  known  ;is  a  Proliibi- 
lioni.st  and  Suiulay  school    supeiinlendent. 


EDWIN   DEXTER  GEE. 

His  poems  have  appeared  quite  extensivelj' 
in  the  periodical  press.  Mr.  Gee  was  mar- 
ried in  1862  to  Miss  Maria  Jane  Kartell,  and 
has  quite  a  largre  family. 

THE   FARMER  BOY. 
A  jovial  farmer  boy  I'll  be 

As  free  as  the  birds  that  sing-; 
I'll  carrol  forth  my  song:  of  glee 

Amid  the  flowers  of  spring. 
With  whoop  a-hoy  to  drive  my  team 

Before  the  rising  sun. 
To  drink  and  lave  in  silvery  streams; 

This  is  my  morning  fun. 
The  squirrel  leaping  on  the  limb 

Within  the  tree-top  high. 
The  lark  that  soars  with  matin  hymu 

Is  no  more  gay  than  I. 
I  go  and  come  a  farmer  boy, 

From  city  tramels  free; 
T  crack  my  whip  and  cry  wo-hoy, 

A  farmer  boy  I'll  be. 
No  place  for  me  the  crowded  town, 

With  pavements  liard  and  dry, 
With  lengthened  streets  of  dusky  brown, 

And  gloomy  houses  high, 


Where  every  boy  his  ball  must  bound 
Upon  his  neighbor's  dome. 

And  every  shot  and  every  sound 
Disturl)  .some  otlier's  home. 


SANTA  GLAUS'  ADVICE. 
I've  come  little  children  to  make  your  hearts 

glad; 
Your  pretty,  bright  faces  should  never  look 

sad;  [ing  along; 

I've  brought  you  some  presents  while  pass- 
Then  kindly  give  ear  to  my  song. 
Be  kind  and  be  good,  be  kind  and  be  good; 
Love  sister  and  brother,  papa  and  mama, 
And  never  be  naughty  or  rude. 
While  I  was  just  passing  I  happened  to  see 
Tlie  littleones  gathered  herewaitingforme; 
1  stopped  in  to  leave  you  some  things  that 

are  nice; 
Then  kindly  receive  my  advice. 
And  now,  dear  children,  I'll  leave  you  tins 

tree, 
All  loaded  with  presents  so  nice  as  you  see; 
For  T  must  be  going,  I  cannot  stay  long; 
Tlieii  try  to  remember  my  song. 
And  now,  my  dear  children,  I'll  drop  you  a 

tear 
A  nd  bid  you  good-bye  for  another  long  year; 
When  old  winter  comes  with  its  freezes  and 

thaws,  [Claus. 

Remember   the    advice  of   good   old  Santa 


t^ 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

EXTRACT. 

'Twas  early  spring  one  April  daj', 

Sweet  flowers  were  blooming  into  beauty, 
When  we  were  called  upon  to  lay 

A  sister  in  the  grave  so  lonely. 
Oh,  how  our  hearts  with  anguish  bled 

As  we  smoothed  her  dying  pillow  — 
As  we  stood  round  her  dying  bed 

And  saw  her  cross  Death's  rolling  billow. 

The  last  she  said  we  heard  her  say, 

..Oh,  come  and  kiss  me  now,  dear  mother, 
And  when  I  go  from  hence  away. 

Then  bear  this  messsige  to  my  brother: 
Tell  him  that  I've  gone  on  before, 

I  trust  my  sins  are  all  forgiven; 
Tell  liini  to  meet  me  on  that  shore. 

That  blissful  shore  higli  up  in  Heaven. 
•.Farewell,  dear  father,  weep  no  more, 

I'm  crossing  over  Jordan's  river; 
My  sufferings  here  will  soon  be  o'er; 

There  with  the  blest  I'll  live  forever, 
Oh,  how  I  long  to  fly  away 

And  range  the  fields  of  blooming  flowers, 
Where  I  sliall  live  througli  endless  day 

A  nd  rest  beneath  those  blissf  ill  bowers." 
* 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  rOETS  OF  AMEUICA, 


1143 


* 


JAMES  F.  PEXDELL. 

Bokn:  Athol,  N.H.,  June  11,  1835. 
Under  the   nom   de  plume  of   Fontenelle 
this  write!'  has  contributed  to  current  liter- 
ature many  fine  poems  and  stories.    Since 
the  age  of  sereii  he  has  beeu  totally  deaf, 


,    ••■■•H. 


''y-^. 


<*^ 


^^^ 


JAMES  FONTENELtiE  PEXDELL. 

but  can  understand  by  the  motion  of  the 
lips  almost  as  well  as  if  he  could  liear.  Mr. 
Pendell  has  a  larg-e  family  and  is  still  a  resi- 
dent of  the  place  of  his  nativity. 


« 


GTJR  BOYS  IN  BLUE. 
Our  boys  in  blue!    Each  passing:  year 
But  makes  their  memories  more  dear. 
And  swells  our  grief  and  starts  the  tear 

As  we  review 
The  quiet  graves  wliere  slumber  here 

Our  boys  in  blue. 
A  migrhty  army  were  they  when         [plain- 
They  proudly  for  friends  trod    the    battle 
One  million  men  their  numbers  then ! 

But  now  how  few- 
Alas!  a  handful  but  remain— 

Our  boys  in  blue. 
Yes,  they  are  passing  fast  away; 
Some  died  to-day,  some  yesterday; 
Behold,  In  new-made  graves  they  lay, 

The  loyal,  true! 
No  more  to  join  in  march  array— 

Our  boys  in  blue. 
The  living  remnant,  scarred  and  worn. 
All  haggard,  crippled  and  forlorn. 


But  tell  the  suffering  they  have  borne 

For  me  and  you, 
'Mid  war's  wild  strife,  'mid  want  and  scorn. 

Our  boys  iu  blue. 
Their  time  is  brief;  one  dies,  and  they 
In  sorrow  bear  the  form  away 
To  its  last  resting  place,  and  pay 

A  last  adieu. 
A  band  of  brothers  true  are  they. 

Our  boys  iu  blue! 
This  scene  is  sad  as  sorrow'.*-  wreath. 
But  still  more  sad  the  battle  heath 
When  carnage  swept  her  shotted  breatli 

And  Heaven  drew 
Night's  darkling  veil  where  lay  in  death 

Our  boys  iu  blue. 
Their  corpses  covered  many  a  plain. 
While  slow  disease  and  prison  pen 
All  wrought  their  havoc  o'er  again. 

And  scarce  we  knew  [then  — 

Their  fate  or  how  dread,  for  they  suffered 

Our  boys  iu  blue. 

The  war's  result  the  world  well  knows ; 
Fair  Freedom's  fame  unsullied  glows. 
And  Peace  her  golden  joys  disclose 

For  me  and  you. 
All  this,  and  more,  our  country  owes 

Our  boys  iu  blue. 

Let  us  be  grateful  while  we  may. 
Their  service  great  we  ne'er  can  pay 
Except  by  kindly  deeds  each  day 

To  the  brave  few 
Who  soon  must  join  those  passed  away— 

Our  boys  in  blue. 

Their  orphans,  widows,  let  use  cheer; 
The  paths  they  tread  are  gloomy  here. 
And  they  do  shed  full  many  a  tear 

Unknown  to  you. 
This  debt  we  owe  from  j'ear  to  year 

Our  boys  in  blue. 

And  let  tis,  each  Momorial  day 
Gather  the  fairest  flowers  of  May, 
And  o'er  the  graves  in  bright  array 

Them  gentlj-  strew. 
To  keep  in  memory  fond  each  day 

Our  boys  in  blue. 
Kind  Nature  holds  no  gifts  too  dear 
For  patriot  dead,  afar  or  near; 
Lo!  bloom  and  spray  bounteous  appear 

For  us  to  strew 
O'er  those  who  lie  in  glory— 

Our  boys  in  blue. 
Oh,  keep  their  memories  green,  good  friends! 
Oh,  take  what  Nature's  hand  extetids, 
And  know  that  God  e'er  kindly  bends 

Above  thi)so  true 
And  loyal  sons,  and  still  rlefends 

Our  boys  in  blue! 


-* 


*- 


1144 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


FRED  EMERSON  BROOKS. 

Born:  Waverly,  N.  Y.,  Dec.  5, 1849. 
After  graduating-  iu  1873  from  the  Madison 
University  of  Hamilton,  N.  Y.  Mr.  Brooks 
went  to  San  Francisco,  -which  city  he  has 
since  made  his  home.  He  was  married  in 
1884    to    Miss    Mary  Emma  Fregidg-o.     Mr. 


I-  liED   EMERSON  BROOKS. 

Brooks  has  gained  quite  a  reputation  in  the 
golden  state  as  a  poet,  and  as  an  elocutionist 
he  has  no  superior  in  the  west.  His  poems 
have  appeared  in  book-form.  One  Hundred 
Choice  Selections,  and  in  the  leading  maga- 
zines of  America. 


*- 


THE  MIRACLE  CAN  A. 
The  water-pots  were  filled  at  God's  behest— 
Yet  in  the  marriage   wine   no   grape   was 

pressed ; 
No  tired  feet  the  weary  wine-press  trod 
To  make  this  sacred  vintage  of  our  God; 
As  nature  doth  proclaim  a  power  di-vine. 
Each  drop  of  moisture  turned  itself  to  wine. 

In  spite  of  arguments,  in  Jesus  met. 

The  world  is  full  of  doubting  skeptics  yet; 

Believing  naught  but  they  themselves  have 

seen, 
They  doubt  the  miracle  of  Palestine: 
They  find  the  Holy  Bible  filled  with  flaws, 
And   pin    tlieir  doubting  faith  to  nature's 

laws. 


Ye  scoffers  of  our  sacred  Lord,  pray  tell 
Who  tinted  first  the  water  in  the  well? 
Who  painted  atmospheric  moisture  blue; 
Or  gave  the  ocean  waves  their  constant  hue, 
Whose  moisture  raised  in  clouds  all  colors 

lack, 
The  fleecy  ones  so  white,  the  storm-king's 

black. 

Save  where  the  evening  sun's  bright  rays 

incline 
To  turn  the  fleecy  moisture  into  wine, 
And  lay  a  benediction  on  them  all 
Like  purple  grapes  hung  on  a  golden  wall! 
'Twas  thus  our  Lord  a  sacred  radiance  shed. 
Slow  turning  Cana's  water  vintage  red. 

If  lilies  at  his  bidding  from  the  soil 
Spring  up,  that  neither  know  to  spin  or  toil; 
In  beauty  yet  more  gorgeously  arrayed 
Than  he  of  old  who  that  great  temple  made; 
Then  why  may  not  the  gentle  evening  dew 
At  God's  command  take  on  a  ruddy  hue. 

This  whirling,  surging  world  was  made  by 

one 
Who  could  have  made  the  wine  as  rivers 

ru  n ; 
Yet  put  a  sweeter  nectar  in  the  rills. 
Fresh  ripphng  from  the  vintage  of  the  hills. 

Watch  Nature's  miracle  when  day  is  dead. 
And  blushing  Helios  his  good-night  said, 
Slow  dipping  his  hot  face  in  cooling  brine. 
Turns  all  the  ocean  billows  into  wine. 

The  sun  and  rain  stretch  o'er  the  earth  a 

bow 
With  tints  more  beautiful  than  wine  can 

show ; 
A  frescoed  arch  in  gorgeous  colors  seven— 
A  bridge  where  weak  belief  may  walk  to 

heaven. 

Who  hath  not  seen,  at  sunset  on  the  plain, 
A  passing  storm-cloud   dropping  blood-red 

rain; 
A  great  libation  poured  at  Nature's  shrine 
To  fill  Sol's  golden  cup  with  evening  wine? 

Since  Nature  doth  such  miracles  perform. 
Why  may  not  He,  who  makes  and  rules  the 

storm. 
Of  all  his  miracles  the  first  and  least. 
Tint  a  few  drops  for  Cana's  wedding  feast? 
The  greatest  marriage  at  the  end  shall  be 
When  time  is  wedded  to  eternity; 
All  hidden  are,  the  greatest  and  the  least. 
To  taste  the  wine  at  heaven's  great  wedding 

feast. 
Whore  all  the  ransomed  uiiiversi>  shall  sinf?: 
Hosanna!  to  the  everlasting  King! 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


1145 


-* 


MRS.  SARAH  W.  BENEDICT 

Bokn:  Guilford,  Conn.,  Jan.  9, 1813. 
This  ladj-  lias  written  about  seven  hundred 
poeni.^,  miiny  of  wliicli  have  received  exten- 
sive pulilii'.ition  In  tlie  periodical  press.   Slio 
Nvas  married  in  1^'>:1  In  Klias  Benedict;  was 


;AUAI1  WAUL)    BENEDICT. 


left  a  widow  in  1881,  and  her  only  daujrliter 
died  a  few  years  later.  Mrs.  Benedict  is  a 
member  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  church 
in  Roscoe,  111.,  where  she  still  resides. 


*- 


WHAT  THE  BIRDIE  SAID  TO  ME. 
A  bright  little  birdie  sang-  to  me  to-day 
While  it  sat  all  alone  on  a  sweet  leafy  spray. 
It  seemed  to  be  saying- when  life  would  be 

o'er 
There   still  would,  for  me,  be  a  sunshiny 

shore: 
That  I  would  find  roses  most  sweetly  abloom. 
Surpassing  the  blossoms  on  this  side    the 

tomb  ; 
That  I  had  my  garlands  awhile  here  to  braid 
Ere  I  could  see  blossoms  that  never  would 

fade; 
That  though  I  was  pining  for  love  that  was 

mine. 
They  were  waiting  to  fold  me  where  love 

was  divine. 
Was  the  birdie  a  messenger  sent  from  above 
To  speak  to  a  heart  that  had  buried  its  love? 


THE  HIDDEN  KEV. 

I  relied  on  myself  in  my  searcli  for  the  key 
That  would  unlock  the  gate  for  a  sinner  hke 

me. 
I  searched  all  around,  but  the  search  seemed 

in  vain. 
And  my  heart  was  so  full  of  an  undefined 

pain. 
Oh,  my  heart  was  so  heavy  I    the  night  liad 

grown  late. 
And  I  had  not  found  the  key  to  the  gate. 

I  went  back  to  childhood,  my  life  I  lived  o'er. 
And  searched  all  along  from  shore  to  shore; 
Hut  no  key  could  1  find,  not  even  a  trace. 
And  the  tears  seemed  to  deluge  my  poor 

wrinkled  face. 
Oh,  how  hard  it  was,  when  it  was  so  late. 
That  I  could  not  find  the  key  to  the  gate  I 

Oh,  I  must  have  hope,  for  I  must  have  the 

key! 
And  then  I  asked  Jesus  to  come  and  help 

me. 
He  came,  and  it  seemed  a  miracle  wrought. 
For  there,  in  my  heart,  was  the  key  tiiat  I 

sought. 
My  heart  had  been  crusted  quite  over  with 

care. 
And  I  never  once  thought  that  the  key  could 

be  there. 

A  warm  wave  of  love,  when  the  Savior  drew 
near,  [^witli  fear. 

Soon  thawed  out  my  heart  that  was  frozen 

My  heart  has  grown  warm,  for  the  Lord  on 
me  smiled. 

And  I  have  become  as  an  innocent  child; 

Am  loving,  and  trusting,  clasp  firmly  each 
band, 

For  love  brings  us  close,  like  a  family  band. 

Oh,  the  l)(>autifiil  key  I    the  love-burnished 

key : 
That  can  unlock  the  kingdom  of  Heaven  for 

me. 
It  never  can  tarnish,  its  prisms  so  bright 
Will  sparkle  and  glow  in  a  glorified  light. 
A  new  life   came  to  me  when   dear  Jesus 

came 
To  show  me  the  key  when  I  called  on  His 

name. 


EXTRACT. 
Grander,  grander  notes  are  swelling 

From  the  v.nlleys  and  the  hills; 
Tears  of  thankfulness  are  welling 

As  my  soul  with  music  fills. 
Cliristian  workers,  we'll  be  voicing 

All  the  notes  we've  learned  to-day. 
And  together  go  rejoicing 

Tliat  we've  found  the  better  way. 


®- 


1146 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


MRS.CATH  HERRING  MILES 

Born:  Springfield,  Tenn.,  Oct.  8, 1841. 

Over  two  hundred  aud  fifty  poems  have  ap- 
peared from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Miles,  many  of 
which  have  received  publication  in  the  peri- 
odical press.    lu  1869  she  was  married  to  W. 


,;,t^/',\ 


MRS.  CATH  HERRING  MILES. 

R.  Miles,  and  resides  at  Cedar  Hill,  Tenn., 
with  her  husband  and  two  sons  — John  W. 
Miles,  born  in  1870;  and  William  H.  Miles, 
born  in  1875.         

THE  BROOK. 

Rippling  brook  I  love  to  hear 
Murmuring-,  murmuring,  soft  and  clear, 
Bubbles  rise  and  float  away; 
Oh,  who  can  spend  a  life  so  gay! 

Birds  are  singing,  flitting  near. 
Unto  the  brook  a  welcome  cheer, 
Welcome  water  crystal  clear, 
Welcome,  welcome  a  thousand  years. 

Flowers  bedeck  thy  mossy  brink, 
Rocks  and  pebbles  ever  drink; 
Drink  in  thy  clear  cry.stal  drops. 
Which  float  o'er  beautiful  rocks. 

Beautiful  nature  surrounds  the  scene. 
Flowers  in  varied  hues  arc  scon. 
Mosses  and  grasses  grow  by  thee; 
Welcome  sweet  brook,  thrice  welcome  by  mc. 
^ 


TO  THE  WATERS. 

Beautiful  waters,  gently  flowing. 
Oh!  who  can  tell  where  you  are  going; 
Perhaps  to  quench  the  thirst  of  youth. 
Who  smiles  in  beauty  and  in  truth. 

Perhaps  to  fill  the  toper's  glass. 
Who  firmly  clasps  and  madly  quaffs. 
Reveling  in  old  Satan's  grasp. 
Not  wishing  to  recall  the  past. 

Drops  so  pure  and  gently  flowing; 
Oh !  could  each  toper  view  you,  knowing 
That  your  mission  here  on  earth 
Is  but  to  bless,  and  not  to  curse. 

Gentle  drops,  could  you  but  impart 
The  truth  to  each  and  every  heart; 
The  maiden  sweet  a  blessing  lend. 
The  toper's  glass  a  deadly  fiend. 

Had  I  the  power  but  to  fill 
Your  drops  so  pure  with  magic  skill, 
Then  all  would  hear  you  sweetly  say, 
Mingle  not  my  drops  with  wine  to-day. 
Your  voice  would  be  low  and  mild. 
That  it  might  the  hard  hearts  beguile; 
And  teach  them  through  life's  journal  say: 
We'll  mingle  your  drops  no  more  that  way. 
Then  you  would  joyfully  say  to  all, 
Drink !  my  drops  from  heaven  doth  fall, 
A  blessing  sent  from  God's  right  band, 
To  cheer  the  drooping  heart  of  man. 
A  blessing  now,  a  blessing  then  — 
A  blessing  to  all  earth's  within. 
Drops  so  pure  from  heaven  sent, 
God  help  us  all  to  be  content. 


SPRING. 
Spring  has  come  wreathed  in  beauties. 
Singing  birds  and  blossoming  flowers. 
Mosses  green  and  fern  above  them, 
All  to  cheer  this  heart  of  ours. 

Trees  are  tall  and  stately  waving 
Their  rich  dress  of  dark  green. 
Birds  are  flitting  and  rejoicing 
In  the  beauties  of  the  scene. 

Air  so  balmy  and  delightful 
Waft  the  odors  of  rich  flowers. 
Growing  in  secluded  spots 
Or  in  some  frequent  bowers. 

Violets  fresh  and  blooming  gayly 
By  the  babbling  brook  of  ours; 
Come,  drink  the  beauties  of  the  season 
And  gather,  gather  ye  wild  flowers. 
Love  the  scene  which  God  hath  given  you, 
Beautiful  nature  surrounds  us  all, 
Then  to  Him  you  owe  yoiu"  heart, 
Your  life  a  ransom  to  His  cause. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF    AMKIUCA. 


1147 


FRKD    WARREN    HOWARD. 

Born:  Wabasha,  Minn.,  Sept.  30,  18(i8. 
^[u.  Howard   has    Icanioil    tlio   carpenter, 
stoue-uiusou  ftud  boat-building-  trades.    Ho 


ODE  TO  MRS.  JANE  SHIPLEY  PFEIFEU. 

Mystified  form,  departed 

From  the  flesh,  the  blood,  the  bone  — 

Essence  of  earthly  elements. 

Form  of  the  breath  — 

The  knowlcdg-e  — cohabitant 

Of  every  virtue,  yicldinf?  light 

To  an  encumbered  soul 

Left  embodied,  with  listening-  car. 

And  watchful  eye  and  liaiinting  memories 

Of  the  few  past  happy  hours 

Tliat  came  and  went 

But  as  a  short  summer; 

And  of  the  flower  that  flushed 

As  a  blooming  rose 

That  swiftly  yields 

To  the  elements  that  composed  it. 

And  none  shall  know  thy  destination, 

Be  thou  with  the  beloved, 

Or  far  from  troubled  scenes. 

To  know,  or  not  to  know. 

And,  knowing,  sympathize 


FRED  WARREN  HOWARD. 

has  written  poems  from  his  youth,  which 
have  appeared  in  the  local  press.  He  owns 
a  farm  in  Murray  county,  where  he  resides. 


With  the  mourners  left  behind. 

"Peace"  is  a  loved  one's  prayer. 

And  guide  his  steps  to  lliee,  dear  Jane. 


IIOTICELLIS  DREAMING. 
Seel  what  face  has  lost  its  beaming. 
While  in  slumbrous  calm  she's  dreaming. 
Pale  as  in  the  sleep  of  death. 
Dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming. 
And  tiie  balm  that  soothes  a  lover's  lieart. 
Courses  gently  through  her  breast. 
While  she's  dreaming,  dieaming,  dreaming 
Of  the  one  that  loves  her  best. 
While  she's  dreaming  of  the  one  that  loves 

her  best. 
Watch  her  on  the  couch  of  sjumbers. 
Dreaming  of  tlie  fleeting  summers 
And  the  one  that  loves  her  best. 
Dreatning,  dreaming,  dreaming. 
And  the  balm  that  sootiies  a  lover's  heart 
Courses  gently  tlirough  her  breast. 
While  she's  dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming 
Of  the  one  that  loves  lier  best, 
While  she's  dreaming  of  the  one  that  loves 

her  best. 
See  the  magic  o'er  her  hover 
As  in  joy  slie  clasps  her  lover 
To  her  tender,  snowy  breast. 
Dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming. 
And  the  balm  that  .soothes  a  lover's  heart 
Courses  gently  through  her  breast. 
While  she's  dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming 
Of  the  one  that  loves  her  best, 
While  she's  dreaming  of  the  one  that  loves 

her  best. 


MY  FLOWERET. 
Sweeter  than  flowers  obtained  by  few; 
Bright  as  the  gleam  of  morn's  silver  dew; 
Fair  as  an  angel  —  from  Heaven  apart  — 
Thou  art  the  queen  of  my  bonnie  heart. 
Thou  art  the  light  which  love  doth  reveal. 
And  into  my  soul  its  rays  gently  steal. 
Heaven-sent  charms  for  me  and  you  — 
Thine  are  for  me  which  none  can  subdue. 
Fair  as  the  flowerets  budded  to  bl<x>m; 
Sweet  as  the  birds  with  rendering  tune  — 
Flushed  as  the  rose  in  the  crystal  dawn  — 
Thou  art  the  theme  of  my  heart's  sweet  song. 


TO  A  MORNING  GLORY. 
Tt  seems  that  thou  wert  made  to  woo 

This  ever-dreary  heather. 
But  soon  sweet  flower  thy  bloom  must  fade 

When  oonies  the  winter  weather. 
No  flower  like  thee,  so  glossy  white,— 

So  met'k  and  vi-ry  tender. 
Should  gniw  on  these  wild  lands  of  ours 

To  bloom  unseen  forever. 


<^- 


-* 


*- 


1148 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A3IERICA, 


WILLIAM  EVERETT  MORSE. 

Born:  Colebrook,  N.  H.,  Feb.  23, 1856. 
When  sixteen  years  of  age  the  subject  of 
this  sketch  read  law  one  year  with  an  able 
attorney,  and  then  completed  a  thorough 
college  course  of  five  years  under  talented 
tutors.  He  then  studied  medicine,  and  g-radu- 


WIIJ^IAM  EVERETT  MORSE. 

ated  M.  D.  in  New  York  with  high  honors. 
Mr.  Morse  then  studied  theology  at  Boston 
and  Hartford,  and  with  Dr.  Clark  of  Port- 
land, Me.,  and  commenced  an  active  pas- 
torate and  preached  for  six  years  in  Maine, 
when  he  was  called  to  Middlefleld,  Mass., 
where  he  has  enjoyed  a  successful  pastorate 
in  the  First  Congregational  church.  In  1887 
he  graduated  as  a  Ph.  D.,  and  that  year  was 
offered  two  professorships  in  college.  In 
1888-9  he  traveled  extensively  in  Europe, 
Egypt  and  Palestine.  He  has  refused  the 
editorship  of  an  important  journal  in  Con- 
necticut, and  has  been  given  the  degree  of 
D.  D.  He  preached  in  Jerusalem,  Palestine, 
November  18,  1888,  to  nine  nationalities.  He 
has  delivered  many  lectures  on  historical, 
educational  and  patriotic  subjects,  and  on 
temperance.  He  commenced  to  write  prose 
and  poetry  for  the  papers  when  sixteen  years 
of  age,  and  has  had  many  articles  and  poems 
published  in  New  Hampshire,  Maine  and 
Connecticut.  He  was  married  in  1879  to  Nellie 
M.  Simonds,  of  Old  Orchard,  Me.,  and  has  one 
daughter  — Ruth  Pauline.      Dr.  Morse  is  a 


natural  musician,  and  has  composed  a  score 
of  selections  for  concerts  and  special  occa- 
sions. He  lias  written  much  on  the  "Mira- 
cles of  the  Bible,"  and  is  now  engaged  on 
special  lines  of  scientific  and  Biblical  study, 
and  in  the  preparation  of  a  "  Family  Com- 
mentary on  the  whole  Bible,"  based  partly 
on  his  own  travels  and  study  in  the  Orient. 


A  LOST  MOMENT. 
'Tis  past!  to  call  it  back  is  vain. 
It  will  not  be  with  us  again. 
Though  we  our  firmest  nerve  shall  strain, 

'Twill  ne'er  return! 
May  this  thought  in  my  soul  ingrain. 

And  ever  burn. 
'Twas  short,— but  one  small  moment  M'ee, 
Almost  the  slightest  thing  we  see, 
And  yet,  it  linked  eternity. 

And  I  it  lost ! 
Now  naught  is  left  to  do  for  me. 

But,— count  its  cost! 

Come,  ye  who  think  too  small  a  thing 

To  notice,  this  brief  time  I  sing; 

List,  while  these  scenes  to  you  we  bring 

To  prove  its  worth. 
Had  it  not  been,  would  ceased  to  swing 

This  very  earth. 
A  king  once  led  his  army  brave 
Intrepid  forth,  his  crown  to  save. 
And  shouted,  "  On !  we'll  meet  our  grave. 

Or  stand  ahead! " 
A  flash,—  he  met  a  minie's  wave, — 

It  left  him  dead ! 
A  barque  upon  the  treacherous  deep, 
Against  a  reef  both  rough  and  steep. 
Was  dashed,  without  a  friend  to  keep 

The  life  of  one! 
A  moment's  work, —  none  left  to  weep 

Ere  rising  sun! 

Some  cities  vast,  afar  renowned. 
Where  a  volcano's  summit  frowned, 
Sauk  quick  as  thought  beneath  the  ground 

With  direful  fall! 
'Twas  but  a  moment's  rush  and  sound 

—  Entombed  them  all! 
A  nation  great,  possessed  of  more 
Than  all  the  wealth  that  lays  in  ore. 
Though  it  should  reach  from  Ophir's  siiore 

A  moment  parts! 
One  stroke  of  pen,  and  all  is  o'er, 

Thougli  bleed  our  hearts! 
How  idle  then  to  laugh  and  scorn. 
When  none  can  tell  if  e'er  the  morn. 
If  e'er  the  moon's  bright  silver  horn 

Again  shall  rise  — 
Or,  in  a  moment,  all  forlorn 

Our  fond  hope  lies! 


*- 


-* 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


1149 


•I* 


« 


Tho  bee  doth  louder  teach  than  I, 
And  nature's  voices  all  do  cry  — 
"Improve,  O  men,  before  you  die. 

With  all  your  power! 
Grasp  eagerly  as  swift  they  fly. 

Each  shining-  liour!  " 

Time  hurries  on  with  rapid  rate. 
The  moment  next  may  bo  too  late 
For  you  to  grain  the  pearlj-  gate 

That  needs  no  sun; 
Lest  you  should  meet  so  sad  a  fate. 

Improve  each  one ! 


THE  POKE  BONNET. 
Have  you  seen  it?    If  not,  I  assure  you  you 

must, 
For  it's  worth  going  journej'S  to  see! 
'Tls  the  latest  from  Paris,  and  all  the  young 

belles 
Say  it's  "just  as  recherche"  as  can  be! 

Don't  ask  me  to  tell  you  just  what  it  is  like, 

For  I  can't  —  being  only  a  man; 

But  if  you'll  excuse  the  rude  ways  they  are 

put, 
I'll  describe  it  the  best  that  I  can. 

In   the  first   place,  its  contour  is  circular, 

straight. 
Parallel,  perpendicular,  round  — 
Where  its  swells'  and  indentures'  beginnings 

or  ends 
Are,  as   yet, —  but   three   weeks, —  I've   not 

found! 

Which  is  handsomest,  whether  the  back  or 

the  front, 
I  declare  I  can't  tell  you,  for  lack 
Of  good  judgment;  when  my  wife  first  put 

hers  on, 
Just  to  try  me,  she  put  the  front  back  — 

And  to  praise  it  I  said,   "Why,  how  pretty 

it  is! 
What  a  real  handsome  front  it  has,  dear!  " 
Then  I  know  by  the  way  that  she  smiled  and 

looked  down 
That  I'd  made  myself  awkwardly  queer. 

Never  mind;    we  poor  men    are  forever  in 

grief 
If  we  try  to  put  one  extra  dash  on; 
And  there's  no  surer  way  that  we  can  be  sold 
Thau  by  trying  to  follow  the  fashion! 

One  end  of  it,  puckers  at  each  of  the  sides 

And  runs  up  plumb  into  the  air, — 

While  each  of  the  sides  from  the  puckering 

starts 
And  describes  a  three-quarter  moon  flare. 


Oh,  dear!  what  is  like  to  the  other  end  now? 
It  is  hard  to  compare  it  at  all,— 
But  the  nearest  of  anytliiug  I've  ever  seen 
Is  a  miniature  Swiss  water-fall! 

Of  the  color?    All  hues  are  termed  stylish, 
I  can't  tell  which  is  the  most  right; 
Some  say  th'  the  black  is  bewitching. 
While  others  gaze  most  at  the  white. 

How   to  trim   it?     There!    now   you   have 

stunned  me! 
No  two  decked  alike  one  e'er  sees; 
It's  the  best  way  to  get  all  you  can  get 
And  toss  it  on  just  where  you  please! 

Where  to  wear  it?    That  too  is  unsettled; 
T  don't  believe  any  one  knows; 
It  depends  on  the  wearer's  discretion, — 
Anywhere  from  the  crown  to  the  nose! 

What  they've  named  it?    Well,  that  is  the 

drollest 
Of  all  of  my  story,  — no  joke; 
It's  no  higii  fandangled  cognomen. 
But  simply —  a  fashionable  "Poke!  " 

Why  it's  called  so,  remains  a  close  secret  — 
It's  perhaps  so  the  boys  can  >•  poke  "  fun 
At  the  wearers,  without  being  cruel, 
Or  charged  with  a  nature  to  pun. 

It's  perhaps  so  the  owners  may  fairly 
"Poke  "  into  the  hearts  of  their  lovers; 
Or  else,  to  "  poke  "  off  verdant  zeal 
From  the  innocent  face  that  it  covers ! 

Fare  thee  well,  all  ye  past  styles  so  jaunty. 
From  the  days  of  Queen  Bess  — though  so 

rare,— 
Until  now,— not  the  gaj'  "  Dolly  Varden," 
For  a  moment  with  this  can  compare! 

Boys,  take  heed !    Ft)r  I  know  this  is  certain. 
That  whene'er  a  bright  lassie  shall  don  it. 
If  you're  not  on  your  guard  pretty  strongly 
She  will  catch  you  sure  with  her  "Poke  Bon- 
net." 


EXTRACT. 
These  beauties  and  perfumes  that  please  you 

so  well 
And  call  forth  your  praises,  I  blush  not  to 

tell 
I  never  would  one  of  them  owned  to  give  you 
If  God  had  not  sent  me  the  brigrht  sun,  the 

dew. 
The  dear  gentle  zephyrs  and  warm  evening 

rain. 
From  which  fruitful  sources  my  sweetness  I 

gain. 


-* 


*- 


1150 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMERICA. 


JOHN  ALBEE. 

Born:  Bellingham,  Mass.,  1833. 
The  poems  of  John  Albee  have  appeared  in 
numerous  staudard  collections,  and  in  the 
leading  publications  of  America.  In  1883  ap- 
peared Poems,a  very  line  volume  of  excellent 
verse  from  the  pen  of  the  subject  of  this 


JOHN  ALBEE. 

sketch.  Mr.  Albee  is  engaged  in  literary 
work,  and  resides  in  New  Castle,  N.  H., 
where  he  is  very  popular.  In  1864  he  was 
married  to  Miss  Harriet  Ryan,  and  has  two 
daughters  —  Esther,  born  in  1866;  and  Laura, 
born  in  1869. 


MUSIC  AND  MEMORY. 
Enchantress,  touch  no  more  that  strain! 
I  know  not  what  it  may  contain. 
But  in  my  breast  such  mood  it  wakes 
My  very  spirit  almost  breaks. 
Thoughts  come  from  out  some  hidden  realm 
Whose  dim  memorials  overwlielm. 
Still  bring:  not  back  the  thing:s  I  lost;— 
Still  bringing-  all  the  pain  they  cost. 


*- 


PORTRAIT  PAINTER. 

Velvets,  silks,  and  lawn. 
In  these  would  you  be  drawn? 
Or  sliall  I  rather  try  to  trace 
Diviner  passions  in  your  face? 
Yet  of  tlie  earthly  have  you  part. 


Although  it  comes  not  near  your  heart; 
So  fine  the  art  which  you  affect. 
It  is  not  seen  what  you  neglect  — 
You  who  all  outward  customs  wear 
Over  the  secret  vest  of  hair. 
Acting  for  inward  vantage  higd 
The  noble,  necessary  lie! 

Let  me  paint  the  mysteries 
Of  those  baffling,  withdrawn  eyes; 
Let  me  catch  the  secret  scorn 
At  seeming  from  true  being  torn; 
Till  bidden  past  j-our  spirit's  bar 
I  fix  in  heaven  my  one  more  star. 


MISS  TIPTY-TOES. 
She  darts  from  room  to  room, 
Like  a  shuttle  through  the  loom; 
In  and  out,  away  she  goes. 
Who  can  catch  Miss  Tipty-Toes! 
Here  she  comes,  there  she  flies. 
Now  she  laughs  and  now  she  cries; 
Full  of  joys  and  little  woes 
Is  my  sweet  Miss  Tipty-Toes. 
Gibble-gabble,  how  she  talks! 
She's  never  still,  never  walks; 
And  o'er  all  the  house  it  snows 
With  gay  bits  of  Tipty-Toes. 
Now  your  whiskers  she  will  tug. 
Then  around  your  neck  must  hug; 
She  loves  you!  no,  don't  suppose  — 
Passing  mood  of  Tipty-Toes. 
She's  a  tliousand  things  more  dear, 
Thirteen  dolls  with  all  their  gear; 
Belike  counts  you  one  of  those 
At  most,  does  queen  Tipty-Toes. 
Yet  most  tender  just  at  eve 
When  all  playthings  she  must  leave; 
Then  for  little  respite  shows 
Artful  heart  of  Tipty-Toes. 
Still  by  day  and  still  by  night 
I  grow  fonder  of  the  sprite; 
And  her  heart  whoever  knows 
He  must  love  dear  Tipty-Toes. 
A  nd  I  oft  look  down  the  j-ears 
Thinking  of  the  hopes  and  fears, 
When  the  rosebud  is  a  roso 
And  no  more  small  Tipty-Toes. 


COMPENSATION. 
I  have  missed  your  love  after  all. 

That  whicli  I  sought  to  have  and  hold; 
You  gave  it  soon  and  soon  recall; 

It  was  born  too  late  tt)  grow  old. 
And  all  I  know  or  feel  is  pain. 

Pain  endless  for  my  hour  of  bliss; 
Oh  yet,  another's  love  to  gain 

Where  not  so  dear  as  thine  to  miss! 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIOXAF.   TOKTS   OF   AMEUICA. 


1151 


HENRY  T.STANTON. 

Born  :  Alexandria,  Va.,  June  30, 1834. 
Henry  T.  Stanton  is  tho  author  of  two  vol- 
umes—Jiicob  Ui-own  iitul  O-ilier  Poems,  pub- 
lisliod  in  1875;  ami  The  Mouoyk'ss  Man  and 
Other  Poems,  published  in  1888,  wliieh  have 
been   well   and    favorablj-  received  by  the 


HENRY  THOMPSON  STANTON. 

public.  Mr.  Stanton  is  a  prominent  lawyer 
and  editor,  and  is  also  the  Executive  General 
Agent  for  Kentucky  of  the  Wasliiii<rton  Life 
lusurauce  Company  of  New  York,  with  head- 
quarters at  Frankfort,  Kentucky.  He  was 
married  in  18.")«  to  Miss  Martlia  R.  Lindsey, 
and  now  hasa  very  interesting-  family. 


*- 


THE  MONEYLESS  MAN. 
Is  there  no  secret  place  on  the  face  of  the 

earth. 
Where  charity  dwelleth,  where   virtue  has 

birtli? 
Where  bosoms  in  mercy  and  kindness  will 

heave. 
When  the  poor  and  the  wretched  sliall  ask 

and  receive?  [the  poor. 

Is  there  no  phice  at  all,  where  a  knock  from 
Will  brin;?  a  kind  anpcl  lo  open  the  door? 
Ah,  search  the  wide  world  wlierever  you  can 
There  is  no  open  door  for  a  Moneyless  Man ! 

Go,  look  in  yon  hall  where  the  chandelier's 

light  L'l'glit- 

Drives  off  with  its  splendor  the  darkness  of 


Where  the  rich-hanging  velvet  in  sliadowy 

fold 
Sweeps  gracefully  down  with   its  trinnnings 

of  gohl. 
And  tlie  mirrors  of  silver  takeup,  and  renew. 
In  long  lighted  vistas  the  'wildcring  view. 
Go  there!  at  the  banquet,  and  find,  if  you 

can, 
A  welcoming  smile  for  a  Moneyless  Man ! 

Go,  look  in  yon  church  of  the  cloud-reaching 

spire. 
Which  gives  to  the  sun  his  same  look  of  red 

lire. 
Where  the  arches  and  columns  arc  gorgeous 

within. 
And  the  walls  seem  as  pure  as  a  soul  with- 
out sin; 
Walk  down  the  long  aisles,  see  tho  rich  and 

the  great 
In  the  pomp  and  tho  pride  of  their  worldly 

estate; 
Walk  down  in  your  patches,  and  find,  if  you 

can. 
Who  opens  a  pew  to  a  Moneyless  Man. 

Go,  look  in  the  Banks,  where   Mammon   has 

told  Igold ; 

His  hundreds  and  thousands  of  siher  and 
Where,  safe  from  the  hands  of  the  starving 

and  poor. 
Lies  pile  upon  pile  of  the  glittering  ore! 
Walk  up  to  their  counters  —  ah,  there  you 

may  stay 
Till  your    limbs  grow  old,   till  your  hairs 

grow  gray,  [clati 

And  you'll  find  at  tlie  Banks  not  one  of  the 
With  money  to  lend  to  a  Moticj-less  Man  ! 

Go,  look  to  yon  Judge,  in  liis  dark-flowing 

gown. 
With  the  scales  wherein  law  weigheth  equity 

down;  [the  strong. 

Where  he  frowns  on  the  weak  and  smiles  on 
And  punishes  rightwhilst  liojustifles  wrong; 
Where  juries  their  lips  to  the  Bible  have  laid. 
To  render  a  verdict  —  they've  already  made: 
Go  there,  in  the  court-room,  and  find,  if  you 

can, 
Any  law  fur  the  cause  of  a  Moneyless  Man  '. 

Then  go  to  y<iur  hovel  —  no  raven  has  fed 
The  wife  wlio  has  suffered  too  lung  for  her 
bread;  [frost 

Kneel  down  by  her  pallet,  and  kiss  the  death- 
From  the  lips  of  the  angel  your  poverty  lost: 
Then  turn  in  your  agony  upwar<l  U)  God, 
And  bless,  while  it  smites  you,  tho  chasten- 
ing rod,  [span. 
And  you'll  find,  at  the  end  of  your  life's  little 
There's  a  welcome  above  for  a  Moneyless 
Man ! 


■s 


*- 


1152 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


THE  DEVIL'S  HOLLOW. 

Ou  Devil's  bill 

The  Day-king  still 
His  amber  robe  is  trailing-; 

Floats  up  to  sight 

The  Queeu  of  night, 
Her  wliite,  sweet  face  unvailing. 

In  silver  cars 

Tlie  courtier  stars 
With  leal  allegiance  follow; 

As  kling-go-ling 
The  cow-bells  ring 
From  out  the  Devil's  hollow. 

How  smooth  and  hard 

The  boulevard 
This  autumn  eve  for  walking; 

Beneath  the  cliffs. 

In  misty  skiffs, 
I  hear  the  fishers  talking; 

Above  the  bridge, 

'Round  Devil's  ridge. 
Still  flits  the  tardy  swallow. 

As  kling-go-ling 

Tlie  cow-bells  ring 
From  out  the  Devil's  hollow. 

Oh,  mystic  scene! 

The  still  ravine! 
Tlie  bridge!  tlie  elm!  the  river! 

For  love  and  rhyme 

Tliis  twilight  time 
Should  linger  here  forever; 

No  meeter  field 

Was  e'er  revealed 
For  Daphne  or  Apollo, 

As  kling-go-ling 

The  cow-bells  ring 
From  out  the  Devil's  hollow. 

Though  nights  to  be 

Come  fair  to  me. 
Beyond  my  fancy's  bringing. 

When  light  shall  steer 

Some  gondolier. 
With  maids  to  gittern  singing. 

From  distance  long, 

Shall  float  the  song. 
Above  their  tra-la-la-la. 

The  klang-go-lang 

The  cow-bells  rang 
A-down  the  Devil's  hollow. 


DOWN  THE  ROAD. 
The  overhead  blue  of  the  summer  is  gone, 

Tiie  overhead  canopy  gray'd ; 
Tlie  damp  and  the  chill  of  tlie  winter  is  on. 

And  the  dust  of  the  highway  laid. 
I  sit  in  the  glare  of  the  simmering  beech. 

At  the  hcartli  of  the  old  abode. 


■*- 


And  I  look  with  a  sigh  at  the  comfortless 
reach 
Of  the  farm-lands  down  the  road. 

The  wind  is  astir  in  the  camp  of  the  grain. 

The  tents  of  the  grenadier  corn; 
The  sentinel  stalk  at  the  break  of  the  lane 

Hath  a  wearisome  look  and  lorn ; 
Yet  it  hasn't  been  long  since  into  the  blades 

The  sap  of  the  summer-time  flowed. 
When  I  and  my  ox-team  loitered  the  shades 

Of  the  oak-trees  down  the  road. 

There  wasn't  a  day  that  T  didn't  go  by 

Tlie  house  at  the  swell  of  tlie  hill  — 
Tlie  cattle  had  broken  the  close  of  the  rye. 

Or  something  was  wanted  at  mill: 
And  Kitty  —  she  stood  in  the  porch  at  her 
wheel. 

And  the  gold  to  her  shoulder  flowed; 
And  what  did  I  care    for  the  "turn  of  the 
meal," 

Or  the  rye-fleld  down  the  road? 

In  the  seeding-time  when  I  followed  the  plow 

And  furrowed  the  mellow  ground. 
There  wasn't  that  labor-like  sweat  of  the 
brow 

That  honester  husbandry  crowned; 
For  tlie  fdiry  was  there  at  her  wheel  and  spun 

As  I  plowed  or  planted  or  sowed,        [done 
And  mj'  labor  was    never  right  faithfully 

In  the  grain-fields  down  the  road. 

And  then  in  the  heat  of  the  harvesting-day, 

When  the  sickle  and  scythe  went  through. 
It  was  only  the  veriest  time  for  play 

"J'hat  ever  a  harvester  knew; 
For  there  was  the  maid  at   the  humniing 
wheel  yet 

Just  fronting  the  swath  that  I  mowed. 
And  the  scythe  ran  slow,  for  my  eyes  were 
set 

On  the  old  porch  down  the  road. 

Then  the  autumn  at  last  came  into  the  year, 

And  life  took  a  mellower  mood:         [wliirr 
Wo  gitthored  the  grain,  and  tlie  quail  with  a 

Went  out  of  the  field  to  tlic  wood. 
And  I  tried  to  be  steady  and  brisk;  but  still 

It  was  liard  to  be  plying  the  goad 
When  my  indolent  oxen  balked  at  the  hill 

By  the  farm-house  down  the  road. 

Now  Kitty  has  eyes  of  the  teiiderest  blue, 

And  hair  of  tlie  glossiest  gold. 
But  never  a  word  of  my  loving  so  true 

To  Kitty  have  ever  I  told. 
And  the  winter  is  here  and  the  winter  may  go 

And  still  I  can  carry  the  load  — 
The  green  of  the  spring  cometli  after  the 
snow 

In  the  grain-flelds  down  the  road. 
* 


9- 


* 


LOCAL   ANU   NATIONAL   POE 1 S   OF   AMEKICA. 


11. VJ 


GEO.  W.  ATKINSON,  PH.  D. 

Born:  Virginia,  Jdne  29, 1845. 
Mb.  Atkinson  is  a  Virginian  and  graduated 
from  the  Oliio  Weslcyan  Uuivcrsity  in  1870; 
took  i>()st  pradnate  course  at  Mount  Union 
College;  studied  law  two  years;  attended 
lectures  at  Coluiiibian  University,  and  gradu- 


0k    w 


GEO.  W.  ATKINSON,  PH.  D.,  LL.D. 

ated  from  tne  law  department  of  Howard 
University;  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  187.5, 
and  has  since  successfully  practiced;  was 
four  years  U.  S.  Marshal  for  West  Virginia, 
and  was  elected  to  the  Fif  ty-flrst  Conjrress  as 
the  representative  of  the  Wheeling,  West 
Virginia,  district.  He  is  the  author  of  six 
different  books,  all  of  whicli  had  a  large  sale. 
He  has  written  many  poems  on  different  sub- 
jects.    His  scholarship  is  broad  and  varied. 

OCU  RECORDS. 
As  melts  the  snow  beneath  the  sun. 

So  vanish  words  when  spoken ; 
\Ve  soon  forget  the  deeds  we've  done. 

The  promises  we've  broken. 
We  think  at  least  all  wrong  acts  die 

As  soon  as  they're  forgotten; 
Ah  vain  the  thought  —  it  is  a  lie, 

And  of  tlie  wish  begotten. 
For  silent  as  the  snowflakes  fall 

A  record  we  are  writing 
Of  all  our  acts,  the  great,  the  small, 

And  every  fault  indicting. 


Unlike  the  snow  that  melts  away, 

Those  lines  with  all  their  shading 
Are  written  once  and  yet  for  aye  — 

That  record  is  unfading. 
God  pity  all  who  fearless  are 

Of  records  not  inviting. 
That  in  His  book  so  white  and  fair 

The  many  now  are  writing. 
A  record  not  for  time  alone, 

Since  all  mankind  are  framing. 
In  sun  or  shade  should  every  one 

For  nobler  deeds  be  aiming. 
As  clean  as  snow,  as  dear  as  gold. 

Thine  actions  all  recorded, 
The  Judge  will  come,  the  scroll  unfold, 

And  tliou  will  be  rewarded; 
A  passport  true  to  endless  rest. 

In  heaven's  own  light  and  glory. 
We'll  read  it  there  among  the  blest, 

And  oft  repeat  its  story. 
So  write;  and  no  false  entry  make; 

Nor  blot  nor  blur  shall  ever 
A  joy  from  thee  or  others  take. 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 


IN  THE  DARKNESS  OF  NIGHT. 

Like  a  gem  tliat  bedecks  tlie  cerulean  dome 

Is  the  ..Night-blooming  Ceres''  when  it 
breaks  from  its  home 

In  the  womb  of  the  bud  for  a  place  with  the 
fair. 

And  breathes  forth  its  sweets  on  the  calm 
evening  air; 

And  it  opes  wide  its  petals  thus  born  in  the 
night, 

To  prepare  them  to  meet  with  the  sun's 
scorching  light: 

So  are  earth's  rarest  jewels  like  flowers  that 
blwmi  [gloom ; 

In   the    darkness  of    night  all  shrouded  in 

So  the  tones  of  iho  harp  to  our  ears  sound 
the  best 

When  Nature  Is  sleeping  and  the  world  is  at 
rest. 

But  sweeter  than  flowers  Is  the  river  of  Life, 

That  drowns  every  sorrow  and  quells  every 
strife;  [the  pure. 

For  it  flows  from  the  land  of  the  blest  and 

And  it  fixes  the  heart  on  the  things  that  en- 
dure. 

Thus  our  lives  are  made  sweeter,  more  Joy- 
ous and  bright 

By  the  thoughts  tliat  are  born  in  the  black- 
ness of  niglit. 

May  the  flowers  bloom  on,  and  the  music 
ne'er  cease, 

As  we  journey  through  life  with  the  Master's 
sweet  peace. 


*■ 


1154 


LOCAL  AMD  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  A^IERIC'A. 


LOVES  " FOKGET-ME-NOT." 

What  is  Love?    I  know  not; 
Yet  to  the  beurt  it  clings  — 
Flowiug-  as  never-ceasing'  springs, 
And  to  tlio  weary  brings 

Unending  joj',  if  love's  our  lot. 

What  is  Love?    Tliey  alone  can  tell 
Whose  hearts  its  sweep  have  taken. 
By  powers  mysterious  whicii  awaken 
Into  nobler  life,  unshaken 

By  pulsations  divine,  that  we  know  so  well. 

What  is  Love?    It's  the  seraph's  lot 
To  tell.    For  it's  divine  —  eternal. 
Which  makes  the  world  fraternal 
With  peace  and  joy  supernal; 

It  ever  lives  —  dear  friend,  forget-me-not. 


REV.  THOMAS  S.  ROLIE. 

Born:  Gorham.  Me.,  Sept.  21, 18.34. 
In  1859  Mr.  Rolie  was  ordained  a  minister  of 
tlie    Congregational   church.    He  has  filled 
pastorales  at  Waldoboro  and  \\'est  Falmouth 


*- 


REV.  THOMAS  S.  ROLIE. 

in  Maine;  Salmon  Falls  and  New  Ipswich  in 
New  Hampshire,  and  numerous  other  cities. 
Rev.  Thomas  S.  Rolie  has  found  lime  to  court 
tlie  muse,  and  many  of  his  poems  have  been 
published  in  the  periodical  press.    He  was 


married  in  1859  to  Miss  Virginia  D.  Penfel- 
tou,  and  now  has  a  family  of  children  grown 
up  to  maturity. 


COLLEGE  POEM. 

EXTRACT. 

Fit  emblems  all  of  life's  revolving  stage. 
Infancy,  youth,  manhood,  declining  age, 

Staid  Livy  guides  the  Freshman's  feeble  way, 
The  Soph  is  trained  by  Horace  courteous  and 

gay  — 

The  Junior  tests  his  powers  potential, 
By  scaling  curves  and  chasing  differentials, 

Receiving  blessings  from  kind  old  Tacitus, 
Before  the  ofttimes   fatal  strife  with  Cal- 
culus; 

But  no  such  boyish  games  engage  the  mind 
When  once  are  reached  the  Senior's  fair  con- 
fines — 

The  mind  turns  upward  now  and  dwells  afar. 
Penetrates  the  skies  and  flees  from  star  to 
star; 

As  should  the  aged  one,  his  labors  o'er, 
From  earth  arise,  to  higher  regions  soar. 

Among  the  incidental  joys  of  college-life. 
That  oft  the  weary  student's  mind  revive, 

Are  those  afforded  when  vacation  comes, 
And  we  depart  to  our  separate  homes; 

When  not  only  we  may  show  the  talent 
Gathered  here,  but  proudly  act  the  gallant 

And  win  the  esteem  of  some  lady  fair. 
Whose  angel  smiles  may  drive  away  dull  care. 

But  let  the  inexperienced  Freshman 
Take  warning  while  they  listen  to  a  story 
drear. 

One  day  a  student  was  bade  to  trace 
A  certain  curve  amid  its  winding  ways- 
Forthwith  he obgy'd and  straght way  niarcbiU 

And  tooh  his  seat,  soon  ordered  to  explain - 
He  anon  begins,  but  a  sudden  pain 

Of  wonder  strikes  him  as  he  sees. 
By  accident  or  some  strange  fatality, 

The  initials  of  a  distant  lady  fair. 
Succeeding  his  in  one  connected  pair- 
He  sees  no  more;  mist  floats  before  his  eyes. 
He  falls  alas!  and  nigh  a  lifeless  figure  lies. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


]..> 


MRS.  AMY   C.  V.  SCIiAEGGS. 

Born:  Blue  Mounds,  Wis. 
Under  tlic  noni  do  phimo  of  Stanley  Fitz- 
patrick,  tliis  lady  has  become  well-known  in 
the  literary  world.    Several  hundreds  of  her 
poems  Iiave  appeared  from  time  to  time  in 


MiJS.  A>n'  (  .  V.  -Ill  \  i  I ,.  ,- 
the  periodical  press,  wliicii   wiil  soon  he  col- 
lected and  publislied  in  book-form.    She  is  a 
widow,  and  a  resident  of  San  Diego,  Cal. 

CHARITV. 
We  shall  chide  a  weaker  brother. 

Or  an  erring-  sister  blame: 
Love  and  i)ity  one  another  — 

Blessed  Charity  proclaim. 
Shall  we  deal  back  blow  for  blow  — 

Or  give  good  for  evil  still; 
Shall  our  hearts  with  jtassion  glow, 

Tho'  we're  wronged  and  treated  ill? 
Who  shall  sit  in  judgment  stern. 

On  the  wrong  we  daily  see? 
Shall  we  let  our  anger  burn. 

The'  it  touches  you  or  me? 
What  the'  our  love  be  met  with  hate  — 

Pity  wakens  only  scorn  — 
Or  reaching  for  the  rose  of  peace. 

We  feel  the  sharp  and  cruel  thorn. 
What  matter,  brotlier,  tlio'  the  pain 

Bitter  bo,  and  long  and  deep; 
Its  lesson  cannot  be  in  vain  — 

Nor  in  vain  the  tears  we  weep. 


('ease  not,  brother,  lliy  endeavor, 

'J'ho'  the  blinilhig  tears  still  fail — 
Lo\o  — still  love  — and  love  forever  — 

Charity  is  best  of  all. 
Sweet  Charity  cndurcth  long- 
Highest  stands  among  the  ••  three," 
Let  it  cover  o'er  cacli  wrong 

Tho'  it  touches  you  or  me. 
O,  chide  nottlien  a  brother's  fall. 

Nor  a  weaker  sister's  sliame, 
God  only  knows  wiiat  caused  it  all  — 

Pity  give  instead  of  blame. 
What  are  we  that  we  should  dare 

Weaker  ones  to  crush  or  kill. 
By  adding  to  the  load  they  bear 

One  poison  drop  of  scorn  or  ill. 
Nay,  lighten  if  ye  can  their  load. 

Let  tlieir  faults  and  follies  rest, 
And  smootlic  for  them  life's  rocky  road- 

For  God-like  Charily  is  blest. 
Stripped  of  its  mantle,  white  and  fair, 

O,  my  brotiiers,  wliat  are  we? 
Witliout  its  soft  veil  could  we  bear 

All  that  touches  you  and  me? 


MV  IJABY  ROY. 
"Out  on  the  hillside,  under  the  oak. 
My  golden-haired  baby  boy  will  stand." 

O  where  is  my  boy,  my  baby  boy, 

Witli  his  curls  of  gold  and  his  eyes  of  blue; 
The  child  of  my  hope,  and  love,  and  joy  — 

His  lips  like  a  rose-leaf  wet  with  dew. 
O  where  is  my  boj-,  my  cherub  child. 

Wlio  came  in  the  hours  of  grief  and  pain? 
Wlio  scarce  in  liis  eartiily  liomo  liad  smiled 

Ere  angels  took  back  the  gift  :igain. 
O  never  under  the  soft  spring  skies, 

Or  under  the  oak  on  the  liillside  fair. 
Shall  T  meet  the  glance  of  his  1:iughiiig  eyes. 

Or  catch  tho  gleam  of  his  golden  hair. 
O  never  shall  T  sootlie  and  hush  my  boy 

Again  to  a  sweet  and  dre:imless  rest; 
Or  feel  the  thrill  of  a  nameless  joy — 

His  golden  head  to  my  Viosom  pressed. 
O  never  again  shall  my  aching  heart 

Be  filled  with  a  motiier's  hope  or  fear. 
Or  tremulous  beat  with  tho  joyous  start 

Awoke  by  a  baby's  smile  or  tear. 
Far  to  the  East,  'ne.ath  the  darker  skies  — 

Where  the  sighing  summer  gnisses  wave. 
My  tender  golden-haired  bal>y  lies 

Asleep  in  liis  lonely  prairie  gr.ive. 
O  tender  golden-liairtMl  baby  Iviy  I 

Tonight  my  heart  cries  out  for  you 
With  a  love  tliat  knows  no  base  alloy  — 

Witli  a  love  that  all  these  years  is  true. 


5<- 


irre 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


REV.  JOSEPH  p.  PRESTON. 

Born:  Galena,  C,  Jan.  10, 1837. 
Mr.  Preston  received  a  full  course  iu  the 
Oberliii  Theological  Seminary,  and  was  or- 
dained a  Congregational  minister  iu  1808. 
He  has  filled  pastorates  in  many  prominent 
churches,  and  is    now  oHieiatiug-  at  Brazil 


*- 


REV.  JOSEPH   PERRY  PRESTON. 

Mills,  Nebraska.  He  lias  also  lectured  ex- 
tensively, and  is  always  enthusiastically 
received,  as  he  manages  to  Ivecp  the  audi- 
ence in  a  g-ood  humor  with  bright  sparkles 
of  wit  from  start  to  finish.  Rev.  Joseph  P. 
Preston  was  married  in  1874  to  Miss  Mary 
Raymond,  and  now  has  a  family  of  children. 

EIGHTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

Through  the  long  vista  of  eighty  years 
Backward  T  look  through  smiles  and  tears 
O'er  the  track  of  Time's  onward  sweep, 
Like  billows  of  the  surging  deep. 
Time  then  began  an  era  new. 
When,  leaping  from  the  azure  blue. 
He  took  thee  in  his  kind  embrace. 
And  toward  Life's  problem  set  thy  face. 
Now,  speak  it  low,  but  tell  me  true. 
Has  not  Old  Time  been  kind  to  you ! 
Though  oft  along  the  desert  sand. 
Yet  oftener  through  fair  Beulah  land. 
From  less  to  more  tliy  life  has  been 
As  reaching  toward  the  fair  unseen, 
Whether  in  shadow  or  in  sheen. 
Like  onward  flow  of  purling  strenm. 


The  sun  that  shone  on  thy  3'oung  head. 

And  turned  tliy  girlish  cheeks  to  red 

So  many,  many  years  ago. 

Has  still  the  same  effulgent  glow. 

The  stars  that  then  looked  kindly  down 

Are  running  still  their  ceaseless  round. 

One  purpose  doth  forever  run 

Througli  course  of  atom  or  of  sun. 

Then  do  not  think  thy  life  has  been 

Outside  the  realm  of  law  or  plan. 

For,  onward  toward  a  life  complete 

An  angel  guides  the  willing  feet. 

What  hopes  were  born  in  days  long  gone. 

And  of  a  noble  purpose  born  — 

Born  and  died  in  the  swelling  tide 

That  laughs  at  human  hope  and  pride. 

Or,  what  has  blossomed  into  fruit? 

We  cannot  say,  our  lips  are  mute. 

But  hopes  that  die  bear  fruits  on  high 

Rich  and  full  in  the  Bye  and  Bye. 

And  eiglit  decades  of  light  and  shade 

Have  woven  colors  ne'er  to  fade, 

For  inwrought  life  that  may  seem  dim 

In  beauty  yet  shall  leap  like  flame. 

God's  love  was  thine  through  all  the  years. 

Amid  the  joys,  amid  the  tears. 

And  he  wlio  notes  the  sparrow's  fall. 

Doth  hear  his  children  when  they  call. 

Beloved  friend  and  mother  true. 

We've  come  to  shake  a  hand  with  you. 

And  to  rejoice  that  still  we  find 

A  spirit  sweet  and  genial  mind. 

Since  first  thine  eyes  did'st  see  the  light 

Nations  liave  crumbled  out  of  sight; 

But  may  a  score  of  greetings  yet 

Be  yours,  like  this,  for  wliich  we've  met. 


MARION  W.  SAYFORD. 

This  lady  is  the  daughter  of  John  M.  Say- 
ford,  a  prominent  citizen  of  Harrisburg.Pa. ' 
The  poems  of  Miss  Sayford  liave  appeared  in 
the  Cliristian  Advocate  and  other  promlnent,i 
publications.  ' 

THE  PRESENT  NOT  JOYOUS. 

A  pansy  said,  Alas!  why  should  I  grow        , 

Wlien  every  morn  the  darling  flower  I  sho\^ 

Is  plucked  by  a  cruel  hand?  : 

Wliyis  it  thus?    What  right,  it  murmurliu 

said. 
That  all  my  efforts  fail,  my  hopes  be  dead? 

I  cannot  understand. 
My  neighbor  keeps  her  flowers,  though  nots. 

fair. 
Site  has  so  many,  she  could  surely  spare 
A  few,  nor  mind  the  loss. 


* — 


LOCAL   AND   XATIOXAL   POETS   OF   AMKIUC.V. 


1157 


Why  roust  T  sit  in  g-looni  and  sadly  woep. 
While  she  smiles  on  niul  may  her  treasures 

It  is  a  bitter  cross.  [keep? 

A  zephyr  floating  by  heard  the  lament. 
And  quickly  to  the  plant  his  course  lie  bent, 

And  jrently  whispered  low: 
••Ah  foolish  flower,  lift  up  tliy  drooping  head. 
Thou  grievest  that  tliine  own  \mov  hopes 
have  fled. 

And  so  art  filled  with  woe. 

"Thou  dost  not  see  that  greater  plans  than 

thine 
Are  worlring'  out  for  thee  whilst  thou  repine. 

In  murmuring-  grief  and  tears. 
Wliy  did"st  thou  not  sit  calm  and  wait. 
Assured  of  some  good  purpose   kind   and 

And  put  away  thy  fears?  Igreat, 

••Thy  flower  must  needs  be  plucked  that  in  its 

place, 
A  larger,  fairer  one  may  grow,  of  all  its  race. 

Of  richly  varied  hue.  [content. 

Thy  neighbor  keeps  her  flowers  and  smiles 
But  she  has  missed  tlie  joy  that's  to  thee  sent. 

They're  small  and  plain  to  view." 

The  zephyr  having  given  his  message  clear. 
Kissed  the  foir  plant  and  winged  his  way 
with  cheer 

To  other  souls  in  need,  [sunk  deep. 
While  in  the  pansy's  heart  the  thought 
And  o'er  her  face  a  smile  began  to  creep, 

Which  we  may  gladly  read. 

CASTLES  IN  SPAIN. 
Ah,  stately  do  they  rise,  my  castles  fair. 
Which  wait  for  me  beyond    the   horizon's 

bound. 
1  dream  full  oft  of  them,  so  closely  wound 
Are  they  about  my  heart,  I  even  dare 
To  firm  believe  that  sometime  free  from  care, 
I  shall  go  forth  my  joyous  feet  unbound. 
To  possess  my  fair  estate,  by  fancy  crowned 
With  wondrous  grandeur  to  my  vision  rare. 
And  yet  methinks  e'en  now  I've  entered  in, 
And  full  enjoyment  have  in  all  its  bliss  — 
Ah!  sweeter  far,  and  high  above  the  din 
Of  regal  pomp  and  splendor,  e'en  to  reign, 
A  monarch  o'er  a  mighty  realm,  is  this 
The  matchless  joy  of  castles  dear  in  Spain. 


MRS.    AXGELIXA   ALLSOPP. 

BORX :  Nkw  York,  Dkc.  28. 1815. 
The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  for 
more  than  half  a  century  in  the  periodical 
press.  She  received  lier education  in  France; 
has  been  married  three  times  and  has  travel- 
ed in  North  and  South  America.  Europe,  and 
in  the  wilds  of  Africa,  and  has  led  a  very 


eventful  career.    This  lady  is  a  resident  of 
Norili    Tcmescal.  Cal.    Mrs.   .\ll>i>pp    has  a 


MRS.  ANGEL1N.\  ALLSOPP, 

Story  of  jjri'eat  interest   which  she  hopes  to 
publish  at  an  early  date. 


MANKIND. 
Oh !  gross  and  base  as  ever  base  could  1k\ 
Is  the  mean  brood  tliat  Adam  sprung  from 

thee; 
So  foul  the  clay  of  which  this  God-like  man 
Was  form'd  and  kneaded,  not  even  Heaven 
Arrest  its  loathsome  progress  to  decay,  [can 
Or  daunt  the  putrid  worm  that  claims  its 

prey. 
Yetsycoi)hatits  ye  are  to  Heaven's  throne 
To  Ijeiid.  to  cringe,  to  plead  for  wealth  alime. 
O  eurs't.  O  wretched,  mean  and  d:istartl  race. 
Your  very  soul  is  printed  on  your  fjicc; 
A  pleasing  semblance  of  the  monkey  sort. 
To  ogle,  grin  and  chatter  as  you're  t.-iught; 
Such,  such  is  man,  if  mate  for  him  you  seek. 
Go  ask  fond  woman  what  has  palinl  her  cheek ; 
Ask  why  the  sigh,  the  teardrop  fn)m  an  eye 
Whose  every  beam  in  pity  seeks  the  sky  — 
Seek  in  lier  heart  the  secret  of  such  wo«\ 
'Tis  man,  she  cries,  for  him  must  my  tears 

flow. 
>[y  hapless  sex  a  guide,  protector,  sought. 
We  found  nn  ape  instead  of  what  we  ought, 
A  constant  scourge,  a  tyrant  at  whose  will 
We  bend  and  bn^ak.  but    hri>akuig  love  on 

still. 
Till  Heaven  in  pity  claims  our  weary  soul. 
Frees  the  piwr  slave  trom    man's  accurst 

control. 


*- 


-* 


*- 


1158 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


G.  ED.  NAFTZGER. 

Bobn:  Lima,  Ohio,  April,  30, 1859. 
In  1879  Mr.  Naf tzg-er  -was  editor  of  a  literary 
paper  known  as  Our  Boys  aud  Girls,  and 
later  published  the  Sunday  Morning  Gossip 
at  Edfferton.  Since  that  time  he  has  been 
identified  with  the  Ohio  newspapers,  and  is 


G.  ED.   NAFTZGER. 

at  present  associate-editor  of  the  Spencer- 
ville  Journal.  Mr.  Naf  tzg-er  is  not  so  widely 
known  as  a  poet,  but  lias  gained  an  enviable 
reputation  as  a  humorous  writer  of  prose 
under  the  nom  de  plume  of  Lynx,  having 
contributed  many  brilliant  articles  to  the 
Detroit  Free  Press,  Atlanta  Constitution, New 
Orleans  Picayune,  and  other  papers  of  note. 
He  is  also  well-known  as  a  lecturer  and  actor. 
He  was  married  February  21,  1890,  to  Effa 
Maud  Hunter,  a  well-known  actress  and 
vocalist. 

ONLY  A  WOMAN'S  WAY. 
Boys,  when  you  pop  the  question 

And  the  girl  tells  you  nay, 
Don't  despair,  for  you'll  get  there  — 

It  was  only  a  woman's  way. 

Her  sweet  blushes  tell  a  diffei-ent  talc, 

There  is  hope  for  you  to-day. 
So  be  not  cast  down  by  a  girlish  frown  — 

It  was  only  a  woman's  way. 

She  must  not  be  too  easily  won. 

She  begs  for  more  delay. 
In  your  hour  of  bliss  remember  this  — 

It  was  only  a  woman's  way. 


And  when  once  you  are  married. 
She'll  dive  into  your  monthly  pay. 

For  she'll  want  a  bonnet  with  flowers  on  it— 
But  it  is  only  a  woman's  way. 

So  it  will  be  your  whole  life  through, 
Until  your  hair  turns  gray  — 

It  may  be  absurd— she'll  have  the  last  word- 
But  that's  only  a  woman's  war. 


ONLY  A  BABY. 

"Only  a  baby  small,"  hark,  how  it  cries; 
Only  a  chubby  face,  two  tearful  eyes; 
Only  two  little  teeth  fit  for  a  mouse; 
Only  ten  sticky  fingers  all  through  the  house. 

"  Only  a  golden  head,"  witli  one  little  curl; 
"  Only  a  tender  flower,"  only  a  girl; 
Onlj'  two  little  ears,  ten  little  toes: 
Slie  may  wed  a  millionaire  —  nobody  knows. 

Only  a  baby  small,  never  at  rest. 
Crawling  o'er  the  floor,  rigged  in  its  'ocst, 
"Only  a  baby  small,"  gone  like  a  breath. 
Growing  to  womanhood,  loving  till  death. 


WEARY,  OH,  SO  WEARY! 

I  am  tired  of  hustling,  hustling. 
On  the  cars  jostling,  jostling  — 
Onward,  onward,  always  bustling; 

I  am  wearj'  —  oh,  so  weary. 

I  am  tired  of  flurrying,  flurrying. 
To  the  depot  hurrjing,  luirrj-ing — 
Late  for  trains,  always  worrying; 

I  am  weary  —oh,  so  weary. 

I  am  tired  of  fumbling,  fumbling 
In  my  trunk,  wardrobe  tumbling. 
Wigs  and  powder  always  jiimbling— 
I  am  weary  —  oh,  so  weary. 

I  am  tired  of  playing  nightly  — 
Houses  light!  Yes,  verj-  slightly, 
'Tis  ever  thus;  I'll  tell  you  rightly  — 
I  am  weary  —oh,  so  weary. 

I  am  tired  of  ghost  not  walking. 
Seldom  now  comes  salary  stalking. 
Manager  hopeful  —  always  talking, 

I  am  wearj-  —  we  are  Inistod. 

Then  for  home  we're  tripping,  tripping. 
From  our  faces  sweat  is  dripping; 
'Tis  time  we  were  -skipping  — 

I  am  weary  —  oh,  so  weary. 

It  makes  me  tired  not  riding,  riding. 
But  kejit  busy  hiding,  hiding. 
While  the  f rt'ight  lies  on  the  siding  — 
I  am  weary— oh,  so  weary. 


*- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


1150 


MRS.HATTIE  I>RUE  URICH. 

Born:  Canada.  Feb.  10, 1834. 
For  many  years  this  lady  has  written  poems 
from  time  to  time,  whieh  liave  appeared  in 
the  periodical  press.  She  was  married  in  1849 


MBS.  HATTIE  LA  RUE  URICII. 

to  John  Urieh,  and  is  now  a  resident  of  Wil- 
mot,  Dakota.  Mrs.  (Jrlch  has  liad  quite  an 
eventful  career;  in  her  youth  she  was  stolen 
from  home,  and  was  tlie  cause  of  litigation. 


TIRED. 
I  am  tired  of  this  busy  world. 
So  full  of  bustle  and  of  strife. 
For  me  is  left  no  peaceful  rest  or  fond  re-' 

pose; 
Though  half  a  century  has  bleached 
My  once  dark  hair. 
Those  fifty  years  have  brought  me 
Naught  but  weary  work  and  care. 

Sometimes  I  wish  tliat  I  might  look 
Into  the  world  unknown. 
To  see  if  there  be  peace  and  harmony 
Whltlier  our  friends  are  flown  ; 
To  know  if  happiness  and  rest 
Witli  tlie  future  life  is  given. 
Or  if  perchance  that  weary  souls 
Beyond  the  tomb  are  still  by  care  and  sorrow 
driven. 


SUICIDE. 
One  more  unfortunate,  rashly  importunate, 
tired  of  life; 


Wearied  of  tills  world  and  all  Its  bitter  strife; 
In  he  plunged  madly, —  no  matter  how  coidlj' 

rail  tlie  river  deatli; 
Madly  lie  went  witlioiii  any  summons,  where 

none  return  mortal  breath  to  breatli. 
Tlic  poor  victim  owned  that  his  master  wa.s 

drink, 
And  relentless  the  master  persuaded  till  his 

soul  he  did  sink; 
At  the  noonday  of  manhood  lie  liii<l  Iiis  own 

life  down. 
While  the  world  looks  on  with  a  smile  and  a 

frown. 
But  there  were  bereaved  ones  left  at  the 

pretty  prairie  iiome; 
Cliildren  with  fatlier  dead,  and  the  mother 

gone  to  roam ; 
Two  lonely  babes,  twin  sister  not  yet  a  sum- 
mer old. 
Are  left  to  the  care  of  strangers,  or  to  charity 

so  cold. 
Yet  men  look  coldly  on  and  drink.     They 

quaff  tlieir  cups  just  the  same. 
No  matter  though  the  same  fate  Is  waiting 

to  blast  their  own  life  and  name. 
Then  on  ye  friends  of  prohil)ition,  let  your 

works  resound  [found. 

Till  not  a  drinking  den  within  your  reach  be 

THE  MIM.EXIUM. 

The  Millenium,  Oh  the  Millenium,  will  it 
ever  be. 

When  will  every  one  from  prejudice  be  for- 
ever free. 

When  will  each  man  grant  his  neighbor  fra- 
ternity, paternity? 

Then  would  liarmi>tiy  reign,  and  truth  be  the 
rule  to  all  eternity. 

When,  Oh  when  will  the  love  of  gold  forever 
cease. 

And  when  will  the  world  be  with  each  otlier 
at  peace?  [man's  diKir: 

Then  there  would  be  no  beggjirs  at  the  rich 

No  more  of  jioverty  and  rags  no  more,  never 
more. 

Will  the  strikes  and  riots  be  things  of  the 
past,  [last? 

And  the  laborer  allowed  his  just  rights  .-it 

Tliea  no  need  would  there  be  for  the  soldiers 
trained. 

To  strew  the  fields  o'er  with  the  dead  und  the 
mninicd. 

But  methinks  the  Milleniiiel  can  never  dawn 

Till  the  gold  from  the  coffers  of  the  mil- 
lionaire be  drawn 

And  scattered  and  divided  o'er  the  earth 
broadcast, 

Tlien  would  the  golden  rule  be  law.  and  peace 
proclaimed  at  last. 


*- 


*- 


1160 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


EMORY  D.  BAKER. 

Born:  Clarion  Co.,  Pa.,  April  28, 1863. 
Commencing  to  teach  at  theatre  of  nineteen, 
Mr.  Baker  lias  followed  the  profession  ever 
since,  spending-  his  vacations  in  attending- 
school  and  farm  labor,  and  his  spare  mo- 
iiientr-in  -^vritinp-  poetry,  music,  etc.,  and  in 


EMORY  D.  BAKER. 

reading  the  C.  L.  S.  C  course,  in  which  he 
graduated  with  the  class  of  1889.  He  has 
written  poetry  and  some  prose  for  the  past 
eight  years,  and  every  poem  of  his  ever  of- 
fered for  i>ublication  has  been  accepted. 
Mr.  Baker  is  a  great  lover  of  music,  and  has 
set  some  of  his  poems  te  music.  He  can 
speak  Pennsylvania  German,  and  being  still 
single,  resides  with  his  parents  on  a  farm  at 
Rimersburg,  Pa. 

SAILING  OER  LIFE'S  OCEAN. 
We  are  sailing  o'er  life's  ocean. 

Bound  for  Canaan's  happy  land; 
There  we'll  meet  our  blessed  Savior 

'Mid  the  pure  and  heavenly  bund. 
Long  have  we  been  on  our  journey. 

On  the  ocean  far  and  wide, 
"Mid  the  mist  and  spray  so  dreary. 

And  the  ever-surging  tide. 
Oft  we  storms  of  doubt  encountered. 

And  the  rams  of  bitter  tears; 
Oft  we've  had  fierce  fightings. 

And  within  our  anxious  fears; 


But  we  soon  shall  reach  the  harbor, 

Tho'  the  tempests  loudly  roar, 
If  we  trust  our  captain,  Jesus, 

We  shall  safely  reach  the  shore. 
Tho'  fierce  billows  now  are  swelUng, 

Breakers  roar  upon  the  lea. 
Still  securelj'  are  we  sailing. 

Trusting  all,  O  Christ,  to  thee. 
Tho'  there's  many  a  hazard  threatening 

'Mid  the  dang'rous  rocks  and  shoals. 
Yet  our  ship  has  landed  many 

Of  the  faithful  pilgrim  souls. 
Brightly  gleams  the  light  of  dawning; 

Soon  the  storms  will  pass  awaj% 
Then  there'll  bo  an  endless  morning. 

And  our  night  be  turned  to  day. 
God  has  called  hence  many  loved  ones; 

We  have  seen  them  leave  our  side: 
With  our  Savior  we  shall  meet  them 

When  we,  too,  have  crossed  the  tide. 
We  are  sailing  o'er  life's  ocean 

Fast  as  time  can  roll  along; 
Few  the  hours  of  our  devotion 

Here  on  earth  in  prayer  and  song. 
Soon  will  all  our  days  be  ended. 

And  our  earthly  toils  be  o'er  — 
All  our  ships  be  safely  landed 

On  the  bright  and  shining  shore. 


SISTER  IDA. 
My  mind's  borne  back  to  days  gone  by, 
When  together  in  childhood's  day  we'd  ply 
Our  childish  talk,  as  then  we  played 
In  orchard  and  garden,  where  oft  we  strayed. 
But  row  our  youthful  days  are  gone, 
And  sister  has  joined  the  heavenly  throng; 
But  still  her  form's  before  my  eyes, 
Altho'  her  soul  has  long  fled  to  the  skies. 
Methinks  I  hear  her  sweet  voice  ring 
As  it  did  when  at  home  she  used  to  sing. 
Oh,  'tis  but  my  imagining! 
For  her  to  me  I  can  nevermore  bring. 
No  words  can  e'er  express  the  loss  — 
Aliho'   earth's  greatest   gain's    always  but 

dross  — 
I  felt  when  her  they  bore  away 
To  lay  her  deep,  deep  beneath  tlie  cold  clay. 
'Tis  but  one  year  ago  to-day 
They  covered  her  o'er  with  the  yellow  clay; 
To  me  it  seems  quite  twice  that  long 
Since  Ida  from  earth  and  her  friends  hat 

gone. 

EXTRACT. 
Be  kind  and  be  gentle, 

Be  faitliful  and  true. 
And  strive  hard  each  da.v,  friends. 

To  learn  sometliing  new. 


•i"- 


*- 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OK    AMEIIICA. 


1101 


MRS.  AMANDA  E.  BF.LK. 

Born:  Gahnett  Co..  Ga..  Jan.,  IS^."]. 
In  1852  the  subject  of  this  sketcli  was  ir.ar- 
ried  to  Andrew  A.  Belk,  and  now  resides-  iu 


PP'^^r 


MRS.  AMANDA   E.  BELK. 

Jasper,  Texas.  The  poems  of  Mrs.  Belk 
have  appeared  in  the  Texas  Baptist  and 
Herald  and  other  publications. 


* 


THE  COMMISSION  TO  MY  GOLDEN 
SPECTACLES. 
Go  preach,  I  give  you  g-ladly. 

Though  you've  served  me  well  and  long; 
Go  tell  the  world  of  Jesus, 
Be  not  only  eyes  but  tongue. 

Go  tell  the  preacher  to  be  faithful  — 

Theirs  is  no  common  charg-c; 
The  call  is  loud  and  ui'gent. 

The  fields  are  white  and  large. 

Go  tell  them  to  be  zealous  — 

No  time  for  trifling  here. 
To  take  the  old  Jerusalem  blade 

And  wield  it  far  and  near. 

Go  tell  them  to  be  vigilant. 

And  earnestly  contend 
For  the  truth  what  was  delivered. 

And  preserve  it  to  the  end. 

Go  preach  to  heathen  nations 

Till  all  the  sound  have  heard. 
Then  come,  dear,  blessed  Savior, 

As  thou  hast  promised  in  thy  Word. 


May  you  last  and  preach  the  gospel 

Till  tlie  last  of  Adanj's  race 
Shall  bow  tiie  knee  to  Jesus 

And  His  precious  name  confess. 
Farewell,  my  golden  glasses. 

With  frame  of  i)urest  mold; 
I  hope  to  meet  tlio  fruit  you  bring 

Where  the  streets  aie  paved  with  gold. 

THE  TRUTH  IN  LOVE. 

As  I  boarded  the  train. 

And  she  Hies  amain. 

When  to  the  far,  far  West  I'm  bound. 

We've  naught  to  do 

But  to  silently  view 

Tilings  transpiring  around. 

They're  oflf  and  on  at  every  stage. 

From  the  babe  of  a  month  to  hoary  age- 

The  rustic  from  the  plney  wood. 

The  smiling  miss,  the  gallant  dude. 

I'm  glad  they  could  not  read  my  thoughts. 

Though  now  I  will  confers 

The  thing  that  toolv  my  eye  the  most 

Was  tiie  way  the  ladies  dress. 

What  a  great  mistake 

The  Loi'd  did  make 

When  he  took  the  rib  from  the  side! 

When  he  placed  the  pack 

On  the  camel's  back 

Instead  of  on  Adam's  bride. 

Then  he  gave  her  a  forehead  smooth  and 

Where  beauty  and  intellect  glow;         broad. 

But  she  says  by  lier  acts,  ••  Not  so,  my  Lord, 

For  there's  where  the  hair  ought  to  grow." 

When  folds  and  frills  and  tucks  are  made. 

And  a  high-crowned  liat  adorns  her  head. 

Her  waist  must  bo  trim  and  quite  small,  too. 

And  a  tliree  instead  of  a  five  for  her  shoe. 

To  church  she  must  go. 

For  she's  pious,  you  know. 

And  vacant  her  seat  must  not  be; 

So  sweei  ly  she  sings. 

And  she  prays  perhaps,  too; 

But  why  should  she  bend  the  knee? 

Her  dress  miglu  pet  soiled. 

And  the  drapei'y  spoiled. 

And  thus  interfere  with  devotion; 

For  how  could  slie  pray. 

Or  worshii)  aright. 

With  mind  and  dress  all  in  commotion? 

Then  her  bottle's  a  treasure,  though  rum 

she  don't  lake; 
It's  a  wide-mouthed  bottle  of  four-square 

make. 
Witli  a  very  small  stick  witli  a  brush  at  the 

tip. 
For  how  could  she  be  social  and  not  take  a 

dip? 


*- 


1162 


LOCATi   AND   KATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MATILDA  A.  ANDERS. 

Born:  Plymouth,  Iowa,  Sept.  9.  ISTl. 
The  poems  of  Miss  Anders  luive  appeared  in 

the   Norlliwood   Ancln)r,   Indi;jii; 


MATILDA  A.  ANDEli.'^. 

;ind  other  local  pupers.  She  is  still  a  resident 
of  her  native  place. 


BARLEY  LOAVES. 
Five  barley  loaves,  tlirce  fishes  small  — 

And  sliall  I  olfer  these  poor  gifts 
To  Christ,  the  Lord  of  all? 

To  Christ  who  stills  the  angry  wave. 
And  who  controls  the  storm; 

Surely  he  hath  no  need  of  me. 
And  these,  my  gifts.  He'll  scorn! 

Yes!  He  hath  need  of  thee! 
Come,  bring  thy  loaves  of  bread; 

Behold  !  With  them,  when  Jesus  speaks, 
The  multitude  is  fed. 


*• 


GETHSEMANE. 

When  the  moon's  bright  silvery  light 
Breaks  through  fleecy  clouds  so  bright  :- 
Oft  I  think  of  Gethsemane, 
And  my  lieart  throbs  with  pain. 
In  the  full  moon's  gleam  so  bright, 
Kneels  my  Savior's  form  of  light 
Praying:  "  Father  can  it  be. 
Then  take  this  bitter  cup  from  me. 
Yet  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done.'" 
(Father,  hear  Thine  only  Son  !)— 


Ere  the  sun  from  Heaven  shone, 

Christ  the  traitor's  kiss  did  own. 

Peter,  too,  the  Lord  forsook. 

His  Friend  Divine  he  did  o'erlook:— 

And  before  the  cock  crowed  twice 

He  denied  the  Master  thrice. 

When  the  moon's  bright  silvery  beams. 

Through  the  cloud-rifts  shed  their  gleams 

Then  my  lieart  will  throb  with  pain. 

As  I  think  of  Gethsemane. 


THE  CROSS  WITH  ROSES. 
A  cross,  twined  with  roses 
In  life  is  our  fate, 
By  God  it  is  given  — 
So  rich,  so  great ! 
It  is  not  all  roses  — 
Not  crosses  alone  — 
His  love  hath  thus  willed  it, 
We  should  not  moan. 
A  cross  with  roses 
How  well  — how  good  I 
O  learn  to  bear  it 
As  a  Christian  should! 
'Tis  true  the  ro.ses 
Will  wither  and  fade:— 
The  cross  it  will  down 
At  the  grave  be  laid: 
But  — may  it  all  wither 
And  all  decay;— 
The  root  to  the  cross 
Will  cling  ahvay. 
Then  nurse  the  bright  bud. 
Though  tender  and  small; 
And  bear  witii  patience 
Thy  sorrows  all. 
Soon  must  perish 
This  earthlj- dross:— 
Life's  fruit  shall  ripeu 
On  the  cross. 


SUMMER. 

The  summer  fair  is  coming, 

And  winter  must  retreat: — 
The  busy  bees  are  humming 

And  gathering  honey  sweet. 
O!  smell  the  fragrant  clover, 

The  modest  violet  blue,— 
And,  liark!  yes,  'tis  the  plover 

Pipes  in  the  hedges  new. 
Gay  little  feathered  songsters 

Are  singing  everywhere. 
Their  sweet  and  thrilling  melody 

Fills  all  the  balmy  air. 
Briglit  summer!  how  we  welcome 

Thj'  annual  return; 
When  in  the  winter  dreary 

For  summei''s  flowers  we  yearn. 


* 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMKKICA. 


11G3 


G.  HENRI  BOGART. 

Bokn:  Cincinnati,  O.,  Oct.  26,  1857. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  is  a  school  tcaelior 
and  journalist,  :iud  for  a  while  followed  the 
occupation  of  a  painter  and  decorator.  For 
a  while  lie  was  educational  editor  of  the 
Laurel  Review,  and  subsequently  political 


G.  HENRI  BOGART. 

editor  of  the  Franklin  Democrat.  Mr.  Bogart 
has  written  nearly  five  hundred  poems,  in- 
cluding many  line  .song-s  and  recitation 
pieces.  He  was  married  in  187S  to  Miss  Jodie 
F.  Duncan,  has  several  children,  and  resides 
in  Brookville,  Ind. 


OPTIMISIA. 
Deep  in  the  lieart  of  the  savapest  man. 
Is  a  tender  spot  you  should  touch  if  you  can ; 
For  no  matter  how  sullied  l)y  error  and  crime, 
Still  burns  one  sparklet,  God-like,  divine. 

The  Deity  planted  the  g-erm  on  that  day 
When  He  breathed  His  own  spirit  into  the 

clay, 
Man,  ever  striving,  must  yet  reach  the  goal. 
Less  of  the  animal,  more  of  the  soul. 

Over  in  Europe,  in  days  we  call  old, 
Men  lived  for  title,  for  blood,  and  for  gold; 
Only  the  warrior,  and  he  by  his  birth 
Accounted  as  worthy  to  live  on  the  earth. 

Forth  from   his  castle  rode  each  stubborn 
knight 


Preying    on    commerce,    his    unchalleagcd 

right. 
Who  crossed  his  domain  must  grant  lilm  a 

share. 
Never  a  tradesman  his  gnisping  could  spare. 

Stanley,  of  late,  in  the  wild  Congo  land. 
Paid  a  like  tribute  to  each  savage  band: 
So  miglit  made  tlie  riglit  in  the  ages  of  steel. 
But  'tis  strange  in  these  days  we  such  rigor 
should  feel. 

Little  by  little  the  tradesmen  gained  strcngrth. 
Supplanting   the  warrior  and  chieftain   at 

length. 
Till  they  grasped  for  the  prey  which  the  wai^ 

rior  had  lost. 
Still  robbing  the  weaker,  no  matter  the  cost. 

Past  wore  the  days  of   the  sword  and  the 

brand. 
But  tariff  laws  flourished  in  every  fair  land; 
We  who  are  living  in  this  age  of  gold 
Are  as  ruthlessly  robbed  as  the  peasants  of 

old. 

True,  they  have  system  and    law   at   their 

backs. 
Only  the  bloodshed  tlie  method  now  lacks; 
Yet  it  is  crushing  the  laboring  man. 
And  the  change  in  the  robbery  only  its  plan. 

But  the  spirit  of  freedom  grows  brighter  and 

higher; 
Naught  can  extinguish  its  pure,  holy  Are. 
Tariff  by  rapine  or  tariff  by  state. 
Each  one  an  outrage,  must  meet  the  same 

fate. 

This  from  barbarians  we  pattern  in  sbbme. 
Stealing,  but  called  by  ambiguous  name. 
Freemen  arise,  lielp  enfranchise  the  earth. 
Ever   push    forward,  and  thus   prove  your 
worth. 


AMONG  THE  JOYS. 

EXTRACT. 

There  arc  beauties  all  around  us. 
There  are  joys  should  aye  surround  us. 
There  are  griefs  should  not  confound  us. 
As  we  tread  our  earthly  round; 
And  wo  have  enough  of  sorrow, 
That  no  e\il  we  should  h<irrow 
From  the  future,  life's  to-morrow. 

There  is  sadness  with  each  pleasure. 
There  is  dross  among  the  treasure; 
But  our  happiness  we  measure 
By  the  fragments  which  we  keep; 
I^iOt  us  then  like  miners  olden 
Hojird  the  grains  of  Joy  .«>  golden. 
Spurn  the  evil,  spurn  the  gloom. 


.* 


*- 


1164 


LOCAL   AMD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


ADOLPHE  FLAMANT. 

Born  :  Fuance,  Feb.  13,  1841. 
Adolphe  FiiAMANT  foUows  the  occupation 
of  an  olive  grower,  and  in  1884  pUiuted  sixty 
acres  of  olive  trees  on  tlieniost  uninviting- 
and  barren  portion  of  what  lias  been  known  as 
the  Simoutoii  ranch,  six  miles  west  of  Napa. 


ADOLPHE  FLAMANT. 

Some  of  these  trees  now  promise  a  yield  of 
four  gallons  of  berries  to  the  tree,  and  con- 
sequently Mr.  Flamant  has  made  a  success 
of  his  venture.  He  has  published  a  practical 
treatise  on  Olive  Culture,  wliich  will  undoubt- 
edly do  much  toward  fostering-  this  new  in- 
dustry. Most  of  the  poems  of  Mr.  Fhimarit 
are  written  in  Frencli,  and  have  appeared  in 
the  Franco-Californian  of  San  Francisco. 


L'ALBUM  DE  ROLLA. 

Quand  tu  me  verses  I'ambroisie 
Qni  coule  a  tiots  do  ta  beaute 
Si  les  dieux  a  ma  pocsie 
Accordaient  rimmortiilite. 

Aux  oiseaux,  aux  flcnrs,    aux    etoilcs, 
Aux  celestes  clartcs  dii  jour 
A  la  nuit  aux  pudiques  voiles 
Je  m'  adresserais  tour  a  tour. 

Depuis  les  profondeurs  de  1,  onde 
Jusqu'au  front  dcs  monts  sourcillcux 
J'  ii'ais  a  la  .source  fcconde 
M'  inspirerde  chants  glorieux. 


A  mes  desirs  donnaut  des  alles 
M'aidant  des  plus  divins  transports 
En  des  louanges  immortelles 
Naitraient  de  sublimes  accords, 

Et  dans  des  elans  de  g-enie, 
Proclamant  ton  nom  aux  echos 
Les  airs  seraient  tout  harmonic 
Et  Ton  verrait  fremir  les  flots. 

Depuis  les  rives  du  Permesse 
Jusques  anx  bords  les  plus  loiutaiiis 
Des  chants  d'amour  et  d'allegrcssc 
Viendraient  se  joindre  a  mes  refrains. 

A  chaque  mot,  chaque  sourire, 
Chaque   pensee  ou  mouvement 
Touchant  les  cordcs  de  ma  lyre 
Tout  serait  dans  I'enchantcment. 

Quand  de  tes  prunelles  ardentes 
Un  regard  prendrait  son  essor 
On  croirait  aux  nues  eclatantes 
Voir  sciutiller  des  rayons  d'or. 

Quand  ta  voix  ce  f  erait  entendre 
Les  oiseaux  amoureusement 
Seraient  I'echo  fidele  et  tendre 
De  ton  divin  gazouillement. 

Quand  tes  levres,  roses  vermeilles 
S'entr'ouvriraient  pour  nous  ravir 
Les  cieux  repandant  leurs  mervcilles 
A  nos  yeux  viendraient  resplendir. 

Quand  folatrant  dans  les  prairies 
Tes  clieveux  flotteraient  au  vent 
Etincellants  de    pierreries 
On  verrait  le  soleil  levant. 

Quand  tu  cucillerais  une  rose 
Pour  en  orner  ton  chaste  sein 
Tons  les  charmesdontDieu  dispose 
Viendraient  eclore  sous  ta  main. 

Quand  tu  dormirais  sous  1'  onibrago 
Les  tleurs  en   te  deiflant 
Viendraient  carresser  ton  visage 
Des  doux  parf  urns  de  I'Orient. 

Quand,  tu  voudraisde  cettoterrc 
Tarracher  a  I'eclat  trompcur 
J'iraisdans  ladivine  sphere 
M'inspirer  lecoeur  dans  ton  coour. 

Et  quand  reveuse  sur  ta  eouche 
Etirant  tes  bras  gracieux 
Mon  nom  sortirait  de  ta  bouehe 
L'Univers  serait  radieux. 

Alors,  au  temple  dc  Memoire, 
Les  dioux  rcmplis  d'un  dou.x  emoi 
M'offrant  les  palmes  do  la  gloire 
S'inclineraient  tous  dcvant  toi. 


*- 


*- 


L<X'AL   AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMKUICA. 


ll(io 


THOMAS  STREET. 

Born:  Gunthorp,  Ohio,  Nov.  29, 1821. 
Thomas  Stref.t  is  a  resident  of  Viucland, 
N.  J.,   wliero  he  is  very   popular.     He  lias 
writti'ii  numerous  acrostics  of  great  merit. 


. 

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THOMAS  STREET. 

which  have  won  for  him  a  national  repu- 
tation. Hundreds  of  the  poems  of  Mr. 
Street  have  appeared  from  lime  to  time  iu 
the  periodical  press. 


SWEET  SEA  ISLE  CITY'S. 
Sweet  Sea  Isle  City's  splendid  strand, 
Sliall  I  essay  thy  eulos?y? 
Sure  there  cannot  on  earth  be  found 
Superior  beach  than  thine  to  me. 

Wlio  will  witli  words  sufBcient  tell, 
Wliat  of  thy  t;lory  may  be  seen? 
NViiere  is  the  heart  inspired  so  full 
With  language  to  declare  thy  fame! 

Enrapturing-  ever  each  one's  eyes. 
Ever  belioUling  sights  so  grand; 
Each  distant  vessel  as  it  flies 
Ennobling  tliouglits  should  fill  our  mind. 

Ever  evading  evil  ease. 

Each  surging  wave  says  work  right  ou  — 

Eternity  will  give  no  peace, 

Except  we  boldly  work  out  wrong. 


Then  there  though  tlioughtless,  cue,  lieed  not 
The  lessous  given  all  around, 
Tliey '11  learn  that  hard  w  ill  be  the  fate 
That  they  endure  whore  idle  found. 

Sea  spread  so  wide  Atlantic  sure 
Shall  we  not  look  o'er  tliy  expanse. 
See  in  thy  billows,  hear  thy  roar 
Some  tokens  of  omnipotence. 

Ever  each  wave  eternal  ebbs. 
Endless  succeeds  thy  flowing  tide; 
Even  where  rocks  raise  rugged  heads 
Emerged  at  times  thou  dost  them  hide. 

As  all  along  thy  coast  around, 
Atlantic  ocean  so  sublime. 
Are  cities  seen  on  higher  ground 
All  hail  thou  city  on  the  plain. 

Isle,  in  thee  I  see  improvement. 
It  exceeds  our  sanguine  thought; 
In  its  vast  development 
It  was  by  a  genius  wrought. 

Sure  such  strides  so  great  and  grand. 
Such  as  has  been  seen  before. 
Splendid  glory  of  the  laud. 
Seen  in  Vineland  heretofore. 

Lo,  like  that,  let  this  live  ever, 
T.aiid  tlie  Landis  from  wl)()so  thoughts 
Led  the  van  e:ich  wild  doth  cover. 
Load  with  bloom  these  sandy  lots. 

Eai'h  entering  here  ever  enjoy 
Ennobling  thoughts  from  what  is  seen. 
Evading  all  tliuigs  that  annoy. 
Enraptured  by  the  good  that's  done. 

Cities  came  from  conquest  carnage. 
Causing  horrid  human  woe. 
Came  this  not  doing  such  damage 
Come  in  jieace  that  pe.ice  might  grow. 

In  its  sweet,  inspiring  impulse 
I  would  live  with  others  too. 
Impressed  with  the  vast  imi)ortance. 
It  should  be  our  aim  to  know. 

That  tlie  truth  tlio'  endless,  lasting 
Through  eternity  the  same; 
Tho'  it  often  m;iy  bo  hidden. 
To  the  surface  it  will  come. 

Young  in  years,  you're  yielding  pleasure, 
Yes.  to  hundreds  that  do  come 
Yonr  grand  beach  to  trample  over. 
Yielding  njt  to  loaded  team. 

So  secure,  solid  and  steadfast. 
Safe  when  rolling  tides  retreat. 
Sign  there  is  not  of  a  quicksand. 
Sinking  'neath  the  passer's  feet. 


1166 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  VELMA  C.  MELVILLE. 

Born:  Greenwood,  Wis.,  1858. 
At  the  age  of  sixteen  tbis  lady  commenced 
to  teach  school,  and  four  jears  later  she  was 
happily  married  to  James  Melville,  a  gradu- 
ate of  Wisconsin  State  University,  and  now 


MRS.  VELMA    CALDWELL  MELVILLE. 

well-known  in  the  educational  and  prohibi- 
tion world.  Mrs.  Melville  lias  written  several 
serials,  and  her  poems  and  sketches  have 
appeared  in  nearly  a  hundred  publications. 
She  is  now  a  resident  of  Poynette,  Wis. 


*- 


MEMORY'S  PICTURES. 
I  see  them  now.  on  memory's  wall, 

Tliose  pictures  rare  and  old; 
With  a  glint  of  light  thrown  over  all 

By  the  sunset's  fading  gold. 

I  treasure  them  now  as  time's  best  gift, 

By  invisible  fingers  traced; 
And  wonder  if,  in  the  coming  life 

One  line  will  be  effaced. 

There's  one  where  the  softest  halo  falls, 
The  face  of  my  mother  dear; 

And  often  a,t  shadowy  eventide 
I  linger  longest  here. 

Beside  her,  but  far  more  dimly,  I  sec 

Another,  a  sainted  dead; 
To  save  the  flag  for  you  and  me, 

He  nobly  fought  and  bled. 


But  here  I  pause  with  a  feeling  vague. 
That  'tis  sacrilege  to  unfold 

To  stranger  eye,  the  pictures  fair, 
To  me  of  worth  untold. 


OCTOBER. 
Her  mantle  is  wrought  in  gold  and  crimson, 

Her  veil  bangs  low,  of  purplish  hue. 
Her  nights  are  gemmed  with  solar  splendor. 

Her  mornings  sparkle  witli  sunlit  dew. 
She  smiles  and  kisses  the  earth  so  warmly. 

She  glides  along  with  fairy  tread: 
We  scarcely  dream  but  she'll  last  forever, 

Till  we  wake  some  morn  to  find  her  dead. 


WOMAN'S  RIGHTS. 
Right  to  love  and  be  beloved. 

Right  to  queen  it  o'er  man's  heart. 
Right  to  help  him  bear  his  burdens. 

Right  to  do  a  woman's  part. 
Right  to  smooth  the  path  of  childhood, 

Right  to  guide  each  tiny  foot. 
Right  to  lead  them  to  life's  fountain. 

Right  to  plant  faith's  priceless  root. 
Right  to  soothe  the  sick  and  wear}-. 

Right  to  turn  their  thoughts  above, 
Right  to  point  them  to  the  Savior, 

Right  to  tell  them  of  his  love. 
Right  to  walk  and  talk  with  Jesus, 

Right  to  feel  him  In  her  heart. 
Right  to  dwell  with  him  forever. 

Bight  to  claim  the  blood-bought  part. 


LOOK  ON  THE  BRIGHT  SIDE. 
Look  on  the  bright  side  ever,  dearie, 

Look  and  smile  and  hope; 
Clouds  will  appear  if  you  want  them,  dearie. 

If  you  cry  and  frown  and  mope. 
Look  on  the  bright  side  ever,  dearie. 

Though  it  scarcely  be  In  view; 
Tliere  may  be  only  a  rift  in  the  cloud,  dearie, 

But  that  rift  was  meant  for  you. 
Look  on  the  bright  side  ever,  dearie, 

Tliough  tempests  o'er  you  roll; 
There's  a  Master  hand  at  tlie  helm,  dearie. 

He'll  guard  and  keep  thy  soul. 
Look  on  the  bright  side  ever,  dearie. 

Till  life's  liist  sunset  grand; 
Then  close  your  eyes  witli  a  prayer,  dearie, 

And  ope  them  in  Buelah  Laud. 


EXTRACT. 
O'er  and  o'er  I  ask  strange  quest iot.s, 

Full  of  "Can  it  be?"  refrain. 
Trembling  if  the  day  be  drouglily, 

Lest  the  morrow  bring  tlie  rain ; 
Pausing  often  in  my  prayer.«. 

Fearful  that  e'en  they're  in  vain. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   I'OE  IS   OK   AMKltlCA. 


1167 


MINNIE  MURPHRY. 

Born:  Decatur,  III.,  Nov.  11. 1865. 
This  lady  received  licredueatioti  in  tlie  Con- 
vent in  Decatur,  and  at  Knox  Academy  and 
Knox  College  of  Galesburg,  111.,  to  which 
latter  city  she  removed  in  1875.  In  1891  Miss 
Mnrphey  look   up  her  residence  in  CliicajiO 


MINNIE  TRANCES  MrRPHEV. 

with  lier  father,  a  prominent  lawyer  and 
brother  of  Judge  T.  H.  Murphey,  who  was 
Circuit  Judgeof  AIcHeiiry  county  for  twenty 
years,  and  afterward  Cliief  Justice  of  the 
Appellate  Court  of  Illinois.  The  poems  of 
this  autlior  and  jioet  have  appeared  in  the 
Galesburg  Free  Press,  and  Galosbiirg  Repub- 
lican Register,  Chicajjo  News,  Chicago  Times, 
and  many  other  well-known  publications. 


THE  UNWRITTEN  SONG. 
As  some  far  siglit  beyond  the  eyes. 
No  pen  details  nor  artist's  note, 
Approacliing  but  to  melt  mist-like  — 

The  song  he  never  wrote. 
Or  yet  a  bird  of  swiftest  flight. 
That  knew  no  rest  by  land  or  boat. 
But  hovering  low  with  broken  wing  — 

The  song  he  never  wrote. 
A  jeweled  harp  that  useless  lay. 
With  chords  no  human  hand  had  smote. 
That  whispered  to  the  wliisp'ring  winds  — 

The  song  he  never  wrote. 


Hut  once  in  h;ilf-awakenod  dreams 
The  land  drew  nigh  lie  loved  so  well. 
The  bird  Uew  by  on  mended  wing. 

The  harp  awoke  with  joyous  swell; 
O,  pulse  of  life  and  death  outlived  I 
O  bliss  and  joy  tliat  caught  the  note  I 
For  now  he  sang  with  quivering  voice 

The  song  he  never  wrote! 
A  song  that  knew  not  earthly  rules. 
That  rose  and  fell  in  heavenly  bars. 
Whose  sweetness  touched  tlie  human  heart, 

Whose  echoes  swept  the  stars; 
The  end  so  bright  no  heart  need  hope. 
And  O  how  near  tho'  named  remote! 
All  this  and  more  he  told  within 

The  song  he  never  wrote. 

One  night  he  died,  and  at  his  tomb. 
Friends  weeping  said  with  shaken  breath, 
"Dear  God!  tlie  songs  he  sang  for  us 

Can  know  no  grave  —  no  death !  " 
Hut  one  out-lingered  all  the  rest. 
Whose  love  up-swelled  from  heartand  throat. 
And  to  the  gloom  he  sighed,  '-alas! 

The  songs  he  never  wrote!  " 
Each  shackle  broken  —  free  at  last. 
Now  Love  and  Hate  had  lost  their  name. 
Regret  a  story  —  Hope  out-run. 

And  sorrow  gone  on  wings  of  flume. 
The  soul  the  .same,  yet  not  the  same. 
Low  whispered  to  the  glowing  skies, 
••  O.  once  1  thought  to  sing  on  earth 

The  songs  of  Paradise !  " 
O  ecstasy!  eternal  — sweet! 
The  stars  rang  out  to  farthest  mote  — 
At  last  he  sings  before  his  God 

The  song  he  never  wrote. 


SONG. 
One  evening  when  the  glimmering  land  was 
still. 
When  day  was  dark  and  but  the  night  was 
clear. 
Contentment  and  a  strange  enchanted  peace 
Came  o'er  me  fnim  a  spirit  standing  near. 

As  when  tho  earth  revolving,  yet  is  still. 

So  in  that  Presence  time  had  ceased  to  be. 
While  tlius  I  plead,  ..O.  blessixl  Angel  stay! 

And  dull  my  soul  to  all  the  world  but  thee. 
Li't  love  that  masqtierades  In  borrowed  mhos 

Of  Hope,  forget  this  happy  lieart  of  mine. 
Anil  let  me  drift  tbni"  nil  eternity 

Unconscious  of  all  other  power  than  thine." 
But  as  I  spoke  the  cistern  sky  uplit, 

A  song-bird  whistled  In  a  tree  above. 
And  gravely  smiling  as  he  t,n>k  my  hand. 

Tlie  Spirit  softly  whU|)ered.  ••  I  am  Love." 


1168 


LOCAr<   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA, 


REMEMBRANCE. 

I  tliitik  of  thee 
When  lily  cradled  is  the  honey-bee, 
When  the  white  rose  woos  the  violet  dew. 
And  wafts  her  spices  to  the  tulip  tree. 

When  thiiikest  thou  of  me? 

I  think  of  thee 
By  the  purple  coast  line  that  fades  away. 
While  the  shimmering-  milky  sails  speed  on 
To  kiss  the  rose  lips  of  another  day. 

Where  thinkest  thou  of  me? 

I  think  of  thee 

With  tear-lit  eye  and  passion-haunted  heart. 

Tempestuous  longings  that  are  never  stilled, 

For  coming-  days  -when  we  shall  never  part. 

How  thinkest  thou  of  me? 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHELL. 
Unnumbered  miles  from  shore,  I  hold  a  shell 
That  ceaseless  music  makes,  as  if  the  sound 
Of  Summer-tides  had  endless  echoes  left 
Within 

That  song-  the  distant  waves  once  taught 
Can  never  be  forg-otten,  or  unsung:; 
And  if,  methinks,  the  shell  should  shattered 

lie. 
Each  part  would  whisper  still,  tho'  brokenly, 
Of  its  far  home  —  the  sea. 

Within  my  heart. 
Sweet  maid,  there  is  a  dearer  song-  than  this. 
Learned  Jong  ago  of  thee,  and  tlio'  the  way 
Between  us  seems  impassable  and  fixed. 
It  hath  no  end,  but  chanteth  on  and  on. 
Of  its  far  love  as  this  lost  shell  the  sea. 


SAPPHO. 
When  in  the  red  vintage  of  the  western  sky 

Dissolves  the  pearl  of  light  away. 

In  a  far-off  ruby-gold  sea ; 
When  the  dim  wings  of  Twilight  are  rustling 
by. 

And  tender  penciled  fancies  play, 

I  think  of  thee,  I  think  of  thee. 
When  parted  the  purple  curtains  of  the  night. 

And  on  her  couch  of  dewy  space 

The  earth  has  loosed  her  robes  of  pearl; 
When  the  gray  moon  is  lost  in  another's  light 

And  dreams  in  noiseless  resting-  place. 

Thou  art  my  world,  thou  art  my  world. 
When  the  never-ceasing  tide  of  passing  feet 

Streams  thro'  the  crowded  market-way, 

And  pale  Care  slowly  beckons  me; 
When  throbbing  veins  of  the  city  wildly  beat, 

And  Tumult  drives  the  car  of  day, 

I  think  of  thee,  1 1  hink  of  thee. 
When  roses  droop,love-languid,'neath  breath 
of  noon. 

When  pulseless  is  the  heavy  land, 


And  stilled  the  lightest  trill  of  birds; 
Across  the  crescent  of  liquid  azure  bloom 
Thy  name  is  traced  by  unseen  hand 
In  golden  words,  in  g-oiden  words. 

When    dream  the   milk-white   blossoms  on 
stilly  lake. 

When  pjission  flowers  are  gem'ed  with  dew 

And  acacias  doze  on  the  lea; 
When  crimson  petals  no  longer  keep  awake. 

And  the  jessamine  nods  adieu, 

I  think  of  thee,  1  think  of  thee. 


THERE  COMES  A  TIME. 
There   comes  a  time  when    golden-hearted 
noon 
Will  yield  to  twilight's  chill  embrace. 
When  sighing-  winds  will  shed  the  summer's 
bloom. 
And  waft  their  sweetness  into  space. 
When  locks  are  gray 
As  winter's  day. 
And  lips  of  faded  red  will  say; 
"There  comes  a  time  when  we  grow  old." 
From  far  across  the  shoreless  ocean's  breast 
The  dying  sunlight  faintly  streams,  [crest, 
While  unseen   barks    are  speeding-  o'er  its 
And  rosy  hope  is  lost  in  dreams. 
For  wearj'  hands 
The  day  hath  spanned. 
And  feebly  trace  o'er  sallow  sands, 
"There  comes  a  time  when  wegrrowold." 
There  comes  a  time  when  on  the  viewless  tide 

Is  heard  the  boding-  tone  of  fate; 
When  Galen's  baud  is  summoned  to  our  side 
To  check  the  foe  within  the  gate. 
Strict  guard  they  keep. 
Yet  in  our  sleep 
A  voice  comes  whispering  o'er  the  deep, 
"  There  comes  a  time  when  we  grow  old." 
Unbroken  shades  ne'er  traveled  by  the  sun 

Form  barriers  round  a  dark  domain. 
Where  time's  far-reaching  stream  shall  never 
run. 
Or  measure  Death's  unbreathing  reiffn. 
Forgetfulness 
Hath  come  to  bless. 
And  pallid  lips  shall  ne'er  confess, 
"  There  comes  a  time  when  we  grow  old." 
There  comes  a  time  when  watchers  thro'  tlif 
night 
In  silence  wait  tho  coming-  day, 
When  ghostly  tapers   give  their   tremblinj! 
light. 
And  hope  and  hearts  alike  decay. 
And  then  how  dark! 
But  oh,  the  sijark 
Tliat  onward  guides  tlie  phantom  hark 
Whore  we  shall  nevermore  grow  old. 


*- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF   AMEUICA. 


1169 


ALVA  AM  ASA  TANNKR. 

Born;  So.  Cottonwood,  Utah,  Dec.  26,1849. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Tanner  have  appeared  in 
the  Woman's  Exponent  and  the  local  press 
of  his  native  state.  In  1887-8  he  traveled  as 
a  professional  phreuoloj-'ist.    Heisnowjus- 


ALVA  AMASA  TANNER. 

tic  e  of  the  peace,  and  hiis  held  numerous 
public  positions  of  trust  and  lionor.  Mr. 
Tanner  was  married  in  1871,  and  engaged  in 
farming  at  Oakley,  Idaho,  in  1883. 


TELL  ME  NOT. 
Tell  me  not,  O,  do  not  tell  me 

All  is  blank  beyond  the  grave, 
That  in  endless,  dreamless  slumber 

Sleep  the  good  and  true  and  brave; 
That  our  friends  from  earth  departed, 

And  tliese  loved  ones  clierished  so 
Are  as  if  tliey  never  had  been 

When  they  leave  us  here  below. 
Tell  me  not,  O  do  not  tell  me 

That  in  God  'tis  vain  to  trust  — 
Vain  to  hope  for  life  eternal 

When  our  bodies  turn  to  dust. 
Can  He  not,  the  Great  Creator, 

Give  us  life  forever  there? 
If  not,  why  not?  who  can  tell  us 

Who  has  made  us  wliat  we  are? 


TRUTH,  CHARITY  AND  LOVE. 
Shall  I,  vuiknown  to  man  abroad. 
And  known  but  slight  the  village  round. 


Profess  to  teach  the  Word  of  God, 
Or  spread  abroad  the  gospel  sound? 

Not  so,  and  yet  1  will  explain 
What  others  know  as  well  as  I, 

And  tliey  as  will  may  teach  the  same. 
Or  Ijetter  if  the3-  only  try. 

And  now  the  task  is  here  begun. 

If  this  the  gospel  I  explain 
Shall  prove  a  benefit  to  one. 

My  efforts  are  net  wholly  vain. 

Truth,  Charity  and  Love  I  sing  — 
These  three  of  such  essential  worth. 

Which  can  to  us  such  blcssinjrs  bring. 
The  grandest  motio  is  on  earth. 

Of  these  all  goodly  men  approve. 
And  they  who  do  not,  do  not  see 

The  proper  way  wherein  to  move. 
To  bless  that  tliey  may  blessed  be. 

Except  WG  live  for  othei-s'  good. 
To  bless  and  lighten  others'  pain. 

We  do  not  live  the  life  we  should. 
And  life  with  us  is  spent  in  vain. 

To  live  but  for  one's  self  alone 
Ne'er  can  bect)me  the  good  and  true; 

And  we  are  men  with  hearts  of  stone 
Who  think  aright  and  will  not  do. 

We  should  be  kind  to  all  we  meet. 

No  matter  who  or  where  or  when. 
In  conversation  be  discreet. 

And  prove  our  worth  to  other  men. 

Small  favors  we  at  times  may  do 
Oft  makes  an  enemy  a  friend. 

Do  good,  and  wo  will  find  it  true, 
We  fare  tlie  better  in  the  end. 

Christ  taught  us  liOve  and  Charity 
And  Truth,  and  in  them  did  excell; 

As  all  by  reading  well  may  see. 
He  did  His  task  exceetiing  well. 

So  let  us  His  example  take. 

And  bear  unceasingly  in  mind 
Tliat  Christ  has  labored  for  our  s.ake, 

And  for  the  sake  of  all  mankind. 
Should  any  doubt  or  disbelieve 

That  Christ  for  our  reth-mption  came. 
The  poor  must  charity  receive, 

Tlie  sick  attended  to  tlie  same. 
And  sliould  the  doubter  fail  in  this. 

However  much  lie  may  complain, 
'Tis  he  liimself  has  gone  amiss. 

And  all  his  clammering  is  vain. 
And  tlio'  a  christian  loudly  pray. 

Or  if  he  bend  in  secret  prayer. 
His  Gml  hears  not  what  he  may  say 

Unless  good  works  have  been  his  share. 


*- 


1170 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


THOMAS  OBA  CHISHOLM. 

Born:  Simpson  Co  ,  Ky.,  July  29,  1866. 
After  teachiug  for  six  years,  Mr.  Chisholm 
entered  jourualism  in  1888  as  associate-editor 
of  Franklin  Favorite  published  at  Franklin, 
Ky.  He  then  published  the  Adierville 
Times,  and  later  founded  the  Franklin  Week- 


*- 


THOMAS  OBA  CHISHOLM. 

ly  Times,  but  is  at  present  again  with  the 
Favorite.  Mr.  Chisholm  was  elected  poet  of 
the  Kentucky  Press  Association,  and  in  1890 
read  a  well-received  poem  before  that  body. 
His  poems  have  appeared  in  the  Louisville 
Courier-Journal  and  other  iniblications. 

MY  BEAU  IDEAL. 
Her  brow,  perhaps,  may  not  be  fair 
As  alabaster,  nor  her  hair 
A  wealth  of  golden  curls;  her  eyes 

May  be  — I  care  not— black  or  blue. 
If  in  them  I  see  no  disguise. 

And  just  a  pure  soul  looking  tlirough. 
She  may  not  have  a  perfect  face 
DivMne  in  feature,  color,  grace, — 
A  model  in  an  artist's  sight  — 

Yet  it  is  beautiful  to  me. 
If  it  but  wears  the  lovely  light 

Of  virtue  and  of  purity. 
Her  voice  may  not  be  soft  and  low 
As  airs  of  spring  that  gently  blow, 
Nor  yet  so  sweet  as  songs  of  birds. 

Nor  musical  as  silver  bells ; 


Yet  if  she  speaks  the  burning  words 

Of  truth,  this  all  the  rest  excels. 
Her  language  may  not  be  so  chaste 
And  polished  as  to  please  the  taste 
Of  a  linguistic  connoisseur. 

Yet  if  her  thoughts  are  each  a  gem, 
I  can  quite  easily  endure 

Her  errors  in  expressing  them. 
She  may  not  covet  rich  display. 
Nor  be  so  very  blithe  and  gay. 
Nor  dress  with  such  testhetie  taste 

As  some  may  do,  but  still  if  she 
Has  manners  simple,  mild  and  chaste, 

I'm  sure  she's  good  enough  for  me. 
Her  head  may  not  be  overwise 
With  knowlrdge  of  the  sciences, 
?he  may  not  know  of  protoplasm. 

Nor  what  a  trilobite  may  be. 
Nor  understand  agnosticism,— 

This  model  gir],  this  girl  for  me. 

She  may  not  touch  the  ivory  keys 
With  rare  precision,  grace  and  ease 
Untwisting  all  the  chords  that  tie 

The  hidden  soul  of  harmony.— 
On  other  charms  does  slie  rely,- 

This  model  girl,  this  girl  for  me. 

She  may  not  know  the  latest  ..craze," 
Nor  be  well  versed  in  fashion's  ways; 
Her  teeth  may  not  be  rows  of  pearl 

Nor  she  so  fair  as  sea-nymphs  be, 
Yet  if  she  is  a  modest  girl 

I'm  sure  she's  good  enough  for  me. 

No  simpering,  no  silliness. 
No  ..too-too  literariness," 
No  nausea-breeding  languid  air. 

No  masculine  effrontery 
Belong  to  her  whom  I  declare 

To  be  the  very  girl  for  me. 

If  she  is  free  from  all  deceit. 
In  bearing  gracious  yet  discreet. 
If  she  displays  no  cold  hauteur, 

Exliibits  no  coquettishness. 
She  wins  my  praise,  tliough  rich  or  poor, 

Maud  Muller  or  a  marchioness. 

If  she  can  fully  comprehend 
Life's  fateful  meaning  and  its  end, 
If  she  has  noble  purposes 

And  heart  tliat's  largo  and  womanly,— 
I  care  not  what  her  station  is ; — 

I'm  sure  she's  good  enough  for  de. 

If  she  is  patient,  loving,  kind. 
Confiding,  gentle  and  refined. 
If  she  possess  rare  sense,  I  care 

Not  what  lier  other  cliarnis  m;iy  be. 
No  virtues  can  withtlieso  coniiiare. 

And  she's  the  very  girl  for  me. 


s.^- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   I'OKTS   OK   AJMKKICA. 


171 


-* 


MRS.  MARY  E.  TILLOTSON. 

Bokn:  Central  New  York,  1816. 

I.v  HER  youth  tliis  lady  taught  school;  stud- 
iofl  medicitio;  and  later  advocated  liygiene 
l)y  voice  and  pen.  Slio  was  also  devoted  to 
^i':ence,  literature  ;iiid  universal  reform.  In 
1S43  she  bepraii   writing  for  the  press  both 


MRS.  MARY   ELLA  TILLOTSON. 

prose  and  verse,  contributing'  over  two  hun- 
dred poems,  and  a  poetic  volume  of  two 
hundred  pages  entitled  Love  and  Transition. 
She  is  also  tlie  author  of  Progress  vs.  Fashion, 
and  Woman's  Way  Out.  In  1850  she  was 
married  to  C.  B.  Tillotson,  a  distant  relative 
of  the  same  name  as  her  own.  She  has  one 
son,  Ray,  who  was  born  in  18.5.3.  Mrs.  Tillot- 
son now  resides  in  Vineland,  N.  J.,  and  is  a 
lady  of  frank,  cheerful  nature,  and  besides 
her  high  literary  ability  she  is  an  accom- 
plished expert  at  needlework  ornamentation 
and  kindred  arts. 


*■ 


UNWRITTEN  POETRY. 
Prized,   pressing  Thoughts    that  move  the 
lieart. 
And  seek  translating  sound; 
That  throng  their  bounds,  but  ne'er  impart 

To  asking  minds  around 
The  glow  and  charm  of  breathings  warm 


From  inborn  melody. 
Are  pathos  lacking  rhythmic  form, 
Are  purest  poesy. 

Let  tlii'ni  1)ut  speak  enough  to  show 

What  mines  lie  buried  there; 
Let  eyes  reJlect  the  jewel  glow 

Their  gem-flrcs  ever  wear; 
Let  P"ervor's  coy  reserve  control 

The  curled,  the  voiceless  lips. 
And  I'll  believe  a  loving  soul 

Inspiring  nectar  sips. 

What  poet  e'er  had  power  to  tell 

A  lithe  the  thoughts  conceived. 
Or  felt  not  in  him  yearnings  swell 

Expression  ne'er  relieved? 
He  who  most  passion,  power,  and  pride 

Threw  on  liis  thrilling  lute. 
Declared  lie  lived  and  sung  and  died 

With  thoughts  all  sheathed  and  mute. 


What  tho'  the  fickle  world  ne'er  know 

Great  thoughts  are  le!it  us  here? 
The  Spirit  owns  a  latent  tlow. 

And  clasps  a  Ijoon  so  dear. 
A  few  will  sense  the  hidden  depth. 

Respond  the  silent  call. 
Fan  the  i)ure  fiames  with  kindred  breath. 

And  bless,  as  yet  must  all. 

Full  many  a  one  has  lived  and  lives 

Sublimely,  yet  unknown, 
Wliose  merely  outer  voicing  gives 

No  high-born  feelings  tone; 
Who  lists  with  joy  intense  the  strains 

Of  eloquence  and  song; 
Yet  whose  pent  words  the  tongue  retains 

Where  they  would  flow  along. 

And  I  liave  felt  that  if  the  thouplits 

My  brain  and  prompting  breast 
Send  out  for  truths  with  goodness  fraught. 

And  find  seraphic  rest. 
Had  voices  for  the  precious  sweets 

They  gather  in  the  flight. 
They'd  say  their  nn\nsion  glows  and  beatis  — 

A  |K)et's  shrine  of  light. 

The  world  may  wink  at  all  we  say, 

And  scowl  at  all  we  sing. 
May  ne'er  appreciate  a  lay 

From  soul-harps'  lithcsi  string: 
But  teach  it  this,  the  feeblest  streams 

And  flames  soul-depths  contain 
Alone  find  vent  in  uttert>d  themes. 

While  floods  and  flros  remain. 


-* 


*- 


1172 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


INVOCATION. 
Resign  me.  Soul,  where'er  may  run 
Tbe  pathway  I  may  journey  on; 
And  tho'  it  wind  'mong-  thorn  and  hedge. 
And  asps  beset  from  yawning  ledge. 
Let  me  rely  on  goodness  still. 
And  cull  its  gems  where  gathers  ill. 

If  true  beneficence  shall  lead 
Where  worldly  fortunes  crown  my  head; 
Where  Pleasure's  walks  my  feet  invite, 
And  peaceful  friends  my  days  delight, 
A  spirit  firm  and  meek  insure. 
Against  Pride's  retinues  secure. 

If  hovering  Health,  with  florid  wing. 
Upon  my  cheek  her  rubies  fling; 
Or  if  Disease,  in  callow  flight, 
With  piercing  talons  on  me  light; 
Let  me  be  grateful  for  the  first. 
Or,  well  resisting,  bear  the  worst. 


TO  A  LIBERAL  JOURNAL. 

Speed,  speed  on  thy  mission,  mild  herald  of 
gladness; 
The  tidings  of  mercy  and  justice  proclaim : 
Shed  light,  love  and  peace  on  the  children  of 
sadness. 
And  kindle  in  darkness  free  thought's  liv- 
ing flame. 

Go  scatter  the  gloom  superstition  entaileth 
On  vassals  who   fain  would  in  freedom  re- 
joice; 
Where  rancor  and  proud  persecution  pre- 
vaileth 
Lift  boldly,  yet  kindly,  a  powerful  voice. 

Go   travel    where    ignorance    deeply   hath 
shrouded 
That  mightiest  marvel  of  nature,  the  mind; 
Illumine  lone  spirits  long  crushed  and  be- 
clouded; 
Be  strength  to  the  falt'ring  and  sight  to 
the  blind. 

Descend   the   dim  vale,  climb  the  cliff-tra- 
versed mountain, 
Wherever  a  sorrowing  soul  may  abide; 
And  point  the  deceived  and  debased  to  the 
fountain 
Of  truth,  where   redemption  to  deeds  is 
allied. 
Search  out  every  nook  that  hath  aught  to 
make  tearful. 
And  soothe  by  the  hope  of  a  peace-hallowed 
day. 
When  naught  shall  remain  to  molest  or  make 
fearful; 
Haste,  haste  on  thy  mission;  speed,  speed 
on  thy  way. 


GIVE  ME  BUT  TRUTH. 

Truth  —  let  the  false  world  frown,  or  what  it 
will; 
Let  friends  who  fawned  in  other  times  for- 
sake; 
And  kindred  e'en,  forgetful  to  fulfill 
Tlie  duties  which  their  natal  unions  make, 
Turn  cold  away  in  silence,  or  betake 
To  censure  which  no  mingling  has  of  ruth; 

And,  if  it  must  be  so,  affection  shake. 
The  choicest  treasure  lent  to  age  or  youth; 
But  alway  grant  this  meed,  my  own  heart's 

perfect  truth. 
With  this  I'll  float  upon  the  waves  of  time. 

And  feel  my  lone  existence  yethascharms; 
Altho'  dread  falsehood,  ignorance  and  crime 
The  dear  ones  sever  from  my  eager  arms 
Whom  I'd  have  shielded  with  my  life  from 
harms. 
Tho'  throngs  around  me  in  false  modes  unite. 
And,  blind  to  fate,  have  but  for  me  alarms; 
To  learn  and  live  the  truth  be  my  delight, 
Tho'  every  vile  voice  hiss,  and  every  vain 

hand  smite. 
And  if  my  words  shall  fall  as  a  form  in  sand. 
And  my  love  flow  as  winds  that  ne'er  return, 
If  no  congenial  renderings  reach  my  hand. 
No  faithful  heart  respond  when  mine  shall 

yearn ; 
Still,  sordid  policy  and  place  I'll  spurn, 
And  social  wrong,  and  world-deflled  renown:'. 
Serenely  then  life's   less'ning  lamp  mayi 
burn  — 
Calmly  I'll  lay  a  well-used  body  down, 
And  know  I  wear  from  earth  Truth's  ever- 
lasting crown. 
The'multitude  a  little  longer  j'et        [blest  — 
Must  grope  in  twilight,  faltering  and  un- 
Pursue  the  pageants,  fashion,  pride,  and  get 
Their  certain  thorn-wreaths  knit  into  the 
breast;  [rest. 

But,  sure  as  love  is  sweet,  and  heaven  is 
The  time  must  come  when  their  fell  ways 
shall  cease; 
When  Folly's  struggling  votaries  oppressed 
With  meet  confusion  shall  in  shame  release 
Their  scorn  of  honest  lives,  and  plead  for 

truth  and  peace. 
Oh,  what  a  paradise  will  earth  become 

When  all  her  children  good  alone  pursuel 
All  vagrants  will  find    virtue,  health  and 
homo—  [nres  true- 

All  homos  contentment,  thrift  and  pleas- 
All  tyranny  and  rule  their  levels  due; 
Slaveries  .shall  ond.rcft  spirits  1)0  made  whole, 
Pervading  kindness  rush  all  liosoms  thro"; 
Bliss,  Love's  full  edict,  o'er  the  nations  roll. 
And    Truth's    all-glorious    sway  enrapturt 
every  soul. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONTAL   POETS  OF   AMEUICA. 


1173 


GEORGIE  LEE  BRUCE. 

Boun:  Mahsiiall,  Texas,  June,  1868. 

The  poems  of  Miss  Bruce  have  appeared  in 
the  press  of  California  and  Texas,  in  whicli 


GEORGIE  LEE  BRUCE. 

latter  state  slie  still  resides  in  her  native 
town.  Her  poems  have  generally  appeared 
under  the  nome  de  plume  of  Edith  Dexter. 


REGRET. 


A  lonely,  dreary  sense  of  sadness  — 
A  memory  of  longr-passed  Kladticss. 
That  haunts  the  lieart  and  weary  brain. 
And  calls  to  life  forgotten  pain. 

A  feeling  that  the  heart  knows  well. 
And  only  sorrow  to  the  soul  can  tell; 
Memories  that  it  were  better  to  forget 
That  is  w^hat  wc  call  regret. 

O'er  our  life  its  shadows  cast. 
And  will  remain  while  life  shall  last; 
From  the  past  it  brings  us  withered  flowers 
That  recall  to  memory  happier  hours. 

It  robs  our  joys  of  their  light  and  beauty. 
And  brings  to  mind  forgotten  duty; 
It  bids  the  shadows  of  each  hoi)e  depart. 
To  leave  all  desolate  and  lone  the  heart. 


Till  youth  is  gone  and  hope  is  dead, 
And  every  joy  trom  life  Inis  lied. 
Slowly  the  years  pass,  one  by  one, 
But  regret  remains  till  lif(!  is  done. 


THE  HOSE. 
In  Eastern  lands  for  beauty  famed 

The  sweetest  roses  grow  — 
That  shed  a  Uagrant  perfume 

Where  Oriental  breezes  blow. 

Tradition  claims  all  flowers  were  white 

Till  Cupid  danced  and  slied 
A  cup  of  nectar  o'er  the  rose. 

When  it  blushed  a  brilliant  red. 

The  Scottish  jioet  o"er  the  seas 

Sang  of  his  love  so  true. 
And  his  bouuie  lass  did  likea 

To  a  rose  of  ruby  hue. 

The  feast  of  roses,  time  of  mirth. 

Was  held  in  gardens  rare. 
Where  the  Queen  of  Flowers  reigned  royally 

The  stately  rose  so  fair. 

Apollo  caused  a  lovely  queen, 

Wlio  ruled  o'er  Corinth's  laud, 
For  her  beauty  to  become  a  rose 

And  among  the  flowers  to  stand. 

While  Egypt's  queen  in  other  lands 

Trod  on  floors  of  roses  fair. 
And  wore  the  sweetest  ])l(wsoms 

In  her  lovely  raven  hair. 

Oriana,  from  her  gloomy  tower 

Far  up,  all  else  above, 
Threw  her  lover  a  dew-washed  rose, 

That  told  of  her  grief  and  love. 

Roses  were  England's  b:idgc  of  war  — 

The  crimson  and  the  white; 
But  those  colors  now  are  blended. 

After  weary  years  of  strife. 

In  sculptured  roses,  on  festive  days, 
Athenian  lialls  were  all  arrayed. 

So  that  stories  told  by  no))les  there 
Would  never  be  betrayed. 

The  Eastern  legends  tell  us 

That  the  rose,  so  dewy  bright. 
Is  wedded  to  the  nightingale. 

The  sweet  song-bird  of  night. 

Fair  roses!  earth  seems  gladdened 

By  this  work  of  nature's  hand. 
And  poets  sing  their  praises 

Thrt)ughout  every  age  and  land. 


*- 


1174 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


HARL  W.  HATHAWAY. 

Born:  Norwalk,  O.,  Oct.  24, 1866. 
Mr.  Hathaway  is  one  of  the  managing  edi- 
tors of   the  Nassau    Literary  Magazine  of 
Princeton  College,  and  he  has  written  many 


HARL  WALLACE    HATHAWAY. 

poems  of  more  tliau  ordinarj'  merit.  He  is 
a  teacher  by  profession  and  is  now  a  resident 
of  Jersey  City,  N.  J. 

FOLLY. 
Deep  in  the  greenwood  forest 

Where  mosses  clotlie  the  trees, 
Down  where  a  streamlet  murmura 

Unmindful  of  the  seas. 
A  fairy  sprite  was  dancing 

Upon  the  bubbles  bright; 
When  on  a  honeysuckle 

He  blew  with  all  his  might. 
And  troops  of  fairies  gathered 

In  answer  to  his  call; 
And  after  eager  list'niug, 

They  scattered,  one  and  all. 
But  soon  retui-ned,  and  stamens 

And  flower  stems  each  bore, 
And  built  upon  the  bubbles 

A  bridge  from  shore  to  shore. 
They  gilded  it  with  pollen. 

And  spread  upon  the  frames 
The  pet  Ills  of  the  violet 

And  wild  flowers  without  names. 


But  as  with  pride  they  viewed  it. 
The  bubbles  burst !    And  then  — 

The  bridge  swept  down  the  streamlet, 
And  passed  from  sight  and  ken. 

TO  HOMER. 

Thou  Universal  Guest!  thou  art  the  same. 

Both  yesterday,  to-day  and  for  all  time. 
Great  Zeus  made  thee  immortal  — verse  and 
name. 

But  granted  unto  thee,  thou  bard  sublime, 
That  thou  shouldst  evermore  with  us  abide. 
That  Homer  lives  no  more  is  falsely  said. 

How  strange  'twould  seem  to  waken  on  a 

morn  [er's  dead. 

And  hear  the  passers  in  the  street  say,  "Hom- 

That  Master  bard,  the  greatest  poet  born!" 
Thou  dost  attend  on  each  succeeding  year. 
Thy  tales  are  friezes  on  the  walls  of  time. 

Before  which  ages  gather  and  admire; 
Their  coloring  ne'er  dims  with  age  or  clime. 

But  seems  to  have  been  set  with  heav'nly 
fire. 
And  jet  1  hey  say  t  hat  t  hou  wast  wholly  blind. 


VESPER. 
How  dear  to  me  the  sunset  hour, 

'Tis  then  the  Master  Painter  plies 

His  unseen  brushes  on  the  skies; 
Reveals  His  wealth  of  power. 
Of  other  days  come  memories 

When  life  was  brilliant  as  the  West. 

By  them  my  soul  is  lulled  to  rest 
As  though  by  well-loved  melodies. 


THE  ANGELUS. 
The  sombre  hour  draws  on 

That  paints  the  twilight  hues; 
The  summer  sun  has  gone. 

And  fall  the  voiceless  dews. 
The  distant  trees  and  spires 

Are  tipped  with  crimson  light  — 
The  kiss  the  sun  requires 

At  parting  for  the  night. 
Soft  on  the  quiet  air. 

From  distant,  darken'd  tower, 
The  vesper  bell  for  prayer 

Rings  out  with  mystic  power. 
And  list'ning  in  the  field 

The  toilers  cease  and  raise 
To  Him,  the  unrcvcalcd. 

The  whisper  of  their  praise. 
Well  ended  is  the  day. 

At  liallowod  evening  time. 
To  bow  our  lieads  and  pray 

When  peals  the  distant  chime. 
And  wlien  life's  evenings  end, 

And  we  have  labored  well. 
Our  praise  will  still  ascend 

At  our  last  vesper  bell. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKIIICA. 


1175 


-* 


REV.  LUKE  WOODARD. 

Born:  Near  Richmond,  Isd.,  Mau.  12,  1833. 
At  tlie  age  of  thirty  the  subject  of  this 
sketch  became  a  minister  of  the  gospel,  and 
he  lias  since  traveled  extensively  iu  many  of 
the  states  as  an  evangelist.  He  h;i8  served 
as  pastor  in  Toronto.  r;in:id;i;   Glen's  Kails, 


BBV.  mKE  WOODARD. 

N.  Y.,  and  in  Oskaloosa,  Iowa.  Rev.  Luke 
Woodard  is  the  author  of  two  volumes  of 
prose  of  nearly  four  hundred  pages  each, 
entitled  The  Morning  Star  and  Gathered 
Fragments.  He  has  also  published  two  vol- 
umes of  poetry,  one  entitled  In  Memoriam, 
and  the  other  Childhood  Days.  Mr.  Wood- 
ard was  married  in  18,'»3  to  Miss  Elvira 
Townsend.  and  has  a  son  and  two  daughters 
now  grown  to  maturity. 


*- 


THE  SNOW  STORM. 

FIRST  DAY. 

The  morning  sun  ro.se  dull  and  red 
Presaging  that  a  storm  was  nigh; 

Anon  the  dark  mists  overliead 
Fulfill  the  morning's  prophecy. 

With  wrapt  delight  I  watch  the  clouds 
Shake  from  their  folds  the  feathery  flake?. 

While  the  cold  earth  herself  enshrouds 
With  sheet  the  mystic  weaver  makes. 


We  cannot  see  the  hand  that  piles 
The  shuttle  with  which  Winter  weaves 

A  wiuding  sheet,  when  Autumn  dies. 
And  drojjs  to  earth  her  faded  leaves. 

NIGHT. 

The  morning  sun  rose  dull  and  red. 
The  evening  sun  set  clear  and  bright; 

The  storm  had  p:issed,  and  overhead 
The  stars  kept  vigil  through  the  night. 

The  north  wind  sported  with  the  snow 
And  piled  it  o'er  my  window  sill, 

And  tossed  it  wildly  to  and  fro, 
Then  ceased,  and  the  cold  air  was  still. 

SECOND  MORNING. 

The  earth  Is  robed  in  stainless  white 
Alxive  the  cloudless  azure  bends; 

The  sun  comes  forth  with  dazzling  light. 
Slowly  the  river's  mist  ascends. 

And  on  my  window  panes  are  traced 
Fantastic  scenes,  like  fairy  land. 

Drawn  with  such  matchless  skill  and  taste 
As  'twere  the  work  of  fairy  hand. 

The  forest  standing  on  the  hill 
With  sparkling  diamonds  is  arrayed. 

And  that  huge  wlieel  in  yonder  mill 
Seems  as  of  solid  crystal  made. 

Naught  breaks  the  stillness  of  the  hour 
Save  ns  the  snow  chimes  'neatli  the  wheels 

Of  passing  coacli,  or  from  the  tower 
The  bell  rings  out  its  matin  peals. 

Aye,  thou  hast  beauties  all  thine  own, 
O,  Winter  I  and  we  welcome  thee; 

Tho'  flowers  are  dead  and  birds  are  flown, 
Thy  frostwork  has  its  charms  for  me. 


HUDSON  RIVER. 

EXTRACT. 

Rhine  of  America!    Thou  hast  thy  .source 

Among  the  i>ine-clad  Adirondack  hills; 
Thence    onwaid    flows    thy   ever-widening 
course. 
Fed  bj*  a  thousand  sparkling  springs  and 
rills. 

Through  sheltered  glens,  ravines  and  o'er 
cascades. 
There  calm,  here  dashing  with  impetuous 
haste, 
Round  mountains  gliding,  then  through  ver- 
dant glades. 
Thy  waters  sweep  till  lost  In  ix?eans  <vaste. 

Who  knows  thj-  history?    Ere  tho   foot  of 
man 

Had  ever  trod  this  western  hemisphere. 
In  solitude  and  unseen  grandeur  ran, 

Agi^  after  nge,  thy  mighty  current  here. 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF    AMERICA. 


WILLIAM  HIBBERT  WARE. 

Born  :  England,  Dec.  24,  1863. 
Mr.  Ware's  graiiclfather  was  the  late  Dr. 
Samuel  Hibbert,  M.  D.,  P.  R.  S..  who  was  the 
oldest  representative  in  a  straight  line  of  Sir 
James  Ware,  the  Irish  historian,  and  as- 
sumed the  name  of  Ware  by  Roj'al  License 


* 


WILLIAM  HIBBERT  M'ARE. 

of  Ulster  King-  at  arms,  and  is  the  author  of 
Hibbert  Ware  Annals  in  the  British  Museum. 
The  subject  of  tiiis  sketch  was  left  an  orphan 
when  an  infant,  and  he  was  placed  under 
the  charge  of  his  uncle.  Sir  Robert  Stuart, 
late  Chief  Justice  of  N.  W.  India.  Mr.  Ware 
has  only  recently  come  to  this  country,  but 
is  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  freedom  and 
fairness  which  characterize  its  institutions. 
To  America,  to  a  great  extent,  must  be  en- 
seribed  the  c;iuseof  the  inspiration  which 
tlie  muse  has  imparted  to  him.  Mr.  William 
Hibbert  Ware  resides  in  Trenton,  N.  J.,  where 
he  is  engaged  as  an  accountant.  His  pooms 
ha.ve  appeared  extensively  in  the  eastern 
press. 

SOME  BETTER  PART  OF  NATURE. 

Those  dormant  sensibilities  tliat  lie 

Deepdowii.wlMiintlielieart's  pathetic  well, 
Watered    with    tears    and   pruned  by  little 
pangs, 


Some  day  will  lolossom  and  with  goodness 
swell. 

'Neath  blackest  heart,  choked  by  depravity, 
There  lies  the  tenderest  chord,  susceptible. 

Which,  if  but  reached  and  gently  exercised. 
Will  ope  the  floodgates  of  the  heart's  deep 
well. 

I  care  not  if  the  heart  be  e'er  so  hard; 

Tlie  soul  be  e'er  so  far  depraved  or  bad, 
There  lies  some  quantity  of  sense  that's  good ; 

Some  tender  spot  that's  full  of  pathos  sad. 

Of  every  tear  that  flows  adown  the  cheek; 

Of  every  pang  that  rends  the  human  heart. 
There  comes  an  after,  melting  influeiice 

That  ushers  into  life  some  better  part. 


SPRING'S  CHEERING  LESSON. 

The  earth  is  young  and  fair  —  and  old  winter, 
Silvery  with  hoary  locks  has  departed. 
Yielding  up  his  tenemeni  to  blushing  youth. 
Taking,  in  his  flght  his  'Jnantle, 
Wherewith  he  warmly  clad  the  mountains 

high 
And  valleys  sweet  —  protecting  them  froui 

chill 
Of  nipping  frost. 

The  glorious  sun  gives  strength 
To  all  the  bursting  buds  of  Nature's  field. 
The  canop3'  is  one  blue  arch  o'erhead. 
And  mankind  treads  upon  a  carpet  soft. 
In  verdant  richness  grown,  and  jewelled  o'er 
With  daises  sweet  and  golden  buttercups. 
The  hum  and  murmur  of  the  insects  gay, 
With  variegated  colors  richly  decked; 
The  perfume  of  the  mignonette  and  rose. 
Of  violet  and  sweet-smelling  briar  wild. 
In  all  these  we  read  the  advent  of  spring! 
And  in  the  early  morn  of  this  bright  time. 
The  lark,  that  oft  doth  build  her  lowly  nost 
Upon    the  ground,  soars  grandly   liigh  on 

wing. 
And  chants  lier  grateful  carol  in  the  sky. 
It  is  a  time  when  timid  roe  and  hart 
Flee  nimbly  acro.ss  the  greensward  common. 
Drinking  in  Nature's  airy  i>erfuine  sweet. 
This  is  a  season  much  beloved  by  young  — 
Fair  Cupid's  hour— when  lovers  woo,  and 

plight 
Their  troth,  in  some  sequestered,  floral  nook. 
This  is  the  time  of  year  the  wisest  men. 
Of  every  age  and  clime,  have  ever  loved. 
A  season  when  old  and  young,  rich  and  poor- 
All  mankind -.should   learn  the  wholesome 

lesson 
Spring  teaches,  by  its  wonted  liarmony; 
A  mighty  trutli  that's  grandly  sweet,  there 

is  no  death. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAI,    POETS   OF   AMEItlCA. 


1177 


JOHN  VANCR  CHENEY. 

Born:  Dec.  29, 1848. 
After  teaching'  for  awliile,  Mr.  Cheney  en- 
tered a  law  ofHce,  and  was  admitted  to  the 
bar  a  few  j-cars  later.  lU-liealtli  compelled 
Mr.  Clieney  to  visit  the  Paeiflc  coast,  where 
he  now  rebidcb  at   Sau   Francisco.     He  lias 


JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY. 

published  three  volumes  — the  Old  Doctor, 
Thistle  Drift  and  Wood  Blooms  — the  flrst  a 
prose  work,  and  the  latter  two  volumes  in 
verse.  He  was  married  in  1876  to  Miss  Per- 
kins, a  handsome  and  brilliant  lady  who  had 
just  returned  from  a  sojourn  of  six  years  in 
Europe  —  a  graduate  of  the  Royal  Conserva- 
tory of  Stuttgart.  Mr.  Cheney  is  an  indus- 
trious man  and  is  librarian  in  the  Free  Li- 
brary of  his  adopted  city. 


MY  CHOICE. 

I'd  rather  be 

'Neath  a  greenwood  tree. 

With  a  song  and  a  handful  of  daisies. 

Than  the  darling  of  victory 

In  the  blaze  of  the  wide  world's  praises. 

I'd  rather  ride 

On  the  wings  inside. 

Which  waft  where  the  world  may  not  after. 


Than  fold  fair  Fame  as  a  bride 

To  feed  on  her  sighs  and  her  laughter. 


FANCY'S  FLOCK. 
Fancy's  flock  in  dreamy  close. 
Soft  tliey  rise  wlien  darkness  goes; 
Tasting  sweets  of  sun  and  shade, 
Down  the  meadow,  up  the  glade, 
Here  the  field  and  there  tlie  grove, 
Now  they  rest  and  now  they  rove. 
Up  and  down  all  happy  ways 
Fancy's  flock  at  pleasure  strays. 
Dp  and  down  and  far  and  wide. 
Pretty  slieidierds  at  their  side. 
Some  before  and  some  behind. 
Lest  they  meet  the  chilly  wind  — 
Hark!  the  little  silver  bell! 
Pretty  shepherds  tend  them  well. 


A  DAY  DREAM. 
'Twas  not  'neath  spectral  moon, 
But  in  the  day's  high  noon. 
That,  pillowed  on  the  grass, 

I  saw  a  vision  pass. 

Strange  quiet  folded  'round. 
Strange  silence,  close  —  profound; 
Sweet  peace,  sweet  peace,  and  deep. 
Bade  every  trouble  sleep. 

"O  spirit!  stay  with  me. 

Lying  all  quietly; 

If  this  is  death,"  1  said, 

II  Be  my  lot  with  the  de.id." 


MY  CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR. 
Or  in  the  esist  or  in  the  west. 
Where  shall  I  build  my  bird  a  nest; 
Nortliward  or  southwaril  —  whither  roam 
To  build  my  little  love  a  home? 

Up  yonder,  in  the  clean,  sweet  air, 
I  think  that  1  could  keep  her,  there: 
Too  much  aa  angel  for  the  ground. 
For    Heaven     somewhat    too  — warm    and 
round. 


DEATH  OF  AUTUMN. 
They  have  led  her  away. 
Up  tlie  stairs  of  day; 
Stej)  b.\  LUt'p  in  the  mellow  light. 
Hare  led  her  away 
To  the  turret  gray 
Where  morning  meets  the  night. 


1178 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


JAMES  C.Hx\RVEY. 

Born:  Danbuky,  Conn. 
Mr.  Harvey  received  his  education  in  Mid- 
dlebury  College.     He  now  resides  iu  New 
York    City,  engaged  in    literary  worii.    In 
1889  this  author  and  poet  published  Lines 


and  Rhymes,  a  magnificent  little  volume  of 
some  of  his  finest  poems,  many  of  them 
especially  suitable  for  public  recitation  and 
reading.  The  poems  of  Mr.  Harvey  number 
over  three  hundred,  and  have  appeared 
from  time  to  time  in  the  leading  periodicals. 


But  it  waits  for  us  in  a  Land  of  Rest, 
And  a  perfect  thing  we  shall  never  behold 
Till  we  pass  the  portals  of  shining  gold. 


WHY. 
Wliy  do  I  love  thee?    Ask  the  flower 

riiat  nods  by  the  woodland  stream 
\\liy  it  loves  the  light  of  the  morning  sun 

And  kisses  each  golden  beam; 
Ask  of  the  blushing  clover  bloom. 

In  the  light  of  the  dawning  day, 
Why  it   presses  the  dew-drop  close  to  it' 
breast 

And  droops  when  it  steals  away. 

Ask  why  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea. 

Why  the  lily  loves  the  rain, 
Why  the  morning  glory  bares  its  breast 

When  the  sunshine  comes  again. 
Ask  why  the  song  bird  loves  its  mate, 

why  tlie  daises  love  the  lea; 
•\nd  learn  from  them,  they'll  tell  thee  true, 

Why  thou  art  dear  to  me. 


IMPERFECTUS. 
T  wonder  if  ever  a  song  was  sung 

But  tlie  singer's  heart  sang  sweeter  I 
I  wonder  if  ever  a  rhyme  was  rung 

But  the  thought  surpassed  the  meter! 
I  wonder  if  ever  the  sculptor  wrought 
Till  the  cold  stone  echoed  his  ardent  thoughtl 
Or  if  ever  a  painter,  with  light  and  shade. 
The  dream  of  his  inmost  heart  portrayed! 

I  wonder  if  ever  a  rose  was  found 
And  there  might  not  be  a  fairer! 

Or  if  ever  a  glittering  gem  was  ground 
And  we  dreamed  not  of  a  rarer! 

Ah !  never  on  earth  do  we  find  the  best. 


IN  NO-MAN'S  LAND. 
Two  shaiies  were  walking  on  the  strand 
One  starlight  night  in  no-man's  land  — 

Two  shapes  that,  during  mortal  life. 
Gave  hate  for  hate  in  deadly  strife. 

They  met.    Swift  forth  their  falchions  flewt 
Each  pierced  the  other  through  and  through 

Yet  neither  fell.    Again  they  strove 
For  mastery,  and  madly  drove 

To  right  and  left  their  falchions  bright: 
Nor  sound  nor  cry  profaned  the  night. 

Tlirough  corselet,  casque  and  visor,  too. 
As  through  the  air  their  swift  blades  flew 

Until,  amazed,  they  stood  aghast. 
And  on  the  sands  their  weapons  cast. 

Then  laughed  they  both  at  mortal  strife, 
The  passing  dream  of  earthly  life. 

And  clasping  each  the  other's  hand. 
They  walk  the  shades  of  no-man's  laud. 


THE  RING. 


EXTRACT. 

A  band  of  burnished  gold 

My  fingers  gently  hold. 
And  through  the  magic  circle  of  its  rim 

Before  my  dreaming  eyes 

A  thousand  memories  rise 
And  fill   my  soul  with  longing,  vague 
dim. 


.*- 


» 


* 


LOCAI-    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEUIfA. 


117!» 


JOHN  B.  VAUGHAN. 

Bohn;  Near  Bowman,  Ga.,  June  16, 1800. 
In  coiiuection  with  the  assistance  oT  caring: 
for  a  blind  fatlicr,  Mr.  Vaughan  made  tlie 
study  of  music  and  poetry  a  specialty  from 
boyhood,  and  though  laboring  under  disad- 
vantages, has  written   many  of   the  most 


JOHN  B.  VAUGHAN. 

popular  hymns  and  tunes  now  sung  in  the 
south.  He  is  author  and  publisher  of  sev- 
eral widely  known  and  highly  esteemed  Sun- 
day school  and  revival  song  books.  He  is 
also  editor  of  a  popular  musical  journal, 
the  Music  Leader,  published  at  Atlanta,  Ga. 

"  EXQUISITE  SWEETNESS." 
"Exquisite  sweetness,"  what  art  thou 

Oh,  can  thy  meaning  be  defined. 
Dost  thou  e'er  visit  earth  below. 

Art  thou  in  other  spheres  confined? 
I  know  thy  name,  I  know  it  well. 

Yet  can  thy  meaning  ne'er  express. 
In  breast  of  mortal  dost  thou  dwell 

To  banish  sorrow,  soothe  distress? 
Tliou  art  a  virtue  sent  to  earth. 

For  lack  of  thee  we'd  weep  and  mourn 
Her  sunny  smile  first  gave  thee  birth. 

In  ecstasy  so  sweetly  borne. 
••E.xquisite  sweetness,"  blissful  thought, 

I  know  thee  now,  I  prize  tliee  well; 
Nothing  but  pleasure  hast  thou  brought. 

Yet  what  art  thou,  I  cannot  tell. 


•  •  E.X(iuisitc  sweet iies-^,"  ever  near. 

Since  first  1  knew  thee.  Jewel  rare 
Thy  message  sweet  I  love  to  lii'ar; 

It  drives  away  all  pain  and  care. 
"  Exquisite  sweetness,"  leave  me  not, 

Bereft  of  thee,  how  sad  and  lone; 
The  world  would  be  a  dreary  spot 

If  from  my  presence  thou  werttorn. 

•  •Exquisite  sweetness,"  blessed  charm. 

Bright  sunbeam  in  this  checkered  life. 
Thou  knowest  nauglitof  shame  or  harm. 
Thou  knowest  naught  of  sin  or  strife. 

•  •Exquisite  sweetness,"  guiding  star. 

Making  my  gloomy  pathway  bright. 
Oh  never  stray  from  me  afar. 
For  thou  dost  guide  my  life  aright. 

A  MEDITATION. 
To-night  I  sit  alone 

Beneath  Toccoa's  hills, 
I  think  of  days  now  gone. 

Their  sorrows,  sweets  and  Ills. 
My  mind  I  often  turn 

To  childhood's  happy  hours. 
Misfortune  ne'er  can  burn 

Hope's  sweetest,  fairest  Bowers. 
Many  a  change  has  come 

Since  that  bright,  happy  day; 
Some  loved  ones  are  at  home. 

Others  have  gone  away. 
Dear  father's  dead  and  gone. 

His  jilace  knows  him  no  more; 
He's  resting  safe  at  home. 

He's  on  the  other  shore. 
His  life  was  full  of  pain. 

Adversity  and  woe. 
His  conduct  without  stain. 

He  sought  his  God  to  know. 
My  mother  dear  yet  lives. 

The  thought  of  her  how  sweet; 
No  richer  btxin  God  gives 

Than  mother  dear  to  greet. 
Oh !  some  have  gone  away 

To  towns  or  peasant  homes. 
While  I  alone  do  stniy. 

The  only  one  who  roams. 
I've  traveled  in  the  west. 

Oft  back  anil  forth  I  go, 
To  seek  a  j^laee  of  rest. 

That  I  might  roam  no  more. 
To-night  T  sit  alone. 

While  all  is  hushed  and  still, 
F<irlorn,  without  a  home. 

Great  tears  my  eyes  do  fill. 
Alone  Id  rather  be 

Than  in  the  halls  of  pride: 
A  visage  now  1  .-^eo 
Which  doth  my  fiHitstops  guide. 


*- 


-* 


*- 


1180 


LOCAL   AND   NATIOXAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


REV.  MYRON  EELLS.D.D. 

Born:  Walker's  Prairie,  Wash.,  Oct.  7,  '43 
This  gentleman  was  ordained  a  minister  in 
1871  at  Hartford,  Conn.,  and  tliree  years  later 
was  married  to  Miss  Sarah  M.  Crosby,  and 
now  lias  five  children.  He  has  filled  many 
irn|iortant  pastorates,  and  has  ])ublislied 
several  prose  works  of  acknowledged  exccl- 


BEV.  MYRON  EELLS,  D.  D. 

lence.  Since  1875  he  has  been  a  missionary 
to  the  Indians  in  Washing-ton,  under  the 
American  Missionary  Association.  Rev. 
Myron  Eells  is  an  associate  member  of  the 
Victoria  Institute  of  Great  Britain;  Anthro- 
pological Society  of  Washington,  D.  C. ;  vice- 
president  of  the  Whitman  Historical  Society, 
Walla  Walla,  Wash.;  and  has  been  trustee 
of  many  prominent  educational  and  reli- 
gious institutions.  Mr.  Eells  has  a  collection 
of  geological,  Indian, Chinese,  and  other  spec- 
imens, about  three  thousand  in  number. 
His  poems  principally  are  written  for  the 
Indians  in  their  jargon. 

I  LIVE  HERE  NOW. 
I  live  hero  now, 

On  the  earth. 
Not  long  shall  I  be  gone 

From  the  earth. 
Where  I  shall  go 
For  a  long  time  I  did  not  know; 
Dark  was  my  mind  about 

Tlio  far-off  land. 


God  lives  far  off 

In  Heaven. 

He  wishes  me  to  go 

To  Heaven. 
If  I  am  good  here, 
And  do  nothing  wrong, 
He  will  wish  me  to  go 

To  Heaven. 

Good  people  live  far  off 

In  Heaven. 
Bad  people  live  below 

In  the  great  fire. 
Only  if  I  am  good, 

Throw  away  everything  bad, 
Truly  this  God 

Will  carry  me  there. 

• — I  ^  I — ♦ • 

OBURN  R.  HOLLAND. 

Born  :  Webster,  Iowa,  Sept.  30, 1863. 
At  the  age  of  eighteen  Mr.  Holland  entered 
Norton  Normal  and  Scientific  School  at  Wil- 
ton, Iowa,  where  he  remained  quite  awhile 
as  student  and  teacher.  Later  he  taught  in 
pubUc  schools,  and  in  the  Business  College 
at  Clinton,  Iowa.  His  poems  h.ave  appeared 
in  the  N.  W.  Christian  Advocate  and  other 
publications.  Mr.  Holland  is  at  present  a 
commercial  traveler  for  a  large  wholesale 
house. 


TRUST. 
As  home  we  plod  at  close  of  day 

Through  thick  mists  dark  and  drear, 
When  liomely  comforts  are  not  seen, 

Altho'  we  k!iow  them  near; 
When  vision  does  not  pierce  beyond 

The  narrow  path  we  tread. 
We  still  press  on,  content  that  yet 

We  see  one  step  ahead. 
So  we  trust  God.    Full  oft  it  seems 

His  ways  are  wrapt  in  gloom: 
Full  oft  we  see  no  way  of  'scape 

From  some  impending  doom. 
Yet  we  pass  quietly,  without  fear. 
Through  ways  He  bids  us  tread. 
Trusting  that  He  will  ever  make 

Clear  the  one  step  ahead. 

AN  AWAKENING. 
On  Easter  eve  a  weary  toiler  sought 

To  drown  in  sleep  the  burdens  of  the  day; 
Night  to  his  spirit  blest  oblivion  brought, 

Day's  strife  and  turmoil  all  were   swept 
away. 
His  was  a  sordid  life;  earth's  dreary  strife 

Had  driven  all  tlie  brightness  from  his 
Day  but  another  stretch  of  weary  life,[way; 

Night  b>it  (he  waiting  for  another  day. 


^- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1181 


Sleeping,  lie  dreamed;  man's  paltry  stir  was 
stilled, 
A  blessed  silence  hovered  o'er  the  earth; 
A  restful  pe;ice  his  troubled  spirit  filled, 
Bnheard  thesouiidsof  pleasure's  sensuous 
mirth. 
The   risen    Christ   looked   down   upon   our 
world ; 
Where'er   he   gazed    beheld    his    mighty 
power ! 
The   things   of   sense   and    passion  all  are 
hurled 
Back  Into  shadow  in  that  fatal  hour. 

A  sanctity  earth  never  saw  before, 
A  glory  mortals  ne'er  before  had  blest, 

A  heavenward  turning  of  all  life,  and  o'er 
All  things  the  presence  of  the  angel  Rest. 

He  rose  at  morn,  but  on  his  wakened  sight 
There    broke  a  glory  wondrous    strange 
and  new; 
Wrapt  in  the  halo  of  the  dawning  light 
Earth  lay  before  him,  bathed  iu  glistening 
dew. 

Unto  the  toil  which  yester  night  he  spurned 
With  weary  hands  and  doubly  wearied 
heart. 

His  face,  no  more  unwilling,  now  is  turned; 
With  lifted  eyes  he  welcomes  now  his  part. 


MRS.  JULIA  A.  B.  DAVIS. 

Born  :  Pawtucket,  R.  T.,  April  19, 1837. 
This  lady  wrote  prose  for  the  New  York 
Weekly  for  ten  years.    Her  poems  have  re- 
ceived insertion  in  Peterson's  and  others. 


HEART  BREATHINGS. 
I  love  to  sit  at  the  evening  hour 

In  a  cove  near  the  foaming  sea. 
And  watch  the  storm  king's  mighty  power  — 

Fit  emblem  of  life  for  me. 
I  love  to  see  the  lightning's  flash. 

To  hear  the  thunder's  roar. 
There  is  music  in  the  deafening  crash. 

As  I  watch  the  raindrops  pour. 
I  love  to  hear  the  moaning  wind 

Through  the  leafless  treetops  sigh; 
In  the  sound  my  heart  a  requiem  find 

For  hopes  which  buried  lie. 
But  these  are  thoughts  of  my  darker  hours, 

Born  of  my  spirit's  strife. 
When  my  soul  forgets  the  Heavenly  powers 

In  the  weary  battle  of  life. 
For  1  have  moments  of  brighter  hue, 

A  lull  in  this  spirit  storm. 
When  I  seek  the  shade  of  the  bending  yew. 

And  a  prayer  in  my  heart  is  horn. 


MARY  KATK  DAVIS. 

Born:  Feb.  13, 1868. 
Mary  Kate  Davis  is  the  daughter  of  Mrs. 
Julia  A.  B.  Davis,  who  is  elsewhere  represent- 
ed in  this  work.  Miss  Davis  has  written 
quite  a  few  poems,  which  have  received  ex- 
tensive publication  in  the  periodical  pre.ss. 
She  resides  with  her  parents  in  Central  Vil- 
lage, Mass. 


KITTYS  CRADLE  SONG. 
Kitty  was  rocking  the  baby  to  sleep,    [beat; 
While  hor  voice  kept  time  to  the  cradle's 
This  was  the  story  I  heard  her  repeat: 
Sad  is  the  fate  of  wandering  feet. 
A  chicken  did  in  the  meadow  play 
One  very  pleasant  autumn  day; 
His  mother  called,  "Come,  go  to  bed." 
"  I'll  not  go  yet,"  the  chicken  said. 
"  I'll  stay  in  the  meadow  to-night. 
Chasing  bugs  in  the  bright  moonlight." 
Freedom  was  sweet,  his  lieart  w;is  light. 
But  he  missed  his  mother's  wing  at  night. 
O!  foolish  chicken  he  was  to  stray 
Far  from  his  mother's  nest  away; 
The  ducks  were  safely  housed  and  fed. 
The  chicken  could  not  find  his  bed; 

But  peep!  peep!  oh,  sad  his  p'ieht! 
Poor  chicken  out  in  the  cold  all  nij-ht  — 
Out  where  the  stars  were  shining  bright. 
Dying  alone  iu  the  cold  that  night. 
Seen  by  the  light  of  breaking  day. 
Close  by  the  wall  the  poor  thing  lay; 
Under  its  shelter  he  had  crept 
To  shun  the  winds  which  coldlj*  swept. 
They  found  him  when  the  ducks  were  fed, 
Poor  little  chicken,  cold  and  dead. 
••  Cold  and  dead,"  I  heard  her  repeat. 
This  was  the  fate  of  Iiis  w:indering  feet. 
So,  out  alone  in  the  world  so  wide,  [side. 

Children  have  strayed  from  their  mother's 
Seeking  for  pleasure  briplit  and  gay. 
Far  from  the  s:ife  lionie  nest  away. 
Vainly  they  wish  for  the  tender  fold     [cold. 
When  the  hours  grow  dark  and  tlie  world  is 
•  •The  world  is  cold,"  we  heard  them  repeat. 
Bitterly  cold  for  wandering  feet. 
Over  them  sweep  the  cold  storms  of  life. 
Vainly  they  shrink  from  its  bitterest  strife; 
Sadly  for  them  some  mothers  will  pray 
Father,  keep  watch  o'er  the  footsteps  that 

stray, 
Lead  them  at  last  in  the  Savior  to  find  [blind. 
Strength  for  the  weak   and   sight    for   the 
••  Sight  for  the  blind,"  the  echoes  repeat. 
Blind  to  the  snares  for  wandering  feet. 


9> 


1182 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  ISABELLA  BARNES. 

Born:  Dexterville,  Wis.,  March  18, 1867. 
In  1887  this  lady  was  married  toOtlio  Barnes, 
and  now  resides  in  Teanaway,  Wash.    Mrs. 


^y& 

^^       "" 

,1   '-^m 

^ 

^ 

i 

i 

i^^Hlk 

/I 

^gg^g^^^ 

R^^i'irii 

MRS.  ISABELI.A  BARNES. 

Barnes  has  written  quite  a  few  poems  that 
have  appeared  in  tlie  local  press. 


HOPELESS  LOVE. 
Can  one  liv'e  on  liope 
Without  any  reahty. 
Or  must  he  be  satisfied 
And  love  immortality. 
Then  if  such  cannot  be 
Oh  love  fly  from  me. 
And  cast  your  g-lances 
On  some  bride  to  be. 
Forget  all  how  can  I, 
To  fret  and  regret  I, 
Oh  for  a  clasp 
Of  your  love  warm  hand. 
Never  more  can  we  wander 
Our  stories  to  ponder. 
And  tell  of  the  hearts 
That  have  once  happy  been. 


WRONGED  BY  LOVE. 
How  can  I  bear  such  grief. 
Knowing  not  when  'twill  end. 
How  can  I  be  bereft  of  sister,  brother  and 
friend? 


Oh  for  tlie  love  that  can  never  be. 

All  I  can  do  is  in  silence  grieve, 

And  if  my  heart  should  break 

All  I  ask  is  lieaven's  leave. 

I  often  wonder  and  ask  myself 

If  there  ever  was  one  so  wronged  as  I, 

And  I  even  feel  as  if  it  would  be 

A  blessing  for  me  to  die. 

NVhat  is  there  for  me  in  the  coming  years,  I 

wonder. 
More  trouble  and  bereavement, 
( )r  perchance  another  blunder? 
I  think  I  have  made  enough  of  them. 
So  I  will  be  most  sure. 
The  next  I  choose  for  my  better  half 
Will  be  the  one  I  adore. 


DAVID  GROSSER. 

Born  :  Scotland,  March  15, 1815. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  came  to  America 
ill  1855,  and  settled  in  Clay  county,  Indiana 
ill  1869.  He  is  a  miner  by  occupation,  but 
like  many  of  Scotland's  noble  sons,  is  a 
natural  poet,  and  has  written  several  popu- 
lar campaign  songs. 


MY  DOG. 

My  dog  he  sprung  from  noble  breed. 
But  now  a  green  tree  marks  his  lair: 

He  was  a  faithful  friend  indeed. 
Though  but  a  beast  and  clad  in  hair. 

Where'er  I  went  he  wished  to  go. 
Where'er  I  was  he  wished  to  be; 

But  now  he  lies  as  cold  as  snow 
Beneath  yon  weeping  willow  tree. 

No  more  he  meets  me  at  the  door. 
Or  barks  aloud  to  welcome  me; 

No,  no,  poor  Heanen's  troubles  o'er. 
He  lies  beneath  yon  willow  tree. 

Poor  dog,  he  had  no  soul  to  save, 

Nor  had  he  one  to  condemn. 
But  all  was  over  in  the  grave 

With  Mother  Earth,  from  whence  hecarut 

But  men  and  beasts  are  not  at  par: 
Death  takes  us  to  some  other  sphere. 

To  stand  at  God's  great  judgment  bar 
To  answer  for  our  past  career. 

Soon  and  on  great  Nature  goes. 
First  calls  to  live,  rhen  calls  to  die; 

Men  study  hard,  and  then  suppose. 
But  cannot  tell  the  reason  why.  , 

But  this  we  can  substantiate. 

And  no  one  takes  it  for  a  lie: 
The  man,  the  beast,  both  small  and  great. 

When  time  is  called  they  have  to  die. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1183 


* 


DAKIEL  J.O'CONNKLL. 

Born:  Cincinnati.  O.,  Dec.  12,  1859. 
Leaving  home  at  the  age  of  twelve,  Daniel 
has  battled  the  world  alone  since  that  time. 
He  taught  school  at  the  age  of  seventee  n  and 
h;isbeen  several  t  imps  a  candidate  for  import- 
,iil  nll'n-.'-.     M  1.  (  I'l  ciiiiiii  hiis  colli  lil  lilted  ar- 


D.\.MEL.  J.  u  L' J.\.M-i.i-. 

Iticles  in  prose  and  verse  to  many  of  the  lead- 
jing  papers  throughout  the  northwest,  and 
bas  some  reputation  as  a  public  speaker.  Ho 
lias  conducted  newspapers  in  Iowa  and  Min- 
nesota, and  is  now  the  editor  and  publisher 
if  the  Democrat  at  Owatonna,  Minn. .where  ho 
Jves  with  his  wife  whom  he  married  in  1885. 


I  THINK  OF  THEE! 
I  think  of  thee  when  morning  gleams 
And  gilds  the  blue  and  welkin  dome. 
In  thoughlo  that  fill  my  daily  dreams 
With  jo3'  and  peace,with  love  aud  home. 
And  in  the  bright  resplendent  noon, 
The  sighing  zephyrs  whisper  sweet. 
And  tell  my  aching  heart  tliat  soon 
Shall  come  the  joys  I  long  to  greet. 
I  think  of  thee  when  twilight  fades 
And  evening  dons  the  robe  of  night, — 
When  through  the  softly  falling  shades 
Sweet  Luna  lends  her  lambent  light. 
'Tisthen,  through  Fancy's  magic  power. 


1  build  my  future  calm,  serene; 
And  dwell  in  love's  seijueslered  bower 
With  thee,  my  own,  my  Ernestine. 
But  nil  too  soon  my  rapture  dies, 
And  all  too  soon  has  hap'ncss  Uuwn; 
For  sudderdy  I  ope  mitie  eyes, 
Andean  but  sigh  "Alone,  Alone." 

THE  GliT. 
The  little  gift  which  thou  hast  given 
Is  sweeter,  dearer  to  my  sight 
Than  gems  that  deck  the  brow  of  ev'n, 
Aud  shed  their  luster  o'er  the  idght. 
For  oh,  it  sheds  within  my  soul 
The  light  of  Friendship,  Hope  and  Love, 
And  lights  my  footsteps  to  the  goal 
Where  thou  shalt  bid  me  cease  to  roam. 
It  bids  me  ever  tliink  of  thee. 
As  oft  at  eve,  with  pen  in  hand, 
I  revel  in  sweet  reverie 
Like  one  who  dreams  of  fairy -land. 
And  o'er  my  dreams,  as  one  divine. 
The  goddess  of  my  heart  reigns  queen :  — 
Tis  sweet  to  worship  at  her  shrine. 
Since  'tis  none  else  than  Ernestine. 
One  other  gift  I  ask  more  sweet; 
But  oh,  'tis  not  a  work  of  Art : 
'Twas  made  by  Nature's  hand  complete. 
And  that  my  dear,  that  is— j-our  heart. 

EVENING. 

Sweet  evening  now,  with  silver  crtiwn. 
Reigns  (iueensui>renu'both  near  and  far. 
While  twilight  lets  her  curtain  down. 
And  sweetly  pins  it  with  a  star. 
How  sweet  it  is,  wlien  nil  is  still. 
To  wander  through  the  moon-lit  grove. 
And  feel  the  old  accustomed  thrill 
Whene'er  we  think  of  her  we  love! 
Oh!  here,  in  Nature's  calm  retreat. 
Our  sweetest  thoughts  will  le;iru  to  speak. 
Long  parted  liearts  come  here  to  meet. 
And  mine  is  here  for  thine  to  seek. 
I  gaze  upon  the  briglitest  star 
That  gilds  tho  dome  of  heaven's  blue. 
And  wonder  if,  away  so  far. 
The  one  I  love  beholds  it  too! 
As  if  in  answer  to  my  dreams. 
The  lieavens  wear  a  sweeter  liuo; 
The  star  I  vii'w  full  brighter  plivims. 
And  now  I  know  thou  view'st  it  uto. 
For  that  which  makes  thy  life  morebriglit 
A  gild  of  liappiness  casts  o'er  mine; 
Hence  dare  I  hope  this  .same  sweet  light 
Eternal  over  both  may  shine! 
Thou  need'st  not  nsk  who  this  may  be. 
This  idol  of  my  every  theme. 
For  there's  but  one  frotn  sea  to  sea. 
And  thou  art  she.  my  Ernestine! 
^ 


*- 


1184 


LOCAL  A:ND  national   poets  of  AMERICA. 


REV.  E.F.BURR,  D.D.,  LL.D. 

Born:  Westport,  Conn. 

In  1850  Mr.  Burr  became  pastor  of  the  Con- 
gregatloual  Church  of  Lyme,  Conu.,  which 
position  he  still  fills.  lu  1868  he  commenced 
to  lecture  on  the  Scientific  Evidences  of 
l!eli"ion,  in  AmhersD  College.  He  has  lectur- 


KEV.  E.  F.  BUtSR. 

ed  to  leading  clergymen  of  New  York  and 
Boston  on  The  Latest  Astronomy  Ag:unst 
t),e  Latest  Atheism.and  on  kindred  subjects. 
Mr.  Burr  is  the  author  of  a  score  of  books  on 
religious  topics,  and  two  volumes  of  illustra- 
ted poems,  Thy  Voyage,  and  From  Dark  to 
Day. 

A  SUMMONS. 
What,  ho!  ye  many  idle  men. 

In  market-place  still  sitting, 
Tlioufjh  sun  is  up  and  working  hours 

So  fast  away  are  flitting: 
Is  there  no  harvest  work  to-day, 

No  master  fair  to  hire  you. 
That  ye  sit  here  with  loins  ungirt, 

Aiid  hands  that  hang  beside  you? 

Behold  a  vineyard  nigh  and  wide: 

Its  gates  are  widely  open ; 
And  from  within  come  loudly  forth 

These  words  by  Master  spoken : 


..  Up  all  ye  many  idle  men. 
Into  my  broad  field  come  ye. 
And  work  with  Me  till  sun  go  down- 
Then  rest  in  heaven  with  Me." 

Now  list  ye  to  these  goodly  words 

That  from  the  Lord  come  sounding, 
And  set  to  work  like  faithful  men 

In  all  his  field  surrounding: 
Think  ye  what  Master  great  ye  have 

To  watch  and  work  beside  you; 
Think  of  the  wage  of  endless  life 

Which  he  will  soon  provide  you! 

Nor  man  can  want  nor  world  can  give 

Afield  so  worth  your  tilling: 
Strange  that  to  till  such  field  as  this. 

All  men  should  not  be  willing! 
If  I  were  you  no  earthly  thing 

Without  this  field  should  keep  me; 
And,  once  within,  no  earthly  power 

Without  this  field  should  sweep  me. 

See  through  the  gates  some  men  you  knc 

For  God  sublimely  toiling; 
They  plow  and  plant,  they  till  and  reap, 

Yet  whitest  hands  not  soiling. 
Now  rise,  ye  drones,  and  join  these  men,: 

Be  every  whit  abreast  them: 
What  matters  work  to  weary  men. 

It  heaven  at  last  shall  rest  them? 

Will  ye  sit  here  the  livelong  day, 

While  God  for  work  is  calling, 
And  crowns  to  pay  for  faithful  work. 

Like  showers  of  stars  are  falling? 
What  will  ye  do  when  day  is  done. 

If  ye  no  work  can  show  Him, 
In  all  his  wide  and  needy  field, 

For  all  the  work  you  owe  him. 

What  will  ye  do  when  day  is  done. 

If  ye  no  wage  have  taken. 
And  find  that  they  who  work  forsake 

Must  be  of  God  forsaken? 
Know  worklcss  men  are  worthless  men 

Let  him  who  will  deny  it— 
And  chaflf  like  winds  shall  fly  away 

When  God  with  fan  shall  fly  it. 

Then  up,  ye  many  idle  men! 

Sl>aro  not  nor  lime  nor  sinew; 
Be  not  ye  as  the  flying  chaff 

When  God  his  wlieat  sliall  winnow. 
The  I'.ours  of  work  are  wasting  fast; 

Soon  day  to  night  shall  darken— 
Happy  the  man  in  market  place 

Who  to  this  call  shall  hearken! 


*- 


*- 


LOCAl.    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMEKICA. 


1185 


CALVIN  GRKKN. 

Hokn:  Albany,  N.Y..  Dec.  21,  mm 
Mit.  (iKEEN  served  iu  tlie  war  three  years, 
and  returned  from  it  witli  shattered  liealth, 
from  w)iiL'h  he  has  never  fully  recovered. 


C.\L,VIN  GREEN. 

His  poems  have  appeared  occasionally  in  the 
local  press.  Mr.  Green  was  married  in  185:3 
to  Harriot  L.  Fisher,  and  he  now  resides  at 
Hebron,  Wis. 


CHARITY. 

As  tinkling  cymbal  and  sobbing  brass  is  he 
Fitly  compaied  who  lacketh  Charit)-, 
And  though  the  Rift  of  propliecy  be  given. 
To   understand    all    things    in    earth    and 

heaven. 
And  knowledge,  with  all  faith  mountains  to 

move. 
Yet  without  Charity  these  nothing  prove. 
And  though  his  goods  bestow  upon  the  poor 
Who  throng  his  waj'  and  clamor  at  his  door; 
And  though  his  body  to  the  flames  be  given, 
If  void  of  love,  it  goes  for  naught  in  Heaven. 
Long  sulleroth  Charity,  yet  continues  kind, 
Vaunteth  not  itself,  nor  enviously  inclined; 
Is  not  puffed  up,  and  kindness  shows  to  all. 
Foregoes   her  own  when   other's   interests 

call; 
Not  soon  provoked,  and  ovil  thinks  of  none. 
Rejoices  in  the  truth,  wrong-doing  sltuns; 


Endures  all  things,  us  well  as  all  things  bear. 
And  ever  hopeth,  ne'er  yielding  to  despair. 
Prophecies  shall  fail,  and  tongues  sluiU  also 
cease,  L'^reeze; 

And   knowledge  pass,  as  p.'Lss  the  summer 
I5ut  Charity  itself  shall  e'er  endure 
As  guest  with  all  the  holy,  just  and  pure. 
Now  Love,  Faith,  Hope,  all  the  holy  three 
Abide  with  all,  but  fli-st  stands  Charity. 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 
My  native  land  I  love. 
Blessed  gift  of  God  above. 

Land  of  the  freel  — 
Free  from  oppression's  power. 
Free  from  its  earliest  hour. 
Oh,  may  our  Father's  dower 

Ever  thus  be! 
I  love  its  history's  fame. 
Its  starry  tiag  and  name. 

Its  rivers  grand; 
Its  mountains  topped  with  snow. 
With  broadened  plains  below, 
\11  cause  my  heart  to  glow, 

My  native  land! 
But  this  I  love,  if  more. 
Its  rights  of  ancient  lore, 

God's  gift  to  all  — 
A  gift  and  right  to  man, 
To  worship  only  him 
Whose  love  may  glow  within, 

And  hears  each  call. 
Then  let  no  tyrant  hand 
Its  constitution  brand 

Willi  a  foul  wrong. 
To  take  from  me  the  right 
To  servo  God  as  I  might. 
And  darken  all  the  light 

That  to  me  belong. 


TEMPTATION. 

KXT1«.\CT. 

Temptation  comes  in  such  a  form 

So  sly  and  unaware 
That  e'er  we  think,  unless  wo  watch, 

We're  caught  within  its  snart>. 
Its  whispers  soft  our  hearts  beguile, 

And  ere  we  think  wo  stray 
Far  from  the  path  of  iunticeuce. 

Unless  wo  watch  and  pray. 
With  human  nature  on  its  side. 

It  works  its  way  within; 
There  pl.ints  its  jxiwcr,  and  with  guile 

Leads  on  to  every  sin. 
In  childho<id  days  it  plies  Its  skill. 

Habits  of  wrong  to  form. 
And  if  success  its  efforts  crown. 

Youth  bends  before  Its  storm. 


•i"- 


*- 


1186 


LOCAL   AMD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  SUSAN  C.  CLARKE. 

Born:  Lincoln  Co.,  Me.,  1822. 
About  two  hundred  poems  have  appeared 
from    the    pen    of  Susan  Caroline    Clarke, 
and  have   received   extensive   publication. 


MRS.  SUSAN  C.  CLARKE. 

Mrs.  Clarke  was  married  in  1846  to  E.  W. 
Clarke  and  has  several  cliildren,  and  now 
resides  in  Livermore,  Iowa,  where  she  is 
verj-  popular  for  her  many  social  and  liter- 
ary attainments. 

WEDDED. 
Sweet  sister!  hast  tliou  entered  on 

Life's  higli  and  solemn  way; 
Most  earnestly  I  wish  thee  joy. 

And  fervently  I  pray 
That  as  a  guardian  angel 

Upon  tliy  path  may  shine 
A  high  and  holy,  heavenly  light, 

Even  a  love  divine. 

Sweet  sister!  hast  thou  entered  on 

The  way  unknown,  untried, 
To  walk  in  holy,  silken  bands. 

Thy  chosen  one  beside; 
Kneel  down  before  God's  altar 

In  humble  reverence  bow. 
And  ask  of  him  for  strength  to  keep 

Thy  precious  marriage  vow. 


There  comes  a  time  in  every  life 

Of  sad  and  darkened  hours 
Wlien  ii.auglit  maj-  save  the  sinking  heart 

Save  faith  in  God  alone. 
Sweet  sister,  bow  thee  humbly  down 

Before  His  holy  throne. 

And  ask  of  him  his  blessings  on 

The  years  that  yet  shall  be. 
For  faith  and  hope  and  charity 

And  sweet  humility; 
And  for  the  fervent,  trusting  love 
That  thrills  thy  bosom  now: 
Then  m;iyest  thou  ever  surely  keep 

Thy  precious  marritigc  vow. 


OVER  THE  THRESHOLD. 
"  Over  the  threshold  only, 

Out  of  the  night  of  pain," 
Risen  above  the  sliadows. 

Never  to  sigh  iig-an. 

Even  in  Heaven's  glory, 
Bj-  bright,  immortal's  bed; 

Sweet  and  beautiful  story  — 
Life  from  the  silent  dead. 

Blest  and  beautiful  spirit. 
Borne  on  thine  upward  way; 

Angels  shall  sing  the  merit — 
Life  from  the  silent  clay. 

Over  the  threshold  only. 
Out  of  the  night  of  pain. 

Risen  above  the  sliadows. 
Never  to  sigh  again. 


For  your  life  is  not  all  sunshine. 
Strewn  over  with  summer  flowers; 


WELCOME. 
..Westward  the  Star  of    Empire   takes  its 

way," 
Thus  wisely  one  of  old  was  heard  to  say. 
And  we  repeat  that  maxim,  just  and  true. 
Friends  from  the  East,  ghidly  we  welconn" 

you 
To  the  green  prairies  of  the  fertile  West. 
The  future  Slate  of  Empire,  loved  the  best, 
O  proudly  floiits  our  banner  free  and  high; 
There  is  no  prouder  'neath  the  starry  sky 
Of  all  the  constellations  East  or  West, 
We  read  upon  her  ricli  and  glowing  crest 
The  grand  words,  "Progress!  Upw.ard!  On- 

w:irdl  True! " 
Friends  from  the  East,  again  we  welcome 

you 
To  tlie  grand,  fertile  State  of  Iowa, 
Yet  we  .still  truly  love  our  fatherland. 
The  free,  the  great  states  that  lie  upon  the 

sea  — 
God  bless  them  in  the  years  that  yet  shall 

be! 


*- 


1                                          LOCAL   AND   NATION', 

vL   I'OET.S   OK    AMEUICA.                           1187 

HANNAH  AUGUSTA  MOORE. 

EVEN-.SONG. 
When  the  hot  and  weary  day 

BouN :  WisCASSET,  Me.  March  15,  1828. 

Sinks  behind  the  mlsly  west. 

This  lad.vlias  written  several  thousand  poems 

What  a  comfort  'tis  to  lay 

wliieli  have  appeared  in  the  leadiiia-  public- 

TireJ-out bodies  down  to  rest! 

ations  of  America.  When  a  child  she  remov- 

Grateful on  the  plexsant  bed. 

ed  witli  her  parents  to  Pliiladelphia,  andin 

Cool  and  fresli  and  safe  fn)m  liarm. 

that  city  ?ho  first   conimenci'd   her  literary 

Bows  tiic  heavy  iroubhd  liead. 
Wooing  sleep's  refreshing  cliarm. 

Ah!  when  to  the  dreamless  sleep. 

All  earth's  U)il  and  sorrow  done,— 

To  the  bed  so  still  and  deep,— 

Silent  goes  the  weary  one. 
If  a  sense  of  perfect  peace. 

Such  as  heralds  healtliful  rest. 
Meet  him  there,  where  changes  cease. 

'f-. 

Slumber  in  the  grave  is  blest. 

THOSE  LITTLE  HANDS. 

^ 

Oh !  say,  do  you  remember,  Bert, 

#        ■ 

The  days  of  long  ago. 

And  the  little,  slender,  faithful  hands 

That  used  to  liold  us  so? 

And  how  our  mother  used  to  say. 

Wlien  wo  teased  some  sliow  to  see. 

"  Yes,  if  you'll  hold  your  sister's  hands 

Till  she  leads  you  homo  to  me." 

Then  how  wo  capered  at  her  side 

The  city's  streets  along. 

And  how  slie  charmed  us  all  the  way 

With  story  and  with  song. 

Once  to  a  fine  menagerie 

Thus  held  and  led  wo  went. 

Do  you  remember  what  a  danco 

We  led  her  rounil  that  tent? 

HANNAH    Al  (il   STA    MOOKK. 

But  not  one  moment  could  we  'scape 

career.  Fur  several  jcars  she  resided  in  New 

These  slender  Angers'  hold 

York,  but  in  1886  returned  to  lier  native  state. 

Dear  little  sister-keeper  true- 

The  volume  entitled  Plymoutli  Notes  was  pre- 

But nine  short  summers  old. 

pared  by  Miss  Moore,  forty  thousand  copies 

And  as  the  yellow  sunset  streamed 

of  which  were  sold  in  Europe  tlie  first  year. 

Down  Chestnut's  pleasant  street. 
We  three  went  skl|>ping,  laughing  home 

Our  mother's  smile  to  meet. 
I  feel  e'en  now  those  fingers  sm.-xll. 

Their  cl;isp  so  firm,  so  w.irm. 
Can  see,  ;us  you  can  too,  I  know. 

Our  sister's  agile  form. 

THE  BROOK  AND  THE  UIVER. 
Whither  away  tliou  brawling  stream, 

Wliither  away  so  fast? 
Fleeinjr  for  life  and  death  you  seem; 

Speak  as  you  hasten  past. 

Answered  the  brook  with  a  pompous  roar 

Ah!  how.  as  we  grew  up,  she  tried 

Tossing  its  creamy  foam. 

To  hold  and  lead  us  still— 

"  I  go  my  flood  in  the  main  to  pour; 

Al;is  those  han<ls  were  all  t«K>  weak 

Listen,  O  sea,  I  come!  " 

To  curb  our  way  wartl  will. 

Whither  away,  thou  river  deep, 

0  Bert,  if  those  dear,  clinging  hands. 

Flowing  so  still  and  calm? 

Could  chusp  our  own  oneo  more 

Thy  gentle  waters  seem  half  asleep. 

And  through  tlii>  dangers  of  our  way 

And  cliantiiig  a  drowsy  psalm. 

Safe  lead  us  as  befort-; 

Answered  the  river  with  whisper  low 

How  glad  were  she,  and  thou  and  I, 

Swaying  its  lilies  fair. 

My  brother,  would  we  come. 

••  Down  to  the  fathomless  sea  I  go 

If  she  could  hold  our  h.inds  again 

The  sea  will  not  know  I  am  there." 
* 

To  our  dear  mother  home? 

*- 


— r 


1188 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  EMMA  L.  STAPLEY. 

Bokn:  Eagle  Point,  III.,  June  7,  1833. 

Under  the  nom  de  plume  of  Mildred  Merle 
the  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  in 
Woman's  Work,  The  Christian  Press,  and 
numerous  otlier  newspapers  and  magazines. 


She  was  married  in  1874  to  H.  L.  Stapley,  and 
resides  with  her  husband  at  Elkhorn  Grove. 
The  poems  of  tliis  lady  have  heen  highly 
praised  by  the  press  and  public. 


NATURE'S  CARPET. 
Heaven's  blue  vault  is  the  ceiling 

Of  a  room  larg-e,  airy,  and  grand. 
Its  manifold  beauties  admiring 

On  a  velvet  carpet  I  stand; 
Its  elegant  tapestry  woven 

By  Nature's  skillful  hand. 

Dark,  richest  green  is  the  groundwork. 
While  scattered  o'er  each  fair  fold 

Its  spacious  surface  bedecking. 
Are  leaves  in  numbers  untold, 

Wearing  the  bright  hues  of  autumn. 
Mottled  tvith  scarlet  and  gold. 

Varied  with  amber  and  russet. 
Mingled  with  matchless  care; 
In  stately  palace  or  temple 


Never  was  carpet  more  fair, 
Than  this  of  Nature's  own  weaving, 
In  her  temple  of  air. 


MY  BLOSSOM. 
Just  two  years  ago  our  darling  died; 
Our  little  lamb,  our  treasured  pride- 
Just  two  years  ago  this  beautiful  May; 
All  our  sunshine  grew  so  dark  that  day. 

Though  early  roses  were  bursting  bloom  | 
Wlieu  they  bore  lieraway  to  the  silent  tomb—  i 
Herself  a  rosebud  more  sweet  and  fair,  I 

Unfolding  its  petals  in  heaven's  pure  air.       | 

I 
Though  tears  of  sori'ow  flow  freely  to-day,  j 
From  the  litt  le  mound  will  I  look  away,  I 

With  the  eye  of  faith  to  that  lovely  shore,  j 
Where  my  rosebud  blooms  for  evermore.       | 

With  patience  we'll  await  some  sweet  spring 

day. 
When  One  more  fair  than  the  flowers  will  say, 
With  joy  take  thy  beautiful  blossom;  for  see, 
All  these  years  I  have  treasured  it  for  thee! 


THE  FORGET-ME-NOT. 
For  years  within  a  secluded  spot 
Have  I  treasured  a  sprig  of  forget-me-not. 
It  has  a  story,  this  blossom  blue, 
Oh,  yes!  with  pleasure  I'll  tell  it  to  you. 

'Twas  sent  me  in  girlhood's  sunny  day- 
Many  years  since  have  passed  away— 
By  one  who  is  more  than  life  to  me,  : 

Whoso  love  is  deep  as  the  fathomless  sea, 
And  whose  pathway  in  life  is  by  my  side. 
'Twas  before  I  became  his  cherished  bride. 

While  languishing  on  a  bed  of  pain. 

From  whicli  ho  might  never  rise  again. 

He  sent  me  this  flower  of  azure  hue. 

In  token  of  love,  strong,  deep  and  true, 

Thinking  that  it  perliaps  might  be 

His  last  fond  gift  on  earth  to  me.  i 

But  thanks  to  him  whose  loving  care. 
Saw  fit  my  darling's  life  to  spare. 
In  His  love  and  each  ether's  we're  truly  blest,  i 
As  we  journey  toward  the  land  of  rest. 

So  the  emblem    I've    cherished  for   many 

years- 
Years  of  joy  and  sorrow,  hopes  and  fears; 
Yet,  in  glancing  backward  o'er  the  past, 
Nearly  all  seems  sunshine- but  few  clouds 

cast 
Over  ray  mcm'ry  a  sombre  hue. 
Because  our  love  was  always  true. 


«- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMEUICA. 


1189 


MRS.  X.  D.  MARIAGEE. 

Born:  Denmark,  April  26, 1850. 
This  lady  bas  written  both  prose  and  verso 
for  tbe  Betroit  Free    Press,   Pacific  Rural 

Pri's--  lUc'ilaiul  Muiiihl.w  and  uilu'r  lu-oiiii- 


MHS.  NOAMI  DAGMAR   MARIAGEE. 

nent  publications.  Slie  lias  traveled  exten- 
sively in  the  United  States  and  Europe,  and 
has  led  au  eventful  career. 


ASPIRATION. 
Would'st  thou  a  poet  be. 

Thy  soul  at  sea  in  the  old  skald's  mead? 
Gaze  then  on  all  tilings  feelingly. 

And  then  thy  cause  with  fervor  plead. 

Would'st  thou  a  hero  be? 

Think  nobly  as  tlie  days  po  by. 
Give  feeling,  quick  delivery 

By  movement,  hand  and  tongue  and  eye. 

Would'st  thou  an  artist  be? 

Dip  thy  brush  deep  in  thine  heart's  flow; 
Then  paint  thy  pain  and  joy,  that  we 

In  picture  speech  thy  soul  may  know. 

A  QUESTION. 
What  am  I  in  the  field  of  mental  younglings? 

I'd  gladly  know,  but  cannot  even  guess; 
My  swift  succeeding,  slowly  poising  wing- 
liugs  [o)ipress. 

Would  gladly  that  they  should  none  else 


Thus  know  I  that  I'm  not  a  climbiug  vine. 

To  bind  and  smother  one  who'd  hold  mo 
kindly: 
A  self-supporting  pride  is  nature  mine, 

Wliicli  could  not  prey  nor  sttKip  to  groping 
blindly. 
Just  what  tlie  pl.int  is  that  my  soul  similes 

I  do  not  know;  but  this  1  may  confess: 
'Tis  what  it  seems,  and  it  mt  tliorn  conceals; 

'Tis  seusitive.  yet  sturdy,  and  no  less 
True  to  its  candid  jiromise  than  'tis  free 
From  over-sweet  or  over-bitter  taste; 

And  like  the  common  weed  it  cannot  be; 
So,  in  its  growth  it  slowly  doth  make  hustc. 


A  WISH. 
May  your  eyes  be  strange  to  weeping. 

Lady  fair. 
And  your  heart  find  worthy  keeping 

In  love's  care. 
May  the  storms  of  life  be  gentle  as  you  pas8, 

Fate's  gifts  to  know. 
And  a  mint  of  joys  for  memory  you  amass 

As  you  go. 

THE  HEUO. 
Hero  Is  he  wlio  feels  a  deep  compassion 
For  those  who  sutler,  from  whatever  c;iuse: 
Who,  in  intelligent  and  kindly  fashion. 
Acts   nobly  'gainst   or  for  the  world's  ap- 
plause. 

TIME. 
Succeeding  ages  came  and  past 

Ere  we  stepped  on  the  stage  of  life, 
And  age  on  age  will,  too,  be  massed 

When  we  :ire  gone  from  all  earth's  strife; 
And  millions  will  be  born  and  die. 

While  tears  and  smiles  all  have  their  day. 
Thus  shall  we  'twixt  Time's  pages  lie 

Till  Time  falls  also  to  decay. 

FAME. 

The  swordsman  skilled  may  duly  reach 

The  piiuiade  of  f;ime; 
But  breaks  his  sword  —  that  hour  will  teach 

Him,  in  his  pain  and  shame. 
That  those  who  praised  him  most  will  each 

His  former  skill  defame. 


MISTAKES. 
Time  comes  when  well  we  understand 

The  words  to  speak  ami  tieods  to  do, 
The  motives  false  or  truly  grand. 

The  maid  to  shun,  the  one  to  woo. 
The  man  to  cheer,  the  one  to  chide. 

The  aims  to  honor,  alms  to  hate. 
Alas!  the  knowledge  Is  no  guide, 

Since  it,  to  servo  us.  comes  too  late. 


*- 


*- 


1190 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF    AMERICA. 


WILLIAM  OLIVER  FEGELY. 

Bokn:  Breinigsville,  Pa.,  Jan.  8, 1867. 
In  1884  tlie  ■subject  of  this  sketch  attended 
the  Keystone  Normal  School  at  Kutztown, 
Pa.,   and    subsequently   taught   school.     In 

1887  he  entered  Muhlenberg- Colleg-e  at  AUen- 


WILLIAM  OLIVER  FEGELY. 

town  and  graduated  from  tliat  institution  in 
1890.  Mr.  Fegely  is  a  student  of  theology  at 
tlie  Lutheran  Theological  Seminary  at  Mt. 
Airy  in  Philadelphia. 

THE  TREASURE. 

Another  day  is  spent  at  last; 

Its  dizzy  journey  run; 
A  page  upon  the  lurid  past 

Tells  all  that  has  been  done. 
If  virtue  freely  strewed  our  path 

With  soul-ennobling  deeds; 
If  vice  the  venomed  sting  of  wrath 

Has  hampered  all  our  seats. 
All  this  and  more,  with  awful  truth, 

The  bygone  day  repeats. 
To-day  your  fortune  chanced  to  pass 

With  quickening  steps  extolled, 
Like  winds,  excite  the  watery  mass, 

Tlius  unconcerned  it  railed. 
"It  rolled  perhaps  forever  on" - 

Thy  careless  vigils  sing: 
Oblivion,  the  treacherous  one. 
Had  stayed  the  moment's  wing. 


*- 


The  treasure  was  within  thy  arms; 

Wiiat  more  need  nature  bring! 
The  fairest  of  all  country  maids 

Tliat  ever  graced  the  earth, 
"  Her  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades," 

Her  home  the  glowing  hearth. 
The  greenest  bough,  the  brightest  sky 

That  mark  the  sylvan  land. 
All  blend  their  beauty  in  her  eye; 

Her  lip  the  rosy  strand. 
Like  breezes  skim  the  fragrant  flower, 

So  light  she  skips  the  sand. 
The  rosy  blush,  so  mild,  serene. 

Upon  her  waxen  clieek; 
In  rainbow  colors  could  be  seen 

What  impure  tongues  must  speak. 
The  rippling  stream  that  leaps  the  rocks 

'Midst  fairest  herbs  and  flowers. 
Which  weave  their  beauty  in  her  locks, 

Her  faintest  smile  embowers. 
Herself  grand  Nature  could  not  hold 

Such  awful,  winning  powers. 
And  winning  as  they  seemed  to  be 

So  truly  had  they  won ; 
The  rose  was  plucked  from  off  the  tree 

Ripe  with  love's  shining  sun. 
Nor  toil  nor  cautious  hours  could  end, 

And  cares  that  are  untold. 
The  wooer's  sleepless  nights  attend, 

Like  Una's  breast  of  old. 
Yet  such  a  treasure  craves  them  all 

As  silver  and  pure  gold. 

LOVE  A  CONQUEROR. 

EXTRACT. 

•  A  living  frame  of  flesh  and  blood. 

Together  with  a  soul. 
Created  by  the  hand  of  God,  . 

Shows  that  He  has  control  j 

O'er  everything  alive  or  dead  ; 

In  all  this  wide,  wide  world,  ; 

Invigorates  us  not  to  dread 

The  missiles  at  us  hurled. 
He  then  endowed  with  noble  powers 

His  children  every  one. 
And  to  control.  He  said,  was  ours  ' 

Tlie  pilgrimage  begun. 
But  in  life's  journey  very  soon 

Love,  liatred  and  great  sorrow  ^ 

Did  harshly  with  themselves  commune,  i 

Duccrtain  made  tlie  morrow. 
When  true  love  —  the  all-conquering  cm 

Has  won  a  heart  so  true. 
Then,  also,  liatred  has  begun 

To  rend  apart  the  two; 
And  sorrow,  on  the  other  liand, 

Yet  ever  and  anon. 
Tends  these  two  loving  hearts  to  rend,   i 

When  hatred's  work  is  done.  I 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


1191 


MRS.  EMMA  M.  WHITE. 

BoiiN:  DoSTox,  Mass.,  Ju.nk  16. 1850. 
At  thk  ajre  ot  sixtooii  this  ladj-  was  left  an 
orpliaii.  without  known  rolaiives,  and  witli 
a  little  sister  dependent  on  lier  for  support. 
In  1875  she  was  married  lo  Clarence  Elmore 
White,  and   has  one  son  -  Murtini.r  F.linore 


MRS.  T:M:>r.v  si.  ■wniTE 

White,  born  in  1870.  Mrs.  White  lias  written 
Inndredsof  short  stories  and  romances  over 
a  Mom  do  plume,  eontrilmting-  to  Youth's 
Companion.  Boston  Tra use ripf,  St.  Nicholas. 
W(iniat\'s  Mafj-.-izinc.  Frank  Leslie's  puhliea- 
lions,  .'ind  the  leadiTif?-  periodicals  of  America. 
>'rs.  White  is  still  a  resident  of  Boston,  where 
she  is  very  popular. 


* 


HIS  HERITAGE. 

1  !oved  no  more  the  violets 

( '  hey  sprang  so  thick  above  my  dead), 
Nnieinqucfoil'sstar.nor  wind-flower's  g'race. 

1  left  them  all  upon  their  bed. 

The  flowers  had  lost  their  sweet  surprise. 

Gone  half  the  charm  of  bird  and  bee; 
I  watched  no  more  the  hills'  blue  bloom. 

W'hen  darling-  brought  all  b;ick  to  me. 

His  fre.sh  heart  links  itself  to  nu'ne. 
The  world  p^rows  brijrht  with  his  pold  hair. 


And  for  my  precious  child's  dear  sake. 

I  thankful  am  that  earth  is  fair. 
I  watch  with  him  the  robin's  flight, 

Ui>on  the  tret^top  glows  her  breast: 
I  follow,  with  his  musing  eyes. 

Her  fervid  dash  into  her  nest. 
My  darling's  fresh  delights  are  mine. 

From  i)ussy  willow's  silver  fur. 
And  magic  beauty  of  the  dew. 

To  whispers  of  the  pine-tree's  stir. 
I  train  the  bending  vines  and  smile 

That  the  red  roses  will  come  soon; 
Lead  his  small  footsteps  down  tlie  slope 

Where  all  the  baby  bluets  bhKjm. 
The  lilies  white  will  blossom  sirow 

Along  the  water  by  an<l  by; 
The  roses  bud;  .and  summer  brings 

His  playfellow,  the  butterfly. 
If,  witli  his  soft  hand  warm  in  mine, 

I  fear  for  him  what  living  is. 
I  still  the  beating  of  my  heart 

By  thinking  that  these  still  are  his. 


RELTXQUISHED. 

O  wild  birds  of  the  springtime. 

Sing  loud  !ind  clear  and  bold. 
His  little  ear  ni.ay  quicken. 

Though  underneath  the  mold; 
O,  >\  ild  l)irds  of  the  spritigtime. 

My  giief  cannot  he  told! 
Sing  loud  and  sweet  and  piercing. 

And  fill  the  silent  wold. 

O.  roses  sweet  of  summer, 

Unshciithing  fold  bj-  fold, 
liurgeon  and  bloom  your  brightest. 

Your  brightest  ever  told! 
O.  roses  sweet  of  summer. 

Be  everj-  leaf  unrolled. 
Fragrant,  fair  and  tempting. 

For  his  little  hands  to  hold. 

O,  autumn  leaves  of  crimson. 

And  autumn  leaves  of  gold, 
F.'ill  on  the  gravr  of  my  darling. 

Where  the  withered  grass  is  old; 
Fall  down  thick  and  softly. 

Fall  in  your  red  and  gold. 
.And  wrap,  all  close  and  warmly. 

His  little  feet  so  cold! 

O,  soft,  white  snow  of  winter, 

rnheoiled  still  J  pine! 
No  music,  warmth  or  fnigranco 

Lures  back  my  child  divme: 
O.  soft,  while  snow  of  winter. 

Your  hush  is  but  a  sign 
•'EUir  hath  not  beard;  "  his  unclosed  eyes 

See  fairer  sights  than  mine. 


-•!> 


*- 


1192 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  ROSE  H.  THORPE. 

Born:  Mishawaka,  Tnd.,  July  18, 1850. 
California  has  long-  been  the  home  of  Rose 
Hartwick  Thorpe,  her  present  residence  be- 
ing- at  Bona  Vista  Cottage,  Pacific  Beach.  It 
may  not  be  generally  known  that  Mrs.Thorpe 
is  the  author  of  the  famous  poem,  •»  Curfew 


MRS.  ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE. 

Must  Not  Ring  To-night."  It  is  of  course  her 
most  successful  work.  This  poem  has  been 
celebrated  for  years.  It  has  been  translated 
into  several  lang-uages,  set  to  music,  played 
upon  t!ie  stage  and  used  by  most  of  the  elo- 
cutionists of  the  times  before  the  young 
author  had  sufficient  courage  to  attempt 
writing  for  Eastern  magazines  and  the  press. 
The  most  remunerative  of  her  writings  have 
been  her  novels,  among-  which  are  The  Feu- 
ton  Family,  The  Chester  Gu-ls,  Nina  Bruce 
or  a  Girl's  Influence,  Fred's  Dark  Days,  The 
Year's  Best  Days  and  The  Yule  Log.  She  has 
also  written  many  temperance  poems,  bal- 
lads, etc.,  and  is  now  getting  out  a  book  for 
young  people.  The  poems  of  this  noted  poet 
have  appeared  in  the  Youth's  Companion, 
Now  York  Independent,  St.  Nicholas,  Wide 
Awake,  Peterson's  Magazine,  Lippincott's, 
and  the  leading  newspapers  and  magazines. 
The  honorary  degree  of  Master  of  Arts  was 
conferred  upon  Mrs.  Thorpe  by  the  faculty 
of  Hillsdale  College,  of  HilLsdale,  Mich.  She 
was  married  in  1871  to  Edmund  Carson 
Thorpe,  and  has  but  one  child,  a  daughter, 
Lula  May,  born  in  1873. 
•« 


SIESTA. 
After  the  toil  and  the  strain 
Of  muscle  and  heart  and  brain; 
After  the  fever  and  fret  and  pain, 
Siesta! 
Under  the  whispering  trees. 
Kissed  by  the  balmy  breeze; 
Under  the  calm  ethereal  seas, 
Siesta  1 
After  the  struggle  of  years; 
After  the  heartache  and  tears, 
A  glimpse  of  the  "  Jasper  gate  "  appears. 
Siesta! 
Under  the  daisy  sod. 
Under  the  golden-rod. 
Storms  rebuked  by  the  voice  of  God, 
Siesta! 
We  wake  from  the  day-time  sleep 
To  labor  and  fret  and  weep. 
Ever  again  and  again  to  seek 
Siesta! 
Over  the  silent  lake, 
Redeemed  for  Jesus'  sake. 
No  more  to  weary,  no  more  to  take 
Siesta. 


THOUGHTS. 
The  heart  is  a  garden,  and  never  a  seed 

Dropped  into  its  fertile  mold 
But  grows  and  g-rows,  be  it  thistle  or  rose. 

Weed  or  blossom.  Its  leaves  unfold. 
Our  thoughts  are  the  seeds  that  grow  to  be 
The  part  that  shall  live  through  eternity. 

LILIES  OF  FAITH. 
We  stood  in  youth's  fragrant  meadows. 

Where  the  tall  Faith  lilies  grow. 
The  sunny  slopes  of  the  hillsides 

With  pink  trust  blooms  were  aglow. 
And  down  in  the  mossy  hollows 

Hope  fluttered  its  plumes  of  snow. 
Our  hearts  were  drunken  with  gladness. 

Keeping  time  with  the  katj--did's  tune. 
The  flowers  made  love.    The  bold  cowslip 

Touched  lips  with  the  clover  bloom. 
And  the  heart  of  the  rose  unfolded 

'Neath  the  laughing  eyes  of  June. 
Then  the  future  swung  out  before  us. 

All  golden  from  rim  to  rim. 
And  the  pink  trust  flt)wiM-.s  went  marching 

With  the  lilies  tall  and  i)rim. 
While  over  their  blooms  Love  beckoned 

And  we  gladly  followed  him. 
It  is  twenty  years,  and  it  seemeth 

But  a  golden  Summer's  day. 
For  love  lias  laughed  at  the  shadows 

And  danced  on  the  sunbeams  gay, 

And  the  lilies  of  Faith  were  with  us, 

And  the  trust  bloom,  all  the  way. 


— ^ 


*- 


LOCAL.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMEHICA. 


iii»;^ 


MRS.  L.  GREENE  RICHARDS. 

"Born:  Kanesville,  Iowa,  April 8, 1849. 
At  the  ng^o  of  twenty-ihree  this  ladj'  beciime 
tlie  editor  of  tlie  Woman's  ExpoiK-iit  —  the 
first  woni.-in's  piiper  imblisiied  iii  Utali;  licr- 
si'lf  Utali's  first  lady  editor.  The  year  follow- 
iim-  she  married  Lesi  WiLlard   Kicliards,  but 


MRS.  L.  GREENE  RICHARDS. 


five  years  later  she  was  compelled  throug-h 
failing  health  and  domestic  duties  to  relin- 
guisb  her  business  pursuits  and  to  turn  tho 
publication  over  to  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Emme- 
line  B.  Wells,  under  whose  care  it  still  flour- 
ishes. At  an  early  ag-e  this  writer  attracted 
local  attention  by  her  creditable  productions 
in  poetry  and  prose,  and  her  poems  are  al- 
ways eagerly  accepted  by  the  prominent 
newspapers  and  magazines.  Mrs.  Richards 
is  still  a  resident  of  Salt  Lake  City,  Utah. 


TREASURES. 
"  Will  you  keep  my  new  knife,  mother? 

I  might  dull  the  shining  blade; 
Please  to  keep  it  ready  for  me. 

Or  I'll  lose  it,  I'm  afraid." 
"  Yes,  I'll  keep  it  for  you,  darling," 

And  I  kiss  the  rosy  lips. 
While  upon  his  golden  ringlets, 

Softly  rest  my  finger  tips. 
"  Please  to  keep  my  marbles,  muzzer. 

So  zey  won't  get  rolled  away;  " 
••And  my  pretty  bead  and  buttons; 

And  my  top  string,  while  I  play." 


Four  dear  boys  thus  bring  tlicir  treasures, 

I  must  keep  them  all  iu  reach; 
Four  loved  forms  to  watch  and  care  for. 

Four  bright  infant  minds  to  teach. 
As  to  me  they  bring  their  treasures, 

So  to  Thee,  oh,  God  above: 
I  entrust  them,  ever  i)raying, 

Keep  them  safely  in  Thy  love. 
And,  lest  I  should  spoil  or  lose  them, 

'Mid  eartii's  busy  cares  and  strife, 
Teacli  me.  Father,  how  to  bring  them. 

Back  to  Thee  with  Endless  Life! 


THE  BABY  AND  THE  SHOWER  OF  RAIN. 
This  morn  mj'  baby  waked  with  strange  sur- 
prise. 
And  to  the  window  turned  enquiring  eyes; 
For  the  first  time  the  pattering  rain  he  heard. 
And  all  his  wondering  powers  at  once  were 

stirred. 
He's  eight  months  old  to-day,  my  baby  "Lo," 
Yet  rain  before  he  has  not  chanced  to  see  — 
At  least  to  notice  —  and  from  window  pane 
He  turned  to  me  with   looks  of  "Flense  ex- 
plain." 
You  know,  dear  sister,  how  we  mothers  think 
We  understand  the  baby's  nod  and  wink. 
And  learn  as  much  from  ••  coos  "  and  cun- 
ning looks 
As  scientists  from  nature  and  from  books. 

'•  It  is  the  rain,  my  birdie  pet,"  I  said ; 

He  raised  his  head  and  sagely  shook  his  head ; 

"It  looks  like  water"  — then  ho  stopped  to 

sneeze  — 
The  same  that  runs  along  below  the  trees; 
The  same  you  use  to  make  mo  clean  and 

sweet,  [feet; 

In  which   I  love  to  splash  with  hands  and 
And  now  you  call  it  — what?  ••the  rain,  my 

love." 
••  Well,  I  can't  see  what  brings  it  from  above ; 

"Or  how  it  stays  there  till  its  time  to  fall  — 
I  cannot  understand  the  thing  at  all ! 
I  think  that  I  must  wait  until  I  grow. 
And  when  I'm  big  like  you,  then   I    shall 

know." 
And  so  ho  dn>pped  (he  subject  for  a  time. 
And    dapped    his   bauds  and  sang  a  baby 

chime. 
How  nuich.  I  thought,  we  older  folks  appear 
Like  this  meek  child  with  matters  nut  quite 

clear. 
Things  are  presented  which  are  mysteries 

grand. 
We  see  and  hear,  but  cannot  understand; 
Yet  to  our  Father  they  are  nil  as  plain 
And  simple  lus  the  falling  of  the  rain. 


* 


1194 


LOCAI,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMERICA. 


MRS.  GARFIELD. 

Noble,  honored,  yet  afflicted! 

As  this  morn  I  bow  the  knee, 
From  my  heart  unto  our  Father 

Flows  a  pleading-  prayer  for  thee. 
Though  a  nation  sorrows  with  thee, 

Tliousands  all  to  thee  unknown; 
None  can  share  thy  secret  burdens, 

Thy  great  loss  is  thine  alone! 
Only  He  who  "  feeds  the  ravens  " 

Can  bestow  that  peace  and  rest. 
Which  may  soothe  the  deep  emotions 

Of  a  soul  like  thine  oppressed. 
Surely,  surely  He  will  aid  thee. 

All  thy  griefs  to  bravely  bear; 
Little  children,  pure  as  angels. 

Lisp  to-day  thy  name  in  prayer. 
Every  wife  and  every  mother. 

Bowing  at  the  sacred  shrine, 
With  a  sister's  tender  yearnings. 

Feels  her  own  heart  bleed  with  thine! 


IT'S  BETTER  TO  LAUGH  THAN  TO  CRT. 

I  am  only  a  girl  in  the  cold,  proud  world. 

Working  from  day  to  day ; 
But  this  is  my  plan,  wherever  I  can. 

To  brighten  the  lonely  way. 
I  look  around  me,  and  where  they  stand. 

The  weary  and  sad  and  weak, 
I  smile  and  offer  a  friendly  hand, 

And  these  are  the  words  I  speak: 
"  It  is  better  to  work  than  to  idle  be. 

As  it's  better  to  live  than  to  die; 
To  sustain  one's  self  and  thus  be  free, 

And  it's  better  to  laugh  than  to  cry." 
I  have  a  heart  of  charity  full 

For  these  sorrowing  worms  of  dust. 
And  would  brace  them  up  while  they  drink 
life's  cup. 

So  bitter,  though  oft  so  just. 
But  I  know  that  the  Lord  is  over  all. 

Who  can  every  comfort  bring; 
So  attention  to  this  great  truth  I  call, 

And  this  is  the  song  I  sing: 
"  It  is  better  to  work  than  to  idle  be, 

As  it's  better  to  live  than  to  die; 
To  trust  in  God  and  His  mercies  see. 

And  it's  better  to  laugh  than  to  cry." 
I  often  think  as  the  world  moves  on. 

And  we  trample  and  crowd  and  shove. 
That  a  world  like  this,  full  of  loveliness, 

Should  be  much  fuller  of  love. 
We  all  admit  that  it  riiust  be  so. 

When  God  shall  all  things  restore; 
And  this  great,  beautiful  truth  I  know. 

And  I  love  to  keep  telling  it  o'er: 
••  It  is  better  to  work  than  to  idle  be. 


As  it's  better  to  live  than  to  die; 
To  help  each  other  and  all  agree. 

And  it's  better  to  laugh  than  to  cry." 
There's  plenty  of  work  for  us  all,  my  friend 

And  blessings  that  all  may  earn. 
If  we'll  hold  to  the  plan,  wherever  we  can,  I 

To  offer  a  kindly  turn.  ' 

I'm  only  a  woman  bearing  a  part  j 

In  the  world's  great,  busy  throng; 
Yet  I  may  comfort  some  sadder  heart, 

By  the  sound  of  my  cheery  song: 
"  It  is  better  to  work  than  to  idle  be, 

As  it's  better  to  live  than  to  die; 
To  assist  the  Lord  in  His  wise  decree. 

And  it's  better  to  laugh  than  to  cry," 


WE  CAN. 
The  dearest  of  all  precious  treasures. 

The  pet  and  the  pride  of  our  hearts. 
What  sunshine  and  sweetness  and  gladnes.* 

Its  heavenly  presence  imparts! 
Our  darling-  will  stay  with  us,  surely; 

For  its  future  we  lovingly  plan ; 
We  "Couldn't  keep  house"  without  Baby- 
Yet  it  goes,  and  we  find  that  we  can! 
Wliat  wealth  of  intelligence  reigneth 

In  manhood's  awakening  powers; 
What  purity  crownelh  our  maidens. 

Like  th'  freshness  of  opening  flowers,  [ii 
Oh!  the  young  folks,  our  hope,  who  are  ta 

First  parts  in  life's  beautiful  "play;" 
Death  comes  and  selects,  oft  tlie  brightest 

We  can  bear  it  — there's  no  other  way. 
The  kindest  and  truest  companion. 

The  fondest  and  gentlest  friend. 
At  whose  loss  every  prospect  seems  blighte ; 

Life's  interests  all  suddenly  end: 
Such  are  called,  and   half  blind  and  bew 
dered. 

We  rise  from  the  groveling  dust; 
We  stagger  and  reel,  but  we  gather, 

And  stand,  for  we  can  when  we  must. 
The  leader  of  people  and  nations. 

The  men  whom  we  value  and  prize. 
And  look  upon  as  without  equals. 

So  noble  and  gifted  and  wise; 
Tliey  leave  us,  and  yet  we  press  onward, 

As  earnest  and  seemingly  strong; 
There  is  no  standing  still  for  the  people, 

We  must  and  we  can  move  along. 
We  can  live,  though  bereft  of  the  blcssinp 

Wliifh  seem  more  than  half  of  oiu-  lives: 
The  babies,  the  youths  and  the  maidens. 

Even  jiarents,  and  husbands  and  wives; 
Our  Prophets,  indeed,  may  be  taken. 

And  we  bow  'neath  the  chastening  rod. 
Till  the  blessed,  sweet  Comforter  cometh- 

We  can  do  without  all  but  our  God  I 


*- 


* 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1193 


REV.  ALMON  T.CLARKE. 

Horn:  Ticonderoga,  N.Y.,  Feb.  19, 1S40. 
Lv  18T3  he  graduated  (roiii  Aiidover  Tlioolog:- 
ical  Seminary,  and  was  ordained  tlie  same 
year  as  a  CoiiHivj.'-ational  minister.  Rev.  Al- 
mon  T.  Clarke  has  lield  pastorates  at  Tivcr- 
Inii,  R.  I..  Crown  Point,  N.  Y.,  Parishville, 


REV.  AL.MO.N  T.\VLOR  CLARKE. 

N.  Y.,  Sheldon,  Vt.,  Franlilin,  and  a  year  in 
Florida.  In  1889  he  became  editor  of  the 
Southern  Conffresratioualist,  published  at 
Atlanta,  Ga.,  where  he  now  resides.  He  was 
married  in  1866  to  Marietta  T.  Whitney,  by 
whom  he  lias  several  children.  This  minister, 
journalist  and  poet  is  a  member  of  the  Phil- 
osophical society  of  Great  Britain,  and  sev- 
eral other  institutions  of  learning. 


* 


BIRDS  AND  FLOWERS. 
Where  the  feet  of  sad  mortals  have  trod. 

O'er  all  lands  and  the  isles  of  the  sea. 
The  flowers  in  their  seasons  e'er  brighten  the 
sod,  [God, 

To  gladden  the  heart  and  lead  thought  up  to 

Who  scatters  love  tokens  as  free. 
They  are  prophets  of  joys  n  3ver  dim. 

Tender  thoughts  of  our  God  traced  below; 

They  speak  of  the  love  and  the  goodness  of 

Him  [dim. 

Who  dwelleth  "mid  light  that  can  never  grow 

Afar  from  this  region  of  woe. 


Where  tiic  sad  tones  of  grief  have  been  heard, 

On  mountain  and  valley  and  pitiiii, 
Oh,  there  have  been  trilled  the  dear  notes 
oftliebird,  [been  stirred, 

And  the  air  by  the  sweetness  of  song  has 

To  cheer  hearts  o'erburdened  by  pain. 
'Tis  the  prelude  to  th'  angels'  sweet  hymn  — 

The  flowers  are  the  smiles  of  their  jny ; 
The  Without  and  Below  to  the  AlK)ve  and 
Within,  [of  Him 

Have  been  joined  in  the  love  and  the  wisdom 

Who  leads  to  the  limitless  Joy. 
•'  Why  sing  of  the  birds  and  the  flowers?  " 

O  mortal,  in  thy  darkness  dost  cry? 
Not  all  is  for  use  in  this  bright  world  of  ours; 
Its  beautiful  things,  e'en  its  birds  and  its 

Are  types  of  the  beauty  on  high,    [flowers. 


A  MOTHER'S  LAMENT. 

Under  the  sod  — 
The  turf  laid  over  his  breast; 

Gone  to  our  G<xl, 
Where  the  earth-weary  evermore  rest. 
Lone  is  the  i)ath  where  he  trod; 

Dark  is  my  breast. 
Where  was  joy,  ere  he  hastened  to  God. 

"All  is  well;"  this  ye  sjieak. 
My  anguish  of  .soul  to  allay; 

Ah!  but  I'm  weak — 
Humanity's  tears  must  liave  way. 

Mj'  dariing  is  borne  — 
Torn  away  1 
Would  God  bid  me  weep  not  to-day? 

Deep,  dark  and  deep. 
Ts  the  grave  where  my  darling  doth  rest; 

Deep,  dark  and  deep. 
Is  the  grave  of  my  joy  in  my  breast. 

Take  me  to  task. 
Ye  with  sunshine  of  life  on  your  liead. 

Calmly  to  ask, 
"  Is  there  not  bliss  for  little  ones  dead?  " 

Yes,  it  may  be. 
But  the  sharp  pangs  of  woe  I  must  feci; 

The  loss  is  for  me. 
And  it  maketh  my  reason  to  reel. 

Say,  "  All  is  well," 
Ye  who  sioile,  while  my  darling  is  dead; 

Ah,  but  I  say. 
Could  ye  smile 
If  the  light  of  your  own  home  had  fle<l? 

Oh :  wildly  I  cry. 
In  the  night  of  my  grief  that  has  come; 

Dear  Ix)rd!  I  must  try 
To  be  patient  and  lioiK-ful.  and  dumb  — 
Thro'  the  dark  reach  the  hand  of  my  faith. 

While  I  Iiope 
To  receive  back  my  darling  fmm  death. 
When  for  me,  too,  the  iH'arly  gates  ope. 


<i*- 


1196 


LOCAL.   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A3IEKICA. 


SHADOWS. 
There  are  shadows  ou  the  ceiliug. 

And  I  watch  them  come  and  go. 
While  my  heai't  is  faintly  beating 

'xVeath  its  heavy  weight  of  woe; 
Shapes  fantastic  pass  before  me, 

Ghosts  of  loved  and  long-lost  joys. 
And  the  types  of  nearer  sorrow 

That  my  present  peace  destroys. 
There  appears  one  form  of  beauty, 

With  soft  eyes  and  sunny  hair. 
Flowing  back  in  wavy  tresses, 

From  a  brow  divinely  fair; 
Love-lit  eyes  beam  sweetly  on  me  — 

Bacisward  rolls  grief's  chilling  tide, 
For  I  had  a  dream  of  heaven  — 

Dreamed  that  she  would  be  my  bride! 
Now  T  feel  a  moment's  rapture; 

Melting  glances  meet  with  mine; 
But  dear  lips  give  back  no  answer 

To  the  passion-cry  of  mine. 
All  but  life  dies  out  within  me. 

As  with  woe  that  passes  speech, 
I  behold  the  dear  form  fading  — 

Passing  from  my  sight  and  reach. 
While  with  fixed  eyes  I  am  gazing. 

Shadows  deepen  on  the  wall; 
No  dear  form  of  beautj'  answers 

To  my  heart's  beseeching  call: 
And  within  the  shadows  deepen, 

With  a  darker  weight  of  gloom. 
While  with  hands  outstretched  in  longing, 

I  am  pressing  toward  the  tomb. 

WHEN  MORNING  IN  THE  EAST  RISES. 
When  morning  in  the  east  doth  rise, 

Roll  back  the  gloomy  shades  of  night. 
While  modest  stars  in  purple  skies 

Conceal  their  glories  from  the  sight; 
While  charms  of  morning  greet  my  eyes. 

Blest  is  the  dawn  of  day  to  me. 
For  all  that's  bright  in  earth  or  skies. 

Speaks  sweetly  to  my  heart  of  thee. 
And  thoughts  of  one  to  me  so  dear. 

So  dear  because  so  pure  and  fair, 
Alone  have  power  my  lieart  to  cheer. 

Through  all  the  hours  of  daily  care; 
And  after  th'  sun  with  lingering  beams 

Dips  downward  in  the  blushing  west. 
They  gild  with  glory  blissful  dreams. 

Through  all  the  quiet  liours  of  rest! 
Thine  they  would  be,  if  I  could  give 

Joys  that  no  mortal  e'er  hath  known; 
And  peace  that  present  joy  doth  give. 

Would  ne'er  by  time  be  overthrown ; 
True  friends  would  ever  greet  thine  eyes. 

Thy  foes  — thou  shouldst  not  have  a  foe. 
But  all  that's  bright  in  eartli  or  skies. 

Its  radiance  on  thy  pathway  throw. 


HYMN. 

To  Thee,  my  God,  who  still  dost  give 
Me  strength  for  Thee  and  love  to  live, 
I  lift  my  voice  in  grateful  praise, 
For  mercies  rich  that  crown  mj-  days. 
Thou  hast  conferred  much  earthly  love. 
And  trained  mj-  soul  to  look  above; 
Taught  me  the  faith,  'mid  grief  and  pain. 
The  lost  to  earth  I  may  regain. 
And  stars  that  brightly  beam  on  high. 
Seem  whispering  that  I  cannot  die; 
From  all  Thy  works,  one  moving  word 
To  fait>i  divine  my  soul  hath  stirred. 
Oh,  there  are  hearts  to  me  so  dear, 
I  praise  Thee  for  my  being  here; 
While  love  doth  closely  'round  them  twine, 
Still  trusting  purposes  divine. 
What  countless  blessings  Thou  hast  sent. 
With  grace  to  trust  and  be  content  — 
Sweet,  heavenly  balm  for  every  fear. 
In  faith  to  feel  that  Thou  art  near. 
Grateful  for  all  Thy  mercies  past, 
I  crave  Thy  presence  to  the  last. 
That  r  with  hol3'  joy  may  go 
To  light  above  from  light  below. 


SORROW. 
There  are  no  lasting  joys  on  earth; 

How  often  thus  we,  weeping,  sigh, 
And  e'en  count  joys  of  little  worth. 

For  joys  and  friends  are  doomed  to  die;  i' 
And  change  is  written  on  the  tide. 

And  o'er  the  boundless  fields  of  blue, 
And  on  man's  glory  and  his  pride. 

As  on  each  flower  of  varied  hue. 
Thank  God  that  'tis  so;  He  doth  know- 
He  of  the  infinite  heart  and  mind  — 
That  which  is  best  for  us  below. 

While  we  "  know  nothing,  and  are  blind.' 
His  wisdom  grasps  the  scope  of  years 

That  circle  round  the  Eternal  Throne; 
He's  wiser  than  the  liopesand  fears 

That  all  His  creatures  e'er  have  known. 
He  sees  relations  that  e.\ist 

Between  the  Now  and  the  To  Be, 
While  wc  are  walking  in  a  mist. 

And  e'en  the  present  cannot  see; 
And  while  He  rules  in  love  and  knows 

What  fruit  life's  direst  ills  may  bear, 
He  gives  us  joys  and  only  woes 

High  wisdom  sees  that  we  should  bear. 
So.  when  life's  way  doth  darker  grow, 

And  fall  like  summer  showers  thy  tears, 
Or  when  thy  lot  seems  sad  below 

While  thinking  o'er  the  pains  of  years. 
Roll  Sorrow's  tide  of  feeling  back, 

And  bid  Hope  spread  for  thee  her  store, 
While  Faith  beholds  the  sliining  track 

Of  those  who've  gone  to  Heaven  before. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMEUICA. 


11!»7 


MRS.  MARY  N.  J.  BORAH. 

Born:  Roanoke,  Ind.,  May  23, 18C4. 
Graduating  from  the  liig-h  school  in  1882  as 
valodietoiiiiii  of  her  class,  this  hidy  then 
t;uipli  scliool  for  several  years,  when  she  at- 
tended the  De  Pauw  University  of  Green- 
castle,    Ind.    Since   then    slie    has    tauffht 


MRS.  MARY  N.  J.    BORAH. 

-  iiiiol  iM  Kansas,  Indiana  and  Oliio,  and  in 
1  .'0  was  married  to  D.  A.  Borah,  and  now  re- 
-Mis  in  Gove  City,  Kansas.  About  one 
hundred  poems  have  appeared  from  the  pen 
of  Mrs.  Borah,  many  of  wliieli  received  pub- 
lication from  time  to  time  in  the  press. 


HEART  SONG. 
When  the  heart  is  full  of  music. 

The  world  is  full  of  song. 
But  still  tlie  harp  witliin  us 

And  tlie  brightest  days  are  long'. 
The  songbirds  and  the  flowers, 

On  the  sweetest  day  in  .Tunc, 
Lose  their  melody  and  fragrance 

When  the  heart  is  out  of  tune. 
Heaven's  light  may  fall  and  linger 

Unseen  along  our  way. 
But  let  inward  sunshine  greet  it, 

And  then  'tis  perfect  day. 
Oh,  th(!  world  will  join  in  chorus 

When  the  heart  is  full  of  song. 
But  still  the  harp  within  us 

And  the  shortest  days  are  long. 


THE  SUNLIGHT. 
'Tis  God's  great  love  in  llie  sunlight 

That  gives  it  its  wonderful  glow; 
'Tis  his  peace  and  strength  and  beauty 

That  makes  us  love  it  so. 
Straight  from  the  heart  of  heaven. 

Filled  with  its  holy  Are, 
It  sets  all  nature  striving. 

And  kindles  a  keen  desire 
To  press  upward,  onward,  ever. 

To  the  fountain-head  of  light. 
To  reach  the  source  eternal 

Of  wisdom,  truth  and  might. 
'Tis  God's  great  love  tli.at  makes  It 

So  thoughtful  of  other's  cheer. 
Raising  the  drooping  tiow'ret 

And  drying  the  falling  tear  — 
Greeting  the  tiniest  insect. 

With  all  its  wealth  of  love. 
As  kindly  in  hut  as  in  palace. 

As  kindly  on  earth  as  above; 
Teaching  by  purest  example 

Lessons  of  priceless  worth. 
In  gentleness,  kindness  and  mercy. 

How  to  make  heaven  on  earth, 
Oh,  glitter  and  glow  and  glisten. 

Beautiful  sunlight  siill. 
Call  to  our  hearts,  and  they'll  listen. 

Whisper  your  message  at  will. 
Heaven  is  radiant  with  glory. 

Earth's  running  over  with  love. 
And  the  music  of  all  this  sweet  story. 

Like  an  echo,  vibrates  from  above. 
Yes,  glitter  and  glow  and  glisten. 

Beautiful  sunlight,  do; 
Call  to  our  hearts,  and  they'll  listen 

Till  Gods  own  voice  breaks  through. 
Then  all  life's  shades  will  scatter. 

To  gather  never  again. 
And  out  from  its  mists  and  shadows 

The  "  Way  of  Life  "  stands  plain. 


ACROSS  THE  YEARS. 

EXTRACT. 

The  roses  bloom  and  witlier. 

The  sunbt>am9  flash  and  fade. 
The  cloud-tints  come  and  vanish, 

Life's  sheen  is  lost  in  shade: 
Tlie  storm-clouds  brood  and  gather, 

The  snowdrifts  silent  come. 
The  meadows  lose  their  greenness 

The  bird  deserts  its  home. 
And  yet  the  fragrance  lingers. 

And  loitering  sunbeams  throw 
Soft  tints  on  clouds  that  threaten 

To  All  life's  sky  with  woe. 


*- 


1198 


LOCAL   AMD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


FRANKLIN  L.  THOMAS. 

Born:  White  Co.,  Ind.,  Oct.  29, 1868. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  has  received  a 
good  education,  and  graduated  with  honors 
at  the  Normal  of  Valparaiso,  receiving-  the 
degree  of  Bachelor  of  Sciences.    In  1890  ho 


FRANKLIN  I^EONTINE   THOMAS. 

was  married  to  Miss  Amy  A.  Wright,  of 
Ohio.  The  poems  of  Mr.  Thomas  liave  ap- 
peared in  the  periodical  press  of  his  native 
state,  and  have  been  highly  praised. 


FOND  MEMORIES. 

What  nameless  longing  swells  my  breast? 

Why  often  do  I  sigh? 
What  snowy  wings,  when  I'm  at  rest. 

Glide  thro'  the  quiet  sky? 
And  waft  me,  draft  me,  out  in  the  lea 
Down  thro'  the  valley, 
Roses  do  rally. 
As  gently  these  wings  do  carry  me. 

'Tis  at  the  silent  tide  of  thought 

The  lonely  hours  watch  o'er. 
And  keep  divine  the  soul  tlius  sought 

On  tliat  sweet,  distant  shore. 
Remind  me,  find  me,  in  the  gay  lawn. 
Under  the  branches. 


False  avalanches, 
So  sweetly  bidding  adieu  at  the  dawn. 

Ah !  those  wings  that  glide  away, 

In  leafy  bow'rs  seek  rest, 
Within  tlie  courts  of  some  sweet  May, 

None  other  to  molest. 
And  there,  so  fair,  dear  Alice,  I  love  I 
Weaving  the  roses, 
Lilies  and  posies, 
And  cooing  songs  for  me  like  a  dovi  : 

Wings,  marry,  carry  thee  on  lo  Elern 
There  will  I  rest  with  thee. 
Peace  on  this  restless  sea 
Can  not  be  found. 


MY  SOLITUDE. 

In  the  fields  of  maize  and  mallow. 
Where  the  tingy  grass  is  dry. 

There  I  love  to  muse  and  ponder- 
There  1  love  to  sit  or  lie. 

In  the  w.arm  sunlight  of  bcautj', 

Where  Dame  Nature  molds  her  duty, 
Sending  blessings  to  the  sky. 

Listen  to  the  changing  music 
Of  the  tlirush,  as  quick  or  slow. 

Like  the  lieart  when  beating  rapture 
Sends  its  pulses  high  and  low. 

To  the  soul's  supernal  gladness,  ' 

Quick  expelling  fear  and  sadness,  | 

His  sweet  song  would  overflow. 

Stop,  O  brook !  and  tell  me  f  rank'y 
Of  your  chimes,  now  passed  away.         ] 

God  knows  what  is  in  the  future, 
But  not  any  man  to-day. 

Then  repeat  your  ancient  learning. 

This  to  me  is  all  concerning; 
Greet  mo  with  your  precious  lay.  ,' 

Ah!  you  need  not  blush,  you  rooster. 
With  your  double  comb  upraised; 

You  threw  oaths  of  slang  aad  boasting 
At  your  victim  so  ill-praised,  ; 

And  in  smothered  breatli  you  hissed  him 

And  with  strokes  of  lialred  kissed  him. 
Like  a  pugilist  gone  crazed. 

Darling  daughter  of  the  rural,  ' 

Who  can  give  us  more  than  this? 
From  your  hands  all  seed  are  sown. 

With  your  lips  all  flowers  you  kiss. 
And  in  liarvest  time  .you  bring  us 
All  our  souls  could  ask.     You  king  us 
With  a  crown  of  eartlily  bliss. 

This  my  .solitude  sliall  bo 
Till  tlie  .scatliing,  restless  sea 
Belches  forth  its  deadl 


*- 


-* 


LOCAL   ANL>    NATIONAL   I'OKTS   (»K    AMKItlCA. 


IIUU 


VIRGINIA   V.DODGK. 

nous:  Beveki.y,  O.,  March  13,  ia59. 
This  huly  has  written  more  tlian  one  liun- 
drcd  poems,  besides  a  number  of  transla- 
tions, whieli  have  recei%'ed  pubMcation  in 
tlie  leading  periodicals  of  America.  Miss 
S'irginia  DdiI.l;^  Ikis  received  her  education 


VUifilNIA  V.  Donr.E. 
inincipally  from  private  masters,  and  h;i..s 
attained  a  thorougli  knowledg-e  of  Latin, 
German,  Frencli  and  Spanisli.  She  is  a  per- 
son of  briUiant  attainments  intellectually, 
and  lias  traveled  quite  extensively  for  the 
purpose  of  study.  As  an  artist  she  posseses 
Kreat  talent,  and  paints  and'draws  with  more 
tlian  ordinary  excellence.  The  poems  of 
Miss  Dodge  will  shortly  be  collected  and 
publislied  in  book  form. 

THE  DEATH  OF  AN  ARAB  SHEIK. 
O  Allah -Allah -Allah! 
From  supremest  realms 
Hold  out  Thy  hand. 
Tliou  alone  can'st  lend  the 
Broadening  pity  which  transcends 
Tliat  of  all  liumnii  aid,  whicli 
Closes  in  the  hour  of  danger 
And  rescues  me  from  barm. 
Allah  I  Allah  mine  I 
Who  to  the  faintest  end  of  time 
Wilt  show  what  holy  strength 


Tliy  love  empowers  in  nirn; 
How,  freed  fnini  feai,  Ihi-y  entor 
Willi  it  the  strantre  new  Hpliert) 
Of  eartlily  mkIiI  unseen: 
Exceedln^^  aught  else  wonderful 
Wliereon  we  here  may  dream. 
So  ariiutid  my  bier 
Ce;ise  I'aeh  lliy  werping, 
Ft)rmy  soul,  passed 
Into  His  safe  keeping. 
Thou  h:ist  no  need  to  mourn. 


JACKS  EASTEK  DAY. 
Once  in  flurry  of  late  griow 
Hctween  fiercest  winds  were  caught 
I'lie  blushing  bouglis  of  oreliard. 
Dire  ruin  tliis  Helat  brouglit. 
Drifts  tossed  as  waves  tif  sea 
Itose  over  our  gray  walls;  hid 
Die  gnarled  trees;  liuslic<l  mute 
The  requiem  of  liemlocks  tali. 
\ow  I  stand  in  youth's  own  day 
Alone  in  that  spring  storm,  yet 
Untrodden  seems  tlie  dei>p  poreli-way 
Of  t!ie  liouse  wliere  I  was  l)orn. 
.-^oftlyl  this  purity's  a  pall 
Sacred;  it  covers  all  once 
Living  liere  who  loved  me. 
Tlicir  work  is  done,  tliey  rest  beyond. 
1  cling  to  the  casement  edge 
III  the  bitter,  creeping  cold. 
Hungry  for  glimpse  of  liglitand  warmth 
I  >hared  in  days  of  old. 
My  face  cliills  against  the  pane 
Listening,  so  wearj'— long! 
My  feet  are  slipping—  life  wanes  — 
O  for  just  a  snatch  of  song. 
One's  mother  — men  learn  it  late; 
Unselfish  ever  slie  will  keep 
The  watch-fire  in  the  home  grate 
Briirlit,  though  hers  is  cause  to  weep. 
Loving  us.  her  source  of  cheer. 
Ah,  I  pity  tJie  man  who 
Knowing  not,  conies  l)ack  some  year 
And  finds  tliat  fire  gone  out. 
If  tlie  d(M>r  would  only  open 
And  I  could  liear  lier  say 
••  My  son  "  ill  siicli  tender  tone. 
Could  the  world  lure  me  away? 
Tlie  faitliless  world.  itj»  tokens. 
Fame  and  passion,  cups  and  gold. 
Even  most  loves  it  holds 
Erst  found,  are  troths  broken. 
Some  He  leaves  to  wander  long; 
The  saints  takes  unto  Him, 
But  surely  at  tlie  reckoning 
Nothing  can  come  between. 


*- 


1200 


LOCAL,  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


ANNIE  R.  JOHNSON. 

Born  :  Portland,  Me.,  June  3, 1863. 
Miss  Johnson  is  the  daughter  of  Dr.  W.  R. 
Johnson  of  Portland,  Maine.    She  received  a 
good  education  in  vocal  and  instrumental 
music;  also  in  the  Simond's  School  for  Girls, 


ANNIE  R.  JOHNSON. 

the  Gorham  High  School,  and  the  Caswell 
Boarding  School.  The  poems  of  this  lady 
have  appeared  in  the  New  York  Observer, 
The  Christian  Union,  Portland  Daily  Press, 
Portland  Globe  and  other  publications  of 
prominence. 


*■ 


A  WISH. 

Even  as  some  noble  sculptor 

Plain  might  see, 
An  idea  of  youth  and  beauty. 

Though  it  be 
Invisible,  but  to  the  mind, 
Till  in  the  molding-clay  he  find, 
Reflection  of  the  vision  dear, 

Doth  appear; 

So  may  virtue  be  the  model. 

Which  with  care, 
Thy  soul's  vision  shall  discover, 

And  soon  there. 
Of  thy  own  being  shall  bo  wrought. 


The  master-piece  which  thou  hast  sougl 
Virtue  shall  incarnated  be, 
E"en  in  thee. 


A  PORTRAIT. 

Dear  face  thou  dost  bestow  on  me 

The  light  of  heaven. 
Thou  dost  imbibe  this  radiance  free, 
And  then,  diffused  in  colors  seven, 
It  is  shed  out  to  me,  to  be 

A  light  along  my  way, 
Seest  thou. 
Dear  face,  how? 
Thou  canst  not  say, 
I'll  tell  to  thee 
How  this  can  be. 

Sometimes,  when  I'm  in  need  of  graCe, 
I  wait,  and  look  at  thee,  dear  face; 
And  in  thy  presence  all  so  calm 
I  find  my  need,  lose  my  alarm. 

This  doth  invigorate  my  soul 

To  haste  to  the  desired  goal. 

I  do  not  say  this  light  is  thine, 

But  only  it  through  thee  doth  shine; 

As  good  a  gift  as  God  bestows 
Is  in  the  countenance  of  those. 
Who,  by  a  calm,  inspiring  ray. 
Guide  others  out  into  the  day. 

Shine  on,  dear  face,  till  in  thy  light 
I  shall  possess  new  hope  and  might, 
Shall  re-collect  the  colors  seven 
To  form  a  guiding  light  to  heaven. 


YULE-TIDE.  I 

If  life's  fair  morn  upon  us  now  doth  daw 
And,  as  soft  purple  crowns  the  waking  d  ' 
So  on  our  cheek  still  rests  some  rosy  ray; 
Or  if  'tis  noontide,  and  to  us  are  born 
Pleasures  and  cares  wo  dreamed  not  o)  it 

morn; 
Or  do  the  vesper  glories  fade  away, 
While  a  voice  whispers,  ••  earth's  joys  n  t 

decay;" 
Whate'er  life's  hour,  as  before  liave  gom 
To  heaven,our  gifts  of  love  at  glad  Yulc-t ', 
We'll  bring,  not  to  the  manger,  but  (i  s 

throne, 
An  off'ring  of  sweet  song  and  sacrifice; 
Then  swell,  each  merry  bell,  the    ant  n 

wide. 
Each  happy  heart  beat  time  to  praise  a\<  i>! 
So  shall  the  earth  re-echo  paradise. 


^' 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


121)1 


GKORGK  D.  COPKLAND. 

Rohn:  Waddinc.ton,  N.  Y. 
At  the  ajro  of  four  the  subject  of  this  sketcli 
rumoved  witli  his  pureiits  to  Goshen,  Ind., 
where  ho  grow  to  m;iiiliood  and  received  his 
common  sciiool  and  academic  education; 
afterward  attending  the  State  and  N;itional 


(iKOKGE  D.  CUI'KLAMj. 

Law  School  of  Poufilikeepsie,  N.  V.  For  ten 
years  lie  practiced  the  profession  of  law  in 
Ooslien.  Ind.,  and  edited  the  Goshen  Times 
for  two  years;  and  w;is  also  U.  S.  Assessor 
for  eijrht  years.  In  1873  Mr.  Copeland  re- 
moved to  San  Dieg'o.  Cal.,  where  he  was  ap- 
pointed postmaster  in  1881,  which  position 
he  filled  nearly  five  years.  He  then  organ- 
ized the  San  Diego  Flume  Company,  and 
was  its  president  for  two  years,  during 
which  time  the  great  enterprise  of  bringing 
water  from  the  mountains,  fifty  miles  awoy, 
wiis  accomplished.  Afterward  Mr.  Copeland 
(  engaged  in  the  electric  railway  and  lighting 
business,  and  is  now  President  and  Manager 
of  the  companj'.  San  Diego  is  largely  in- 
debted to  George  D.  Copeland  for  its  bounti- 
ful supply  of  pure  mountain  water,  its  cable 
railway  and  electric  ligliting  system. 


TOLL  THE  BELLS  FOK  GRANT. 
Lei  the  fun'ral  bells  toll; 
Let  the  solemn  sound  roll 
The  wide  world  round; 


Let  it  cross  the  main. 
And  the  mournful  strain 
Of  st)rrow  and  of  grief 
For  our  fallen  Chief 

Be  echoed  o'er  fair  England's  wide  domain. 
Let  tlie  land  of  I,al-'ayette 
With  tears  be  wet. 
Along  the  Rhine,  along  tlie  Uhono 
Let  the  great  moan 
Of  the  Kepubllc  swell 
O'er  ev'ry  hill,  througli  ov'ry  dell. 
Let  the  dear  old  land 
The  German  loves  so  well 
Toll  the  grand  cathedral  liell; 
Let  the  pondYous  bells  of  Moscow 
Voice  the  grief  of  Russia 
O'er  our  hero  chief. 
Lot  Garib:ildi"s  sunny  land 
Uplift  its  friendly  hand. 
And  toll  the  bel's  of  Rome 
Till  every  hill  and  dome 
Shall  catch  the  funeral  strain 
A  Till  send  it  on,  and  on  again. 
\  m1  let  the  land  of  poets,  song  and  story. 
Jul II  with  its  tribute  to  his  worth  and  glory. 
Let  some  new  Homer  a  new  Iliad  write. 
Wlierein  shall  shine  in  truthful  colors  bright 
No  fabled  myth,  no  Gtxl  of  War, 
But  simply  he  who  wore  tlie  star 
Columbia  placed  upon  the  bar 
That  crossed  his  shoulders,  modest,  true. 
As  erst  he  wore  the  Nation's  blue. 
Let  Egypt  in  her  dust  and  ashes  rise,  [skies. 
And  cause  to  we?p  her  cloudless,  rainless 
Adowii  the  Vale  of  Kinlron.  al  >ng  the  Jonl- 
Oer  all  the  land  where  Jesus  live<l  [an's  tide 
Let  mountain,  hill  and  lowly  vale^nd  died. 
Take  up  the  worlii-wide,  plaintive  wail. 
And  send  it  on  to  Indla.tniplc  land  of  old[told 
Where  Vishnu  songs  are  sung  and  tales  are 
Let  Siam's  dusky  Hindoo  chief 
Take  up  the  plaint  of  Orient  grief. 
Let  China,  with  its  walls  and  ancient  ways. 
Its  voice  of  grief  and  heartfelt  sorrow  raise. 
Until,  the  circle  of  tin'  world  complete. 
Pacific's  shores  the  stilemn  sound  shall  greet. 
Let  our  dear  land,  of  all  the  lands  the  best, 
Lay  the  dead  Wiirrior  gently  down  to  rest. 
Let  North  and  South,  from  shore  to  shore. 
Clasp  o'er  his  bier  their  hands  once  more. 
lA*t  inutlk-<l  drum  and  tolling  Ix-ll. 
Let  tears  of  grief  unnumberd  toll 
How  grandly,  nobly,  ami  how  well 
Our  hen)  lived,  how  bnive  he  fell. 
Let  lessons  of  his  (|uiet.  uioilest  worth 
Be  told,  till  vaulted  dome  and  solid  earth 
Shall  pass  away. 

And  on  her  scroll  st>  broad  let  honest  fame 
Preserve  for  ayo  this  peerless  soldier's  name. 


*- 


*^ 


1202 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


SIMON  DEWITT  HUBBELL. 

Born:  Ithaca,  NY.,  Feb.  24, 18.37. 
Mr.  Hubbet^i>  removed  to  California  in  1854, 
and  since  ]R.")(5  lias  been  almost  eontinunnsly 

eny.-iiiiii  in  till'  nr\vs|i;iinT  l)iisim'ss,  and  liris 


SIMON  DEWITT  HUBBELL. 
gained    quite   a   repuiutiun    as   au    euiineut 
journalist  and  poet.     He  was  married  In  1883 
to  Susan  Goldston,and  resides  inLompoc,Cal. 


LA  SIESTA. 
Wind,  idling'  in  fond  play 
Where  coy  the  wild  rose  creeps, 
Haste,  chase  that  bee  away ! 
She  sleeps  — 
My  darling  sleeps. 
Ferns,  waving-  o'er  her  brow. 
Where  light  the  gold  hair  sweeps. 
Shading-  the  sun's  kiss,  bow. 
She  sleeps  — 
My  darling  sleeps. 
Violets,  in  mossy  bed, 
Where  brisht  the  fountain  leaps. 
Sweet  perfume  round  her  shed, 
She  sleeps  — 
My  darling  sleeps. 
Fay,  that  from  rosy  nest, 
Shy  at  her  beauty  peeps. 
Safe  guard  her  happy  rest, 
She  sleeps  — 
My  darling  sleeps. 


THE  THREE  LINKS. 
There's  no  doubt  that  oft  times  you  have 
wondered 
At  the  emblem  which  Odd  Fellows  wear, 
And  to  know,  as  often  felt  curious. 

The  meaning  these  Golden  Links  bear; 
Then,  list,  while  the  secret  T  tell  you  — 

'Tis  simple,  yet  noble  and  grand  — 
For  these  links  form  the  great  bond  of  union 

Of  our  Order,  in  Heart  and  in  Hand. 
The  first  unto  Friendship  is  sacred  — 

A  friendship  unselfish  and  true; 
Which  bids  you  unto  a  Brother  to  be 

Just  what  he  should  be  unto  you:        [ger, 

A  true  guide  and  stanch  shield  when  in  dan- 

An  aid  and  solace  in  sorrow;  [to-day. 

Standing  firm  by  his  side  thi-ough  the  dark 

Till  dawns  the  brighter  to-morrow. 
The  second  unto  Love  is  devoted  — 

A  love  that  all  trials  will  stand; 
That  opens  the  heart  to  a  Brother 

And  makes  warm  the  grip  of  the  hand; 
That  enjoins  us  to  guard  and  to  give  him. 

And  watch  o'er  his  course  night  and  day, 
Striving-  ever  our  best  to  keep  him 
Walking  upright  in  wisdom's  way. 
The  third  is  to  Truth  consecrated  — 

The  most  precious  link  in  the  chain  — 
For  that  virtue  tarnished  and  missing. 
All  friendsliip  and  Love  are  in  vain. 
But  as  long  we're  true  to  our  Oi-der 

And  the  lessons  sublime  it  doth  teach,    [er 
The  Three  Links  will  grow  brighter  and  long- 
Till  embraced  the  world  in  their  reach. 
And  wherever  a  Brother  or  Sister 

May  roam,  this  bright  emblem  they'll  see 
Three  links  on  chain,  vest,  coat  or  bosom, 

Encirling  the  ••  F.  L.  and  T."  — 
And  know  that  in  danger  or  in  trouble 

They  have  but  the  aid  to  command. 
And  at  once,  all  willing  and  ready. 

Will  outleap  the  Heart  in  the  Hand. 
And  unto  these  links  is  appended 

A  jewel  we  prize  very  high. 
Which  possesses  the  mystical  virtue 

Of  eluding  a  curious  eye; 
But,  when  in  the  home  of  a  Brother, 

Odd  Fellows  assemble  to  cheer. 
It  is  seen  in  its  glorious  splendor- 

And  we  call  it  Sympathy's  Tear. 
Now.  if  more  of  the  meatiing  intended 

By  these  links  you  are  anxious  to  learn. 
Knock  a  right  at  the  doors  of  onr  lodge  rooms, 

And  their  secreto  yon  soon  will  discern: 
For  all  of  our  beautiful  emblems 

Teach  lessons  to  eye.  ear  and  heart, 
Which  in  all  their  grandeur  and  beauty 
We  in  no  other  way  can  impart. 


*- 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEllICA. 


1203 


RKV.  W.WILKES,  I).  D. 

This  goiitlonuui  is  a  resident  of  Syllacaug'a, 
Ala.,  where  lie  is  very  popular  as  a  minister. 

Tiio  pofiii^  fif  Mr.  Wilkes  liavi' (H'L';i'<iiiiiai;\ 


UEV.  W.   -will 

appeared  in  some  of  the  leading  publica- 
tions, from  whicli  they  have  been  exten- 
sively copied  by  tlie  local  press. 


CENTENNIAL  SABUATH-SCHOOL  HYMN. 
Yes.  we  are  the  heirs  of  freedom 

By  the  flat  of  our  God; 
Througrh  thick  clouds  of  strife  and  tedium, 
Through  our  Fatlier's  tears  and  blood. 

Jesus  led  them  * 

Onward  through  the  crimson  Hood! 
Long  the  soul  was  bound  in  fetters 
Till  the  last  one  hundred  years! 
Men  unknown  to  fame  for  letters 
Counseled  justice,  not  tlieir  fears. 

Weakness  ei)n(iuered 
By  His  miglit  who  rules  the  spheres. 
Few  contended  with  the  many. 
Inborn  riglits  fought  human  law; 
Pity  (oh!  if  there  were  any). 
Weeping,  only  could  witlidraw! 

Wondrous  surprise. 
Waiting  angels  watched  with  awe! 
Freedom  'rose  from  graves  and  dungeons! 
Conscience  leiiped  nt  victory's  call: 
Zion  left  her  galling  irt)iis, 


Liberty  was  gained  for  all. 

Glorious  trophy! 
Freedom  wou  for  great  and  small  1 
Sacred  be  our  Fatlier's  memory, 
I5e  adorned  their  conquering  King! 
Deathless  be  their  bloo<l-won  victory, 
(irateful  otlerings  let  us  bring. 

Hallelujah! 
Sing,  ye  ransomed  children,  sing. 

HOME. 
Thougli  in  a  wilderness  be  cast  our  lot. 
'I'lie  favored  have  a  resting  spot; 
That  rosy  spot  is  home.  [bow'rs. 

Sweeter   its   charms   than   .ancient    Eden'.s 
.\nd  briglit  as  .M:iy-day  robed  in  flow'rs, 
Ilarth  kiKJws  no  place  like  home. 
Here  sweet,  congenial  si)irits  blend  in  one. 
And  every  tear  and  sigh  is  known 
And  understood  at  liomo.  [whim. 

Each   one    forgives    each    other's    fault    or 
Nor  posture,  word,  nor  dress,  nor  trim 
Is  criticised  at  home. 

The  old    hearthstone,  the  gentle  oak-w(X)d 
With  cosy  sitting  room,  conspire  [fire, 

I'o  cheer  tlie  humblest  home. 
Kndearing  names  and  bright,  inviting  mieu 
Unite  to  consummate  the  scene 
Of  paradise  at  home. 

Religious  song  and  fervent,  earnest  prayer, 
Keading  God's  Word  for  all  to  hear. 
Will  scatter  gloom  from  home. 
Union  in  practice,  i>lan  and  sentiment. 
Insures  success  and  sweet  content 
To  those  who  dwell  at  home. 
Earth  has  no  ciiji  of  nectar  half  so  sweet. 
With  which  her  roaming  sons  to  greet. 
As  that  we  find  at  home. 
A  cottage  is  a  palace,  though  obscure; 
Sorrow  has  joy,  sickness  a  cure. 
In  virtuous  life  at  home. 
E'en  poverty  is  sweetened  into  wealtli, 
And  pining  ills  are  turrunl  to  health 
By  loving  ones  at  home.  [tongue, 

A  crumb's  a  feast,  one  drop  ccxils  parebing 
And  groans  are  music,  sighs  are  songs, 
'Mong  pious  souls  at  home. 
How  should  we  weep  for  those  po»ir  helpless 
For  whom  all  feeling  nature  moans,     [ones. 
As  they  lament  —  •■  No  home!  " 
Hungry  and  ragged,  wandering  up  and  down 
Through  land  and  ocean,  vlllo  and  town. 
They  languish  for  a  liome. 
So  had  tlie  Savior  here  no  liouse  or  hut. 
Nor  palace,  slieltcr.  dome  or  cot, 
Onl}'  a  desert  home. 

Fo.\es  had  holes,  birds  of  the  air  hud  Dcsts, 
Yet  nature  bowed  at  his  behests 
Who  had  no  earthly  home. 


* 


1204 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


WILLIAiM   G.  PARK. 

Bokn:  Mystic  River,  Conn.,  May  24, 1867. 
William  giaduated  from  the  Mystic  Vallej- 
Eng-lish  and  Classic  Institute  in  1888  and  was 
valedictorian  of  his  class  and  class  president. 
He  then  taught  at  tliat  institution  for  one 
year,  when  he  became  Principal  of  the  South 


■nTLLIAM.  G.  PARK. 

Windsor  High  School  one  year.  Mr.  Park  has 
also  talien  a  college  course  with  the  Wesleyan 
University  of  Bloomington,  111. 

THE  LAKE. 
A  quiet  lake,  like  a  picture  fair. 

Lies  low  at  the  foot  of  the  purple  hills; 
Where  the  dreamy  sunshine  ling-ers  long 

And  softly  gleams  on  the  silver  rills. 
The  waving  pines  with  their  tossing  plumes 

Like  sentinels  stand  on  either  side 
To  guard  the  calm  of  the  silent  spot. 

Unbroken  save  by  the  rippling  tide. 
The  wild-rose  blooming  along  the  banks 
Is  reaching  down  to  the  water's  edge, 
It's  flowers  are  bathed  by  the  crystal  stream, 

Or  lost  to  sight  in  the  dark -green  sedge. 
The  butterflies  with  their  painted  wings 

That  flash  and  gleam  in  the  sun's  bright 
Sail  slowly  by  as  if  borne  along  Lglow, 

By  summer  winds  as  they  gently  blow. 
A  quiet  lake;  on  its  bosom  floats 
I      The  water-lilies,  whose  golden  hearts 

Are  opened  wide  to  receive  the  sun, 
tjt ■ 


As  they  feel  the  warmth  of  iis  flery  darts. 
The  tall  reeds  wave  in  the  gentle  breeze, 

The  rose  leaves  fall  on  the  sparkling  tide; 
The  floating  clouds  reflected  gleam 

O'er  the  lake's  calm  surface  far  and  wide. 
Here  let  us  rest  by  the  water's  edge. 

And  dream  of  the  hours  that  are  no  more: 
Forget  for  a  time  .all  thoughts  of  grief. 

And  fondly  muse  o'er  the  days  of  yore. 
Till  the  soul  is  touched  by  the  power  divine 

That  rules  the  lake  and  the  wooded  hills. 
The  solemn  pines  and  the  stately  reeds. 

The  lilies  fair  and  the  silver  rills. 
A  quiet  place,  where  the  burdened  heart 

shall  find  a  rest  from  its  toil  and  care; 
Where  the  wearied  mind  may  seek  release 

In  the  perfect  balm  of  the  summer  air. 

THE  VOYAGERS. 
When  the  glorious  king  of  morning. 

Rising  from  a  sea  of  gold. 
Painted  fleecy  clouds  with  crimson 

Blent  with  colors  manifold. 
From  the  clear  and  shining  strand. 
From  the  green  and  verdant  land. 

At  the  dawning  of  the  day; 
When  the  shadows  scarce  had  fled. 
Ere  the  early  hours  had  sped. 

Youthful  voyagers  sailed  away. 
Slowly  drifting  past  the  meadows. 

Fragrant  with  thebreath  of  flowers. 
Where  the  songsters'  merry  carols 

Echoed  from  the  woodland  bowers; 
Past  the  ranks  of  willow  trees. 
Waving  gently  in  tlie  breeze. 

Drifting,  drifting  on  and  on. 
In  the  sunlight  and  the  shade. 
Past  the  valley  and  the  glade. 

Into  shadows  dim  and  wan. 
Wider  grows  the  stream  and  wider. 

As  the  voyagers  onward  sail, 
Down  the  calm  and  tranquil  river. 

Leaving  meadow,  field  and  vale; 
Drifting  out  into  the  sea. 
With  their  young  hearts  light  and  free, 

In  the  joyous  summer  time. 
Drifting-  down  the  silent  stream 
In  the  sunlight's  golden  beam. 

Drifting  on  to  Manhood's  prime. 
Now  the  crested  waves  are  rising. 

And  the  boundless  sea  appears. 
And  the  voyagers  leave  the  river. 

For  the  Ocean  of  the  years; 
While  the  storms  of  life  arise, 
Clouded  now  the  azure  skies. 

And  their  trembling  bark  is  tossed 
Here  and  there  upon  the  waves. 
While  the  tempest  fli^rcely  raves. 

Bringing  ruin,  wreck  and  loss. 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


12ft5 


BENJAMIN  HATHAWAY. 

The  volume  of  Art  Life  and  Other  Poems 
places  Mr.  Hailiaway  on  an  equal  standing 
with  the  most  popular  poets  of  the  country. 
His  de-;criptivo  pcuin.Tlie  Leatrue  of  the  Iro- 


quois,  isamarveliif  It-freinlurj  luio,  and  will 
be  appreciated  by  every  earnest  reader.  In- 
deed, it  has  the  charm  of  Longfellow's  Hia- 
watha. The  works  of  Mr.Hathaway  have  been 
well  received,  and  the  press  is  unanimous 
in  their  praise. 


*- 


TO  A  WATKU-LILV. 

O  Lily!  that  dost  sit  witli  queenly  brow 

Lapped  on  the  tranquil  wave  in  regal  bloom. 

The  fairest,  thou 
Of  all  the  hosts  wliose  beauty  lights  the  gloom 
Of  leafj' haunts,  where  no  rude  step  in- 
trudes; 
Vour  Declared  sweets  intense  afar  perfume. 
The  wildwood  solitudes. 
Thou  hadst  thy  birth  in  some  ecstatic  hour 
Of  Nature's  youthful  passion  undeflled; 

O  peerless  flower! 
By  many  a  reedy  tarn,  her  dearest  child 
The  mother-breast  still   nurtures,   warm 
and  true; 
And  taught  are  all  the  creatures  of  the  wild 
To  yield  their  liomagc  due. 
The  Sun-flsh  watching  by  her  uubatched 
spawn. 


Oft  turns  to  gjize  upon  thy  wondrous  show; 

The  gentle  Fawn  [slow 

That  slakes  his  noontide  thirst  as  wading 

Tlie  limpid  pool,  thy  slender  stem  beside. 
Bends  wi.stful  on  thy  diadem  of  snow 
His  wild  eyes  wonder-wide. 

Tlie  Bobolink,  whose  Joyous  carol  thrills 
With  music  rare  the  woodlands  fur  away. 

One  mome!it  stills 
His  matin  song  to  look  ou  thee,  and  pay 

Obeisance  low,  and  tlien  more  glad  and  free 
Exultant  pours  in  raptured  roundelay. 
His  loyal  heart  to  thee. 
The  Waves  witli  gentle  arms  do  thee  enfold 
With  soft  caress  their  love  for  thee  declare; 

As  half  untold. 
They  round  tliee  linger,  press  thy  bosom  fair 
Then  pass  the  tranquil  mere's  full-brim- 
miug  urn, 
A  far  the  river's  rocky  channel  dare  — 
The  Wiiiting  mill-wheel  turn. 

With  passion  pure  the  Zephyr  stmips  to  kiss 
The  dewy  lips  till  faint  with  ecstasy; 

Or  drunk  with  bliss 
That  in  fond  heart  .ispires,  he  wanders  free. 
Anon  low  whispers  to  the  listening  grove. 
In  mystic  tongue,  his  lavish  praise  of  thee,— 
A  lover's  tale  of  love. 
In  thee  there  dwells  a  chastened  spirit  fine. 
That  in  all  matchless  grace  doth  thee  array; 

What  are  divine 
In  waxy  leaf  and  pearly  petals  —  yea. 

Of  loveliness,  what  miracle  sublime! 
And  thou  didst  spring  out  of  the  miry  clay  — 
Out  of  the  muck  and  slime. 
And  did  there  come  down  to  thy  prisoned 
heart 
Some  dream  transcendent  of  the  days  to  be? 

Tlie  pain  and  smart 
Of  vain,  long,  weary  yearning  to  bo  free? 

The  premonition  of  a  glory  won, 
Thronetl  in  thy  splendor  on  tiie  purple  sea. 

With  kisses  of  the  sun? 
O  Lily!  In  thy  form  do  I  behold 
Our  being  typed?  Do  we,  tot>,'iipward  grow? 
Our  life  enfold. 
As  doth  thy  bud,  asummcr's  nidlant  show? 
And  all  tliis  sense  of  longing,  doubt  and 
dread  — 
Is  it  the  spring-time  rpilckening,  felt  below, 
Down  in  the  mucky  tio<l? 
Witliin  the  soul  a  world  of  beauty  lies: 
Out  of  this  earthly  soil  of  gloom  and  night 

We  too  shall  rise 
Ere  long  to  realm  unseen  of  mortal  sight, 

Wliereof  liath  p«K?t  sung  and  prophet  told; 
And  in  that  fairer  clime  of  love  and  light 
Life's  perfect  flower  unfold. 


* 


1206 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


THE  IMAGE-BREAKER. 

Though  hushed  siuce  Delphi's  tragic  doom 

Each  mighty  oracle's  response, 

Though  every  magic  shape  that  haunts 
The  dusk  of  intervening  gloom 
Be  silent  — nor  the  shrouding  tomb 

Give  answer  to  Love's  yearning  wants,— 
Oh,  spare  those  idols  of  the  Past 

Whose  lips  are  dumb,  whose  eyes  are  dim; 

Truth's  diadem  is  not  for  him 
That  comes  the  fierce  Iconoclast; 
Who  wakes  the  battle's  stormy  blast. 

Hears  not  the  angels'  choral  hymn. 
In  any  creed,  no  heart-full  prayer 

To  faithful  devotee  is  lost; 

Though  dread-englo()med,and  error-crossed 

Whate'er  doth  fruits  of  mercy  bear, 
Is  true ;  —  for  this  each  error  spare. 

Nor  heap  a  common  holocaust. 
The  faith  that  hghts  the  pilgrim's  way 
To  loving  Heaven  —  though  not  for  you 
Its  truth,  to  him  must  needs  be  true; 
The  rose  that  newly  blooms  to-day 
Is  pencilled  by  the  primal  ray: 

The  New  is  old  —  the  Old  is  new. 
And  if  thy  path  no  longer  lies 
Through  spirit-haunts  of  moor  and  fen,— 
If,  as  of  old  to  prophet  ken. 
To  thee  the  hills  of  Canaan  rise. 
With  broader  fields  and  ampler  skies. 
And  peopled  wide  with  holy  men,— 
Remember  still  in  charity. 
Thy  brother's  need  is  not  as  thine; 
Or,  conning  deep  each  darker  line. 
You  too  may  find  the  mystic  key 
To  every  ward  of  mystery. 
And  see  in  all  a  Truth  Divine. 


CHICKADEE. 
What  time  the  Oriole 
Through  verdured  haunts  by  spicy  breezes 
fanned 
Pours  his  full  soul. 
Par  off  in  tropic  land, 

In  wildest  minstrelsy,— 
If  not  so  glad  and  gay. 
Here  in  December  woods,  as  blithe  and  free, 
I  hear  thy  gleeful  note  the  livelong  day  — 
My  Chickadee! 
Is  all  this  storm  and  gloam 
Of  Winter  vain  to  chill  thy  heart  of  song? 

Dost  never  roam 
With  the  proud  minstrel  throng 
To  climes  beyond  the  sea? 
What  secret  dost  thou  hold? 
Is  in  thy  breast  the  wondrous  alchemy. 

Transmuting  all  these  leaden  skies   to 
My  Chickadee?  \.So\A  — 


Oh,  for  the  subtle  art 
To  share  thy  life,  unsoiled  of  strife  and  diu: 

A  life  apart 
We  may  not  enter  in  — 

A  realm  of  mystery ! 
Yet,  though  we  may  not  cross 
Its  hidden  bound,  we  feel  it  cannot  be 

A  weary  world  of  ill  and  pain  and  loss  — 
My  Chickadee! 
Within  thine  eyes  so  bright 
No  shadow  lies  of  care  or  want  or  dread: 

There  shines  a  light 
H  ore  than  of  summers  dead 
Or  summers  yet  to  be: 
Like  to  the  morning  glow 
On  Eden  hills  serene;  —say,  canst  thou  see 
The  fairer  world  behind  this  fadingshow, 
My  Chickadee? 
Is  thine  the  vision  rare 
To  pierce  the  gloom  that  hides  the  heaven- 
ly bourn 
Where  all  is  fair? 
The  hidden  land  we  mourn 

Unsorrowed  dost  thou  see? 
Then  at  thy  cheerful  slave 
I  marvel  not,  indeed,  nor  how  it  be 

Thy  tiny  breast  can  bear  a  heart  so  brave. 
My  Chickadee ! 
Oh,  what  a  joyous  song 
Above  this  gloom  and  darkness  would  I 
pour — 
How  free  and  strong 
This  weary  heart  would  soar. 

That  Morning  Land  to  seel 
Where  blight  and  storm  and  frost 
And  grief  and  pain  and  parting  may  not  be; 
Where  glorified  do  wait  our  loved  and  lost. 
My  Chickadee! 
Sole  friend  the  Summer  hides 
That  does  not  flee  when  Summer  hours  are 
tied; 
That  still  abides 
When  vernal  blooms  are  dead 
O'er  hill  and  vale  and  lea; 
Oh,  when  the  roundelays 
Of  rarer  throats  are  hushed,  still  keep  forme 
Some  breath  of  song  to  cheer  life's  darker 
days  — 
My  Chickadee  1 


POESY. 
Thou  Beautiful!  In  thee 
The  artist  hides  that  all  things  glorifles; 
That  robes  all  life,  as  sunset  far  the  sea 
With  splendor  dyes. 
In  every  flower  that  blows 
A  semblance  of  thy  radiant  form  I  see; 
No  charn\  that  crowns  the  all-impcnal  Kose 

But  hints  of  thee. 


•*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAf.   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


1207 


CHARLES  M.  DICKINSON. 

Born:  Lowville,  N.Y.,  Nov.,  1843. 
This  gentleman    received  liis  education  at 
Fiiirfleld  Seuiinarj'  and   Lowville  Academy, 
in  his  native  state.  In  188!)  lie  publislu'd  a  vol- 
ume of  poems  in  New  Yorli  and  Loudon,  en- 


CHARLES  M.  DICKINSON. 

titled  Tiie  Cliildron,  which  received  high 
praise  from  press  and  public.  Mr.  Dickin- 
son is  the  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Bing- 
liampton  Kepublican,  a  verj'  popular  and  in- 
fluential newspaper.  He  was  married  in  1867 
to  Miss  Bessie  Virginia  Holchkiss,  and  has 
two  sons—  Charles  H.  Dickinson  and  Guy 
H.  Dickinson. 


*- 


"COME  UNTO  ME." 
In  the  night-watches  when  no  leaf  Is  shaken, 
And  eartli  lies  still,  as  if  the  stars  on  high 
Had  so  entranced  lier;  then  my  senses  waken. 
Roused  by  the  silence  or  some  spirit's  sigh ; 
And,  like  a  voice  through  happy  visions  steal- 
ing. 
Both  heard  and  felt,  and  therefore,  sweeter 
far 
Than  any  sense  of  hearing  or  of  feeling. 
Fall  straight  from  iieaven  as  light  as  any 
star. 
Those  wondrous  words  to  all  my  soul  appeal- 
ing:— 
"Come  unto  Me.  O  weary  man  and  maiden; 
Come;  lean  upon  my  breast. 


All  yc  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden. 

And  1  will  give  you  rest." 
In  the  bright  day  when  clanging  wheel  and 
hammer 
And  throbbing  engines  shake  the  affright- 
ed air. 
And  trade  and  greed    set    up   their  selflsli 
clamor. 
And  loud  comphiint  falls  from  the  lips  of 
care ; 
Then  straight  into  my  inmost  soul  retreating, 
Where  cloistered  Memory  shuts  out  sound 
and  sight. 
And,  like  a  nun  her  sacred  beads  repeating. 
Tells  oer  those  words  heard  in  the  still  mid- 
night. 
Intone  of  calm  command  yet  so  entreat- 
ing:- 
'. ('. iTiii'  unto  Me,  O  weary  man  and  maiden, 

(    .nil':  lean  upon  My  breast. 
Ail  i  f  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden, 
And  I  will  give  you  rest." 

0  Voice  majestic  I  yet  so  low  and  tender. 
That  the  soft  footfall  of  a  worldly  thought 

May  drown  its|)leading.  lielp'metosurrender 
Each  clamorous  earthly  want  my   heart 

liath  sought. 
All  gain  or    comfort  that  my   life    hath 
wrought; 
And,  if  all  sense,  all  rest  and  pleasure  fail  me. 
Keep  my  soul  watchful  of  each  sound  and 
light. 
That  when  the  night  comes  on  and  storms 
assail  me. 
And  I  must  walk  by  faith  and  not  by  sight, 

1  still  may  follow  through  the  clouds  that 

veil  uie. 
Those  far,  soft  accents,  calling  through 
the  niglit:— 
"Come  unto  Me,  O  weary  man  and  maiden; 

Come;  lean  upon  My  breast. 
All  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden. 
And  I  will  give  you  rest." 


SHE  SLEEPS. 
How  soft  she  breathesl  How  still  she  lies! 
When  gentle  slumljers  close  her  eyes. 
Her  warm  heart  sets  in  either  cheek 
A  sign  that  more  tlian  words  can  speak,— 
A  sign  that  tliougii  she  is  st>  .still. 
And  supple  is  her  strt>ng,  sweet  will. 
Her  gentle  pulses  are  not  chill. 
Alas,  dear  girl,  what  tears  wcMiid  How, 
Wliat  heart  witli  muffliKl  tread  would  go 
On  to  the  gnive,wlth  weight  t)f  woe. 

If  no  sweet  sign  of  life  were  set 
In  your  young  cheek,  like  a  rose  in  blow. 

Or  if.  like  rose  or  mignonette. 
Your  breath  no  more  should  come  and  go. 


« 


*- 


1208 


LOCAL.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


JEALOUSY. 
I  love  you.  Dear,  but  I  tremble  and  start. 

When  I  think  there  is  only  a  single  place 
In  all  this  world,  and  that  my  heart. 

Where  heaven  and  hell  embrace. 

When  I  talk  with  you,  when  I  walk  with  you, 
The  world  is  so  lovely,  so  free  from  care, 

If  the  fairest  dream  of  heaven  came  true, 
No  heaven  could  be  so  fair. 

Things  skip  and  fly  that  once  did  creep; 

The  humblest  bird  like  an  angel  sings; 
What  wonder  that  all  my  soul  should  leap, 

And  struggle  to  use  its  wings! 

For,  the  commonest  weeds  have  a  scented- 
breath 
And  all  the  colors  of  earth  and  sky ; 
And    there's    nothing    in    all    the    world, 
but  Death, 
That  is  sad  enough  to  die. 

But,  if  one  glance  of  your  love-lit  eyes 
Go  out  to  another,  the  flend  of  Hate 

Springs  up  in  my  heart,  and  earth  and  skies 
Are  blackened  and  desolate. 

And  beauty  is  crushed  and  the  jealous  knife 
Of  Hate  strikes  deep  m  the  heart  of  love;— 

A  hate  that  would  pull  down  the  temple 
of  life. 
And  die  in  the  ruins  thereof. 

And  yet,  the  demon  that  rageth  thus, 
Red-handed  as  hell  and  as  black  as  night. 

Has  a  look  like  the  angel  that  walked  with  us. 
When  the  world  was  so  happy  and  bright. 

Ah,  I  love  you.  Dear,  but  I  tremble  and  start. 
When  I  think  there  is  only  a  single  place 

In  all  this  world,  and  that  my  heart. 
Where  heaven  and  hell  embrace. 


THE  LILIES. 
The  lilies  do  not  toil,  and  the  lilies  do  not  spin ; 
They  have  to  hold  their  chalices  to  catch  the 

raindrops  in, 
To  wash  their  raiment  white  as  snow,  from 

golden  heart  to  hem 
To  justify  the  words  of  praise  the  Master 

spake  of  them. 


IN  THE  GARDEN. 
When  the  night  comes  down 
Over  field  and  town. 
And  hides  all  the  flowers  and  meadow  daisies 
I  turn  my  eyes  to  the  blossoming  skies, 
To  the  far-off  gardens  of  paradise, 
The  mistletoe  boughs  in  the  starry  mazes. 
The  daisy  borders,  white  and  dense. 
And  the  nebulous  meadi)ws  of  innocence; 


To  the  radiant  spots 
Of  forget-me-nots, 
The  jasmine  Harp;  and  twinkling  down. 
The  anemones  in  the  Northern  crown;  \ 

To  the  tiger-lily  that  nods  and  glows 

In  the  crescent  bed  of  the  larger  Lion, 
The  stars  of  Bethlehem  and  Sharon's  rose,      i 
And  the  great,  white  river  that  heavenward  . 
goes,  • 

And  waters  each  plant  and  flower,  then  flows. 

Right  ou  to  the  beautiful  city  of  Zion;  ' 

And  my  heart  is  so  filled  with  the  wondrous  . 

view. 

That  it  overflows  In  reverend  praises. 

And  mourns  no  more  for  the  violets  blue,       ; 

For  the  roses  sweet  and  the  meadow  daisies.  ' 

i 


IN  THE  LIBRARY. 

Gentle  jailer,  turn  the  key 
'Twixt  the  outer  world  and  me, 
Shutting  out  its  care  and  din. 
Shutting  all  sweet  fancies  in; 
With  such  a  prison  and  such  a  guard. 
Who  would  not  be  Bonnivard? 

Well  I  know  the  winter's  snow 
Folds  the  buried  world  about; 

But  a  sweet  smile  as  we  part 

Falls  upon  my  budding  heart. 
Lets  the  sunshine  in  and  out. 

With  a  few  warm  tears  unwept. 

That  some  tender  sorrow  kept ; 
And  anon  the  fond  thoughts  stir 
Where  some  happy  memories  were 

Buried  out  of  sound  and  sight, 

Feeling  blindly  for  the  light; 

Through  each  tender  root  they  move 
With  the  warmth  of  early  love. 
Filling  all  this  little  room 
With  a  sense  of  coming  bloom. 

Tint  of  rose  and  scent  of  myrrh; 
And  as  if  the  earth  had  swung 

Sudden  down  the  tropic  zone, 
I  can  see  the  pink  clouds  hung 

On  the  peach  trees,  newly  blown ; 

I  can  hear  the  birds  and  bees 
In  Floridiaii  orange  trees. 
Where  the  faint,  o'erburdened  breeze. 
With  the  whole  earth's  sweetness  goes, 
Southern  jasmine.  Northern  rose,— 
Where  the  lazy  stream  scarce  flows. 
And  the  senses  swim  and  swoon. 
In  the  soft  .•md  slumbrous  light. 
In  the  perfume-breathing  night. 
As  March  stealeth  into  .Tune;- 
All  from  that  sweet  smile  that  shono 
When  you  left  me  here  alone. 


*- 


LOCAI-   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OK   AMEUICA. 


1201* 


THE  CHILUKEiV. 
Wben  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  cndcfl. 

And  the  school  ft)r  tlie  day  is  dismissed, 
The  little  ones  g-atlier  around  me. 

To  bid  me  g-ood  nigrht  and  be  kissed; 
Oh,  the  little  white  arms  tliat  encircle 

My  ueck  in  their  tender  embrace  I 
Oil,  the  smiles  that  are  halos  of  heaven, 

Shedding  sunshine  of  love  on  my  face  I 

And  when  they  are  gone,  I  sit  dreaming 

Of  my  childhood  too  lovely  to  last,— 
Of  joy  that  my  heart  will  remember. 

While  it  wakes  to  tlie  inilso  of  the  past, 
Ere  the  world  and  its  wickedness  made  me 

A  partner  of  soi-row  and  sin. 
When  the  glory  of  God  was  about  me. 

And  the  glory  of  gladness  within. 

All  my  heart  grows  as  weak  as  a  woman's. 

And  the  fountain  of  feeling  will  flow. 
When  I  think  of  the  paths  steep  and  stony, 

Wiiere  the  feet  of  the  dear  ones  must  go,— 
Of  the  mountains  of  sin  hanging  o'er  them. 

Of  the  tempest  of  fate  blowing  wild;— 
Oh,  there's  nothing  on  earth  half  so  holy 

As  the  Innocent  heart  of  a  child! 

They  are  idols  of  hearts  and  of  households ; 

They  are  angels  of  God  in  disguise; 
His  sunlight  still  sleeps  in  their  tresses. 

His  glory  still  shines  in  their  eyes; 
Those  truants  from  home  and  from  heaven ; 

They  have  made  me  more  manly  and  mild ; 
And  I  know  now  how  Jesus  could  liken 

The  kingdom  of  God  to  a  child. 

I  ask  not  a  life  for  the  dear  ones. 

All  radiant  as  others  have  done, 
But  that  life  may  have  .iust  enough  shadow 

To  temper  the  glare  of  the  sun; 
I  would  pray  God  to  guard  them  from  evil. 

But  my  prayer  would  bound  back  to  my- 
self ;- 
Ah !  a  seraph  may  pray  for  a  sinner. 

But  a  sinner  must  pray  for  himself. 

The  twig  is  so  easily  bended, 

I  have  banished  tlie  rule  and  the  rod; 
I  have  taught  them  the  goodness  of  know- 
ledge. 

They  have  taught  me  the  goodness  of  God. 
My  heart  is  the  dungeon  of  darkness. 

Where  I  shut  them  for  breaking  a  rule; 
My  frown  is  sufficient  correction; 

My  love  is  the  law  of  the  school. 
I  shall  leave  the  old  house  in  the  autumn 

To  traverse  its  threshold  no  more; 
Ah,  how  I  shall  sigh  for  the  dear  ones 

That  meet  me  each  morn  at  the  door! 
I  shall  miss  the  ••  good-nights"  and  tlie  kisses, 

And  the  gush  of  their  innocent  glee, 
■• " 


Tlie  group  on  the  green,  and  the  tlowers 
That  arc  brought  every  morning  for  mo. 

I  sliJill  miss  them  at  morn  and  at  oron. 

Their  .song  in  the  school  and  the  street; 
I  shall  miss  the  low  huinof  their  voices. 

And  the  tread  of  their  deliciite  fi-et. 
When  the  lessons  of  life  are  all  ended. 

And  death  says:  "The  school  is  dismissed!" 
May  the  little  ones  gather  around  me. 

To  bid  me  good-night  and  be  kissed! 


BY  THE  KIVER. 
The  sun  had  set,  and  left  at  his  declining 

The  stars,  as  pledges  of  his  morning  rise. 
And  all  the  river  like  a  memory  shining. 

Of  its  far,  native  skies. 

Thus  glorj'-laden,  its  soft  watchword  saying 
To  all  the  piers,  it  crossed  their  shadowed 
bars; 

And  overhead  the  Milky  Way  was  straying— 
A  river  deep  with  stars. 

How  like  a  holy  thing,  while  there  we  ponder- 
ed. 
Young  Venus  glowed  upon  the  brow   of 
even ! 
And  earth,  we  knew,  had  lost  her  way,  and 
wandered 
More  than  half  way  to  heaven. 

We  knew  it  by  the  anchored  moon  entangled 
In  tree-tops  on  the  neighboring  mountiiin's 
hem. 
By  stars  so  near  that  all  the  grass,  dew- 
spangled. 
Made  images  of  them  ;— 

By  the  deen  hush,  as  if  the  whole  earth  listen- 
ed 
To  catch  the  vespers  of  the  choirs  alMive; 
And  that  near  sense  of  heaven, when  souls 

arc  christened 
With  first  fond  thoughts  of  love. 

Ay,  thoughts  of  love!  and  yet  we  talked  of 
letters; 

'Tis  thus  we  mask  each  feeling  and  desire. 
And  link  our  language  into  icy  fetters. 

To  smother  hearts  of  Are. 

Since  then,  the  river's  soul  ha!>  gone  to 
lieaven. 

And  oft  returned  In  the  orabodlod  rain. 
But  souls  we  love  have  left  us  at  life's  even. 

And  come  not  back  again. 

Again  we  walk  by  the  Impatient  river. 
Returning  to  the  heaven  it  munnurN  of; 

And  now  no  more  wo  speak  of  books;  but 
ever 
Wo  think  and  talk  of  love. 


>*- 


1210 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POE 1  S   OF   AMERICA. 


RUDOLPHUS  N.  VAN  TUYL. 

Born:  Jerusalem,  N.  Y.,  April  5,  1834, 

For  ten  years  Mr.  Van  Tuyl  taught  school; 
for  three  years  was  engaged  in  county  clerk's 
office;  and  for  the  past  twenty-one  years 
has  been  engaged  in  mercantile  pursuits. 
During  a  busy  career  Mr.  Van  Tuyl  has  writ- 


RTTDOLPHTTS  NICHOLAS  VAN  TUYL. 

ten  many  fine  poems,  which  have  received 
publication  in  the  periodical  press.  In  1891 
he  was  elected  town  supervisor  of  Pratts- 
burgh,  N.Y.  In  1873  Mr.  Van  Tuyl  was  mar- 
ried to  Miss  Mary  H.  Squires,  by  whom  he 
has  one  son  —  Ralph,  born  iu  1874. 


OCTOBER. 
Now  the  honest  "  son  of  toil " 
Lifting  "murphies"  from  the  soil 
With  a  hook,—  and  annual  ache 
In  the  region  vertol)rate,— 
Meets  the  chronic  smile  and  .•  shake  " 
Of  the  annual  candidate. 

When  the  tubers  and  the  ballots 
Are  all  safely  .stored  —  or  sold  — 
The  ache  and  the  smile  and  the  "  shake  ' 

will  bo 
As  a  story  that  is  told. 


MOTHER. 

A  year  has  gone:  sadly  the  summer  smiled. 

Blending  its  roses  in  memorial  bloom. 
And  now  the  white-winged  seraphs  of  the 
ether  wild 
Are   weaving   tablets   o'er   thy   hallowed 
tomb. 

It  is  a  time  for  memories  and  for  tears:         j 
While  Life's  poor  altar  holds  her  transient ' 
blaze. 
Thy  grave  shall  be  a  Mecca  through  the  roll-  > 
ing  years. 
And  this  — a  Day  of  Days. 


THE  BUSTLE. 
What,  if  gentle  mother  nature 
Had  bestowed  that  humpy  feature? 
How  would  each  indignant  creature 
Her  cruel  fate  deplore! 
But,  to  custom  true  remaining, 
Martj'rs  all  — yet  uncomplaining- 
Each  a  ponderous  load  sustaining 
Like  Atlas  famed  of  yore; 
These  whom  Fashion,  "  cruel  master,' 
(Most  unmerciful  disaster.) 
Followed  past  and  followed  faster 
Till  their  backs  that  burden  bore;  — 
From  bondage  of  the  fashion  plates 
Lift  up  themselves  no  more. 


EXTRACTS. 
Why  forms?   Why  creeds? 
Why  pomps?   Why  pride? 
Why  Fashion's  vain  display? 
One  wave  of  Jordan's  swelling  tide 
Will  wash  them  all  away. 

What  matters!  if  the  candidate 
Be  sprinkled,  dipped,  or  poured,— 

If  knocking  at  the  "Pearly  Gate," 
He  only  loves  the  Lord? 

Round  the  death-bed  of  the  rich  man 
Friends-in-trouble,  wait  to  grieve; 

And  the  lawyers  wait  —  to  gobble 
What  tlio  undertakers  leave. 

A  worthy  divine  of  Prattsburgh 

Gave  the  hymn  out  one  Sunday  forenoon, 

And  waited  with  martyr-like  jiaticnce, 

For  some  one  to  hoist  uptlie  tune; 

Bui  the  "leaven"  liad  "soared"  in  the  choir, 

And  their  music  was  laid  on  the  shelf,— 

So  the  plucky  D.  D.  tuned  his  lyre. 

And  lifted  the  notes  for  himself. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POKTS   OF    AMKIUCA. 


1211 


WILLIAM    H.  CAMPBELL. 

Born:  Ulster  Co.,  N.Y.,  Jan.1.  1825. 

Ill  1845  the  subject  of  this  sketch  entered  the 
liavy,  and  has  siiico  sailed  to  every  jiart  of 
tlie  globe,  atul  met  with  in;uiy  stirriiifjr  ad- 
vent u  res  ;infl  baii'-l)iia(llli  escapes.  lie  is  now 


Wll^LIAM   UENRV  CAMTRKM.. 

n  resident  of  Algoiia,  Iowa,  and  has  four  chil- 
dren living:.  Mr.  Campbell  is  a  natural  poet, 
and  his  poems,  which  would  make  a  large  vol- 
ume, have  received  extensive  publication  in 
;lie  periodical  press,  always  receiving  high 
praise. 


IOWA. 


Young  Iowa  grows  like  a  weed 

Upon  a  fertile  soil; 

Her  rich  productions  far  exceed 

The  delta  of  the  Nile; 

111  stock  and  hay  she  holds  the  reins 

Of  many  a  sister  state; 

Tlie  steam  horse  thunders  o'er  her  plains 

Hefore  his  ponderous  freight. 

New  villages  and  cities  grow 
Like  mushrooms  in  the  night; 
Grand  colleges  and  churches  show 
'I'heir  spires  of  snowy  white; 


Though  Iowa  Is  in  her  youth. 
She  is  a  power  still; 
In  enterprise  slu-  has  a  growth 
Which  ever  tills  the  bill. 

Her  rich  products  till  home  demands 
And  .iswell  Chicago's  store; 
They  are  also  shipped  to  foreign  lands, 
Inerciisiug  more  and  more; 
O'er  vast  prairies  take  a  view 
WluTc  emigrants  repair; 
Though  they  be  many  or  but  few. 
They  live  in  plenty  there. 

Her  banner  of  benevolence, 

A  blessing  to  the  world. 

Is  looked  upon  with  reverence 

Wherever  'tis  unfurled; 

T.ook  o'er  her  broad  extensive  breast 

A  ml  many  domes  you'll  see, 

NS'hich  mark  the  spot  where  tbousauds  rest 

In  homes  of  charity. 

Through  bold  undaunted  pioneers 

Industry  took  its  rise; 

They've  shown  the  world  for  many  years 

Their  wondrous  enterprise; 

Yet  onward  is  their  motto  still. 

And  upward  is  their  aim; 

Their  energy  is  never  still; 

They've  ripened  into  fame. 

With  poverty  they've  had  to  cope. 
And  still  they'd  persevere; 
Grasslioppers  ne'er  could  blijrht  their  liopc. 
Though  times  seemed  sad  and  drear* 
Of  hopper  raids  they  yet  can  tell. 
They'd  hold  their  claims  or  die. 
Though  heavy  showers  of  insects  fell 
Like  hailstones  from  tlie  sky. 

This  plague  which  scourged  her  western  line 

For  years,  has  piissed  awny ; 

Where  now  the  country  teems  with  swine 

And  cattle,  grain  and  hay. 

The  pall  is  raised,  the  deserts  bloom. 

New  industries  appear; 

Industry  drives  away  tlie  gloom 

And  fills  the  land  with  cheer. 

She'll  soon  become  the  brightest  rose 

Which  blooms  in  all  the  west; 
The  tide  of  commerce  over- flows 
Her  iron-checkered  brea.-it; 
The  racers  of  a  hundre<l  lines 
Eject  their  smoke  and  Are; 
Dispatches  frtim  a  thousand  climes 
Rush  o'er  her  webs  of  wire. 


*- 


1212 


LOCAT,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKRICA. 


She  fills  a  most  conspicuous  place 

In  our  great  national  tower, 

A  buttment  in  its  mig-hty  base, 

A  lever  of  its  power. 

In  war  her  troops  have  born  the  brunt, 

They  at  their  posts  are  found, 

Their  guns  have  thundered  in  the  front 

On  many  a  battle  ground. 

They  stood  the  test  on  Shiloh's  field. 

Ten  thousand  she  had  there. 

Amid  the  clash  of  blazing  steel 

Their  colors  waved  in  air, 

For  all  their  gallant  comrades  fell. 

Undauntedly  they  stood. 

Their  rallying  cheers  were  heard  to  swell 

Upon  the  field  of  blood. 

There  Beauregai-d  came  thundering  forth, 

Most  sullenly  he  scowled: 

Artillery  jarred  the  solid  earth. 

His  shells  like  demons  howled; 

In  haste  the  rebel  giant  came 

With  carnage  in  his  view ; 

The  first  to  meet  his  deadly  aim 

Were  her  brave  boys  in  blue. 

Tho'  batteries  played  upon  their  flanks. 
Which  made  their  columns  thin; 
Loud  volleys  roared  along  their  ranks 
.\mid  the  battle's  din; 
At  last  the  rebs  were  forced  to  yield. 
And  driven  from  their  grounds. 
They  fled  like  foxes  from  the  field 
Before  the  Union  hounds. 

They've  silenced  many  a  cannon's  mouth 

The  Union  to  support; 

They  were  a  terror  to  the  South, 

A  dread  to  every  fort; 

They  clipped  the  Southern  Eagle's  beak; 

At  Gettysburg  he  bled; 

Through  Sherman's  raid  he  got  so  weak 

He  had  to  lose  his  bead. 

In  points  of  gallantry,  her  men 

Have  never  worn  a  stain; 

They've  sufifered  in  the  prison's  den 

And  skeletons  became; 

They  followed  Sherman  to  the  sea 

And  did  their  duties  well; 

They  shouted  death  or  victory 

Where  noble  Lyon  fell. 

Her  daughters  also  need  applause; 

They  liavo  the  nation's  thanks; 
They  ran  the  harvesters  and  plows 
While  men  were  in  the  ranks; 


In  times  of  our  great  national  strife. 
They  mowed  and  stiicked  the  hay. 
They  battled  with  the  cares  of  life 
And  kept  the  wolf  away. 


AN  ADDRESS  TO  THE  ROBIN. 
Welcome,  little  feathered  stranger; 

How  delightful  is  thy  song. 
Welcome,  bird  there  is  no  danger, 

1  will  never  treat  thee  wrong. 
Time  has  passed  and  flowers  have  withered 

Since  I  hoard  thy  song  before, 
Robin  red-breast,  come  in  welcome. 

Feed  around  my  cottage  door. 
Of  all  the  birds  thou  art  my  choice; 
How  pleasant  is  thy  tranquil  voice. 

What  human  heart  can  e'er  oppose  thee? 

What  evil  hast  thou  done  mankind? 
No,  no,  my  bird,  I'll  ne'er  offend  thee; 

Be  contented  in  thy  mind. 
Welcome,  'round  my  lonely  dwelling. 

Here  erect  thy  little  nest. 
Hunt  the  whole  plantation  over; 

Feed  thy  young  upon  the  best. 
Thou  art  a  bird  of  liberty. 
What  freeman  e'er  can  envy  thee? 

Amid  the  foliage  thou  art  happy. 

Skipping  round  from  bough  to  bouKh; 
And  in  the  furrows  we  behold  thee 

When  the  farmer  starts  his  plow. 
Range  the  grove  and  plow-lands  over. 

Make  the  noxious  worm  thy  prey. 
Sing  and  chirp  amid  the  flowers, 

Cheer  the  pleasant  summer  day. 
Robin,  thou  art  gay  and  free 
Appreciate  thy  liberty. 

When  autumn  fades  the  fragrant  flowers. 

And  chills  the  odorous  atmosphere. 
What  is  the  reason  gentle  robin, 

Thj'  tranquil  voice  no  more  we  hear? 
But  soon  as  Winter  veils  her  visage 

And  spring  unfolds  the  lovely  flowers, 
Again  thy  warbling  songs  salute  us 

From  the  fields  and  shadj'  bowers. 
Like,  thee  I  crave  a  summer  clime, 
And  live  in  summer  all  the  time. 

Gentle  robin  be  contented. 

Void  of  every  danger  rest. 
Boys,  though  rude,  shall  ne'er  oflfend  thee, 

Nor  disturb  thy  little  nest. 
Stay,  gentle  bird  I'll  make  thee  happj'; 

Never  sock  another  clime: 
Though  winter's  cold  and  frosty  breezes 

Move  upon  the  wings  of  time; 
Sociu'o  lliy  little  ones  from  harm 
And  bring  tlieni  safely  to  my  barn. 


4i 


I 


*■ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKKICA. 


1213 


MRS.  MILLIE  E.  HAPEMAN. 

Born  :  England,  Dec.  20, 1S5T. 
In  18T3  this  la.ly  was  married  to  Mr.  yi.  Y. 
Hapeman,  whii  for  manj'  years  lias  been  in 
tlie  employ  of  the  C.  &  N.  \V.  R.  R.  For  over 
ton  year.s  Mrs.  Hapeniati  was  an  actress,  uti- 
der  an  assumed  name,  wliicli  profession  she 


MRS.  MILLIE  E.  HAPEMAN. 

followed  with  pleasure.  She  is  now  living 
in  Baraboo,  Wis.,  dividing  her  time  between 
household  duties  and  her  children,  and  in 
painting  and  literary  work.  The  poems  of 
Mrs.  Hapeman  have  appeared  from  time  to 
time  in  the  periodical  press. 

TO-DAY. 
Let  us  enjoy  To-day, 
To-morrow  comes  too  soon. 
And  e'er  its  light  doth  fade 
In  tender  shades  of  gray, 
We  may  have  passed  away. 
Let  us  enjoy  To-day, 
To-morrow  comes  apace  — 
And  e'er  its  sun  goes  down 
In  golden-glory  rosy  crown, 
We  may  not  sec  its  grace. 
Let  us  enjoy  To-day 
With  those  we  love  the  best, 
For  e'er  the  twilight  shades 
Doth  darken  into  night. 
We  may  be  at  rest. 


NOT  EYE,  BUT  ADAM. 
They  say  that  >[other  Eve 
Stole  from  the  knowledge  tree 
An  apple,  and  to  Adam  gave, 
And  bade  him  taste  and  see. 
I  think  that  was  a  slight  mistake 
Made  witliout  ihouglitor  reason; 
(Excuse  me  arguing  the  point. 
But  this  is  apple  season). 
Tilings  have  changed  since  Adam's  time. 
And  deny  very  few  cau 
That  when  tlie  fruit  is  stolen  now 
It  is  not  by  Eve  but  Adam. 
And  they  unlike  our  mothers  fair, 
Tiiough  to  own  it  sore  I  grieve; 
Alas',  are  not  so  generous. 
For  they  give  tlie  core  to  Eve. 


AIR  CASTLES. 
I  sit  me  down  in  the  arm-chair. 

Being  weary  and  tired  to-night; 
And  give  my  soul  up  to  sweet  fancies 

As  I  rest  in  the  warm  firelight. 

Far  away  in  sweet  Cornwall,  England, 
Where  Mount  St.  Michael  doth  stand; 

A  rock  'mid  the  foaming  breakers. 
Close  to  the  beauteous  land. 

Oft  in  the  morning  early. 
When  fog  covers  land  and  see; 

Hiding  the  distant  mountains. 
The  village,  the  meadows,  the  lea. 

Slowly  the  fog  uplifted, 

Lea\nng  the  distant  fair; 
Standing  above  the  fog-clouds. 

Like  a  Castle  in  the  air. 

Revealing  the  ivied  turrets. 
The  walls  begrimed  and  old: 

The  tower  with  its  wishing-chairs. 
Where  fairies  dwell,  wo  are  told. 

And  the  fog  still  slowly  rising. 

Reveals  to  mortal  sight 
The  lovely  green  of  vallej- 

And  mountains  bathed  in  light. 

So  maybe  the  fairy  Castles, 
I  build  in  the  firelight  gleam; 

Are  Castles  of  solid  rock 
That  now  but  Air  Castles  seem. 

And  maybe  in  the  distant  future. 
When  the  clouds  have  cleared  away. 

1  will  live  in  the  fairy  Castles 
I  built  at  the  close  of  day. 

When  the  fog  that  obscured  our  vision 
Shall  have  cleared  fur  evermore. 

Revealing  the  light  of  Heaven 
As  we  pass  to  the  other  shore. 


-* 


*^ 


1214 


LOCAL   A>JD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


GRACE  L.  SLOCUM. 

Born:  Pawtucket,  R.  I.,  April  4, 1865. 
The  poems  of  Miss  Grace  L.  Slocum  have 
appeared  from  time  to  time  iu  the  Pawtucket 
Gazette  aud  Ciironicle,  and  the  periodical 

1 


GRACE  L.  SLOCTTM. 

press  generally.  Slie  received  her  education 
ill  her  native  town,  and  was  a  graduate  of  the 
Hig-h  School.  Miss  Slocum  is  still  a  resident 
of  Pawtucket,  where  she  is  very  popular. 


A  VENETIAN  ROSE. 
Bid  I  dream,  I  wonder  that  night. 

In  Venice  palazzo  halls? 
By  the  rliytbmof  musical  wavelets  lulled 

That  rippled  by  marble  walls. 
While  the  purple  pulse  of  the  even  throbbed 

To  nightingales'  madrigals. 
On  the  jasmine  wreathed  lattice  bars, 

Two  round  arms  languorous  leaned; 
From  the  cloud  of  her  tawny  hair,  star-like. 

An  ardent  face  on  me  beamed; 
On  the  scented  snow  of  her  bosom  warm 

A  pas-sionsite  red  Rose  gleamed. 
Then  she  gave  me  the  slumbrous  Rose, 

Her  dusky-fringed  lids  upswept;  [hair, 

As  I  touch  her  hand  through  her  soft,  warm 

Her  spell  to  my  rapt  soul  crept; 
And  1  laid  my  lips  on  the  .scented  snow 

Where  the  red,  red  Rose  had  slept. 


A  MIDNIGHT  REVERIE. 

The  frosty  air  is  broken  into  mist 

With  bells  to-night; 
A  merry,  maddening  melody  that  speeds 

The  Old  Year's  flight. 

You  lift  deep  footprints  on  our  heart's  Old  ' 
Year  , 

Of  joy  and  woe; 
Half  sad,  half  glad  we  breathe  a  mute  fan- 
well 
Across  the  snow. 

Time  was  we  built  our  castles  too  in  Spain,    [ 
And  dreamed  our  dreams.  ! 

See !  at  the  jasmined  lattice  there,  anon 

A  fair  face  gleams!  : 

Once  more  in  Moorish  halls  methinks  I  hear 

The  mandolin; 
A  low,  sweet  song  floats  on  the  perfumed  air 

In  gardens  dim. 

From  silver  chalice,  through  the  gloom,  aye 
me! 

The  moonlight  falls 
In  radiant  splendor  o'er  the  snow,  afar 

From  Moorish  halls. 

Why  linger  in  the  past !  the  New  Year  dawus, 

The  shadows  flee; 
Trust  on,  hope  on,  thy  duty  do,  that  is 

Enough  for  thee. 

For  One  who  holds  us  in  the  hollow  of  Hi? 
hand 
Will  lead  us  on. 
Till  on  the  wind-.swept  heights  at  last  we 
stand 
Our  guerdon  won. 


EXTRACT.  I 

Lo,  an  angel,  ere  the  morning  came  and  roll-  < 

ed  the  stone  away ; 
Thrilled  the  song  tlirough  listening  ages,        , 
.'  Christ  the  Lord  is  risen  to-day."  i 

Then  the  angel,  winged  heavenward,  left  the  i 

pearly  gates  ajar. 
And  the  walls  of  that  bright  city  gleamed  ; 

upon  my  sight  afar. 
Go  bring  flowers  this  joyous  Easter,  typif.v- 

ing  thoughts  divine,  ^ 

Build  the  walls  of  precious  meaning  round  j 

the  chancel  and  the  shrine;  ; 

Twine  the  iialni-leavcs'  and  the  ivy's  emerald 

with  the  wine-red  rose. 
Strew  the  violet's  gleaming  sapphire  where  ■ 

the  jasmine's  topaz  glows;  : 

Let   the    passion-flower's    purple    with   Its  i 

mystic,  fervid  Ijreath,  , 

Telling  of  the  thorn-erowiied  Savior,  of  His 

sufTering  and  death. 


*- 


LOCAT.    AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMKKICA. 


1215 


MRS.  KATIE  E.  PRIESTLEY. 

Horn:  Ho-ng-Konq,  China,  July  U,  1867. 
THESubjoct of  this  sketch   is  a  resident  of 
Sua  Jose.   C;il.,   the  wife  of    Ernest  A.   W. 
Priestley,  whom  she  married  iu   ISUO.    Her 


MRS.  KATIE  ETJPnE^riA   PnrESTLET. 

poems  have  appeared  in  the  Australian 
Journal,  Tasmanian  Mail,  and  various  prom- 
inent publications,  and  her  production  have 
always  received  hig-h  praise. 


CHILDHOOD. 
Sweet  scenes  of  my  cliildhood !  thou  hast  fled. 
Fled  beyond  recall  with  stealthy  tread; 
With  joys  uiiquenclied  by  dread  vt  g-rief, 
With  angel-visions  ami  dreams  so  brief; 
The  world  seem'd  full  of  bliss  —all  joy  above 
Embalmed  in  the  golden  mist  of  love. 
Like  the  beams  of  a  long  summer's  day  the 

future  shines; 
Our  thoughts  so  jnirc,  our  hopes  divine. 
How  soon  childhood   must  float  away  —  liow 

soon  must  fade,  [shade; 

And  silently  throw  on  each  life's  foreboding' 
Then  we  know   not  sorrow,  or  the  luward 

bitter  strife. 
That  casts  a  cloud  on  the  gayest  life. 
Childhood  has  past  —  yet  how  vainly  we  seek 

the  long-lost  day; 
Memory  shall  cherish  it  more  now  Childhood 

has  passed  away! 


(MHI.HOOD. 
Ry  agentlo  hand    1  was  ledforlh   into  Olrl- 

hood,  [stood; 

It  secDi'd  then  on  the  threshold  of  Heaven  I 
Fancy  weaved  garlands!   my  dreams  shone 

forth  in  brigliter  hues. 

The  harp  tliriU'd   with   harmony  my  life  to 

bodew;  [cea.sc. 

Little  kiHw    1   tlicn   its   melody  woul<l  siMiti 

Withhold  its  magic  haml  and  mar  the  (•hr>rds 

of  jieace. 

Soon  we  find  each  dream   of  (iirlhood  float 

and  slip  away  — 
We  awaken  but  to  find  it  lost  to  us  for  nye. 
Let  us  up  and  break  the  spell  of  idle  dreams. 
For  we  hear  tlie  distant  echo  of  life's  rollinff 

stieams; 
riiildhood's    pleasures.    Girlhood's    visions, 

like  dreams  depart. 
Then  wo  find  each   hand,  each  heart  must 

bear  life's  part. 
All  in  sordid  care  must  dwell  and   feel   the 

sting  of  p.-iin,  [vain; 

Fain  would  we  shrink  from  it,  l)ut  all  in 
All  must  be  wrestlers  on  life's  tix)ubled  se;i, 
Batter'd,  storm-tossed  e'er  we  seek  refuge  in 

Thee; 
Then  entranced   by  deluded   fancies,  sweet 

and  strange, 
They  are  bu  I  sparkling  bubbles  on  the  stream 

of  flitting  change. 


WOMANHOOD. 
On  tlie  verge  of  Womanhood  I  stand. 
Like  one  wandering  in  ii  fairy  land; 
The  patli  to  higher  destinies  to  nobler  deeds. 
How  many  fears  to  hinder  and  imped«'. 
Like  a  mystic  volume  from  sight  obscured, 
'Tis  a  hard  yet  higher  part  I  must  now  en- 
I  must  .-iwakeri,  the  dream  has  past,    [dure; 
Life's  mystery  I  must  now  unmask. 
A  part  of  joy  and  sorrow,  rest  and  strife. 
Now  I  must  make  or  mar  the  lioliest  sta^e  of 
Need  I  no  stay,  no  power  strong.  life; 

No  refuge,  no  loving  hand  to  lead  me  on? 
No  pilot  to  guide  my  drifting  bark, 
Wliile  journeying  o'er  this  world  so  dark? 
With  a  deep  prayer,  rt- verent  and  divine. 
Through  sun  and  storm  let  Thy  beacon  o'er 

me  shine. 
I  dare  not  walk  this  path  )ingutd*'d,  [betide; 
Hidden  dangers  and  fri'(|uenf  sniiri's  my  w;iy 
r.  uide  me  Heavenly  Faihir.  Thy  hand  Is  sure, 
Under  Thy  cure  from  all  peril  secure. 
Let  my  worthless  >oul  Thy  heights  attain. 
And  soar  upward  to  the  realm   I   ho|»e  to 

grain : 
Litt  my  life  above  this  earthly  8od,        [God  1 
In  Woman's  true   footsteps  lead  me  to  my 


a* 


1216 


LOCAL   AMD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


WILLIAM  LEIGHTOX,  JR. 

Born  :  Cambridge,  Mass.,  June  22, 1833. 
This  gentleman  lias  published  several  books, 
and  is  well  and  favorably  known  in  the  liter- 
ary world.    Two  dramatic  poems  from  his  pen. 
The  Sons   of  Godwin  and  At  the  Court  of 


* 


WILLIAM  LEIGHTON,  JR. 

King  Edwin,  are  very  fine;  and  a  long  poem 
entitled  Ciiange  has  been  well  and  favorably 
received.  He  has  also  written  several  Sliake- 
sperian  sketches  and  prose  essays.  :Mr.  Leigh- 
ton  was  married  in  1860  to  Miss  Mary  Jane 
Keed,  and  is  now  living  at  Concord,  Mass. 

THE  FLOWERS. 
I  see  no  use  in  them,  quoth  Peter  Bell, 
These  wild-flowers  of  the  woods;  they  bloom 

and  die 
In  secret  nooks,  where  not  a  human  eye 
Looks  on  their  blossoming.    It  were  as  well 
A  constant  blight  their  opening  buds  befell. 
He  knows  their  use  whose  heart  of  sympathy 
Throbs  to  the  touch  of  nature's  poesy; 
Who  hears  sweet  song  tones  and  a  rhythmic 

swell 
Of  music  in  the  flowers.    Though  no  eye  view 
Its  beauty,  who  can  say  the  blooming  vale 
Is  purposeless?  or  that  the  painted  s<id 
Hath  not  a  use?  the  tints  of  varying  liue 
May  sing  to  angels,  as  to  men,  a  tale 
In  mystic  verse  of  harmonies  of  God. 


MOTHER  EARTH. 

Old  mother  earth,  so  great  thy  family. 

Small  is  the  share  ol  love  thou  giv'st  to  om 
Out  of  thy  teeming,  ripe  fecundity. 
Brood  after   brood  thy  countless  cbildre 
come. 
Lo,  I,  thy  son,  to  thy  maternity 
Make  my  appeal!     Hast  thou  a  mother' 
heart? 
Or  art  thou  callous  to  thy  offspring's  cry? 

Inhuman  loves  perhaps  thou  hast  no  par 
And  all  of  tenderness  to  us  deny. 

Hath  summer's  sunshine  no  beguiling  ar 
To  draw  thy  heart  to  all  the  host  that  cUng 
To  thee?     Ah,  mother  earth,  if  thou  dos 
know 
What  joy  the  throbs  of  sweet  affection  brinf 
Thou  can'st  not  then  life's  crowning  bUs 
forego. 


THE  SONS  OF  GODWIN. 
Life  —  a  short  day—  an  interval  between 
Nothing  and  darkness— flitting  consciousnes.' 
Vivid  and  startling  as  the  lightning's  flash; 
And  like  that  blinding  glare  beholding  all, 
But  in  an  instant  gone  beyond  recall. 
Death  —  a  grim  phantom  ever  haunting life- 
The   night  that  swallows  day— a  frlghtfi 

pause — 
The  black  reverse  of  glory's  shining  shields 
Life's  opposite,  whose  emblem  is  the  grave. 
Lite,  Death  —the  two  conditions  of  onethinf 
Whose  margins  meet;  — which  is  the  normi 

state? 
Which  real,  and  which  the  shadow?— which  i 

health?  , 

And  which  disease?  to-day  we  have  the  one,  ; 
To-morrow  comes  the  other  — a  slave's  spea:' 
A  random  arrow,  some  disastrous  chance, 
And  on  this  day  of  life,  a  black  eclipse. 
To  him  who  dies  it  is  as  if  the  world,—  : 

This  solid,  steadfast  earth,  on  which  is  writ  >J 
Forever  in  its  sunshine,— at  a  touch 
Melted  again  in  chaos.    And  what  then? 
The  future,  grandly  pictured  by  the  churcl 
Is  it  a  fact  or  fable?    Let  that  pass. 
O  Tostig!  where  thy  valor  now.  thy  strengtl' 
Daring  ambitions  built  above  all  hope? 
Two  days  ago  thou  wast  elate  with  life. 
Now  as  inert  and  senseless  as  the  sod,_ 
Cut  by  the  heel's  sharp  track. 
And  I  must  meet  my  motlier;  her  last  wore 
Harold,  be  merciful  unto  my  son, 
Ring  in  my  ears;  but  louder  than  her  words 
Fate  called  to  him.    He  fell,  as  falls  a  star-  , 
Across   the   heavens  a  bright  and  gleamiU] 

track. 
Then  quenched  its  light  forever.    So  to  me,  J 
My  soul  forewarns,  will  come  the  shaft  ij 

death.  l 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OV  AMEKICA. 


V2i; 


ANNA  J.  HAMILTON. 

Bokn:  Louisville,  Ky.,  ApiulSO,  1860. 
After  graduiitiiig  iit   the  High  Seliool  in 
1878,  tliis  lady  at  once  accepted  a  position  as 
teacher  in  the  public  seliools.    Snbspqiiently 
she  was  promoted   tuihc  tuin nn    (  i.iu 


in  the  Normal  school,  which  professors! lip 
she  still  liolds.  The  poem.s  of  Miss  Anna  J. 
Hamilton  have  appeared  in  the  Courier- 
Journal,  Times,  Truth,  of  Louisville,  and  in 
various  other  prominent  publications,  and 
lier  verses  have  won  for  her  many  friends 
and  admirers  iu  the  literary  world. 


*- 


GO,  BE  FREE. 
I  loose  thee  —  feo  be  free. 

Dear,  anxious,  tortured  licari; 
Nay,  I  would  not  have  tlieo  sing 
Wlien  tliou  liast  an  eatjer  wing. 

Longing  for  a  life  apart  — 
Go,  be  free. 
I  loose  thee  —  go  be  free ; 

Love  lifts  tliy  prison  bar. 
Now  no  more  for  freedom  long; 
Give  the  world  tliy  happy  song  — 

I  watch  thee  from  afar; 
Go,  be  free. 
I  loose  thee  — go  be  free: 

Joy  shines  within  thine  eyes; 


To  one  who  goes  the  world  is  fair  — 
The  stayer  feels  the  keen  despair. 

Who  in  lone  anguish  cries  — 
Go,  be  free. 

I  loose  thee  —  go  he  free : 

Ambitious  trusting  one; 
When  tired  tiiy  once  eager  wing. 
Lost  the  song  tliat  tliou  wouldst  slug. 

And  life  seems  all  undone  — 
<  ome  to  me. 


AT  SET  OF  SDN. 
Tlie  soffning  twilight  creeps  apace 

Tlie  after-ni(XKl  of  storniful  day, 
.•\iid  close  within  its  fond  embrace 
The  yielding  shadows  pass  away, 
At  set  of  sun. 
The  heart's  ."soft  twilight  creeps  apace, 

The  after-mood  of  storraful  day; 
And  hides  within  its  calm  embrace 
The  pride  that  held  imperial  swaj'. 
At  set  of  sun. 


A  PERFECT   WOMAN. 
A  sculptor  to  his  friend  did  say, 

"I'll  lay  a  wager  1  can  make 
I-'rom  this  huge  mass  of  shapeless  claj* 

A  perfect  woman,  sans  mistake." 
•  •  I'll  take  you,"  was  his  friend's  reply. 

And  soon  the  sculptor's  work  was  done; 
His  friend  gazed  on  with  earnest  eye. 

And  with  a  smile  said,  ••  I  have  won." 
••  Woman  witliout  a  tongue,  oh  my, 

1  think  you'll  own  that  I  have  won." 
The  sculptor  smiling  made  reply, 

••  A  perfect  woman  should  have  uouc. 

WHEN  SUMMER  BLOOMS. 
The  mellow  land  with  beauty  glows 
When  summer  blooms  o'er  dale  tind  hill; 
The  smiling  sky  its  brightness  shows. 
As  if  alike  its  part  to  All, 

When  Summer  blooms. 
All  Laughing  leaps  the  rippling  rill 
To  kiss  the  earth,  and  kissing  wake 
To  new-born  hope  some  seedling  still 
Whose  life  is  glad  for  earth's  sweet  soke, 

When  Summer  blooms. 
The  merry  birds  from  greening  trees. 
Sweet  choristers  of  ecstasy 
Sing  classic  songs,  the  passing  breeze 
Wafts  far  this  HcHHling  meliKiy. 

When  Summer  bUH)ms. 
The  happy  land  contontment  knows 
When  Summer  bl<H)ms  o'er  dale  and  hill; 
Joyous  the  spirit  overflows, 
A  purling  stream  from  Love's  sweet  still. 

When  Summer  bl(X)ms. 


*- 


1218 


LOCAT.   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


'TIS  LIKE  A  BIRD. 
'Tis  like  a  bird,  thy  merry  bong-, 

So  joyous,  wild  aud  freel 
Not  one  among'  tlie  woodland  throng 

Thy  rival  dares  to  be. 
Thy  rippling  runs,  thy  witching-  trills, 

Fall  light  as  summer  rain ; 
And  to  the  heart  new  hope  instills. 

Life  may  be  lived  again. 
Ah,  strang-ely  soft  our  human  hearts. 

And  sweetlj'  soft  thy  lay; 
Thou  knowest  not  what  impulse  starts 

From  thy  sweet  song  to-day  I 


*- 


MY  LITTLE  COQUETTE- 
A  heart  as  light  as  thistle  down, 

A  tongue  for  merry  chatter;  ■ 
A  face  that  shows  no  angry  frown 

For  aught  that  is  the  matter. 
For  tears  she  gives  a  loving  smile. 

For  smiles  her  happy  laughter; 
Many  a  heart  she  doth  beguile  — 

The  pain  that  follows  after. 
And  yet  so  gentle  are  her  eyes. 

So  pitiful  and  wistful; 
The  tongue  is  chained  with  dumb  surprise, 

Likewise  the  feeling  tristful. 
With  wondrous  grace  she  wields  her  pow'r. 

All  unconscious  of  her  art; 
To  me  she  is  the  fairest  flower 

In  the  garden  of  loy  heart. 

KISMET. 
Kissed  by  the  sun's  benignant  ray. 

Waked  softly  from  its  stilly  dream; 
Adown  the  rugged  hill-side  way 

There  comes  a  merry  silver  stream. 
The  panorama  broad  to  view 

Shows  but  the  sunshine's  golden  beam. 
Enticing  by  each  splendent  hue 

This  life  on  which  the  high  lights  gleam. 
It  bounds  o'er  rock  and  leaps  o'er  crag. 

And  winds  the  grassy  plains  about; 
Hurrying  the  idlers  where  they  lag. 

Pursuing  them  with  gleesome  shout. 
Now  singing  here,  now  joying  there. 

Careless  and  gay  as  cliildisli  mood; 
Now  basking  in  the  sunlight  fair. 

Now  kissing  sorrow's  needy  brood. 
Then  on  it  rolls  as  though  to  ))rove, 

It  asks  no  other  life  than  this  — 
There  runs  no  stream  however  smooth, 

But  meets  some  fall  or  precipice. 
Thougli  left  behind  the  homeward  shore. 

Still  on  and  on  it  eager  flows; 
Gayer,  happier  than  before. 

Gathering  friends  wliere'er  it  goes. 


Thus  greater  grown  it  sweeps  along 
With  ne'er  a  touch  of  greater  pride; 

Still  keeping  true  the  under  song  — 
I  follow  but  a  higher  guide. 

The  magic  rime  king's  frosty  kiss 

Vaunteth  not  the  kingly  power- 
Disdaining  such  quiescent  liss. 
It  passes-with  the  passing  hour. 

A  river  waits  around  the  bend 
Tiie  coming  stranger  to  embrace; 

Nor  is  there  aught  that  will  forfend. 
So  meet  the  powers  face  to  face. 

Lo,  straightway  yields  with  charming  grace 
The  lesser  by  the  greater  won  — 

Life's  streams  were  dry,  were  there  no  trace 
Of  sweet  affection's  smiling  sun. 

SUBMISSION. 
If  I  could  lay  my  burden  down 

And  rest  beneath  the  sod  — 
How  many  a  tired  heart  hath  sent 

This  prayer  up  to  God! 
With  faltering  feet  and  whitened  lips 

They  walk  life's  dreary  way  — 
0  God!  not  mine,  Thy  will  be  done. 

They  learn  at  last  to  say. 


LIFE'S  SON. 
The  day  is  filled  with  golden  hours. 

Which  fly  with  winged  feet; 
To  those  who  gather  life's  bright  flowers, 

With  perfumed  odors  sweet. 
The  week  is  filled  with  gladsome  days, 

Which  pass  with  rapid  stride; 
To  those  who  tread  life's  pleasant  ways. 

And  rarely  turn  aside. 
The  month  is  filled  with  precious  weeks. 

Which  ail  too  quickly  go; 
To  those  who  bask  in  fortune's  freaks, 

And  know  no  tale  of  woe. 
The  year  is  filled  with  months  so  bright. 

Which  shine  with  hopeful  glow; 
To  those  who  ne'er  misfortune's  blight 

Have  learned  to  feel  and  know. 
But  ah !  the  years  are  filled  with  care. 

Passing  with  timely  tread; 
To  those  who  w.-iit  witli  silver  hair. 

Whoso  youth  long  since  hath  sped. 
Yet  round  and  round  the  wheel  of  years 

Turns  on  with  even  turn. 
Passed  is  the  time  in  prayer.  In  tears, 

That  brings  us  to  our  urn. 
O!  restless  wheel  of  years,  turn  on: 

Tliough  in  the  gloom  to-day. 
To-morrow's  turn  will  bring  the  dawn 

To  briglit  the  darksome  way. 


*- 


LOCAIi  AND  NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


1219 


* 


JOHN  MALCOM  HARLOW. 

Born:  Charleston,  III.,  Jan.  25, 1868. 
After  graduating:  Mr.  Harlow  studied  law 
and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1889.  Tliis 
gentleiuau  has  taught  school  six  years,  is  a 
member  of  the  school  board  aud  a  notary 
public.    The  poems  of  Mr.  Harlow  have  ap- 


JOHN  MALCOM  HARLOW. 

peared  quite  extensively  in  the  periodical 
press  of  his  native  state.  He  is  the  author 
of  a  small  volume  of  poems,  entitled  The 
Oriole,  published  in  1890,  which  has  been  very 
favorably  received. 

A  TEACHER'S  MEMENTO. 
'Tis  twelve  o'clock,  the  moon  shines  bright. 

As  in  my  room  T  sit. 
And  pondering  o'er  the  law  to-night. 

O'er  "  Blackstone  "  my  brows  are  knit. 
My  wearied  eyes  a  moment  rest. 

Now  the  volume  ope  anew. 
When  a  fond  memento  in  its  place, 

Now  breaks  upon  my  view. 
Two  four-leaved  clovers  do  I  see ; 

What  do  they  bring  to  mind? 
A  model  form,  a  winning  smile. 

One  who  was  always  kind. 
Tliey  bring  back  thoughts  of  pleasant  days, 

Dear  children—  friends  of  mine; 
Some  now  are  found  in  prosperous  ways. 

And  one  has  crossed  death's  line. 
They  bring  back  days  of  sunshine, 

For  all  earth  was  summer  then; 
The  skies  were  blue,  sweet  birds  aud  flowers 

Were  cheering  glade  and  glen. 
They  bring  thoughts  of  a  school  I  taught. 

Of  work  too  true  to  last. 


Of  battles  for  truth  so  bravely  fought. 

Of  bread  on  waters  cast. 
Go  with  me  back  eighteen  long  months; 

Hope,  love,  joy,  memory  combine, 
Lovo  sometimes  touched  with  saddened  tears, 

Hope  with  bright  thoughts  sublime; 
Joy  for  the  future  coming  year. 

For  the  pleasant  days  of  fall;  [past, 

And  the  blending  of  thoughts  of  time  now 

E'en  seems  to  brighten  all. 

It  seems  as  though  I  view  the  past. 

And  those  happj'  children,  dear; 
I  see  them  glad  and  happy. 

Yet  I  brush  away  a  tear. 
It  seems  as  though  1  do  go  back, 

I  live  those  biight  days  over. 
Away  is  rolled  the  scroll  of  time; 

One  plucks  a  four-leaved  clover. 
And  coming  lightly  to  my  desk. 

The  trophy  gives  to  me, 
"Say,  Mister,  you  may  keep  this; 

'Tis  curious,  don't  you  see?  " 
1  kept  it,  yes,  I  kept  it. 

And  I  still  shall  keep  it,  dear. 
Till  the  tune  of  a  song  I  love  so  well 

Shall  fall  upon  my  ear. 
It  may  be  many  a  long,  long  year 

Ere  I  hear  that  gentle  song; 
But  I  know  the  titue  is  coming. 

Friends,  1  believe  'twill  not  be  long. 
That  little  band  of  children 

I  lead  through  one  bright  year. 
Forever  down  my  walk  of  life. 

Their  faces  will  bo  dear. 

But  one  has  gone  and  left  me, 

I  shall  never  teach  her  more; 
Jesus  called  her  'cross  the  crystal  sea, 

On  to  a  golden  shore. 
So  my  faithful  school  can  never  meet 

As  it  did  in  days  now  tlown. 
But  when  we  meet  together  now. 

Dear  children,  one  is  gone. 
My  pupils  are  successful. 

Are  climbing  high  in  life. 
Arc  gaining  fame  and  fortune 

In  this  surging  sea  of  strife; 
Are  gaining  honor  and  renown 

On  every  hand,  I  see. 
Are  gaining  friends  and  happy  homes, 

And  happy  destiny. 
And  one  has  gained  eternal  joy. 

And  friends  that  naught  can  sever; 
And  lias  gone  away  to  live  in  heaven 

Forever  and  forever. 
And  when  my  work  on  earth  is  done. 

My  cares  and  sorrows  i)ver; 
I  shall  see  bright  angol-flngers  cliisp 

My  cherished  four-leaved  clover. 


*- 


1220 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


FREDERIC  W.  PANGBORN. 

Born:  St.  Albans,  Vt.,  March  7, 1855. 
For  fifteen  years  Mr.  Pangborn  has  been 
connected  with  the  Evening  Journal  of  Jer- 
sey City,  N.  J.,  of  which  publication  he  is  the 
managing:  editor.  From  a  busy  life  he  has 
had  liitle  time  at  his  disposal  to  court  the 


FREDERIC  W.  PANGBORN. 

muse,  yet  over  a  hundred  very  fine  poems 
have  appeared  from  his  pen  from  time  to 
time  in  the  daily  and  weekly  papers  of  the 
East,  from  which  they  have  been  extensively 
copied  by  the  periodical  press  generally.  Mr. 
Pangborn  was  married  in  1877  to  Miss  M.  C. 
Clark  of  Jersey  City,  and  has  two  sons  — 
Frederic  Werden,  born  in  1878;  and  Cedric 
Douglass,  born  in  1889. 


LOVE'S  DAWNING. 
Oh  blissful  hour!  Oh  moment  all  too  sweet, 
Wlien  loving  hearts  in  first  comm  union  meet ! 

Ah,  moment  all  too  dear! 
Ye  witless  birds  that  wanton  in  the  trees, 
Thou  mellow,   murmuring,  merry  evening 
breeze. 

Be  silent  all. 

Nor  break  the  thrall, 
Nor  thought  of  other  thing  recall;  — 

My  love  is  near. 
Oh  happy  dawn!  Oh  golden  glorious  morn, 
When  souls  unite  and  sweet  young  love  is 

Away  all  doubt  and  fear !  [born ! 


Ye  whispering  voices  of  the  flowery  lea, 
Be  hushed  and  quiet;  sweetly  silent  be 

Ye  sounds  that  dwell 

In  wood  and  dell; 
Nor  break  the  stillness  of  the  blissful  spell; 

My  love  is  near. 


ONLY. 
Only  a  spar,  a  storm-shattered  spar, 

Nothing  more; 
High  on  the  beach  thrown  by  the  waves 

To  the  shore. 
Only  a  man,  gone  to  his  grave 

'Neath  the  deep; 
Only  a  soul  gone  to  its  last 

Peaceful  sleep. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  HERO. 
"Dead  as  his  past  of  duty  "  —  'tis  enough; 
What  finer  eulogy  ?  All  the  boast 
Of  pomp  and  glory  seems  but  idle  breath 
Beside  the  quiet  dignity  of  death; 
Where  death  and  duty  blend  — solution  most 
Complete  of  all  life's  problems  —  'tis  enough. 
Dead  —  and  as  his  past. 


GOD  BLESS  THE  GFNTLE  SLEEPER. 

God  bless  thee,  gentle  sleeper, 
Thy  lover's  instinct  knows 
Wliat  dreams  beguile  the  hours 
That  mark  thy  soft  repose. 
Upon  thy  precious  tresses  my  folded  hands 

Hay, 
Praying  that  God  may  keep  thee  from  grief 
and  pain  alway. 
Thine  eyes,  soft  slumber-laden. 
Though  veiled  from  siglit  of  mine; 
Yet  feel  the  passion  in  the  gaze 
Now  yearning  unto  thine.  [I  lay, 

Soft  on  their  marble  portals  my  lightest  kiss 
Grateful  that  Heaven  doth  keep  them  honest 
and  pure  alway. 
Sweet  wife,  thy  gentle  bosom 
Deep  heaving,  true  doth  tell 
For  whom  thy  breast  is  waiting. 
Whose  image  there  doth  dwell. 
Kneeling  beside   thy  throbbing  heart,  my 

thankful  soul  dotli  pray; 
Knowing  that  thou  will  keep  it  tender  and 
true  alway. 
Soul  of  my  soul, 
Dear  all  in  all; 
It  seemeth  not  mete  this  life 
Sliould  some-day  part  the  truly  wed, 
The  husband  and  the  wife. 
God  grant  that  in  the  gloaming  of  earth's 

ephemeral  day. 
Our  souls  go  forth  together,— one  love  one 
life  alway. 


*- 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMEKICA. 


-* 


lli21 


HUDSON  HARLAN. 

Born:  Ci.ark  Co.,  III.,  Sept.  14,  1857. 
After  sraduating-at  tho  Urbana  University 
of   Oliio,   Mr.    Hudson    Harlan   (■tifr:i<;ed    in 


HUDSON  HARLAN. 

teaching,  and  is  now  a  resident  of  Ogallah, 
Kansas.  His  poems  have  occasionally  ap- 
peared in  the  periodical  press. 


SELECTED  FROM  AN  EPIC. 

Oft  we  would  to  the  sages  these  queries  pro- 
pound. 

Where  may  happiness,  freedom  and  wisdom 
be  found? 

Not  alone  this  we  ask,  but  we  truly  would 
know 

What  the  substance  as  well  as  the  shadow 
would  show. 

'Twas  a  linnet  that  sang,  and  its  song  was  of 
love. 

Only  learned  at  that  Infinite  fountain  above, 

Welling  up  as  a  spring  from  a  passionate 
heart  [art. 

Overflowing  with  joy,  which  alike  with  no 

Not  a  Handel,  nor  Mozart  its  sweet  sym- 
phony 

Might  repeat.  Now  the  notes  were  the 
sound  of  the  free 

Gentle  winds,  or  the  rippling  of  waves  as 
they  How 


Over  pebbles,  at  first  in  a  strain  soft  and 

low. 
Then  a  chorus  of  loud  "Hallelujahs."    Its 

song 
Was  the  tree  and  the  nest,  was  its  mate  and 

its  young; 
While  the  throng  of  its  blessings  It  poured 

from  the  tree. 
Where  it  sat  as  it  sang,  and  was  liappy  and 

free. 
But  a  fowler  in  passing  its  sweetness  has 

heard. 
And  by  spreading  his  net  soon  had  ca|)tured 

the  bird. 
It  is  carried  away  into  lands  not  its  own. 
And  is  placed  in  a  cage,  but  a  prison  alono. 
All  its  music  is  liusbed.    From  its  tremulous 

throat 
There  issues  no  sound  save  a  sorrowful  note. 
For  it  pines  in  tho  cage  for  the  nest  and  the 

tree. 
Where  so  often  it  sang  and  was  hajtpy  and 

free. 
But  by  chance  It  escapes  while  the  door  is 

ajar. 
And  in  freedom  once  more  it  may  wander 

afar. 
O  how  quickly  it  soars,  with  a  heart  that  is 

light. 
But,  alas!  brief  and  short  is  its  journeying 

flight: 
For  its  pinions,  unused,  lose  the  power  of 

yore. 
And  dangers  dire  that  it  knew  not  before; 
Till   frightened   and  weary,  it    fain  would 

alight 
By  the  door  of  the  cage  at  the  coming  of 

night. 

Is  it  freedom,  I  ask  you;    pray  tell  me.  O 

sage. 
When  the  bird  of  its  own  will  returns  to  its 

cage? 
Or  why  should  it  seek  when  it  wanders  once 

more 
For  the  place  that  was  only  a  prison  before? 

Is  it  not  thus  in  life  where  our  lot  may  be 

cast. 
Where   we   grieve    for   the    pleasures    and 

friends  of  the  past. 
Until  time  weaves  around  us  a  softening 

spell, 
That  our  answer  must  be,  ••  It  Is  well,  it  is 

well," 
Though  we  cannot  evade    the  unchanging 

decree. 
Yet  in  wisdom  resigned  we  are  happy  and 

free. 


* 


5"- 


1222 


LOCAl-   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


HON.  W.  L.  WILEY. 

Bokn:  Saxton's  River,  Vt.,  1830. 
During  an  active  business  career  Mr.  Wilej' 
has  found  time  to  write  many  commendable 
poems,  wbicli  liave  appeared  in  the  Chicago 


HON.  WILLIAM  LORENZO  WILEY. 

Current,  Standard,  and  the  periodical  press 
generally.  He  is  a  retired  banker,  residing 
at  Galva,  111.,  and  has  but  one  son  living, 
Jesse  L.,  who  was  born  in  1868. 


THE  HUSBAND'S  GRIEF. 
He  walked  alone  o'er  the  furrow  of  life 

From  the  day  of  that  sad  event. 
And  a  mournful  shade  encircled  his  brow 

Into  whatever  paths  he  went. 

At  home  or  abroad  'twas  ever  the  same; 

One  lingering  look  of  despair 
Was  an  index  marked  of  that  inward  grief 

Too  great  for  a  mortal  to  share. 

As  the  cart  with  its  sheaves  pressed  down  to 
earth 

Staggers  over  the  beaten  way. 
The  heart  thus  burdened  can  only  find  rest 

In  a  life  of  eternal  day. 


*■ 


SUNSET. 
The  luminous  light  of  crimson  and  gold 
Its  tenuous  rays  with  beauty  unfold 


Athwart  the  western  sky; 
The  crescent  moon,  in  her  wanderings  there, 
Displayed  in  ethereal  robes  so  rare, 

Modestly  rides  on  high. 

As  the  curtain  of  night  falls  gently  down. 
Appear  numerous  worlds  of  less  renown, 

Adding  their  lustrous  hue; 
While  the  flaming  girdle  of  Vega  lies 
Far  up  the  vaulted  belfry  of  the  skies, 

And  earth  sleeps,  bathed  in  dew. 

So  the  lights  and  shadows  of  life  appear; 
The  crimson  and  gold,  the  sombre  and  drear, 

Meet  in  love  fraternal, 
Gliding  as  quickly  as  the  shadows  flee. 
Over  the  waves  of  the  ultimate  sea. 

Unto  hills  eternal. 


THE  ABSENT  ONE. 
The  heart  that  beats  in  sympathy 

With  kindred  far  and  near 
Is  one  we  all  should  prize 

And  ever  hold  most  dear. 

The  breath  that  lisps  in  gentle  strains 

The  fervor  of  the  soul 
Will  often  sigh  for  those  in  love 

As  years  shall  onward  roll. 

If  not  around  the  social  board, 
Our  presence  each  can  spare; 

There  is  a  place  we  all  can  meet  — 
At  Mercy's  seat  in  prayer. 

To  Him  who  holds  us  by  his  will, 
In  language  pure  and  sweet, 

Pray  we,  may  all  his  children  be 
One  family  complete. 


THOU  ART  MY  FRIEND. 
Thou  art  my  friend,  ray  comfort  all, 

Prostrate  before  thee.  Lord,  I  fall; 
In  thee  alone  I  find  relief 

To  calm  my  mind,  assuage  my  grief. 

Thou  art  my  friend;  to  thee  I'll  cling; 

To  thee  my  wounded  spirit  bring 
And  daily  seek  supplies  of  grace  — 

On  thee  my  best  affections  place. 

Thou  art  my  friend;  O  God  to  thee 
With  all  my  hopes  and  sorrovt-s  flee; 

In  all  my  thoughts  thy  goodness  share; 
On  thee  I  call  in  constant  prayer. 

Thou  art  my  friend;  I  love  thee  still; 

Thy  holy  care  my  soul  doth  fill; 
Thy  hand  alone  'twill  guide  my  way 

To  yonder  realms  of  endless  day. 


* 


*- 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


1223 


MADISON  JULIUS  CAWEIN. 

Born;  Louisville,  Ky.,  Mahch  23, 1865. 
This  poet  and  writer  is  the  author  of  four 
volumes,  and  he  is  fast  jiaitiiiig-  a  national 
reputation.     Lyrics  and  Idjis,  puhlislied  in 
IS'.H).  is  a  beautiful  voluinonf  about  two  iiuii- 


MADISON  JITLIUS  CAWEIN. 

dred  pages  of  his  choicest  poems,  which  has 
been  favorably  received  by  press  and  public. 
By  profession  Mr.  Cawein  is  an  accountant, 
and  is  still  a  resident  of  his  native  city. 


THE  OLD  FARM. 
Dormered  and  verandaed  cool. 

Locust-girdled  on  tlie  hill. 
Stained  with  weather-wear  and  full 

Of  weird  whispers,  at  the  will 
Of  the  sad  winds'  rise  and  lull; 
I  remember,  stood  it  there 

Brown  above  the  woodland  deep 
In  a  scent  of  lavender. 

With  slow  shadows  locked  in  sleep. 
Or  the  warm  hght  every  wliere. 
I  remember  how  the  spring, 

Liberal  lapped,  bewildered  its 
Squares  of  orchard  murmuring; 

Kissed  with  budded  pufifs  and  bits. 
Where  the  wood-thrush  came  to  sing. 
Barefoot  so  at  first  she  trod, 

A  pale  beggar  maid,  adown 
The  quaint  quiet,  till  the  god 

With  the  seen  sun  for  a  crown 
And  the  firmament  for  rod. 


Graced  her  nobly,  %vedding  her  — 

Her  Coplictua;  and  so 
All  the  hill,  one  breathing  blur. 

Burst  in  blossom;  peachy  blow; 
Wonder-stricken  whitene.ss  pure. 
Seckel,  blackheart,  palpitant 

Rained  their  bleaching  strays;   and  white 
Bulged  the  damson  bent  a-slaul; 

Russet-tree  and  romanite 
Seemed  beneatli  deep  drifts  to  pant. 
And  it  stood  there,  brown  and  gray. 

In  the  bee-boom  and  the  bloom. 
In  the  murmur  and  the  day. 

In  the  passion  and  perfume. 
Grave  as  age  among  the  gay. 
Good  with  laughter  romped  the  clear 

Boyish  voices  'round  its  walls; 
Iliire  wild-roses  were  the  dear 

Girlish  faces  in  its  halls. 
Music-haunted  year  to  year. 
Far  before  it  meadows  full 

Of  green  pennyroyal  sank; 
Clover  dots  like  bits  of  wool 

Pinched  from  lambs;  and  now  a  bank 
Bright  of  color;  and  the  cool 

Brown-blue  shadows  undefined 
Of  the  clouds  rolled  overhead  — 

Curdled  mists  that  kept  the  wind 
Fresh  with  rain  and  fluting  shed 

Song  among  the  valleys  kind. 

Where  in  mint  and  gipsy-lily 

Ran  the  rocky  brixik  away; 
Musical  among  the  hilly 

Solitudes  its  flashing  spraj-. 
Sunlight-soft  or  forest-stilly. 

Buried  in  thick  sassafras. 

Half-way  up  the  copsy  hill. 
Moved  some  cow-bells'  muffled  brass; 

And  the  ruined  water-mill 
Loomed  half-hid  in  cane  and  grass. 

I  remember;  stands  it  yet      • 

On  the  hilltop,  in  the  musk 
Of  damp  meads,  while  violet 

Deepens  all  the  dreaming  dusk 
Droning  over?  holy  wet. 

With  the  slightest  dew?  while  low 
One  long  tear  of  .scarlet  gashes. 

Tattered,  the  broad  primrose  glow 
Westward,  and  in  weakest  splashes 

Lilac  stars  the  heavens  sow? 

Sleeps  it  still  among  its  roses 

Dewy  yellow,  while  the  choir 
Of  the  lonesome  uisects  dozes? 

And  the  white  moon  drifting  hip^her 
Brightens  and  tlie  darkness  closes  — 
Sleeps  it  still  among  its  roses? 


*- 


*- 


1224                            LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL 

POETS   OF   A3IERICA, 

IDEAL  DIVINATION. 

Amaranths  are  her  eyes; 

How  I  have  thought  of  lier. 
Her  I  have  never  seen !  — 
Now  from  a  raying-  air 

And  her  hair,  shadowy 
Curlings  of  scent;  and  she 
Breathes  at  my  heart  and  sighs. 

She,  lilse  a  romance  queen, 

If  with  its  slaves  I  bear 

Flowers  a  face  serene. 

All  of  life's  tyranny,— 

Kadiant  in  raven  hair. 

Worm  for  the  worm,— I  caie 

Now  in  a  balsam  scent 

Naught  if  my  spirit  be 

Laughs  from  the  stars  tliat  g-leam; 
Naked  and  redolent, 

Her's  in  eternity  — 

Her's  who  did  make  it  dare. 

Bends  to  nie  breast  of  beam. 

Eyes  that  will  make  nie  dream. 

OVERSEAS. 

Throat  that  the  dimples  dent. 

When  fall  winds  morns  with  mist,  it  seems. 

Love  is  all  vain  to  me 
So:  and  as  dust  severe, 
Faith:  and  a  barren  tree. 
Truth:  and  a  bitter  tear. 

In  soul  I  am  a  part  of  it; 
Libratingon  the  humid  beams, 
A  form  of  frost,  I  float  and  flit 

From  dreams  to  dreams.    .    .    . 

Joy:  for  I  wait  and  bear 

An  old  chateau  sleeps  'mid  the  hills 

Her  who  can  never  be. 

Of  France;  an  avenue  of  sorbs 

Living- we  learn  to  know 
Life  is  not  worth  its  pain; 

Conceals  it;  drifts  of  daffodils 
Bloom  by  a  scutcheoned  gate  with  barbs 

Living  we  find  a  woe 

Like  iron  bills. 

Under  each  joy  we  gain; 

I  pass  the  gate  unquestioned,  yet 

Fardled  of  hope  we  strain 

I  feel  announced.    Broad  holm-oaks  make 

Whither  no  hope  may  know 

Dark  pools  of  restless  violet. 

Life  is  too  credulous 

Between  thick  bramble  banks  a  lake  — 

Of  Time  who  beckons  on. 

As  in  a  net 

Memory  still  serves  us  thus  — 

The  tangled  scales  twist—  silvers  glad. 

Gauging-  the  coming  dawn 

Gray,  mossy  turrets  swell  above 

By  a  day  dead  and  gone. 

The  feathering  foliage.    Leafy  clad 

Day  that's  a  part  of  us. 

Rise  ivied  walls.    A  spot  for  love. 

Soul  —  of  life's  sins  so  mocked. 

The  garden  sad. 

Clayed  in  the  flesh  and  held. 

Lean,  angular  windows,  awkward  seen 

Ever  rebellion  rocked. 

From  distant  lanes  with  hawthorn  hedged. 

Battling,  forever  quelled. 

Beam  broadly  on  the  nectarine 

Yearning  on  heaven  spelled 

Espaliered  and  the  peach-tree,  wedged 

Over  of  stars  —  lies  locked 

Twixt  drifts  of  green. 

Supine  where  torrents  pour 

Large  butterflies,  each  with  a  face 

Hellward;  on  crags  that  high. 

Of  Faery  on  its  wings,  recline  — 

Scarred  of  the  thunder,  gore 

Beheaded  pansies  blown  that  chase 

Heaven;,  the  vulture's  eye 

Each  other  —  down  the  shade  and  shine 

Swims,  and  the  harpies'  cry 

Boughs  interlace. 

Clangs  through  the  ocean's  roar. 

And  roses!  roses  soft  as  vair. 

Notes  of  seolian  light 

Glorying  o'er  statues  and  the  old 

Calling  it  hears  her  lips: 

Brass  dial;  Pompadours  that  wear 

Scorched  by  her  burning  white 

Their  royalty  of  purple  and  gold 

Arms  and  lier  armored  hips. 

With  saucy  air. 

Slimy  each  monster  slips 

Her  scarf,  her  lute,  whose  ribbons  breathe 

Back  to  its  native  night. 

The  perfume  of  her  touch;  her  gloves. 

Kules  she  some  brighter  star? 

Modeling  the  daintiness  they  sheathe; 

Inviolable  queen 

Her  fan,  a  Watteau,  gay  with  loves. 

Of  wliat  the  destinies  are? 

Lie  there  beneath 

She  with  her  light  unseen 
Leading  my  life;  a  sheen 

A  bank  of  eglantines  that  heaps 
A  sunny  blondness.    Naive-eyed, 

Loftier  than  beauty  far. 

With  lips  as  suave  as  they,  she  sleeps, 

Oh!  in  my  dreams  she  lies 

The  romance  by  her  open  wide 

With  me  and  fondles  me: 

O'er  which  she  weeps. 

*- 


*- 


» 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIOXAL   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


1226 


MRS.  RACHEL  B.  Rx\Y. 

Born:  Asdehson  Co.,  Ky.,  Jan.  3L1849. 
For  flftpoa  years  this  lady  taujrlit  school.  In 
1878  she  niarriod  Judgo  E.  R.  Kay,  and  now 
acts  as  secrot;iry  in  lier  liiisbaiid's  law  oflice 
atEuroUa  SpiiiiLr^,  Ai'l;.  Tin-  po.iii^  i.i"  Mr-^. 
I{;iy  havi.'    apprai'i'il    i:i    \\'i;iiai/>    '»\.'i:^    ■  i 


MliS.  KACIIEL   liEAZLKV    H\Y. 

Athens,  Ga.;  St.  Louis  Journal  of  Agricul- 
ture; American  Baptist, of  St.  Louis,  Mo.; 
and  many  other  prominent  publications. 
She  is  the  autlior  of  nearly  two  hundred 
poems,  which  have  always  received  the  high- 
est praise. 

LIFE'S  TURNINGS. 
I  saw  the  laugrhing-  baby. 

With  sparkHng-  eyes  of  blue; 
Witli  curling-,  yellow  ringlets. 

And  cheeks  of  rosy  hue  — 
Climb  up  and  kiss  his  mother 

And  lay  his  little  head 
To  rest  upon  her  bosom  — 

The  baby's  safest  bed. 

Again  I  saw  the  baby 

Wlien  he  almost  was  a  man. 
Stoop  down  and  say  to  mother, 

"Now  kiss  me  wliile  you  can; 
I've  something  nice  to  tell  you." 

His  mother's  his  best  friend, 
If  he  can't  tell  her  his  secrets. 

On  whom  can  he  depend? 


I  saw  the  self-sanio  baby 

When  his  life  was  in  its  prime  — 
Before  his  brow  was  furrowed 

By  the  hand  of  Father  Time; 
On  his  arm  was  feebly  leaning 

Hisdi'ur  motlier,  still  his  friend, 
But  their  lives  had  liad  a  turning. 

She  on  hitn  now  must  depend. 


WHEN  I  GROW  OLD. 
He  says  it  doesn't  matter 

If  my  hair  is  turning  gray; 
That  I'll  always  be  as  handsome 

As  I  am  just  now,  to-day. 

He  tells  me  that  he  loves  me, 
And  calls  me  good  and  kind; 

He  says  a  truer,  better  heart. 
He  ne'er  on  earth  could  find. 

I  know  it  isn't  flattery, 

Or  an  idle,  silly  song; 
'Tis  not  just  foolish  talking. 

For  he's  told  me  this  too  long. 

'Tis  love  from  out  a  fountain  — 
From  a  heart  that'll  ne'er  grow  cold; 

Oh!  what  a  bliss  in  knowing, 
I'll  be  loved  when  I  grow  old. 


LIFE. 
Stretched  out  wide  before  us 

Is  a  broad  and  mighty  sea; 
It  is  bounded  first  by  Time. 

By  the  next  —  Eternity. 
And  upon  its  crested  waters  float 
The  shapely  forms  of  many  a  boat 

Each  boat  should  have  an  anchor 

To  prevent  its  being  lost. 
When  tlie  billows  roll  around  it. 

And  it  is  so  tempest  tossed; 
The  cable  should  Ih'  gixid  and  strong - 
Plenty  of  cord  to  make  it  long. 

When  the  sun  is  shining  brightly 
And  the  craft  does  steady  float. 

Then  the  anchor  rests  securely 
On  the  dtck  of  every  lx)at ; 

But  when  the  raging  billows  roll. 

The  anchor  should  the  boatcontruL 

This  rolling  sea  before  us 

Is  the  mighty  sea  of  Life; 
Man  is  the  boat  upon  it.. 

And  the  anchor  is  his  wife; 
The  cable  tliat  unites  tlie  I  wo  — 
A  cord  of  love  and  should  be  true. 


9 


1226 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


EUREKA  AFTER  NIGHT. 
From  the  top  of  yonder  hill, 
With  the  night-ail-  crisp  and  chill; 
And  the  clouds  all  blown  away 
Just  as  evening  closed  the  day ; 
While  the  stars  were  shining-  bright, 
And  the  moon  was  out  of  sight, 
I  saw  Eureka,  wrapped  in  night. 

The  drum  had  stopped  its  thumping  play, 

The  noise  of  wheels  had  died  away; 

The  footman's  daily  busy  rush 

As  night  came  on  had  whispered  "  hush," 

And  Nature  with  repose  so  deep 

Had  rocked  the  city  fast  asleep 

With  only  stars  her  watch  to  keep. 

Lovely  city  of  the  hills. 
Full  of  sparkling  water  rills; 
Water  filling  manj'  a  cup, 
Caught  for  invalids  to  sup; 
Purest  water,  cold  and  chill. 
Trickling  from  the  rocky  hill 
In  the  city  calm  and  still. 

Eureka  is  a  lovely  sight, 

With  her  lights  all  shining  bright; 

Clothed  in  darkness  still  and  deep, 

In  her  cradle  fast  asleep; 

With  the  night-air  soft  and  still. 

And  the  music  of  the  rill 

From  the  top  of  j'onder  hill. 


THE  OLD  PIANO. 
You  say  they  want  it,  really?  it  was  the  best 

you  know. 
My  dear,  good,  old  piano,  I  regret  to  see  it 

go; 
Its  stood  there  in  the  corner,  where  its  stan- 

ingnow  so  long; 
And  it  always  has  been  ready  when  we  cared 

to  have  a  song. 

I  know  its  strings  are  rusty  and  a  gool  deal 

out  of  tune; 
How  long  you  say  I've  had  it?  Oh,  for  many 

and  many  a  June; 
Its  always  been  well  cared  for,I  fondly  loved 

it  so, 
My  dear,  good,  old  piano,  I  regret  to  see  it 

go. 

Its  tune  is  just  the  sweetest  that  I  know  I 

ever  heard. 
And  it  has  a  little  tremor  like  the  voice  of  a 

bird; 
If  I  ever  felt  quite  lonely,  or  in  other  words, 

was  blue, 
I'd  sit  down  close  beside  it  and  play  a  tune 

for  you. 


Would  that  revive  me?   yes,  indeed,  there 

joy  in  everj'  strain. 
And  almost  before  I'd  know  it,  I  would  I 

myself  again ;  \ 

That  blessed  old  piano's  been  the  solace  ( , 

my  heart. 
But  the  best  of  friends,  they  tell  me,  are  tl 

surest  doomed  to  part.  I 

i 
Then  the  children  always  loved  it,  it  was  Ne  ! 

lie's  chief  delight  | 

To  stand  beside  her  mother,  dearest  chill 

with  eyes  so  bright,  | 

And  watch  my  nimble  fingers  as  they  can  ■ 

lessly  would  stroll,  ; 

Hunting  music  on  the  keyboard  that  woul 

almost  fairly  roll.  ; 

I 

And  then  you  know  they  left  us,  one  by  on ; 

as  children  do. 
And  the  house  was  still  and  lonely,  just  mj  • 

self  at  home  and  you; 
And  you'd  sit  down  close  beside  me,  as  I  trie 

and  tried  each  day 
To  play  some  lively  pieces  that  would  driv 

the  gloom  away. 

My  fingers  now  are  stiffened  with  age  an 

care  and  pain. 
They'll  never  be  as  limber  as  they  used  to  b 

again; 
Its  keys  are  turning  yellow,  its  face  is  not  a 

bright. 
As  when  you  brought  it  home  to  me  tba 

lovely  summer  night. 

You  had  better  let  them  have  it,  it  will  be  o 

use  that  way. 
And  as  it  is,  its  rusting  more  and  more  ever. : 

day; 
Though  I  know  I'll  never  use  it,  I  regret  1 1 
see  it  go,  1 

The  dear,  good,  old  piano  I  have  always  love*  j 

it  so.  i 

1 
And  when  they  come  to  get  it  and  move  1; 

from  the  wall,  •  j 

I'll  have  a  table  ready,  bring  the  one  in  fron  | 

the  hall;  | 

Its  large,  you  know,  and  nearer  will  fill  thi 

vacant  space. 
But  there's  not  a  piece  of  furniture  cantaki 

its  dear  old  place. 

We  both  will  miss  it  sadly  because  I  liked  ti ; 

play. 
And  because  you  liked  to  listen  to  my  musii 

every  day ; 
We  both  will  feel  the  absence  of  its  sweet  am 

joyous  tone, 
'Twill  seem  as  if  a  member  of  the  family  i 

gone. 


* 


H)(  AL   AND    NATIONAL    I'OKTS   OK    AMEIUCA. 


11 


MARCUS  B.  ALLMOND,  A.  M. 

Born:  Stanaudsville,  Va.,  Al'o.  17, 1851. 
At  the  agre  of  twenty-one  tlie  siibjectof  this 
sketch  became  principal  of  the  Paris,  Mo., 
High  Scliool,  witli  si.v  assistants  and  372 
pupils.  The  followiiisr  j-ear  he  returned  to 
the  University  of  Virginia  and  completed  a 


MARCTTS  BLAKEV  ALLMOND,  A.  M. 

four  years'  course,  receiving'  high  honors 
and  a  fifty -dollar  gold  medal  for  the  best  ar- 
ticle in  the  college  magazine.  This  great 
scholar  for  many  years  was  professor  of  an- 
cient languages  in  the  Male  High  School  of 
Louisville,  Ky.,  and  is  now  head-master  of 
the  University  School  of  that  city.  He  mar- 
ried Miss  Virginia  C.  Meade,  a  teacher  and 
the  real  heroine  of  Prof.  AUmond's  famous 
poem  Estelle,  a  beautiful  story  in  verse  of 
some  fifty  pages,  which  wa.s  pulilished  in 
1884,in  book-form, together  with  other  poems, 
and  has  had  a  very  large  sale.  His  next 
work  was  Agricola,  an  Easter  Idyl;  and  has 
since  published  several  educational  works  of 
acknowledged  excellence.  Prof.  AUniond  has 
several  other  works  of  prose  and  verse  that 
will  soon  appear  in  book-form,  notably  Fair- 
fax, My  Lord;  Threnodies;  Miscellaneous 
Poems;  and  a  volume  of  Sketches  and  Short 
Stories.  His  family  consists  of  an  accom- 
plished wife, two  little  sons  and  one  daughter. 


A  CONSOLATION. 
If  the  bird  but  sing  its  sweetest. 

While  it  poises  on  the  wing; 
If  the  bud  IS  the  complctest 

In  the  rosy  wreath  of  Spring; 
If  the  dewdrop'.s  pearly  beauty 

Gives  new  joy  unto  the  leaf. 
This  is  life,  for  tlii.s  is  duty; 

This  is  life,  though  it  be  brief. 
In  a  thousand  tltousand  niornjws. 

Head  it  through  your  blinding  tears; 
Twenty  winters  with  their  sorrows 

Are  a  weary  length  of  years; 
Twenty  summers  with  their  flowers, 

With  their  birds  and  bees  and  braes; 
Are  but  one  of  all  the  lioiirs 

In  the  shortest  of  the  days. 


WORK  AND  WAIT. 
Would  you  know  the  golden  secret  that  has 

made  so  many  groat? 
Would  you  rise  from  out  a  lowly  to  .i  most 

exalted  state? 
Listen   and  I'll  tell  you,  friend,  how  — you 

must  work  and  you  must  wait. 
( 'iioose  some  good  road  you  would  follow  anil 

then  keep  it  to  the  end, 
I'nrebuffed  by  all  the  great  world,  be  it  foe 

or  be  it  friend ; 
Work  and  wait,  and  rich  fruition  on  your  la- 
bors will  attend. 
There  is  courage  in  the  leaping  to  the  can- 
non's deadly  roar  — 
There    is   manhoo<l    in    the   meeting  whom 

you've  never  met  before. 
And  upon  the  field  of   battle  proving  victor 

yet  once  more. 
But  who  works  and  working  waits  for  the 

dawn  in  its  due  time. 
Keeps  his  heart  all  pure  and  sweet,  and  his 

footsteps  set  to  rhyme. 
Shows  a  stouter  soul  within  andacounigo 

more  sublime. 
So,  my  friend,  if  you  would  fashion  your  own 

life  to  a  good  fate. 
There's  a  les^son   you  should  hei-d   well   ore 

that  lesson  bo  too  late; 
You  must  trust  toGml  alM)ve  you— you  must 

work  and  you  must  wait. 


QUATRAINS. 
Men  are  their  motives,  not  their  deeds; 

The  seeming  gixxl  Is  ill. 
The  seeming  ill.  'mid  woes  and  wc«ls 

May  be  the  best  g»H)d  still. 
To  the  pure  all  things  are  pure. 

They  act  in  light  of  day; 
With  heart  aright  and  ennscieneo  bright 

They  care  not  what  men  say. 


1228 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKKICA. 


HONOR. 
Boys,  Honor,  wear  it,  bear  it, 

Ever  keep  it  as  your  own ; 
Deem  yourselves  a  richer  treasure 

Tlian  a  king's  bejeweled  throne. 
Be  ye  masters  of  yourselves,  sirs, 

Be  ye  slaves  but  to  your  will; 
Love  the  right,  and  dare  to  do  it  — 

Thwarted  once,  attempt  it  still. 
Bow  not  to  the  tyrant.  Lucre, 

Look  him  firmly  in  tlie  eye. 
Say  '•  Mine  honor  is  mine  honor, 

For  mine  honor  I  will  die." 
What  is  life  without  the  knowledge 

That  our  name  is  free  from  stain? 
What's  a  soul  that  counteth  dollars 

All  in  life  that  we  must  gain? 
Oh !  our  fathers  in  this  Southland 

Long  have  loved  the  name  thej-  won; 
Long  have  kept  it  pure  and  stainless 

Under  gleam  of  brightest  sun. 
Rich  or  poor,  sirs,  bond  and  freemen. 

They  have  held  the  riglit,  the  right; 
Fought  the  money-monster  bravely 

In  a  free-hand,  open  fight. 
But  the  sinuous,  skulking  craven 

Gathers  new  strength  from  the  crj' 
Of  his  henchmen  who  are  shouting 

False  names  to  the  vaulted  sky. 
Hear  the  acclaim,  "  Hail  the  New  South !" 

"  Hail  the  saw-mill  and  the  loom !  " 
"  Hail  the  arts  of  money-making 

That  will  make  our  deserts  bloom !  " 
But  a  low  voice,  sweet  and  gentle. 

Whispers  at  our  side  and  says: 
Fear  the  entrance  of  deception. 

Fear  shrewd  TrafiBc's  dubious  ways; 
Brother  is  against  his  brother, 

Man  against  his  fellow-man. 
We  are  drifting  further,  further. 

From  the  great  World-muker's  plan. 
Money  has  but  money's  value. 

Virtue  is  not  bought  or  sold. 
And  a  nation's  wealth  is  reckoned 

From  her  people,  not  her  gold. 
Gold  is  but  a  means,  my  brothers; 

Life's  sweet  purpose  understood 
Is  that  man  shall  work  with  man  for 

Universal  fellowhood; 
And  a  cup  of  water  given 

To  the  needy,  out  of  sight. 
Shall  be  braver  than  to  perish 

In  the  forefront  of  the  fight; 
Shall  be  greater  than  the  building 

Of  proud  mansions  towering  high. 
Every  brick  of  which  entombs 

A  widow's  wail  or  orphan's  sigh. 


Better  is  the  heart  that  knowetli 

But  the  grace  of  a  good  deed 
Than  the  owner  of  wide  acres 

Gathered  by  the  hand  of  greed; 
Than  the  wearer  of  high  titles 

That  belie  the  wearer's  heart; 
Than  the  venal-hearted  creature 

Whose  success  is  skulking  art. 
Lying  is  not  all  in  words,  sirs, 

Acted  lies  are  worse  than  those. 
And  a  half  lie  is  still  stronger 

For  the  truth  it  may  enclose. 
Boys,  Honor,  wear  it,  bear  it. 

Ever  keep  it  as  your  own. 
Deem  yourselves  a  richer  treasure 

Than  a  king's  bejeweled  throne. 
Be  ye  masters  of  yourselves,  sirs. 

Be  ye  slaves  but  to  j-our  will; 
Love  the  right  and  dare  to  do  it  — 

Thwarted  once,  attempt  it  still. 
Bow  not  to  the  tyrant.  Lucre, 

Look  him  firmly  in  tlie  eye. 
Say  "Mine  honor  is  mine  honor, 

For  mine  honor  I  will  die." 
Money  has  but  money's  value. 

Virtue  is  not  bought  or  sold; 
And  a  nation's  wealth  is  reckoned 

From  her  people,  not  her  gold. 


EXTRACT  FROM  ..ESTELLE." 
Ah,  well!  those  lashes,  thej'  are  long 

And  cast  their  shadows  o'er  the  blue 
That  now  lies  hidden  (am  I  wrong? ) 

Beneath  those  lids,  just  out  of  view; 
And,  oh !  those  cheeks,  I  know  a  rose 

Has  stolen  from  its  parent-stem 
And  left  the  track  of  tiny  toes 

In  dimples  upon  each  of  tliem; 
And  lips,  Carnation's  own  they  seem  — 

Sweet,  daintj'  lips,  the  home  of  bliss - 
Such  lips  as  Fancy,  in  sweet  dream. 

Would  hover  round,  yet  fear  to  kiss; 
So  pure,  they  seem  for  angel-words 

The  trysting-place  and  holy  shrine, 
When  with  the  twitter,  as  of  birds. 

In  nuptial  joy  they  intertwine; 
And,  oh!  that  chin  so  neatly  turned, 

A  Grecian  artist,  yes,  the  best. 
With  silent  envy  would  have  burned 

To  see  the  skill  it  did  attest: 
And  brow!  it  rose  a  wreathe  of  white 

That  bordered  wide  a  wealth  of  tress 
That  now  in  sunny  beauty  light 

Fell  in  fair  folds  upon  lier  dress. 
The  wanton  breeze  with  lustful  glow 

Now  freshened  as  it  stroked  her  hair, 
And,  as  it  kissed  her  brow  of  snow. 

Declared  she  was  surpassing  fair. 


«• 


LOCAL   AND   NATIOXAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


1229 


EDWARD  T.   KIRSCHBAUM. 

Born:  New  Bedford,  Mass.,  Oct.  21, 1855. 
Under  tlie  nom  de  plume  of  Herr  Cliorry- 
tree,  Mr.   Kirschbaum   published   in  1889  a 
volume  of  Prose  and  Poetry  of  some  eighty 
pages,  and  the  •'oems  certainly  show  a  hig-li 


EDWARD  THOMPSON  KIRSCHBAUM. 

order  of  poetic  ability,  and  are  cliarming- in 
ilit'ir  simplicity  and  touching  pathos.  He 
was  married  in  1887  to  Miss  Myra  T.  Willard, 
and  is  still  a  resident  of  his  native  state  at 
North  Grafton. 


ARE  WE  PULLING  OTHERS  DOWN? 

In  this  world  of  fleeting-  chances, 

Where  we  all  desire  renown; 
Do  we  thrive  by  mean  advances, 

Are  we  pulling'  others  down? 
Rid  you  gain  your  place  by  merit. 

Have  you  worlsed  on  honest  ground;— 
Unassuming  is  the  ferret. 

Are  you  pulling  others  down? 
Are  you  sure  you  were  elected. 

Do  you  own  the  envied  crown;  — 
Have  you  craft  and  fraud  rejected, 

Are  you  pulling  others  down? 
Did  you  win  your  love  by  fairness. 

Was  your  suit  witli  irutli  profound:  — 
Have  you  left  no  lieart  in  sadness. 

Are  you  pulling  others  down? 


In  this  world  so  great  with  pleasure. 

Are  you  spreading  cares  around;  — 
Have  you  cruslied  some  struggling  creature. 

Are  you  pulling  others  down? 
Have  you  felt  tiie  pangs  of  hunger. 

Do  you  look  for  true  renown? 
Rise  by  helping  one  another. 

Love  can  never  pull  you  down. 
Lift  the  fallen,  soothe  the  wretched  I 

Let  your  life  witli  good  abound ;  — 
All  are  great  with  tliis  respected. 

None  shall  rise  by  pulling  down! 


MY  ALBUM. 
Tliere'san  album  on  my  table 

Filled  with  faces  j'oung  and  old;  — 
And  I  will,  where  I  am  able. 

Tell  j'ou  whom  these  pages  hold. 
Here  it  is  unclasped  and  open 

To  a  face  so  calm  atid  sweet;  — 
Of  one  who  has  gone  to  Heaven, 

And  'tis  her  I  hope  to  meet! 
'Tis  the  picture  of  my  mother 

That  now  fills  my  ej'es  with  tears  — 
When  I  thinli  she's  gone  forever. 

Or  I  live  again  in  years. 
How  the  scenes  come  up  before  me 

As  I  loolj  upon  thy  face; 
And  I  feel  his  truth  about  thee 

None  can  ever  fill  thy  place! 
Mother,  may  thy  spirit  guide  mo 

In  tlie  right  with  faultless  aim. 
'Twas  thegrcat  good  God  whocalled  thee. 

And  I  know  we'll  meet  again! 
Of  my  pieturers  none  are  dearer 

Than  the  one  I  hold  to  view. 
While  I  turn  upon  another 

With  a  heart  both  firm  and  true;  — 
'Tis  the  one  I  have  selected 

And  with  whom  I  weave  my  life, 
'Tis  the  one  whom  none  suspected 

I  would  make  my  wedded  wife. 
Now  I  dote  not  of  her  beauty 

Nor  a  figure  so  divine  — 
She  has  more  tlian  done  lier  duty 

And  met  me  half  way  every  time:  — 
If  'tis  style  and  handsome  creature 

That  you  want  in  life's  decline. 
You  will  find  you  lack  the  feature 

That  has  made  our  home  sublime 
For  a  life  of  peace  and  quiet 

In  our  humble  little  liome. 
Is  the  highest  in  our  diet 

And  an  aiming  all  our  own;  — 
For  the  flaslt  and  guilt  of  fashioa 

But  disturb  the  peaceful  tide, 
'Tis  an  optical  delusion 

Going  hand  and  hand  with  pride. 


*- 


1230 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  JANE  LUELLA  SMITH. 

Born:  Sheffield,  Mass.,  June  16, 184". 
At  the  age  of  eig-hteen  this  lady  graduated 
from  the  Westfleld  Normal  School.  After 
teaching-  school  for  a  year  she  entered  a 
Seminary  at  North  Granville,  N.  Y.,  where 
she  graduated  a  valcdictoriun  of  the  class  in 


IRS.  JANE  LTTET.IiA  D    SMITH. 

1868.  In  1884  she  spent  <i  J  cat  .ibroad  Mrs. 
Smith  has  taught  school  for  ten  years,  and 
has  been  principal  of  several  prominent 
schools.  She  was  married  in  18T5  to  Dr. 
Henry  H.  Smith,  and  now  resides  m  Hudson, 
N.  Y.  She  is  the  author  of  two  volumes  of 
verse  —  Wayside  Leaves,  published  in  1879; 
and  Wind  Flowers,  which  appeared  in  1887. 


*- 


THE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER. 
"  Holy  Virgin,  Vesta  sweet. 
See  me  kneeling  at  Thy  feet; 
Holy  Goddess,  meek  and  mild. 
Come  in  love  to  kiss  my  child ! 
Kiss  his  lips  that  lisping-  sweet. 
Precious  words  they  may  repeat: 
Saved  from  cruelty  and  guile. 
Won  to  Heaven  by  Thy  smile ! 
Kiss  his  eyes  that  never  night 
VwW  upon  their  sjiirit  sight; 
Saved  from  darkling,  fruitless  guest, 
Won  by  Thee  to  peace  and  rest! 


Kiss  the  forehead,  broad  and  fair. 
Give  him  wealth  of  learning  rare; 
Saved  from  ignorance  and  dread. 
Won  to  wisdom's  ways  instead! 
Kiss  his  hands  and  make  him  great 
In  the  deeds  that  consecrate; 
Saved  from  eartlily  works  that  fall. 
Won  to  build  his  castle  tall! 
Kiss  his  feet  that  they  may  climb 
Up  the  hills  of  God,  sublime; 
Saved  from  wandering  astray. 
Won  to  keep  the  upward  way! 

Vesta,  Goddess,  hear  my  prayer! 
Take  my  child  in  loving  care!  " 
Thus  a  mother,  bending  low. 
Prayed  to  Vesta,  long-  ago. 
Then  the  Goddess  kissed  him  sweet. 
Till  his  heart  had  ceased  to  beat; 
Saved  him  from  a  world  of  night. 
Led  him  to  the  Heavenly  heights. 
But  the  mother  wept  with  woe 
For  her  prayer  of  long  ago; 
Heeding  not  that  answer  given. 
Made  her  darling-  sure  of  Heaven. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  WIND. 
•  'What  does  the  wind  say?"    O  child! 
Its  voices  are  many  and  fierce  and  wild; 
Only  to  thee  it  is  whispering-  mild. 

And  telling  where  roses  are  red. 
To  some  it  is  sobbing  to-night. 
But  see!  It  has  blown  out  the  light; 
It  has  come  through  the  churchyard  -white, 

And  has  kissed  the  names  of  the  dead. 
To  some  it  tells  how  forests  quake, 
How  ocean  waves  in  surges  break; 
How  souls  have  prayed  for  Jesus'  sake. 

And  wrecks  have  strewn  the  shore  — 
How  noble  ships  were  overthown, 
(The  sea  receding  with  a  moan.) 
Anon,  the  sparkling  billows  shone. 

The  dead  returned  no  more. 
Some  hearts.as  it  shrieks,are  filled  with  .ear 
They  tremble  &  g-roan  at  the  voices  they  hear 
The  ghostsof  their  slain  arise  from  theirbiei 

And  will  not  be  quiet  again.        [breeze 
Tlieir  secret,  who  knows,  but  God  and  tin 
Tlie  winds  have  told  it  among-  the  trees. 
They  bear  it  afar  over  lands  and  seas  — 

At  last  to  the  dwellings  of  men. 
Whatever  in  thy  life  hath  been. 
Whatever  lives  thy  soul  within; 
Of  deep  remorse  or  secret  sin, 

Tliat  listening,  canst  thou  hear. 
Each  heart  must  hearken  in  amaze 
To  tones  that  echo  through  the  diiys. 
With  words  of  blame  or  voice  of  jiraise  — 

Wind-blown  through  all  the  year. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIO>JAL    POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


1231 


RKV.  EDWARD  P.  MARVIN. 

Rorn:  Rkthany,  N.Y.,  Dec.  13,  ia34. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  is  a  minister  of 
the  gospel,  eiiffiig-ed  in  that  profession  at 
Lockport,  N.  Y.,  where  he  is  %'ery  popular. 
Wliile  in  college  he  wrote  an  epic  entitled 
The  Wanderer  and  some  classical  traiisla- 


REV.  EnWARn   p.  MARVIN. 

tlons;  and  some  poems  appeared  from  his 
pen  while  in  the  Princeton  Theological  Sem- 
inary. He  has  since  contributed  quite  a  few 
fine  gems  to  current  literature.  Rev.  Ed- 
ward P.  Marvin  was  married  in  1863  to  Miss 
Caroline  A.  Hail,  and  now  has  an  interestiug 
family  of  several  children. 


THE  RETTEK  LAND. 
There  is  a  place  where  those  that  love 

May  meet  to  love  again; 
And  feel  in  tliat  reunion  sweet. 

They  have  not  loved  in  vain. 
There  is  a  clime  whose  genial  air 

Is  freighted  with  perfume: 
Whose  cloudless  skie»  are  ever  fair, 

And  fadeless  beauties  bloom. 
There  is  a  home  of  saints  in  light, 

Where  weary  souls  may  go; 


A  new  creation,  fair  and  bright. 

Redeemed  from  every  woe. 
There  is  a  bright,  angelic  train. 

Of  matchless  form  and  grace; 
Round  by  a  love  that  cannot  chang'o. 

Nor  time  can  e'er  efface. 
There  hearts  are  ever  young  and  warm. 

And  beat  forever  true; 
N"o  painful  sighs  the  bosom  harm. 

And  eyes  are  tearless,  too. 
There  sundered  souls  that  wept  and  pined 

Through  life's  long,  weary  way, 
Sliall  meet  and  full  fruition  find 

In  Heaven's  eternal  day. 


ONLY    WAITING. 
Only  waiting  for  a  letter. 

Only  waiting  for  a  word; 
Re  the  tidings  wt)rse  or  better. 

Some  relief  they  will  afford. 
Only  hoping  in  the  morning. 

Only  watching  still  at  eve; 
Wldle  no  tidings  come  to  cheer  me. 

And  my  anxious  heart  relieve. 
Much  in  wonder,  much  in  sadness. 

Doubling,  but  believing  still; 
Trusting  that  some  swt'et  to-morrow. 

May  my  heart  with  gladness  fill. 
Only  thinking  of  a  parting, 

Tlirough  the  long,  long,  weary  day; 
Only  hoping  for  a  meeting 

Tliat  shall  every  grief  repay. 
Only  dreaming,  nightly  dreaming. 

Of  a  cherished  absent  one; 
Changed,  or  dead,  or  hap'ly  weeping, 

As  1  weep,  alone,  alone. 
Only  waiting  for  a  letter. 

Only  waiting  for  a  word; 
Re  the  tidings  worse  or  better. 

Some  relief  they  will  afford. 

GUKETIXG. 
We  shall  meet  in  Heaven's  morning. 

When  earth's  niglit  lias  pa.ssed  away. 
We  shall  hail  the  radiant  dawning 

Of  the  Resurrection  Day; 
When  the  Lord  shall  come  in  glory. 

With  our  loved  ones  giine  before; 
Then  beyond  life's  finished  story. 

We  shall  meet  to  part  no  more. 
We  shall  meet  with  wondnuis  rupture. 

Clothed  in  rare  and  ntdiant  hlonin; 
Like  our  glorious  I.ord  transtlgure^l. 

All  immortal  fmni  the  tomb. 
HIessed  all  who  love  His  coming, 

Calle<l  unto  the  feast  above; 
In  the  city  bright  and  golden. 

And  the  clime  of  changeless  love.    • 


*- 


1232 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL,   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


REV.  WILLIAM  T.  SLEEPER. 

Born:  Danbury,  N.  H.,  Feb.  9, 1819. 
This  gentleman  is  the  author  of  Walks  and 
Talks,  and  The  Rejected  Kinff  and  Hymns  of 
Jesus.     Mr.  Sleeper  is  a,  Con.tii'erational  niin- 


REV.  WILLI \M  TRUE   SLEEPER. 

ister  and  has  held  pastorates  in  numerous 
Eastern  cities.  He  was  married  in  1853  to 
Miss  Emily  E.  Taylor,  and  has  two  sons  and 
one  daug-hter  grown  to  maturity. 

LIFE   IN  DEATH. 
The  faithful  farmer  plows  the  sod 
In  heat  and  cold,  his  trust  in  God. 
Broadcast  he  sows  the  golden  grain, 
And  waits  the  winter's  sleet  and  rain. 
The  fields  from  which  he  hopes  to  reap 
Beneath  the  snow  are  buried  deep. 

At  length  the  birds  begin  to  sing; 
Winter  is  gone,  and  cometh  spring. 
From  seeds  long  hidden  in  the  ground 
An  ample  harvest  now  is  found. 
By  death  the  little  grains  of  gold 
Are  multiplied  a  hundredfold. 

A  thousandfold  that  man  shall  live 

Whose  joy  it  is  his  life  to  give. 

By  labor,  pain  and  sacrifice 

God's  wheat  is  garnered  in  tlie  skies. 

Comes  greatest  gain  from  greatest  loss, 

And  glory  crowns  the  sternest  cross. 


MY  LITTLE  BIRD. 
My  little  bird  while  in  the  light 

Could  never  sing  my  song, 
Though  tenderly  I  sang  to  him. 

And  patiently  and  long. 

Sometimes  a  strain  or  two  he  caught. 

Anon  he  lost  the  air. 
And  mingled  with  the  other  strains 

He  picked  up  here  and  there. 

At  last  a  curtain  thick  I  laid 

Above  mj'  wayward  bird. 
Then  sang  the  song  I  chose  for  him, 

While  in  the  dark  he  heard. 

Shut  in  from  luring  sights  and  sounds 
He  learned  to  sing  my  song, 

And  in  the  light  he  poured  it  forth 
In  cadence  sweet  and  strong. 

There  is  a  song  the  Lord  would  have 

His  dear  disciples  learn. 
But  when  the  world  is  bright  to  them. 

To  worldly  songs  they  turn. 

And  notes  of  revelry  and  mirth 
They  mingle  with  the  strains. 

The  Master  long  was  teaching  them 
With  love's  unsparing  pains. 

Then  clouds  of  sorrow  o'er  their  homes 

He  doth  in  mercy  bring, 
And  shut  in  gloom  at  length  they  learn 

The  song  He'd  have  them  sing  — 

The  song  of  love  and  peace  and  trust. 
On  earth  their  sweetest  song ; 

The  song  of  songs  in  realms  of  light 
With  all  the  joyful  throng. 


THE  BORDER-LAND. 

Waiting  in  the  Border-Land 

To  receive  the  Lord's  command  — 

"  Cross  the  boundary  between 

Earthly  things  and  things  unseen  "- 

Strains  of  music,  sweet  and  clear, 

From  the  Home-Land,  reach  the  ear: 

••  We  are  coming  from  the  King 

Home  His  ransomed  ones  to  bring; 

Singing,  singing  as  we  come 

To  conduct  His  loved  ones  home." 

Calm  and  patiently  wo  wait 
Just  this  side  the  Pearly  Gate. 
Though  the  "Silver  cord  "  be  frail. 
And  "the  golden  bowl  "  may  fail. 
Yet  we  sorrow  not,  nor  fear. 
For  sweet  voices  reacli  the  ear: 
II  We  are  coming  from  the  King 
Homo  His  ransomed  ones  to  bring; 
Singing,  siugitig  as  we  come 
To  conduct  His  loved  ones  home." 


*- 


LOCAL   AND    NAIIONAL    I'OETS  VV   AMEUICA. 


12:^3 


JAMES  TERRY  WHITE. 

Born  :  Newbuhvpoiit,  Mass.,  July  :J.  1845. 
After  receiving  his  education  Mr.  White  re- 
moved to  the  Pacific  Coast  where  he  became 
connected  witlj  the  publisliing  house  of 
H.  H.  Bancroft.  San  Francisco,  Cat.  He  re- 
mained with  this  firm  for  tea  year,  and  in 


*- 


JAXreS  TERRY  WHITE. 

18T3  lie  severed  liis  connection  and  became 
the  general  agent  and  nriuager  of  Appleton 
&  Co.,  on  the  Pacific  Coait.  lu  1886  lie  came 
to  New  York  City,  and  is  now  the  head  of  tlie 
publishing  house  of  James  T.  Wliite&Co.. 
which  has  within  tlie  space  of  five  years 
achieved  such  a  measure  of  success  as  to 
command  a  commercial  rating  second  to 
none  of  tlie  publisliing  houses  of  New  York. 
He  is  also  president  of  tlie  Yost  Typewriting 
Co.,  and  a  stockliolder  in  several  of  the 
banks  and  business  corporations  of  hiscity. 
Mr.  White  is  the  author  ol  two  holiday  vol- 
umes—Flowers  from  Arcadia,  and  A  Bou- 
quet of  California  Flowers;  and  his  numer- 
ous other  poems  have  been  a  valuable  ac- 
quisition to  current  literature.  He  was 
married  in  1869  to  Miss  Florence  C.  Derby, 
and  has  four  children;  his  eldest  boy,  who  is  i 
nearly  twenty-<_)ne  years  of  age.  has  become  j 
his  companion  and  partner  in  the  publishing  I 


business.  Mr.White lives  happily  inabeauti- 
f  ul  residence  in  Upper  New  York.overlookiug 
the  Hudson  Uiver  and  Klvirside  Park. 


LAUREL  BLOSSOMS. 
These  (lowers  of  June, 
The  gates  of  memory  unlmr: 
These  flowers  of  June, 
Such  old-time  harmonies  reiunc; 
1  fain  could  keep  the  gates  ajar  — 
So  full  of  sweet  enchantment  are 
These  flowers  of  June. 


A  BIRTHDAY  GREETING. 
Between  these  leaves  a  fruitage  grows 
Which  with  eternal  sunshine  glows; 
It  cheers  the  heart,  delights  the  eye. 
And  teaches  what  paternal  ties 
God's  thoughts,  in  Nature's  care,  disclose. 

Besides  this  harvest,  which  bestows 
On  all  refreshments  and  reiK>se, 
For  you  another  hidden  lies 

Between  these  leaves:  — 

Friendship,  not  touched  by  winter  snows: 
Ripened  affection  whieli  outgrows 

Tliis  earthly  clime,  and  death  defies; 

And  memories  — these  but  comprise 
A  little  of  what  my  tlioughts  enclose 
Betwi'iii  these  leaves. 


A  CHRISTMAS  GREETING. 

Tlie  Christmas  bells  from  hill  and  tower 
To-night  their  benedictions  shower; 
And  on  the  waves  of  their  sweet  chimes. 
Fond  thoughts  of  home  and  olden  times 
Set  sail  through  memory's  Golden  Gate; 
Deep  laden  with  loves  precious  freight. 
They  speed  their  liomeward  courMj  to-night. 
Across  the  sea  with  Ariel  flight. 

O  jou,  who  wait  returning  sails. 
Wliose  eyes  hope  long-tiefern.'d  o'erveils 
With  lowering  clouds,  lake  heart  agtiinl 
For  lo!  unseen  through  mist  and  rain 
Of  tears,  a  thousand  whiti^wingi-d  keels. 
Afloat  on  billowy  Christmas  peals. 
Seek  haven  in  your  hearts  to-night. 
Home  guided  by  love's  beacon  light. 

Dear  friends,  though  sundered  far  and  wide; 
Though  varied  quests  our  thouglits  divide. 
May  the.se  rich  argosies  of  love 
My  tender,  faithful  memory  pnivo; 
May  they  to-night  new  love  awake. 
And  in  this  festive  season  make 
Your  hearts  forget  the  old  farewells. 
In  greetings  brought  by  Christmas  bell*. 


*- 


1234 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AWERICA. 


NEMOPHILA. 

ADMIRATION. 

••  Sweetest  es'es  were  ever  seen." 

Could  the  Poet  e'er  devise 
Daintier  praise, —  than  gave  Catrine 
Sweetest  eyes? 

And  which  are  the  sweetest  eyes? 

Soft  and  melting-,  lustrous,  keen. 
Merry, —  or  demure  and  wise? 

Eyes  that  shine  with  light  serene, 

Mirrored  from  Love's  happy  skies,- 
Like  thine  own,  dear,— are,  I  ween, 
Sweetest  eyes. 


COLUMBINE. 


ENTANGLEMENT. 

O  Bee-kissed  Columbine, 

Tell  this  sweet  friend  of  mine 

That  she. 

Like  thee. 
Hath  ruby  lip 
Where  I  would  sip. 

Like  wanton  bee. 

And  too,  like  thee. 
She  bends  her  lily  head 
And  smiles, —  but  ties 
My  heart  with  subtle  thread 
Drawn  from  her  eyes. 

She  prisons  me,— 

But  then,  ah  me! 
Her  dungeon  takes  from  me 
All  wish  for  liberty: 

Her  sweet  bond  blesses  me. 
Her  stiiile  caresses  me. 
And  in  her  gentle  heart  I  lie 

At  rest. 

Caressed 
By  Loves  delicious  lullaby. 


TRICOSTEMA. 

ENTREATY. 

Abide  with  me,  O  gentle  guest! 

Thy  presetice  brings  to  me  sweet  rest; 

Thy  hands  bring  soothing  to  my  brow; 

Thy  words  such  sympathy  avow. 
Thy  going  leaves  me  all  unblest. 
Still  fairer  shall  thy  bower  be  dressed: 
Anticipated  each  request; 

One  song  thy  life  shall  be,  if  thou 
Abide  with  me. 
I  would  not  longer  have  thee  guest; 
1  cannot  hold  thee  uncaressed 

So  near  my  heart:    Sweet  love,  be  tljou 

My  bride;  Love's  tend'restname  allow. 
And  ever  in  his  liappy  rest 
Abide  with  me. 


MARIPOSA  LILY. 

SOLICITUDE. 

Like  one  of  these.  Art  hath  not  made 
Attire  that  can  our  eyes  so  please; 
E'en  Solomon  was  not  arrayed 

Like  one  of  these. 

Consider  how  they  grow  in  ease 

And  leisure,  dancing  in  the  glade 
Like  butterflies  upon  the  breeze. 

Then  be  not  thou  with  burdens  weighed; 

If  He  a  flower's  need  o'ersees 
Thou  too  Shalt  on  His  care  be  laid 
Like  one  of  these. 


CLEMATIS. 

TRUST. 


If  hearts  are  dust,  hearts'  loves  remain. 
And  somewhere,  far  above  the  plane 
Of  e;irthly  thought,  beyond  the  sea 
That  bounds  this  life,  they  will  meet  thee 
And  hold  thee  face  to  face  again. 


in, 


And  when  is  done  Life's  restless  rei^ 
If  I  hereafter  but  regain 
Heart's  love,  why  should  I  troubled  be. 
If  hearts  are  dust? 

By  Love's  indissoluble  chain, 
I  know  the  grav'edoes  not  detain 

Heart's  love.    The  very  faith  in  me 

Is  pledged  ot  an  eternity. 
Where  I  shall  find  heart's  love  again. 
If  hearts  are  dust. 


THANKSGIVING. 

Within  our  hearts  what  memories  dwell 

To-day,  and  a  new  love  compel! 
The  by-gone  days  return  with  only  thedr 
Remembered  tenderness,  and  unaware 

Of  age  and  change  the  old-time  love  retell. 

But  while  we  feast  we  cannot  quite  dispel 
Regrets  for  lost  ones  whom  we  love  so  we! 
Yet  why  thus  grieve?    Here  is  no  vacai 
chair 

Within  our  hearts. 

Oh !  friends,  does  not  this  constant  love  foi 

tell 
A  future  greeting  for  each  last  farewell? 
Even  to-day  we  trod  the  Heavenly  stair, 
And  now  their  immortality  we  share. 
If  our  beloved  ones  forever  dwell 
Within  our  hearts. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


V2:V) 


MRS.  MARY  E.IRELAND. 

Bokn:  Cecil  Co.,  Md. 
This  lady  is  tlie  aut  lior  of  many  short  stories 
and  serials,  two  ol' whicli  have  taken  prizes; 
while  several  oiliers  were  embodied  in  a 
novel  publislied  under  the  title  of  Timothy 
— His  Neighbors  and  his.  Friends.    Mrs.  Ire- 


MRS.  MARY  E.  IRELAND. 

land  beg-an  translating  books  in  1884,  and 
since  then  she  has  published  several  volumes, 
while  several  other  translations  of  her's  are 
now  in  press.  Her  poems  have  constantly 
appeared  in  current  literature  and  various 
popular  collections,  from  which  they  liave 
been  extensively  copied  by  the  periodical 
press  generally.  She  is  the  wife  of  Jolm  M. 
Ireland,  of  Kent  Co.,  Md..  who  for  many 
years  was  in  business  in  Baltimore,  but  now 
resides  in  Washitigton,  D.  C,  with  bis  wife, 
son  and  daughter. 

ELYSIAN  HOURS. 

Some  days,  in  this  prosaic,  earnest  life. 
Insentient  things  conspire  to  give  us  joy: 
The  oft-time  dross  is  gold  without  alloy. 

Within,  without,  no  elements  in  strife; 

No  sad  presentiments;  no  warnings  rife 
Of  danger  for  us;  nor  is  Nature  coy: 
But  jubilant,  like  any  happy  boy. 

She  celebrates  our  peace  with  drum  and  flfe, 

For  on  such  days  so  joyous,  yet  serene. 
The  song  of  bird  seems  sweeter,  skies  more 
blue; 


The  air  ethereal;  flowers  radiant  gleam, 
Tiic    dew    more    pearly;    clearer     meadow 
stream;  [ime. 

Our  homes  more  restful, all  our  friends  more 

Tliose  days  are  heralds  of  the  Life  unseen. 


AT  THE  PARTY. 

I  gave  her  a  rose,  so  sweet,  so  fair; 
She  picked  it  to  pieces  while  standing  there. 
I  praised  the  deep-blue  of  licr  starry  eyes; 
She  turned  them  upon  me  in  cold  surprise. 
Her  white  hand  1  kissed  in  a  transport  of  love, 
My  kiss  she  effaced  with  lier  snowy  glove. 
1  touched  a  soft  ringlet  of  golden-brown: 
She  rebuked  my  daring  with  haughty  fn.wn. 
I  asked  hertodanrein  most  penitent  lono; 
On  the  arm  of  a  rival  she  left  me  alone. 
This  gave  me  a  hint;  I  veered  from  my  track 
And  waltzed  with  an  heiress  to  win  my  love 

back. 
I  carried  her  fan,  and  indulged  in  a  sigh; 
And  whispered  sweet  things  when  my  loved 

one  was  nigh. 
It  worked  like  a  charm;  oh,  joy  of  my  life, 
This  stratagem  wins  me  a  sweet  little  wife. 

OX  THE  CHESAPEAKE 
Thank  you  for  your  pity,  stranger,  that  my 

life  upon  tiie  Bay 
Is  so  full  of  toil  and  danger,audno  pleasures, 

as  you  say ; 
There  are  two  sides  to  that  picture,  one  so 

clear  and  warm  and  bright. 
That  it  truly  hides  the  other,  as  the  dear  sun 

hides  the  night. 
I've  a  cheery  little  cottage,  loving  wife  and 

children  three; 
And  I    know   this    very  moment  they  are 

watching  out  for  me; 
In  an  hour,  if  God  so  will  it.  I  shall  be  with 

them  again. 
And  the  welcome  of  their  kisses  will  refresh 

like  summer  rain. 
All  my  toil  will  be  forgotten  in  the  comfort 

of  my  hearth. 
And  the  pat  of  tiny  footsteps  be  the  sweetest 

sound  on  earth. 
Our  supper  will  be  frugal;  but,  prepared 

with  lovinc  liand. 
No  king  could  feast  more  royally,  with  king- 
doms at  command. 
Yes,  we  struggle  for  our  living,  have  our 

trials  here  and  there.  [any  wliere. 

But  trusting  to  our  Savior  we  are  happy 
Thank  you  for  your  pity,  stranger,  but  its 

needed  not  by  me. 
Give  it  to  some  lonely  creature,  without  wife 

and  children  three. 


-* 


m 


1236 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


PROF.  VIRGIL  A.PINKLEY. 

Born:  Gibard,  III.,  Feb.  18,1852. 
From  earl3-  childhood  Mr.Pinkley  manifested 
an  interest  in  the  art  of  elocution  and  ora- 
tory, and  is  now  director  of  elocution  and  ora- 
tory in  the  College  of  Music  of  Cincinnati. 


PROF.  VIRGIL   A.  PINKLEY. 

Besides  his  numerous  poems,  lie  is  the  author 
of  a  standard  work  entitled  Essentials  of 
Elocution  and  Oratory,  and  is  fast  gaining  a 
national  reputation  on  the  platform. 


*- 


BETTER  THAN  GOLD. 

Better  than  gold  in  the  miser's  grasp, 
Better  than  gold  in  the  mean  man's  clasp; 
Better  than  gold  which  the  rich  man  hords; 
Better  than  perishing  gold  affords,— 

In  charity  with  open  hand. 

Extending  aid  throughout  the  land; 

Yea,  better  than  the  miser's  gold 

Is  charity  —  a  thousand-fold. 

Better  than  gold  is  the  word  of  cheer. 
Banished  far  from  the  heart  the  tear; 
Better  than  gold  is  a  kindly  deed, 
Bettering  tlie  man  in  the  hour  of  need. 
And  better  far  a  cheerful  life 
Than  gold  obtained  through  toil  and  strife, 
A  word  of  cheer  is  wealth  untold. 
And  better  than  the  miser's  gold. 
Better  than  gold  is  the  wealth  we  reap. 
Garnered  from  knowledge  that's  broad  and 
Better  than  gold  is  a  cultured  mien,    [deep; 
Sweetening  life  from  a  source  unseen. 
And  better  far  than  gold  refined 
Is  wisdom  gleaned  to  bless  mankind; 
A  knowledge  deep  is  wealth  untold, 
And  better  far  than  miser's  gold. 


Better  than  gold  is  a  conscience  clear. 
Knowing  not  sorrow,  remorse  or  fear;  \ 

Coming  to  few  as  a  happy  lot. 
Of  tener  found  in  the  poor  man's  cot  \ 

Than  in  the  homes  of  the  rich  and  great, , 
Or  in  the  halls  of  high  estate.  j 

A  conscience  clear  is  joy  untold,  '  ! 

And  better  than  the  miser's  gold. 
Better  than  all  that  is  born  of  gold. 
Better  is  health  bj-  a  thousand  fold; 
Better  is  virtue,  and  hope,  and  rest. 
Better  is  love,  as  a  faithful  guest. 

To  have  a  heart  that's  warm  within; 
To  live  a  life  unstained  bj'  sin ; 
To  dare  the  right  with  courage  bold, 
Is  better  far  than  hoarding  gold. 


THE  MODEL  AMERICAN  GIRL. 
A  practical,  plain  young  girl; 
Not-afraid-of-the-rain  young  girl; 

A  poetical  poesy, 

A  ruddy  and  rosj% 
A  helper-of-self  young  girl. 
At-home-in-her-place  young  girl; 
A-never-will-lace  young  girl; 

A  toiler  serene,  ' 

A  life  pure  and  clean, 
A  princess-of-peace  young  girl. 
A  wear-her-own-hair  young  girl; 
A  free-from-a-stare  young  girl; 

Improves  everj'  hour. 

No  pale  parlor  flower, 
A  wealth-of-rare-sense  young  girl. 
Plenty-room-in-the-shoes  young  girl; 
A  free-from-the-blues  young  girl; 

Not  a  bang  on  her  brow. 

To  fraud,  not  a  bow; 
She's-just-what-she-seems  young  girl. 

Not-a-reader-of-trash  young  girl; 
Not-a-cheap-jeweled  flash  young  girl; 

Not  a  sipper  of  rum. 

Not  a  chewer  of  gum, 
A  marvel-of-seuse  young  girl. 
An  early-retiring  young  girl; 
An  active-aspiring  young  girl; 

A  morning  ariser, 

A  dandy  despiser, 
A  progressive-American  girl. 
A  lover-of-prose  young  girl; 
Not-a-turn-up-your-iiose  young  girl; 

Not  given  to  splutter. 

Not  "Utterly  utter," 
But  a  matter-of-fact  young  girl. 
A  riglitly-ambitious  young  girl; 
Red  lips-most-delicious  young  girl; 

A  sparkling  clear  eye. 

That  says,  «•  I  will  try," 
A  sure-to-succeed  young  girl. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND    NATIONAI,    I'OETS   OF    AMKItlCA. 


1237 


An  honestly-courting'  younp  girl; 
A  never-seon-flirting  young  girl; 

A  quiet  and  pure, 

A  modest,  demure, 
A  flt-for-a-wife  youug  girl. 

A  sought'cvory where  young  girl; 
A  future-most-fiiir  young  girl; 

An  ever-discreet. 

We  too-seldom-meet. 
This  queeu-amoug-qucens  youug  girl. 


ADAM  SC HOLES. 

This  well-knDwn  author  and  poet  has  con- 
tributed some  fine  gems  to  current  literature, 
and  his  poems  always  received  the  highest 
praise  from  press  and  public.  Mr.  Scholes 
is  a  resident  of  Detroit,  where  he  is  very 
popular. 


*- 


MY  BLACK  AND  TAN. 
My  constant  friend,  my  faithful  Dot  I 
My  little  friend  is  not  forgot  — 

Forget  1  never  can. 
How  slie  would  lie  down  by  my  side 
And  guard  me  with  a  jealous  prida  — 

My  faithful  black  and  tan. 

My  fond  companion  night  and  day. 
Content  alone  with  me  to  stay. 

Her  friendship  was  no  sham  /- 
And  in  the  house  or  on  the  street 
She  ne'er  was  far  from  master's  feet  — 

My  faithful  black  and  tan. 

Poor  little  Dot !  Her  life  is  o'er. 

She  ne'er  will  meet  her  master  more. 

Or  witli  joy  lick  his  hand. 
Ah !  Do  not  think  my  mind  is  weak. 
Though  tears  may  have  suffused  my  cheek 

For  my  poor  black  and  tan. 

Her  love  was  pure,  it  ne'er  grew  cold  — 
Unlike  the  love  that's  bought  and  sold. 

Which  only  good  can  fan 
Into  the  semblance  of  a  flame. 
My  dog  such  love  could  put  to  shame  — 
My  poor,  dear  black  and  tan. 

Her  memorj'  now  is  all  that's  left! 
Forgive  me  if  I  feel  l)creft. 

Nor  think  me  loss  a  man. 
I'll  ne'er  forget  her  winning  ways  — 
My  friend  through  dark  and  lonely  days  — 

My  poor,  dear  black  and  tan. 


NEWTON  S.  BAILEY. 

Rokn:  Wem.sdoro,  Pa.,  May  \  WA. 
Aftek  receiving  his  education  Mr.  liallcy 
entered  the  tlcld  of  Journalism,  and  Is  now 
editor  of  the  Daily  News  of  Hellefonlo,  Pa. 
About  one  hundred  of  his  poems  have  a|>- 
peared  from  time  to  time  in  the  leading 
papers  of  his  native  stale. 

THE  FOURTH. 
Once  more  drawing  very  nigh 
Ct)mes  the  great  Fourth  of  July, 
When  in  a  grand,  noisy  way 
We're  acousionu'd  to  display. 
With  a  patriotic  song. 
Drawn  out  deep  and  loud  .••.nd  long. 
How  our  freedom  wjis  bought  dear 
By  brave  men  who  knew  not  fear. 
Then,  although  in  numbers  few. 
To  convictions  they  were  true. 
And  with  grand,  united  might. 
Valiantly  the  foe  did  fight; 
Con<iuering  thai  Flritisli  host 
Which,  with  pt)mp  and  show  and  boast. 
Came  across  the  oi-ean  blue 
Our  few  colonies  to  subdue. 
Many  years  have  passed  away 
Since  that  memorable  day. 
When  our  fathers  did  declare 
That  before  the  world  the.v  were 
Then  (in  numbers  ten  and  three) 
States  insep'rable  and  free: 
That  the  British  they'd  defy. 
Or  in  doing  so  would  die. 
In  brave  words  of  living  llamo 
They  extolled  bright  freedom's  name. 
And  appended  t<i  the  scroll 
Names  which  form  a  brilliant  roll. 
Names,  i>erhaps,  we  ne'er  can  find 
Bold  and  clear  as  these  were  signed; 
The  first,  like  Gibralter's  rock. 
Stood  out  clearly  —  ••John  Hancock.' 
We  will  ne'er  forget  that  day. 
Though  it  long  has  passinl  away; 
And  though  ages  now  have  gone 
'Tis  tlie  burden  of  our  song. 
The  long,  silent  mists  of  time 
But  add  to  the  tuneful  rhyme. 
In  which  we  each  gallant  deed 
Crown  with  praises  its  full  meed. 
.\s  wo  celebrate  the  day. 
From  nnl  morn  till  twilight  gray; 
As  we  inspiration  feel 
From  our  patriotic  zeal. 
As  we  with  elo<iuent  tongue 
Tell  our  thoughts  and  strain  our  lung: 
As  wo  each  perform  onr  part 
Let  it  bo  with  thankful  heart. 


*- 


1238 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


— •?• 


MRS.  NAOMI  M.PHELPS. 

Born:  Jacksomtown,  Ohio,  1843. 
The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  quite 
extensively  in  the  periodical  press.  Her 
poems  are  considered  beautiful  in  both 
thought  and  versification,  and  her  verses 
have  always  beeu  (.■xteusively  copir-d  by  the 


MRS.  NAOl^n  M.  PHELPS. 

local  press  throughout  the  West.  She  lived 
in  San  Francisco  for  six  years,  and  spent  ten 
years  in  the  state  of  Kansas  — removing  to 
Idaho  Territory  in  1880,  where  she  still  re- 
sides in  Mountain  Home. 


« 


THE  FORTUNATE  ISLES. 
Ah,  if  we  only  knew 
When  seas  are  calm  and  skies  are  blue. 
And  the  golden  sun  of  our  youth-time  smiles 
The  sure  true  way  to  those  fortunate  isles. 
We  pointed  the  plow  and  trimm.ed  the  sail. 
She  sped  like  a  bird  in  the  fresh'ning  gale. 
No  devious  channels,  but  straight,  smooth 
No  rolling  billows,  no  veering  breeze,    [seas. 
Onward,  onward  our  bark  still  sped 
Till  over  our  skies  the  dark  clouds  spread. 
And  wild  wind.s  shrieked  through  the  stream- 
ing sail  Ljrale, 
That  shivered  to  shreds  in  the  mad  fierce 
While  wild  waves  over  our  bulwarks  broke. 
Seamed  and  rent  was  the  heart  of  oak, 
And  the  soul  cried,  lost 'mid  the  watery  miles. 
Lost,  lost  the  way  to  the  fortunate  isles. 


Then  the  eyes  went  back  o'er  the  watery 

track. 
Blinded  away  by  the  flying  wreck, 
To  find  the  spot  in  those  watery  miles 
We  had  steered  away  from  those  fortunate 

isles. 
Found  — where  the  waves  of  ambition  ride 
In  soft,  smooth  swells  o'er  the  sea  of  pride. 
While  the  loug,whlte  straits  of  acalm.smooth 

sea 
Was  hid  from  our  eyes  by  vanity. 

We  did  look  back  —  and  the  gravestones  led' 
Up  and  away  from  the  slumberous  dead. 
Way-marks  for  us  who  with  compass  lost: 
Up  and  down  on  a  wild  sea  toss'd 
A  battered  hulk,  returned  again 
0"er  the  seething,  foaming  main. 
With  tattered  sails  and  splintered  spars 
Searched  for  the  light  of  the  twilight  stars. 
Looked  for  the  gleam  of  the  "moon's  white 

shore," 
Seen  in  the  beautiful  long  before; 
Faded  away  in  the  twilight's  mist. 
The  golden  shores  that  our  hopes  had  kissed. 
Ere  we  steered  from  our  course  in  the  glare 

of  daj-, 
From  the  fortunate  isles  away,  away. 
Ah,  if  we  only  knew 
When  seas  are  calm  and  skies  are  blue. 
And  the  golden  sun  of  our  youth-time  smiles. 
The  sure,  true  way  to  those  fortunate  isles. 


CHARLES  H.WILLIAMS. 

Born  :  Carlton  Center,  Mich.,  Jan.  11, 1867 
Mr.  Williams  is  engaged  in  farming  in  liis 
native  state  at  Stittsville.  He  has  written 
quite  a  few  poems  for  the  local  press. 


TO  ONE  BELOVED. 
Tlie  one  we  love  has  gone. 

The  angels  carried  her  away; 
Her  work  on  earth  being  done. 

They  took  her  to  Heaven  to  stay. 

She  has  crossed  the  threshold  of  death. 

The  same  we  some  day  will  trend; 
Her  spirit  went  with  the  fleeting  breath. 

And  her  form  is  laid  in  its  narrow  bed. 
It  was  hard  to  part  w'th  onr  love. 

Her  voice  will  be  heard  no  more; 
She  has  gone  to  Heaven  above. 

To  live  with  the  blessed  and  pure. 

Her  spirit  is  beyond  the  misty  horizon. 
In  that  sweet  and  happy  home; 

Wliere  before  God's  tlirone, 
Slio'll  sing  many  a  beautiful  orison. 


*- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OK   AMEUICA. 


1239 


THERON  BROWX. 

Born:  Williamantic,  Conn.,  April  29, 18:32. 
This  editor  and  poet  was  ordained  as  a 
minister  iu  1859  and  preaciied  for  ten  years, 
wlien  lie  turned  his  attention  to  literary  and 
editorial  work,  and  for  over  twenty  years 
has  been  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Youtli's 
Companion.  He  has  written  over  two  liun- 
dred  poems,  and  they  have  received  puliiiea- 
tion  in  the  leading  newspapers  and  magazi  ties 
of  America.  Mr.  Brown  was  married  in  1859 
to  Miss  Helen  M.  Preston,  and  of  tlic  two 
children,  tlie  daughter  alone  is  living,  Helen 
Preston,  born  in  1865. 


THE  SUN  IN  LIBRA. 
In  the  maze  of  the  bloom  and  the  blight, 
Wlien  the  darkness  is  twin  witii  the  light, 

Wlien  the  scales  of  Astraea  hang  level 
With  the  weight  of  the  day  and  tlie  night. 

In  the  calm  after  line-winds  that  revel. 
In  the  cool  after  noondays  that  smite. 

Come  the  dreams  born  of  incense  that  curled 
From  the  cressets  of  flowers  tliat  are  furled. 

Come  the  spells  of  earth's  latest  beguiling 
Under  skies  that  are  rubied  and  pearled. 

Till  we  tliink,  in  the  shadow  and  smiling. 
It  is  Egypt  all  over  the  world. 

Every  river  is  Nile  to  behold. 
Every  tree  in  its  bonnet  of  gold 

Is  a  palm,  and  the  haze-purpled  highland 
Are  the  temples  unsearchable  old; 

Every  rock  is  a  spliinx,  keeping  silence 
O'er  the  past  of  a  glory  untold. 

And  the  air  bring  us  music  that  flows 
From  a  million  of  dim  long-agoes. 

Till  the  sense  of  the  seen  and  the  present 
To  a  rapture  of  reverie  grows. 

And  tlie  hues  of  a  life  evanescent 
Turn  to  haloes  of  endless  repose. 

Where  the  sun  in  his  circle  aboon 
Glimmers  beamless  and  bald,  like  a  moon, 

Where  tliey  neither  forget  nor  remember, 
Wliere  is  notliing  to  late  or  too  soon, 

Wliere  the  climate  is  always  September. 
And  the  days  are  one  long  afternoon. 


THE  OLD  WIFE. 
By  the  bed  the  old  man,  waiting,  sat  In  vigil 

sad  and  tender, 
Where  his  aged  wife  lay  dying;  and  tlie  twi- 
light shadows  brown 
Slowly  from  the  wall  and  window  cliased  the 
sunset's  golden  splendor 
Going  down. 


"Is  it  niglif?"   slie  wliispored,  w:iklng  (for 
lR!r  spirit  seemed  to  liover 

Lost  between  tlie  ne.xt  world's  sunrise  and 
the  bed-lime  cares  of  this). 

And  tlie  old  man,  weak  and  tearful,  trem- 
bling as  he  bent  above  her. 
Answered  "Yes." 

"  Are  the  children  in?  "  she  .isked  him.  Could 
he  tell  her?  .All  the  treasures 

Of  their  household  lay  la  siieuee  many  years 
beneath  the  snow; 

But  her  heart  was  with  tliem  living,  back 
among  her  toils  and  pleasures 
Long  ago; 

And  again  she  called  at  dew-fall,  in  the  sweet 

old  summer  weather, 
"  Where  is  little  Charley,  father?  Frank  and 

Kobert.  have  they  come?" 
"  They  are  safe,"  the  old  man  faltered  —  "  all 

the  children  are  together, 
Safe  at  home." 
Then  he  murmured  gentle  soothings,  hut  his 

grief  grew  strong  and  stronger. 
Till  it  choked  and  stilled  him  as  he  lield  and 

kissed  her  wrinkled  hand. 
For  her  soul,  far  out  of  hearing,  could  his 

fondest  words  no  longer 
Understand. 

Still  the  pale  lips  stammered  questions,  lulla- 
bies and  broken  verses. 

Nursery    i)rattle  — all    the     language    of  a 
mother's  loving  heeds. 

While  the  midnight  round  the  nioiirniT,  left 
to  sorrow's  bitter  mercies. 
Wrapped  its  weeds. 

There  was  stillness  on  the  pillow —  and  the 

old  man  listened  lonely  — 
Till  they  led  him  from  the  chamljor,  with  the 

burden  on  his  breiist. 
For  the  wife  of  seventy  years,  his  nianlKHKl's 

early  love  and  only. 
Lay  at  rest. 

"  Fare-you-well,"  he  .sobbed,  "  my  S.-inih ;  you 
will  meet  the  babes  before  me; 

'Tls  a  little  while,  for  neither  can  the  parting 
long  abide. 

And  you'll  coine  and  call  me  .stxin,  I  know  — 
and  heaven  will  restore  me 
To  your  side." 

It  was  even  .so.    The  spring-time  in  the  steps 

of  winter  treading. 
Scarcely  shed  Its  orchard  blossoms  cru  the  old 

man  closed  his  eyes; 
And  they  buried  him   l)y  Sarah— and  they 

had  their  "  diamond  wedding" 
In  the  skies. 


*- 


* 


*- 


1240 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMJCUICA. 


KATHARINE  LEE  BATES. 

Born  :  Falmouth,  Mass.,  Aug.  13, 1859. 
This  lady  is  a  graduate  of  the  Newton  High 
School  and  Wellesley  CoUeg-e,  of  which  latter 
institution  she  is  associate  professor  of  Eng- 
lish literature.  Her  poems  have  appeared  in 
the  Atlantic  Monthly,  Century,  Wide  Awake 
and  numerous  other  equally  prominent  pub- 
lications. In  1890-91  Miss  Bates  spent  a  year 
in  Europe. 


THE  IDEAL. 
By  the  promise  of  noon's  blue  splendor  in  the 

dawn's  first  silvery  g-leam, 
By  the  song  of  the  sea  that  compelleth  the 

path  of  the  rock-clearing  stream, 
I  summon  thee,  recreant  dreamer-,  to  rise  and 

follow  thy  dream. 
At  the  inmost  core  of  thy  being  I  am  a  burn- 
ing fire 
From  thine  own  altar-flame  kindled,  in  the 

hour  when  souls  aspire; 
For  know  that  men's  prayers  shall  he  an- 
swered and  guard  thy  spirit's  desire. 
That  which  thou  would'st  be  thou  must  be, 

that  which  thou  shalt  be  thou  art; 
As  the  oak,  astir  in  the  acorn,  the  dull  earth 

rendeth  apart, 
Lo,  thou,  the  seed  of  thy  longing  that  break- 

eth  and  waketh  the  heart ! 
Mine  is  the  cry  of  the  night-wind,  startling 

thy  traitorous  sleep ; 
Moaning  I  echo  thy  music;  and  e'en  while 

thou  boastest  to  reap 
Alien  harvests,  my  anger  resounds  from  the 

vehement  deep. 
I  am  the  solitude  foldingthy  soul  in  a  sudden 

embrace; 
Faint  waxes  the  voice  of  thy  fellow,  wan  the 

light  on  his  face; 
Life  is  as    cloud-drift   about  thee  alone    in 

shelterless  space. 
I  am  the  drawn  sword  barring  the  lanes  thy 

mutinous  feet 
Vainly  wret  for  greenness.    Loitering  pace 

or  fleet. 
Thine  is  the  crag-path  chosen.    On  the  crest 

shall  rest  be  sweet. 
I  am  thy  strong  consoler,  when  tlio  desolate 

human  pain 
Darkens  upon  thee,  the  azure  out-blotted  by 

rush  of  the  rain. 
All  thou  dost  cherish  may  perish,  still  shall 

thy  guest  remain. 
Call  me  thy  foe  in  thy  passion :  claim  mo  in 
peace  for  thy  friend; 


Yet  bethink  thee  by  lowland  and  upland 
wherever  thou  wiliest  to  wend, 

I  am  thine  Angel  of  Judgment;  mine  eyes 
thou  must  meet  in  the  end. 

POETRY  — A  QUATRAIN. 

Oh,  we  who  know  thee  know  we  know  tliee 
not. 

Thou  Soul  of  Beauty  I  thou  Essential  Grace '. 
Yet  undeterr'd  by  bafiled  speech  and  thought 

Thy  heart  stakes  all  upon  thy  hidden  face. 


HELPS  BY  THE  WAY. 

Only  a  glimpse  of  roseate  west 

O'er  the  forest  tops  of  pine. 
And  clamorous  day  thoughts  sink  to  rest- 

The  soul  is  again  divine. 

Only  the  glory  of  a  kindly  deed, 

The  gleam  of  a  noble  glance; 
And  the  freshened  heart  fares  on  to  speed 

The  world's  deliverance. 


BENONI  DICKERMAN. 

Born:  Naugatuc,  Conn.,  July 9, 1810. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  is  the  author  of  a 
volume  entitled  The  Blood-Stained  Cross, 
and  also  two  booklets,  besides  various  lyrics, 
psalms,  hymns  and  spiritual  songs  of  ex- 
cellence. He  was  married  in  1839,  has  a  fam- 
ily of  several  children,  and  resides  near  Con- 
stantia,  Ohio. 

BREVITY  OF  LIFE. 
In  foreign  lands,  remote  from  home, 
A  weary  pilgrim  here  1  roam; 
Friends  of  my  youth  ha%'e  passed  away, 
And  friends  of  my  meridian  day. 
In  pensive  solitude  I  tread 
Tlie  silent  city  of  the  dead; 
Life's  crimson  current  running  slow, 
Will  run  more  slowly  well  I  know. 
Oft  in  the  stilly  night  to  me 
Come  back  the  days  of  childhood  glee; 
The  gray-haired  dames  and  su-es  once  more 
I  seem  to  see,  as  oft  before. 
Friend  after  friend  has  passed  away, 
I  soon,  like  them,  end  here  my  stay; 
The  yellow  and  the  withered  leaf. 
This  lesson  teach  me,  "  Life  is  brief." 
Ten  added  to  my  threescore  j'ears. 
The  wliole  a  slender  thread  appears; 
What  now  remains  of  eartlily  bliss. 
To  bind  me  to  a  wcu'ld  like  tills? 
By  faith  I  see  the  shining  shore 
Where  saints  departed  meet  once  more: 
Departed  ones  will  welcome  me, 
Earth's  sorrows  shiill  forgotten  be. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATU)NAL   I'OKl  S   OF   AMKIMCA. 


liI41 


-* 


GRACE  H.DUFFIELD. 

Bokn:  Adria,  Mich.,  Oct.  2, 1860. 
The  poems  of  Grace  Haywood  Dufflold  luire 
appeared  in  tho  Century, the  New  York  lude- 
pendeut,  Philadelphia  Sunday  School  Times, 
New  York  Observer  and  other  prominent 
publications.  This  lady  is  now  a  resident  of 
Bloomfleld,  N.  J. 

DREAMING. 
Lie  quiet  lieart  and  dream  of  tender  things, 

In  tender  ways; 
Dream  back  afe'ain  to  all  the  vanished  springs, 

The  yesterdays. 
When  Love  walked  with  us,  hiding  close  his 
wings 

From  lovers'  gaze. 
Forget  in  dreams  that  Love  is  lost  to  sight; 

And  we  alone 
Are   watching  where  it  paled,  that  vision 
bright. 

Once  all  our  own. 
Dream  on  my  lieart,  remember  not  to-night 

All  thou  hast  known. 
For  oh,  sad  heart,  the  dream  will  soon  be 
sped, 

'Tis  fading  fast; 
The  love  we  love  in  dreams  will  soon  be  fled 

Back  to  the  past; 
And  thou  wilt  ask  with  tears,  when  hope  lies 
dead, 

"  Was  this  the  last?  " 


TO  NELL. 
When  my   sweete  girle  doth  touche  herre 
lippes 

Untoe  ye  cuppe  his  own  rimme. 
You'll  sweetenesse  atte  ye  bottome  flnde 

And  sweetenesse  atte  ye  brimme. 
And  he  who  of  ye  sugar  then 

Withe  fulle  contentment  sippes. 
Is  onely  one  who  has  not  known 

Ye  sweetenesse  of  herre  lippes. 


MARY  E.  SMYTHE. 

Born:  Colu.mbia,  Ky.,  March  13, 1864. 
Miss  Smythe  is  a  school  teacher,  and  still 
resides  in  her  native  town.    Her  poems  have 
appeared  in  the  local  press. 

EVANESCENCE. 
Is  there  anything  permanent  in  tliis  vale  of 

woe'? 
Where  some  must  sow  for  others  to  reap ; 
Where    shadows   vanish    'neath    the   sun's 

bright  glow. 
And   the  happy  smile   while    the   wretched 

weep? 


And  I  fain  would  liear  the  music  ttf  a  voice 
whose  cadence  clear. 

Ever  fell  in  silvery  accents  on  my  eager  Ust- 
ening  ear; 

And  bending  low  to  catch  them,— Ah  niel 
'tis  all  in  vani; 

I  may  never  hear  tlie  footsteps,  nor  the  win- 
ning voice  again. 

In  fancy,  soft  and  liquid,  beam  those  dark 

eyes  into  mine, 
And  my  arms  with  wondrous  rapture  round 

a  sylph-like  form  entwine; 
But  though  I  strive  to  clasp  them,—  Ah  mel 

'tis  all  In  vain, 
I  may  never  see  the  dark  eyes,  nor  the  fairy 

form  again. 

The  shadows  grow  and  lengthen  as  tliey  fall 

across  the  floor, 
I  still  am  standing  sadly  at  the  tlireshold  of 

the  door; 
Waiting  for  the  radiant  morning  upon  my 

soul  to  rise, 
'Till  I  greet  my  long-lost  loved  one  in  the 

realms  of  Paradise. 


MARY  C.  GRANT. 

This  lady  is  a  resident  of  Linden,  Va.  Her 
poems  have  appeared  from  time  to  time  In 
the  periodical  press,and  have  received  favor- 
able noti'v.'e. 

MEMORIES  OF  MY  OLD  HOME. 
I'm  thinking  of  my  dear  Old  Home, 
And  of  my  kindred  dear; 
And,  oh,  so  often  wlien  alone 
I  can't  keep  back  the  tear. 
For  thinking  of  the  days  that's  fled. 
How  many  are  sleeping  with  the  dead: 
My  father,  mother  and  brothers  four. 
Their  forms  on  earth  I  see  no  more. 
I  stood  beside  tho  dying  bed 
Of  ray  father  and  mother  too. 
And  oh,  what  bitter  tears  were  shed 
To  bid  a  last  adieu. 
Some  arc  buried  in  a  far-off  land. 
And  by  their  graves  1  ne'er  shall  stand; 
But  some  are  laid  wliero  I  love  to  roam 
In  the  old  garveyard,  the  dear  Old  Home. 
Sleep  on  dear  ones,  T  hope  to  meet 
You  all  around  the  Mercy  Seat; 
I  hope  to  meet  you  on  thai  shore 
Where  parting  sighs  will  l)c  no  more. 
And  now  that  little  band  that's  left. 
Look  sad  and  lone,  they  feel  bereft ; 
Around  the  fireside  seem  so  few. 
One  sister  dear  and  brothers  two. 


*- 


1242 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A3IERICA. 


I  left  that  home  for  a  better  friend, 
With  whom  I  hope  my  days  to  spend; 
But  still  I  love  that  dear  old  spot, 
'Tis  ever  dear,  'tis  not  forgot. 


THOMAS  BENTON  FORD. 

Born:  Owen  Co.,  Ky.,  Feb.  7, 1841. 
For  more  than  a  decade  the  poems  of  Mr. 
Ford  have  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the 
papers  of  Kentucky.  He  was  married  in 
1881  to  Miss  Mary  Elliott,  and  resides  in 
Frankfort,  Ky.,  where  he  is  clerk  of  the 
U.  S.  District  and  Circuit  court. 


THE  SIREN. 

There  is  a  cruel  Siren  always  singing  unto  me 

Of  a  bright  and  happy  future,  and  of  things 
that  are  to  be; 

And  her  songs  they  are  enchanting,  as  be- 
neath a  crescent  moon 

She  chants  of  bounteous  harvests  and  a  gold- 
en-freighted June. 

And  she  has  sung  those  songs  to  me  through 
all  the  wearj'  year, 

And  I  have  watched  and  waited  long  in  hopes 
and  doubts  and  tears; 

I  watching  and  a- waiting  for  the  happy 
things  to  be. 

That  this  cruel,  cruel  Siren  sings  so  con- 
stantly to  me. 

But  still  the  nights  grow  darker  and  the  stars 

begin  to  wane. 
As  o'er  my  rough  and  rugged  way  still  falls 

that  mocking  strain; 
And  still  I  struggle  onward  towards  a  silent, 

unknown  sea. 
While  this  deceitful   Siren  sings  of  things 

that  are  to  be. 


i* 


MY  VIOLIN. 

Across  tha  trembling,  thrilling  strings, 
Entranced  I  draw  the  magic  bow; 

And  all  the  quivering  twilight  rings 
With  echoes  of  the  long  ago. 

With  sweet,  sad  strains  of  by-gone  years. 
Once  waked  by  her  who  died  so  young; 

The  mingled  notes  of  smiles  and  tears. 
In  love's  exquisite  accents  sung. 

The  tender,  wailing  air  ascends 

Till  drifting  down  through  golden  bars; 
An  angel  anthem  with  it  bletids 

That  floats  from  far  beyond  the  stars. 


MRS.  NELLY  LARUE  BROWN.: 

Born:  Boone  Co.,  Mo.,  June  26, 1859.      ' 

After  graduating  this  lady  taught  school,  ■ 
and  in  1882  was  married  to  Geo.  H.  Brown, ' 
and  has  a  son.    For  several  years,  until  1889,  i 
she  was  employed  as  iustructoi-  in  Latin  and  • 
higher  mathematics.      The  poems  of   Mrs.  , 
Brown  have  appeared  iti  the  Detroit  Free 
Press,  St.  Louis  Magazine,  Louisville  Cour- 
rier-Journal  and  other  publications.      She 
resides  with  her  husband  and  child  in  Louis- 
ville, Ky. 


MNEMOSYNE. 
Spouse  of  Zeus,  Mnemosyne, 
Mother  of  the  muses  nine. 
When  my  lady's  vis-a-vis, 
Clad  in  costume  less  divine. 
Claims  f  roni  her  a  nod  of  thine 
Most  discreetly  dost  thou  flee. 
Spouse  of  Zeus,  Mnemosyne, 
Mother  of  the  muses  nine. 

Were  the  other  robed  as  she. 
Matching  her  in  raiment  flue, 
Tliou  would'st  then  not  absent  be, 
Thou  would'st  that  high  head  incline, 
Spouse  of  Zeus,  Mnemosyne, 
Mother  of  the  muses  nine. 


FIRST  LOVE. 
The  babe  knows  not  its  needs;  for  all  in  sight 
It  reaches  out  Its  eager  hands  and  cries: 
It  wants  the  mooti;  to  its  enamored  eyes 
In  argent  disk  appears  the  satellite; 
What  is  to  infancy  a  dazzling  toy. 
The  child,  when  once  to  sober  manhood  grown 
Will  realize  by  borrowed  light  has  shone; 
Thus,  moon-struck,   many  an  older  girl  or 

boy 
Has  learned  that  wished-for  worlds  if  won 
Prove  planets  dead  whose  motor  was  the  sun. 

Thank  God,  whom  first  we  love  we  seldom 

wed; 
All-wise  benefleience  hath  willed  it  so. 
Our  souls  in  stature  as  our  bodies  grow; 
In  retrospect  we  recognize  as  dead 
Our  former  self  and  its  affections  fond, 
And  know  that  if  we  could  have  mated  been 
With  one  who  pleased  our  callow  fancy  then 
Round   our  expanding  souls  tb^!  marriage 

bond 
Would  tighten  till  it  checked  our  growth. 

Too  late 
We  would  our  folly  curse  and  call  it  fate. 


*- 


-* 


LOCAT.   AND   NA'l  lONAL  POETS  OF  AMEUICA. 


124:j 


REV.  WILLI  AM  HENRY  BUSS 

Born  :  England,  Fkb.  6, 1852. 
Mr.  Buss  received  his  education  at  Oberlin 
College  and  the  Chicago  Seminary,  and  in 
1883  was  ordained  a  minister  of  the  Congre- 
gational church,  and  has  held  pastorates  at 
Burlington  and  West  Burlington,  Iowa; 
Deadwood,  S.  D.,  and  Fremont,  S.  D.,  where 
he  is  now  located.  He  has  contributed  poems 
and  delivered  sevei-al  original  poems  on 
public  occasions.  Eev.  William  H.  Buss  was 
married  in  1885,  and  has  a  son  and  daughter. 

SOUL  CHARMS. 

Flaxen  locks  in  rich  profusion. 

Eyes  like  stars  that  flasli  and  sparkle; 
Rays  of  life  from  blue  seclusion. 

Cheeks  of  rose  and  roguish  dimple. 
Dainty  mouth  for  kisses  priming, 

Lips  the  tint  of  rosy  morning; 
Voice  as  clear  as  Sabbath  chiming. 

To  the  house  of  worship  calling. 
Rare  indeed  such  charms  external. 

Gifts  of  Nature's  rich  bestowing; 
Yet  alone  are  charms  eternal. 

That  from  depths  of  Soul  are  growing. 
Others  all  are  frail  and  fleeting  — 

In  the  storm  of  Time  are  human; 
Like  the  lifeless  bust  of  marble 

Is  the  handsome  Soulless  woman. 

AN  ADTUMN  LESSON. 
O  solemnly,  beautiful  Autumn 

That  weavest  a  golden  pall, 
Enwrought  with  purple  and  amber. 

And  spreadest  it  over  all; 
Allured  by  thy  lavish  beauty. 

Alone  I  wander  'long. 
And  list  the  leaflets  rustle 

Their  quaintly  mournful  song; 
As  silently  from  the  branches. 

Like  fickle  flakes  of  snow. 
They  deepen  tlse  gorgeous  carpet 

That  softens  the  way  I  go. 

0  constant  voice  of  the  forest. 
How  changed  thy  wonted  tune. 

From  the  melody  of  summer  — 

The  harmony  of  June! 
E'en  while  I  stand  enraptured 

With  Beauty's  varied  glow, 

1  shudder  as  thou  chantest 
So  solemnly  and  low; 

And  cheerless  visions  of  winter 

Are  pictured  to  my  brain. 
Wherein  through  all  the  woodlands, 

Nor  fruit  nor  leaves  remain. 
But  why  in  the  days  of  Autumn, 

When  deatli  is  in  the  air. 


Should  all  the  realm  of  nature 

Sn)  radiant  garments  wciir? 
Mayhap  the  voice  of  niourtiiiig 

Proceeds  from  oiherwhere; 
Mayhap  my  sok-nin  feeling 

The  woodlands  do  not  share; 
Mayhap  'tis  human  only 

To  mourn  in  Autumn-time, 
And  Nature's  mingled  measures 

Have  not  so  sad  u  chime. 

0  Autumn  robes  so  royal. 
Have  ye  a  truth  for  me? 

Can  Nature's  hour  of  dying 
Her  hour  of  triumph  be? 

Her  ripened  fiuit  is  fallen. 
And  reaped  her  golden  grain; 

What  cause  hath  she  for  glorj-. 
What  hopes  can  yet  ren.ain? 

1  seem  to  hear  you  answer. 
In  dulcet  chorus  J! rand; 

And  eager  of  instruction. 
Attentively  1  stand. 

"  Except  a  corn  of  the  harvest 

Fall  into  the  ground  and  die, 
Abideth  it  lone  and  fruitless. 

And  lost  to  every  eye; 
But  if  it  die  in  the  bosom 

Of  nourishing  mother  earth. 
Then  shall  it  yield  in  abundance 

A  fruit  of  heavenly  worth. 
And  hence  in  the  Autumn  season. 

Though  death  be  in  the  air. 
Doth  Nature,  for  this  promise. 

Her  festal  garments  wear." 

«•  And  O,  my  eager  scholar. 

Of  all  my  lessons  taught. 
No  one  thy  heart  hatli  g-.ithered. 

With  higher  truth  is  fraught; 
And  yet  it  echoeth  only 

The  truth  of  Him  who  gave 
His  life  for  all  the  living;  — 

His  life  their  life  to  save. 
And  shait  thou  less  than  Nature, 

Yield  gladly  year  by  year. 
Thy  life  in  toil  for  otliers. 

The  noblest  fruit  to  bear?" 

Thus  the  voice  of  the  woodland 

Seemed  to  make  answer  to  me. 
The  while  no  longer  mournful 

Its  melody  seemwl  to  Ih', 
But  full  and  rich  and  Joyous, 

As  were  befitting  one. 
Who  dying  sees  before  him 

His  faithful  work  live  on. 
For  he  his  life  that  loveth. 

The  loss  of  life  shall  resip; 
But  he  his  life  that  hateth 

Shall  life  eternal  keep. 


-* 


*- 


1244 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  MARGARET  E.  RUFFIN 

Born:  Baldwin  Co.,  Ala.,  Aug.  26, 1857. 
In  1884  this  lady  published  a  volume  of  poems 
entitled  Drifting-  Leaves,  and  she  has  since 
contributed  many  fine  poems  to  the  press. 
She  was  married  in  1857  to  Frank  T.  Kuffln,  a 
civil  engineer, by  whom  she  has  one  daughter, 
Frances  Gildart.  JVIrs.  Ruffin  is  thoroughly 
educated  in  vocal  and  instrumental  music, 
and  proficient  in  French,  German,  Spanish. 

MOMENTS. 
Only  a  little  moment! 

A  tiny  fragment  of  life;  [steps. 

To  be  crushed  'neath  tlie  great  years'  foot- 
To  be  lost  in  centuries'  strife. 
And  yet,  I  remember  a  moment. 

Just  a  tiny  moment  like  this. 
That  held,  in  its  heart,  the  giving 

Of  the  gift  of  infinite  bliss. 
That  won  back  long  years  of  darkness. 

To  the  light  of  the  rarest  grace; 
And  so  glowed  with  the  golden  "  Forgiven," 

That  sin  fled  from  the  fiash  of  its  face. 
Ah !  life  of  that  little  moment. 

You  live  through  my  length  of  days; 
And  the  grace  that  fell  in  your  fleeing 

Will  fall  on  all  coming  ways. 
I  never  may  slight  you,  wee  moments. 

Seem  you  ever  so  brieflj'  grasped; 
Since,  all  that  the  future  could  promise. 

In  the  touch  of  a  moment,  was  clasped. 
For  moments  so  frail  and  fleeting. 

Ye  may  bring  our  lives  in  your  flight. 
Up  to  the  Day  everlasting, 

Down  to  the  endless  Night. 
Ah !  voice  of  the  passing  moments. 

How  I  list  as  your  cadences  flow; 
For  I  know  not  which  bears  the  summons 

Of  eternal  weal  or  woe. 


*- 


UNCHANGED. 
Many  moons  shall  wax  and  wan; 

Many  summers  flush  and  fade; 

Many  lives  be  married  or  made; 
Ere  our  paths  shall  cross  again. 
All  the  days  we  dreamt  are  o'er; 

Our  linked  lives  are  broken  now; 

And  we  knew  not  when  or  how. 
We  shall  meet  each  other  more. 
Yet  our  severed  souls,  I  dare 

Believe,  o'er  time  and  space  have  sway; 

Clinging  to  our  latest  day. 
To  the  life-long  love  we  bear. 
You  may  change  in  deed  and  name, 

Of  the  past  keep  scarce  a  trace; 

But  through  change  of  fact  and  face 
Bring  me  back  your  heart  the  same. 


FLETCHER  RANNEY.     i 

Born:  Boston,  Mass.,  Sept.  3, 1860.  ' 
After  graduating  in  Roxbury  Latin  Schoc' 
and  Harvard  University.Mr.  Ranney  studie' 
law,  and  graduated  at  head  of  class  of '8(  I 
and  is  now  a  member  of  the  law  firm  of  Eat  ■ 
ney&  Clark,  of  Boston,  Mass.  In  1886  h- 
married  Miss  Amy  Porter,  and  has  on' 
child,  Ethel,  born  iu  1887.  Many  gems  froni 
the  pen  of  Mr.  Ranney  have  appeared  in  th  ' 
periodical  press.  i 


COMMON  BALLADE  OF  AGE  AND  YOUTF; 
You,  tattered  li«y  in  the  wild  oak  fell, 
The  shadowy  branches  secrets  tell,  i 

The  gray-lit  paths  toward  far  lands  lead  —    ■ 
In  fancies  of  youth  life  finds  a  meed; 
For  me  no  quail-call,  fern-breath  sweet, 
Only  the  rattle  and  dust  in  the  street. 
Only  my  doubts,  my  wadded  gown  — 
While  you  look  up,  and  I  look  down. 

You,  barefoot  boy  in  the  grasses'  swell. 
The  rivulet  pebbles  secrets  tell; 
School-time  is  near  —  but  who  takes  heed- 
In  fancies  of  youth  life  finds  a  meed; 
My  tasks  no  galloping  hours  cheat. 
Only  the  car-bells  and  ringing  hoof -beat 
Filling  the  airless,  brick-bound  town — 
While  you  look  up,  and  I  look  down. 

No  brooks'  low  voice  will  my  tossings  quell,  i' 

A-weary  I  count  the  midnight  bell; 

And    you  through  dream-wood  gray  elves 

speed  — 
In  fancies  of  youth  life  finds  a  meed; 
Give  me  your  fancies,  long  nights  fleet. 
Sunrise  and  tatters,  and  briery  feet. 
Taking  my  gold,  my  gout,  renown— 
'Vbiie  I  look  up,  and  you  look  down! 

ENVOY. 

For  you  the  wine  in  nature's  creed-- 
111  fancies  of  youth  life  finds  a  meed: 
Leaving  me  doubt  and  gout  and  frown  — 
Wiiile  you  look  up,  and  I  look  down. 


A  SEA  GULL. 
kxtract. 
Noisily  beating  its  hen  vy  wings. 
While  arent  wave  upward  its  thunder  flings. 
A  sea  pull  breaks  from  the  dripping  cliff; 
Now  afloat  o'er  yon  gray  skifif. 
Steadily  waving  its  misty  wings 
Against  the  blue  it  closer  clings. 
Waving,  fading  far  away. 
As  shadows  fade  in  the  growing  day. 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


124.5 


* 


REV.  ADELBERT  E.  MOSHER. 

Born:  Manitowoc,  Wis.,  Apuil  25, 1S60. 
In  1883  Mr.  Moslier  was  licensed  to  preach, 
and  has  been  actively  engaged  in  the  uiiuis- 
try  ever  since,  principally  at  Creston  and 
Hiistings,  Iowa.  He  was  married  in  1885  to 
Miss  Frankie  A.  Staley,  and  has  had  two 
children,  one  of  whom  ho  had  the  misfortune 
to  lose  in  a  railroati  accident. 


RESIGNATION. 
O  Death!  again  thy  mystic  bands 

Have  circled  'round  our  liome. 
And  carried  to  the  distant  lands 

A  subject  for  a  throne. 

A  year  we  watched  with  tender  care 
Our  loved  one  —  now  no  more; 

For  she  has  met  with  Him  up  there. 
And  kindred  gone  before. 

We  saw  with  pain  the  color  fade 
From  our  darling's  cheek  away; 

We  saw  the  track  disease  had  made 
Grow  deeper  every  day. 

Our  tender  care  could  not  avail, 
Nor  human  power  or  skill; 

For  the  God  of  Mercy  doth  prevail. 
And  He  had  shown  His  will. 

Our  darling  child,  our  sister  dear. 
Has  left  this  world  below; 

Her  sins,  which  were  forgiven  here. 
Will  not  become  her  woe. 

It  is  not  death  nor  pain  to  die, 
As  she  our  loved  one  shows; 

She  gave  us  all  a  last  "good-bye," 
And  sank  in  sweet  repose. 

Her  spirit  now  is  soaring  high 
To  God's  immortal  throne. 

Still  parting  words  do  hover  nigh, 
And  point  us  to  her  home. 

Come,  Fatter,  comfort  our  distress. 
Surround  us  witli  thine  arm  ! 

Thy  will  can  make  our  number  less. 
Thy  will  can  shield  from  harm. 


IDA  MARIA  STREET. 

Born:  Oskaloosa,  Iowa,  Nov.  21, 1856. 
Miss  Street  is  a  graduate  of  Vassar  College, 
and  won  by  competitive  Thesis  the  Western 
Association  of  Collegiate  Ahimual  Fellow- 
ship at  Michigan  University  in  1888-9.  She 
is  now  a  teacher  of  English  literature  at  Ann 
Arbor,  Mich.  Her  poems  are  geras,  and  have 
received  high  praise. 


TWO  KINbUEh  IJEINGS. 
Two  kindred  beings  mot. 
And  found  their  .souls  attuned; 
As  if  some  spirit  proud 
Had  parted  without  wound 
To  fill  these  human  forms, 
"  What  art  tliou  friend'y"  one  asks, 
••Men  call  me  poet.    Thou?" 
"  I  work  at  common  tiusks." 
They  wistful  sigh  and  part. 
Inspired,  both;  one.  long 
Was  fashioned  unto  toil. 
The  other  unto  song. 

COMPANIONSHIP. 
The  morning  air  is  cool  and  fraught  with 

strong!  li. 
The  earth   has  decked  herself  witli  flowered 

robes. 
The  birds  are  calling  back  and  forth  their 

greetings. 
The  noisy  brook  is  talking  to  its  stones. 
As  we  ride  blithely  up  the  mountain's  side. 
The  scent  of  roses  to  our  nostrils  borno 
Soft  trills  our  hearts  in  subtile  harmony. 
Like  sweeping  winds  o'er  Eoliun  harps,  in 

tune. 
Not  caring  how  we  go,  like  bird  and  brook 
We  chatter  of  the  way  for  fellowship: 
Exclaim  at  roadside  blossoms;  in  eager  tones. 
Admire  each  changing  cloud  and  mountain 

peak. 
While   eyes   look   deep   the   sympathy  un- 

uttered. 
Or  flush  the  pointof  jests  — that  light  our 

thoughts. 
Like  ripplos  on  a  river's  quiet  face. 
Each  sight  and  scent  and  sound  gives  double 

pleiisure  — 
The  joy  it  ever  bears  within  itself. 
And  subtler  joy  of  human  comradeship. 


EORA  C.  BEACH. 

Born  ne.\ii  A.<;nTos,  Ii.i..,  M.\iKn 23, 1863. 
After  receiving  her  education  Miss  Beach 
studied  Art  at  the  Wiiealon  College.    Her 
poems  have  appeared  in  the  ^Uulon  Signal 
and  the  local  press. 

BARV. 
The  precious  bud  so  perfect 

Transphmted  hlcxims  above. 
In  that  warm  and  sunny  climo 

Wliere  all  is  light  and  lore. 
We  miss  the  little  treasure. 

For  love  and  hojH?  were  strong; 
But  Christ  received  His  jewel 

To  dwell  with  the  angel  throng. 


*- 


1246 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


There  we  know  you  are  happy, 
Jesus  gives  perfect  care; 

And  in  the  light  of  Heaven 
Will  mature  in  beauty  rare. 

No  sickness  shall  mar  your  form. 
Or  sorrow  toucli  your  heart; 

But  ever  in  loving  joy 
You  will  bear  an  angel's  part. 

You  came  a  greeting  of  love 
To  cheer  our  hearthstone  here; 

But  now  our  treasure  in  Heaven 
You're  guiding  us  over  ihere. 

You  have  only  gone  before 
To  enjoy  the  rich  estate ; 

And  bid  the  loved  ones  welcome 
As  they  enter  the  pearly  gate. 


ANNIE  R.  DONAGHE. 

The  poems  of  Miss  Donaghe  have  appeared 
in  the  Stanton  Spectator  and  local  press  gen- 
erally. She  IS  a  resident  of  Parnassus,  Va., 
where  she  is  very  popular. 


EXTRACTS. 
I'll  think  of  thee  at  early  mora 

When  the  sweet  flowers  still 
Are  all  enameled  o'er  with  dew. 

Along  the  gurgling  rill. 
When  night  o'ershadows  with  a  vail 

This  bright,  fair  world  of  ours, 
I'll  think  of  thee  still  held  secure 

By  thy  bewitching  powers. 

Oh  rapturously  doth  love  begin. 

But  ends  in  bitter  smart. 
And  leaves  its  lengthen'd  shadows  oa 

The  wounded  broken  heart. 
But  ah,  the  world  will  never  hear 

The  bitter  wail  of  woe. 
For  little  we  poor  mortals  here 

Of  one  another  know. 
We  think  that  others'  paths  are  bright 

With  fairest  flowers  strown. 
When  if  we  could  but  see  their  hearts 

They  are  sadder  than  our  own. 

Ah,  he  will  never,  never  more 

Join  the  hunters'  chase. 
Nor  ever  take  his  rifle  down 

From  its  accustomed  place; 
His  faithful  dogs  are  waiting  still 

To  greet  him  at  the  door. 
With  strange  instinct  they  wonder  why 

They're  taken  out  no  more. 

We're  taught  liere  to  smother  our  grief. 
To  hide  the  deep  wounds  that  bleed  on ; 


Our  faces  must  wear  sunny  smiles, 
Tho'  all  the  heart's  treasures  are  gone. 

But  oh,  how  many  scars  are  hid 
'Neath  Pleasure's  gilded  vest; 

The  little  robin  sang  on  with 
The  death-wound  in  its  breast. 


STEPHEN  H.  LOGAN. 

Born:  May 4, 18T0.  ; 

The  poems  of  Mr.  Logan  have  constautl 
appeared  in  the  press  of  Arkansas,  where  h 
resides  at  Coal  Hill.    He  is  the  inventor  of 
patent  lock  that  bids  fair  to  become  unive; 
sally  used. 

AFTER  DEATH.  I 

I  am  dead.  ; 

Lying  in  this  silent  chamber  ' 

Where  the  sunshine  enters  not, 
And  the  ghostly  shadows  clamber 

Over  each  familiar  spot. 
I  can  feel  the  world  go  onward 

While  my  hands  are  crossed  in  rest, 
I  have  found  the  peace  unending. 

Life  was  sweet,  but  death  is  best. 
Some  have  come  and  stood  beside  me. 

Whispering  to  me  o'er  and  o'er 
Of  the  grief  that  comes  at  parting. 

And  the  love  tlieir  true  hearts  bore. 
They  have  loving  thoughts  and  tender 

For  the  friend  that  goes  away; 
And  my  heart  gives  voiceless  answer 

To  their  last  dear  words  to-day. 
Some  who  walked  with  me  while  going 

Down  the  western  hill  of  life; 
Scarce  a  thought  on  me  bestowing. 

Say,  "  Ah,  well,  he's  done  with  strife." 
Though  their  words  of  love  were  many 

As  we  journeyed  side  by  side,' 
They've  few  thoughts  to  give  at  parting 

To  the  comrade  who  has  died. 
Others  come,  and  standing  by  me 

Thej-  rehearse  my  human  faults. 
And  God  knows  that  they  were  many, 

But  my  listening  soul  revolts 
At  the  long  and  grim  procession 

They  have  marshaled  into  line. 
As  they  talk  about  the  follies  , 

And  the  frailties  that  were  mine.  ! 

In  the  knowledge  death  has  brought  me,- 

I  can  know  the  false  and  true. 
Know  who  mourns  for  me, whose  oarth-work 

Like  a  troubled  dream  istlu-ougli. 
And,  O  friends,  my  heart  gives  answer 

To  your  loving  heart  and  true. 
In  a  language  you  will  utter 

When  tho  great  change  comes  to  you! 


*- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMEltlCA. 


1247 


CHARLES  ELMER  UPTON. 

Bokn:  Placerville,  Cal,.,  Jan.  1, 1873. 
Several  of  the  poems  of  Mr.  Upton  have 
appeared  in  the  local  press.     He  is  a  printer 
and  still  resides  in  his  native  state. 


GRADUATION  DAY. 

Classmates,  'lis  the  liour  of  parting'. 
Soon  our  school-life  will  be  o'er, 

Soon  we'll  leave  far,  far  behind  us 
All  those  happy  limes  of  yore. 

Ne'er  ag-aiii  shall  we  hear  the  summons 
Of  the  loud,  clear-ringing-  bell. 

Coming  in  the  midst  of  frolic, 
Sounding  pleasure's  funeral  knell; 

Telling  us  that  toil  and  study 
Are  the  means  by  which  we  gain 

Real  success  in  life  and  fortune. 
Blotting  out  past  care  and  pain. 

'Tis  the  last  time  we'll  be  gathered 
Where  we  oft  have  met  so  gay; 

To-morrow  brings  but  memories  tender. 
Fading  slowly  daj'  by  day. 

Leaving  only  lingering  traces. 
Kept  by  many,  lost  by  some. 

Vanishing  in  life's  great  battle 
With  the  years  of  life  to  come. 

Who  knows  but  that  another  dawning 
Will  find  us  scattered  far  and  wide, 

Moving  on  with  various  changes 
Like  the  flowing  of  the  tide? 

Comrades,  ere  we  go  forth  struggling 
'Mongst  the  hundreds  so  untrue 

Give  each  hand  a  hearty  clasping. 
Uttering  the  word,  ••  Adieu." 


J.  H.  OLIVER. 

Born:  Douglassvii.le,  Tex.,  July  27, 1866. 
For  many  years  the  poems  of  Mr.  Oliver 
have  occasionally  appeared  in  the  local  press. 
He  still  resides  in  liis  native  state  at  Gran- 
bury. 

THE  CHANGED  LIFE. 
Life,  once  so  much  like  summer. 

Now  fades  and  is  changed, 
And  the  chimerical  it  grows  number 

Fancy  of  the  past  is  deranged. 

Medium  in  its  foliage. 
Leafless  in  its  future,  perhaps. 

Bereft  because  of  tlie  wind's  rage 
It  will  die  when  deatli  raps. 


Life  cannot  survive  the  teniptost's  trust 
Because  of  the  life-boat  that's  upset. 

The  shore  is  gone,  eaten  by  rust. 
Rust,  brought  on  by  a  trifliiiK  coquett*. 

Well,  may  it  gradually  fade. 
Fast  tempests  it  cannot  survive. 

In  oblivion,  its  grave,  it  will  be  laid, 
Nothing  again  can  make  It  alive. 


PL  C.  WAITE. 

Born:  Albany  Co.,  N.Y.,  June;JO,  1830. 
Mr.  Waite  graduated  at  the  Union  College 
of  Schenectady,  N.  Y.,  iti  1821,  studied  law 
and  was  admitted  to  the  bar.  In  lK,'ki  he  re- 
moved to  M:idison,  Wis.,  and  two  years  later 
settled  in  St.  Cloud,  Minn.,  where  he  has 
since  resided.  For  twilve  years  Mr.  Waite 
practiced  liis  profession,  when  he  took  up 
the  milling  business  in  which  he  is  at  present 
engaged.  Mr.  H.  C.  Waite  lias  been  register 
of  the  U.S. land  otlice,  and  has  held  numerous 
positions  of  trust. 


INNER  JOYS. 
Our  ,1oys  approach  us  from  within. 

Nor  may  we  hope  to  find. 
Substantial  comforts,  other  than 

Those  of  the  inner  kind. 

Without  is  foreign  to  our  sphere, 

Within  is  all  our  own. 
As  we  do  find  the  things  anear. 

So  fare  we  further  on,  i 

If  that  within  be  checrfulwise 

Without  be  cheerful  too. 
The  world  but  a  reflection  is. 

Of  the  interior  view ; 

And  laughs  and  weeps  and  loves  the  while 

As  mortals  sliould  and  can 
The  universe  is  of  tlie  style. 

And  humor  of  tlie  man. 

0,  let  our  lives  be  grand  and  high, 

.\iidof  sucli  nobli' estate. 
That  others,  seeing  them,  must  try 

Themselves  to  imitate. 


EXTUACT. 

Or  rich,  or  poor,  it  matters  not 
Where  sweet  coiiteiitmeiit*  reign; 

The  majesty  of  wealth  is  but, 
A  Action  of  the  brain. 

We  take  a  vain  and  fixtlish  pride, 
III  what  we  call  our  own. 

A  few  short  years  of  hopes  belted. 
The  ownership  is  gone. 


*- 


*- 


1248 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF    AMERICA. 


REV.  J.  H.  PRAY. 

Born  :  Ohio  Co.,  Ky.,  Jan.  18, 1859. 
In  1879  Rev.  J.  H.  Peay  graduated,  and  en- 
gaged in  leaching  as  principal  of  various 
academies.  Since  1887  lie  has  been  a  minister. 
In  1878  Mr.  Peay  was  married  to  Miss  Maud 
Rowan,  and  now  has  two  daughters,  and  re- 
sides in  Trenton,  Tenn. 


AN  EVENING  RAMBLE. 
Late  one  ev'ning,  I  was  strolling. 

Just  as  the  sun  had  left  the  sky; 
And  witli  mem'rj-,  I  was  holding, 

A  review  of  the  years  gone  by. 

As  I  pass  the  trees  and  flowers, 

As  I  gaze  with  deep  emotion, 
Thej'  to  me  bring  bacli  the  hours 

Of  my  youth's  early  devotion. 

Devotion  to  those  scenes  of  childhood, 
To  those  scenes  that  engage  me  here. 

To  those  scenes  of  home  and  wildwood, 
That  give  joy  to  a  riper  year. 

Just  before  me  a  mound  I  view. 
Upon  it  my  first  tear  was  shed; 

Now  another  — how  unlike  the  two  ! 
The  first  just  thought  "  mother  is  dead ' 

Alas !  The  second  tear  has  found 
How  dear  an  object,  'neath  the  sod. 

Is  that  whose  spirit  praises  round. 
The  throne  of  Him  who  is  her  God. 

So  well  do  I  yet  remember 
That  mother  so  fond  and  so  dear. 

Who  taught  me  witli  care  so  tender. 
Before  she  sought  a  brighter  sphere. 

Taught  me  in  these  calm  shades  of  eve, 
Wrapt  in  the  moon's  sweet  silver  rays, 

To  listen  to  and  always  breathe 
Her  words  of  truth  in  after  days. 

Taught  me  while  kneeling  by  her  side. 
The  little  prayers  I  love  to  say. 

And  gave  a  book  to  be  my  guide 
To  lead  me  on  life's  dusty  way. 

Shall  I  ne'er  meet  such  care  and  love, 
Such  fond  playmates  and  mother  dear. 

As  was  given  me  by  her  love. 
As  were  those  comrades  resting  there? 

0  those  joys  of  our  youthful  days! 
Shall  we  never  meet  them  again. 

Shall  they  all  in  various  ways. 
Be  taken  from  us  when  we're  men? 

While  thus  pondering  in  my  mind. 
Of  by-gone  days  and  years  the  same, 

1  see  their  marks  are  left  behind 
And  force  me  sadly  to  exclaim: 


"  How  happy  is  one's  childhood. 
How  free  from  care  and  pain. 

Yet  those  days  are  gone  soon 
Never  to  be  lived  again. 

"  The  comrades  of  those  days  are  gone 
To  a  better  world  than  this; 

And  my  youth,  awhile  withdrawn 
Waits  for  me  in  the  land  of  bliss." 


WILLIAM  GEON  PATTEN. 

Born:  Corinna,  Me.,  Oct.  3.5, 1865. 
Mr.  Patten  devotes  his  whole  time  to  litera- 
ture, and  his  poems  and  stories  are  eagerly 
accepted  by  many  of  the  leading  publications 
of  America.  He  was  married  in  1886  to  Miss 
Alice  Clare  Gardner,  and  now  resides  in 
Manchester,  N.  H. 


THE  WIND  BENEATH  THE  EAVES. 
The  murmuring  wind  beneath  the  eaves 

Is  sobbing  soft  and  low; 
The  firelight  shadows  on  the  wall 

Are  moving  to  and  fro; 
Upon  the  shelf  the  old  clock  ticks 

Forever  on  and  on. 
How  lonely  is  the  old  house  now! 

The  children  all  are  gone. 

The  murmuring  wind  beneath  the  eaves 

Sounds  sadly  soft  and  low. 
Like  voices  of  lost  friends  I  knew 

In  years  of  long  ago; 
And  now  I  seem  to  hear  the  call 

Of  children's  voices  sweet  — 
And  iiark!  I  thought  I  heard  the  sound 

Of  dead  and  silent  feet ! 

'Twas  but  the  murmuring  wind  that  sobs 

Forever 'neath  the  eaves 
Through  winter  days  and  summers  long, 

And  stirs  the  autumn  leaves. 
I  am  alone;  from  the  old  house 

The  children  all  are  gone; 
And  'neath  the  eaves  the  ceaseless  wind 

Is  sobbing  on  and  on. 


AD  ASTRA. 
In  music's  throb  oft  is  an  undertone       [low 

That's  strangely  sweet,  and  is  so  soft  and 
That  onlj^  finest  ears  may  catch  the  strain  — 

The  rapture  of  its  ni(;lody  may  know. 

'Tis  thus  through  life  an  undercurrent  runs; 

The  blinded  coarser  soul  discerns  it  not, 
But  wlio,  with  clearer  eyes,  its  beauty  sees. 

Tastes  pleasures  rare  and  ue'er  to  be  for- 
got! 


» 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF    AMEUICA. 


1249 


MRS.  ELEAKOR  W.  F .  BATES. 

Born:  Boston,  Mass.,  June  6, 1&5L 
This  lady  is  an  author  and  poet  of  aekiiow- 
leflg:ed  ability,  and  her  poems  and  prose  ai- 
tieles  have  appeared  in  Harper's  Bazar, 
Youth's  Companion,  Springfield  Hepublican, 
Congregationalist  and  various  otlier  news- 
papers and  maji.izine.s.  Mrs.  Bates  was  mar- 
ried in  187"  to  .Mr.  Andrew  Bates;  she  now 
has  tliree  children  and  resides  in  Rosliudale, 
Miiss. 

A  SONG  FOR  OCTOBER. 
Here's  a  song  for  g-aj-  October  I 
She's  a  lassie  far  from  sober. 
Lover  of  the  woody  vine 
Wreathed  with  foliag-e  fair  and  fine. 
Grapes  of  amethystine  cluster 
Witli  a  rare  and  burnished  lustre 
Fall  within  her  eag-er  grrasp 
As  a  jewel  might  unclasp 
All  the  fruitage  of  the  j-ear 
Meets  its  consummation  here. 
Apples,  rosy,  russet,  yellow. 
Come  within  this  season  mellow; 
Corn  and  wheat  are  stored  away 
Safe  agrainst  a  later  day, 
O  the  sunrise  and  the  dewl 
O  tlie  uDiin's  enchanted  blue! 
But  the  golden  afternoon 
Softens  into  sliad<)ws  soon. 
There's  a  mist  upou  the  hills, 
There's  a  vapor  on  the  rills,  • 

There's  a  whisper  in  the  woods  — 
(Solemn  sylvan  solitudes) 
Say  they  all  with  portent  sober, 
"Say  good-by  to  sweet  October!  " 
\Vh;it  she  brings  she  takes  away; 
S  >on  November  will  hold  sway. 
KiiLiel  upou  the  verdant  sod. 
Pluck  the  nodding  golden-rod. 
Fill  your  arms  with  brilliant  leaves, 
Praise  the  tints  the  frost-elf  weaves. 
Then  with  saddened  looks  and  sober, 
Bid  farewell  to  bright  October. 


A  WELCOME  TO  SPRING. 

Bright  robin,  the  king. 
On  a  bough  a-swing. 
His  delicate  plumes  wide  fluttering. 
Caroled  and  shouted  to  all  the  birds. 
In  the  sweetest  and  gayest  of  musie-words. 
Then  whistled  his  comrade,  the  oriole. 
And  sang  with  the  strength  of  a  happy  soul; 
Tlie  blupbird  came  with  his  warbling  brothers 
The  thrush  and  the  wren  and  a  host  of  others. 
I'he  flower-roots  hidden  bene.ath  the  sod. 
Stirred  and  shot  up  a  blossoming  rod; 


The  violet  languidly  opened  its  eye. 
The  cloudlets  paused  as  they  llouted  by; 
The  crystalline  dewdrops  i|uiverrd  avain. 
Each  gra.ss-blade  li:i.sti'tu-d  to  liear  the  strain. 
And  the  liquid  notes  of  the  birdling  choir 
Grew  sweeter  and  louder  and  clearer  and 

higher; 
And  mortals  said,  as  they  lu-jird  them  sing, 
"The  birds  are  welcoming  buck  the  spring!  " 


MRS.  ELIZ.VBETH  A.  REEL). 

Mrs.  Reed  is  a  resident  of  Chicago,  where 
she  IS  engaged  in  lit«'rary  work.  She  occa- 
sionally contributed  poetry  to  the  periodical 
press,  but  her  time  is  Uiainly  devoted  to 
prose. 

GOLDEN  CHIMES. 

Memory  singing,  gladly  tells 

Of  wedding  bells 
Which  rang  with  clear  and  joyous  notes 

On  autumn  air. 
Bringing  from  their  tuneful  throats 

Music  rich  and  rare: 
They  sang  the  story  sweet  and  old 

Of  Eden's  pair. 
Where  love's  bright  promise  first  was  told 

Free  from  care. 
Memory  singing,  softly  tells 

Of  silver  Ixjlls; 
How  their  peaceful  voices  rolled, 

'Neath  sunny  skies. 
Where  clouds  of  silver  tinged  with  gold. 

In  beauty  rise. 
Bringing  peace  that  passeth  pleasure. 

And  love  never  dies. 
Bringing  faith  that  nt)ne  can  measure 

In  holy  lies. 

Hark!  How  the  music  rings  and  swells 

From  golden  bells. 
Ringing  while  the  stjirs  of  even 

In  glory  shine. 
Ringing  like  the  bells  of  heaven 

In  holy  clime. 
Still  richer  grows  the  story  old 

With  passing  time; 
Flushed  with  crimson,  tinged  with  gold. 

In  love  divine. 
Hark!  How  the  golden  promise  tells 

Of  other  bells; 
Ofanother  wedding  golden 

Beyond  the  tide; 
Of  earth's  garment-s,  gray  and  olden. 

Glorified, 
Foretells  the  dawning  of  that  niurning. 

The  king  lioslde. 
Foretells  the  glory  and  the  crviwniny 

Of  his  bride. 


* 


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1250 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


CHARLES  W.  HUTSON. 

Born  :  McPhersontille,  S.  C,  Sept.  23, 1840. 
Several  hundreds  of  the  poems  of  Mr.  Hut- 
son  have  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the 
periodical  press.  He  is  a  great  scholar  and 
the  autlior  of  several  prose  worlss.  and  lias  a 
volume  of  poems  ready  for  publication.  By 
profession  he  is  a  teacher.  In  1871  Mr.  Hut- 
son  was  married  to  Miss  Marion  J.  Lockett, 
and  now  has  a  large  and  interesting  familj'. 


RECONCILED. 
Lov'd  and  lost  and  lov'd  again. 

Will  my  Roundhead  lover  heed, 
Lifted  lidiiig  mask  as  when 

First  I  bent  from  startled  steed, 
Gazing  on  the  waking  youth 

Streteli"d  beneath  yon  spreading  beech: 
Can  he  trust  my  love  for  truth 

Since  my  last  so  bitter  speech? 
Wonbourne  wood  is  holy  ground. 

Glance  over  the  gate  and  see; 
Wonbourne  wood  is  lioly  ground, 

Tliere  he  waits  for  me. 
Cavalier  though  Father  be, 

Cavalier  our  curly  Miles, 
Both  consent,  he  lovetli  me 

Sweeter  than  Don  Cupid's  smiles. 
Both  consent,  he's  gentle-strong, 

All  despite  his  Hebrew-Greek: 
Will  he,  oh !  resent  it  long 

That  I  for  a  time  was  weak? 
Wonbourne  wood  is  holy  ground. 

Glance  over  the  gate  and  see; 
Wonbourne  wood  is  holy  ground. 

There  he  waits  for  me. 
Like  King  David  rosy-red. 

Like  King  David  music-fUl'd, 
Eye  and  nar  and  heart  he  fed 

Till  loud  war  soft  notes  hadstill'd: 
Was  he  like  King  David  then, 

Robb'd  of  her  who  liim  half-woo'd? 
Is  he  like  the  King  again. 

Longing  for  the  love  once  rued? 
Wonbourne  wood  is  holy  ground. 

Glance  over  the  gate  and  see; 
Wonbourne  wood  is  holy  ground. 

There  he  waits  for  me. 


ANNA  BRONSON  KING. 

Born:  Wooster,  Ohio. 
Miss  King  is  an  only  daughter  of  the  Bron- 
son-Alcott  family,  and  resides  in  Medina,  O. 
Her  poems  have  appeared  in  the  Harper's 
and  other  leading  magazines,  and  she  is  fast 
gaining  a  national  reputation  as  a  poet  and 
author. 


THE  FINGER  OF  GOD. 

The  rev'rent  Arab  treasures  every  shred 
Of  parchment  that  the  unregarding  wind 
May  fling  before  liiin,  hoping  there  to  find 
AUali's  most  sacred  name.    Shall  it  be  read 
Less  surely  in  the  tender  blossom-snow 
Of  May,  O  poet  heart,  in  ivorj'  glow 
Of  chestnut  blooms  that  strew  a  grassj*  bed. 
Or  soft  recurrent  nuirmurs  of  the  bees, 
Ere  autumn  drops  her  amber-tinted  leaves, 
Or    silvered    webs    the    harnessed    spider 

weaves? 
For  surely  hath  He  now  in  all  of  these,— 
The  ijlossomed  loveliness  of  sky  and  sod 
Left  his  own  impress,  the  Chief  Poet,  God. 


LUCY  E.  TILLEY. 

Born:  Chatham,  Ohio. 
About  two  liundred  poems  from  the  pen  of 
this  lady  have  appeared  in  Harper's  Weeklj', 
St.  Nicholas  Overland  Monthly  and  other 
prominent  publications,  and  have  been  high- 
ly praised. 

DAWN. 

That  voiceless  time  when  Night  takes  grace 

From  Morning's  half  revealed  face. 

Is  like  the  tender  dawn  which  lies 

Deep  in  a  young  girl's  wistful  eyes. 

The  woman  steals  down,  wonder-led. 

Ere  yet  the  sweet  child-days  are  fled. 

Softly  within  the  eyes  they  meet 

And  each  through  each  are  passing  sweet. 

At  JJature's  dawn  no  watchers  say, 

"  Behold  the  night,  behold  the  day;" 

None  e'er  the  swift-winged  moment  told 

When  roses  from  the  buds  unfold; 

So  shall  it  baffle  wisest  art 

The  woman  and  the  child  to  part, 

When  dawn  is  folded,  tender-wise. 

Beneath  a  young  girl's  wistful  eyes. 

AT  NESTING  TIME. 
God  gave  that  all  the  bids  of  sweetest  song 
Should  build  their  nests  a  little  nearerearth 
Tlian  those  in  whose  wee-throats  there  is  a 

dearth 
Of  music.    Low  tlicy  brood  and  sing  among 
The  liedge-rows,  a  sweet  leaven  of  song  to 

stir 
Witliin  the  world's  tired  heart  until  it  liolds 
No  room  for  disappointment,  but  -soft  folds 
About  a  perfect  hymn  of  peace.    Come  whir 
Of  slender  wings,  and  build  thy  frail  brown 

nest 
Nearer,  still  nearer  for  one  heart  hath  need. 
Perchance  a  close-sung  brooding-song  slmll 

lead, 
Througli  half-forgotten  pathways,  into  rest. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


lijl 


-* 


MRS.  MARY  JANE  MEADE. 

Born:  Williamsport,  Ind.,  Aug.  18,  1846. 
Mrs.  Meade  has  a  large  family,  and  i.s  now 
an  invalid.    Her  poems  liave  appeared  in  the 
Practical  Housewife  and  the  local  press  gen- 
erally. 

A  DREAM  OF  THE  PAST. 
The  sun  has  sunk  to  slumber  in  the  fair  and 

shining'  west; 
The  fleece-clouds,  bright  and  golden,  adorn 

the  mountain  crest; 
But  brighter,   far  more  glorious,  than  the 

evening's  sunset  glow. 
Is  the  ling'ering- light  cast  round  me  from  the 

days  of  long-  ago. 
The  twinkling   stars  peep  shyly  from  out 

their  azure  dome. 
And  the  crescent  moon  is  climbing  to  her  far 

off  sunless  home; 
The  moonbeams  glint  and  glisten  as  they  fall 

upon  the  floor. 
While  I  list  to  hear  a  footfall  at  the  threshold 

of  the  door. 
75  there  anything  fixed  on  the  shores  of  time? 
That   are   washed    by  the   terrible  flood  of 

years ; 
And  the  mighty  torrent  with  an  onward  rush. 
Carries  joys  and  sorrows,  smiles  and  tears? 

We  stand  on  the  brink  and  watch  loved  ones 

carried 
Away  from  our  grasp  to  the  dark  yawning 

sea; 
And  with  aching  hearts  feel  we  ne'er  shall 

see  them 
Till  we  reach  that  blest  eternity. 
In  silence  we  wait  till  the  twilight  gathers 
Into  the  shades  of  night,  o'er  our  bed; 
Then  slumber  o'ercomes  our  weary  eyelids. 
And  we  are  again  alone  with  our  dead. 

We  are  .standing  again  by  the  side  of  our 

loved  ones; 
We  are  saying  again  the  last  farewell ; 
The  morning  dawns,  tlie  dream  has  vanished, 
We  wake  with  a  sorrow  no  tongue  can  tell. 

Like  the  stars  that  fade  with  morn's  rosy 

light. 
Like  the  flowers  that  bloom,  then  witlicr  and 

die; 
So  the  hop.'S  that  we  cherish  so  fondly  to-day 
May  to-morrow  evade  us  and  leave  but  a 

sigh. 

Like  the  ice  that  melts  'neath  the  warmtli  of 

spring. 
Like  the  frost  on  the  pane  that  flees  from 

day; 


So  the  things  of   iliis  life  of  mystery  and 

deatli. 
Just  linger  a  moment  and  then  pass  away. 

FANNIE  ELIZA  BETH  NOYES. 

Born:  Ana.mosa,  Iowa,  Sept.  17, 1871. 
Miss  Noyes  is  a  school  teacher,  and  resides 
in  Onslow,  Iowa.     Her  poems  have  appeared 
from  time  to  time  in  the  local  press  of  Iowa. 

JUST  LIKE  A  WOMAN. 
Just  like  a  woman  1    how  often  we  hear 
These  words  in  derision, perhaps  with  a  sneer. 

All !  yes,  it  is  true. 
There  are  many  things  that  its  just  like  the 
woman  to  do; 

Ah!  yes,  just  like  a  woman. 
Its  just  like  a  woman  to  soothe  with  gare 
The  fretful  babes,  and  wiili  patience  rare 

Have  smiles  sweet  and  mild, 
And  gentle  words  for  each  leasing  child; 

Ah !  yes,  its  just  like  a  woman. 
Just  like  a  woman;  wlien  all  are  in  bed. 
Bending  low  o'er  each  dear  little  head, 

Murmuring  a  prayer 
For  the  little  ones  slumb'ring  so  peaceful 
there; 

Ah!  yes,  that's  just  like  a  woni:in. 
Its  just  like  a  woman  to  watch  and  pray 
For  the  boy  whose  feet  go  so  often  astray, 

Witli  mother-love  true. 
Asking  God  tu  guide  him   his  life-journey 
through; 

Ah !  j'cs,  it  is  just  like  a  wonuiii. 
Just  like  a  woman;  with  noiseless  tread. 
And  willing  hand,  bending  o'er  the  sufferer's 
bed. 

Watching  each  fluttering  breatli. 
Cheering  and  aiding  e'en  down  to  the  valley 
of  death ; 

Ah!  yes,  that's  just  like  :i  woman. 
Just  like  a  woman ;  giving  her  all. 
In  love's  service  never  to  falter  or  fall: 

Faithful  and  true 
To  those  who  accei>t  it  all  as  tlieir  due; 

For  its  Just  like  a  woman. 

ELI  L.  IIUGGINS. 

Born:  Scuvvi.er  Co.,  III.,  Atg.  1.  I>q3. 
Captain  Ei.i  L.  Hcooins,  2nd  regiment,  U. 
S.  Cavalry,  left  college  at  the  age  of  eighteen 
to  enlist  under  the  first  call  for  trix>ps  in  the 
war  of  the  rebellion.  He  served  tlirougli  the 
war,  being  tliree  times  wounde<l,  and  ri.-ing 
from   tlie  r;ink  of  private  to  that  of  first 


* 


1252 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


lieutenant.  At  the  close  of  the  war  lie  en- 
tered the  regulai*  army  as  a  second  lieuten- 
ant, and  has  served  continuously  since;  he 
now  holds  the  rank  of  captain  of  cavalry. 
About  a  hundred  poems  have  appeared  from 
time  to  time  In  the  leading  publications  of 
America. 

TO  A  YOUNG  ARTIST. 

The  matchless  artist  of  the  olden  time 
Knew  naug-ht  of  critic's  jargon;  to  their  toil 
Bending  as  one  that  digs  a  stony  soil. 
Sparing  not  bloom  of  youth  nor  manhood's 

prime; 
They  caught  and  fixed  their  floating  dreams 

sublime. 
So  must  we  shun  all  vain  polemic  broil. 
Nor  vex  our  souls  with  theories  turmoil, 
If  to  ideal  heights  we  fain  would  climb. 
Our  vintage  time  is  speeding  fast  away. 
The  morning  faileth,  then  with  double  will, 
In  spite  of  noonday  glare  or  evening  chill; 
Gather  the  glowing  clusters  while  we  may.      . 
So  may  our  failing  eyes  see  some  faint  beams 
Shed   o'er   our    work    from   our    supernal 

dreams. 


W.  T.  CHANDLER,  M.  D.     . 

Born:  Campbellsville,  Ky.,  Dec.  12,1852.  ' 
Several  hundred  poems  from  the  pen  of  Dr.  '■ 
Chandler  have  appeared  from  time  to  tinit ' 
in  the  periodica)  press.  A  small  volume  pub- i 
lished  by  this  poet,  entitled  Rustic  Rhymes.: 
has  received  high  praise.  In  1887  Dr.  Wood- 
ruff T.  Chandler  was  married  to  Miss  Sarah  ^ 
E.  Webster;  he  still  resides  in  his  native; 
town  engaged  in  the  practice  of  his  pro-| 
fession.  ; 


MARY  JUDSON. 

Born:  Bellefonte, Pa.,  March  12, 1872. 
Miss  Mary  Judson  is  a  student  of  the  Higli 
School  of  Charles  City,  Iowa.      Her  poems 
have  appeared  in  the  Maine  Gospel  Banner 
and  the  local  press. 

THE  CHALLENGE. 
A  Chickadee  sat  on  the  limb  of  a  tree 
And  said' as  he  sang  in  the  notes  of  his  glee. 
Ho!  little  Charlie,  here  is  Chickadee-dee, 
Don't  waste  all  your  arrows  by  shooting  at 

me. 
Then  Charlie  to  Chickadee  sent  him  a  note, 
..  I  won't  take  this  advice  from  your  warbling 

throat;" 
Chickadee  pertly  answered  the  lad  in  reply, 
"On  your  bow  and  your  arrows  you  cannot 

rely." 
Taunt  me.  Chickadee,  and  this  arrow  so  fleet 
I  shall  send  on  a  mission  of  death  at  your 

feet. 
But  Chickadee  answered  him  —  ••  Chickadee- 
dee, 
Dear  Charlie  would  shoot  all  his  arrows  at 

me." 
So  Chickadee  sangquitedetermined  if  wrong. 
To  give  little  Cliarlle  the  best  of  his  song; 
But  alas  for  the  song,  the  bird  gave  a  jump, 
An  arrow  brought  Chickadee  down  with  a 

thump. 


THE  MISER. 
Why  toil  and  craze,  weary  and  waste, 

Muscle  and  nerve  abuse; 
Gathering  gold  from  field  and  flood 

For  other  hands  to  use? 

Why  call  him  wise  who  heaps  in  store 

By  his  incessant  toil. 
That  other  men  may  feast  and  fat 

When  he  is  wrecked  in  spoil? 
Dead'ning  the  brain,  pois'ning  the  mind, 

Str;  ining  through  muscles  bare; 
Gold  to  canker  and  rot  the  soul. 

With  mis'ry  and  despair! 
Robbing  the  rich,  oppressing  the  poor, 

Hung'ring  the  pure  and  fair; 
Heaping  great  wealth  in  sordid  heaps, 

For  craving  want  to  heir! 
Here,  Old  Miser's  your  epitaph: 

You've  lived  a  life  unblessed. 
Cheated  your  body,  starved  your  soul  — 

Gone  to  hell  for  the  rest. 


THE  LAST  LEAF  ON  THE  BOUOn. 
'Tis  only  a  leaf,  a  fallen  leaf. 

Scared  and  withered  and  brown; 
But  it  tells  a  tale  of  bitter  grief. 

As  it  lies  upon  the  ground. 

On  a  naked  bough  alone  'twas  tossed, 

And  its  mates  fell  one  by  one; 
Till  the  autumn's  wind  and  winter's  frost. 

Whirled  it  at  last  to  the  ground. 

Long  days  and  weeks  the  storms  howled  by, 
And  thougli  it  withstood  tlie  blast 

Of  angry  wind  and  threatening  sky. 
It  fell  to  the  earth  at  last. 

To  raolder  with  each  scattered  mate, 
Wliich  left  tlie  bougli  before  it; 

Thus  the  eternal  night  of  fate 
Spreads  its  black  darkness  o'er  it. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  human  leaf. 
Though  long  it  butlVts  time's  blnst. 

There  comes  a  day  of  final  grief 
That  whirls  it  downward  at  l;ist. 


»=&- 


* 


T>OCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF   AMEltlCA. 


12.J.i 


DAVID  GRAHAM  ADKK. 

Boun:  Chelsea,  Mass.,  May  31, 183". 
David  Graham  Adee  was  U.  S.  comnn.ssion- 
er  to  Saiiciwieli  Islands  in  1883;  during  tlie 
war  be  w;is  militury  souretary  on  staff  duty, 
and  has  practiced  law  in  New  York  ten  yeai's. 
He  is  the  author  of  the  novel  No.  19  Slate 
Street,  and  is  still  largelj' engaged  in  literary 
work.  The  poems  of  this  great  jurist  have 
appeared  in  the  N.  Y.  Evening  Post,  N.  Y. 
Sun,  N.  Y.  Herald,  N.  Y.  Tribune.  Baltimore 
American  and  other  equally  prominent  pub- 
lications, from  which  they  have  been  copied 
by  the  press  generally  throughout  America. 
Mr.  Adee  was  married  in  1878  to  Miss  Ellen 
A.  .Skeel,  by  whom  he  has  three  children. 
Tliis  scholar  and  gentleman  is  now  a  resi- 
dent of  Washington,  D.  C,  where  he  is  coun- 
sellor in  the  U.  S.  Supreme  Court. 

FOUK  PHASES. 

Golden  ringlets,  hazel  eyes. 

Deep  and  dreamy,  fixed  afar; 
Thoughts  that  to  the  zenith  rise, 

Life  the  sky  and  he  a  star; 
This  the  boyish  poet's  rapture 
Ere  the  hours  his  being  capture. 
Chestnut  locks  about  the  brow. 

Love  and  beauty  ripe  and  real. 
Love,  a  faith  the  heart  to  bow, 

Beauty,  a  divine  ideal; 
These  the  poet's  manhood  gladden 
Ere  the  years  his  spirit  sadden. 

Silvery  gray  the  clustering  curls. 
Darkling  clouds  in  autumn  sky. 

Youthful  gems  but  melting  pearls. 
Beauty  dead  and  love  a  lie; 

This  the  poet's  fatal  after. 

Bitter  tears  or  blithesome  laughter. 

Snowy  hair  and  frosty  beard. 
Kindly  glance  and  cheery  saying. 

Fair  the  phantom  once  he  feared 
While  the  soul  was  still  a-Maying: 

Poet,  chant  celestial  measures; 
Rapt  the  realm  that  holds  thy  treasures. 


WHITTLING  CHIPS. 

Chubby  hands,  so  brown  and  small. 
Wield  the  blade  and  scantling; 

Chips,  like  driftlets.  fly  and  fall, 

Wasteful  liltt'r  one  and  all. 
In  flakes  about  the  bantling. 

Seventy  Springs  their  seed  have  sown, 

Still,  with  knife  and  shingle. 
The  child  a  white-liaired  grandsire  grown, 
His  life  a  dream,  his  memory  flown. 

Sits  whittling  by  the  ingle. 


Yet  the  past  lield  busy  years. 

Works  of  wondrous  glitter; 
But  many  a  loss  brought  burning  tears, 
And  many  a  gain  regretful  fears. 

At  best  a  useless  litter. 
And  so,  methought,  the  hopes  and  schemes 

Of  many  a  worldly  witling. 
When  all  is  told,  are  idle  dreams 
That  lure  men  on  with  golden  gleams. 

Mere  chips  of  mortal  whittling. 


SYRIAN  AND  MEXICAN. 

The  traveler  through  Syria  scans 
The  cradle  of  primeval  faith; 

Quaint  hamlets  built  of  mud  for  man's 
Abode  —  in  cast  of  clay  his  wraitli ; 
The  homely  life  of  lowly  huts. 
And  cumbrous  carts  in  rocky  ruts, 

Uncomely  laden  cattle  vans. 

The  tourist  in  an  Aztec  realm. 
That  grave  of  mediivval  rite. 

Views  the  same  hand  upon  the  helm 
Beneath  the  sightless  stars  of  night, 
Where  dusky,  dark-eyed  maidens  bloom 
'Mid  scenes  of  Oriental  gloom. 

And  sombre  dreams  the  soul  o'erwbelm. 

Thus  Eastern  spells  of  ages  past 
Are  woven  in  the  Western  sphere. 

And  old  dead  things  are  here  recast. 
And   inid  now  scenes  again  appear, 
'J'lie  rude  ox-plough,  the  wall  of  earth, 
The  wondering  gaze  and  doomful  dearth. 

Tells,  last  is  flrst,  and  Hrst  is  last! 


REV.  WILLIAM  N.  BURR. 

Born:  Ottawa,  111.,  Sept.  16,  1861. 
After  being  ordained  this  gentleman  was 
pastor  for  two  years  in  Silverton,  Colo.,  and 
is  now  pjustorof  the  First  Congregational 
Church  of  San  Jacinto.  Cal.  He  was  married 
in  1886  to  Miss  A.  Louise  Field.  The  iM)oms 
of  Rev.  Burr  have  appeared  In  Youths 
Companion  and  other  le.iding  publications. 

BESS. 
Across  the  field  comes  merry  Bess. 

Cutting  the  weeil-stalks  witli  her  cane. 
Whistling,  with  lM>yish  nonchulanee, 

A  sailor-like  refrain. 

..Most  thoughtless  girl  in  all  the  town." 
The  neighbors  say,  with  nieuuing  glance ; 

..Giiidy  and  restless  as  a  doll 
In  Punch  and  Judy  dance." 

Beside  the  bars  she's  standing  now. 

Leaning  upon  her  willow  crook. 
And  toward  the  far-off  mount.-iins  turns 

A  wistful,  wondering  look. 


*- 


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1254 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


Only  a  moment!  Tossing-  now 
Her  fluxen  braids,  she  trips  along 

The  beaten  path,  and  gaily  sings 
The  jovial  sailor  song. 

Whence  came  that  touch  of  earnest  thought? 

Is  there  some  silent,  hidden  spring 
Wliose  depths  have  never  been  revealed 

To  human  questioning? 

God  sees  with  other  eyes  than  ours. 
He  may  have  noted,  as  she  stood 

Beside  the  bars,  some  quickened  germ 
Of  earnest  womanhood ! 

• — •^»»— ♦ 

LYDIA  ANN  FOSTER. 

Born:  Charlestown,  S.  C,  x^pril  18, 1856. 
Lillian  Foster  now  resides  in  Dorchester, 
Mass.      Her  poems  and   sketches  have  ap- 
peared iu  Table  Talk,  Zion's  Herald,  The  Cot- 
tager and  other  publications. 


LED  BY  A  STAR. 

A  twilight  'neath  the  Eastern  skies. 
All  bright  it  glows  with  crimson  dyes 

Of  Orient  eve; 
Its  purple,  golden  sapphire  beams 
Change  slowly  into  silvery  gleams 

As  daylight  earth  doth  leave. 
Three  pilgrims  looking  skyward  there, 
As  radiant  eve  doth  disappear 

And  merge  in  night. 
See  shining  'bove  them  in  the  skies 
A  star  that  to  their  longing  eyes 

Shows  wondrous  bright. 
With  splendor  filling  all  the  night 
It  leads  them  on  to  where  the  Light 

Of  earth  they  find; 
That  shining  light  whose  steady  ray 
Proclaims  Him  radiant  Star  of  Day 

To  all  mankind. 
Oh,  Day-star  from  on  high,  to  Thee 
All  love  and  adoration  free 

We  joyful  bring. 
Shine  down  within  each  darkened  heart, 
Light  of  the  World :   Thy  light  impart 

To  us,  blest  King. 


MRS.  BERENICE  E.  HENDRY. 

Born  :  Otisco  Valley,  N.Y.,  April,  16, 1862. 
After  graduating  from  Iowa  College,  this 
lady  studied  Frcebel's  Kindergarten  System, 
and  taught  it  successfully  for  some  time. 
She  spent  two  years  in  Southern  California, 
and  now  resides  in  Tacoma,  Washington, 
whore  she  is  society  and  musical  editor  of 
the  Globe.    She  was  married  in  1888  to  Ken- 


neth F.  Hend)-y,  and  has  one  daughter.  The 
poems  of  Mrs.  Hendry  have  appeared  iu  the 
Minneapolis  Tribune,Tacoma  Morning  Globe 
and  other  publications. 


PULSE-BEATS  OF  NATrRE. 

Bounding  along 

Tireless  and  strong, 
The  great  heart  of  Nature  sings  ever  her 
song. 

May  bells  ring 

For  joyous  spring. 
And  birds  carol  blithely  the  whole  day  long. 

Gladsome  and  free, 
E'er  full  of  glee. 
She  cradles  the  birdlings  upon  her  warm 
breast. 
She  soothes  the  sad  heart, 
And  bids  pain  depart. 
And  to  every  tired  spirit  she  gives  her  sweet 
rest. 
Sweet  summer  days 
Spread  golden  haze 
O'er  all  the  earth,  as  Dame  Nature  sings, 
Of  promise  fulfilled. 
Of  vain  longing  stilled. 
Of  comfort  and  rest  underneath  her  broad 
wings. 
O,  great  heart  of  Nature, 

Speak,  speak  to  my  soull 
Speak  peace  to  the  tempests 

That  over  me  roll. 
Let  me  feel  thy  deep  calm 

In  my  pulses  to-day, 
And  in  thy  great  strength 
Grow  stronger  alway. 


TO  THE  HIDDEN  MOUNTAIN.    • 

I  strain  for  one  glimpse  of  thee, 

Mountain  of  majesty, 

Hid  from  my  gaze; 
Mine  eyes  strive  to  pierce  tlie  veil 
Which  wraps  thee  in  beauty,— pale. 

Soft,  purpling  haze. 

Thrust  forth  thy  glorious  brow. 
Let  me  behold  ttiee,  now, 
Dazzling  my  sight. 

Peerless  'mong  all  the  rest, 

Lift  up  thy  snowy  crest. 
Beautiful,  bright! 

Thou  hear'st  the  star  songs  clear, 
Wlien  all  is  silent  here, 

And  I,  asleep. 
Spheres,  ringing  music  rare, 
Tiirough  upper  realms  of  air. 
Bound  thy  crowned  head  may  dare 

Their  vigils  keep. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


12.5.5 


ERNEST  R.  OSTROM. 

Born:  Near  Victor,  Iowa,  Aprii.  1,  186s. 
Mr.  O-^TKOM  is  part  owner  of  The  Criterion, 
published  at  Daubury,   Iowa.     His    poems 
have  appeared  in  the  Housekeeper  and  the 
local  press. 

A  REVERY. 

I  am  alone  in  the  g-loom. 

My  thoughts  my  companions  are— 
Dayliglit  fades  all  too  soon  ; 

Memory  brings  from  far 
The  faces  of  friends  I  know: 

I  hear  their  glad  voices  time 
As  in  days  of  long'  ag'o. 

I  am  again  a  little  lad 

Beside  my  mother's  knee; 
My  life  is  bright  and  g-lad— 

I  list  to  the  lullaby 
She  sings  in  the  even-time— 
Once  more  as  of  old  I'm  clad, 

And  fish  with  pin-hook  and  line. 

With  old  joys  the  face  will  beam 
While  in  Memory's  bowers.— 
But  the  Past  is  soon  lived  o'er 

And  I  see  dim  Future's  stream. 
The  Future,  unlike  the  Past 

Refuses  its  secrets  to  yield; 
Its  shores  are  dim— mists  are  massed 

O'er  it  as  o'er  a  lowland  field 
Before  the  red  sun  doth  rise: 

'Tis  but  a  dim  outline  vast 
Our  views  of  Future  comprise. 


FRANKLIN  G.HARRIS. 

Corn:  Stockholm,  N.Y.,  J0ne  23, 1854. 
As  TEACHER  and  minister  Mr.  Harris  lias 
been  successfully  cngagred  since  1878.  A  few 
ot  his  poems  have  appeared  in  the  local 
press.  He  was  married  in  1879  to  Miss  Melis- 
sa E.  Adams,  and  now  has  a  family  of  sev- 
eral children.  Mr.  Harris  now  resides  In 
Elba,  Neb. 

WEALTH. 
Long  have  I  pursued  it. 
The  swift-winged  fairy. 
O'er  water  and  land 
It  has  led  me  a  chase; 
O'er  mountain  and  valley, 
In  paths  smooth  and  stony 
I've  followed  the  sprite 
In  a  mad  fruitless  race. 

I've  seen  its  bright  form 
In  the  marts  of  the  city; 


I've  heard  its  wines  rustle 
Ahead  of  the  plow. 
It  lurks  in  the  woodland. 
It  flies  o'er  the  prairie; 
But  to  make  it  my  own 
I  cannot  learn  liow. 

O'ercome  by  fatigue 
I  sit  down  discouraged. 
And  vow  that  I'll  try 
To  o'ertake  it  no  more; 
It  then  dances  round  me, 
I  spring  up  to  seize  it. 
Then  I  see  it  fl.ving 
Afar  as  before. 

Sometimes  I  have  lacked 

But  a  hand's  breadtii  to  catch  it. 

Again  I  liave  grasped  it. 

And  thought  the  race  won. 

I  sat  down  to  rest 

And  rejoice  in  my  fortune; 

I  opened  my  liand. 

And  behold  it  was  gone. 

JOHNSON  BELLOWS. 

Born:  Chicago,  III.,  March  19, 1870. 
Nearly  two  hundred  poems  liave  been 
written  by  this  young  jioet,  wliich  have  ap- 
peared in  America,  New  Vork  Ledger,  and 
otlier  periodicals.  When  a  boy  lie  liad  a  voice 
of  rare  quality,  and  is  ijuite  proficient  in  in- 
strumental music  as  ;i  pianist  and  organist. 
Mr.  Bellows  is  now  athcologiciil  student,  and 
hopes  soon  to  become  an  episcopal  luiuistcr. 


MORNING  GLORV. 
Swaying,  graceful  morning  glory. 

On  thy  silken  stem, 
Listenimg  to  the  zephyr's  story. 

Or  the  linnets  anthem. 
Bending,  tossing  merrily. 

In  the  golden  sunlight. 
How  its  happy  arms  enfold  thee. 

Floweret  bedight. 

From  yon  snowy  apple  tree. 

Flecked  with  blossoms  pink. 
Comes  a  swell  of  singing  glee, 

'Tis  thelx)bolink; 
Lovingly  the  south  wind  sighs. 

Through  eacli  leafy  tree. 
Heavenward  the  .songster  flies. 

Now  'tis  morning  gli>ryl 

TO  BAHV  ISABEL. 

a  LVIllC. 

Life  is  a  garden  of  buds  and  blossoms. 
Of  sunshine  and  May-day  song; 


-* 


*- 


1256 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


Buds  become  blossoms  of  vernal  hue, 
And  blossoms  iu  incense  die. 

The  skylark  sings  to  the  blowing  rose, 

And  merrily  clumts  his  lay. 
He  looks  on  the  bud  of  unfolding  love. 

And  sighs  for  a  distant  day. 

That  day  is  nigh  with  Its  sweet  sunsliine, 
Its  murmuring  leaves  and  song; 

Tiie  bud  unsealed  breathes  forth  its  life. 
That  shall  ebb  away  ere  long. 

Hopes  are  but  buds,  and  blossoms  life, 

While  each  to  each  live  on. 
Till  at  last  they  shall  flower   in    endless 
bloom. 

And  a  realm  of  undying  song. 


WILLIAM  W.  HANNA. 

Bokn:  Philadelphia,  Pa.,  Jan.  2.3,  1866. 
After  graduating  at  the  grammar  and  the 
high  school,  Mr.  Haana  received  a  teacher's 
certificate.  He  then  studied  law  and  is  now 
engaged  in  real  estate  and  conveyancing  in 
his  native  city.  His  poems  have  appeared  in 
the  daily  and  weekly  press. 


TRUE  SOURCE  OF  CONTENTMENT. 

It  is  not  the  wealth  of  millions. 
That  bringeth  peace  of  mind. 

The  rich,  at  times,  with  care  perplexed. 
No  happiness  can  find. 

Some  strive  on  field  of  battle 

To  win  e'erlasting  fame, 
But  when  at  last  the  goal  is  reached 

'Tis  found  an  empty  name. 

Even  the  king  upon  his  throne 
While  low  his  subjects  kneel; 

With  burdens  sore,  of  state  o'erwhelmed. 
No  joy  of  heart  can  feel. 

Happy  the  man,  whose  lot  is  cast. 

Where  he  may  useful  be 
Where  character  and  love  doth  blend 

With  heaven-born  piety. 

REV.  C.  E.  DICKINSON. 

Born:  Heath,  Mass.,  April  23,  1835. 
This  Congregational  minister  was  a  grad- 
uate of  the  Chicago  Tlieological  Seminary 
and  was  ordained  in  1863  at  Oak  Park,  111.,  and 
has  filled  pastorates  in  that  city,  in  Elgin. 
111.,  and  Marietta,  Oiiio,  where  he  is  now  i)as- 
tor  of  the  First  Congregational  Church.  Mr. 
Dickinson  was  married  in  1863  to  Miss  Susan 
D.  Williams  of  Shelburne  Falls,  Mass.,  and 
now  has  two  sons  and  three  daughters. 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE. 
Oh,  Father  Lord,  be  mine  thy  will. 
Let  every  murmuring  thought  be  still. 
This  prayer  alone  my  bosom  swell 

••Thy  will  be  done." 
When  clouds  come  darkling  o'er  my  way. 
Expelling  from  my  soul  each  ray 
Of  light  and  joy,  oh,  then  to  say: 

"Thy  will  be  done." 
When  friends  prove  false  and  foes  prevail, 
And  all  our  earthly  treasures  fail. 
In  love  thou  hast  directed  all, 

"Thy  will  be  done." 
How  sweet  when  all  the  world  seems  drear, 
No  friend,  no  earthl}'  comfort  near. 
E'en  then  to  speak  this  trusting  prayer 

'•Thy  will  be  done." 
In  life,  in  death,  in  joy  or  pain, 
My  all  I  would  to  Thee  resign. 
These  words  shall  ever  more  be  mine, 

"Thy  will  be  done." 


*- 


REV.  E.  H,  VOTAW,  A.M. 

Born:  New  Lisbon.  Ohio,  June 21, 1836. 
Elihu  Hilles  Votaw,  author  of  the  fol- 
lowing poem  expressive  of  filial  love,  is  an 
alumnus  of  Amherst  College,  1869.  For  sev- 
eral years  he  followed  teaching  in  Yonkers, 
N.  Y.,  and  Cleveland,  O.  Having  completed 
his  theological  studies  he  was  ordained  in 
the  Euclid  Avenue  Congregational  Church, 
Cleveland,  O.,  Aug.  28,  1874.  He  has  served 
as  pastor  of  the  following  Congregational 
Churches:  Rockford,  O.,  seven  years;  Attom- 
tic  Church,  St.  Paul,  nearly  three  years;  Gen- 
eva, O.,  five  years, where  he  is  still  preaching, 
and  responding  to  many  invitations  for  pop- 
ular lectures  upon  Dreams  and  D;iy-Dreani- 
ers.  Pessimistic  People,  Crudities,  and  others, 
which  have  given  him  an  envious  fame,  as 
the  ••Prince  of  lecturers  on  psycliological 
subjects,  popularized,"  and  ••one  of  the  most 
popular  platform  speakers  in  Ohio."  He  is 
also  author  of  Pillars  and  Perils  of  the  Re- 
public, 1888. 

THE  ABSENT  MOTHER. 

The  young  moon  flashed  her  silver  light, 
Our  far  off  mama  caught  the  sight 
Of  shining  horns  hung  out  by  niglit. 
And  clapped  her  hands  with  wild  delight. 
••That  moon,"  she  said  ••shall  light  nic  home, 
To  join  the  loved  from  whom  1  roam." 
Her  hostess  daughter,  lately  wed 
Suppressed  a  tear,  and  pouting  said, 
•■Tliat  silver-footed  <iuecn  I  dread; 
She  tells  mo  of  a  mother  tied, 
I  do  not  like  thee  Luna." 
^ * 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMEHICA. 


12.57 


REV.  HENRY  S.  BURRAGE. 

Born:  Fitch  burg,  Mass.,  Jan.  7,  1837. 
After  graduuting  at  Brown  University  of 
Providence,  R.  1.,  and  Newton  Theological 
Seminary,  Mr.  Burrage  studied  in  Halle,  Ger- 
many. For  four  years  he  was  Baptist  pastor 
in  Waterville,  Maine,  and  is  now  editor  and 
publisher  of  Zion's  Advocate,  Portland,  Me. 
.Mr.  Burrows  holds  many  important  positions 
and  has  a  brilliant  military  record.  He  is 
the  author  of  several  volumes  of  prose,  and 
a  poet  of  acknowledged  ability. 


ORDINATION  HYMN. 
How  beautiful  their  feet. 

Who  on  the  mountain  stand. 
And  lovingly  God's  truth  proclaim 

To  men  of  every  land. 
The  watchmen  lift  their  voice; 

Abroad  the  message  flies; 
And  willing  winds  its  echo  roll 

Alotig  the  bended  skies. 
Rejoice  ye  sons  of  men ; 

Redemption's  wonders  sing; 
Break  forth  in  joy,  Jerusalem, 

The  Lord  your  God  is  king. 

He  bares  his  holy  arm. 
And  saving  grace  reveals; 

The  dead  in  sins  he  makes  alive, 
The  broken-hearted  heals. 

Lord,  here  display  thy  power; 

This  greatest  boon  we  crave; 
Grant.with  the  messenger  to  speak, 

The  arm  of  might  to  save. 


WM,  D.  KEMPTOX ,  M.D.,  DD.S. 

Born:  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  June  10,  1850. 
The  poems  of  Dr.  Kempton  have  appeared 
in  the  Bicycling  World,  Cincinnati  Enquirer 
and  other  publications.  He  has  been  editor 
of  several  journals  and  since  1888  has  been 
Wheel  editor  of  the  Cincinnati  Commercial 
Gazette,  and  is  now  secretary  and  treasurer 
of  the  Ohio  Division  of  the  League  of  Ameri- 
can Wheelmen.  Mr.  Kempton  practices  bis 
profession  of  dentist  in  Cincinnati,  and  was 
f<)raU)ng  time  president  of  the  Cincinnati 
Dental  Society.  He  was  married  in  1877  to 
Miss  Emma  Jane  Boyer,  and  of  two  children 
only  one  is  now  living— Hildagarde,  born  in 
1879. 


When  in  thy  broad  and  handsome  brow 

Deep  furrows  have  appeared; 

If  then,  dear  Tom,  on  Memory's  page 

My  name  shall  still  be  found: 

Recall,  I  pray,  the  pleasant  hours 

That  we've  together  found: 

The  hills  that  we've  together  climb'd. 

Together  coasted  down; 

The  chickens  and  the  milk  consum'd 

At  dear  Mia  mi  town. 


TO  THOMAS  H.  SCHULTZ. 
When  Time  has  touched  thy  shapely  head. 
And  whlten'd  thy  flowing  beard; 


THE  SCORCHER. 
Charmed  by  the  sweet  and  mekxlious  notes 
Which   poured  from  a  score   of   feathered 

throats. 
Breathing  the  hay's  delicious  scent 
As  through  the  fields  my  course  I  bent; 
Far  down  the  road  1  ch;iiicpd  to  spy 
A  man  on  wheel  whicli  seemed  to  fly. 
As  past  where  I  stood,  like  a  rocket  he  went, 
1  saw  on  his  face  a  kxik  so  intent; 
A  look  of  pain  and  an.xions  haste. 
That  seemed  to  say,  "No  time  must  I  waste." 
For  blind  and  deaf  to  Nature's  display. 
With  downcast  eyes  he  sped  on  his  way. 
"It  must  be  a  case  of  life  and  death," 
I  said  to  myself  with  bated  breath; 
'•At  the  door  of  Death  some  dear  one  is  laid, 
And  he  doth  haste  for  medical  aid. 
Oh,  fly.  thou  wheel,  with  the  wings  of  the 

wind. 
That  he  that  aid  may  speedily  find. 
And  again  to  health  th;it  loved  one  restore. 
Hasten  I  pray  thee,  beg  and  implore  I" 

Alas,  my  friends  it  was  all  a  mistake, 

He  was  only  trying  ;i  record  to  break. 

He  rode  like  a  fool  and  never  once  stopped 

Till,  his  heart  giving  out,  from  liis  wheel  he 

dropped 
And  gave  up  the  ghost  on  the  ground  where 

ho  lay. 
But  he  beat  the  record  three  seconds  they 

say! 

LOVE. 
A  little  seed  by  breezes  borne 

An  abiding  place  in  my  bosom  found 
Where  a  smiling  face  and  two  bright  eyes 

Had  recently  made  u  piercing  wound. 

Watered  by  tears  it  began  to  gn>w 
And  into  my  heart  its  rootlets  dipped. 

Quickly  its  branches  grew  and  spread. 
Each  with  a  fragrant  blossom  tipi>ed. 

Deeply  I  breathed  their  fragrance  rare- 
How  strange  the  effect  upon  my  brain- 
Beautiful  thoughts  and  dreams  were  mine 
And  gone  were  every  care  and  pain. 


*- 


1258 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


This  little  plant  with  mighty  power 
To  change  a  falcon  to  a  dove 

Or  chain  a  giant  with  a  thread— 
You  ask  its  name?— They  call  it  Love. 


LUCY  AGNES  HAYES. 

Born  :  Dedham,  Mass.,  Feb.  10, 1869. 

The  poems  of  Miss  Haj'es  have  appeared 
in  tiie  Jonrnal  of  Education,  Catholic  World, 
Overland  Monthly,  Lippincott's  Magazine, 
and  other  publications.  She  is  a  resident  of 
Maynard,  Mass. 


VIA  CRUCIS. 
Say,  Tollman,  the  name  of  the  road  I  see 

Stretching  so  cheerless,  lone  and  wild? 
"'Tis  the  Via  Crucis  that  beckons  thee. 

Amen !    Then  take  it  boldly,  child. 

"For  the  way  must  be  trod  by  the  sons  of 
men. 
In  tears  and  in  silence  soon  or  late." 
With  a  sob,  the  little  one  now  and  then 
Looked  back  as  he  passed  through  the  well 
worn  g:ate. 

O,  Via  Crucis,  thy  stones  are  wet 

With  tears  of  travelers  j'oung  and  old; 
And  thy  landmarks  are  white  gravestones 
set 
Over  smiles  forg-otten  and  hearts  grown 
cold; 

But  thou  bringest  peace  when  the  sighs  are 
past 

And  after  a  little  thy  gorse  grows  fair; 
Tliough  feet  bleed  sorely  we  learn  at  last 

To  bless  thee,  thou  foot  of  Heaven's  stair! 


OVERLAND. 
Over  land  and  over  sea,  past  the  sunset  red 
Stands  a  stately  Refuge  Town  whither  one 
has  fled 
Who  had  never  sought,  I  ween, 

All  its  joys  divine 
Could  he  ever  have  foreseen 
This  lone  town  of  mine. 

Smile  on  lips  and  harp  in  hand, 

Vict'ry  on  his  brow. 
Far  from  where  I  weeping  stand 

He  is  singing  now. 

Soul  of  mine  canst  wish  him  back 

To  the  toil  and  tears, 
To  the  tumult,  pain  and  wrack 

Of  the  weary  years? 


Over  land  and  over  sea,  past  the  sunset  r^ 
There  is  also  room  for  thee  with  iliy  hap; 
Dead. 


EDWIN  LUCIEN  MCNEILL^. 

BoKN :  East  Nashvii.le,  Tenn.,  Oct.  13, 186  > 

Mr.  McNeilly  for  a  time  was  a  bookkee,! 
er,  but  is  now  a  student  at  S.  W.  P.  Unive  1 
sity  of  Clarksville,  and  will  eventually  stud  [ 
law.  A  few  his  poems  have  appeared  in  tlij 
local  press. 


"  JES'  A  PIDDLIN'  AROUND." 
He  never  seemed  to  have  his  min'  set 
On  anything,  certain  for  sure,  and  yet 
Jes'  flxin"  ills  beehives  or  workin'  his  groui 
Witli  a  stiing  and  some  rocks, 
A  few  nails  and  some  blocks 
He  was  alius  a  piddlin'  aroun'. 

We  used  to  laugh,  his  neighbors  en  me, 
Es  we'd  see  liim  spade  up  all  'round  a  tree 
En  bury  some  bones  in  the  groun', 
Fur  we  didn't  then  know 
Thet  bones  made  things  grow, 
And  jes'  thought  he  was  piddlin'  aroun'. 

•  •Hit's  funny  to  me,"  ses  I  to  my  wife— 
"How  he  gets  along  I  can't  see  for  my  life, 
How  he  gits  all  the  seed  in  the  groun'." 

But  he  raised  lots  o'  hay. 

Ell  all  I  can  say 
Is  he  did  it  jes'  piddlin'  aroun*.  ' 

When  hit  rained  en  frum  work  we'd  all  hav<: 

to  quit 
En  'ud  set  aroun'  smoke,  chaw  terbacker  eil 
•spit,  1 

We  could  tell  in  his  shoi>,  by  the  souu', 
He  wus  workin'  away — 
Er  in  fact  I  might  say 
He  wus  there  jes'  a  piddlin'  aroun". 

He  turned  out  one  day  a  curi'us  concern;     i 
Whut    lie    called  a    '.pedal    propeller  miiH 

cliurn," 
En  hits  equal  can't  nowhere  be  fouu'; 

En  liit  sold  right  away. 

En  a  fortune,  tliey  saj'. 
Is  whut  he  made  piddlin'  aroun.' 

En  he  lives  over  thar  whar  I'm  pintin'  thii 

stick 
In  tliat  pretty  now  house  thet's  made  outei 

brick. 
En  thet's  him  jos'  this  side  thet  moun' 
On  his  liands  en  his  knees 
At  the  roots  o'  them  trees, 
Jes'  as  usual  a  piddlin'  aroun'. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OK  AMKKICA. 


* 


MRS.  MARTHA  G.  BECK. 

Born:  Gkkencastle,  Ind.,  1830. 
After  her  niarrias'e  tliis  lady  lived  for  seven 
years  in  Missouri,  and  fliuiUy  located  in  Yaki- 
ma, Wasliiiitftoii  Territory,  where  she  still  re- 


MKS.  MAKTH.V    G.   BECK. 

sides.  The  poems  of  Mrs.  Beck  have  appeared 
from  time  to  time  in  the  local  press.  She  has 
three  children  living-,  by  whom  she  is  adored 
as  a  true  mother  and  friend. 


5(- 


AN  ORPHAN. 
An  orphan  to  our  home  we  took  — 

A  little  brown-eyed  dove; 
So  winning:  in  her  baby  ways. 

We  could  not  choose  but  love. 
A  home  with  only  sons  — 

Unblest  by  sister's  grace  — 
What  marvel  they  claimed  her 

To  fill  the  vacant  place? 
Like  a  sunbeam  to  our  home 

She  came,  our  dull  lives  to  bless  — 
A  humming  bird  amid  the  g-loom 

That  on  leafless  forest  rest. 
Grown-up  oties,  though  of  life  a  part, 

Excites  ni)t  the  .sympathy. 
That  wells  up  in  the  jiarent  heart. 

For  weak,  helpless  infancy. 
Our  lives  had  driftedon  the  same 

For  many,  many  years : 


Our  hearts,  like  an  arid  plain, 

Our  eyes  unu.'^ed  to  It-ars. 
She  soon  awoke  our  love. 

For  it  was  but  iislccp; 
Eyes  not  used  to  tears, 

Alas  I  soon  Icanii'd  to  weep. 
Death  has  nipped  our  Uowrut. 

With  all  her  winsome  charms; 
For  her  angel  mother  came 

And  look  her  from  our  arms. 
Ah;  our  home  is  lonely  now 

Thoujrh  wcare  neariug-  rest; 
To  Our  Father's  will  we  bow. 

He  governs  for  the  best. 


MEMENTOES. 
In  a  drawer  of  sacred  things. 
Mementoes  of  the  lov'd  and  lost. 
Worthless  save  as  memory  brings 
Those  who  with  us  on  life's  ocean  tost. 
Here  relics  rest  so  very,  very  old, 
(Though  once  bedew'd  with  teursi 
Quietly  beneath  the  mold 
And  apathy  of  dead'ning  years. 
A  pair  of  shoes  little  and  worn, 
I've  placed  amid  the  precious  heap,— 
A  heart  so  sad  with  tendrils  torn 
Would  break  but  for  the  power  to  weep. 
They  bring  the  dear  one  back  ag:iin. 
Every  curvt>,  the  little  toes  depressed* 
Surely  she  will  here  remain? 
She  has  but  cast  them  off  to  rest. 
Ah!  memory,  her  face,  how  w.inl 
Her  bright  eye  glazed  the  while. 
Features  that  were  anguish  drawn. 
Now  wreathes  them  in  a  smile. 
And  has  her  guileless  spirit  flown? 
Her  young  life's  journey  done? 
Has  death  my  floweret  mown? 
She,  wreaths  of  immortelles  won? 
Fly  back  again  sweet  spirit  dove. 
And  nestle  in  these  waiting  arms; 
L«'t  these  yearning  eyes  my  Uive 
Again  behold  celestial  charms. 
Linger  near  awhile  dear. 
Amid  these  changing  scenes; 
Let  me  feel  thy  presence  near. 
As  heaven's  purifying  b«.'auis. 
This  worn  amy  soon  I  will  lay 
Aside  for  garments  bright. 
And  you  and  1  together  stniy. 
Out  into  u  world  of  light. 


LIFE. 

Life,  a  sphere  for  effort  grikiid; 
A  fathondess  sea  without  a  shore; 
An  hourghuis  with  wiustingsand, 
A  realm  of  mystery  none  explore. 


* 


*- 


1260 


LOCAL   AND   NATIOXAl,   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


GEORGE  H.  CRUIKSHANK. 

Born;  Liberty,  Ohio,  April  4, 1821. 

Mr.  Cruikshakk  has  written  one  hundred 
poems,  many  of  which  have  received  publi- 
ealion  in  the  Delaware  Signal,  Delaware 
Star,   New   Era,  and  other  periodicals.    He 


GEORGE   H.  CRUIKSHANK. 

lias  published  a  small  booklet  of  his  poems. 
Mr.  Cruikshank  was  married  in  1850,  and 
three  of  his  children  are  married,  with  fam- 
ilies of  their  own. 


*- 


THAT  CIGAR. 
O  touch  it  not,  my  dearest  boy, 

For  in  its  folds  there  lurks  a  foe 
That  turns  to  sadness  all  your  joy. 

And  leaves  a  curse  where'er  you  go. 

O  touch  it  not,  my  dearest  boy. 
For  deadly  poison  lurks  within 

Which  will  your  body  help  destroy, 
And  load  your  soul  with  guilt  and  sin. 

O  touch  It  not,  my  dearest  boy, 
It  leads  the  way  to  death  and  hell, 

And  is  the  devil's  chief  decoy 
That  lures  so  many  there  to  dwell. 


O  touch  it  not,  my  dearest  boy. 
But  keep  your  spirit's  temple  pure. 

Then  you  shall  share  life's  sweetest  joy 
And  make  your  happiness  secure. 


COUNT  THE  COST. 
Before  you  puflf  that  cigarette. 

Just  count  the  cost,  my  boy. 
That  you  in  tears  may  not  regret 

The  act  that  spoiled  life's  joy. 

Just  count  the  cost;  ah!  can  it  be 

You'll  pay  a  sum  so  great 
For  that  which  robs  of  liberty 

And  seals  the  heavenly  gate? 

Just  count  the  cost;  oh,  will  It  pay 
With  gold  to  purchase  death  — 

To  smoke  your  life  and  means  away. 
To  scent  your  clothes  and  breath? 

Just  count  the  cost.    Had  Walker  True 

Left  off  those  cigarettes 
His  days  would  not  have  been  so  few  — 

Too  late  now  for  regrets. 

Anthony  Jones,  too,  did  not  count 

The  dreadful  risk  incurred 
While  he  his  life  was  smoking  out. 

Else  it  would  not  have  occurred. 

Dear  boys,  a  timely  warning  take. 
And  shun  the  tempter's  bait; 

Your  happiness  is  all  at  stake. 
Beware  the  smoker's  fate. 


A  WARNING 
Beware,  dear  boys,  ot  cigaretles. 

Don't  touch  the  nasty  things: 
A  poison  lurks  beneath  their  folds 

That  sure  destruction  orings. 

You  may  not  see  the  poisonous  bait. 

But  it  is  surely  there; 
By  little  it  is  taken  in  — 

For  death  you  must  prepare. 

Keep  pure,  dear  boy,  and  shun  the  weed 

Which  degradation  brings; 
You  cannot  be  too  cautious  of 

Those  nasty,  tempting  things. 

As  God  has  made  j'ou  pure  and  cleaD, 

So  let  your  lives  bo  spent; 
Keep  from  all  habits  that  are  vile, 

That  you  may  die  content. 


LOCAL    AND    NATIONAL    I'OKTS    OK    AMKIMCA. 


B.  ¥.  BOYD. 

May  it  wave  forever 

Bokn:  Southekn  Ohio,  May  12,  1850. 

O'er  the  patriot  dead! 
And  dishonor's  slain  iievi  . 

The  subject  of  tl)is  sketch  is  the  editor  of 

Touch  tlie  blue,  tlie  white  and  red. 

the  Independent  of  Lockwood,  Mo.    He  was 

m.-irriod  in  1874  to  Miss  Olivia  Shackelford. 

THE  ETERNAL  NOW. 

tsrr ~                 ~~~ 

] 

List,  O  man,  unto  tlie  words  of  truth. 
As  now  and  ever  more  they  come 
To  thee,  fresh  and  full  of  might.— 

^■^^-  "' 

That  from  each  passing  momi'ni  call 

With  voice  that  swells  in  deep  accord 
Witli  nature's  perfect  liarinony; 

■  /'"                                  '               ^ 

And  sweeps  and  thrills  through  all 

mm  .—>•  •-- 

The  universe! 

r^       ^-S".      ."v- 

Mid  all  the  worlds 

■' ,  V 

That  countless  wheel  in  space  afar. 

wmm 

Not  e'en  one  mote  of  dust,  one  grain 
Of  sand  from  nothing  came,  nor  can 
To  naught  dissolve.    The  mote 
Declares  the  secret  of  the  star 

:  ^M  ^^^^^^Bl^_ 

From  whence  it  came  and  in  the  form 

^^^^^'' L^i^^Ji^^^ 

Of  which  its  kindred  are. 

No  power 
Can  mar  the  rhythm  of  the  drifting  years. 
Nor  jar  one  cadence  in  the  tune 
To  wliich  the  ages  dance  away. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^B^^^^B^^^^I^? 

No  god  can  break  the  link  which  Joins 
This  moment  to  the  next  and  links 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^R''                         -  .;^H 

The  death  tliat  was  unto  the  life 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^K             bB 

To  come.    No  word  of  priest  cm  grasp 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^H^^iMd^flH 

The  miglity  thought  that  ruslies  here 

^^^m^^^^^^^^iHH^i^i 

Upon  the  brain— Eternity  !  — 

li.  f.  BOYU. 

Iiillnitude!  — the  wondrous  spell 

I'he  poems  of  Mr.  B.  F.  Boyd  have  appeared 

Is  theirs  to  mold  their  own  at  will 

in  the  local  press,  and  have  received  quite  a 

Foievermore,  and  from  their  gnisp 

little  praise  from  the  press  and  public. 

No  atom,  howe'er  small,  release  shall  flud 

At  sound  of  angel's  trump,  or  voice 
Of  priest-craft's  puny  gods. 

OUR  PATRIOT  DEADI 

Know  ye  the  story ! 

How  fell  the  brave. 

OKLAHOMA  BILL. 

On  the  field  of  g:lory. 

EXTKACT. 

Our  country  to  suve ! 

And,  still,  as  fresh  as  a  ye.irling  colt. 

How,  when  tlie  war  cloud 

He  rode  right  over  the  flame; 

O'erspread  the  sky. 

And,  like  a  frozen  tliiiiiderbolt. 

Marched  they  witli  firm  tread; 

He  struck  that  precious  claim. 

Marched  fortli  to  die ! 

"  Rich?  do  you  ask  if  that  soil  was  rich? 

Know  ye  how.  dauntless. 

What  on  earth  are  you  talking  jibout? 

Pressed  tlieir  comrades  on, 

Why,  bless  your  soul,  it's  blacker  tliati  pitch! 

Bravely  'mid  the  conflict, 

And  so  strong,  I'll  have  to  spread  It  out." 

And  the  victory  won. 

Blest  be  each  brave  soul ! 

..  You  ccnildn't  tell  the  grass  fnmi  pane  p<iles; 
It  grows  .so  confoundi-d  rank  an<l  fall. 

Honored  bo  the  brave! 

Come,  thou,  witli  {jratitude; 

And  it  grows  so  quick  in  the  early  spring 

Bring-  tliy  tribute  for  each  grave! 

That  the  cattle  never  get  out  at  all." 

Hiffh,  o'er  their  deep  sleep. 

..Going  back?    No.  not  for  a  whll.-! 

Raise  the  gleaming'  bars 

I'm  behind,  clipping  coui^ons  Just  now. 

Of  their  srlorious  banner. 

And  I'm  boring  a  thousand  holes  for  ile 

Bearing  all  its  stars! 

Away  out  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico." 

■tH- 


1262 


LOCAL,  a:nd  national  pokts  of  amkkica. 


GRACE  E.  PICKERING. 

Born  near  Portsmouth,  N.  H. 
The  poems  of  this  lady  have  occasionally  ap- 
peared in  the  periodical  press.    She  still  rc- 


GRACE  E.   PICKERING. 

sides  in  her  native  place,  where  she  has  many 
friends  and  ardent  admirers. 


A  SKY  PICTURE. 

"  Come  quick,"  said  they,  and  into  the  star- 
light led  the  way; 
In  the  quiet  skies  stretching  overhead 
A  banner  of  snow  was  softly  spread : 
"Are  you  sure,"  said  they,   "Sure  that  it 

isn't  tlie  Milky  Way?  " 
Oh  tlie  Milky  Way  is  a  film  on  the  blue. 
Letting  stars  look  through,  as  through  care- 
less, delicate,  open  lace; 
And  the  Way  holds   her  court  in   another 

place. 
But  this  train  of  wliite  lay  in  "  a  wedlock  of 

silence  and  liglit; " 
A  downy  strip,  on  its  background  blue. 
While  from  lip  to  lip  the  wonder  flew, 
And  within,  the  immortal  questions  grew. 
Sacred  and  still  — slept  the  pure  fleece  map- 
ped on  the  heavenly  hill. 
Keeping  its  own  sweet  secrets  well, 
And  hedged  about  by  ti  nameless  spell. 


MRS.  ANNA  C.  ATKINS.- 

Born  :  West  India  Islands,  June  1, 184G. 
When  an  infant  this  lady  was  brought  to 
North  Carolina.  She  was  married  in  1875  to 
Rev.  Daniel  Atkins,  and  resides  with  her 
liusband  and  children  at  Corvallis,  Oregon. 
Her  i)oems  have  appeared  from  time  to  time 
in  the  secular  and  religious  press. 


LET  DOWN  YOUR  GOLDEN  BARS,  0 

WEST. 
Let  down  your  golden  bars,  O  West! 
Day's  weary  hours  come  trooping  in. 

Some  bright  with  joy,  some  soiled  by  sin, 

Some  deafened  by  the  world's  loud  din; 

Some  eager  still  lost  crowns  to  win ; 

Some  bearing  lofty  deeds  well  done; 

Some  robbed  of  laurels  justly  won ; 

Some  fainting  'neath  the  heat  of  sun; 

Some  quitting  work  but  just  begun; 

Some  bonnd  by  habit's  iron  bands; 

Some  bearing  day's  low  ebbing  sands, 

Tlie  weird  procession  flies  along. 

Around  thy  portals,  halts  the  throng. 
Let  down  your  golden  bars,  O  West, 
Day  claims  the  priceless  boon  of  rest!    ' 

Let  down  your  golden  bars,  O  West, 
Belated  hours  are  hastening  in! 

Some  come  with  idle  folded  hands; 

Some  busy  with  days  tangled  strands; 

Some  soar  aloft  on  rainbow  wing; 

Some  deep  despair  and  sorrow  bring; 

Some  clarion  notes  of  victory  sing; 

Some  sadly  to  the  past  still  cling; 

Some  pressing  on  with  l'i)otsteps  fleet; 

Some  dragging  heavy  crime-clogged  feet; 

They  pass  witli  steady  martial  beat. 

And  one  by  one  tliy  portals  greet. 
Let  down  your  golden  bars,  O  West, 
We  seek  night's  ebon  fields  for  rest! 

Let  down  your  golden  bars,  O  West, 

Life's  weary  hours  are  almost  donel 

At  last,  the  slender  thread  is  spun; 

At  last,  the  battle  lost  or  won; 

A  moment  more  and  sinks  the  sun; 

The  western  wind  has  ceased  to  blow; 

Upon  the  mountain  fades  the  glow; 

The  echo  dies  of  footsteps  slow; 

A  mantle  drops  to  earth  below. 
Let  down  your  golden  bars,  O  West, 
Beyond  are  Eden's  fields  — and  resti 


EXTRACT. 
O,  barren  fields  where  daisies  grow, 
You  hold  a  secret,  none  must  knowl 
Of  maid,  with  eyes  of  lustrous  hue, 
And  lover  i)lightingvows  so  true! 


*- 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMEKICA. 


Vim 


* 


:  JOSEPH  ST.  ELMO  BERRY. 

Born:  New  Okleaxs,  La.,  April  18,  1871. 

N  1881  lie  removed  to  Denver,Colo., where  lie 
■esided  until  1884,  when  he  entered  the  pre- 
paratory department  of  Notra  DumeUniver- 
liity,  Notra  Dame,  Ind.  In  1887  he  was  regu- 
arly  matricuhited  in  the  English  course  and 
vas  graduated  in  1891.  Mr.  Berry  was  ap- 
minted  class  poet,  taking  for  liis  theme  The 


Myth  of  Hilas.  He  was  on  the  editorial  staff 
'  of  The  Notra  Dame  Scliolastic  and  is  a  regular 

contributor  to  several  Catholic  pnblieations, 
I  among  which  are  Tlie  Rosary  and  Catholic 

World,  besides  doing  considerable  literary 
I  work  for  proir.inent  western  journals.  Mr. 
I  Berry  expects  to  take  up  journalism  as  a 

profession. 


O  ROSE  OF  MAT. 

0  rose  of  May  !  thy  blushing  brings 
The  tufted  month  of  love,  that  rings 
To  n^usic  of  the  lilac  bells, 
Where  love-lies-bleeding  in  the  dells. 
With  pale-marked  jasmine's  starred  wings. 

Thy  soul  a  liquid  sweetness  flings 
A  round, where  dew-cupped  tulip  swings: 
With  seraph's  breath  thy  gold  heart  swells, 
O  rose  of  May. 


O  Rose  of  Sharon,  from  the  springe 
The  haloed  peace  of  life,  that  sings 
Thy  praise,  and  sweetly  soothing.  (|uells 
The  passionate  heart.     Thy  love  dispels 
The  awe  tiiat  round  thy  splendor  cliugp, 
O  Rose  of  May. 


THE  EYES  I  LOVED. 
The  eyes  I  loved  in  childhood's  day. 
The  eyes  of  mother,  soft  and  gray ; 
The  eyes,  so  deep  with  saintly  love. 
Now  shine  in  Paradise  above. 
With  Mary  Mother,  Queen  of  May. 

Their  starlight  now  has  ceased  to  str:iy. 
With  love  fire  in  each  lingering  ray; 
For  God,  on  earth,  has  ceased  It  move 
The  eyes  I  loved. 

A  vision  of  the  p.ast  ;ire  they,— 
A  treasure  in  my  heart  to  stay,— 
The  soft  eyes  of  a  heavenly  dove. 
The  measure  of  her  love  to  prove. 
O  Godl  to  see  again,  I  pray, 
The  eyes  I  loved. 


THE  SONG  OF  A  BLOSSOM. 

A  blossom  fair. 

Of  maiden's  hair, 
Sang  softly  in  the  breeze; 

Like  a  chime  of  bells. 

Its  story  tells. 
And  the  words  it  sang  were  these, 

"  In  a  blossom  fair 

Of  maiden's  liair. 
My  soul's  a  clustered  liour. 

The  thoughts  I  breathe. 

"With  perfume  wreathe 
The  poetry  of  a  flower. 

In  the  summer  sun 

My  carols  run 
Like  musings  of  a  star; 

My  heart  is  ileep 

As  nature's  sleep 
In  a  serap'li's  hymn  afar. 

My  silken  grace 

Is  wove  in  lace. 
My  home  is  lover's  bowers; 

The  music  sweet 

To  my  iieart's  beat. 
Is  the  hopes  of  golden  hours." 

Sang  the  blossom  fair 

Of  maiden's  hair. 
And  in  its  song  it  bluslied,— 

In  a  maiden's  hair 

Is  the  blossom  fair. 
And  the  soul  of  song  is  hushed. 


* 


1264 


LOCAL    AND   NATIO>TAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


ALEXANDER  EVANS. 

Born:  Middeltown,  Ky.,  Nov.  9, 1814. 
When  flfteeu  years  of  age  Mr.  Evans  en- 
tered a  wholesale  dry  goods  establishment 
in  Louisville,  in  which  he  subsequently  be- 
came a  junior  partner.  He  served  in  the 
army  in  1847-48,  and  in  1861  became  major 
and  C.  S.  in  Breckinridg-e's  division.  After 
being:  two  years  m  the  field  he  was  posted 


ALEXANDER  EVANS. 

at  Madison,  Ga.,  and  at  the  surrender  he  re- 
turned to  Louisville  and  agaiu  entered  iuio 
commercial  life,  but  lias  now  retired.  Mr. 
Evans  is  tlie  authorof  two  volumes,  entitled 
^neas,  and  Fashions.  About  three  hundred 
of  his  poems  have  appeared  in  the  Transcript, 
Courier-Journal,  Evening-  Sun,  News  and 
Post  of  Louisville,  and  the  periodical  press 
generally. 


ADELTA. 


I  saw  Adelia's  eyes 

Beneath  the  mooidit  skies. 

Row  briglit,  how  soft  their  lustre  beam'd 

Vicing'  with  stars  from  lieaven  that  gicam'd. 

-And  whilst  1  ling-er'd  long-  to  gaze, 

Her  bright  eyes  did  attract  mc, 
.■^nd  in  I  he  moonlight's  quivering  rays. 

Her  beauty  did  distract  me. 


Again  I  looked,  I  looked  again. 
Though  every  look  renewed  my  pain; 
She  sigh'd,  she  smil'd,  then  wav'd  lierhand 
And  placed  her  lips  at  my  command, 
I  would  not  then  have  shar'd  a  throne 
For  all  the  joys  th;it  were  mine  own; 
Let  tlirones  and  scepters  vanish  far. 
Since  'Delia  is  my  guiding  star. 


WHEN  I  WAS  A  BOY.  I 

When  I  was  a  boy  of  ten  years  old,  I 

I  heard  of  rivers  wliose  sands  were  gold,  | 
I  wander'd  in  valleys  gemm'd  with  flowers,  • 
I  dreani'd  alone  of  pleasure-hued  bowers;  j 
I  saw  the  sun  at  his  golden  birth,  ' 

Sprinkle  with  silver  beams  the  earth;  ! 

I  saw  liis  purple-clad  clouds  at  eve,  | 

Taking  their  brilliant  farewell  leave;  i 

I  welcomed  the  flower  on  April's  wing  i 

When  woodland  birds  their  love-notes *slng,    '■ 
And  in  the  w,ild  forest  of  nature's  trees. 
Kept  time  with  the  music  of  passing  breeze. 
But  oh,  these  scenes  so  golden  fair. 
That  spring  brought  forth  with  her  balmy  \ 

air,  ' 

Have  all,  like  the  summer  morning's  dream. 
Dipped  their  fancies  in  Letlie's  stream; 
Wild  grief  has  shadow'd  my  aged  soul. 
Dark  waves  of  sorrow  around  me  roll. 
In  seas  of  anguish  my  heart  is  lost. 
On  stormiest  wave  my  bark  is  toss'd. 
All  my  young  loves  have  gone  to  their  rest 
And  sorrow  alone  is  left  to  my  breast. 
No  hope  but  the  hope  that  beams  from  afar 
And  points  the  lone  wanderer  to  Bethlehem's 

star. 


LINES. 

EXTRACT. 

The  golden  sun  ascends  the  sky. 
The  lark  in  triumph  darts  on  liigh. 
The  glittering  drops  of  diamond  dew. 
Retreat  as  Phoebus'  face  they  view. 
The  birds  in  singing  all  combine 
To  wake  my  love,  my  Adaline. 

The  busy  hum  of  morning's  voice 
Doth  make  the  heart  of  man  rejoice. 
The  lambkins  sporting  on  the  green. 
With  hearts  as  light  as  shadows  e'en, 
All  seem  to  say  in  every  sign 
Arise  my  love,  my  Adaline. 

With  lilies  pa]o  and  violets  blue, 
With  roses  ting'd  of  every  hue. 
With  snow-drops  pure  as  morning  air 
With  Spring's  green  mantle  broad  and  fair, 
AH  in  one  bright  wreath  entwine 
To  deck  my  love,  my  Adaline. 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AMEKICA. 


128.5 


MRS.  PHKBE  A.  SPURLOCK. 

Born:  Canton,  III.,  March  2V,  183L 
In  1857  the  lady  was  married  to  Rev.  M.  Spur- 
lock,  of  ilieCeutial  Illinois  Conference.  Slie 
was  for  six  years  corresponding-  secretary 
of  tlio  Woman's  Home  and  Foreigrn  Mission- 
ary Societies,  and  lectured  for  eight  years 


MRS.   PHEBE  A.   SPURLOCK. 

in  mission  and  temperance  work.  Many  of 
her  poems  have  been  set  to  music,  and  liave 
appeared  in  standard  works  of  sacred  songs. 


QUEEN  OF  THE  NIGHT. 
Cteeping-  slowly  down  the  lull 
The  shades  of  night  the  valley  flU, 
While  lo!  beyond  the  eastern  star 
Tiie  orb  of  night  is  rising  far. 
In  salutation's  penciling  light 
Bleak  ghostly  forms  recede  from  sight; 
With  gauzy  wings  her  halo  falls 
Upon  the  shades  of  nightly  pall. 
O  triinquil  eve,  sweet  hour  of  rest 
No  stalking  demons  e'er  behest. 
To  rob  thee  of  thy  jewels  fair. 
Which  soft  winds  fan  in  dewy  air. 
Thou  fairy  moonlight,  softly  tread 
That  one  might  wish  all  sorrow  ded. 
While  pearly  rays  of  crystal  light 
Breaks  on  the  visioo   -rapturous  sight. 
The  drama  of  fond  memory's  life 
Tiiat  nestles  iu  vaiu  vision's  strife. 


Conies  rusliiug  back  of  long  ugo 
Like  fairy  scenes  of  moonlight's  glow. 
i'lio  quivering  lip,  the  throbbing  sigh, 
The  hurried  glance,  the  last  good-bye. 
Comes  up  as  halcyon  days  of  yore. 
The  moonlight  hours  in  memory's  store. 

Like  magic  dreams  cf  nightly  rest 
To  weave  fair  garlands  o'er  the  breast ; 
Of  nature's  art  the  heart  inspire 
To  wake  anew  the  harp  and  lyre. 

In  chanting  i)raiso  let  power  be  given 
To  thee,  most  beauteous  orb  of  lii'.HVen; 
'I'liy  mantle  dipped  in  sparkling  dew 
Now  trembling  o'er  the  quivering  blue. 
In  majesty  thou  sit'st  on  high. 
The  nightly  queen  to  passers  by; 
Like  lurking  phantonis  shadows  fly 
When  chased  by  thy  soft  gleaming  eye. 
The  scenery  grand—  so  pure,  complete. 
Thy  charms  extend  i>'er  billows  deep; 
Thou  giv'st  to  all  thy  silv'ry  rays; 
All  hail  thee  queen !  all  give  thee  praisel 


STORM  CLOUDS. 

EXTRACT. 

O,  bear  away,  away,  away. 

Ye  winter's  wind  of  iiorn, 
The  dark  fringed  clouiis  that  so  obscure 

The  breaking  of  the  dawn; 
Give  back  yc  iron  gates  of  night. 

Let  airy  visions  fall. 
As  sunlight  breaks  througli  lattice  shade 

Upon  my  ceiling  wall. 
But  lo,  the  clouds  are  fleeing,  flying: 

The  storm  has  passed  away. 
And  bursts  o'er  earth  in  visions  bright. 

The  effulgence  of  the  day. 
All  nature  wrapt  in  calm  repose. 

And  frost  infused  in  air. 
The  crested  icetlakes  glit'ring  hang 

As  jewels  in  the  air. 
Then  let  the  sunshine  briglit  and  gay 

Within  these  walls  to  glow. 
And  may  their  warming  rays  reach  far 

Down  in  the  valleys  low. 
Thanks  to  my  God  for  tunny  hours. 

They  bre:ithe  of  dull  decays. 
And  point  to  briirhter  scenes  than  these - 

The  mild  sweet  summer  days. 
So  may  ray  life  be  calm  ns  ihey. 

From  darkue.ss  e'er  Ir'  riven. 
No  clouds  of  terror  to  t)l)soure 

My  onwanl  course  to  he.iven. 
Tln-n  drive  them  back  to  isles  of  storm 

Where  angry  clouds  l>eloDg. 
They  have  no  charm  within  my  breast. 

Nt)  phice  within  my  song. 


* 


* 


1266 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A31ERICA. 


DR.  URIAH  D.  THOMAS. 

Born:  Jamestown,  Ohio,  July  8,  1830. 
This  physician  and  lecturer  is  the  author  of 
more  than  two  liundred  poems,  wliieli  liave 
appeared  in  Boston  True  Flag,  Waverly  Mug. 
azines,  Peterson's  Ladies'    Mauaziue,  Lake- 


DR.  URIAH  DAVIS  THOMAS. 

side  Monthly,  and  various  other  publica- 
tions. Dr.  Thomas  has  had  five  children, 
and  resides  in  Grand  Rapids,  Mich.,  where 
he  is  very  popular. 


*- 


THE  MAGIC  LUTE. 
There  lies  a  lute  in  a  temple  fair. 

In  tlie  realm  of  monarch  mind. 
Aliove  it  murmurs  enchanted  air, 

Witliin  it  are  pearls  enshrined. 
Though  brightest  of  jeweled  things, 

Its  mysteries  none  may  know. 
But  angels  often  attune  its  strings 

To  measures  of  joy  and  woe. 

Ona  comes,  with  dark  and  luminous  eyes 

TImt  rival  the  stars  at  niglit, 
.\nd  on  tlie  lute  a  melody  tries  — 

A  madrigal  soft  and  liglit  — 
A  murmuring  sound  of  wings, 

A  blending  of  songs  and  sighs. 
Awakens  the  lute's  responsive  strings. 

And  strains  bewildering  rise. 


Sweet  tones  in  liquid  harmony  float. 

And  strangely  the  temple  fill; 
The  soul  of  feeling  in  every  note 

Evinces  immortal  skill. 
A  deep,  voluminous  swell 

Ascends  to  the  heavens  above. 
And  all  who  feel  the  rapturous  spell 

Are  blessed  by  the  angel  Love. 

Then  one  draws  near,  with  disheveled 

And  lustreless  eyes  and  dim, 
To  breathe  on  the  lute  a  plaintive  air- 

A  sorrowful,  dirge-like  hymn. 
To  the  dirge-like,  mournful  strain, 

The  tremulous  lute  replies; 
A  sound  of  tears,  in  the  low  refrain  — 

Sad  tears  and  dolorous  sighs. 

Through  the  wonderous  temple  tall 
fair. 

What  fitful  melodies  glide; 
They  rise  and  fall  on  the  humid  air. 

An  ebbing  and  flowing  tide 
A  tide  of  sorrowful  words 

In  a  musical  wail  depart. 
When  Love  has  yielded  to  Grief  the  ch 

Of  that  magic  lute,  the  heart. 


ni:d 


ords 


VOICES. 
Into  my  saddened  soul, 

Fervid  with  feeling. 
Voices  tumultuous  roll. 

Strangely  appealing  — 
Thrilling,  beyond  control. 

In  their  revealing. 
Sounds  on  the  pulsing  air, 

Swelling  and  dying  — 
Weird  echoes  everywhere 

Sadly  replying  — 
Love,  in  unanswered  prayer 

Mournfully  sighing. 

Hearts  in  their  woe  forlorn. 

Hopeless  and  tearless, 
Vaiidy  beseeching  morn. 

Sunless  and  cheerless- 
Hearts,  through  neglect  and  scorn. 

Reckless  and  fearless. 

Lured  to  deceptive  goals  — 

Shores  dimly  lighted  — 
Stranded  amoug  the  shoals, 

Lone  and  benighted. 
Linger  despairing  souls  — 

Hearts  early  blighted. 

Heaven  gloom-overeast  — 

Sorrow  assailing. 
Over  a  darkened  past. 

Sad  souls  are  wailing  — 
Destined  to  find,  at  last. 

Anchor  unfailing. 


*- 


LOCAr.    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKIIICA. 


« 


1267 


JOHN  D.CONWAY. 

Born:  Holyoke,  Mass.,  May  4, 18,50. 
In  1875  appeared  Conway's  Poems,  a  vol- 
ume of  two  hundred  pagesiand  in  1877  Daujili- 
ter  of  lunisfail,  a  four-act  drama.  Since 
that  time  his  poems  hare  appeared  con- 
stantly in  the  periodical  press.  Mr.  Conway 
is  in  business  in  Lawrence,  Mass.,  in  book 


JOHN  D.   CONWAY. 

and  job  printing:,  and  is  also  the  publisher 
!ind  proprietorof  the  Lawrence  Call.  Mr.Con- 
way  was  married  in  1880  to  Miss  Mary  Ann 
Seymour,  and  now  has  an  interesting  family 
of  si.\  children. 


!  *- 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 
Rinfr  loud  and  lively  all  those  bells 

That  peal  from  day  to  day. 
Just  change  the  tone  to  heavenly  swells. 

And  honor  Christmas  day, 
111  joj'ous  peal  let  anthems  steal 

From  lofty  towers  of  man; 
Along  the  air  enchantment  bear. 

And  waft  where  breezes  scan. 

Ring!  massive  bells,  in  cheering  tone. 

The  sounds  we've  heard  for  years,: 
To-day,  we  want  no  plaintive  moan. 

No  calling  'round  the  biers 
Ring  loud  and  clear  the  tidings  dear. 

That  God  and  man  are  king, 
That  heaven  bestows  it  s  joys  on  those. 

Who  love  to  Christ  will  bring. 

Ring!  chimes,  above  the  sacred  walls, 
In  tones  that  speak  of  joy  — 


Jeliovali  reigns  tin's  day,  and  calls  — 

In  praise  we  make  reply. 
With  joyous  heart  let  love  impart 

True  worship  for  the  King, 
Who  rules  a  throne  none  here  can  own. 

But  worsliip  to  it  bring. 

Let  merry  children's  voices  raise 

Glad  pa?iis  to  above. 
And  join  each  other  giving  praise 

To  Him.  the  God  of  Love. 
With  pleasant  face,  wish  every  grace 

Tli:it  life  accords  to  man ; 
And  help  the  poor,  who  seek  your  door. 

With  all  the  good  you  can. 

A  merry  Christmas  let  it  be. 

Throughout  this  niighiy  realm. 
And  carols  loud  be  sung  for  Thee, 

Great  pilot  at  the  helm. 
The  ship  of  life  can  stem  the  strife, 

O'er  sea's  great  rolling  wave. 
When  He  commands  the  willing  bauds 

To  man  the  sails  he  gave. 

Though  loud  the  winds  of  ocean  roar. 

Around  our  lonely  bark. 
And  drive  us  toward  the  rocky  shore, 

Where  sin  lias  left  its  mark. 
He  still  can  guide  us  through  the  tide. 

To  lands  of  bli.ss  and  love 
And  anchor  clear  of  ail  we  fear. 

In  calmest  seas  above. 


Let  the  tintinnabulations 
Of  the  bells,  for  generations. 
Large  and  siimll,  of  all  creations. 
Send,  in  joyous  variations. 

Sounds  of  gladness  to  the  breeze. 
All  along  this  sphere  of  wonder. 
Let  the  heavy  bells  in  thunder. 
Bid  by  people  living  under. 
Tell  that  they,  in  praise,  can  nnniber. 

Willing  Ideals,  the  Lord  to  pleu;se. 

Let  each  loud  reverberation. 
With  the  people's  acclamation, 
Show  that  He  lias  veneration 
In  the  bosom  of  the  nation. 
That  without  His  aid  is  weak. 

Sing  of  life,  in  bliss  forever. 
Where  no  binding  ties  will  sever— 
God  is  friend  to  aiiKels  ever 
In  the  holy  sphere  where  never 

Can  the  demon,  siti,  invade. 
Sinj;  of  Christ.  Rtdcemir  holy. 
Born  to  sutrer  for  us  solely. 
Hjw  He  looked  not  on  us  coldly. 
When  He  came  among  the  lowly, 

God  as  ever,  man-like  made. 


1^ 


1268 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POEI  S   OF   AMERICA. 


RICHARD  D.  DOYLE. 

Born:  Norfolk,  Va.,  Oct.  8. 1850. 
After  receiving-  the  degree  of  bachelor  of 
l;iw  at  the  university  of  Virginia,  and  grad- 
uating-in  moral  philosophy  and  logic  under 
the  celebrated  Dr.  M.  Guffey,  Mr.  Doyle  went 
to  Indianapolis  and  practiced  law  and  edited 
a  weekly  newspaper.  He  later  became  as- 
sistant attorney  general  of  the  state  of 
Indiana.  lU-iiealth  compelled  Mr.  Doyle  to 
return  to  Norfolk  where  he  has  since  held 


RICHARD  DEVEREUX  DOYLE. 

tlie  position  of  city  attorney  and  counsellor, 
and  received  the  nomination  for  maj'or  and 
commonwealth  attorney.  Mr.  Doyle  is  still 
eng:aged  in  the  practice  of  his  profession. 
His  poems  have  always  received  high  com- 
mendation. 


A  LAWYER'S  QUERY. 
Why  is  it  when  before  me  lies 
A  musty  deed  or  moldy  will, 
I  see  before  it  two  blue  eyes  — 
Why  is  it? 

Why  Is  it  that  in  crowded  dance, 
Witli  pretty  girls  on  every  side, 
My  heart  desires  but  one  eye's  glance  ■ 
Why  is  it? 

Why  do  I  bate  to  see  a  rose. 
Or  smile  bestowed  on  any  one; 
Why  is  it  I  can  scarce  repose  — 
Wliy  is  it! 


Alas  I  I  feel  a  vague  unrest, 
A  rush  of  doubts  and  hopes  and  fears, 
Forever  in  mj'  faitliful  breast  — 
Why  is  it? 


LINES 

WRITTEN  AFTER  HAVING  JESTINGLY  DE- 
CLINED TO  LEND  A  VOLUME  ENTITLED 
ROMANTIC  LOVE  AND  PERSONAL     BEAUTY. 

You  do  not  need  to  read  the  book, 

1  would  not  lend  to  you. 
Because  whene'er  to  choose  to  look 

'Tis  spread  before  your  view. 
Romantic  love  is  plain  in  me, 

My  charming  little  lass. 
And  personal  beauty  you  can  see 

By  looking  in  your  glass 


THE  BLUE-EYED  LASS. 
No  Delaware  peaches  her  cheeks  can  surpass. 

Nor  tiie  skies,  nor  the  deep  blue  sea 
Can  excel  the  eyes  of  my  favorite  lass, 

So  I  think  when  she's  looking  at  me. 

Angelo's  chisel  alone  could  trace. 

Or  Raphael's  brush  portray. 
Her  graceful  form  and  saintly  face 

As  fresh  as  the  break  of  day. 

Oh,  for  the  wings  of  gay  Tom  Moore, 

Or  Byron  the  bard  divine. 
To  poesy's  realms  I  then  would  soar. 

For  thoughts  of  this  girl  of  mine, 

But  alas,  for  me,  a  dull-witted  youth. 

My  muse  is  none  of  the  nine. 
And  yet  1  can  tell  this  simple  truth. 

No  love  can  be  greater  than  mine. 


EXTRACT. 


Wallack,  of  the  military, 
A  soldier  brave  as  well  as  merry. 
Says,  "Wliat's  the  good  of  leading  style 
If  I'm  to  be  left  all  tlie  while? 
The  time  is  sadly  out  of  joint, 
I'll  air  my  clothes  down  at  Old  Point." 
And  then  a  crowd  in  fierce  array. 
Came  on  quite  eager  for  the  frjiy. 
With  tennis  rackets  higli  in  hand. 
They  looked  indeed  a  wiirlikc  band. 
.'The  dudes  of  Portsmouth,  too  are  here," 
I  cried  and  quaked  in  abject  fear. 
Such  fierce  assults  I  could  not  stand 
From  tlio  indignant  slighted  band, 
A  nd  so,  by  Jove,  I  quickly  swore. 
That  1  would  sing  of  dudes  no  more. 
But  sonnets  write  of  witcliing  curls 
Adoi-ning-  the  brows  of  beautiful  girls. 


--* 


«- 


LOCAl,   AND   NATION  AT,    POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


12fi9 


JAMES  PHINNEY  BAXTER. 

James  Phinney  baxter,  well  known  ;is  "  the 
Poet  of  Maine  "  has  a  national  reputation, 
and  is  the  author  of  more  than  a  dozen  popu- 
lar works.  The  puhlication  of  his  Idyls  of 
the  year  1884,  placed  him  at  once  in  tlie  front 
rank  of  American  poets,  and  he  is  reg-arded 
by  many,  at  homo  and  abroad,  as  second  to 
none  in  New  Eng-land.  Mr.  Baxter's  winter 
home  is  at  Portland,  Maine,  and  his  sum- 
mers are  passed,  wlien  not  abroad,  at  his 
elegant  island  home  in  Casco  Bay,  known  as 


JAMES  PHINNEY  BAXTER. 

Mackworth  Manor,  wherefore  his  poetry  has 
been  said  to  "smellof  the  sea,"  that  being- 
the  principal  theme  of  his  pen.  Upon  im- 
portant public  occasions  lie  is  often  called 
upon  to  deliver  poems,  and  atallsuch  times 
has  achieved  marked  success,  atid  won  the 
applause  and  admiration  of  critics.  Mr.  Bax- 
ter is  also  known  as  a  historical  writer,  and 
has  published  many  valuable  works  relating 
to  American  history.  He  is  the  honored 
President  of  the  Maine  Historical  Society, 
and  built  and  presented  to  the  City  of  Port- 
land its  magnificent  Public  Library  build- 
ing, the  most  beautiful  structure  in  the  city. 
He  alsofoimded  the  Portland  Society  o.  Art, 
and,  as  an  amatuer  artist,  contributes  to  its 
exhibitions.  The  following  are  from  his  pen. 
and  will  serve  to  illustrate  his  style. 


DECKESCENDO. 
There  is  no  splendor  on  the  shadowy  hills: 
Their  gauds  of  gold  the  woods  no  longt-r 
wear: 
A  dreamy  haze  the  empty  welkin  Alls, 
And  reigns  a  strange,  sad  silence  every- 
where. 

Save  for  the  lonely  bittern's  wistful  cry 
From  foodless  marshes  Uoatiiig  drearily; 

Or  plover's  fitful  plaint  borne  shrilly  by; 
Or  wail  of  waves  blown  from  the  far-ofl'sea. 

On   your  bleak   slope,  by   slowly    freezing 

springs 

The  sluggish  geese  by  sudden  instinct  fired. 

Wave  wide  with  clamorous  cries  their  windy 

wings. 

As  if  to  summer  realms  they  fain  aspired. 

And  in  the  pasture,  comfortless  and  bare. 
Where  shelter  scant  the  shuddering  birches 
yield; 
Pathetic  in  their  patience,  dumbly  stare 
The  huddling  sheep  across  the  snow-flecked 
field. 

Where  erewhile  lisped  the  willow  all  the  day 
In  sweetest  mystery  to  the  impassioned 
stream ; 

A  shivering  skeleton  stands  stern  and  gray. 
The  phantom  of  a  onc«  delicious  dream. 

And  listless  drops  the  ash  its  beads  of  red 

From  shriveled  fingers  slowly  one  by  one; 
As  if  the  final  orison  were  said 
For  all  the  beauty  which  from  earth  has 
gone. 
Whither,  ah!  whither  hath  t  he  summerflown 
With  all   its   wondrous   witchery;  all  its 
bliss? 
Its  roses'  breath?  its  fields  witli  beauty  sown? 
Its  sweet-voiced  birds?  its  zephyr's  balmy 
kiss? 
Its  whispering  woods?  its  softly  psalming 
rills? 
Its  clouds  of  pearl?  its  heaven's  immeus- 
ured  blue? 
The  far-off  splendor  of  its  lucent  hills? 

Its  meadows  lush  with  morn's  enquicken- 

ing  dew? 
Whither,  ah?  whither?    There  is  no  reply: 
The  streams  are  tougueless  and  the  wckxIs 
are  dumb. 
An  unsolved  riddle  is  the  chill  gray  sky: 
And  from  wan  hills  uo  cheering  sign  may 
come. 
Faith,  following  far,  alone  may  garner  hope 
From  suidess fields  unfruitful  and  forlorn: 
Alone  may  cast  a  certain  horoscope. 
And  bathe  in  sunshine  of  a  day  unborn: 


*- 


* 


*- 


1270 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


May  look  beyond  the  dim,  uncertain  hills 
vvhere  winter's  ghostly  garmeuts  faintly 
gleam : 

Discerning  clearly  through  impending  ills 
A  summer  all  of  beauty  brightly  beam. 


MISERERE. 
The    cheerless  sun  hangs    low;    the   harsh 

northwind 
Blows  with  a  bitter  breath  from  off  the  sea; 
Brown  are  the  southern  slopes,  where  lately 

dinned 
The  gauzy  locust  and  the  golden  bee. 

The  idle  fishers  as  they  seaward  gaze. 
Dream  of  the  silvery  spoil  their  nets  have 

won; 
And  fondly  revel  in  the  vanished  days. 
Fairer  than  when  their  glowing  course  was 

run. 

Their  mazy  nets  drift  useless  on  the  gale; 
Their    boats    along    the    barren    shore   are 

strown; 
And  but  the  billows'  never  ending  wail 
Beats  on  the  ear  in  dreary  monotone. 

Gone  are  the  ships  which  bore  in  summer's 

prime 
The  wealth  of  prosperous  ports;  a  single  sail 
Flits  on  the  sea's  dim  verge  a  little  time. 
Then  fades  and  is  forgot  like  some  fair  tale. 

And  all  is  a  vacancy —  save  when,  maybe 
A  seabird hurrying througli  the  fallingnight. 
In  from  the  sterile  pastures  of  the  sea 
Sweeps,  silent  as  a  shadow,  'thwart  the  sight. 

O  fruitless  earth !    O  empty  sky  and  sea ! 
O  wailing  waves !    O  chill  and  bitter  blast! 
Where  shall  the  doubting  soul  for  comfort 

flee 
Till  all  this  dreariness  be  overpast! 


* 


SELMA  SAMUEL. 

Born:  Gketna,  La.,  Sept.  10, 1873. 
The  poems  of  Miss  Selma  Samuel  have  ap- 
peared in  the  New  Orleans  Picayune,  New 
Orleans  Evening  News,  Gretna  Courier, 
Gretna  Sun,  and  various  other  periodicals. 
She  is  engaged  in  newspaper  writing  in  lier 
native  town. 

MODERN  PHILOSOPHY. 

As  we  read  the  daily  papers. 
Telling  of  the  many  capers, 
Which  the  populace  are  cutting 

As  these  modern  times  advance; 
Many  are  inclined  to  mumble 
That  the  world  is  all  a  jumble. 


In  wliich  each  is  humbly  waiting 
For  his  happy  day  of  chance. 

For  they  tell  of  latest  crazes. 
And  of  politicians'  •>  mazes," 
As  they  try  to  gain  the  public 

Favor  in  contesting  ••  broils;" 
Of  the  latest  new  inventions. 
Also  of  great  men's  intentions. 
As  they,  like  their  humbler 

Brothers,  are  obliged  to  tread  the  soil. 


SELMA  SAMUEL. 

Then  they  deal  with  sporting  matters. 
Actresses  and  baseball  matters. 
Telling  of  the  ways  and  doings 

Of  the  "  men  about  the  town:  " 
Designating  one  a  •>  winner  " 
While  another  still  a  "  chinner," 
Who  they  say  makes  folks 

Inscribe  him  as  a  reaUstic  clown. 

To  the  thoughtless  undiscerning, 

Who  forget  about  the  turning 

Of  this  mundane  sphere,  and  walk 

About  the  streets  with  long  moues; 
It  is  best  to  say  that  laughter. 
Nerves  the  soul  for  the  hereafter, 
At  the  same  time  helping 
Sinners  through  the  world's 

Rough  paths  and  ways. 

While  the  sea  of  life  is  flowing. 
It  uncertainties  all  showing 
By  the  many  things  recorded 

A 8  the  papers  go  to  press ; 
Wise  are  they  who  steer  out  gayly 
For  the  world  is  laughing  daily 
At  the  ones  who  of  the  future 

Sit  ;ind  think  and  try  to  guess. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF    AMEUirA. 


1271 


* 


CHARLES  F.  GALE. 

Born:  NeauKenosha.Wis.,  Feb.  15,  1856. 
In  1881  Mr.  Gale  attended  the  Coniniercial 
School  iit  Keokuk,  Iowa,  and  tauglit  school 
several  years  previous  to  that  time.  He  is 
now  engas:ed  as  book-keeper  for  tlie  Daily 
Express  of  Beatrice,  Neb.  Mr.  Gale  was 
married  in  1882  to  Miss  Adula  G.  Garrison, 
and  has  now  two  children  — one  son,  Clar- 
ence Willard.  born  in  1886,  and  a  daughter. 


CHARLES  FREMONT  GAL.E. 

Laura  Olive,  born  in  1889.  The  poems  of  Mr. 
Gale  have  appeared  in  The  Cliristian  at 
Work,  Woman's  Tribune,  Beatrice  Express 
and  other  prominent  publications. 


COMPENSATION. 
Toward  the  future  we  are  gazing  — 

Hapless  children  of  the  earth  — 
And  the  present  is  behind  us 

Ere  we  learn  to  know  its  worth: 

But  it  sheds  its  brightness  round  us. 

As  the  branches,  breeze-caressed, 
Scatter  flecks  of  lisht  and  shadow 

On  the  restless  river's  breast. 

We  have  dreams  that  time  makes  real 
As  its  ripples  touch  the  strand 

Of  the  present,  atid  receding. 
Leave  their  marks  upon  the  sand. 


We  liave  hopes  that  piereo  the  futurv 
Almost  with  a  proph(;t's  eye. 

Ever  luring  us  with  suiishiiie 
Borrowed  from  an  unseen  skj'. 

Mem'ty  awakens  silent  voices. 

Faces  long  since  cliaiige<l  to  clay 
And  to-<lay  is  made  the  hriglitor 

Bj'  the  joys  of  yesterday. 

Half  of  all  our  eherLslietl  tre:isures 
Wake  beneath  her  magic  wand. 

Half  tlie  pU'usures  of  I  ho  present 
Come  from  hope  that  lies  beyond. 


AT  HOME. 
Compose  the  form  with  tenderest  care. 

Fold  the  weary  hands  on  the  silent  breast 
Whose  latest  sigh  but  breathed  a  prayer 

For  rest,  sweet  rest. 
With  softest  touch  and  fingers  light 

Smooth  back  tlie  hwks  of  silvery  hair; 
The  sunshine  loved  in  days  gone  by 

To  linger  there. 
Gently  caress  that  marble  brow 

By  time's  keen  chisel  carved  so  deep; 
It  knows  no  care  nor  s»>rrow  now. 

But  blessed  sleep. 
Those  eyes  that  oft  have  shed  the  tear 

At  the  sad  t;ile  of  others'  woes. 
Or  brightly  beamed  at  others'  joys. 

Forever  close. 
Take  one  last  look  at  that  dear  cheek. 

Where  once  the  dimples  used  to  hide 
In  velvet  softness,  long  ago 

The  lover's  pride. 
Print  one  bust  kiss  upon  those  lips 

That  taught  the  narrow  way  of  life; 
Nor  smile  nor  shadow  mori'  they'll  know 
Nor  joy  nor  strife. 

Those  fects<i  often  bniise<l  and  torn 

In  treading  life's  uneven  way. 
Weary  and  halting,  rest  at  lost 

No  more  to  stray. 
The  life  that  bound  us  with  its  love 

Where'er  our  f(K)tsteps  clianccd  to  roam. 
Has  found  its  rest  forever  blest 
At  home  —  sweet  home  I 


EXTRACT. 

Dragon-flies  with  shining  crests 
Flit  in  drowsy  c.-idence  liymning. 
Troops  of  sylph-like  swallt>ws  skimming. 

Stoop  to  wash  tlieir  orange  vests. 

Pa.st  green  hills  and  orchards  gay  — 
P;ist  sweet  fields  of  scented  clover  — 
Isles,  where  willows,  hanging  over. 

Dip  their  br.mches  in  the  spray. 


*- 


1272 


LOCAL   AJ^D   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


MRS.  A.  SOPHIE  W.  MARSH. 

Born:  Wilson's  Mills,  Me.,  Aug.  14,1838. 
This  liidy  is  the  widow  of  Georg-c  H.  Msirsli, 
a  prominent  gentleman  of  Newton,  Mmss. 
Mrs.  Marsh  is  now  a  resident  of  Boston, 
Mass. .where  she  enjoys  the  society  of  literary 
culture  and  refinement.  Her  poems  liave 
appeared  iu  the  Portland  Transcript,  Boston 


MRS.  A.  SOPHIE  •WTLSON  MARSH. 

Journal,Newton  Journal  and  m  that  valuable 
collection  —Poets  of  Maine.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  her  poems  will  soon  tippear  iu  book 
form. 


THE  PAST. 
The  past  — what  is't? 

A  shadow  only. 
A  fleeting-  mist. 

No  more  to  be. 
Along-  its  track  — 

Children  —  we  g:o 
Weeping-,  and  back 

Comes  only  echo. 
We  seek  its  shrine 

For  joy's  sweet  bloom, 
Ashes,  we  find. 

And  a  crumbling-  tomb. 
And,  over  it  written. 

In  oliaracters  strang-e. 
By  times  creeping-  lichens, 

Tlio  brief  word,  Cliange. 


AN  AUTUMN  LEAF. 
Only  in  death,  frail  autumn  leaf 
We  find  thee  chtinged,  yet  fairer  grown. 
Embalming  thus,  the  life  so  brief 
Shared  with  thy  mates  around  thee  strown. 

Thus  memories  charm  us,  while  they  grieve 
With  lingering-  hues  of  sweet  joys  fled; 
We  gather  them,  as  autumn  leaves. 
So  beautiful,  though  sere  and  dead. 


AN  EVENING  HOUR. 
Clouds  fill  the  sombre,  darkling-  sky. 
And  low  the  chilling-  night  winds  sigh; 
With  following  hearts,  we  bend  the  knee 
This  evening  hour,  and  pray  lor  thee. 

Afar,  rocked,  on  the  trackless  deep. 
Where  love  divine  alone  can  keep. 
In  vain  we  would  beside  thee  be. 
This  evening  hour  and  pray  for  thee. 

Dear  heart,  may  angry  storm.s  forget, 
The  deep  beneath  thy  prow,  to  Iret, 
And  bright  stars  guide  unerringly. 
At  evening  hour  we  pray  for  thee. 

Mnykindliest  winds  waft  swiftly  by. 
The  leagues  that  now  between  us  lie. 
And  bear  in  safety  o'er  the  sea. 
This  evening  hour  we  pray  for  thee. 


WINDS  THAT  BLOW. 
Oh,  heavy  winds  that  fret  the  earth. 

And  haunt  the  caves  of  fear; 
That  bring,with  labor,  to  the  birth, 

The  offspring  ill  of  years; 

Oh.  pining  winds,  oh,  moaning  winds. 

Ye  find  my  naked  heart, 
And  with  your  searching-  hand  unbind 

Its  earthly,  hidden  smart. 

The  darkness,  on  thy  rushing  wing. 

Takes  double  forms  of  ill. 
That  vow  before  the  fierce  storm  king. 

His  anger  to  fulfil. 

And  thy  strong  murmuring.siuking  lov 

Behind  the  casement  bars. 
Like  some  weird  symphony  of  woe, 

My  inmost  being  stirs. 

The  dead  are  there;  the  living  dead 
Look  back  with  eyes  of  yore. 

And  banished  cravings,  all  unfed. 
Come  back  to  beg  once  more. 

'Tis  there  thy  voices,  manifold, 
Are  language  known  and  read. 

And  ever  new  the  tale  is  told 
To  hearts  uucouiforted. 


*- 


LOCAF.    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


127 


MRS.  ISADORE  G.  JEFFERY. 

Born:  Waukegan,  III. 
A  THOUGHTFUL,  blue-ej'ed,  quiet  woman 
whose  noble  taee  the  years  are  just  begiii- 
ing  to  touL'h  and  softeu;  a  heart  flKed  with 
tlioug-litful,  unselfish  love  for  others,  wliose 
chief  characteristic  is  a  rare  faitlifulness; 
a  manner  pleasing-  and  sincere;  a  busy, 
open  hand,  ever  ready  at  the  call  of  love  or 


MRS.  ISADORE  GILBERT  JEFFERY. 

need ;  these  are  some  of  the  g-raclous  qualities 
that  help  to  form  the  rare  character  of  this 
gifted  woman.  The  poems  of  Mrs.  Jeffery 
generally  incline  toward  the  religious  and 
philosopliic,  but  sometimes  she  writes  in 
playful  mood,  as  witness  the  Mon  Cher  to 
her  husband. 


BLIGHT  — BLOOM. 

Life  hath  its  barren  years: — 
When  blossoms  fall  untimely  down; 
When  ripened  fruitage  fails  to  crown 
The  siunmer  toil;  when  nature's  frown 

Looks  only  on  our  tears. 

Life  hath  its  faithful  days. 
The  golden  promise  of  a  morn 
That  seemed  for  light  and  gladness  born 
Meant  only  noontide  wrecli  and  scorn. 

Hushed  liarp  instead  of  praise. 


Life  hath  its  valleys  too. 
Where  we  must  walk  witli  vain  regret. 
With  mourningclothed,  with  wild  rain  wet. 
Toward  sunlit  liopes  that  8(X)n  may  set 

All  (juenched  in  pitying  dew. 

Life  liath  its  harvest  moons. 
Its  tasseledcorn  and  purple  weighted  vine; 
Its  gathered  slieavcs  of  grain,  the  blesse<l 

sign 
Of  plenteous  reaping,  bread  and  pure  ricli 
wine; 
Full  hearts  for  harvest  tunes. 

Life  hath  its  hopes  fulfilled; 
Its  glad  fruilioMs.its  blest  answered  prayer. 
Sweeter  for  waitings  long,  wliose  holy  air 
Indrawn  to  silent  souls  breathes  fortli  in 
rare 

Grand  speech,  by  joy  distilled. 

Life  hath  its  Tabor  heights; 
Its  lofty  mounts  of  lieavenly  recognition. 
Whose    unveiled   glories    flash    to    earth 

munition 
Of  love  and  truth,  and  clearer  intuition. 

Hail  mount  of  all  delights! 


MON  CHER. 
Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  let  me  feel 
Who  it  is  to  whom  I  kneel. 
Love  is  blind,  they  say.    Ah,  no. 
True  love  never  could  be  so. 

Love  hath  far  diviner  seal 
Than  to  make,  need,  such  appeal. 
Sight  and  touch  are  sweet  but  they 
Dazzle,  mislead  every  day. 

Cupid  may  be  color-blind. 
Only  rosy  hues  may  find 
Wherein  love's  dawn  may  arise 
In  the  heaven  of  its  skies  — 

But,  how  sweet  that  love  should  see 
Only  l>est  of  you  or  me. 
Let  love  think  it.    Make  it  true '. 
By  and  by  what  should  we  do 

If  we  failed  each  other,  dear? 
Weary,  weary  all  the  year 
When  love  loses  from  its  nest 
Trust  the  liost,  or  trust  the  guest. 

Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  why  should  1 
Question  you,  or  make  reply? 
Heart  to  heart  is  balance  set, 
Love  is  always  heart  in  debt. 

Love  can  never  love  repay 
Though  it  try  the  livelong  day. 
Let  it  give  and  give  and  give. 
That's  the  way  a  heart  must  live. 


* 


^' 


1274 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


ON  GUARD. 

On  every  lower  earilily  street, 

Unlieurd,  uuseeti  eutirds  pitch  their  tents; 

Unknown,  iho'  sent  in  our  defense. 
Their  sentinels  our  wiitclimen  greet. 
As  if  one  —  silently  — should  meet  — 
And  pass  —  blind  men  upon  the  street. 

Our  weaker,  untaught  human  sense 
Sees  not,  alas!  their  sweet  salute; 
Their  watch,  divinely  set,  is  mute 

To  us  —  sight,  hearing,  touch  so  dense. 

Their  beat  is  far  and  high  and  deep; 
To  liidden  causes  it  can  run. 
It  follows,  molds,  effects,  nor  one 

Who  walks  thereon  needs  pause  or  sleep. 

The  heavenly  offing's  blue  expanse 
Is  filled  with  hast'ning  snowy  sails; 
No  wrecks  hide  there,  no  foe  prevails; 
Each  girded  warrior  holds  his  lance 
In  waiting  for  his  chief's  "  Advance!  " 
On  missions  fearing  no  mischance. 

Hail!  hail!  strong,  swift  celestial  fleet! 
Off  shore  and  sight  of  human  tide 
Thy  stately  boats  at  anchor  ride 

Watch,  guardianship  complete. 

« — »  ^  I — ♦ 

JOHN  DALY  KENNEDY. 

Born:  Ireland,  Aug.  13, 1844. 
The  subject  of  tliis  sketch  came  to  America 
with  his  parents  in  1853,  and  the  following 
year  settled  in  Altoona,  Pa.,  where  he  is  at 
present  justice  of  the  peace.  During  the 
war,  Mr.  Kennedy  served  in  Company  B.llOtli 
Reg.,  P.V.  In  1867  he  removed  to  Northfleld, 
Minn.,  but  in  1884  returned  to  Altoona.  Tlie 
poems  of  Mr.  Kennedy  have  appeared  in 
many  of  the  most  prominent  publications. 


THE  SALOON  KEEPER. 
In  a  costly  mansion  rich  and  rare, 
Sat  Tiiomas  Brown  in  his  easy  chair, 
On  a  marble  table  near  him  lay 
A  heap  of  gold  he  made  that  day. 

A  great  big  man  is  Thomas  Brown, 
'I'lie  biggest  tnanin  Guzzlerlown, 
He  moves  aloft  in  the  liighest  rank. 
And  is  cashier  of  the  Drunkard's  Bank. 
He  is  up  before  the  peep  of  day. 
Like  a  hawli  watching  for  his  prey. 
At  earl  J'  morn,  night  or  noon 
You'll  find  him  there  in  his  saloon. 
With  sweetest  smile  and  words  of  honoj-. 
He  robs  Ids  victims  of  tliclr  money, 
And  when  no  longer  they  can  treat, 
He  kicks  tlicm  out  into  the  street. 


He  rides  around  in  n,  coacli  and  four. 
While  his  victims  beg  from  door  to  door. 
In  silk  and  satin  his  wife  arrayed 
With  money  that  the  drunkard  paid. 

Yet  strange  to  say,  on  the  Sabbath  day, 
He'll  do  his  best  to  sing  and  pray. 
And  give  a  dime  from  his  wealthy  store 
To  help  the  preacher  and  the  poor. 


*- 


JOHN  DALY  KENNEDY. 

With  a  bible  and  book  under  his  arm, 
A  smile  and  a  look  tlie  devil  would  charm 
Off  he  goes  to  the  house  of  prayer. 
To  worship  with  the  christians  there. 

And  there  amid  those  chosen  few 
He  stands  a  leader  bold  and  true, 
He  makes  a  prayer  so  loud  and  long 
The  angels  know  there's  something  wrong'. 

Thus  on  he  went  from  year  to  year. 
Selling  whisky,  gin  and  beer. 
He  built  his  mansion  great  and  grand. 
And  filled  the  poor-houses  o'er  the  land. 

But  why  should  I  the  story  tell? 
You  know  it  all  alas!  too  well— 
Tlio  .sin  and  sorrow,  grief  and  woe 
Of  all  who  in  his  den  did  go. 

I  oftimes  said  if  Brown  were  detid 
And  laid  away  in  his  narrow  bed, 
Andev'ry  saloon  keeper  tlie  sniueold  way 
Tlie  world  would  be  better  off  to-day. 

^ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKllICA. 


lU7o 


WILFRED  S.  SKEATS. 

Born:  England,  Apkil  23,  1864. 
The  subject  of  this  sketch  came  to  Canada 
iti  1886,  and  after  living  for  awliile  in  Victoria 
and  Port  Moody,  B.  C,  returned  to  Toronto 
wliere  he  now  resides.  He  is  llie  author  of 
a  volume  of  verse  entitled  The  Sons'  of  tlie 


WILFRED  S.  SKEATS. 

Exile,  and  has  also  written  a  novel.  The 
poems  of  Mr.  Skeats  have  appeared  in  tlie 
Toronto  Daily  Mail  and  various  other  pub- 
lications. 


DEDICATION. 
To  thee,  whose  cheering-  words  have  urged 

me  on 
When  fainting  heart  advised  me  to  st.iy 
My  halting  pen,  and  leave  my  task  undone: 
To  thee,  I  humbly  dedicate  this  lay. 
Strong,  womanly  heart !  whose  long-enduring 

pain 
Has  not  sufficed  to  rend  thy  faith  in  twain, 
.Mut  rather  teaches  thee  to  sympathize 
With  those  whose  path  through  pain  and 

darkness  lies 
Thyself  forgetting,  if  but  thou  canst  be 
Of  aid  to  others  in  adversity; 
Tlie  lielpful  word,  the  approbative  smile 
From  thee  have  ever  greeted  me,  the  while 
None  other  cheered.    Then  lot  this  tribute  be 
A  token  of  my  gratitude  to  thee. 


TO  ETHEL. 
So  you  think  you  will  hi;  a  Scotch  lassie; 

The  braw  Higliland  lad  in  a  kilt 
Has  taken  your  fancj',  dear,  has  he? 

And  you,  too,  would  be  clad  in  a  ••  tilt.  " 

Well,  not  one  wiUgaiusayyou  norblameyou. 
For  your  wishes  are  ever  fulfllt; 

And  how  proudly  your  father  wilt  claim  you, 
When  arrayed  in  a  tartan  and  "tilt I" 

And  your  mother  will  certainly  further 
The  hopes  that  her  Ethel  has  built; 

I'ou  have  only  to  ask  to  ensure  their 
Fulfillment  concerning  the  "  tilt." 

And  T  —  Oh  !  I  know  T  don't  count,  dear. 

And  for  speaking  acknowledge  my  guilt. 
For  my  wishes  to  nothing  aniount,  dear, 

I  would  rather  j'ou  hadn't  a  "tilt." 

For  although  thou  wilt  take  us  by  storm, 
dear. 

Looking  sweet,  as  thou  certainly  wilt. 
Vet.  you  know,  it  is  very  bad  form,  dear. 

And  not  English  to  wish  for  .i  "tilt." 

And  I  thought,  but  of  course  was  mistaken. 
For  my  hopes  lie  around  me  all  .spilt. 

That  my  Ethel  would  never  awaken 
To  sigh  for  a  Highlander's  "  tilt." 

None  the  less  will  I  try  to  be  glad  then. 
Nor  let  courtesy  play  me  the  jilt; 

Though  I  know  that  my  heart  will  be  sad 
when 
Little  Ethel  is  wearing  her  "  tilt." 


THE  HIGHER  DUTY. 

EXTRACT. 

And,  as  I  looked,  deep  sorrow  filled  my  heart ; 

"Oh  mail!  "  I  cried,  "In  God's  own  image 

made. 

Shall  sun  and  moon  and  trees,  all  do  their 

part. 

And  tliou  alone  fall  short  and  retrograde? 

"Thou— greatest  of  all  God's  created  things! 

Thou  —  ruler,  by  His  order,  of  the  eiirlh ! 
Shake  off  thy  sins,  and,  on  aspiring  wings. 

Rise!  and  be  worthy  of  thy  glorious  birth." 

I  cried;  and  from  the  darkness  forth  there 
came 
A  voice,  which  said  in  harsh  and  mocking 
tone: 
"  Dosfthou  possess  so  undeflled  a  name, 
Art  thou,  amongst  thy  fellows,  gixxl  alone, 

"That  thou  shouldst  vilify  thy  fellow-men? 

Thou  art  not  innocent  nor  free  from  guile— 
Thou  too  art  man.    Go,  nor  return  again. 

Sinful,  thy  fellow-si uiurs  to  revile." 


1276 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


BELLE  POOLE. 

BoKN :  Mobile.  Ala.,  April  6,  1869. 
After  receiving-  her  education  at  the  Meri- 
den  Female  College  and  at  a  select  school  at 
Mobile,  Ala.,  Miss  Belle  Poole  has  been  en- 
gaged in  literary  work.     Hei-  jioeins  have  ap- 


BELLE  POOLE. 


peared  in  many  prominent  publications  of 
the  South,  and  two  novels  from  her  pen  are 
ready  for  publication. 


SEVERED. 
Do  you  remember  the  summer  — 

'Twas  many  years  ag-o. 
When  life  was  a  dream  of  joy 

For  loving  so? 
The  dream  was  sweet  indeed. 

But  I  would  not  droani  it  again-, 
Tlie  summer  was  so  brief, 

Would  it  had  never  been. 

For  the  summer  went,  and  you 

Went  from  my  life,  and  1  — 
Well,  life  was  so  full  of  joys  and  cares 

I  had  liardly  time  to  sigli. 
Yet,  hopes  and  fears,  regrets  and  tears, 

Come  to  us  all  by  and  bj'. 

And  sometimes  T  fall  ii  dreaming,— 
Ah  me,  I  am  dreaming  to-daj'. 

If  j'onr  hair  is  as  bright  a  l)rown. 
Or  your  eyes  as  dec^p  a  gray, 


* 


As  they  were  in  that  sweet  and  oldi 

time. 
When  your   heart   and   your   life   wei 

mine! 

Perhaps  we  shall  meet  again 

Before  we  reach  the  end; 
Clasp  each  other's  hand. 

And  call  each  other  ••  friend;  " 
And  both  with  clear,  calm  eyes  can  see. 

'Twas  better  far  that  it  thus  should  bi 


THE  STUDY  OF  ART. 

'Tis  a  dainty  profession  that  captures  tli  | 

heart  I 

Of  the  girl  of  all  nations,  the  study  of  art;  , 

From  fourteen  to  eighty, 

Sue,  Bessie  and  Katie, 
With  tin  pans,  plates  and  dishes, 
A  paint  box  and  brushes; 

And  that's  how  they  start 

In  the  study  of  art! 

But  soon  they  grew  wiser  and  paint  from  tbt 

sky,  sir. 
Cute    churches,   and  bridges,    lakes,  pond.' 
and  ridges. 
And  landscapes  so  vivid 
They  cause  you  to  start  — 
No  matter;  admire  it,  and  saj'  you  desire  it, 
For  of  such  is  the  study  of  art. 


LOOKING  BACK. 

EXTRACT. 

I  remember  the  day  I  first  met  you, 
How  little  I  thought  then  of  love. 

'Twas  a  dark,  chilly  day  in  October, 
The  sky  graj%  not  blue,  up  above. 

And  yes,  I  remember  I  thought  you, 

Even  then,  noble  looking  and  true. 
When  you  asked  me  a  question,  and  gave  me 

A  smile  from  your  eyes  of  deep  blue. 
We  laughed  and  talked  some  together, 

On  various  topics,  I  know; 
Just  what  I  do  not  remember. 

It  has  been  such  a  long  time  ago. 
After  that  I  met  you  quite  often. 

At  a  picnic,  a  party  or  ball; 
And  sometimes  you'd  come  in  the  evening 

And  pay  me  a  nice  little  call. 

And  then.  I  don't  know  liow  it  happened, 

But  you  came  very  often,  1  know. 
And  whispered  sweet  tilings  in  the  moonlight . 

Each  night  before  you  would  go. 
And  tlien  —  when  you  asked  me  a  question' 

Gazing  on  me  witli  eyes  fond  and  true, 
I  whispered  a  ••  yes  "  on  your  slioulder, 

And  all  tlie  sweet  secret  you  knew. 


El — 


LOCAL   AND   NATION  AT,   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


1277 


CHARLRS  W.HUBNER. 

Boun:  Baltimore,  Md.,  Jan.  16, 1835. 
Mr.  Hubner  was  in  the  confederate  army 
nearly  five  years.  He  follows  the  profession 
of  journalism,  and  is  the  author  of  haU'-a- 
dozen  published  volumes  that  have  won  him 
high  honors  iu  the  world  of  literature.  The 
poems  of  Mr.  Hubner  have  appeared  in  vari- 
ous magazines  and  newspapers  of  the  North 


CHARLES  WILLI.\M  HUBNER. 

and  South,  and  have  been  widely  copied  by 
the  periodical  press. 


A  VISION  OF  DEATH. 
Why  should  we  fear  the  ghostly  mists  that 

veil 
The  fathomless  abyss. wherein  our  years, 
Down  plunging',  disappear?    Above  the  false 
And  fleeting  shows  and  shadows  of  this  world 
The  eye  of  faith  belioldsa  fairer  sight 
Than  ever  dreaming  poet  hath  beheld. 
Mid  mirage-mirrored  regions  of  romance— 
Tt  is  the  si ar  of  immortality ! 
Shedding  its  sun-liko  splendor  on  the  soul. 
Lo!  as  we  gaze  the  wondrous  glorj'  grows, 
Till  suddenly  disparted  are  the  skies. 
And  thro*  the  splendor-blazing  cleft  we  see 
Cherub  and  Seraphim,  a  countless  host. 
Crowding  the  azure  planes  and  heights  of 

heaven ; 
And   faces  of  dear  friends  that  shine  like 

stars. 


Smile  upon  us  thro'  the  skyey  emhrn-sures, 
Alluring  us  to  their  celestial  homos; 
And  then  the  vision's  glorious  cllmnx  comes. 
Unspeakable  splendor  overwhelms  thosifrht. 
Death,  shorn  of  every  shape  of  hide(nisne.s.s. 
Free  from  the  dreadful  vesture,  wherewith 

we. 
For  fear  of  the  foul  grave,  had  clotiie<l  him. 
Thus  making  him  the  monster  that  he  seems. 
Comes  forth  a  smiling  angel,  crowned  with 

stars 
Keady  to  take  our  waiting  soul  to  heaven ! 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

Wti  will  not  wound  his  spirit  by  reciting 
The  grevious  errors  of  his  early  waj  s. 
The  sins  whose  shadows  still  his  name  are 
blighting  — 
Nor  stain  with  slander's  spume  his  splen- 
did bays; 
"  No  further  seek  liis  merits  to  disclose. 
Nor  draw  his  frailties   from  their  dread 
abfxle. 
There  they,  alike,  in  trembling  hope  repose. 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God." 

Let  those  who  will, the  "uncoguid"'nnd  pious. 
Hurl  harsh  anathennus  upon  his  head, 

Stoddard  the  Scribe,  and  Griswold  Ananias, 
Revile,  in  polished  phrase,  the  laurelled 
dead ; 

Nay!  nobler    motives,  and    a   theme   more 
pleasing. 
With  gentler  feelings  shall  our  hearts  in- 
spire. 
While  from  discordant  thouglits  our  minds 
releasing, 
We  listen  only  tti  the  poet's  lyre. 
From  shadowy  shores  of  Pluto's  realm  infer- 
nal. 
The  Raven  comes  and  croaks  his '.never- 
more!" 
And  radiant  in  her  loveliness  supernal. 

We  see  her  whom  the  angels  name  I^enore; 
Again  for  us  his  magic  fancy  peoples. 
With  phantom-forms  and  horror-haunted 
dells. 
Or  bids  the  spirits  dwelling  in  the  steeples 
Shower  floods  of  golden  music   fr<»m  ihe 
bells; 
And  so,  attended  by  the  mighty  Master, 

Our  souls  enthralled  by  his  ri-sistless  will. 
Thro'  pictured  scones  of  glory  or  disji.-^ter. 

Will  we  ascend  the  nuises'  sacretl  hill. 

Where  that  whichwas  divine  in  him  and  never 

Shall  be  denied  him  now,  nor  suited  with 

shame  — 

His  pure  and  glorious  geniu.s— lives  forever. 

Among  the  crowned, celestial  sons  of  Fiinie! 


*- 


1278 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  MANDA  L.  CROCKER. 

Born:  Noble  Co.,  Ind.,  Oct.  15, 1850. 
Mrs.  Crocker  has  attained  great  success  in 
fiction,  and  her  pleasing-  stories  are  eagerly 
aceepted  by  prominent  publications  of  both 
the  east  and  the  west.  About  two  hundred 
of  her  poems  have  appeared  from  time  to 
time  in  the  Chicago  Current,  Chicago  Ledger, 
Detroit  Free  Press,  New  York  Sunday  Mer- 
cury, Yankee  Blade,   and  other  prominent 


MRS.  MANDA  L.  CROCKER. 

publications.  It  is  hoped  her  poems  will 
soon  appear  in  book  form.  Mrs.  Crocker  re- 
sides with  her  husband  and  children  in  Shel- 
by, Mich.,  where  she  is  quite  popular. 


* 


REGRETS. 
When  I  see  the  lilies  blowing 
In  the  streamlet's  clear,  sweet  flowing, 
Thro'  the  aftermath's  green  growing. 

Flecked  wilh  summer's  fading  leaf: 
Then  I  know  the  season's  sleeping; 
Know  that  autumn  hours  arc  creeping 

'Cross  the  latest  banded  sheaf. 

When  I  see  the  maple's  burning. 

Crimson,  lighting  up  each  turning. 

Then  there  comes  a  strange,  deep  yearning, 

For  a  vision  left  behind; 
And  the  tender  echoes  dying. 
Where  the  birds  go  southward,  flying, 
Leave  regrets,  for  me,  unkind. 

Something  in  the  bright  leaf's  falling. 
Something  in  the  blackbird's  calling. 


Seems  a  doubtive  day  forestalling; 

Wraps  with  gloom  the  lonely  grange, 
As  the  northwiiid  sends  a  shiver, 
All  adown  the  summer  river. 

Winding  thro'  this  land  of  change. 

Outward  bound,  the  swallows  winging 
Flights  from  eaves,  where  summer  vinging, 
Seemed  sweet  heaven's  joybells  ringing 

Down  thro'  du.sky,  scented  leaves; 
'Till  the  scarlet  ivy's  climbing. 
Showed  a  purple,  clustr'd  priming,  ' 

Long-  the  blacken'd  wind-swept  eaves. 

Then,  the  woodland  echoes,  dying, 
Sound  like  vanquished  spirits  sighing 
Through  the  lonelj'  hollows,  flying 

'Mid  the  cold  lights  glinting  there; 
Then.  I  vex  me  with  a  question, 
Is  this  death  or  but  suggestion; 

Is  this  sobbing  sound  a  prayer? 

I  lament  for  hours  departed; 
For  the  summer,  happj--hearted, 
When  my  pulses  warmly  started, 

To  the  pressure  of  a  hand; 
While  she  kissed  me.  smiling  sweetly. 
Winning  all  mj^  soul,  completely, 

In  the  fragrant,  sunny  land. 

Then  I  see  the  red  bud,  showing. 
See  the  lovely,  full  rose  blowing 
In  the  warmth  of  June's  bright  glowing. 

Clinging  to  the  garden  wall; 
And  there  conies  a  shadow  o'er  me. 
And  a  vision  flits  before  me; 

And  the  tears,  unbidden,  fall. 


LEAL  AND  TRUE. 

EXTRACT. 

I  gathered  pansies  'mong  the  leaves, 
And  bound  sweet  roses  in  my  sheaves. 
And  breathed  out  blessings  and  reprieves. 
So  happy  went  my  morns  and  eves 
That  bound  my  days  in  golden  sheaves 
So  leal  and  true,  'mid  .summer  leaves. 
I  had  a  friend  so  leal  and  true  — 
Leal  and  true?  Ah !  leal  and  true. 
But  when  the  asters  budded  blue. 
And  skies  grew  gray  and  gold  in  hue, 
There  fell  a  shadow  'tween  ns  two. 
So  leal  and  true;  yes,  leal  and  true. 

'Neath  antumn  skies  of  sober  hue. 
The  shadow  deep  and  darker  grew 
Between  the  leal,  the  leal  and  true; 
And  hot  and  hasty  words,  though  few. 
And  bitter  tears,  and  sheaf  of  rne. 
And  frowning  shadows  shut  from  view 
Friends  once  so  leal:  yes  leal  and  tnio! 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


V2-S) 


ELLKN  E.  ELDRED. 

Born:  Dainbridge,  N.  Y.,  Aug.  25,  1850. 

Nearly  four  liiuidied  poems  liave  appeared 
from  the  peu  of  lliis  ludy,  which  liave  ap- 
peared ill  ciurent  periodicals  and  in  panipli- 
let  form.    For  many  years  she  taught  scliool, 


ELLEN  E.  ELDRED. 


but  for  nearly  fifteen  years  Miss  Eldred  has 
been  enprag-ed  in  lecturing  on  temperance 
with  great  success. 


THE  WAYWARD  SON. 

Around  a  dinner  table  one  daj- 
Partaking-  of  food  sat  a  familj'. 
Not  only  themselves,  among-  the  rest 
Sat  in  their  midst  an  invited  guest. 
I'll  mention  the  name  of  the  extra  one 
Quite  a  noted  lady;  Mrs.  Partington, 
A  temperance  lecturer  is  Mrs.  P. 
I'll  tell  the  tale  as  'twas  told  to  me. 

Conversation  ran  to  temperance  some; 
The  mother  spoke  of  her  wayward  son. 
How  she  wished  that  something  might  be 

done 
To  free  him  from  the  curse  of  rum. 
A  little  seven  year  old  child 
Spoke  up  in  accents  almost  wild 


"  Why  uui  "  I  ..  keep  quiet  now  "  the  mother 

said 
••Keep  still  my  son,  "  and  shook  her  head. 

"  lioys  always  Imvo  so  nuieh  to  s-iy  " 

She  remarked  to  her  guest  in  a  milder  way 

And  tlien  she  went  on  to  relate 

How  he  had  met  the  drunkanl's  fate. 

"A  sad,  sad  thing;  yes  no  mistake 

If  he'd  only  stoj)  for  his  motlier's  sake." 

The  boy  was  listening  all  this  wliile, 

"Why  ma  I  "  again  spoke  up  the  child. 

"  Hush !  hush !  don't  interrupt  me  so. 
Mama  is  talking  now,  you  know." 
And  then  again  she  went  on  to  say 
She'd  done  all  that  in  her  power  lay. 
But  all  that  she  could  do  or  say 
Wouldn't  keep  liini  from  bad  et)uipany. 
••  Oh,  if  something  could  be  done." 
"  Why  ma!  "  again  spoko  up  the  son. 

Dinner  was  over  and  conversation 
Didn't  cease;  but  the  child  was  a  bothera- 
tion. 
Her  mind  was  on  her  drinking  son 
And  what  niiglit  possibly  be  done 
To  save  him  from  a  drunkanl's  end 
While  she  sat  listening  to  her  friend. 
But  the  little  fellow  stuck  to  his  text 
"Why  mal  "  and  clasp  her  round  the  neck. 

"Now  then,"  spoke  up  Mrs  Partington, 

"Just  once  let  that  little  one 

Tell  what  he  has  got  to  say." 

"  Oh  dear  he  talks  continually.  " 

"  Never  mind  "  said  Mrs.  P. 

"  Here  mj'  little  boy  tell  me." 

But  he  eluiig  to  his  mother  all  this  time 

"Why  mal  don't  you  know,  that  wino?" 

"  Oh,  a  little  wine  he's  talking  about.  " 
And  then  the  lady  drew  her  out 
Some  wine  in  tlie  cellar  she  said  she  had 
For  medicine  wheu  she  was  feeling  bad. 
She  said  she  didn't  think  you'd  find 
Any  harm  in  a  little  honu'-tiiade  wine. 
"Bill  brother  drinks  it  "  said  the  youth, — 
Children  and  fools  will  tell  the  truth. 

The  little  boy's  glub  she  tried  tt)  stop 

But  he  was  bound  not  to  give  It  up. 

He  begged  of  his  mother  to  be  8n  kind 

As  to  let  him  smash  the  lK)ttles  of  wiiir. 

The  little  one  couUrnt  rest  content 

Till  down  into  the  cellar  he  went 

And    brought   up  the  l>ottles  containing- 

wine 
Smashed  them  in  a  thousand  piwes  fine. 

Brimming  over  full  of  joy 

Into  the  house  ran  the  little  iHiy 


* 


1280 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


Thinking  liis  brother  would  escape 
The  wine  at  liome,  ihoujih  lie  meet  his  fate. 
All  done;  the  older  brother  came 
Cursing-  his  little  friend  in  vain. 
None  but  a  friend  would  do  this  much 
But  they  never  consider  them  such. 

This  little  storj'  was  told  to  me 
As  related  to  a  lady  by  Mrs.  P. 
And  now  to  mothers  who  fear  the  bite 
Of  the  serpent  abroad  either  day  or  night 
Don't  keep  him  concealed  at  home,  ah,  no 
If  you  do  he  will  prove  a  deadly  foe. 
No  matter  how  harmlsss  at  the  first 
Of  all  enemies,  he  will  prove  the  worst. 


MRS.  T.  E.  B.  SHOEMAKER. 

Born:  Laurel  Co.,  Ky.,  July  19, 1836. 
Mrs.  Shoemaker  resides  in  Morgan  Springs, 
Tenn.      Her   poems    have  appeared  in  the 


MRS.  T.  E 

Dayton  Weekly  Leader  and  the  local 
generally. 

IN  MEMORY. 

Doarest  sister  how  we  love  tliee  — 
Miss  thee  in  our  liomo  to-night. 

But  your  suffering  now  is  o'er 
.^nd  your  soul  hath  taken  its  flight. 


Flown  to  yonder  glorious  heaven 
Wliere  all  is  joy,  peace  and  light, 

Singing  with  Martha,  Margaret  and  Lucy 
In  your  happy  home  so  bright. 

Frances,  when  you  met  your  mother 

In  that  happy  home  above. 
Did  your  voice  break  forth  in  praises 

Singing  of  redeeming  love? 

Yes,  your  mother  she  is  with  you, 
And  perhaps  you'll  hear  her  tell 

Of  the  blessings  she's  receiving 
In  the  land  wliere  angels  dwell. 

Dear  Frances  how  we  loved  you, 
But  we  do  not  wish  you  back, 

In  this  world  of  sin  and  sorrow 
Where  pain  our  mortal  bodies  rack. 

Dearest  sister,  we  will  meet  you,— 

We  are  coming  by  and  by, 
Every  beating  pulse  will  tell  us 

That  the  time  is  drawing  nigh. 

Yes,  we'll  meet  you  in  the  kingdom 

In  that  happy  land  above, 
There  we'll  sing  and  shout  together  — 

Sing  of  never-dying  love. 


MY  LITTLE  CARRIE. 

Dear  little  Carrie  —  Oh !  how  we  loved  you. 
But  now  with  suffering  thou  art  done; 

You  have  gone  to  a  land  of  pleasure. 
Where  paiu  and  sorrow  ne'er  will  come. 

Flown  to  heaven  with  your  white  winged 
angel. 

There  to  praise  our  God  on  high. 
There  to  live  with  brother  and  sister 

Where  the  inhabitants  never  die. 

Gone  to  live  with  white  robed  angels, 
Gone  to  that  happy  home  above. 

Where  your  voice  breaks  fortli  in  praises 
Singing  Christ's  redeeming  love. 

Your  cold  form  lies  beneath  the  surface. 
While  your  friends  are  iiiouniing  liere; 

But  no  wail  of  human  angiiisli. 
Will  ever  strike  your  angelic  ear. 

Yes,  little  darling,  we  did  lo%-e  you, 
And  were  loth  with  you  to  part. 

But  death  claimed  you  for  his  victim, 
And  thus  wrung  our  lonely  hearts. 

But  one  hope  we  still  liave  left  us  — 

That  of  meeting  you  above. 
In  that  blessed  land  of  promise 

Where  all  is  joy,  peace  and  love. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF    AMKIUCA. 


1281 


MRS.  LUCINDA  H.  GALE. 

Bokn:  Nineveh.  Ind.,  May  23,  1837. 
Aaron  Farmer,  a  minister  and  poet  of  con- 
siderable ability,  was  tlae  fatlier  of  the 
subject  of  this  sketch.  At  an  early  age  she 
was  married  to  Mr.  Virgil  P.  Gale,  and  has 
now  a  large  family.    The  poems  of  Mrs.  Gale 


MRS.  litrCINDA  H.  GALE. 

have  appeared  from  time  to  time  quite  ex- 
tensively in  the  periodical  press.  She  is  now 
a  resident  of  Lamar,  Mo.,  where  she  is  very 
popular. 


THE  STARRY  MEADOW. 
I  look  far  over  the  silent  meadows 

Of  night,  where  the  gold  drops  lie. 
The  starry  meadows  of  gold  and  blue, 

Whose  blossoms  make  bright  the  sky. 

And  I  think  of  the  weary  aching 
Of  hearts,  whose  battles  are  won. 

Who  are  gone  through  the  gates  of  gospel 
To  rest,  for  their  life  is  done. 

Far  over  the  shining  meadows. 
Whose  streets  are  paved  with  gold ; 

And  of  whose  wondrous  beauty 
The  half  has  never  been  told. 

Their  feet  were  bruised  in  the  stony  way 
Which  they  wearily  have  trod. 


But  far  above  the  sea  of  gold. 
They  have  gone  to  rest  with  God. 


BEAUTIFUL  CLOUDS. 

Beautiful  clouds,  I  have  watched  you  long, 

Fickle  and  bright  as  a  fairy  throng; 

Parting  in  misty  silvery  streams. 

Now  you  have  gathered  in  golden  beams. 

Now  you  are  tinged  with  a  roseate  blush, 

Deepening  fast  to  a  crimson  flush, 

While  like  aerial  spirits  at  play. 

You  are  dancing  lightly  another  way; 

Melting  in  many  a  i)early  f):ike. 

Like  the  cygnet's  down  on  the  azure  lake; 

Now  you  gather  again  and  run. 

To  bask  in  the  beams  of  the  setting  sun; 

Like  childliood's  days  you  are  slipping  away 

The  very  same  clouds  that  yesterday. 

Floated  and  gathered  so  soft  and  low. 

Spanning  the  sky  by  a  beautiful  bow. 

Emblem  of  life's  joys  and  sorrows  past. 

We  change  from  death  to  life  at  last. 


THE  SILENT  CITY. 
The  sunlight  slanted  in  tawny  gold. 

Across  a  city  silently  sleeping. 
Where  shining  marble  shafts  arose. 

On  bases  broad,  witli  mosses  creeping. 

Where  beds  of  green  and  plumy  grass. 
Near  groves  untouched  of  yellow  mold. 

And  wild  and  weed-grown  banks  that  tell, 
Of  hearts  grown  careless,  free  and  cold. 

And  quaint,  bright  places,  childishly. 

With  rosy  shells  and  keepsakes  decked, 
Yet  pitifully  showing  forth. 

Some    lives    made    weary,   crushed    and 
wrecked. 

The  sunlight  slanted  o'er  the  mounds. 

That  lie  in  circles  and  avenues  old. 
Filled  with  darlings  wlio  have  gone  before. 

To  brighten  the  beautiful  "City  of  Gold." 

Across  a  bridge  where  weighted  with  grief. 

Our  dead  we  bring  to  n  dreamless  rest; 
Never  a  moment  of  grief  or  pain. 

They  are  safe  in  heavenly  sunlight  blest. 

Aftercrossing  the  bouodsof  death  and  pain. 

They  cannot  come  back  —  be  with  us  again. 
But  ..only  asleep."  our  fatlier  hath  said. 

Our  beautiful  darlings  are  not  dead. 


EXTRACT. 
01» !  walk  the  straight  and  narrow  way. 
Which  leads  to  bliss  supremely  given. 
Where  Jesus  is  the  light  of  day. 
And  all  is  safe  with  Him  in  heaven. 


*fi' 

i 

1282                             LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OK  A51ERICA. 

ANDREW  J.JENKINS. 

To  burst  the  bonds  that  sin  has  sealed 

By  ignorance  and  religious  thrall. 

Born:  Prompton,  Pa.,  Nov.  6, 1839. 

The  world  is  held  in  bondage  all. 

Mr.  Jenkins  served   tlirough  the    war   as 

What  need  of  costly  churches  more. 

chaDliuu  iu  tbe  .'2nd  N.Y.  Cavalry.    He  is  now 

Let  us  minister  to  the  poor  — 
The  poor  in  spirit,  poor  in  purse. 

Want  our  blessings,  need  them  first ; 

Discard  those  hypocritic  creeds 

That  live  in  word  and  not  in  deed. 

Humbly  follow  in  Christ's  way,                i 

••'i^fe^ 

Like  the  disciples  of  His  day; 

^|h^ 

Casting  out  the  devil,  sin. 

.  JBL 

To  make  this  world  worth  living  In.         | 

Ml  W^  mm.   ' 

Loving  God,  and  man,  a  brother,              ' 

pp^  ^pwi-  «j^» 

Peacefully  helping  one  another.               , 

jhhB 

Aiding  on  the  millennial  dawn. 

^^^^P^ 

By  dispensing  truth  in  every  form; 
And  when  all  evils  we  assuage. 
That  blot  the  records  of  the  age. 

^M^P^ 

We'll  build  a  temple  to  the  skies,             1 

In  which  truth  and  justice  shall  arise.     ! 

AN  ODE.                              i 

■  ^^rt|E^^^^aP^^^^^^^B^^ 

He  said:  "  Can  man  die  better               1 

Than  facing  a  rebel  clan,                     | 

^^H^HI^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^I 

For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers                    ' 

I^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^H 

And  the  freedom  of  this  land."           | 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^H^^^^H 

It  was  these  bold  words  and  valiant. 

^^^^^^^^^I^^^^^^^^^^^^H 

When  our  nation's  life  was  tried, 

^^^^^I^H^HH^^I^H^IH 

Spoke  the  Northern  soldier. 

ANDREW  J.  JENKINS. 

For  bis  country  was  his  pride. 

the  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Otay  Press 

It  was  when  bold  Jeff's  legion 

of  Otay,  Cal. 

With  its  ninety  thousand  strong 

In  their  gay  and  solid  phalanx 

LIFE'S  MISSION. 

Approached  our  Washington. 

There  is  a  mission  each  to  know. 

And  when  the  Americans  saw 

In  this  world  of  trouble  here  below. 

The  Potomac  alone  opposed  their  waj 

A  mission  given  all  for  good. 

There  was  anguish,  strong  and  bitter, 

For  man  to  follow,  if  he  would; 

In  loyal  hearts  that  day. 

Follow  daily,  throug-h  his  life. 

It  was  then  they  quickly  mustered, 

Lessening  sorrow,  lessening  strife. 

And  with  generals  yet  untried. 

Held  back  the  ninety  thousand. 

Better  far  this  world  would  be, 
If  you  and  I  would  but  agree 

And  the  bridge  that  spanned  the  tide 

To  cast  aside  our  selfish  frown. 

Four  years  this  tide  of  battle  rolled 

And  help  to  raise  the  fallen  down. 

With  victories  lost  and  won. 

Help  to  lifting  up  the  poor. 

Until  rebellion  was  dethroned 

Help  the  vile  to  sin  no  more. 

And  slavery  was  undone. 

Scattering  blessings  on  our  way; 

Now  thanks  to  God  for  peace  we  give 

Deeds  of  kindness  that  will  pay 

Remembering  what  the  patriots  boro 

Better  than  the  strife  for  gold, 

While  we  seek  to  bind  the  wounds  wi 

Drawing  interest  that's  untold, 

give 

Interests  that  are  never  slack. 

Repeat  this  motto  as  of  yore. 

And  honor  follow  in  your  track. 

For  he  said,  ••  Can  man  die  better 

Then  do  not  say, What  is  life  for. 

Tlian  facing  a  rebel  clan. 

When  so  much  work  is  at  the  door; 

For  the  asiies  of  his  fathers 

Work  that  calls  you  in  the  field. 

And  the  freedom  of  tliis  land." 

*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


J28,i 


-".f 


MRS.  ISABELLA  W.  COOKE. 

Born:  Mekiden,  Conn..  March  15, 1834. 
When  a  baby  the  subject  of  this  sketch  was 
left  fatherless,  and  removed  with  her  mother 
to  Vermont.  Since  then  she  has  resided  it\ 
manystatesof  tiie  union,  butSalem,  Oregon, 
finally  became  her  permanent  i)lace  of  abode. 
In  lb52  she  was  married  to  Mr.  Joseph  Cooke, 


MRS.  ISABELLA  WALKER  COOKE. 

and  has  had  six  children.  Mrs.  Cooke  is  the 
author  of  a  volume  of  poems  entitled  Tears 
and  Victory,  which  received  high  praise  from 
press  and  public.  For  ten  years  Mrs.  Cooke 
has  been  engag-ed  in  teaching  painting  and 
drawing. 


» 


ANSWERED. 
Not  in  my  way  nor  at  any  time 
My  heart's  petitions  answer  gain; 
'  I  ask,  and  all  my  days  are  full 
Of  longing  that  I  may  attain, 
"  This  time,"  1  cry,  ••  do  not  delay; 
Give  me  the  boon  I  ask  to-duy." 

But  opportunity  goes  by. 
And  while  I  pray  my  lips  are  fed 

With  something  that  I  have  not  asked, 
Nay:  what  I  wanted  not,  instead. 

But  still  the  food  is  sweet  T  find 

And  leaves  not  taste  of  gall  behind. 


The  Master's  hand  has  l)U'ssed  the  gift. 
And  so  it  must  be  good  for  me; 

And  yet  my  heart  goes  sighing  still 
For  that  whicli  I  had  hoped  to  see. 

No  pain  nor  labor  would  I  spare 

If  He  would  only  grant  my  prayer. 

I  see  the  hands  of  otliers  filled 
With  that  which  I  have  been  denied; 

And  they  care  not.  but  scorn  perchance 
Because  they  are  so  well  supplied. 

I  see  and  pray,  whate'er  my  quest: 

"  Lord  let  me  know  when  I  am  blest!" 

I  wander  on,  nor  e'er  forget 
The  treasure  that  I  crave  the  most. 

And  think,  ••  Perhaps  it  is  too  late. 
All  opportunity  is  lost;" 

When  lo!  I  see  the  blessing  sweet 

Is  lying,  fair,  beneath  my  feet! 


SPINNING. 
A  spider  was  swuiging  herself  in  glee 

From  a  moss-covcrc<I  swaying  bough, 
A  breeze  came  rollieking  up  from  the  sea. 

And  fanned  her  beautiful  brow. 
She  hung,  it  is  true,  with  her  pretty  head 
down. 
But  her  brain  was  cool  as  you  please; 
And  the  fashion  quite  suited  the  cut  of  her 
gown. 
And  she  could  look  up  in  the  trees. 

She  saw  where  a  humming-bird  lighted  down 

At  his  throat  a  bright  ruby  gleamed.  * 
On  his  liead  was  a  gold  and  emerald  crown 

And  he  sat  on  a  bough  anil  dreameti. 
The  spider  ran  up  on  her  silver  thread 

And  looked  in  the  little  king's  face  — 
"If  I  may  but  sit  at  your  feet,"  she  said. 

"  I'll  spin  you  some  beautiful  lace.  "    . 

Thehumming-bird  looked  in  hershiningeyes 

And  then  at  her  nimble  feet. 
And  said  to  himself.  ••  I  have  found  a  prize 

She  is  useful  as  well  as  neat. 
••  You  may  sit  by  my  side,  if  it  please  you 
well," 

Said  he,  ••  the  summer  through ; 
And  since  you  spin  on  a  noiseless  wheel. 

I'll  do  the  humming  for  you." 


EXTRACT. 

Out  in  the  pitiless  night  — 
A  tender  girlish  form  — 

Not  a  shawl  to  pillow  her  aching  head. 
Or  shelter  her  from  the  storm : 
Her  robe  she  takes 
The  while  she  makes 
Her  new-l)orn  infant  warm. 


i 


*- 


1284 


LOCAL   AMD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  EMILY  p.  MAXSON.: 

Born:  Lockport,  N.  Y.,  1839. 
This  lady  is  the  author  of  several  hundreds 
of  poems,  short  stories,  sougs  and  hj-mns, 
which  have  appeared  in  the  New  York  Fam- 
ily Story  Paper,  the  Chicago  Interior  and 


MRS.  EMILY  P.  MAXSON. 

other  publications.  She  was  married  in  1856 
to  Fabius  B.  Maxson,  but  is  now  a  widow, 
residing  in  Detroit,  Mich.  She  has  one  son, 
Charles  B..  and  a  daughter  Emma,  now  mar- 
ried to  John  W.  Yates. 


A  WOMAN'S  LOVE. 
You  ask  me  why  so  cold  I  seem, 
Indifferent  to  the  enchanting  dream. 
Of  love's  great  power  over  hearts  of  men, 
And  why  am  I  indifferent  then. 

I  will  tell  you  why  I  cold  remain. 
And  keep  my  life  from  sinful  stain: 
My  heart  so  pure  a  love  doth  keep 
For  him  who  in  the  grave  doth  sleep. 

I  cannot  love  for  earthly  gain. 
For  in  my  heart,  thoughts  remain 
Of  a  love  so  pure,  strong  and  deep, 
For  him  who  in  the  grave  doth  sleep. 

I  like,  but  never  can  love  again  — 

Dear  friend,  your  pleading  gives  me  pain. 


My  heart  a  life-long  love  must  keep 
For  him  who  in  his  grave  now  sleeps. 


THE  WHISPERING  BREEZES. 

Softly  sighs  the  evening  breeze 

As  it  fans  the  languid  flowers. 

Lightly  kisses  the  maiden's  cheek, 

As  she  sits  in  her  garden  bower; 

Her  pale  cheek  blushes  like  the  red  rose. 

As  the  breeze  softly  whispers,  I  love  you. 

And  then  passes  on  among  the  sweet  flow- 
ers. 
Who  gaily  nod  at  his  coming. 
Exhaling  their  odors,perfuniing  his  breath 
While  the  bees  are  drowsily  humming, 
Listening  to  the  breeze's  soft  sigh 
As  it  caresses  the  bright  glowing  flowers. 


FALTER  NOT. 

Falter  not,  O  weary  mortals, 
Tho'  rough,  thy  weary  way, 

Struggle  bravely  through  life's  trials. 
Let  thy  footsteps  never  stray 

In  the  paths  of  sin  and  wrong 
That  beset  thee  every  day. 

Loved  ones  are  waiting  in  Heaven, 
With  pitying  eyes  they  see, 

Thy  falling  tears  of  anguish 
And  long  to  comfort  thee; 

They  pray  the  loving  Savior 
That  strengthened  you  may  be. 

To  do  life's  duties  nobly 

Tho'  dark  tliy  life  may  be. 
The  angels  in  Heaven's  window 

Hangs  out  a  light  for  thee. 
To  guide  thee  in  the  darkness. 

Then  true  and  faithful  be. 


TRAVELERS  ON  LIFE'S  HIGHWAY. 
O  travelers  on  life's  highway. 
Press  thou  on,  make  no  delay. 
For  soon  will  end  tlie  gloomy  day 
And  night  will  soon  be  here. 

Stay  thou  not  to  gather  flowi>rs. 
Sparkling  with  drops  of  sunmier  showers, 
And  rest  not  in  vine-clad  bowers. 
For  night  will  soon  be  here. 

Hasten  then,  traveler,while  the  day 
Is  lighted  by  the  sun's  bright  rays, 
Linger  thou  not  by  the  way 
For  night  is  very  near. 

List  to  the  birds  who  are  singing. 
Joyously  tlieir  voices  all  ringing, 
And  food  to  their  little  ones  bringing, 
Creeping  night  will  soon  be  here. 


e< 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEIUCA. 


1285 


EDITH  BLAKE. 

Born:  De  Soto,  Wis.,  Nov.  29, 1867. 
This  l;id)'  lias  received  a  good  education,  and 
h£is  taught  music,  Latin,  history  and  rhetoric 
at  Gate's  College  of  Neligh,  Neb,    Many  of 
her  poems  have  appeared  in  the  Chicago  Ad- 


EDITH   BLAKE. 

vance,  Chicago  Inter  Ocean,  and  other  promi- 
nent publications.  Miss  Edith  Blake  re- 
sides in  a  beautiful  home  in  Viroqua,  Wis. 


OCR  HEROES. 
The  olden  days  had  heroes  brave. 

Whose  prowess  bards  have  sung; 
Their  deeds  of  chivalry  and  strength 

Have  down  the  ages  rung. 
The  world  does  ever  give  its  praise 

To  those  whose  deeds  proclaim 
That  they  have  valor,  courage,  power. 

Are  men  in  more  than  name. 

Proud  ancient  Greece,  the  southern  queen 

High  on  imperial  throne. 
Fell  from  her  lofty  pinnacle 

With  all  her  honors  flown. 
She  fell,  yet  time  cannot  efface 

Those  names  immortal,  grand. 
Which  stand  out  in  her  history 

The  proudest  on  her  land. 

The  narrow  pass  —  Thermopylae, 
Of  bravest  deeds  could  tell. 


Where  n  noble  hand  of  manly  men 

For  duty  gladly  fell. 
So  every  nation  proudly  sings 

Tlie  praise  of  those  wliose  lives 
Are  worthy  of  the  lofty  fame 

Which  througli  all  time  survives. 

What  country  tells  a  greater  tnle 

Than  this,  our  own  fair  land? 
Wliat  men  have  been  more  brave  than  ours, 

More  noble  or  more  grand? 
Look  back  upon  tiiose  olden  days  — 

The  days  of  toil  and  strife 
When  each  stood  firm,  to  sacrifice 

His  home,  his  lands,  his  life. 

The  winter  storms,  the  icy  blasts 

Foiled  not  the  noble  band 
Who,  through  the  bloody  conflict,  still 

Held  to  their  purpose  grand. 
.\  cruel  test,  a  trial  h:ird 

We  see  througli  all  those  days. 
And  those  who  struggled  bravely  on 

Deserve  our  songs,  our  praise. 

Sec  the  winter  camp  of  Valley  Forge 

When  all  seemed  dark  and  lost. 
How  bravely  then  men  waited  on 

To  win  at  any  cost. 
There  lives  in  every  heart  to-da3'  — 

A  well-earned,  noble  fame, — 
Sweet  freedom's  savior,  Washington! 

A  well-known,  honored  name. 

His  watchword  through  the  bitter  time 

Before  our  land  w;is  free. 
While  still  we  struggled  in  our  bonds. 

Was  ever  liberty. 
For  liberty  men  sufl'ered  then ; 

And  in  a  later  day 
They  fell  on  bloody  battlefields 

Mid  bitter  strife  and  fray. 

A  stain  of  slavery  and  sin 

With  blood  was  washed  away. 
And  closely  joined  in  brothers  love. 

Are  the  hands  of  "  Blue  and  Gray." 
And  Lincoln's  cruel  martyrdom 

Brought  liim  a  martyrs  crown. 
When  in  the  pride  of  victory  won, 

A  dastard  struck  him  down. 

A  century  and  more  has  passed 

Since  the  day  of  freedom's  birtb; 
And  is  there  now  a  grander  land 

Upon  the  wide-spread  earth? 
A  brighter  spot  beneath  the  sun, 

Than  this,  our  country  fair? 
Or  braver  men  and  happier  homes, 

Than  those  found  always  tliere? 

Look  o'er  the  land,  and  ruling,  see 
Prosperity  and  right; 


*- 


-* 


1286 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


All  darker  thing-s  shall  pass  away 

And  fade  into  tbe  night. 
Their  store  of  joy  and  wealth  and  fame 

The  coming'  years  will  bring-  — 
And  proudly,  gladly  to  our  land 

Our  hearts  shall  ever  cling. 


MRS.  CHARLOTTE  BAXTER. 

Born  :  Aurora,  Ohio,  Aug.  24, 1839. 
More  than  two  hundred  poems  of  Mrs.  Bax- 
ter have  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the 
Burlington  Hawkeye  and  the  pei'iodical  press 
generally,  and  in  the  notable  collection  en- 
titled Woman  in  Sacred  Song,    ^he  was  mar- 


MUS.  CHARLOTTE  A.  BAXTER. 

tied  in  1857  to  Mr.  George  W.  Baxter,  but  is 
now  a  widow  with  two  daughters.  Mrs.  Bax- 
ter follows  the  profession  of  music  teaching, 
and  resides  in  Spirit  Lake,  Iowa. 


THE  DEAD  DUCK. 
I  scarce  can  pluck  this  dear  dead  duck. 

For  visions  will  arise 
Of  sloping  hills  and  babbling  rills 

And  soft  and  lambient  skies. 
1  see  again  the  smiling  i)lain 

And  lakes  with  pebbly  shore, 
Wliere  side  by  side  the  ducklings  glide 

The  crystal  waters  o'er. 


The  zephyrs  play  at  dawn  of  day, 

Among  the  weeds  and  rushes. 
And  wafts  along  the  joyous  song 

Of  curlew,  lark  and  thrushes. 
The  silv'ry  tide  now  glance  and  glide 

Amid  the  grass  and  sedges 
And  gently  lave  the  flowers  that  wave 

In  beauty  on  its  edges. 

Thy  mates  I  know  will  miss  thee  so 

When  evening  brings  all  home, 
And  wonder  why  as  night  draws  nigh 

So  long  away  you  roam. 
They  little  dream  that  from  the  stream 

The  cruel  liunter  bore  thee, 
Or  from  thy  side  life's  ebbing  tide 

Hath  sprinkled  blood  drops  o'er  thee. 
When  spring  again  shall  deck  the  plain 

Witli  all  its  flow'ry  treasures. 
When  from  the  brake  that  edge  the  lake 

The  song  birds  chant  their  measures, 
A  joyous  thing  on  lightsome  wing 

Thou'lt  cleave  the  skies  no  more. 
Or  swiftl.v  glide  thy  mates  beside. 

The  crystal  lakelet  o'er. 


WHAT  SHALL  I  OFFER  THEE? 
My  friend, what  shall  I  offer  thee. 

How  please  thy  critic's  eye. 
Or  why  attempt  llie  vain,  vain  task. 

With  greater  minds  to  vie; 
Yet  what  thy  hand  would  cast  aside 

As  trash  and  light  as  air. 
Another's  eye  might  catch  the  gleam 

Of  diamonds  hidden  there. 
The  song  that  brings  the  glist'ningtear 

Into  one  person's  ej'e. 
Is  bj'  another  lightly  read, 

Nor  even  wakes  a  sigh ; 
The  strain  that  fills  one  soul  with  joy 

In  an  o'erwhelming  tide. 
May  fall  unlieeded  on  the  ear 

Of  one  close  by  his  side. 
Full  well  I  know  1  may  not  hope 

Tlie  multitude  to  please. 
For  where  one  finds  a  lovely  flower 

Anotlier  onl3'  sees 
An  ugly  weed,  then  why  should  I 

Attempt  to  write  my  name 
Beside  the  great  and  eminent 

Upon  the  walls  of  fame. 

I  will  not  hope  to  gain  a  place 

High  on  her  walls  sublime. 
But  leave  my  footsteps  faint  and  dim 

Upon  the  sands  of  time. 
That  he  who  comes  with  downcast  eye, 

My  name  may  read  with  ease. 
Wliilc  high  upon  fame's  towering  wall 

Are  tliose  he  never  sees. 


♦*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMKKIOA. 


12H7 


CHARLES  B.  MORRELL,  M.  D. 

Born:  Troy,  N.Y.,  June  6. 1859. 
In  1870  Charles'  father  died,  leaving  the  bur- 
den upon  tlie  shoulders  of  his  mother,  who 
nobly  carried  it.  Mrs.  Morrell  is  a  pioneer  in 
the  medical  field,  having-  been  in  active  prac- 
tice for  more  than  thirty-flve  years,  despite 
of  the  opposition  to  the  practice  by  women. 
At  thirteen  believing  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
ease  the  cares  borne  by  his  mother,  Dr.  Mor- 


CHARLES  BROWN   MOKRFLI.,  M  D. 

rell  left  the  public  schools  and  commenced 
work  in  a  printing  office, where  he  remained 
some  four  years,  leaving  it  to  take  a  position 
in  a  real  estate  office.  Duringtheentire  time 
he  kept  up  his  studies,  attending  a  medical 
college  in  the  intervals  of  other  work  and  fin- 
ally graduated  from  the  Pulte  College  of  Cin- 
cinnati. He  at  once  commenced  the  practice 
of  medicine,  of  which  he  has  ever  been  a 
faithful  student.  In  1885  he  graduated  from 
the  New  York  Ophthalmic  Hospital  College 
as  an  eye  and  ear  specialist,  also  completing 
the  course  in  the  New  York  Post  Graduate  in 
the  same  lines.  Having  a  strong  love  for 
literature  he  has  found  time  in  the  intervals 
of  a  busy  life  to  contribute  notunfrequently 
to  the  public  press  short  stories  and  articles 
on  various  subjects.  His  poetical  work  has 
been  spontaneous— rather  the  flashings  of 


the  muse  than  the  fluished  work  of  u  literary 
athlete.  Dr.  Morrell  has  written  some  two 
hundred  short  poems  and  songs,  many  of 
which  have  floated  about  utisigned,  and  has 
published  a  work  entitled  Five  Dozen  Fan- 
cies. In  1881  Mr.  Morrell  was  married  to  Miss 
Olympia  Pflulger,  and  resides  with  his  wife 
and  little  sou,  Leslie  Paul,  in  Cincinnati,  O. 


THE  SPLENDOR  OF  HIS  FACE. 

Some  day 
Will  fall  away 
This  clogging  robe  of  clay 
And  1  shall  .see  tlie  splendor  of  Thy  face; 
Shall  glow  within  the  circle  of  Thy  radiant 
light; 
Shall  be  with  Theo  far  from  earth's  ulgbt. 
Saved  by  Thy  grace. 

And  doubt 
That  crowds  about. 
And  hope  and  love  drives  out. 
Will  pale  before  the  splendor  of  Thy  face. 
And  holiest  peace  enshroud  me  like  a  suu- 
touched  cloud. 
Angels  will  ring  the  song  aloud; 
Saved  by  Thy  grace. 


BUT  WOULD  WE. 

We  think  if  we  were  rich  and  great. 
If  fortune  fair  had  been  our  fate. 
That  we  would  do  what  they  do  not. 
Who  share  this  most  desirous  lot. 
The  poor  should  thrive  by  gift  of  ours. 
And  dwell  with  us  in  Howery  bowers. 
And  most  unselfish  would  we  be, 
We  think  we  would  — 

But  then  would  we? 

We  think  that  if  we  office  held. 
All  to  do  riirht  would  be  compelled. 
That  naught  could  pass  our  watchful  eye. 
The  slightest  wrong  we  would  descry. 
And  boodle,  bribes  and  such  like  sin. 
While  we  were  head  could  not  slip  in. 
We  think  we'd  run  things  perfectly. 
We  think  we  would  — 

But  then  would  we 

We  think  if  we  professed  to  love 
The  One  who  came  down  from  above. 
That  we  would  live  in  full  accord 
With  all  the  teachings  of  our  Lord, 
That  we  would  never  trip  or  fall. 
Be  perfect  in  great  things  and  small. 
We  tliink  that  we  a  saint  would  be. 
We  think  we  would  — 

But  then  would  we? 


*- 


1288 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AlSJERICA. 


A  MASTER  SOUL. 
At  times  there  falls  from  nature's  building- 
hand 
A  soul,  majestic  and  superbly  grand. 
The  beating-  hammers  ring  a  note  as  clear, 
As  that  which  falls  from  God  on  prophet's 

ear. 
In  timbre,  like  some  monastery  bell. 
Which  for  the  aeons  past  has  rung  its  knell, 
Has  doled  its  rune  of  human  woe,  its  s-well 
Of  human  hope.    The  angels  sing,  for  well 
They  know  the  power  on  earthly  life  of  such 
A  soul.    They  can  foresee  the  master  touch. 

It  comes  — that  master  touch  — and  strays 

o'er  keys 
No  other  hand  dare  press,  and  sympathies 
Unfold  and  souls  awake.    The  symphony 
Vibrates  and  swells,  in  measures  grand  and 

free. 
Entangles  in  its  rhythmic  woof  and  web. 
The  moving  mysteries  of  thought,  that  ebb 
And  flow  upon  the  shores  of  human  life. 
Forgotten  is  the  petty  care  and  strife 
Of  lesser  things.  The  soul  look?  up  and  hears 
The  major  note  of  power  and  lulls  its  fears. 

The  mountain  top  is  home  for  such  a  soul. 
Above  the  rattling  din  and  ceaseless  dole 
Of  binding  care.  And  from  this  loftj'  height. 
In  one  bold  sweep  across  the  sky,  the  sight 
Is  flashed.    From  ether's  edge  to  line  afar 
Where  distant  shadows  break. 

From  mountain  scar. 
It  sees  the  tangled  thickets  hung  with  torn 
And  wind-blown  tatters  of  dead  hopes,  all 

shorn, — 
It  notes  the  whitened  ribs  of  wrecks,  whose 

bleached 
And  mocking  fingers  mark  ideals  unreached. 
It  sees  the  struggle  in  the  dark  and  drear 
Of  error's  night;  and  hears  the  wail  of  fear 
That  tells  the  sinking  in  the  seething  sea, 
Beneath  the  waves  of  inhumanity. 
Of  some  o'er-laden  soul. 

The  sight  would  stir 
A  master  soul  like  this  to  eagle's  whirr. 
And  it,  like  eagle  bold,  from  eyred  height 
To   realms  above  the  sky  would  wing  its 

flight; 
Straight  to  the  altar  of  the  Living  Soul, 
And  from  that  altar  seize  a  burning  coal 
Of  God's  own  truth. 

Then  on  that  mountain  height 
Would  watch  the  Are  of  truth  divine  ignite; 
Would  watch  the  ti  ny  flash  of  brighter  spark. 
Would  watch  it  glow  and  burn,  a  fire  indeed. 
To  warm  the  pinched  hearts,  that  cruel  creed 
Had  left  to  freeze  in  shadows  lorn  and  cold. 


Would  watch  them  cluster  'round  the  Are, 

grown  bold, 
To  warm  the  shriveled  hands  of  thought  at 

fire 
Divine. 

The  light  grows  brighter,  mounting  higher, 
And  life  invigored  moves  with  freer  strides, 
Till  like  that  matchless  mystery  that  tides 
Upon  the  northern  sky,  it  gleams  and  sliines 
And   limnes   with    light,  eternal    boundary 

lines. 
Then  coward  crowds  of  vultures  that  have 

preyed 
On  human  woe,  all  ghastly  and  dismayed. 
Sheer  off  ia  terror  to  some  darksome  spot 
And  hide  and  die. 

And  then  this  soul  is  not; 
Amid  the  human  throng  it  stalked  alone. 
As  kings  are  lonely  when  they  mount  the 

throne. 
But  generations  past  on  time's  fierce  tide 
Bear  record  of  this  truth,  a  Martyr  died. 


FOR  SWEET  LOVE'S  SAKE. 
I  saw  him  walking  slowly  down  the  street, 
As  though  a  native  of  another  sphere. 
He  had  no  interest  in  the  people  here. 
His  coat  was  ragged,  torn  and  incomplete, 
And  ghosts  of  shoes  apologized  to  feet 
Blue  with  the  cold.  And  yet  as  he  came  near 
One  might  observe  a  shadow  smile  as  dear 
As  that  which  woos  the  lipsof  maiden  sweet. 
And  pinned  upon  the  torn  and  ragged  coat, 
A  bunch  of  fragrant  blue-eyed  violets. 
I  wondered  if  they  of  their  choice  would 
take 
A  resting-place  on  some  fair  woman's  throat 
Or  if  their  flower  souls  held  no  regrets, 
And  were  contented  there  for  sweet  love's 
sake. 


THE  VETERAN'S  LAST  WISH. 
The  golden  links  slip  from  the  broken  cliaiii. 

And  noiseless  fall  upon  the  sands  of  time; 

And  bounding  waves  in  ceaseless,  throb- 
bing rhyme 
Have  borne  my  boat  alonglife's  stormy  main 
Till  now  I  catch  a  vision  of  the  plain 

Of  immortality.    The  heavenly  clime 

Is  noar.with  all  its  angel  l)osts  sublime; 
With  promises  of  rest  from  all  life's  pain. 
But  of  the  shadows  rising  from  the  past. 

That  glide  like  spectres    in  tlie  midnight 
dream, 
I  see  but  one  to  which  I  would  hold  fast. 

To  be  with  me  as  1  pass  o'er  the  stream ; 
The  faces  of  the  heroes  brave  and  grand. 
Who  fought  with  me  to  unify  the  land 


*- 


* 


*- 


LOCAT,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


1289 


MRS.  LILLIAN  H.SHUEY. 

Born  Toulon,  III.,  March  22,  1853. 
When  an  iufaut  in  arms  the  p:i rents  of  this 
lady  removed  to  California,  where  she  was 
married  in  1877  to  Mr.  M.  M.  Shuey.  She  is 
the  autlior  of  California  Sunshine,  a  beauti- 
ful volume  of  sparklins-  verse  that  has  been 


* 


MRS.  LILLIAN  HINMAN  SHUEY. 

highly  eulogized  by  the  press.  The  poems 
of  Mrs  Shuey  constantly  appear  in  the  Over- 
land Monthly,  Pacific  Kural  Press,  Golden 
Era  and  numerous  prominent  newspapers 
and  magazines. 

MOURNING  DOVE 

Bii-d  of  sad  tone, 
Smoothing  thy  purple  breast, 
And  cooing-  such  unrest 

To  slumberous  June, 

The  faintest  breath 
Of  violets  hasteth  by. 
And  on  thy  tremulous  sigh 

Fades  unto  death. 

A  quick-turned  head, 
A  breast  but  swelling  so 
As  if  its  burdened  woe 

Could  ne'er  be  said. 

Plain  mourning  bird, 
It  is  not  all  thine  own 


The  pain  of  tills  sad  tone, 
So  plaintive  heard. 

Some  human  lieart. 
Stricken  beyond  it-s  due, 
Bequeailied  such  fate  to  you. 

To  mourn  apart. 

T  ask  of  thee. 
Sweet  mourniiig-  dove,  a  boon. 
To  pale,  tiiou>?lit-saddened  June, 

Give  sigh  for  me. 


LIKE  THE  RAIN. 
Like  an  arm  around  me  thrown. 
As  I,  fainting-,  fall  alone; 
Like  a  joyful  message  sent 
When  the  soul  witli  Krief  is  spent; 
Like  tlie  grasp  of  friendly  liand 
In  some  lonely  foreign  land; 
Like  to  any  sweet  surprise, 
Bring-ing  gladder  destinies. 
Is  the  sudden  fall  of  rain 
On  the  parched  and  suffering  grain. 

Like  the  kiss  of  peace  between 
Them  wlio  bitterness  have  seen; 
Like  the  swift-returning  breath 
Of  a  dear  one  saved  f  roui  death ; 
Like  the  glory  tliat  will  come 
After  victory  lias  been  won; 
Like  tlie  llftint,'  of  tlie  soul. 
When  tlie  burdens  from  it  roll. 
Is  the  g-rowing-  of  tlie  grain 
After  God's  abundant  rain. 


HIGH  NOON. 

What  if  thy  life. 
Now  coming  toils  prime, 
Sliould  gladden  in  its  strengrtb. 
And  prove  more  rich  and  sweet 
Than  all  youth's  jiromisc-time! 

What  if  liigh  noon, 
Witli  light  serene  and  fine. 
Should  glorify  life's  leng-tli, 
And  show  thee  made  complete: 
Life's  best  in  its  decline. 


DIVINELY'  MATED. 

The  great  gum  tret<  is  full  of  song-; 

Among  long  leaves  suspending. 
Swift  dainty  singers  flit  about 

Ou  spring's  dear  duties  weuding-. 

A  little Ted-cap{)ed  fellow  flies — 
He  sees  a  floating  feather: 

His  plainer  mate  comes  durlinK  with 
A  bit  of  last  year's  heather. 

There  is  no  doubt,  or  fear,  or  fraud. 
No  hope  or  joy  belated; 


■4} 


«<- 


1290 


LOCAT.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


All's  love,  sill's  peace,  all's  gladness  for 
Each  bird  "divinely  mated." 

No  sulks,  no  tune  all  out  of  tune. 
No  love  with  bitter  leaven  — 

Just  us  they  seem,  and  nothing'  else. 
These  matches  made  in  Heaven. 

Each  bonny  breast  all  crimson,  gold. 

So  full  of  love  o'erflowing; 
Into  the  breezy,  soft  May  air, 

Such  silvery  gladness  throwing! 

Ah  well,  ah  well,  not  birds  alone 
Tlie  Master's  care  have  waited. 

Or  rich,  or  poor,  they  sing  always  — 
Those  hearts  "  divinely  mated." 


CUPID  CLIPPED. 
Poor  love,  he  wasn't  quite  resig-ned 

To  like  our  humble  ways. 
On  cottage  faith  and  cottage  fare 

To  spend  his  golden  days. 
He  liked  not  well  the  daily  toil, 

He  magnified  our  needs. 
And  made  me  wear  uneasy  care 

Bj'  his  capricious  deeds. 

Poor  little,  willful,  winged  boy! 

He  longed  for  ease  and  art. 
And  shot,  unseen,  ambitions  keen 

To  lacerate  my  heart. 
He  begged  for  jewels  numberless. 

Soft  luxuries  a  host, 
And  put  to  flight  both  day  and  night 

The  peace  I  treasured  most. 

He  poised  before  the  open  door. 

He  fluttered  at  the  pane, 
As  if  to  try  the  windy  sky 

And  ne'er  come  back  again. 
He  saw  the  crimson  clouds  above, 

He  spurned  my  offerings; 
Wliat  could  I  do?  His  flight  I'd  rue. 

And  so  I  clipped  liis  wings. 

He  must  not  sigh,  dear,  foolish  boy. 

For  bric-a-brac  and  toys; 
Nor  let  a  prayer  for  paintings  rare 

Destroy  our  cottage  joys. 
He  must  descend  to  lowly  wants 

And  common  work-day  things. 
For  fancies  spent  and  discontent. 

Poor  boy!  I  clipped  his  wings. 

And  now  he  seemeth  quite  content 

To  brew  the  foaming  yeast;  • 
To  knead  and  bake,  and  strive  to  make 

Each  homely  meal  a  feast. 
He  sweeps  the  room  with  loving  will, 

To  keep  it  warm  and  bright, 
And  cottage  chairs  and  cottage  wares 

Are  bathed  in  rosy  light. 


'Tls  better  so;  for  drear  indeed 

The  cottage  hall  would  be 
If  love  were  sped  and  beauty  fled 

From  life's  simplicity. 
Low  life  can  be  b(}th  grand  and  good, 

And  cottagers  be  kings. 
Though  oft  we  must  to  keep  our  trust, 

Sweet  Cupid,  clip  his  wings. 


GOLDEN  DAYS. 
These  are  golden  days. 

And  all  the  yellow  distance  of  the  plain 
Has  veiled  beneath  a  low-hung,  purple  haze 

The  glory  of  its  grain. 

Summer's  calm  delight 

Waves  tremulous  along  the  distant  hill, 
Comes  gleaming  down  the  stream,  and  flecks 
with  light 

The  shadows  wide  and  still. 

Low  is  the  chant  of  day; 

Time  passes  on  unmindful  of  its  hours. 
And   spring's   exultant   song   has  followed 
away 

The  gay  and  changeful  flowers. 

The  rain-hung  zephyrs  wait 

While  the  ripe  grain  is  gathered  in  its  gold; 
The  weary  vine  lays  down  its  wealth  of 
grapes. 

And  summer  weareth  old. 

Eest  Is  In  the  air ; 
Man  gathers  from  the  earth  his  just  in- 
crease. 
And  soon  shall  hush  the  sounds  of  hurrying 
care 
Beneath  God's  ordered  peace. 

The  harvest  moon  is  bright ; 

And  when  the  briUiant  day  wears  gray  and 
old, 
The  waiting  radiance  showers  all  the  night 

With  silver  for  the  gold. 


^- 


PRESCIENCE. 
I  woke  one  morn  with  hope  upon  my  heart. 
Borne  inward  by  some  influence  yet  un- 
known ; 
Warm  strength   unloosed  sped  outward  to 
my  hands. 
And  evil  doubt  seemed  moved  and  over- 
thrown. 

Dark,  brooding  pliantoms  from  my  soul  bad 
fled. 
And  far-faint  voices  softly  moved  to  sing; 
A  love  long  stilled  set  pallid  cliceks  all  red. 
And  then  I  knew,  nor  looked  abroad,  'twas 
Spring. 
: tH 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1291 


NELSON  G.  HUMPHREY. 

Born:  Wyoming  Co.,  N.Y.,  May  17, 1845. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Huniphrej-  have  appeared 
in  the  leiidiug  publications  of  America,  and 
in  a  volume  entitled  Random  shots,  of  which 
the  Cincinnati  Enquirer  says  that  auy  one 
cf  tlic  poems  contained  therein  is  euoufrli  to 
stamp  him  as  the  most  original  singer  of  the 


NELSON  GOODKKH   III  MIH 

day;  "he  sings  for  all  creation  and  for  all 
time."  Mr.  Humplirey  was  married  in  1873 
to  Miss  Emma  M.  Rilce,  and  has  a  family  of 
three  children.  Mr.  Humphrey  is  now  en- 
gaged in  business  at  Le  Roy,  Illinois. 


*- 


OLDEN  TIMES. 
To-daj'  I've  been  on  a  ramble, 

In  the  days  of  long  ago. 
Where  grandmother  planted  flowers 

Just  after  tlie  winter  snow, 
'Mid  joys  that  will  bloom  forever, 

Just  because  she  loved  me  so. 

Full  well  do  I  remember 
When  she  heard  tlie  angel-call. 

How  she  whispered  to  us  kindly, 
"Some  day  he  will  come  for  all;" 

No  difference  wluit  the  weather. 
For  in  heaven  there  is  no  fall. 

And  the  lights  are  always  burning. 
Loved  spirits  that  God  has  made. 


To  th.-it  country  she  was  going 
Wlicre  tlicrc  is  no  tear  or  spade. 

Then  sheclosed  her  dear  eyes  smiling  — 
In  the  church-yard  she  is  laid. 

Over  the  grave  in  the  springtime 
The  paiisies  and  pinks  are  seen. 

That  perhaps  she  views  from  heaven 
Wlien  the  earth  is  dressed  in  preen. 

Or  wlien  winter  snowflakes  falling 
As  pure  as  an  infant's  dream. 

It  may  be  others  are  thinking 

And  much  the  same  as  I ; 
For  to-day  the  birds  are  singing 

'Neath  the  vaultof  the  same  blue  sky. 
But  truest  of  friends  now  living 

In  time,  like  mine,  must  die. 
Sometimes  we  expect  a  meeting,    ' 

Somehow  in  song  or  prayer; 
Somewhere  an  endless  greeting. 

And  our  loved  ones  will  be  there; 
Choirs  of  angelic  music 

Forever  filling  the  air. 


ORIGINALITY. 

A  song  arose  at  break  of  day. 

From  the  heart  of  a  small  wild  bird: 
Sweeter  and  clearer  grew  the  lay. 

For  its  life  was  strangely  stirred. 

An  aged  minstrel  heard  the  strain. 
With  trembling  hand  he  struck  his  lyre. 

When  strangest  music  filled  his  brain. 
An  interlude  from  heaven's  choir. 

A  painter  halted,  seized  his  brush. 
The  inspiration  he  hud  caught  — 

The  gray-liaired  singer  and  the  thrush 
Were  soon  upon  the  canvas  wrought. 

A  poet's  spirit  took  the  theme. 

It  glittered  like  a  shooting  star. 
His  fancy  saw  an  angel's  wing. 

And  heard  the  music  from  afar. 

A  sculptor  saw  within  his  mlml 
A  statue  in  the  qu.irry  made; 

A  prophesy  for  all  mankind 
For  lines  of  thought  in  every  trade. 


AFTER  THOrCHT. 

In  yonder  peach  branch,  dark  and  cold. 

A  bud  lies  hid  away  from  sight. 
That  with  the  spring's  touch  will  unfold 

Pink  tinteil  Ijlossoms,  mi.xed  with  white. 

This  pair  of  pumpkin  seeds  will  yield 
A  hundred  pounds  of  pumpkins,  grand; 

.\\h\  leave  the  same  amount  of  field 
As  though  they  never  found  the  land. 


*- 


1292 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


A  little  pansy  seed  I've  found, 

A  hidden  beauty  to  arise, 
With  living  colors,  from  the  ground 

An  after  thought  'neath  summer  skies. 

Upon  my  knee  a  prize  I  hold, 
A  laughing  child  with  honest  eyes, 

Greater  to  parents  than  their  gold. 
The  after  thought  it  never  dies. 


MEMORY  PICTURES. 

AN   OLD  man's  story. 

Yonder  is  hanging  the  mirror 
That  three  generations  met; 

To  me  it  is  all  the  dearer  — 
The  pictures  I  cannot  forget. 

A  group  of  fond  recollections. 
The  memories,  joy  and  pain, 

The  mirror  has  lost  its  i-eflections 
Is  blooming  again  in  my  brain. 

Yonder  the  river  is  winding, 

As  it  did  those  years  ago ; 
The  birds  the  spring  days  are  finding, 

Just  after  the  winter's  snow. 

But  I  feel  that  time  is  failing, 
When  in  that  mirror  I  look. 

And  soon  my  bark  will  be  sailing 
Across  eternity's  brook. 

Toward  the  land  wo  all  are  nearing. 
The  day  without  country  or  hush 

Where  glorified  forms  appearing 
With  eternity's  bloom  will  flush. 


*- 


OBSCURITY'S  VALE. 
The  power  that  counts  the  drops  of  rain. 

The  suowflakes  and  the  stars  in  space. 
The  same  that  reads  the  joy  and  pain 

Of  all  the  souls  of  Adam's  race. 

Far  from  the  careless,  heartless  threng. 

The  works  of  nature  to  survey: 
The  food  for  thought  to  shape  in  song. 

Where  fancy  scenes  before  us  lay. 

Harp  of  the  soul,  awake  thy  strain. 
Like  echoes  from  an  angel's  lyre. 

Or  spirits  breathing  to  the  brain 
The  grandest  song  of  heaven's  choir. 

The  happy  vision  of  delight 

When  thought  takes  wing  to  shape  in  verse. 
Enshrined  with  beauties  of  tlie  night 

Tliat  shines  in  God's  grand  universe. 

The  fire-fly  brings  his  lamp  of  night. 
Where  singing  whippoorwills  are  near; 

The  myriad  stars  reflect  their  light. 
That  mingle  in  our  atmosphere. 


The  melody  of  nature's  voice 
Is  tuned  to  make  the  sweetest  sound. 

And  make  the  beasts  of  pray  rejoice, 
And  wake  the  birds  from  dreams  around. 


A  WALK. 


From  busy  scenes  of  life  I  stray. 

To  remote  and  quiet  shade; 
Beneath  the  lofty  oaks,  my  way. 

That  the  little  acorns  made. 

Unwritten  poems  here  I  meet. 
The  growth  of  many  a  year; 

Flowers  are  growing  at  my  feet. 
That  I  pluck  and  shed  a  tear. 

I  pause  beside  the  winding  stream, 

A  flower  is  borne  away ; 
And  the  lily  bows,  as  in  a  dream. 

As  it  bids  the  sun  good  day. 

Immortal  themes,  I  cannot  write. 
That  the  soul  alone  can  reach, 

Come  crowding  on  my  mental  sight. 
That  below  is  not  in  speech. 

Yearnings,  like  those  who  grief  have 
known 

When  shadows  have  passed  <away, 
Meditations  maturer  grown 

When  the  mists  have  cleared  away. 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

In  the  watches  of  the  night,  when  darkness 
Hovered  o'er  the  scenes  of  which  I  write. 

The  hours  of  yesterday  shone  in  brightness. 
And  fancy  visions  rose  till  morning  light. 

Like  ocean  waves  in  the  hillside  hidden. 
As   germs  in  the  grain,  are  patterns  for 
full  grown. 

Thro'  floods  of  thought  that  came  unbidden, 
I  meditated  through  the  hours  alone. 

I  "  saw  the  cattle  on  a  thousand  liills," 
Waiting  to  feed  the  millions  then  in  sleep; 

Heard  the  brooklets,  with  their  myriad  rills. 
Grinding  the  grain  journeying  toward  the 
deep. 

I  saw  cotton-balls  bursting,  white  as  snow. 
The  lofty  pine  trees  waiting  lor  the  a.\'. 

The  golden  orchards  on  the  farm  below. 
And  men  of  law  to  regulate  the  tax. 

I  saw  a  palace  on  a,  lofty  hill, 

A  "  one-eyed  cabin  "  in  the  vale  below. 
The  longings  of  hurLanity  at  will, 

And  money  was  the  cry  of  all,  I  know. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1293 


* 


MRS.  MARY  A.  LEAVITT. 

Born:  Vernon,  Ind. 
This  lady  is  the  daug-hter  of  illustrious  par- 
entage; lier  father,  Dr.  Ezra  Fitcii  Pabody, 
beins'  a  direct  desceudaiit  of  John  Aldeii  aud 
Priscilla  Mullius,  the  story  of  whose  court- 
ship and  marriage  Long-fellow  has  immortal- 
ized in  the  -  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish. 
Mrs.  Leavitt,  the  fifth  daughter  of  Dr.  and 
Mrs.  Pabody,  early  evinced  an  ardent  love 
for  the  beautiful  in  nature,  and  began  to 
write  verses  in  childhood.  In  1853  she  was 
married  to  Robert  Leavitt,  a  prominent 
younj;  business  man  of  lier  town.  Of  their 
fourcliildren,  two  daughters  died  in  infancy; 
two  sons  survive.  Of  Mrs.  Leavitt's  poems, 
those  of  nature  appeal   to  tlie  lieart  most 


MRS.  MAHV  A.  LEAVITT. 

deeply.  Temperance  and  missions  have 
especially  enlisted  her  voice  and  pen.  Al- 
though Mrs.  Leavitt  has  written  more  than 
two  hundred  poems  for  various  newspapers 
and  periodicals,  she  manifests  no  desire  to 
publish  a  volume  of  her  own. 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 
Over  hil'.s  and  vales,  over  mountains  high, 
To  an  unknown  land  the  swallows  fly. 
Over  leagues  of  sea,  through  the  ether  deep, 
I  In  their  gladdest  trust  they  onward  sweep  — 


Led  on  by  the  touch  of  an  unknown  liund. 
Fearless  they  fly  loan  unknown  land. 

Thro'  the  deep'ning  haze  of  the  misty  blue, 
To  an  unknown  land  we  are  flying,  too; 
O'er  the  boundless  sweep  of  life's  purple  sea. 
To  tlie  far  away,  our  flight  must  be  — 
Led  on  by  the  touch  of  an  unseen  hand. 
We  are  going,  too,  to  an  unknown  land. 

To  an  unknown  land!    We  know  it  Is  fair! 
We  know  wlio  has  gone  our  place  to  prepare. 
And  who.se  is  the  hand  that  beckons  us  there. 
Tho'  faith  gives  us  wing,  yet  fearful  are  we. 
While  poor,  souless  birds  go  trustful  and 

free. 
Do  we  follow  His  lead,  more  burdened  with 

care. 
With  less  of  glad  trust  than  the  birds  of  tlii- 

air? 


THE  DIVINE  SOVEREIGNTY. 

In  doubt's  dark  maze,  one  said  to  me,  but 
yesterday, 

•'We  all  are  vessels  formed  by  heartless  des- 
tiny; 

Even  our  faults  are  pressed  info  our  heli)less 
clay." 

I,  deeply  moved,  replied,  -No!  no!  dear 
friend,  no!  no! 

By  this  blind  creed  — a  vital  truth  to  ques- 
tion so. 

You  rob  your  heart  of  all  that  is  most  sweet 
to  know. 

..  There's  One  who  bowed  His  head  in  death, 

from  death  to  free. 
Whose  love  thro'  weary  years  has  sought  for 

you,  for  me. 
While  we  in  blind  self-will  still  strove  to 

mold  our  fate 
Apart  from  Him  who  loved  us  best.    Tho' 

desolate 
We  would  not  cry  to  Him,  O,  mold  me  at 

Thy  will! 
Aud  all  Thy  full  designs  of  grace  In  mo  ful- 
fill! 
Let  sovereign  wisdom  make  and  ch(X)so  each 

change  for  me. 
And  love's  o^vn  pierced  hand  mold  out  my 

destiny! 
..A  chosen  vessel,  each   would  be  by  His 

sweet  will. 
Did  we  but  trust,  and  in   His  tender  hands 

lie  still! 
What  If  His  molding  brings  the  mystery  of 

pain? 
What  if  our  finite  souls,  the  deep,  dim  wells 

can't  drain 
Of  His   infinitude?     Nor  read    His  sealed 

will? 


*- 


1294 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF    AMERICA, 


If  He  so  loved  the  world,"  can't   we  just 

trust  him  still? 
Give  to  the  winds  the  questionings  that  have 

oppressed? 
Find  the  ocean  of  His  love,  His  rule  is  best? 

'.Where  hope's  firm  anchor  holds  'mid  tem- 
pest, storm  and  rain; 

Where  faith  has  moored  her  bark,  again  and 
yet  again. 

There  joy  may  send  her  fleet  over  the  bound- 
less main! 

The  deep  and  boundless  main,  where  love 
supreme  doth  reign ! 

"Each  wave,  each  wind  is  best,  since  God  is 

at  the  helm; 
And    wisdom,    not    wild   cliance,    is    ruling 

every  realm. 
The  sweetest  pillow  mortal  head  e'er  rested 

on 
Is  this.  Thy  will  is  best;   Thy  soverciirn  will 

be  done! " 


A  MAY  DAT  IDSX.  OK  AN  IDLE  MAY 
BAY? 

Showered  with  softest  violet. 

Here's  a  sunny  slope  of  green, 
With  its  fringe  of  mosses  set 

By  a  river's  silver  sheen. 
Here,  a  dandelion's  gold 

Twinkles  thro'  the  emerald  grass; 
And  faint  odors  manifold 

Drop  their  promise  as  they  pass. 
All  the  balmj'  winds,  to-day. 

Whisper  of  unfolding  bloom  — 
Hinting  in  their  winsome  way 

Sweeter  secrets  of  perfume. 

On  this  violet,  velvet  slope  — 
Grass-upholstered,  with  emboss 
Of  the  dandelion's  floss. 

Near  the  springtime's  heart  of  hope  — 

Folded  to  the  heart  of  May, 
On  the  lap  of  springing  grass. 
In  the  arms  of  winds  that  pass. 

Who'd  not  linger?    Who'd  not  stay? 

Dreaming,  dreammg  of  the  May. 

Where  the  ferns  have  won  their  way 

Thro'  the  tangled  threads  of  moss, 
'Neath  the  maple's  feath'ry  spray; 

All  these  wooded  hills  across; 
Where  the  dogwood's  snow  is  seen 
'Mid  a  raveled  lace  of  green ; 

'Mid  these  heralds  just  to  be  — 
These  route  heralds  of  tlie  May, 
For  a  dreamer's  hohday. 

This  is  joy  enough  for  me! 
Down  the  west  the  sun  is  dying 

On  a  couch  of  amethyst; 


And  the  low,  light  winds  are  sighing 
Tliro'  the  amber,  mellow  mist; 

While  the  spangled  ripples  grow. 
As  they  murmur  'mid  the  shades. 

Shadowy  and  sad  and  slow; 
From  the  hills  the  glory  fades. 

Lo!  the  stars  are  in  the  sky! 

And  the  paling  sun  is  gone! 
And  the  waning  waters  sigh 

Down  the  shadows,  on  and  on! 
Yet  in  dreamland,  who'd  not  stay 
On  the  slope  of  this  sweet  day, 

On  the  lap  of  velvet  grass. 

In  the  arms  of  winds  that  pass. 
Dreaming,  dreaming  of  the  May? 


DREAMS. 


EXTRACT. 

Softly,  gently  falls  the  snow; 
Down  the  fleecy  blossoms  go 
In  a  silent,  rhythmic  flow. 

Intertwining  'mid  the  sheen 
Of  the  dark-hued  evergreen 
Plumed  of  downy  whiteness  gleam. 

Noiseless  fingers,  deft  and  cold, 
Twine  soft  garlands  manifold 
In  the  cedar's  varied  mold. 

Wreathing  all  in  feath'ry  spray. 
Who's  at  work?    Or  is  it  play? 
Fay  or  fairy?    Who  can  say? 

Spirit  wings,  in  airy  flight. 
Flutter  through  the  misty  light 
Till  the  very  air  is  white. 

E'en  when  night  has  curtained  deep 
All  the  homes  where  dreamers  sleep. 
Downward  still  their  pinions  sweep. 

Still  the  phantom  workers  yet 
Stud  anew  earth's  coronet; 
Pearls  on  pearls  and  diamond  set. 

Wrap  the  earth,  so  bare  and  brown, 
In  a  robe  of  eider  down. 
Lace  of  pearls  and  opal  crown. 
I  recall  the  quick,  glad  thrill. 
How  its  mem'r.v  Cometh  still! 
That  my  child  heart  used  to  fill; 
When,  in  dreams  that  fancy  brought. 
Through  her  charmed  realm  I  sought. 
How  this  wonder  might  be  wrought. 
Coming  in  the  solemn  night. 
Spreading  carpet  deep  and  wliite  — 
Star  gemmed  by  the  morning  light! 
Wrapping  earth,  all  gray  and  bare. 
In  an  ermine  rich  and  rare  — 
Dropping  flowers  everywhere. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS  OF   AMEUICA. 


1295 


•*♦ 


Did  uf)  star  the  vision  see? 
Did  some  fairy  band  in  g-lee 
Shower  the  earth  so  bounteously! 
Or,  in  awesome  whispers  low, 
Did  they  call  her  dead,  and  so 
Robe  her  in  this  shroud  of  snow? 
Leave  her  lifeless,  motionless, 
Wafting  with  a  mute  caress 
These  pale  lilies  o'er  her  dress? 
Will  she  wake  up  glad  and  bright 
When  the  sun  has  brol<en  quite 
Through  the  silver  mist  of  night? 

All  His  sunshine,  all  His  storms. 
Winter's  snow  and  summer's  charms 
For  our  sakes  He  gilds  and  warms. 
Many  morns  for  me  have  shone; 
Many  snows  have  come  and  gone; 
Many  dreams  have  with  them  flown. 


REV.OBADIAHC.AURINGER 

Born:  Glens  Falls,  N.  Y.,  June,  4, 1849. 

This  minister  and  poet  is  the  author  of  a 
volume  entitled  Scythe  and  Sword,  and  his 
poems  have  been  a  valuable  acquisition  of 
current  literature.  He  is  pastor  of  the  Pres- 
byterian Church  of  Northwood,  N.  Y.,  where 
he  is  very  popular. 


THE  UNHEEDED  SINGER. 
A  bird  with  azure  breast  and  beak  of  gold, 
A  joyous  stranger,  beautiful  and  shy. 
Flown  from  far  groves  beneath  a  summer 

sky. 
At  morn  amid  our  March  woods  bare  and 

cold. 
Sang  like  a  spirit.    Raptures  such  as  hold 
The  arches  charmed  and  hush  the  zephyr's 

sigh 
From  his  enamored  throat  flowed  carelessly 
In  musical  low  warblings  manifold. 
At  length  he  ceased,  with  arch  head  bent 

aside. 
And  listened  long;  but  from  the  woodlands 

bare 
No  cheering  voice  of  melody  replied. 
Duly  a  faint  call  from  the  fields  of  air- 
Lightly  he  rose,  and  as  the  echo  died 
Fled  to  the  open  heavens  and  warbled  there. 


THE  VALE  OF  SPIRITS. 

In  deep  green  woods  there  lies  a  fairy  glade, 
Shut  in  by  tawny  hemlocks  wild  and  tall. 
Its  floor  is  laid  with  richest  moss  and  all 
Its  round  is  steeped  in  mostdelicious  shade. 

It  is  a  spot  for  listening  silence  made. 


Few  sounds  awake  It  save  the  wild  bird's 

call. 
And  winds  that  niurinur  round  its  forfst 

wall. 
Like  instruments  at  airy  distance  played. 

'Tis  there  a  still  and  stolen  guest  I  lie. 
And  listen  to  the  weird  wood-spirits  singing, 

I  liear  llieir  bell-like  voices  flouting  nigh. 
From  arches  green  and  dewy  dingles  spring- 
ing; 
They  passinelfln  song  and  laughter  by— 
I  hear  their  clear  ha  ha!  in  deep  deep  dells 
ringing. 


REV.  JEREMIAH  W.  HOLT. 

Born:  Alamance  Co.,  N.  C,  Dec.  T.  1H48. 
After    receiving    his    education,   Mr.   Holt 
tauglit  school,  continuing  liis  studies  with 
what  he  earned.    In  luTti  lie  was  ordained  a 


rev.  JEREMIAH  WOOD  HOLT. 

minister  of  the  gospel  by  the  N.  C.  and  Vn. 
Christian  Conference,  of  which  IxKly  ho  h:is 
twice  been  president.  He  Isan  anient  friend 
of  temperance  and  proliibilion.  In  1KT7  Mr. 
Holt  was  marrietl  to  Miss  Mary  E.  Whitsltt. 
and  resides  in  Burlington,  N.  C,  engaged  us 
a  minister  and  school  teacher. 


STAY  IN  CAROLINA. 
There's  a  land  of  all  the  lands  benoath  the 

skies 
Dearest  to  our  hearts,  mi>st  charming  tu  our 

eyes; 
Never,  never  leave  it,  wander  not  away. 


H» 


5<- 


1296 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


Here  in  Carolina  is  the  place  we  ought  to 

stay. 
Cho.—  Stay  in  Carolina,  proudly  take  your 
stand ; 

Freedom  floats  her  banner  o'er  no  fairer 
land; 

Love,    defend,    and    praise    her  —  less 
would  be  a  crime  — 

Carolma  first  and  last  and  all  the  time. 
Homes  of  plenty  every  hill  and  valley  crown; 
Happysons  and  daughters  smiling  all  around ; 
Blessings  rest  upon  them,  crowning  every 

day 
While  tliey  work  and  sing  >•  In  Carolina  let 

us  stay." 
Crown  her  daughters  queen  of  love  and  beau- 
ty too; 
Other  lands  may  boast,  but  ours  we  know  are 

true; 
Singing,  smiling,  sorrow's  frown  they  drive 

away ; 
Carolina  girls  are  faithful  and  are  always 

gay. 
Nobler  sons  than  hers  no  land  can  ever  show ; 
Braver  lads  with  truer  hearts  you  ne'er  will 

know; 
Honor  crowns  their  purpose,  toil  they  never 

shun 
Carolina   boys,  hurrah !  hurrah !   for   what 

they've  done. 


A  MOTHER'S  VISIT  TO  A  BAR-ROOM. 
I  have  come  from  my  home  in  the  name  of 
the  one 
That  was  dearer  to  me  than  the  wealth  of 
the  w«rld; 
But  my  husband  — God  pity  the  makers  of 
rum!  — 
My  dear  husband!  so  noble  and  true  to  his 
word! 
I  am  sure  he  would  yet  be  as  loving  at  home. 
If  you  only  would  sell  him  no  more  of  that 
curse; 
'Tis  to  plead  for  my  children  and  home  I  have 
come; 
I  had  hoped  you  would  quit,  but  it  keeps 
getting  worse. 
I  would  never  have  come,  but  last  night  in  a 
rage, 
I  was  beaten  by  him  who  had  pledged  me 
his  iove; 
You  have  ruined  my  home,  you  have  blighted 
my  age; 
God    in    Heaven,   do  thou  help,  give  me 
strength  from  above. 
Well, I  know'tis  no  place  for  a  woman  to  come 
Where  the  manners  of  men  are  most  shock 
ing  to  see; 


And  how  much  I  would  rather  remain  in  my 
home. 
Were  that  home  any  longer  a  refuge  for  me. 
But  the  man,  that  you  send  by  your  legalized 
trade. 
With  a  curse  and  a  blow  for  my  children  ' 
and  me. 
Has  forgotten  the  pledge  that  he  sacredly  • 
made,  ; 

When  he  promised  in  love  my  protector  to  be.  , 
'Tis  surprisingly  strange  —  would  to  God  I  , 
could  tell !  i 

How  the  laws  for  protecting  the  homes  are  | 
annulled,  I 

By  the  license  of  rum,  bj-  the  curse  which 
you  sell;  i 

Does  the  fee  make  it  right,  tho'  the  con-  \ 
science  be  lulled?  ' 

Ah!  the  pain  and  the  woe  in  the  drunkard's  | 
abode,  i 

Where  the  mother  and  child,  betwixt  starv-  j 
ing  and  dread,  i 

Keep  their  story  of  suffering,  but  for  pallor,  • 
untold;  | 

Yet  the  truth  we  can  read,  when,  too  oft,  j 
they  are  dead.  ] 

I  have  waited  so  long,  I  have  hoped,  I  have 
prayed; 
That  my  home  might  be  spared  such  a 
blight  and  a  curse; 
I  have  wept,  but  my  tears  have  all  strangely 
been  stayed. 
Since  I  vowed  for  defense,  tho'  defense  may 
be  worse. 

God  in   Heaven,  help  a  mother  once  more   j 
while  she  prays  j 

For  the  home  that  she  loves,  for  the  child-    j 
ren  so  dear. 
Give  her  strength  ere  the  battle  shall  num- 
ber her  days. 
For,  too  great  is  the  fight,  unless  succor  be 
near. 

In  Thy  promise  alone,  for  her  refuge  and 
strength ; 
In  the  hope  that  her  labor  will  not  b©  In 
vain. 
She  will  toil  and  endure,  till  the  victory  at 
length 
Shall  be  gained,  ••  Neither  shall  there  be  any 
more  pain." 

In  my  mansion  in  glory  no  drunkards  abide, 
And  children,  up  there,  shall  not  ask  me 
for  bread. 

As  they  often  have  asked,  when  I  only 

I  cried; 
But  in  heavsn.i'they  shall  hunger  no  more," 
it  is  said. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAT,   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


1297 


HOWARD  C.TRIPP. 

Boun:  Plano,  111.,  Apkil4,  1863. 
Mr.  Tripp  has  boon  editor  and  iissociate  ed- 
itor of  several  newspapers,  and  is  now  editor 
and  proprietor  of  The  Times  of  Kiiigsley, 
]owa.  Ho  is  tiie  autlior  of  two  books  —  Le- 
g-ends of  Lemars  and  Ballad  Blossoms.  Mr. 
Tripp  has  written  numerous  poems,  and  sev- 


HOWAUD  CARI.ETON  TUIPP. 

eral  novelettes,  and  is  fast  g-aining-  a  national 
reputation  as  an  author  and  journalist.  Mr. 
Tripp  was  married  in  18!K)  to  Miss  Isabella  M. 
Steely. 


THE  DEATH  OF  HOPE. 

My  child  I  held  upon  my  knee. 
His  head  was  iiillowed  on  my  breast, 
And  he  appeared  to  be  at  rest 

And  dreaming  of  the  years  to  be. 

And,  dreaming  of  the  coming  years, 
I  pictured  where  my  Hope  would  stand: 
A  noble  hero  in  command 

Of  noble  men  and  gallant  peers. 

I  saw  him  reach  the  heights  of  fame 
And  stand  a  victor  far  above 
His  manly  comrades  who  in  love 

And  admiration  spoke  his  name. 

In  hopeful  dream,  T  saw  in  pride 
My  boy  as  he  would  be  in  age: 


My  heart's  desire  and  heritage  — 
While  he  upon  my  bosom  — died! 

Thus  dreaming  Hope  forever  flies 
Beyond  our  grasp,  beyond  our  sight. 
As  day  is  shroudetl  int(j  niglit, 
Hope  sickens  in  our  breiist  and  dies. 


ONLY  A  GRAVE  BYTHEOAKDEN  WALL 

Only  a  grave  by  tlie  garden  wall. 

Covered  with  pansies  and  lilies  fair; 
Only  the  sweetest  of  tliem  all 

Dreaming  under  the  blos^soms  there! 

Only  a  bud  in  its  beauty  laid 
Down  to  rest  in  the  silent  clay; 

Only  the  form  of  an  angel  maid 
Sleeping  the  moments  all  away. 

Only  our  tears  for  the  daughter  there. 

Tears  tliat  must  ever,  ever  fall; 
Only  a  spirit,  divine  and  fair. 
In  the  grave  by  the  garden  wall! 

Only  a  grave  by  the  garden  wall. 
Giving  the  place  a  look  of  gloom; 

Only  a  bride  in  the  silent  hall 
Of  a  sobre,  and  dreary  tomb! 

Only  a  life  to  the  living  lost. 

Sailing  on  to  a  golden  shore; 
Only  a  spirit  shiin  liy  the  frost. 

And  life's  mad  storms  forever  o'er! 

Only  a  dreamer,  our  darling  lies 
Where  the  shimmering  sunbeams  fall; 

Only  a  spot  for  our  tears,  and  sighs. 
Is  the  grave  bj-  the  ganleii  wall. 


EMOTIONS. 
One  over-act,  one  impulse  will  suffice 

To  clothe  a  life  in  sorrow's  bitter  sheaf; 
One  passion  left  to  grow  until  it  dies. 
Will  seed  the  heart  with  all  the  plants  of 
grief! 

One  passion  left  untraine<l;  <ine  spark  of  fln' 
Of  lust  or  liale  uncurbed,  will   blaze  ami 
blaze 

Until  the  embers  never  can  expire 
Till  they  have  blighted  life's divlnest days! 

One  heart  emotion,  ho  it  gixxl  or  vile. 
Will  bloom  in  beauty,  or  like  the  we«l 

Make  the  heart's  garden  like  a  wi'cd-slrewn 
isle  — 
To  seed  thoughts  that  grow  again  and  seed : 

Then  should  we  not  as  mortals  try  :ind  try 
To  love  each  other,  he  we  small  or  great: 

Ixive  grows  with  age,  true  love  can  never  die. 
While  we  should  try  to  kill  the  thuught«  of 
hate! 


*- 


1298 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


Love  sublime,  like  a  young  plant  it  grows 
And  grows  forever,  if  we  give  it  air. 

And  warmth,  and  light,  and  shield  it  from 
its  foes, 
It  grows  more  beautiful, it  grows  more  fair ! 

Weed  from  the  heart  the  plant  of  hate  and 
lust. 
Weed  from  the  soul  all  passions  that  defile ; 
To  truth,  to  purity  and  love  give  trust  — 
These  things  make  angels  fair  from  beings 
vile! 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  PIONEER. 

He  was  sitting  in  his  dugout,  in  his  native 
grace  and  pride. 

And  near  by  him  was  the  woman  whom  lie 
honored  as  a  bride; 

While  around  them  were  there  children  — 
half  a  dozen,  less  or  more  — 

Looking  dirty,  looking  happy,  as  tbey  wal- 
lowed on  the  floor. 

He  was  speaking  of  the  future,  with  a  sadly 

solemn  air, 
And  his  wife  gave  back  his  question,  with  a 

weak  and  vacant  stare ; 
For  the    hoppers  were   destroying   all  the 

farmer's  corn  and  wheat. 
And  the  winter  was  before  them,  with  its 

storms  of  snow  and  sleet. 

What  to  do,  and  how  to  do  it?  were  the  ques- 
tions of  the  hour. 

They  were  there  upon  the  prairie,  in  fate's 
often  cruel  pow'r; 

They  were  destitute  of  clothing,  and  of  coal 
to  keep  them  warm. 

And,  unless  they  had  assistance,  they  would 
perish  in  some  storm. 

And  he  spoke,  in  deep  emotion,  "We  must 
leave  the  homestead  fair, 

And  sail  back  across  the  ocean  to  our  kin- 
dred over  there;" 

"  Never,  never,"  said  the  mother,  "  while  I 
have  a  single  breath, 

I  will  stay  here,  witli  my  children,  and  beat 
back  the  form  of  death!" 

"  Did  wc  not  come  from  old  England  to  avoid 
the  iron  rule? 

Where  a  man  who  makes  a  living  is  consid- 
ered a  big  fool; 

I  shall  live  within  this  dugout  thro'  the  com- 
ing storms  of  snow, 

If  you  wish  to  go  there,  do  so,  I  will  give  you 
leave  to  go!" 

Never  had  he  seen  her  bluster  in  a  way  so 
wild  and  shrill. 


*- 


He  had  never  seen  his  helpmate  show  the 

metal  of  lier  will; 
And  he,    having  weaker  courage  than  his 

wife,  who  feared  no  harm. 
Sailed  for  home,  on  borrowed  money,  leaving 

children,  wife,  and  farm. 

Words  are  weak,  and  cannot  picture  how 

they  suffered  in  despair, 
How  theyburned  corn-stalks  and  slough  hay, 

and  lived  on  such  scanty  fare; 
How  they  prayed  for  spring  to  open,  and  for 

summer's  blush  and  bloom. 
How  they  laid  their  little  Amy  in  a  snowdrift 

for  a  tomb ! 

How  no  neighbors  came  to  visit,  and  of  days 
that  seemed  so  long. 

How  the  mother  cheered  the  children,  with 
the  sunlight  of  her  song; 

How,  one  night  they  had  a  council,  and  re- 
solved, that  on  the  morn. 

They  would  kill  the  dog  and  eat  him,  for  they 
had  grown  short  of  corn. 

How,  one  day,  some  roving  Indians  tried  to 

steal  her  youngest  son. 
But  the  mother  saved  her  darling  by  her 

pointing  to  the  gun; 
How,    at    last,    the    warm    winds   blowing 

brought  the  springtime's  wariLth  and 

rain. 
And  the  birds  back  from  the  Southland,  and 

the  blossoT2s  on  the  plain. 

And  the  mother,  with  her  children,  labored 

with  a  willing  hand. 
And  they  sowed  seed  wheat  and  planted  corn 

upon  the  new  plowed  land; 
And,  when  harvest  came,  they  gathered  in 

their  crops  of  wheat  and  corn  — 
Plenty  for  the  needs  of  winter,  plenty  for 

their  cares  unborn. 

Then  the  uncourageous  father  came  back  to 

the  homestead  fair: 
And  she,  like  the  most  of  women,  gave  him 

a  true  welcome  there; 
And  he  lived  upon  their  keeping,  ever  after 

to  his  shame. 
Pardoned  by  the  noble  mother.who  withheld 

all  words  of  blame! 

And  her  daugliters  grew  to  women,  and  her 

brave  s-oiis  into  men. 
And  they  built  a  splendid  mansion  in  a  sweet, 

secluded  glen; 
And  they  prospered  ever  after  as  the  brave 

and  faithful  can. 
But  the  father  claims  all  glory,  which  isonly 

like  a  man. 
-* 


*- 


* 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMKKICA. 


1299 


REV.  EDW.  0.  FLAGG,  D.I). 

Born:  Georgetown,  S.  C,  Dec. 18, 1824. 
This  gentleman  is  the  grandson  of  Dr.  Flag-g-, 
a  surgeon  iu  the  war  of  the  Revolution ;  and 
son  of  Henry  C.  Flagg,  a  lawyer  and  formerly 
mayor  of  New  Haven,  Conn.  Previous  to 
taking  orders  he  studied  law.  He  studied 
theology  under  the  direction  of  Bishop  Brow- 
nell,  by  whom  he  was  ordained  to  the  dea- 
conate  and  priesthood.  Dr.  Flagg  has  been 
the   founder  of  several  parishes.    He  was 


REV.  EDWARD  OCTAVUS  FLAGG,  D.  D. 

rector  of  the  New  York  All  Saints  Church, 
and  was  six  years  assistantof  Grace  Church. 
Dr.FlaggwaschaplainofthePrince  of  Orange 
Masonic  Lodge,  N.  Y. ;  and  also  chaplain  of 
the  9th  regiment  N.  Y.  Militia.  Dr.  Flagg 
has  been  a  lecturer  at  several  institutions, 
and  has  delivered  numerous  public  addresses 
and  lecturers.  This  great  scholar  and  divine 
wrote  poetry  at  a  very  early  age,  and  has  re- 
cently published  a  volume  of  verse  that  has 
received  high  praise.  Many  of  his  poems 
have  appeared  in  the  New  York  Herald, 
Mail  and  Express,  and  other  prominent  pub- 
lications; and  several  have  been  set  to  music. 
Dr.  Flagg  is  now  pastor  of  the  Protestant 
Episcopal  Church  of  New  York  City. 


A  WORD. 
No  word  is  lost  when  once  'tis  spoken. 
But  echoes  on  the  air; 


Altliough  to  fragments  sometimes  broken. 

Its  sound  can  naught  impair. 
It  travels  to  remotest  regions, 

A  spirit  of  unrest. 
Companion  of  the  vocal  legions, 

Like  birds  witiiout  a  nest. 
A  word  may  make  the  culprit  tremble. 

And  liid  his  color  flee, 
When  judge  and  jury  grave  assemtjle 

And  "guilty  ''  the  decree. 
A  word  may  make  the  saddened  cheerful 

When  held  in  durance  vile; 
If  pardon  is  proclaimed,  tlie  tearful 

No  longer  weep,  but  smile. 
When  overcome  by  anxious  feeling 

Long  tossed  upon  the  deep, 
If  "Land!"  from  one  aloft  be  pealing. 

Our  fears  are  put  to  sleep. 
When  war  protracted  scourges  nations, 

Nor  hopes  of  truce  arise, 
A  voice  resounds  to  generations 

When  "Peace!"  salutes  the  skies. 
The  yes  or  no  by  lover  uttered, 

A  destiny  foretell; 
Domestic  storms  to  come  are  muttered. 

Or  angel  music  swells. 
A  word  will  states  or  nations  sunder. 

Raise  higli  or  dasii  to  earth. 
Like  lightning  scathe,  alarm  as  thunder 

Abundance  cause  or  dearth. 
'Tis  like  the  dynamite  that  shatters 

The  deep  primeval  rock, 
And  aged  fossils  ruthless  scatters 

In  one  appalling  shock; 
Or  like  the  dynamite  that  blesses 

And  not  alone  destroys, 
A  force  by  which  the  world  progresses. 

Imparting  nameless  joys. 
Perchance  a  word  we  now  remember. 

Of  one  long  passed  away; 
It  comes  back  in  our  life's  December, 

A  blossom  of  its  May. 
Not  volumes  witli  such  gentle  power 

The  depth  of  being  wake, 
'Twill  linger  to  the  latest  hour 

For  that  loved  sleeper's  sake. 
Salvation  — other  words  o.xcelling  — 

Throughout  the  Gospel  shines; 
Its  promise,  mercy's  lips  are  telling, 

To  lift  eacli  lieart  that  pines. 
Beyond  the  flrmamont,  pervasive, 

Out  voicing  ocean's  roar. 
Beams  this  celestial  term  persuasive 

That  fills  the  evermore. 


VAIN  REGRETS. 
Who  that  looks  upon  the  past 
Does  not  ponder? 


*- 


1300 


LOCAT^  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


Who  that  reads  its  strange  neglects, 

Does  not  wonder 
If  the  coming  days  shall  prove 

Any  better? 
Whether  haste  or  sloth  shall  write 

Such  dark  letter?  — 
Waste  no  sighs  on  what  can  ne'er 

Be  prevented, 
Acts  to  wiiich  a  pliant  will 

Hath  consented. 
Careless  seedsmen  oft  become 

Far  more  chary, 
If  the  birds  devour  the  grain 

When  unwary. 
Dost  thou  for  thy  planting  lost, 

Trouble  borrow? 
Prayerful  sow,  and  thou  shalt  reap 

Joy,  not  sorrow. 


REVERIES  ON  VIRGINIA  BEACH. 
I  wander  o'er  Virginia  beach, 
Whose  length  is  more  than  eye  can  reach. 
Where  laboring  footsteps  patience  teach. 
I  watch  the  ocean's  changeful  hue. 
Its  tints  of  brown  and  green  and  blue, 
While  moving  sails  oft  meet  the  view. 

I  see  a  wrecli  upon  tlie  sand; 
Her  hull  yet  sound,  proportions  grand. 
Though  rudely  hurled  by  Neptune's  hand. 
How  sad  to  think  of,  outward  bound  — 
Some  promised  dreamland  never  found  — 
Of  beauteous  forms  by  seaweed  bound  I 

Again,  I  see  a  broken  net. 
Like  shattered  wishes  never  met 
Though  gleesome  woven  seines  were  set. 
On  pebbles  smooth  or  glistening  shell 
My  wandering  glance  doth  often  dwell: 
They  seem  of  greetings  kind  to  tell. 

I  see  a  white  bird  cast  ashore, 

Its  shattered  wing  is  stained  with  gore; 

It  ne'er  can  skim  the  gtlier  more. 

So  whiter  seems  a  life  when  flown 

And  envy  leaves  its  pray  alone 

By  crimson  stain  'tis  purer  known. 

No  more  the  sportive  naiads  lave; 
The  power  of  God  is  in  yon  wave  — 
'Tis  he  alone  the  soul  can  save. 
The  noblest  thought,  in  noblest  speech, 
Hath  not  such  girt  the  heart  to  teach 
As  voices  from  Virginia  beach. 


»i<- 


LIFE  AS  IT  IS. 
This  life  is  but  a  thing  of  fears, 
A  dream  of  hopes,  of  smiles  of  tears  — 
A  blossom  which  at  morning  blows, 
A  blossom  wliich  at  evening  goes  — 
A  flower  tinged  with  beauty's  blush. 


Which  any  thoughtless  tread  may  crush; 

A  sky  of  azure,  fair  and  bright. 

That  storm-clouds  quick  obscure  from  sight; 

A  moonbeam's  evanescent  play, 

Which  ere  the  day-dawn  speeds  away; 

A  bubble  floating  on  a  lake 

That  soon  a  passing  breeze  may  break; 

A  wave  which  tosses  high  and  free. 

Then  dies  upon  a  tranquil  sea. 

Life  as  it  is  —  a  songster  proud. 

Which  leaves  its  perch  to  seek  the  cloud, 

But  soon  falls  low  with  flutter'ing  wing, 

No  more  to  soar,  no  more  to  sing. 

Oh,  fearful  art  thou,  human  life. 

Thou  fitful  thing,  thou  thing  of  strife! 

Why  mock  us  with  the  promise  bright. 

Then  leave  behind  the  gloom  of  night? 

Not  so  that  life  which  is  to  be  — 

There  no  alloy,  no  mockery. 

No  transient  smile,  no  bitter  tear, 

No  intermingling  hope  and  fear; 

No  fading  liglit,  no  short-lived  bloom. 

No  preparation  for  the  tomb; 

No  palsied  joy,  no  fleeting  breath. 

No  throbbing  pulses,  hushed  in  death; 

But  as  the  eagle  soars  from  sight. 

And  leaves  behind  each  mountain  height, 

Ne'er  pausing  in  his  upward  way, 

While  yet  remains  one  golden  raj'. 

So  soars  man's  spirit,  once  set  free 

In  that  pure  life  which  is  to  be. 


I  LOOK  BEi'OND. 
I  look  beyond  this  teasing  care. 

Which,  like  the  stinging  pest, 

That  will  not  let  me  rest. 

Drives  reason  from  her  lofty  throne, 
'Mid  hopeless,  grim  despair. 

I  look  beyond  colossal  wrong. 
With  shameless  Gorgon  head, 
A  timid  nation's  dread, 
Wliich  makes  an  oft-defeated  will 
To  cringe  before  the  strong. 
I  look  beyond  the  lessening  light, 
That  surely,  slowly  fades 
'Mid  gathering  evening  shades. 
While  breathings  weird  from  mystic  realms 
Reveal  'twill  soon  be  night. 
1  look  beyond  the  thoughts  that  craze 
The  weakling,  finite  mind. 
That  sees  not  God  behind,— 
Whereby  this  perfect  plan  doth  seem 
A  wildering  needless  maze. 
Ye  troubled  children  of  to-day. 
Whose  liearts  are  in  a  sphere 
We  know  must  disappear. 
Pause  not  to  dream  and  moan  and  pine, 
But  look  beyond,  I  say. 


-i: 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


1301 


-« 


EUGENE  SECOR. 

Born:  Peekskill,  N.  Y.,  1841. 
While  still  a  youug  m:ui  Mr.  Sccor  held  sev- 
eral positions  of  trust  and  in  1867  was  deputy 
clerk  of  the  district  court,  and  in  1868  was 
elected  district  and  circuit  clerk,  which  of- 
fice he  held  to  the  unbounded  satisfaction  of 
the  people  for  three  consecutive  terms,  be- 


EtTGENE  SECOK. 

ing  elected  the  last  time  without  opposition. 
He  was  elected  county  auditor  in  187.5,  and 
chosen  his  own  successor  two  years  later 
without  opposition.  Mr.  Secor  was  chosen  the 
first  mayor  of  Forest  City,  la.,  and  re-elected 
three  consecutive  times.  Retiring  from  the 
mayorality,  he  was  elected  city  councilman, 
which  position  lie  still  holds.  He  is  a  mem- 
ber of  the  banking  house  of  Sccor,  Law  & 
Plummer,  and  the  real  estate  firm  of  Secor 
Bros.  &  Law.  In  addition  to  these  interests, 
he  conducts  a  considerable  farm,  is  an  en- 
thusiastic fruit-grower,  and  has  the  largest 
apiary  in  the  county.  In  1867  Mr.  Secor 
wedded  Miss  Millie  Spencer,  a  lady  of  rare 
endowments,  of  Erie  county.  Oliio.  Nine 
children  have  been  the  issue,  three  only  sur- 
viving— Willard.  Alson  and  Nina.  The  vari- 
ous positions  of  honor  that  Mr.  Secor  adorns 
bespeak  the  exalted  respect  in  which  he  is 
held  throughout  Iowa.  He  is  president  of 
the  Iowa  State  Horticultural  Society ;  presi- 
dent of  the  Iowa  State  Bee-Keeper's  Society ; 


and  also  president  of  North  America  U«-.- 
Keepers'  Society;  and  the  president  of  the 
Winnebago  Ct)unty  Agricultural  Hioclfty.  he 
being  one  of  the  organizers  of  the  latter  in- 
stitution. The  poems  of  Mr.  Sec-or  have  a\>- 
peared  in  the  leading  periodicals,  and  have 
been  a  valuable  aequisition  to  current  litera- 
ture- 


WEIGHING  THE  BABV. 

••The  baby  is  three  months  old  toKlay: 

We  want  to  see  what  the  cherub  will  weigh  — 

So  if  papa  has  leisure, 

I  know  he'll  take  ple:isure 
In  bringing  the  scales  containing  the  tniy." 

'Twas  mama,  who  thus  from  my  book 
Enticed  me,  with  speech  and  with  lo<jk 

So  happy,  so  winning, 

I  had  surely  been  sinning, 
Had  I  not  left  with  pleasure  my  nook. 

The  clumsy  scales  to  the  room  we  brought ; 
The  same  by  which  fish  and  potatoes  were 
bought. 

As  if.  in  one  measure. 

And  just  at  one's  pleasure, 
A  bushel  of  turnips  could  balance  a  thouglit! 

As  if  with  grocers'  scales  could  be  weighed 
A  sunbeam,  a  joy  —  or  a  reckoning  made 

Of  pounds  to  a  fraction. 

Of  the  subtle  attraction 
Of  a  lily,  in  all  its  beauty  arrayed! 

The  treasure  w.is  wrapped  in  mama's  shawl. 
The  little  pink  t<H's  and  fingers  and  all, 
'Twould  not  do  to  chill  her 
With  scales  from  the  cellar  — 
For  'twas  cold,  cold  weather,  late  in  the  fall. 

The  scale  was  turned  at  ten  and  four. 
Nor  could  we  make  it  a  fraction  more;— 

When  she  l(X)ked  up  so  smiling. 

So  bewitching,  beguiling; 
That  in  our  estimation  the  weight  w      four- 
score. 

Then  for  those  dimples  add  at  least  eiglit. 
For  blue  eyes  that  twinkle  a  sum  twice  as 
great. 
To  the  crowing  and  cooing  — 
Like  the  wmxl  pheiusants  wiKiIng  — 
Add  the  charms  unseen  that  to  mama  have 
weiglit. 

And  what  do  you  guess  is  the  total  amount? 

'Tis  a  sum  too  large  for  papa  to  count. 
So  back  with  these  cumbersome 
Scales  to  the  lumber-niom  — 

To  weigh  Heaven's  gifts  they  are  Just  no  »<*- 
count. 


-* 


*- 


1302 


LOG  A  I.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


TO  BABY. 

Say,  you  precious  little  tot. 
Can  you  tell  me  where  you  got 

Tiie  color  in  those  eyes  so  blue? 
Did  you,  coming  thro'  the  sljy. 
Take  tlie  angels  wing,  and  try 

To  imitate  that  azure  hue? 

Can  you  tell  me,  baby  dear. 

How  those  dimples  came  in  there, — 

Four  little  dents  in  each  fat  liand? 
Angels  kisses  did  you  say? 
Wish  they'd  favor  me  that  way, — 

Whither  went  the  angelic  band? 

Why  that  solemn  searching  look. 
As  tho'  problems  from  a  book 

Were  occupying  your  young  mind? 
Like  a  judge,  you  seem  to  weigh 
What  everybody  has  to  say. 

Without  assent  of  any  kind. 

Now  you  laugh,  you  saucy  sprite. 
Just  as  I  sit  down  to  write 

That  you're  the  wisest  boy  I  know, — 
Wisdom,  tho',  don't  always  look 
From  out  a  sober  face  or  book. 

So  I'll  no  chiding  now  bestow. 

Tell  me,  toothless  little  elf. 
That  cannot  even  feed  yourself. 

Did  you  not  come  before  your  time? 
A  pig  is  smarter,  far,  than  you. 
He  helps  himself  in  a  day  or  two,— 

When  you  can  walk  he's  in  his  prime. 

But,  any  how  I  like  your  face  — 
Glad  you  came  —  j'ou'll  find  a  place 

In  our  affections,  large  and  warm. 
May  you,  in  the  years  to  come. 
Find  as  easily  a  home. 

Sheltered  alike  from  strife  and  storm. 


A  loving  thing  is  the  ivy-vine, 
Clinging  by  tendrils  as  with  hooks  of  steel; 
Constant  and  true 
Its  whole  life  through, 
Reaching  its  arms  to  gi'asp  and  entwine 
All  that  its  delicate  fingers  can  feel. 

These  lessons  learn  from  the  ivy-vine: 
The  help  which  we  need  is  more  than  we 
give. 
And  needing  much 
Of  helpful  touch 
Should  make  us  humble  and  benign. 
And  teach  us  in  love  and  in  faith  to  live. 


LESSONS  FROM  THE  IVY. 
A  humble  thing  is  tlie  ivy-vine. 
For  it  seeks  the  sliade  of  tree  or  wall; 
In  silence  grows. 
Nor  envy  shows 
By  vain  attempt  to  out-do  or  out-shine 
The  rugged  support  that  prevents  its  fall. 

A  trustful  thing  is  the  ivy-vine. 
For  it  never  losses  its  faith-like  hold; 
'Mid  storms  it  clings. 
Till  sunshine  bi-itigs 
The  brighter  liope,  the  joy  divine. 
And  turns  its  dull  leavesf  rom  brown  to  gold. 


A  LOVE  LETTER. 

Did  you  ever  get  a  letter  from  the  girl  you 

loved  the  best 
That  made  your  lieart  go  pit-a-pat  within 

your  buttoned  vest? 
Did  you  think  that  Heaven  was  nearer  as  you 

read  it  o'er  and  o'er. 
And  as  you  feasted  on  her  words,  did  you 

love  her  more  and  moi-e? 

Well,  1  have  such  a  letter  from  the  idol  of  my 

heart  — 
I  left  lier  side  a  week  ago,  bj'  dutj'  torn  apart. 
And  that  I  may  ere  long  return  to  hear  her 

accents  sweet. 
Speed,   speed  ye  loit'ring,  snail-paced  train 

that  takes  me  to  her  feet. 

She  says  that  when  we  next  shall  meet  her 
arms  will  open  wide 

To  welcome  back  her  •>  lover  boy  "  her  "darl- 
ing" and  her  "  pride  " — 

That  when  I'm  g'one  she's  lonely,  tho'  friends 
are  all  about. 

And  when  I  leave  her  presence  the  candle  of 
her  joj-  goes  out. 

But  you  asked  me,  "Will  she  love  you  as  the 

dull  years  pass  away 
With  tlie  same  devoted  ardor  that  she  shows 

for  you  to-day? 
And  when  the  cankering  cares  of  life  eat  in 

your  very  soul. 
Will  you,  as  now,  when  far  from  lier,  think 

home  your  earthly  goal?  " 

Oh,  why  affright  my  loyal  heart  with  bodings 
tiius  of  ill. 

For  love  is  the  present  tense,  no  future 
doubts  can  cliill. 

Besides,  the  one  who  longs  for  me  'twixt  an- 
xious hopes  and  fears 

Has  been  my  wife  and  true  love  lo,  these  five 
and  twenty  years. 


« 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMEUICA. 


ims 


REV.  HOMER  N.  DUNNING. 

Born:  Brookfield,  Conn.,  July  17,  1827. 
This  minister  and  author  graduated  at  Yale 
CoIleg:e  in  1848,  and  at  Union  Theological 
Seminary  in  1853.  For  thirteen  years  he  was 
pastor  of  the  First  Congregational  Cliurcli  of 
Gloversville,  N.Y.;  and  from  ISfiG  to  1883  iias- 
torof  his  cliurch  at  South  Norwalli,  Conn. 
The  poems  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Dunning  haveap- 


REV.  HOMER  N.  DUNNING. 

peared  in  the  secular  and  the  religious  press 
and  in  several  standard  works  such  as  Ed- 
ward's Fifth  Reader  and  Foster's  Cyclopedia. 
He  has  also  translated  several  works  from 
the  Hebrew  and  Greek  into  English.  Mr. 
Dunning  was  married  in  1852  to  Jliss  Sarah 
Candee,  and  has  had  one  son  and  two  daugh- 
ters. 


WATCH  AND  PRAY. 
I  KINGS,  XVIII.  42-45. 

The  Watcher  stood  on  Carmel's  height. 

With  eager,  wistful  eye; 
Gazing  across  the  sobbing  sea. 

Scanning  the  burning  sky. 
While  with  bowed  head  between  his  knees. 

Scorched  by  the  sun's  fierce  glow. 
The  Prophet,  pressed  with  anguish  sore, 

Prayed  in  his  vale  below ; 

Watched  for  the  coming  of  the  cloud. 

Prayed  for  the  blessed  rain. 
To  shade  the  burning  of  tlie  sky. 

To  cheer  the  earth  again; 
The  cloud  with  wind,  like  breath  of  God 

Among  the  thick  tree-tops. 


The  rain,  like  rush  of  angels'  wings, 

Murm'rous  with  pattering  drops. 
"Nothing,  nothing:  "  the  Watcher  cried, 

"  No  cloud,  no  sign  of  rain  I 
The  same  fierce  sun  that  burns  the  eartli 

Burns  o'er  the  waterj'  main." 
Again  the  Prophet  bowed  his  head 

Between  his  knees  and  prayed; 
Again  the  Watcher's  eye  looked  for 

The  blessing  still  delayed. 
"Nothing,  nothing!  "  the  Watcher  cried, 

"  No  cloud,  no  sign  of  rain!" 
The  Prophet,  laboring  in  pr.-iycr, 

Bowed  'twixt  his  knees  again, 
And  thus  twice,  thrice,  seven  times  they 
strive. 

With  faith  that  cannot  fail, 
One  watching  on  the  mount  above. 

One  wrestling  in  the  vale! 
Oh  can  it  be  the  God  whose  breath 

Burns  like  consuming  Are, 
Scorching  the  earth  and  sky  and  sea 

With  blast  of  jndginent  dire;— 
Oh  can  it  be  the  Gtxl  whose  fiame 

Consumes  the  sacrifice, 
Tlie  wood,  stones.water,  all  ablaze 

In  incense  to  the  skies;— 
Oil  can  it  be  tliis  God  wliose  wrath 

Our  prostrate  souls  approve. 
So  Ijurning  in  his  holiness. 

Is  not  a  God  of  love? 
Oh  Heaven,  for  thy  dear  mercy's  sake. 

Accept  our  sacrifice! 
Dissolve  this  spell  of  Viurning  wrath. 

Oh  melt  these  brazen  skies! 
Seven  times  the  two  souls  watched  and 
prayed. 

Seven  times  with  faith  and  hope, 
When  flngei-like  a  little  cloud 

Points  up  the  azur»>  slope. 
/  'land!  a  hand!  a  cloud-formed  hand  I 

The  hand  God's  choscii  find 
Always  revealed  to  point  before 

When  God  is  close  behind! 
And  swelling  in  proportions  vast 

Reveals  an  awful  form; 
God  coming  in  his  majesty, 

God  in  the  blessed  st<;rm; 
Blackening  the  heavens  witli  clouds  and 
wind. 

Pouring  the  welcome  rain. 
Filling  the  thirsty  earth  with  floods 

Of  life  and  joy  again! 

Oh,  watchers  on  the  mountain  lieight! 

Stand  with  eye  steadfast  then>I 
Oh,  wrestlers  In  the  vale  beneathi 

Cease  not  your  seven-fold  prayer! 
God  will  not  always  frown  —  He  will 


«- 


*- 


1304 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


Accept  your  sacrifice 
Of  loving-  hearts  and  praying-  hands; 

God  will  in  love  arise! 
A  finger,  hand,  an  arm,  a  form 

Of  power  and  g-race  divine! 
The  heav'ns  siiall  swell  with  blessed  show'rs 

The  earth  with  raindrops  shine! 
Ob,  dare  with  willing  hearts  to  bring 

The  sacrifice  of  blood! 
While  Hope  stands  watching-  on  the  mount, 

And  Faith  lays  hold  on  God! 

THE  STILL  SMALL  VOICE. 

I  KINGS,  XIX,  13. 

Away  from  the  city  and  gay  resort, 

Wliere  the  bustling  multitudes  throng; 
From  the  palace-hall  and  the  temple-court  — 

From  the  revel  of  dance  and  song! 
Away  from  a  people  that  spurn  their  Lord  — 

From  the  perilous  struggle  and  strife  — 
From  the  maddened  queen  and  the  menacing 
sword  — 
Away  —  in  escape  of  life ! 
Let  me  stand  on  the  spot  where  the  old  seer 
stood. 
In  the  mountain's  wild  retreat. 
By  the  bush  that  burned  with  the  fire  of  God, 

And  hearkened  wilh  naked  feet! 
Perchance    where   he   stood    on    that   holy 
ground. 
Whence  the  Voice  proclaimed  the  Law, 
I  shall  find  the  dread  face  of  the  God  he  found. 

And  the  voice  of  the  great  I  AM. 
Let  me  hide  'neath  the  cloud  of  glory  that 
swept 
O'er  the  seer  in  the  cleft  of  the  rock. 
Where  the  thunders  pealed  and  the  lightnings 
leapt, 
And  the  earthquake  heaved  Its  shock! 
Perchance  I  shall  come  to  the  burning  throne. 

Whence  the  Voice  proclaimed  the  Law; 
And  the  people  shrank  from  its  dreadful  tone, 

And  shuddered  with  breathless  awe. 
Through   the  desert  wilds  the  Prophet  trod, 

On  his  journey  of  many  days. 
Till  he  saw  the  hoary  Mount  of  God 

Uplift  to  his  wistful  gaze; 
And  there  on  the  sacred  ground  he  bowed. 

And  moaned  out  liis  plaintful  cry: 
II  Let  me  see  Thy  face,  oh  thou  hidden  God- 
Let  me  hear  Thy  voice  —  and  die ! " 
He  looked  in  the  burning  blue  of  the  sky  — 

No  God  shone  there  in  the  light! 
He  looked  on  the  pinnacled  summits  high  - 

No  God  throned  there  in  Uie height! 
He  looked  in  the  gloom  of  the  hollow  cave, 

And  listened  with  awe-struck  fear; 
The  brooding  darkness  no  answer  gave. 
Save  the  whisper:  "What  doest  thou  here?" 


The  tempest   tore    through    the   mountaic 
chasm  — 

No  God  did  rend  the  rock! 
The  earthquake  upheaved  the  ground  with 
its  spasm  — 

No  God  was  in  the  shock! 
The  thunderbolt  gleamed  its  flashes  of  ire  — 

No  God  was  in  the  flame! 
Nor   whirlwind    nor  earthquake  nor  lignt- 
ning's  fire 

Voice  the  word  of  the  great  I  AM. 
Apart  at  last  from  tlie  roar  and  the  rush  — 

Apart  from  tlie  deafening  din, 
In  the  whirlwind's  lull  and  the  cavern's  hush, 

He  turned  his  ear  within. 
Where  the  pulses  throb  with  their  measured 
beat, 

'Neath  the  bosom's  rise  and  fall. 
And  he  caught  the  murmur  so  sad,  so  sweet, 

Of  the  voice  so  still  and  small. 
So  still!  As  when  in  the  hush  of  the  breeze 

Steals  a  murmured  monotone, 
And  the  silence  breathes  to  the  listening 
trees 

Its  secret  in  plaintful  moan! 
So  small!  As  when  in  the  distant  throb 

Of  surges  upon  the  shore. 
The  ocean  sighs  in  the  smothered  sob  — 

Its  might  in  the  muffled  roar! 
So  still  and  small  on  his  ear  it  stole. 

He  knew  not  from  whence  it  came. 
But  knew  'twas  the  echo  of  his  soul 

To  the  voice  of  the  great  I  AM. 
And  with  face  enwrapped  in  his  prophet's 
pall  — 

With  spirit  subdued  and  awed, 
He  stood  to  hear  in  its  mystic  call 

The  will  and  the  word  of  God! 
What  doest  thou  hear,  oh  thou  man  of  God? 

Not  here  on  the  mountain's  crest  — 
Not  here  in  the  roar  of  the  thunders  loud, 

But  within  thj'  conscious  breast; 
Not  there  in  the  rush  of  the  hustling  crowd  — 

Not  there  in  the  altar-flame. 
But  in  souls  that  never  to  idols  have  bowed. 

Hear  the  voice  of  the  great  I  AM ! 

Go  back  to  the  palace  and  temple-court, 

And  brave  the  edge  of  the  sword! 
Go  back  to  the  city  and  thronged  resort. 

With  the  still  small  voice  of  the  Lord! 
Go  stand  in  thy  place  and  utter  His  will, 

In  the  ears  of  the  court  and  the  crowd, 
Till  tlio  hearts  of  the  multitude  tremble  and 
thrill 

With  the  still  small  voice  of  God! 

And  tlie  breath  of  the  spirit's  hot  desire, 
And  the  word  that  burns  in  thy  bones, 
Shall  uplift  thee  on  wings  and  wheels  of  Are, 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   I'OKTS   OF   AMKKICA, 


1305 


In  thy  flight  to  my  burning:  tlirone; 
And  the  spirit  dropped  with  tbyprophet's  pall 

Shall  light  through  the  ages  its  flame. 
In  the  souls  that  hear,  so  still  and  small. 

The  voice  of  the  great  I  AM ! 

"What  doest  thou  here?  "  "What  doest  thou 
there?" 
Oh  Soul!  Hear  the  voice  within! 

Rebuking  thy  doubt  and  dark  despair- 
Dispelling  thy  sorrow  and  sin! 

Whose  sound  is  the  roll  of  the  wheels  of  fire, 
And  the  rusli  of  the  steeds  of  flame. 

That  speed    thee  to  duty,  still  swifter  and 
higher. 
On  thy  course  to  the  great  I  AM ! 


MOLLIE  M.SWINK. 

Born:  Near  Staunton, Va.,  Nov.  3, 1872. 
This  lady  graduated  in  1890,  and  is  now  a 
teacher  in  Minier,  111.    She  has  written  nu- 
merous sketches,  essays  and  short  stories  ft-r 


MOLLIE  M.  SWISK. 

local  periodicals.    Adieu  was  written  for  and 
sung  as  a  class  song  at  commencement. 


MEMORIAL. 
Gather  nature's  best  and  brightest. 

Weave  them  in  a  garland  fair; 
Lay  them  o'er  the  pulseless  bosom,- 

Honor's  emblem  —  flowers  rare. 


Choose  the  violet  atid  llie  daisy. 

And  ihe  myrtle's  leaves  of  green. 
And  the  modest,  blushing  wlldroso 

Kissed  by  old  S<jrs  warmest  beam. 
Twine  them  all  into  a  garland 

For  the  brave  one  loved  .so  well; 
Flowers  that  graced  the  field  of  battle. 

Where  our  hero  fought  and  fell. 
Not  a  stone,  a  line,  a  letter. 

All  alone  without  a  name; 
Unwept,  wnhouored  and  forgotten. 

But  a  hero  just  the  same. 

Wrapt  in  sweet,  unbroken  silence. 

Waiting  for  the  morning's  glow; 
Who  shall  judge  him  or  upbr.iid  him. 

Whether  he  bo  friend  or  foe? 
Then  choose  nature's  best  and  brightest. 

Strew  them  with  impartial  hand; 
Let  to-day  and  ever  after 

Peace  and  flowers  crown  our  land. 


ADIEU. 
We  have  landed  our  boat  on  life's  uncertaia 
sea. 
We  are  waiting  for  the  ebb  of  the  tide. 
That  will  bear  us  away  unfettered  and  free. 

To  a  future  unknown  and  untried. 
Though  the  promise  is  bright  as  the  golden 
suidight, 
And  we  long  for  the  triumph's  ensign, 
A  moment  we'd  yet  linger  here  to  regret 

The  life  we  must  soon  leave  behind. 
Cho.— Ob,  those  best  days  of  youth,  days  of 
childish  delight. 
When  our  hearts  were  so  guileless 
and  true. 
Who  would  sever  a  tie  by  the  sad  word 
good-by. 
We'll  only  bid  our  school-tlays  adieu. 
We  falter  where  the  sea  and  the  rivulet  meet 

The  past  and  the  future  between. 
The  one   our  ambition,  the  shrine  of   our 
hopes. 
The  other  but  a  beautiful  dream. 
Must  wego  with  the  tide,  ne'er  again  toHt)idc 
Where  we  knew  neither  sorrow  nor  strife. 
Where  we  scorned  the  word  care,  and  built 
castles  in  air  — 
To  enter  the  great  school  of  life. 
We  have  forged  the  first  link  of  fate's  gilded 
chain. 
That  will  make  us  the  world's  chief  or  slave. 
We  have  ventured  one  step  iu  the  path  that 
will  lead 
To  glory  or  an  unhonon-d  grave: 
But  in  gain  or  in  loss  we  will  never  bo  false 

To  the  days  and  compunlons  of  yore. 
Andwhen  tin-d  of  life's  iies,Po8sibility's  pri«e 
Well  meet  on  Reality's  shore. 


*- 


•i*- 


1 

306                             LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF  AMERICA. 

DOUGLAS  SLADEN. 

Born  :  London,  Feb.  5, 1859. 

And  a  soft  voice  fell  on  my  ear 
In  a  tremulous  undertone. 

Mr.  Sladen's  literary  career  began  in  1881, 

The  face  and  the  fingers  I  touch 

and  ever  since  he  has  been  a  most  industri- 

The voice  in  its  music  is  here; 

ous  and  a  successful  writer,  botli  in  prose 

But  romance  is  a  delicate  moth 

and  verse.    His  published  works  comprise 

That  lives  —  just  the  sweet  of  a  year. 

Frithjof  and  Ingejorg-,  Australian  Lyrics,  a 

Poetry  of  Exiles,  Edward  the  Blacls  Prince, 

BROKEN  GODS. 

Just  another  idol 
Taken  from  its  place. 

On  more  hollow  found  behind 

^^■emtm^. 

An  old  family  face! 

^^^'''^^Hjhflk 

Comrade  mine,  I  thought  to  twine 

m     ^1 

Our  hearts  for  evermore. 
And  low !  another  idol 
Broken  on  the  floor. 

m  m  fW 

Kinsfolk  reared  from  childhood 

In  one  mother's  ways. 

•                       ''i 

School  friends  more  than  brothers  loved 

'i 

In  heart-open  days. 

_^^^^i__A 

Lovers  dear  as  kinsfolk  ne'er 

MHjk^flfjHjHl 

Are  themselves  no  more: 

w^^^^^^^B 

What,  must  all  the  idols 

^  ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^H 

Shatter  on  the  floor? 

^I'^m,         ^i^l^^^^^^^H^^ 

Lo !  another  idol ! 

^^MHbl    i^S^I 

Set  it  up  on  high! 
Never  heed  the  broken  gods, 

^^^^|A; .  -^mSKk 

Leave  them  where  they  lie! 

On  it  shower  love's  every  flower 

J  '  fSt^'^''^  ^9^            ^^^^^^KtfKfBBl^^ 

Make  it  all  — your  all. 
Feed  it  with  your  heart's  blood 

\ 

And— one  day  it  will  fall. 

I.  Loved  you  not  these  false  gods 

Broken  on  the  floor?" 

DOUGTjAS  SLADEN. 

"  I  would  fain  have  worshiped  them 

Summer  Christmas,  In  Cornwall  and  Across 

All  for  evermore. 

the  Sea,  The  Spanish  Armada,   Seized  by  a 

I  loved  well  —'twas  they  who  fell." 

Shadow,  In  Cornwall,  and  is  also  the  editor 

••  Comrade,  let  them  lie. 

of    several  large  collections,  and  was  one 

And  when  you  love  another. 

Australian  contributor  to  the  Century  Dic- 

Shrine it  high  of  highl  " 

tionary.     Mr.  Slader  came  to  America  in  1888, 

• 

a 
w 

id  has  traveled  extensively  throughout  th 
orld. 

e 

EXTRACT. 

AN  OLD  ROMANCE. 
A  bar  of  an  old-fashioned  waltz, 
A  glance  at  a  faded  dress  — 
What  is  it  that  wakes  in  my  heart 
These  echoes  of  tenderness. 

How  beautiful  is  sleep. 
Sleep  with  half  opened  lips 
And  half  clenched  finger  tips, 

And  still  as  is  the  deep 

Upon  a  summer  morn. 
When  the  waves  hardly  reach 

Wlien  that  was  the  waltz  of  the  hour, 

To  break  upon  the  beach; 

That  dress  in  its  pride  and  glow, 

Or  like  a  field  of  corn 

Of  sliimmeringr  azure  and  pearl. 

When  the  soft  western  breeze 

A  seven  of  summers  ago. 

Lays  all  the  beards  together, 

Sweet  eyes  used  to  g-aze  in  my  eyes, 

As  feather  over  feather 

Lig-ht  fingers  would  clasp  my  own, 

Lays  on  birds'  plumages. 

*- 


* — 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


130- 


ALGERNOX  SYDNEY  LOGAK. 

Born:  Philadelphia,  May  17, 1S49. 
In  1875  appeiired  The  Mirror  of  a  Mind,  a  vol- 
ume of  verse  from  tlie  pen  of  Mr.  l>og:an, 
which  was  favorably  received.  Three  years 
later  The  Image  of  Air  was  published;  Saul, 
a  dramatic  poem,  in  1883;  A  Feather  from  the 
World's  Wiiijr,  in  188.5;  a  prose  work  entitled 


ALGERNON   SYDfTEY  LOGAN. 

Jesus  in  Modern  Life,  in  1888;  and  in  18W, 
Messalina,  a  flve-act  tragedy.  Algernon  Syd- 
ney Logan  is  a  direct  descendan  t  of  James 
Logan  who  came  to  America  with  William 
Penn  as  his  secretary,  in  1686,  and  afterward 
became  chief  justice  of  the  province.  Mr. 
Logan  is  also  adescendantof  John  Dickinson 
the  author  of  the  celebrated  Farmer's  Let- 
ters, and  governor  of  Pennsylvania  shortly 
after  the  close  of  the  revolutionary  war.  He 
was  married  in  1873  to  Miss  Mary  W.  Wister, 
and  has  one  sou,  Robert,  born  in  187-t.  Mr. 
Logan  has  visited  Europe  a  number  of  times 
and  has  spent  several  years  in  Italy,  where 
many  of  his  poems  were  written. 


Hh 


AUGUST. 
I  wandered  through  the  chilly  night, 

I  heard  the  whippoorwill. 
The  passing  brant  on  high  did  chant. 

The  frogs  sang  sharp  and  shrill; 


And  many  a  wild  bird  In  his  flight, 

Witli  ghostly  fail  urid  swell. 
To  the  far  north, wheric<'  hi-  came  forth. 

Did  hymn  his  wild  farewell. 

The  summer's  cloak  was  faded. 

Her  matron  bloom  wa-s  gone. 
Her  queenly^mce  had  lost  its  grace. 

Her  cheek  was  worn  and  wun; 
But  the  moon  as  calmly  waded 

The  deptlis  of  the  cloudless  sky 
As  she  did  on  the  night  when  the  queen 
was  dight 

In  the  robes  of  majesty. 

And  I  thought  how  the  dews  of  even. 

As  they  gather  on  the  brow. 
May  be  made  to  gleam  with  the  tingelcss 
beam 

Of  a  light  not  born  below  — 
How  the  glow  from  our  inner  heaven. 

With  its  sheen  of  deatliless  white. 
May  cast  a  ray  on  our  senseless  clay 

In  the  soul's  eternal  night. 


AUTUMN  LEAVES. 

The  leaves  lie  cold 

On  the  cumbered  mold. 
Their  corpses  lie  white  all  around, - 

Dninterred  where  they  fall. 

Till  their  whiter  pall 
By  winter  is  spread  on  the  ground. 

But  when  March  with  his  cloud 
And  his  voice  so  loud. 

As  he  shouts  in  the  leafless  tree. 
Shall  lift  witli  his  hand 
Their  pall  from  the  land, 

The  corpses  shall  vanished  be. 


SONG. 
The  moon  with  her  viewless  hands. 
Transparent,  light  and  free. 

Was  parting  a  place 

For  her  dreamy  face 
To  gaze  on  the  troubled  sea. 

There  were  bells  in  wave-washed  hands 
Which  tolled  eu.'rnally ; 

Tliere  was  roar  on  roar 

Far  down  the  shore. 
And  laughter  out  to  sea. 

There  were  four  on  the  sands  to-night. 

Two  shadows  and  two  forms  — 
Behind  and  before 
Flew  the  froth  on  the  sliort'. 

And  foam  tn  the  land  of  storms. 

Need  shadows  or  shapes  more  light? 

O  which  has  the  flrnier  home? 
Which  stabler  stuff. 


*- 


1308 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


The  ruoth-liko  fluff, 
Or  the  bird-like  flying  foam? 

O  heart-uniting-  kiss! 
O  bosom  beating  free! 

O  eyelids  wet 

With  joy!  and  yet  — 
The  wild  bells  out  to  sea ! 

Through  the  languor  of  the  kiss 
Which  wrapped  them  tenderly. 

Came  the  steady  roar 

Far  down  the  shore. 
And  the  laughter  out  to  sea! 


THE  IMAGE  OF  AIR. 
It  was  the  early  autumn  and  the  wind, 
Like  some  lone  maiden  half  to  sport  inclined 
And  half  to  sadness, who  tliro'  woodland  ways 
Moves  aimless,  singing  wild  and  broken  lays. 
Sang  restlessly  amidst  the  restful  tombs. 
Now  soft  it  breathed  upon  the  hanging  bloom 
Of  salvia, wliich  with  conquest-loving  hue 
Around  the  base  of  many  a  statue  grew. 
Making  their  icy  pallor  more  complete; 
And  now  with  hollow  laugh   for  madness 

meet. 
Discordant  laugh  of  Destiny,  the  wind. 
Like  one  too  lieartless  e'en  to  be  unkind. 
Seized  on  the  leaves  by  summer's  passion 

seared, 
And  bore  them  from  the  present. 

As  I  neared 
The  center  of  the  spot  the  evening  fell  — 
Pale  eveuing,with  her  mind-compelling  spell. 
Whose  gentle  hand,  invisible,  is  prone 
To  bear  the  balance  of  our  musings  down. 
Giving  due  weight  to  thoughts  impalpable. 
By  day  too  little  reckoned.    Evening  fell. 
The  unstable  gilding  of  the  western  sky, 
A  moment  hence  too  brilliant  for  the  eye. 
Began  to  slowly  tarnish  and  to  fade; 
Around  me  gleamed  from  dusky  copse  and 

glade  — 
Some  straight  and  tall,  some  leaning  to  de- 
cay— 
The  emblems  pale  of  effort  past  away. 
The  youthful  tombs  were  white  as  drifted 

snow. 
The  aged  dark  —  they  darker  ever  grow  — 
Forming  griu»  contrast  to  man's  destiny. 
Who  still  grows  whiter  as  the  years  creep  by. 
My   thoughts    went  wandering  'midst    the 

mindful  stones. 
Mindful  of  names  of  long-forgotten  bones. 
Culling  some  mosses  from  mortality.— 
Thoughts  are  there  which  do  cheat  the  men- 
tal eye. 
So  complex  is  their  nature:  now  they  seem 
Near  and  familiar,  now  a  sudden  gleam 


Will    lightning-like   show    cloud-forms    fa 

awaj- ; 
Now  do  tliey  move  as  reasonings  cold  an  ■ 

gray. 
Now  as  warm   memories  passionate  swee, ' 

along;  '■ 

Now  as  one  shape,  now  as  a  spirit  throng  ' 
Such  musings  meet  us  till  their  sense  to  hole 
We  faiu  must  press  them  to  one  stable  mold : 
We  consciously  with  form  our  thoughts  eu  i 

dow 
That  we  may  treat  with  them.    With  motior 

slow 
From  out  the  vapors  of  the  coming  night 
A  shadow  rose  before  me  —  no  grim  sprite. 
The  child  of  suj>erstition  —  but  a  sliade 
Bj'  me  from  thoughts  of  saddest  import  made. 
Aged  he  seemed,  though  not  yet  near  bis 

prime  — 
A  withered  flower  bids  us  think  of  time, 
E'en  though  the  wrinkles  on  its  velvet  cheek 
Were  furrowed  by  the  hour; — his  mien  was 

bleak. 
As  if  'midst  magic  mountains  lingering. 
He  deep  had  drunk  of  some  enchanted  spring 
Within  whose  every  bubble  lurked  a  year; 
With   careless  steps  unmeasured  he  drew 

near  — 
Then  sudden  paused,  but  even  his  very  pause 
Was,  like  his  motions  restless,  and  the  laws 
Which  ruled  his  looks  and  motions  were  un- 
known. 
For  these  were  rhythmless  and  each  alone  — 
As  the  long  tendrils  of  neglected  vines 
O'er  casements  hanging  in  entangled  lines, 
Sway  without  concert  to  the  wild  strain, 
And  tap  with  aimless  fingers  on  the  pane. 
Oh,  he  was  beautiful  beyond  compare. 
His  face  than  man's,nay,  more  than  woman's  j 

fair,  j 

Yet  'twas  a  beauty  that  with  pained  arotize 
Filled  the  beholder,  for  beneath  the  gaze 
It  seemed  to  fade,  yet  gazing  none   might 

know 
If  it  had  faded,  or  was  always  so. 
Through  all  Ids  being,  even  to  his  sigh. 
There  breathed  a  palpable  uncertainty. 
To  look  upon  him  was  to  feel  a  pang, 
A  dread,  though  none  might  say  from  whence 

it  sprang—  ' 

A  straining  of  the  mind,  bewilderment, 
Hope  and  suspense  in   strange   confusion 

blent. 
The  wildest  voices  of  the  mind  awoke 
Within  liis  presence,  and  as  forth  they  broke 
Into  a  hurried  chant,  pale  memory 
Holding  lier  solemn  harp  st<wd  silent  by,         ! 
And  struck  wild  ciiords  between  the  wilder  | 

staves  —  I 

A  sound  of  question,  restless  as  the  wavesi     | 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIOMAr,   POETS   OF    AMKUICA. 


!305> 


*- 


For  at  liis  sigrht  there  swept  across  the  soul 
A  consciousness  of  thouphts  beyond  control. 
As  from  the  past  we  feverishly  strive 
Some  joy  forgotten  vainly  to  revive, 
Some  dream  of  beauty  deaf  to  memories  call, 
Which  once  familiar  mocks  our  efforts  all. 
In  all  his  motions,  g-eslures,  features,  mien, 
An  incomitlete  i)erfection  there  was  seen, 
A  loveliness  unearthly  wild  and  free. 
From  its  fair  sequence  severed.    Near  to  me 
The  fljru re  drew,  then  quickly  passed  again. 
As  if  the  creature  of  his  laboring-  brain; 
His  ej'e.which  like  a  wind-tormenting-  flame. 
Now  pale  and  blue,  now  g-leaming:  bright  be- 
came. 
Fell  on  a  fragil  tablet  which  he  bore  — 
His  hand  flew  fast,  his  thoughts  his  hand  be- 
fore— 
He  wrote  o'er  half  the  tablet,  and  anon 
Gazed  quickly  'round,  as  if  in  quest  of  one 
To  whom  it  might  be  shown  —  but  none  ap- 
peared — 
Then  faded  grew  his  eye,his  features  bleared. 
Dim  grew  his  form  fantastical  and  gray. 
Even  as  the  spirits  of  the  storms  when  they 
Around  the  moon  their  magic  misty  ring 
Form  hand  in  hand.and  to  her  footsteps  cling. 
To  stay  the  sliadow  e'er  it  grew  inwrouglit 
With  other  forms  around,  I  said,  or  thought, 
"Who  art  thou  that  in  such  phantasmal  guise 
Still  bearest  the  weight  of  human  energies?" 
As  memories  of  dreams  to  present  care. 
As  crescent  moonlight  is  to  mid-day's  glare. 
So  to  all  human  voices,  when  he  spoke. 
The  sound  I  felt,  which  silence  never  broke: 
"I  am  shape  of  one  who  lived  in  vain. 
If  being  be  to  be  not,  since  I  gain 
An  entity  in  speech  which  is  not  mine; 
Yet  mayst  thou  in  this  evanescent  line 
The  wraith  in  words  of  that  which  was  behold 
As  I  in  form."   Ere  ceased  his  utterance  cold 
Which  seemed  remembered  and  not  heard, 

he  gained 
A  marble  shaft,  and  from  its  surface  planed 
Its  frigid  eulogy,  its  grief  of  ice, — 
Each  awkward  text,  each  weary  dull  device. 
Dates,  emblems,  letters,  all  he  did  erase  — 
All  save  a  lyre  sculptured  at  the  base- 
Then  glowing  like  the  wisp  that  skips  the 

moat, 
A  phantom  epitaph  the  phantom  wrote 
In  letters  coldly  luminous;  it  seemed 
As  if  a  glow-worm  o'er  the  marble  gleamed. 
Creeping  across  it  with  his  lantern  green, 
For  each  word  vanished  ere  the  next  was  seen, 
"What  is  it  in  the  garden  of  the  earth 
If  one  bud  wither,  lovely  though  it  be? 
If  one  mind  fails  the  promise  of  its  birth. 
What  loss  to  man  in  man's  eternity? 
This  stone  the  type  of  cold  rigidity. 


This  snow  which  noonday  melts  not,  stands 

for  one 
Wiio  deemed  his  mission  wu.s  to  feel  and  see; 
For  in  him  nature's  chanBing  face  was  shown 
As  seas  and  flowei-s  change  iheir  iLspect  with 

the  sun. 
Look  down  upon  a  plain  of  blooming  flower''. 
A  forest,  or  the  ocean  and  Ix'hold 
How  these  are  grave  or  gay  hut  as  the  hours 
Which  float  above  are  clad  In  gray  or  gold — 
Like  these  he  changed,  yet  long  ere  lie  grew 

old 
His  heart  became  of  onedull.changelesshue. 
The  hedge  'twixt  him  and  hor>fs,whleh  child- 

hoofl  bold 
A  tussock  deemed,  a  giant  harrier  grew  — 
Each  year  it  seeti.ed  to  gain  in  height  and 

briers  new. 
His  was  no  sombre  self-consoled  despair 
Which  thinks  the  world  as  stn|>id  as  unkind. 
He  deemed  t  hat  he  was  want  iiig  and'witli  cart; 
He  strove  his  nature's  secret  Haw  to  find; 
He  roamed  o'er  foreign  lands  and  saw  man- 
kind 
In  many  aspects  and  with  toil  by  night 
He  probed  the  tlioiighls  of  many  a  perished 

mind, — 
By  day  he  watched  all  breathlessly  the  flght 
Which  freedom  ever  makes  against  inhuman 

might. 
But  as  each  hour  adown  time's  chasm  rolle<l. 
Toil  unrewarded  wrought  its  vengeance  dire, 
His  heart  grew  weary  and  his  hand  grew  c-old 
In  stirring  the  unfed,  unwilling  Are; 
And  as  upon  some  lofty  granite  spire 
The  seeds, wind  wafted,  Itxlging  one  by  one. 
With  tiny  thews  which  age.s  cannot  tire 
Hurl  crumbling  down  each  mighty  sculp- 
tured stone. 
So  fell  his  noblest  thoughts  by  petty  cures 

o'ergrown. 
Oh,  he  was  like  a  sprig  of  severed  bay. 
Whose  functions  perish  ere  its  beauty  cease. 
Or  like  the  smiles  that  o'er  the  features  play 
Of  midnight  sleeiwrs,  powerless  to  plea.se. 
And  lost  in  darkness.    Deprived  of  rest  and 

e;ise. 
He  could  not  frame  his  mind  to  sink  or  soar. 
His  was  obscurity  without  its  |H>ace; 
For  though  life's  winds  his  cloud-built  em- 
pire tore. 
Still   phantom  pageants  swept   his  dauUtl 

ej-es  before. 
Now  all  he  was  and  all  he  strove  to  l)c. 
All  that  he  hoped  that  others  might  l>ec«me. 
Although  recorded  noue  shall  ever  si>e  — 
Far  better  had  he  been  forever  dumb; 

His  hope  of  fame " 

The  spectre's  hand  w:is  raided 
More  syllables  to  form,  when  sudden  blaze<l 


*- 


1310 


LOCAL.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


Athwart  tlie  ivy  leaves'  Inwoven  bar 
The  eternal  radiance  of  a  rising-  star  — 
Some  thought  of  hope  which  lurked  within 

the  ray 
Made  the  dim  shadow's  shadow  fade  away. 
He  faded  fast  and  left  me  standing  there 
Alone  with  nature  and  relieved  of  care. 
Thou  silent  witness  that  tho'  crushed  by  ill 
We  are  a  part  of  something  glorious  still! 
Sensation  of  expansion  and  expanse 
Which  lifts  our  thoughts  above  the  fretful 

trance 
Of  our  too  subtle  musings,  the  dull  fear 
That  we  but  follow  in  the  world's  career, 
The  self-tormenting  effort  to  be  great. 
How  do  these  fade  before  thy  tranquil  state ! 
Oh,  Nature,  Nature,  effortless  and  calm. 
Thy  beauty  is  the  soul's  eternal  balm. 


TO  THE  WIND. 
Eternal  minstrel!  who  through  every  land 
Harpest  wild  melodies  from  door  to  door, 
Thy  lays  'neath  palace  eaves  are  not  more 
grand 
Than  in  the  smoky  chimneys  of  the  poor. 
Saddest  of  harpers!  of  thy  songs,  can  none 

Back  to  the  lip  a  vanished  smile  recall? 
No,  there  is  not  of  all  thy  ditties  one 

But  wakes  a  sigh,  or  bids  a  tear  to  fall. 
Thou  sing'st  of  home  to  those  that  houseless 
rove,  [scorn. 

Past  friends  to  those  mankind  despise  and 
Thy  songs  tell  trembling  age  it  once  could 
love,  [mourn ; 

And    bid    unwilling   youth    feel   it   shall 
Thou  singst  of  our  own  graves  which  thou 
Shalt  see,  [same. 

Of  endless  change  which  leaves  thee  still  the 
Of  all  we  are  not,  and  yet  wished  to  be 
In  brighter  hours  ere  hearts  and  hopes 
grew  tame. 

Pilgrim  impalpable!  thy  viewless  feet 
Through  ages  still  must  roam  from  clime 
to  clime. 

But  even  thee  at  last  a  bourn  shall  greet 
Thy  head  shall  rest  upon  the  tomb  of  time. 


MAGGIE  MCNINCH. 

Born:  Chester,  S.  C 
This  lady  is  the  author  of  a  little  volume  of 
flue  poems  entitled  Wayside  flowers.  What 
time  can  be  spared  from  her  duties  as  a 
teacher  and  stenographer,  she  devotes  to 
literature,  and  is  the  author  of  many  cliarm- 
ing  stories.  The  poems  of  Miss  Maggie  Mc- 
Ninch  have  appeared  in  Godey 's  Lady's  Book, 


Peterson's  Magazine,   and  numerous  othe 
prominent  publications.    She    resides  witl 
lier  sister  in  the  little  village  of  Williamston  , 
S.  C,  during  her  vacations. 

ONLY  VIOLETS. 
Only  violets  fragrant  and  blue. 
Round  with  pearls  of  morning  dew, 
Telling  of  absent  friends  so  true. 
Only  violets,  but  gathered  for  you; 
And  yet.  my  friend,  you  can't  tell  who, 
Gathered  these  violets,  guess  now  do. 
Then  let  these  violets  typical  be 
Of  the  friendship  pure  I  bear  for  thee. 
Love  and  keep  them  just  for  me. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

'Twas  only  a  coin  of  antique  make. 
Given  a  token  for  friendship  sake, 

Forever  keep; 
To  keep  in  memory  of  that  day. 
When  two  friends  parted,  each  their  way 

III  life  to  wend. 
Each  had  their  mission  there  to  fill  — 
To  nobly  do  their  Master's  will 

In  every  field ; 
Whether  He  bids  them  toil  or  bide 
In  noonday  heat  or  eventide. 

As  He  should  will. 
Our  life  is  made  of  link  on  link. 
Unbroken  till  we  near  the  brink 

Of  the  river  deep; 
Even  then  does  friendship  take  our  hand 
Safe  leads  us  to  the  border  land. 

And  for  us  weep. 

ROSABEL. 
Like  a  lily  rudely  brushed. 
Like  a  hare-bell  earlj-  crushed. 
Lay  in  death's  deep  awful  hush 

Darling  Rosabel. 
Through  the  river  dark  and  deep. 
Went  the  dimpled  baby  feet; 
But  tlie  Savior  came  to  meet 

Angel  Rosabel. 
Wintrj'  winds  did  sadly  sigh; 
Hearts  were  breaking;  God  drew  nigh: 
For  he  heard  that  bitter  cry  — 

Rosabel!  Rosabel! 
Winter  snows  fall  soft  and  white 
O'er  a  little  grave  to  night 
Where  sleeps  tlie  beauteous  baby  bright 

Rosabel!  Rosabel! 


EXTRACT. 
Many  tints  of  fairy  land 
By  life's  early  halo  spanned 
Time  has  touched  with  shad'wy  hands. 


*- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


1311 


ADELAIDE  STOUT. 

This  child  of  the  muses  has  been  known  for 
the  past  decade  and  over,  by  her  f  ug-itivc 
poems,  which  have  appeared  I'roni  time  to 
time  in  the  papers  and  magazines  of  the  daj*. 
There  is  a  depth  of  meaning-,  feeling  and 
deep  poetic  insight  pervading  all  that  she 


ADELAIDE  STOUT. 

'vrites.  Her  poems.  Little  One,  Gathering 
Mint,  Sweet  Brier,  Consider,  Pels,  are  among 
her  recent  productions  which  have  elicited 
much  comment,  giving  her  the  reputation  of 
being  one  of  the  ablestwritersinthe western 
part  of  New  York.  William  Cullen  Bryant  was 
one  of  the  first  to  recognize  her  genius.  Slie 
has  a  good  income  and  writes  merely  for  tlie 
joy  and  love  of  it.  In  the  near  future,  she 
will  give  to  ttie  world  a  volume  of  lier  poems. 
The  New  Christianity  at  Pliiladelphia,  the 
NewCluirch,  Independent,  The  Interior,  anrl 
other  pi-omineut  papers  published  many  of 
her  recent  offerings  —  the  fragrant  blossoms 
and  incense  of  a  pure  heart. 


GATHERING  MINT. 
How  strange  that  even  the  sweet  smell 

Of  herb  or  gathered  flower 
Steals  o'er  the  senses,  touching  them 

With  such  a  subtle  power 
That  all  life's  morning  scene  is  new. 
Where  erst  the  plant  of  fiow'ret  grew. 

This  morn  the  cool  air  floated  in. 
Sweet  with  the  scent  of  mint; 

We  close  our  eyes,  and  in  the  loam 
We  see  the  soft,  fresh  print 


Of  tiny  feet;  how  white  tliey  gle:ini. 
Set  in  llie  bluck  loam  of  the  slreunil 

Tlio  tinkling  stream  flows  on  iis  clear 

As  wlicn,  Willi  feet  half  wet. 
On  stones  t  iiat  seemed  so  far  apart. 

Our  shrinking  feet  we  set. 
A  ready  liand  is  at  our  side. 
And  firmer  feet,  to  gently  guide. 

The  mullein's  dust  is  on  fair  brows, 

We  laugli  a  sweet  refain 
At  merriment  of  hitn  wlio  wears 

On  sun-browned  cheek  the  stain 
Of  golden  dust;  he's  r()bl)ed  the  bee 
Of  pollen,  and  right  merrily. 

The  light  gleams  over  cheek  and  brow. 

And  flashes  in  those  eyes. 
And  now  in  tljose  clear  depths  we  see 

Only  the  sliadow  lies; 
We  waich  them  often,  and  they  seem 
Sullen  and  dark  as  winter  stream. 

We  bring  our  gathered  thyme  and  mint. 
Each  brightest-colored  stone. 

And  lay  them  in  the  lap  of  one 
Who  scarcely  deigns  to  own 

The  gifts,  that  in  our  small  hands  were 

Precious  as  if  of  gold  or  myrrh. 

The  tinj'  ••  lady  "  takes  our  gifts, 

And  (jiieens  it  over  all; 
And  still  into  her  hand  and  lap 

Tlie  best  hfe  holds  doth  fall. 
The  best  to  her  seems  off'ring  meet. 
To  lie  unnoticed  at  her  feet. 

The  hands  that  won  from  the  streams  bed 

Its  shining  stones  of  old 
Are  larger,  in  tlie  stream  of  life 

They  gather  discs  of  gold; 
But  hearts  tliat  beat  in  childish. play. 
Have  altered  little  since  th;it  day. 

The  boy  who  waited  at  the  stream« 

With  such  a  teiuler  skill. 
To  guide  the  little  ones  across> 

Is  just  as  helpful  still; 
At  life's  deep  ford  his  feet  are  set, 
Helping  the  children  over  yet. 
The  eyes  that  watch  for  timid  souls. 

Are  calm  Jis  any  lake. 
While  just  beneath,  o'er  slippery  stones. 

Tlie  foam-capped  water  breaks. 
God  counts  and  none  but  God  alone. 
The  feet  helped  over  each  wet  stone. 
And  those  who  gave  and  those  who  took 

But  typed  in  childish  play 
The  part  that  each  is  acting  out. 

In  busy  life  to-day; 
Helpless  or  selfish,  each  I  deem. 
Gathered  treasure  at  "The  Stream   " 


-* 


*- 


1312 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


CONSIDER. 

"The  .iewel  in  the  Lotus  I  "  hidden  like  a  gem 

Within  this  quaint  conceit, 
Is  a  pure  thought;  is  the  fair  lotus  flower, 

On  anj'  stream  as  sweet 
As  the  most  lonely,  loveless  child, whose  birth 
Not  even  mother  welcomed  to  the  earth? 

Lotus,  the  ooze  is  black,  and  lizards  hide 

Deep  in  thy  river-bed. 
From  source  as  impure,  lol  the  lily  heart 

Of  the  child  oft  is  fed. 
Lotus,  thy  leaf-stalk  springeth  from  dark 

ooze. 
Yet,  thou  hast  beauty,  Imt  a  child  must  lose 

That  dewy  whiteness  that  makes  beautiful 

The  tremulous  child  heart, 
O,  mystery  of  life,  God's  lilies  pure 

May  crowu  the  stems  that  start 
From  darkest  loam  in  life's  deep  river-bed! 
Ct)nsider  thou  the  jewel;  be  it  said. 

Humbly  above  the  poorest  child  we  see, 

It  surely  must  surprise 
Its  angel,  that  the  jewel  in  the  flower 

Is  dim  to  human  eyes. 
When  every  child-face  lifted,  softly  glows 
With  play  of  light  no  jewel  ever  shows. 

The  face  is  half  transparent  with  pure  light. 

As  lilies  always  are 
Sun  shone  upon;  pure  chalices  of  hearts 

This  grace  with  lilies  share. 
And  from  within, the  softened  gleams  do  show 
Transfiguring  the  saddest  face  we  know. 

And  is  not  the  soul-casket  lotus  like, 

Tlie  jewel  shining  thro' 
Just  as  tlie  sunlight  thro'  the  lilies'  heart? 

O,  blind  are  we  unto 
The  light  on  tender  lips,  and  in  soft  eyes; 
The  jewel!— God's  own  jewel  underlies. 

The  petals  of  the  lotus!  Ours  the  bitter  loss 

If  we,  indeed,  are  blind, 
And  will  not  see  the  jewel  that  our  God 

Hath  to  our  sight  refined. 
Softening  its  luster  'neath  so  thin  a  veil. 
Consider  thou  the  jewel  lest  the  luster  pale. 

Consider  thou  the  jewel!    Only  God's  dear 
hand 
Can  touch  our  ejes,  shut  lid. 
And  make  its  white  threads  tremble  tenderly 

To  see  God's  jewels  hid 
1  n  caskets  that  the  rudest  hands  have  marred. 
01  saddest  thing  in  life,  God's  lilies  scarred. 

And  touched  by  mildew,  blighted  everyway, 

Tainted  by  breath  and  touch. 
Remember  thou  the  jewel,  thro'  all  earthly 
scatli ! 


Christ's  robes  gleam  bright  with  such; 
And  it  were  well  beside  life's  river-brink  — 
Aye  it  were  well  for  every  one  to  think. 

And  at  the  darkest  let  us  keep  our  trust 

In  jewel  set  apart 
From  earthly  soiling.     Yea,  consider  thou, 

For  it  were  well,  O,  heart! 
If  jewel,  precious  in  the  angels'  eyes 
Thou  hast  not  dimmed  and  never  doth  des- 
pise. 

SWEET-BRIER. 
The  sheep  bleat  piteously  on  the  wold; 

The  brier-roses'  wands 
Are  tangled  in  the  soft  threads  of  tlieir  fleece, 

Holding  it  as  with  hands. 
And  all  around,  the  air  is  fragrant  with 

The  sweetness  from  bruised  leaves; 
The  feet  of  the  mild  creatures  tread  them 
down. 

And  the  fresh  air  receives. 

The  secret  essence  —  sweet  beyond  all  scents. 

Oh,  faint  sweet  brier-rose. 
Some  secret  felt  by  us  and  not  yet  told. 

May  thy  pink  lips  disclose! 
Our  pearls  we  are  forbidden  to  cast  down 

Under  the  trampling  hoof. 
But  over  all  the  world,  rare  hearts  give  out 

Their  secret  life  in  proof. 

Are  we  so  wise  to  always  count  our  pearls? 

Are  we  so  wise  to  test 
The  fitness  of  the  souls  to  whom  we  give? 

The  wild  rose  gives  her  best 
In  answer  to  the  treading  of  rough  hoofs; 

And  all  the  pasture-lands. 
And  all  the  windings  of  the  woodland  paths, 

As  it  some  angel  hands 

Had  swung  their  censers,  are  so  sweet,  so 
sweet! 
There  nothing  is  beside 
As  sweet  and  simple  as  the  brier-rose. 

Save  heart  that  ne'er  denied 
In  thought,  the  drops  of  sweetness  wrung 
from  it. 
Or  crushed  out  in  the  press 
Of  careless   feet.    True  hearts  make  their 
own  pearls. 
Whenever,  in  the  stress 

Of  woe,  or  fear,   they  send  the  pure  tears 
forth. 

How  many  drops  e.xude 
From  every  lieart.    A  re  any  really  lost? 

Few  of  tiie  multitude 
Notice  their  gleam,  or  stay  their  feet  at  all, 

Yet  angels  note  our  tears; 
For  heaven's  Golden  Vials  are  they  kept 

Garnered  with  the  Saints'  pmyers. 


^- 


*- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   I'OE  IS   OK   AMEUICA. 


1.313 


MORRIS  C.  PENNOCK. 

Boun:  ChestebCo.,  Pa.,  May  23,  1829. 

iNhis  earlycliildhood  his  parents  emigrating- 
westward,  settled  on  a  farm  near  Salem, 
Ohio,  where,  during  youth  and  early  man- 
hood, his  time  was  mainly  devoted  to  agri- 
cultural labors,  private  study,  and  teaching- 


MORRIS  C.   PENNOCK. 

in  the  public  schools  of  the  county.  From 
these  alone  did  he  receive  any  assistance  in 
his  own  education.  In  1857  he  entered  a  store 
in  Salem,  and  in  the  fall  of  1863  removed  to 
what  is  now  the  city  of  Alliance,  Ohio,  where 
lie  has  since  been  engaged  in  the  hardware 
and  banking  business.  In  18.56  he  was  mar- 
ried to  Miss  Emma  E.  Wriglit,  who  died  in 
1882,  and  he  was  again  married  in  1868  to  Mrs. 
Elizabeth  A.  Keith  nee  Colestock,  who  still 
gracefully  presides  in  their  pleasant  home. 
Mr.  Pennock's  tastes  are  decidedly  literarj- 
aiid  artistic;  and  during  the  earlier  years  of 
life  his  leisure  hours  were  frequently  em- 
ployed in  poetic  composition,  mostly  of  a 
rural  and  domestic  character.  Many  of  Ids 
articles  were  published  in  The  National  Et-a 
"f  Washington  City,  The  Saturday  Evening 
Post  of  Philadelphia,  and  in  several  local 
journals. 


KrrriK. 

O,  darling  little  Kiitio, 

The  cliild  of  our  ilcllght! 
Her  limbs  are  full  of  motion. 

Her  face  is  full  of  light; 
Her  eyes  are  speaking  daisies. 

Her  hair  a  crown  of  curls. 
Her  checks  two  dimpled  roses, 

Her  teeth  a  string  of  pearls. 

Out  in  the  blooming  clover 

Sweet  with  the  hum  of  bef  s, 
Down  where  the  early  cherries 

Hang  blushing  on  the  trees, 
Acrt)ss  the  dewy  meadow. 

Then  back  upon  the  lawn. 
Her  childish  ditties  humming 

She  gambols  like  a  fawn. 

The  i>retty  birds  above  her. 

Pause  in  their  merry  song 
To  listen  to  her  music 

And  watch  her  trip  along; 
The  butterflies  that  hover 

Above  each  blooming  bed 
Choose  her,  the  sweetest  blossom. 

And  rest  upon  her  head. 

O,  darling  little  Kittle— 

So  thoughtful  yet  so  gny! 
i'our  heart  is  warm  and  trustful 

And  gentle  as  the  day; 
To  you  the  world's  an  Eden, 

Your  life  a  happy  dream. 
The  sky  a  sea  of  glory. 

And  all  things  what  they  seem. 

Bright  morning  of  existence. 

Sweet  buds  of  promise  tliere. 
These  are  the  Third's  Evangels 

His  kingdom  to  declare:— 
Except  as  little  children. 

As  teachable  and  pure 
We  gain  no  home  eternal. 

No  lasting  bliss  secure. 


SPRING. 
Spring  is  here!  spring  is  liero 

With  her  light  and  song! 
Witli  her  skies  so  deeply  clear. 
With  her  l)lossoms  ever  dear. 

And  her  t  iineful  throng; 
O'er  the  ui>lari(l.  down  the  gladi", 
Tlu-ough  the  orchanl's  springing  shade. 
And  the  gardens  newly  made 

See  her  trip  along! 

Merry  springl  dancing  spring! 

Joy  is  nil  lier  own; 
Hapiiy  birds  on  p.-iinte<l  wing 
Lightly  tlit  and  gaily  sing 


*- 


1314 


LOCAL   AMD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A5IERICA. 


Round  her  verdant  throne; 
While  the  wild  bee's  drowsy  hum, 
And  the  plieasant's  muffled  drum 
Ou  the  fragrant  zephyrs  come 

With  a  sootliiug  tone. 

Melting  spring-,  gushing  spring! 

Tliou  art  flush  with  love; 
With  its  tones  thj'  forests  ring. 
Through  its  breath  thy  blossoms  bring 

Raptures  from  above; 
From  thy  smiles  its  soul  distills. 
And  the  youthful  spirit  fills 
'Til  its  bosom  heaves  and  thrills 

Like  a  wounded  Dove. 

Cheering  spring,— blessed  thingl 

Oh,  I  love  thee  well! 
And  to  tliy  sweet  bosom  cling 
With  a  fervent  worshipping 

Far  too  dear  to  tell. 
God's  approving  smile  thou  art 
On  the  fond,  adoring  heart 
Stamping  virtue's  sacred  art 

Witli  its  magic  spell. 


A  DOMESTIC  ODE. 
There's  a  dainty  little  lady 

With  a  bright  and  cheerful  air. 
With  a  voice  of  sweetest  music 

And  with  silken,  sunny  hair. 
Who  has  floated  down  the  current 

Where  time's  rippl'ing  waters  shine 
Till  her  life  has  reached  its  summer 

And  has  drifted  into  mine. 

Deep  in  toils  and  cares  domestic 

In  her  household,  day  by  day. 
She's  a  Martha  in  her  serving 

In  a  swift  but  quiet  way ; 
With  her  love  for  Christ  the  Savior, 

With  her  faith  of  head  and  heart 
She's  a  Mary  in  devotion 

Seeking  well  the  better  part. 

Not  a  bee  that  sips  its  nectar 

From  the  painted  blooms  of  spring, 
Better  loves  the  richer  glories 

That  the  days  of  summer  bring; 
Not  a  bird  tfliat  soars  in  music 

Chanted  by  its  kindred  throng. 
Worships  more  than  she  the  rapture 

Wafted  on  the  voice  of  song. 

Other  steps  may  be  more  graceful 
Otlier  forms  may  bo  more  fair; 

Other  tongues  proclaim  more  loudly 
All  1hey  suffer,  do  and  dare; 

But  a  heart  more  sweet  and  tender 
And  a  soul  more  free  from  strife. 


And  a  foot  more  swift  in  mercy 
Never  trod  the  ways  of  life. 

Not  a  duchess  clad  in  purple. 

Boasting  of  a  royal  line. 
She's  a  princess  crown'd  by  nature. 

She's  a  queen  by  right  divine; 
With  a  happy  home  her  empire 

And  a  loving  heart  her  throne. 
Where  she  sits  and  reigns  triumphant 

With  a  magic  all  her  own. 

Thrones  may  fall  and  kingdoms  perish 

In  the  grinding  mill  of  time. 
And  the  proudest  works  of  genius 

Fade  and  crumble  at  their  prime. 
But  her  scepter  of  affection 

Sliall  out-reach  the  years  of  life; 
For  her  will  is  my  good  pleasure  — 

She's  my  own,  my  darling  wife. 


LOOK  UP. 


Whilst  thou  art  onward  sailing 

Upon  the  sea  of  life. 
With  hearts  around  thee  failing 

Amid  the  roaring  strife; 
Whilst  angry  waves  are  heaving 

Thy  bark  in  danger's  path. 
And  bolts  of  passion  cleaving 

The  stormy  sky  in  wrath; 
Let  not  thy  soul  be  sickened 

By  sights  of  danger  near. 
But  stayed  by  hope  and  quickeu'd. 

Be  free  from  every  fear. 

What  if  the  way  be  clouded 

And  fenced  around  with  snares. 
The  everj'  pleasure  shrouded 

In  sorrows  and  in  cares? 
What  if  thy  heart  seems  bursting 

Beneath  its  weight  of  grief. 
And  all  thy  spirit  thirsting 

In  vain,  for  sweet  relief? 
Is  there  not  one  who  kindly 

Protects  thee  uight  and  day? 
Whilst  thou  art  toiling  blindly. 

Directs  thy  lonely  way? 

Look  to  that  power,  ever. 

And  when  deep  sorrow's  waves 
Seem  drowning  hope  forever. 

Trust  in  the  arm  that  saves. 
See,  not  a  sparrow  falling. 

Escapes  liis  watchful  sight. 
Think  then  a  true  heart  calling 

On  him,  he  e'er  will  slight? 
Ah  no,  but  still  forgiving 

And  gracious  to  tlie  last. 
He'll  give  it  hope  while  living. 

And  peace  when  life  is  past. 


*- 


■<i» 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   I'OKTS   OF    AMKUICA. 


i;^i. 


LYMAN  WHITNEY  ALLEN. 

Born:  St.  Louis,  Mo.,  1854. 

Lyman  Whitney  Allen  is  both  poet  and 
preacher,  and  those  who  know  liim  as  a 
clergyman  will  surely  aver  that  it  has  been 
tlie  fire  of  his  poetic  nature  that  has  greatly 
heightened   and  intensified  his  discourses. 


LYMAN   WHITNEY  ALLEN. 

He  pursued  his  collegiate  studies  at  Wash- 
ington [Jnivcrsity,  graduating-  there  in  1878. 
He  afterward  took  a  post-graduate  course  at 
Princeton  CoUeg-e.  and  pi'ep.-ired  for  the  min- 
istry at  Princeton  Theological  Seminary. 
He  now  resides  in  Newark,  N.  J.,  as  pastor 
of  the  South  Park  Presbyterian  Cliurch. 
While  Mr.  Allen  is  chiefly  known  as  a  writer 
of  religious  verse,  he  retains  for  future  pub- 
lication much  that  has  been  written  purely 
for  art's  sake. 


THE  COMING  OF  HIS  FEET. 

In  the  crimson  of  the  morning,  in  the  white- 
ness of  the  noon. 
In  the  amber  glory  of  the  day's  retreat, 
In  the  midnight,  robed  in  darkness,  or  the 
gleaming  of  the  moon  — 
I  listen  for  the  coming  of  his  feet. 


I  have  heard  his  weary  footstcpsou  the  sands 
of  Galilee, 
On  the  temple's  marble  pavements,  on  the 
street, 
Wt)rn  with  weight  of  sorrow,  faltering  up 
theslojiesof  Calvary  — 
The  sorrow  of  the  coming  of  his  feet. 

Down    the  nunster-aisles  of  splendor,  from 
betwixt  the  cherubim. 
Through  the  wondering  throng,  with  mo- 
tion strong  and  fleet, 
Sounds  his  victor  thread,  approaching  with 
a  music  far  and  dim  — 
The  music  of  the  con,ing  of  his  feet. 

Comes  he  sandaled  not  with  silver,  girdled 
not  with  woven  gold, 
Weighted  not  with  sliiinmering  gems  and 
odors  sweet, 
But  white-winged  and  shod  with  glory  in  the 
Tabor  light  of  old  — 
The  glory  of  the  coming  of  his  feet. 

He  is  coming,  O  ray  spirit  1  with  his  everlast- 
ing peace. 
With  his  blessedness  immortal  and  com- 
plete. 
He  is  ci)niing,  O  my  .■spirit!  and  his  coming 
brings  release  — 
I  listen  for  the  coming  of  his  feet. 


SUBMISSION. 


I  cannot  count  the  way  my  soul  has  tried 
To  slip  the  leash  of  God's  redeeming  grace; 
Nor  measure  His  long  suffering,  nor  trace 

His  ways  to  draw  me  nearer  to  His  side: 

By  tender  calls,  by  warnings  ainplifled. 
By  sharp  rebuke  in  loud  and  sterner  phrase. 
By  ehastenmgs  dire,  which  time  cannot 
efface. 

By  scourgings  with  fierce  thongs  of  fire  ap- 
jilied. 

Thus  has  the  Lord  made  efl'ort  for  my  life. 

And  never  for  one  moment  loosed  his  hold. 
And  now,  with  broken  heart,  worn  out  with 
strife, 
I  lay  myself  down  at  His  feet  controlled. 
And  through  glad  tears,  that  will  not  cease 

to  flow, 
I  thank  my  father  that  He  loved  me  so. 


THE  BIRDS  SING  HALF  THE  YEAR. 

The  birds  sing  half  the  year; 
But  love  is  never  still: 
Her  tremulous  accents  thrill 

The  light  from  sphere  to  sphere. 


^- 


1316 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


O,  wotidrous  messenger! 

My  soul  with  rapture  fill. 
Tbe  birds  sina-  half  the  year; 

But  love  is  never  still. 

O,  sweet  bewilderer! 
Sing-  on  witli  siren  skill: 
My  brain  and  heart  and  will 

Are  all  attent  to  hear. 

The  birds  sing-  half  the  year; 
But  love  is  never  still. 


THE  CHILDRBNS  KINGDOM. 

I  hear  of  a  wonderful  Paradise, 

A  garden  of  bloom  under  luminous  skies  — 

Where  summer  lasts  all  tlie  year. 
I  know  not  where  such  a  fair  land  may  be; 
But  a  Paradise  kingdom  lies  close  to  me 

In  the  hearts  of  the  children  dear. 

It  is  blessed  and  blithe  and  shining-, 
And  never  knows  aught  of  sin; 

But.except  ye  become  as  the  little  children. 
Ye  cannot  enter  in. 

I  hear  of  a  country  -where  angels  dwell, 
Where  rapturous  melodies  cast  their  spell. 

And  gladness  and  peace  endure. 
I  know  not  where  such  a  fair  land  may  be ; 
But  a  kingdom  of  ancels  lies  close  to  me 

In  the  hearts  of  the  children  pure. 

It  is  blessed  and  blithe  and  shining. 
And  never  knows  aught  of  sin; 

But,  except  ye  become  as  the  little  children. 
Ye  cannot  enter  in. 

I  hear  of  a  Heaven  of  glory,  where 
No  sorrow  can  enter,  or  pain  or  care, 

And  life  and  its  love  are  complete. 
I  know  not  where  such  a  fair  land  may  be. 
But  a  Kingdom  of  Heaven  lies  close  to  me 

In  the  hearts  of  the  children  sweet. 

It  is  blessed  and  blithe  and  shining. 
And  never  knows  aught  of  sin; 

But,except  ye  become  as  the  little  children. 
Ye  cannot  enter  in. 


THE  SINGING  LEPER. 

A  Saxon  king  with  merry  throng 

Of  nobles  hunted  in  a  wood 
At  eventide,  when  lo!  a  song 

Most  wondrous  broke,  a  tremulous  flood 
Of  praise  from  distant  lips  unseen. 

The  hunters  halted,  listening  keen 
To  catch  each  nearing  echo,  till 

Among  the  trees  a  form  unclean, 
A  leper  white,  moved  np  the  hill 

Across  their  path,  and  sang  the  while. 


His  livid  features  wore  a  smile. 

His  wrinkled  hands  were  clasped  in  prayer. 
While  living  death,  a  master  vile. 

Made  all  his  flesh  a  thoroughfare 
For  swift  and  myriad-footed  pain. 

And  all  the  while  he  sang  his  strain; 

Then  spake  tlie  king  with  stirring  call. 
And  bade  him  halt,  and  with  his  train 

The  king  moved  on  with  care  withal. 
And  questioned  him  with  pitying  gaze. 

"  How  sing  you  thus  these  words  of  praise 
When  life  is  death?"     A  moment's  pause. 

Tlien  smiling  answered  he:  "  I  i-aise 
My  voice  in  songs  of  joy,  because, 

Although  a  leper  vile,  I  know 

That  as  my  frame  decays  I  grow 
More  near  the  sure  deliverance 

That  comes  from  God,  whose  graces  flow 
Through  all  the  wastes  of  circumstance. 

And  moves  my  soul  and  life  to  Him." 

The  king's  and  nobles'  eyes  grew  dim; 

And  turning  to  his  train  the  king 
Spake  thus:  •>  Unto  the  very  brim 

Are  this  man's  sorrows,  yet  they  bring 
Rejoicings,  for  hs  trusts  his  Lord. 

This  leper's  voice  shall  here  record, 
We  have  not  hunted  all  in  vain. 

Our  spoil  this  day  is  as  a  sword 
Whose  shining  blade  shall  conquer  pain. 
And  to  our  homes  we  turn  again 

With  larger  faith  and  nobler  word." 


VIOLETS. 


Blue-eyed  promises  of  spring 
Heralds  of  earth's  'wakening. 

Blue-winged  messengers  of  love. 
Tender  graces  from  above. 

Tokens  of  the  summer  days 
Where  the  love-light  shines  always. 

Prophesies  of  life  that  lies 
In  the  heart  of  Paradise. 


FORGET-ME-NOTS. 

The  lilies  were  fashioned  white  and  rare 
For  a  lover  to  weave  for  liis  lady's  hair. 

The  roses  were  made  t(5  be  pi  uckod  and  placed 
In  a  crimson  girdle  about  her  waist. 

The  daisies  and  violets,  fresh  and  sweet, 
Were  spread  for  a  carpeting  for  her  feet. 

But  the  blue  for-get-me.nots  were  meant 
To  lie  on  her  bosom  in  sweet  content 
And  tell  her  of  love  from  her  lover  sent. 


*b 


9 


LOCAr.   AND  NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


1317 


CHARLES  COOPER. 

Bokn:  England,  April  2,'},  1823. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Cooper  hiive  occasionally 
appeared    in    the    periodical    press    and    in 
pamphlet  form.  Mr.  Cooper  has  quite  a  lartre 
family  now  grown  to  maturity,  aud  now  re- 


^ 

"W 

•s 

^■"         ^ 

r 

\ 

J 

CHARLES  COOPER. 

sides  in  Salt  Lake  City,  Utah,  where  he  is 
very  popular.  He  has  traveled  extensively  in 
this  country  and  Europe,  and  in  1891  visited 
California  and  many  of  the  western  states. 


A  DREAM. 
Roll  on,  roll  on,  ye  months  and  years; 

I'm  pleased  to  see  you  go; 
You'll  bring:  to  me  my  lovely  boy, 

And  free  me  from  my  woe. 

I  had  a  dream  last  night,  and  saw 

Thee  laying  on  thy  bed; 
I  knew  that  thou  wast  still  alive; 

I  said,  "  He  is  not  dead." 

O,  what  great  joy  those  moments  g-avel 

What  bliss  without  alloy. 
To  see  thy  lovely  face  once  more. 

And  talk  to  thee,  my  darling  boy  I 

Not  all  this  world,  with  all  its  wealth. 
Could  give  me  such  a  gleam: 


But  ah,  alas!  I'm  still  on  earth; 
I  know  it  was  a  dream. 


VERSES  COMPOSED  BY  REQUEST. 
Dear  Mrs. at  your  request, 

I  try  my  liand  rhyme. 
Although  a  iKjvice  at  the  best. 

Perhaps  'tis  waste  of  time. 

Full  well  I  know  that  ladies  fair, 
Must  always  have  their  way; 

I  therefore  to  my  task  repair. 
Say  what  I've  got  to  say. 

I'm  not  the  first  that  has  been  sought. 

In  this  critical  state. 
With  every  kind  of  evil  fraught. 

And  every  kind  of  fate. 

You  know  our  great  progenitor. 

Was  once  enticed  byEve, 
Tlirough  being  led  by  her  advice. 

His  home  he  had  to  leave. 

His  lovely  home  where  all  was  joy. 

Of  naught  was  he  afraid; 
No  rent  days  there  could  him  annoy. 

Nor  taxes  still  unpaid. 

No  mortgage  had  he  on  his  land. 

To  him  all  things  were  free: 
Save  only  one  his  Fatlier  said. 

Touch  not  that  sacred  tree. 

So  well  he  knew  of  sorrow  that 

In  these  words  underlie. 
The  day  thou  catest  of  tliat  tree. 

In  that  day  thou  shalt  die. 

O  Where's  the  man  that  lias  not  proved, 

All  true  his  Father  said. 
By  sweat  of  thy  face  thou  shalt  earn 

Aud  eat  thy  daily  bread. 

The  ground  shall  be  cursed  for  thee 
Thorns  and  thistles  shall  grow. 

Because  thou  ate  forbidden  fruit. 
Sorrowing  thou  shalt  go. 

No  doubt  at  all  his  mind  was  good. 

His  Father  to  obey. 
And  would  liave  done  had  there  not  been 

A  woman  in  the  way. 

And  so  he  left  Ills  pleasant  home, 

Father  and  his  mother. 
And  cleave  unto  his  lovely  wife. 

How  could  he  do  other. 

For  after  all  is  said  and  done, 
'Tis  well  known  truth  that  wo 

Rather  be  in  prison  with  you. 
Than  live  alone  and  free. 


*- 


* 


»5<- 


1318 


LOCAT,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF    AMERICA. 


E  W.  DUTCH ER. 

Born:  Oswego,  N.  Y. 
Mr.  Dutcher  has  received  a  liberal  educa 
tion.  He  is  married  and  has  one  child  living-. 
Mr.  E.  W.  Dutcher  lias  written  about  three 
hundred  poems  that  have  appeared  in  the 
Chicago   and    eastern   papers.     In    1878    he 


E.  W.  DUTCHER. 

published  a  volume  of  poems  entitled  Le- 
gends of  a  City  and  Other  Poems  and  Fancies, 
whicli  received  the  highest  praises  from  the 
press  and  public.  Mr.  Dutcher  is  tlie  local 
freiglit  agent  of  the  Chicago,  Milwaukee  & 
St.  Paul  Railway  at  Minneapolis. 

A  KEEPSAKE. 
Little  maiden,  tiaxen-haired, 

Hither  come,  your  cheeks  are  brown. 
Daughter  Ruth,— why,  wlio  lias  dared 

On  your  face  to  etch  a  frown? 
O,  don't  mind,  I  shall  not  cliide 
For  the  rent  you  fain  would  hidel 
Certainly,  T  love  you,— why 

Do  you  put  so  strange  a  query? 
Here's  a  present,— don't  bo  shy! 

'Tis  your  birthday,  so  beclieery! 
Put  the  chain  about  your  neck. 
Thus  my  captive  would  1  deck. 
Keep  tills  locket  —  yet,  'tis  gold  — 

Eiglit  to-duj'!  O,  precious  daughter  I 


Dear,  wlien  you  are  twice  as  old 

How  the  youngsters  you  will  slaughter! 
I  am  staid  and  steady  grown. 
But  you've  captured  me  I  own! 
For  my  sake  — yes,  dear,  retain  it,— 

What's  the  trouble,  pray  you,  now? 
•  ■  Why,  my  pocket  won't  contain  it!  " 

True  anotlier  rent,  I  vow! 
Never  mind  the  rents,  my  dear,— 
Birthdays  comes  but  once  a  year. 
So  a  Kiss  is  all  you  pay ! 

For  my  gift  you  have  no  money? 
"  Yes,  but  papa,  on  this  day 

Kisses  all  are  made  of  honey! 
For  your  sake,  I'll  give  the  toll!  " 
Then  into  my  arms  she  stole. 

AT  THE  DOOR. 
We  were  standing-  in  the  door-way,— 

My  little  wife  and  I,— 
The  golden  sun  upon  her  hair 

Fell  down  so  silently; 
A  small  white  hand  upon  my  arm, 

Wliat  could  I  ask  for  more 
Than  the  kindly  glance  of  loving  eyes, 

As  she  kissed  me  at  the  door? 

I  know  she  loves  with  all  her  heart 

The  one  who  stands  beside. 
And  the  years  have  been  so  joyous 

Since  first  I  called  her  bride! 
We've  had  so  much  of  happiness 

Since  we  met  in  years  before. 
But  the  happiest  time  of  all  was 

When  she  kissed  me  at  the  door! 

Who  cares  for  wealth  of  land,  or  gold. 

Or  fame,  or  matchless  power? 
It  does  not  give  the  happiness 

Of  just  one  little  hour 
With  one  who  loves  me  as  her  life, — 

She  says  she  loves  me  more; 
I  thought  she  did  this  morning. 

For  she  kissed  me  at  the  door. 

At  times  it  seems  as  if  the  world 

With  all  its  wealth  of  gold. 
Is  very  small  and  poor  indeed. 

Compared  with  what  I  hold; 
And  when  the  clouds  are  grim  and  dark, 

I  only  think  the  more 
Of  one  who  waits  a  coming  step 

To  kiss  me  at  the  door  1 

If  we  live  till  age  shall  scatter 

The  frost  upon  her  head, 
I  know  she'll  love  me  just  the  same 

As  the  morniug  we  were  wed; 
But  if  the  angels  call  her. 

And  she  goes  to  Heaven  before, 
1  shall  know  her  when  1  meet  her. 

For  she'll  kiss  nie  at  the  door! 


*- 


» — ^^ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


1319 


* 


MRS.  B.C.  RUDE. 

Born:  Sodus,  N.  Y.,  March  17, 1838. 
As  THE  author  of  Magnolia  Leaves,  Mrs.  B. 
C.  Rude  is  entited  to  a  crown  of  laurel  leaves 
us  being-  one  of  the  foremost  poets  of  the  daj-. 
Dr.  Titus  Munson  Coan  says  Magnolia  Leaves 


MRS.  B.  C.    RUDE. 

is  the  daintiest  of  books  and  its  poems  have 
the  fragrance  of  the  blossom.  She  is  tlie 
wife  of  Mr.  Benton C.  Rude  of  St.  Augustine, 
F'a.,  where  she  is  very  v>opular,  devoting  her 
time  to  home  life  and  literature  and  as  a 
temperance  advocate. 


THE  UNAVAILING  TEAR. 

I  wonder  if  the  unavailing  tears  we  shed 
O'er  vain  desires,  will  one  day  rise 
Like  dews  absorbed  by  sunny  skies. 

To  fall  in  floods  of  full  fruition  on  our  heads. 

I  wonder  if  the  unavailing  tears  we  shed 
Will  wear  the  rock  of  destiny. 
Till  tlirough  its  fissures  we  shall  see 

Fruition's  gleams  by  Heaven's  own  sunshine 
fed. 

I  wonder  if  the  unavailing  tears  we  shed 
In  God's  great  palm  will  overflow. 
And  trickling  down  bring  patience  so 

That  we  can  wait  for  Heaven's  fruition  in 
earth's  stead. 


BY  THE  LIGHTNINGS  FLASH. 

A  tiny  craft  went  sailing  l)y 
My  cot  by  the  sea  to-day, 
A  storm  was  gathering  in  tlie  sky. 

And  dark  o'er  tlic  waters  lay. 
I  sit  in  the  darkness  ami  gaze 
To  see,  if  1  may,  in  tlie  liaze 
By  the  lightning's  flashing  light 
O'er  the  sea.  a  sail  to-night. 
No  sail!  No  sign '.  But  somewhere  I  know 
A  tiny  sail 
Has  met  the  gale 
And  rides  the  sea  over,  or  lies  the  sea  under 
Oh,  daring  bold  rover,  wliich  is  it,  I  wonder? 
A  flash  I  A  tug's  iu  sight;  and  in  low, 
A  tiny  cr;ift. 
A  sailing  aft. 


[ing. 


THE  SAND  FLOWER. 
We  saw  a  white  flower  in  tlie  sand. 

Growing  by  the  sea, 
I  went  to  pluck  it  with  my  hand, 

He  said,  ••  Let  it  be! 
'Tis  sweet,  wlieru  might  and  power  are  swell- 
To  see,  in  peace  and  safety  dwelling, 

A  tiling  so  wee." 
I  reached  as  if  to  pluck  the  dainty  flower. 
He  caught  my  hand,  and  holds  it  to  this  hour. 
Oft  times  we  view  the  sand  flower  creeping, 
My  hand  in  his  in  sacred  keeping. 


NORMA'S  TELEPHONE. 
T  wish  that  I  could  reach  a  string 
From  earth  to  Heaven,  so  1  could  slug 
A  song  to  Sister  May,  and  she 
Could  sing  an  answering  soug  to  me. 

I  should  not  dare  to  fio  astray, 
(Jr  say  liad  words  when  at  my  play. 
For  fear  tlie  teleplione  would  bear 
Tlie  tidings  upward  through  the  air. 

And  when  the  nights  wei-e  bright  and  clear. 
How  sweet  'twould  be  for  me  to  hear 
Her  ringing  voice  from  out  the  sky ; 
How  sweet  to  her.  too,  my  reply. 

I'd  sing  the  songs  she  used  to  love. 
And  she  the  new  ones  learniil  alM)ve, 
The  ones  she  learned  at  Jesus'  feel; 
They  must  be  wondrous  cleJir  uud  sweet. 

When  Jesus  comes  to  hear  my  pniyer. 
I'll  ask  Him  if  He'll  Uike  it  tliere. 
—  This  telephone  —  then  wlien  I'm  sad 
She'll  sing  to  me  and  make  mo  glad. 

And  I  shall  learn  before  I  go 
Those  heavenly  songs  that  charm  her  so: 
Come,  Jesus,  come,  and  bear  away 
This  telephone  to  Sister  May. 


* 


132. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


LINCOLN. 

Lincoln,  ordained  to  meet  a  country's  want 
Fi'om  lowly  walks  grew  lowlier  as  lie  rose 
Triumphant  o'er  occasions  and  o'er  foes. 
With  dignity  oft  spiced  witli  pleasant  taunt 
Dispensed  he  justice  unimpaired  bj'  daunt. 
Where'er  is  told  the  tale  of  slavery's  woes, 
In  proud  display  the  name  of  Lincoln  g-oes. 
But  autographed  with  ne'er  a  trace  of  vaunt. 

America's  proud  heirloom  ne'er  shall  be 
Mildewed  in  shelved  and  worthless  historj'. 
Both  victims  and  the  masters  of  the  ciime 
Alike  revere  the  name  that  set  them  free. 
All  write  liim  proudest  hero  of  his  time. 
Illustrious  martyr  of  a  cause  sublime. 


TWO  BUrrERFLIES. 

A  butterfly,  with  wings  all  golden  tipped, 
Alighted  on  a  fair  bouquet 
Which  on  a  dear  girl's  bosom  lay. 
She  sweetly  smiled,  while  it  the  sweetness 

sipped. 
We  had  been  chatting,  she  and  T, 
To  while  the  passing  moments  by; 
But  ne'er  a  word  dared  either  utter 
For  fear  a  breath's  untimely  flutter 
Might  fright  the  prettj'  thing  away, 
And  in  silence,  as  it  lay. 
Or  tipped,  and  sweetness  fondly  sipped, 
And  she  a-smiliug,  ruby-lipped; 
I  thought,  "You  sweet  coquette 
You'll  break  some  poor  heart  pet." 
But  ne'er  a  word  — 
It  might  have  stirred! 


A  MINE  OF  THOUGHT. 
He  who  a  mine  of  thought  inherits 

By  right  divine. 
Should  each  day  prove  its  worth  and  merits, 
By  quarrying  gems  or  golden  carats, 

Exceeding  fine. 

His  claim,  oft  times,  a  mine  encloses. 

Never  dreamed. 
So  silently  the  ore  reposes. 
Till  prospect  unto  him  discloses 

Where  'tis  seamed. 

Unearthed,  sometimes,  the  cliolcest  treasure 

Lies  all  unknown. 
Because  from  heedless  love  of  leisure 
Tlie  inner  wealth  we  fail  to  measure 

Of  strength  and  tone. 

Bring  earnest  toil!  Your  shaft,  deep  sinking, 

Rewards  your  pains. 
Broad  galleries  of  thought  now  linking 
Where  you  m:iy  gather  gems  of  thinking 

Scattered  in  veins. 


*- 


Bring  forth  your  treasure,  not  despising 

The  weakest  glow. 
A  diamond  lay  in  plain  disguising, 
A  plaything  which  a  child,  scarce  prizing,      1 

Tossed  to  and  fro. 

An  adept  seeing,  without  warning, 

Possessed  the  toy. 
Parisian  splendor  soon  adorning,  t 

It  brought  the  farmer's  child  a  morning  • 

Of  great  joy. 

Locate,  delve,  then  polish  ever,  | 

Offer  your  best.  ! 

Alloy  from  truth  seek  well  to  sever,  | 

Then  shall  some  gem  adorn  forever  I 

Your  sleeping  breast. 

NEATH  THE  COTTONWOOD  TREES. 
Let  one  who  sips  life's  tears  with  strange  de- 
light. 
And  flnds  in  sobs  and  sighs  life's  harmony. 
Go  out  beneath  the  Cottonwood  trees  at  night. 
And  there  repent  the  laughter  of  the  diiy. 
Then  listen  to  the  rustling  of  the  leaves 
Like   steady  rain-fall  from  the  homestead 
eaves. 
And  listening,  weep  and  pray, 
But  on  the  morrow  hie  away; 
It  is  not  well  to  dwell  there  all  the  weary 

while. 
To-night  we  weep  and  pray,  to-morrow  toil 
and  smile. 
But  the  cottonwoods  weep  and  smile 
All  the  night  and  all  the  dpy. 

LIFE. 
Life's  a  panorama,  shifting,  shifting, 
(Prelude)  Blackusss  lapsing  into  gray, 
Grayness,  fading,  fading,  dies  away. 
Rosy  morn  with  cloudlets  drifting,  drifting. 
Through  which  sunbeams  softly  sifting, sift- 
ing. 
Glint  uniil  ths  zenith  of  the  day. 
When,   lo!   A  thunder- bolt!    A  flash!  Ob, 
stay!  ting) 

Too  late!  A  heart  is  rent!  (The  curtain's  lift- 
How  changed  the  scene!  And  e'en  while giiE- 

ing,  we 
Scares  note  the  change,   'tis  done  so  dex- 
terously. 
Behold!  a  sweet  submissive  peaceful  haze. 
So  like  tlie  shortening  Indian  summer  days. 
And  now  the  end!  .And  if  the  life  be  true. 
A  bank  of  glory  shows  the  sunset  through. 

EXTRACT. 
Some  people  are  governed  by  motives  of  pelf, 

Or  some  other  mean  motive,  in  all  they  do. 
Why  not  do  your  good  for  the  sake  of  itself 

An<l  not  with  a  ten  percent,  proflt  in  view? 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA 


13121 


* 


MRS.  FRANCKS  B.  DANIELS. 

Born:  Maine. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  D;iuiels  have  apppjirtnl  in 
the  religious  and  secular  press  llimugliout 


MRS.  FRANCES  B.  DANIELS. 

America.    She  is  the  wife  of  Uev.  H.  M.  Dan- 
iels, and  now  resides  in  California  at  De  Luz. 


THE  LITTLE  RUN-AWAY. 
Dear  little  golden-haired  Fay, 
Where  are  you  wandering  away. 
From  mamma  atid  home? 
Tho'Jacky,  your  dog.walks  close  by  your  side 
Looks  into  your  face  with  evident  pride. 
The  world  for  Jacky  and  yju  is  too  wide 
From  mamma  to  roam. 

Sweet  little  golden-haired  Fay, 
Wandering  away  and  away. 
With  dignified  mien; 
You  are  going  down  to  some  hidden  nook, 
Where  ripples  and  dances  the  babbling  brook 
Only  just  for  once  with  .lacky  to  look 
For  flowers,  I  ween. 

Run-away  golden-haired  Fay. 

Happy  and  bright  on  this  day, 
As  onward  you  go; 
Mamma's  soft  footfall  escapes  Jacky's  ear, 
As  with  curious  smile  she  hovers  near. 


And  listens  with  wrapt  iitteiillon  to  hear 
Your  words  soft  and  low. 

Pure  little  gotden-htiired  Ftiy. 
We  wish  to  hear  wliat  you  say, 
Down  close  by  the  brook; 
You  look  all  about  with  wondering  eyes. 
At  the  dancing  rill  and  the  calm  bhu-  skies. 
Then  comes  into  your  face,  so  sweetly  wise. 
A  mysterious  look. 

Mystified,  golden-haired  Fay. 
Your  little  soul  thinking  to-<lay 
Of  things  deep  and  high ; 
"Isn't  Dod  dood,  don't  you  fink,  Jacky,  dear, 
Evy  flng  is  so  buful,  buful,  down  here/ " 
And  Jacky,  responsive,  drew  lovingly  near. 
With  his  mute  reply. 

Then, with  a  reverend  look. 
She  kneels  on  the  moss  by  the  brook. 
In  the  silent  wood. 
"  Dear  Dod.we's  so  glad  we  come  here  to-day. 
And  we  loves  you  'cause  you  show  us  the  way 
So  please  hear  Jacky  and  me  while  we  pray. 
For  we  flnks  you  is  dood." 
Pure  little  golden-haired  Fay 
And  Jaeky  steals  softly  away. 
With  never  a  dower; 
Mamma  not  daring  to  linger  so  nigh. 
Lest  Jacky  or  Fay  her  form  should  espy. 
Speeds  homeward,  and  wipes  the  tear  from 
lier  eye. 
As  she  thinks  of  that  hour. 


DAYS  GONE. 
Who  asks  for  the  days  that  are  gone. 

Gone  with  their  gladness. 

Gone  with  their  sadness. 
Buried  deep,  deep  where  angels  keep  guard. 
Wlio  says  come  back  Ut  youth's  bright  morn. 
Oh  give  us  again  the  rosy  dawn. 
Give  us  back  the  days  that  were  born. 

Born  with  our  youth. 

And  gone,  forsiKjth, 

But  give  them  back, 

Een  o'er  the  tnick. 

Where  the  trace  of  sadness 

Has  bedimmed  the  gladness. 

And  brought  the  madness 

That  o'er  us  steal. 

To  make  us  feel 

The  I'ang  of  the  lo.s.ses. 

The  weight  of  the  crosses  — 
Close  the  door  quick,  angel,  shut  In  the  light 
Lest  a  viewof  oursincast  asorn>wful  blight. 
O'er  the  innocent  days  gone  out  of  our  sight. 

'Tis  well  —  let  them  rest 

'Moiig  things  that  are  blest; 
Those  innocent  days  with  marvelous  r.iys 
Of  light. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A5IERICA. 


MRS.HATTIEA.A.BERGOFF. 

Born:  Centerville,  Mich.,  Sept.  10,  1856. 
The  poems  of  this  ladj'  bave  appeared  quite 
extensively  in  the  periodical  press.  She  was 
married  in  1874  to  Dr.  Bergoff,  and  now  has  a 


MRS.  HATTIE  A.  A.  BERGOFF. 

family  of  several  children.  Mrs.  Bergoff  now 
resides  in  Centerville,  South  Dakota,  where 
she  is  engaged  in  music  teaching  and  house- 
hold duties. 


THE  OLD  YEAR  AND  THE  NEW. 
Over  the  liills,  and  over  the  plains, 

The  wintry  wind  is  sighing. 
Its  tones  are  those  of  a  sad  refrain 

For  the  Old  Year  now  is  dying. 

Earth  has  woven  a  beautiful  shroud. 

Immaculate,  pure  and  bright. 
To  cover  the  hoary  head  now  bowed. 

To  bury  Old  Year  to-night. 

We  admire  its  glorious  purity. 

Emblematical  of  the  good  and  true  of  the 
past; 
And  we  think  of  the  great  humanity 

Bidding  adieu  to  the  Old  Year  dying  so  fast. 

So  tread  ye  softly  at  the  door 
Clasp  hands  with  the  aged  seer. 


^- 


For  echo  answers  that  nevermore, 
Will  the  golden  hours  be  here. 

We  think  of  its  youthful  springtime. 
Of  iis  trees,  and  birds  and  flowers. 

When  the  heart  kept  merry  time 
With  its  welcome,  joyous  hours. 

We  think  of  its  golden  summer 

With  its  fair  and  ripening-  grain 
Of  the  sunset's  rosy  glimmer 

O'er  all  the  grassy  plain. 

How  it  tinged  the  beautiful  hilltops 

With  a  transient  ecstactic  glow. 
While  the  gentle  evening  zephyrs. 

Fanned  the  flowers  in  the  vale  below. 

And  we  list  at  the  busy  noontide 

To  the  merry  gleaner's  din 
For  over  the  world  both  far  and  wide. 

The  golden  sheaves  are  garnered  in. 

But  soon  the  sunny  days  are  o'er; 

The  year  is  past  its  prime. 
The  busy  harvest  now  is  done. 

For  this  is  the  autumn  time. 

Now  the  year  is  growing  old. 

And  the  leaves  are  falling  down, 
The  angrj'  wind  is  growing  bold. 

In  the  autumn  sere  and  brown. 

To  some  it  brings  a  saddened  heart. 

For  the  gleaning  time  is  o'er. 
They  see  the  mellow  light  depart 

Ou  Time's  eternal  shore. 
The  spirit  grieves;  no  garnered  sheaves 

Awaits  the  Master's  call. 
The  sad  wind   sighs,  and    nothing  but  the 
leaves, 

On  the  ruined  hopes  doth  fall. 
Thus  summer,  autumn,  winter,  spring, 

Glide  on  with  noiseless  tread, 
And  ere  we  well  know  the  joys  tliey  bring, 

They  are  numbered  with  the  dead. 
Old  Year !  we  all  bid  you  farewell ; 

For  time  has  tolled  the  midnight  hour. 
And  slowly  rings  the  midiiiglit  bell. 

For  with  you,  is  now  no  more  life. 
With  you  we'll  bury  the  old.  old  book 

With  its  pages  soiled  and  worn. 
We  wish  to  all  the  world's  hearthstones 

Great  happiness  and  delight. 
Although  we  cannot  raise  the  curtain 

That  liides  the  future  from  our  aim. 
The  star  of  liope  gleams  not  uncertain 

And  wo  know  that  blessings  good  and  true 
Will  be  strewn  along  our  pathway, 

Till  the  race  of  life  is  run. 
So  we'll  welcome  the  glad  New  Year, 

The  year  eighteen  ninety-one. 
* 


|i{iiiii> 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   PORTS   OF    AMERICA. 


18J3 


ilRS.  HARRIET  B.  AUSTIN. 

I 

j  Born  :  Erie  City,  Pa. 

I|lier  infancy  her  family  removed  to  Wood- 
sick,  111.,  where  she  was  married  to  Wm.  li. 
distill,  and  has  since  resided.  Despite  her 
()\vded  life  Mrs.  Austin  has  found  time  to 
ilulgre  quite  extensively  her  love  for  liiera- 


MFJS.  HARRIET  BUNKER   AUSTIN. 

Lire.  Her  work  has  been  varied,  embracing- 
5says,  sketches,  stories  and  poems.  The 
itter  predominating-  and  most  widely  copied 
nd  admired.  Their  puresentiment  and deli- 
ite  beauty  gaining  for  her  a  constantly 
rowing  recognition  and  a  high  rank  as  a 
oetic  writer  and  several  of  her  poems  have 
een  set  to  music  by  popular  composers. 


HER  SONG. 
nail  skill  had  she  the  measured  note  to  sing, 

And  yet  to  me 
er  low  sweet  voice  with  words  of  love  aring 

Was  melody; 
ich  kindlj'  act  was  music's  echoing 

In  minor  key. 

iv  gentle  soul  with  tenderness  replete, 

Like  some  soft  rune,  [sweet, 

eathed  out  low  notes  of  song  so  clear  and 
'Twas  love's  own  tune; 


Her  life  a  round  of  harmony  complete 

Like  days  of  June. 
As  wild  birds'  music  soothes  the  troubled  soul 

At  morning  time. 
Or  restless  chords  of  being  calm  with  roll 

Of  organ's  chime. 
So  swept  across  my  life's  discordant  whole 

Her  notes  sublime. 
Her  voice  is  hushed, yet  fmmherlife's  refrain 

Falls  on  my  car  Ipaiii; 

A  deathless  song  that  soothes  my  heart's  dull 

And  though  not  here, 
I  know  she  chants  a  glad  exultant  strain 

In  happier  sphere. 

TO  MY  OLD  GOWN. 
Good-bye  old  gown,  it  grieves  my  lieart 
To  think  that  you  and  1  must  part. 
But  cruel  time  and  wear  and  tear 
Have  changed  your  tone  and  textures  fair; 
You're  badly  worn,  scarce  fit  to  mend 
'Tis  plain  to  see  you're  near  your  end. 
Yet  you  were  rich  and  fair  to  see 
That  happy  day  you  came  to  me, 
Though  new  and  strange  and  stiff  with  stays 
You  yielded  gently  to  my  ways. 
Your  unassuming  careless  grace 
Has  won  my  heart,  you've  filled  your  place. 
And  now  though  friends  condemn  you  quite 
Say  you're  old-fashioned  and  a  fright 
Yet  I  am  loath  to  lay  you  by. 
So  long  together  you  and  I 
Have  trod  the  weary  way  of  life 
With  all  its  ciimberingcaro  and  strife. 
And  many  things  and  secrets  deep 
Old  gown,  have  you  and  1  to  keep; 
You've  felt  the  heart's  tumultuous  beat, 
And  pulse  that  tlirobbed  at  fever  heat 
At  touch  of  hand  and  tones  that  thrill; 
Dear  gown  we'll  keep  our  secrets  still. 
And  now  mine  eyes  grow  dim  at  thought 

That  tlirough  all  changes  time  has  wrought, 
Since  first  you  came,  through  good  and  ill 

You've  closely  clung,  you're  faithful  still; 

You've  braved  the  storms  of  life  with  me; 

Could  any  friend  more  loyal  be? 

It  was  for  me  you  trailed  the  dust, 

And  how  ungrateful,  how  unjust. 

To  be,  because  your  growing  old 

Laid  on  the  shelf  to  gather  mold; 

Now  is  the  time  I  should  be  true 

When  friends  are  criticising  you. 

Come  back,  old  gown,  we  must  not  part ; 

Your  mute  appeal  lias  touched  my  heart; 

I'm  old  and  badly  worn  myself. 

Mayhap  I'll  soon  lie  on  tlie  shelf; 

Though  friends  mayUout.I'U  mend  you  stout. 

Perhaps,  dear  gown,  you'll  last  me  out. 

_ q. 


*b- 


1324 


LOCAL  AND    NATIONAL  POETS  OK    A:MERICA. 


EMILY  G.  WETHERBEE. 

Born:  Milford,  N.  H.,  1846. 
For  several  years  Miss  Wetherbee  taught 
in  Boston.  She  is  on  the  staflf  of  the  Law- 
rence American,  and  is  a  member  of  tlie 
New  Eng-land  Women's  Press  Association. 
Miss  Wetherbee  is  president  of  the  Old  Resi- 


EMILY  GREEVE  WETHERBKE. 

dent's  Association  of  Lawrence,  and  vice- 
president  of  Lawrence  High  School  Alumni 
Association.  Miss  Wetherbee  is  now  teacher 
of  Latin  and  English  literature  in  Lawrence 
Hig:h  School.  She  has  written  considerable 
prose  and  verse,  which  lias  appeared  in  the 
Boston  Journal,  Globe.New  England  Journal 
of  Education,  Boston  Transcript,  Lawrence 
American,  Good  Housekeeping- and  various 
otlier  prominent  publications. 


THE  OLD  GAKDEN  GATE. 

Sweet  lilacs  blossomed  near,  syring-as  bent 
above  it. 
The  snow-ball  tree  beside  it  stood  in  state. 
While  modest  little  pinks  sent  up  their  spicy 
odors 
Around  the  dear,  familiar  garden  gate. 

Outside  it,  by  the  road,  stood  ranks  of  nod- 
ding daisies; 


The  clover  made  the  distant  meadows  gaj  I 
And  slender  buttercups  held  up  tlieir  golde 
clialice. 
As  if  to  catch  the  splendor  of  the  day. 

Hid  in  the  drooping  elms,  which  o'er  it  cas ' 

their  shadows,  i 

The  robins  held  their  jubilee  of  song; 

And,   free  as  summer  winds,   from  villag  | 

school  returning', 

A  group  of  merry,  noisy  children  tlirong.   ; 

I  look  back  wiih  dim  eyes  across  the  years 
dark  mazes. 
And  hear  it  on  the  noisy  hinges  swing; 
A  fair-haired,  laughing'  g-irl  comes  trippiuj! 
down  the  doorsteps. 
Light-hearted  as  a  bird  upon  the  wing.      ! 
I  see  them  once  again,  the  well-rememberec ; 
places,  ' 

And  list  to  voices,  silent  long  ago, 
That,  like  some  sweet  old  rhyme,  still  float! 
through  mem'ry's  chambers,       [low. 
And  haunt  me  with  their  cadence  softanc 
O  fair  and  sunny  spot,  the  playground  of  mj 
childhood,  [state, 

The  world,  with  all  its  wondrous  pomp  and 
Has    nothing'   to  bestow,  amid   its   boasted 
glories. 
Like  those  around  the  dear  old  garden  gate. 


HER  PICTURE. 

In  pure  white  garments  dressed, 
With  daisies  on  her  breast. 
She  stands  here  fair  and  sweet. 
The  grasses  at  her  feet. 
And  fills  the  lonely  room 
With  jouth's  own  rosy  bloom. 
What  fresh  and  childlike  grace 
Upon  the  lovely  face, 
VVhile  all  the  sunshine  fair 
Seems  tangled  in  her  hair; 
And  from  her  eyes  so  blue 
The  spirit  clear  looks  through; 
As  if  she  now  iiad  come 
Down  from  her  heavenly  home. 
And  if  we  called  her  iimiiio, 
Would  step  from  out  the  frame 
And  tell  us  not  to  weep. 
For  death  is  but  a  sleep. 
And  heaven  for  her  is  near 
Those  on  the  earth  so  dear. 
How  blest  the  painter's  art 
That  thus  can  .soothe  the  heart, 
Bringing'  before  us  here 
Our  little  maid  so  fair. 
While  eyes  with  teardrops  wet 
The  cold  dark  grave  forget, 
And  upward  look  to  where 
Our  blessed  angels  are. 


*■ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAf,   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


1325 


LORA  VIDAGETCHELL. 

Born  :  Lowelf.,  Mass.,  Oct.  22, 18C9. 
Miss  Getchell  wrote  tlie  class  poem  at  lier 
graduation  in  1888  from  the  Herwick  Acad- 
emy; aud  also  wrote  the  reunion  poem  omo 


LORA  VIDA  Of.TCHKLL. 

year  later.    The  poems  of  tliis  lady  have  ap- 
peared in  the  Morning- Star  and  other  papers. 


*- 


TWO  SUNSETS. 
Last  night  as  in  the  west  the  sun  was  setting. 

The  beauty  of  the  skj'  was  unsurpassed  ; 
For  just  above  the  distant  bright  horizon. 

Glowing  in  the  lieavens  broad  aud  vast. 
Clouds  of  crimson,  with  a  golden  lining. 

Linger  round  the  glorious  setting  sun. 
Which,  in  all  its  wondrous  beauty  shhiing. 

Sinks,  its  daily  course  is  done. 

To-night  the  rain  had  not  ceased  falling. 

When  in  the  western  sky  did  glow 
The  sun,  its  last  beams  through  the  raindrops 
gleaming. 
Like  golden  arrows  from  a  magic  bow; 
Wliile  in  the  east,  against  a  dark  and  threat- 
ening V)ack-ground. 
Resting,  in  a  contrast  rich  and  rare. 
The  wide  extending  circle  of  the  rainbow 
Formed  from  earth    to   Heaven  a  shining 
stair. 


A  PEN  PICTURE. 

Tlie  sea  without   a  ripple  luy,  gUM)my  and 

dark  and  still; 
Still,  save  tlie  splash  of  the  breaking  waves, 

scarce  loud  as  a  murmuring  rill; 
Dark,  save  the  lights  of  the  sentinel,  that 

shines  through  the  niglit  so  drear, 
<!uiding  the  fisherman  to  his  post,  and  bring- 
ing the  sailor  cheer. 
Dark,  save  where  the  stars  of   Heaven   lio 

mirrored  in  ocean's  jleplh. 
Gleaming   and    trinkling  dimly  with  every 

stirring  breath. 
Hut  now  from  out  the  ocean's  gloom  a  light 

sliines  soft  and  dim. 
And  on  the  line  where  sea  meets  heaven, 

flashes  u  lustrous  rim; 
Brighter  and  brighter  still  it  grows  till  full 

upon  our  sight 
Floats  on  the  deep  Atlantic's  breasta  sphere 

of  golden  light. 
And  now  before  its  brilliancy  darkness  and 

shadows  flee. 
While  a  flood  of  sparkling  radiance  spans 

the  still,  calm  sea. 
Like  a  bridge  of  light  suspendid   from  the 

clear  moon  to  the  shore. 
While  the  tiny  nymphs  of  ocean  dance  gaily 

its  surface  o'er. 
But  look!  the  glory  of  the  moon   no  longer 

shines  unmarred. 
And  from  the  raptured  gazer  its  brilliant 

beams  are  barred; 
For  a  ship,  in  its  ci>urse  o'er  the  ocean,  with 

its  white  sails  all  outspread. 
Has  paused  at  the  bridge  of  moonlight,cauKht 

by  its  golden  thread; 
Paused,  but  for  hardly  a  moment,  before  the 

moon's  full  light; 
Darkened  its  splendor  a  moment,  then  sailed 

away  out  of  sight. 
It  is  true  that  its  briglitness  was  clouded,  a 

shadow  had  broken  the  spell. 
But  the  beauty  the  sail  had  imparte<l  neither 

poet  nor  paiiit<  r  can  tell. 
So  when  in  life  our  liopes  rise  high  and  blind 

our  raptured  sight. 
Our  future  seems  to  us  one  bright  and  un- 

dimmed  light. 
We  see  no  crosses,  cares  or  fears,  nothing'  to 

mar  life's  joys; 
And  think  of  life  as  a  pleasant  gift,  to  enjj)y 

without  alloy. 
But  shadows  will  surely  cross  each  life,  and 

dim  its  brilliant  hue; 
Will  darken  our  most  cherished  hopes,  and 

hide  our  goal  from  view. 
But  1  ho'  these  shadows  may  eellpse  the  lustre 

of  our  life.  [every  strife. 

They  will  impart  a  deeper  strengih  to  win  in 


*- 


1326 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF    AMEllICA. 


CHARLES  OSCAR  MASON. 

Bokn:  Glen  Falls,  N.  Y.,  Nov.  14,  1848. 
Mr.  Mason  has  generally  been  engaged  in 
school  teachins"  and  as  a  commereial  traveler, 
but  expects  eventually  to  follow  the  ministry 
of  the  gospel.  Mr.  Mason  has  written  ex- 
tensively both  prose  and  poetry  for  the  peri- 


CHARLES   06CAR  MASON. 

odical  press,  and  his  articles  and  poems  arc 
always  eagerly  accepted  by  publishers,  and 
welcomed  ^y  tlie  public.  Mr.  Mason  re- 
mains unmarried  and  resides  in  the  place  of 
his  nativity. 

CAST  DOWN,  BUT  NOT  DESTROYED. 

Weeping,  we  still  bewail  us. 
Fierce  foes  and  strong  assail  us. 
Our  heart  doth  well-nigh  fail  us. 

Beneath  our  load 
W^e're  groaning,  struggling  yet, 
Sin  doth  so  oft  beset. 
Such  small  success  we've  met. 

So  rough  the  road 
Toward  mastery  of  passion. 
So  hard  it  is  to  fashion 
Our  lives  aright,  compassion! 

Help  us,  O  God. 
Lord,  save  us,  or  we  perish, 

The  good  resolves 
That  each  new  morn  we  cherish. 
The  noon-tide  hot  and  garish 


Too  sure,  dissolves. 
Put  thou  thy  strength  within  us. 
All  that  would  from  tliee  win  us 

Bid  quick  depart. 
When  we  would  stray,  withhold  us, 
Into  thine  image  mold  us. 
O  God,  our  Mother  fold  us 

Close  to  thy  heart. 
So  shall  our  steps  be  surer; 
So  shall  our  lives  be  purer; 

And  not  alone. 
Ourselves  shall  be  uplifted, 

Ceasing  to  moan. 
See  sin,  the  heaven-obscurer, 

Hath,  in  its  hands 
Of  iron,  many  another. 
Dear  to  our  elder  brother. 
O  God,  cur  Father,  Mother, 

Take  now  our  hands. 
And  lead  to  love's  endeavor. 
Oh,  maj'  it  slacken  never. 

But  the  rather 

Grow,  and  gather 

Strength,  O  Father! 


DEFINITION. 

EXTRACT. 

As  iiWhat  is  poetry?"    Thy  life.    The  thrill 
Of  conscious  immortality.    The  still 
But  tuneful  voice  of  spirit  mystery. 
The  crystal  depth  of  love's  eternity. 
The  quickening  breath  of  the  Creator.    All 
The  deathless  life  that  waketh  at  his  call, 
The  one  eternal  poet,  perfect,  true. 
Ne'er  changing,  yet  all-various,  ever  new, 
Wliose   thoughts    are    rhythm,    all    whose 

works  a  chime, — 
A  wondrous  poem  writ  in  faultless  rhyme. 
Breathes   our   creative    breath,    and  lo!  a 

thought 
Is  'corn,  a  lyre  attuned,  a  marvel  wrought! 
A  breath  divine!    In  quaver  minim,  breve. 
We  hope,  we  fear,  we  joy,  we  sigh,— we  live' 
One  poem  grand.    Thou  may'st  not  read  itall 
To-daj-,  in  its  majestic  measure.    Small 
The  fragment  thou  doste'enattempttoscan. 
With  vision  short  in  tliy  brief  mortal  span. 
Intent  thou  listest;  and  with  joy  or  pain 
Dost  catch   faint,  tuneful  sighiugs;    minor 

strain 
Of  one  unending  universal  song, 
lu  which  no  sigh,  tone  or  thought  is  wrong. 
Sin  planteth  oft  the  thistle  for  the  n)se. 
Life  hath  its  lines  of  hard  and  bitter  prose, 
Tliere    come,   for   music,  harsh,  discordant 

tones  [moans. 

That  give,  in  place  of   gladness    tears   and 
When    all    things    new    become,  e'en  these 

shall  be 
The  discord  that  but  brightens  harmony. 


*- 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMEltlCA. 


1H-' 


COMMODORE  P.  TllORXHILL. 

Born:  Caldwell  Parish,  La..  June  13, 1857. 
As  Alawj'cr,  Mr.  Ttioruliill  liiis  attained  some 
prominence  in  his  native  state,  and  is  en- 
gfnged  in  tlie  active  pi'acticeot'  liis  profession 
at  Columbia,  la.    His  poems  have  appeared 


COMMODORE  PERRY  TllORXHILL. 

from  time  to  time  in  the  periodical  press, 
and  liave  always  received  favorable  notice. 
Mr.  Tliornhill  was  married  in  1889  to  Miss  Eva 
Bridger,  and  has  one  son,  John  Bridger,  born 
July  7. 1890. 

A  REFLECTION. 

Oh  the  bright  beguiling  spells! 

That  yearning  boyhood  knows; 
Even  now  my  bosom  swells 

As  the  stream  of  memory  flows. 

I  see  upon  its  waves  the  smile 
That  came  to  meet  my  own. 

And  the  bugbears  of  each  mile 
When  sent  to  school  alone, 

I  hear  the  murmur  of  a  voice 

In  its  placid  water's  How, 
That  fired  my  boyish  spu-it 

Long,  long  years  ago. 

'Tis  not  a  father's,  'tis  not  a  mother's. 
For  they  are  with  me  still. 


'Tis  the  slow,  solemn  voice  of  dosllny 

That  bent  me  to  its  will. 
It  came  from  the  mystic  shadows, 

It  came  with  the  ocean's  nmr. 
Calling  me  to  a  field  of  labor 

I  had  never  dreamed  Ijoforc. 
And  while  I  sit  luTC  reflectiiifr 

Over  the  dark  as  well  as  tlie  bright. 
If  I  had  the  power  within  me 

I'd  not  hush  that  voice  to-night; 
For  all  that  my  boyhood  has  been. 

And  all  tliat  iiialurily  may  be, 
I  owe  to  my  blind  ft)llowiug 

Of  that  voice  of  destiny. 


NIGHT. 
The  gaudy,  babbling,  .scornful  day 

Has  crept  behind  the  western  hill; 
The  sun  has  sjieiit  his  last  warm  ray 

And  all  around  is  dark  and  still. 

The  bells  that  made  the  forest  ring 

While  the  sun  was  in  the  sk>  , 
At  night  have  ceased  their  beat  of  time 

For  the  homeless  pilgrim  passing  by. 

Who  strikes  his  feet  upon  the  stones 
That  lie  along  his  darkened  way. 

And  sends  back  an  echo,  like  a  moan. 
To  crack  the  stillness  of  departed  day. 

And  the  birds  — the  hapi)y  .songful  birds 
Whose    notes   are   sweet  whose   plumage 
bright. 

Like  the  lazy  browsing  herds. 
Are  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  approach  nf  night. 

The  raging  thoughts  that  rusli  on  the  brain 
With  forms  of  danger  and  atTright, 

Are  calmed  to  the  gentleness  of  falling  raiii 
By  the  whispering  breezes  of  soothing 
night. 

Night!  God  sent  night,  thy  blessings  all  must 
own! 
From    the    lowest  drunken   hovel  to  the 
highest  mortal  throne; 
From  the  felon  in  his  dungeon  to  the  sailor 
on  the  sea. 
Comes  an  ever  welcome  hailing   for  n-si 
and  for  thee. 


EXTRACT. 

Though  the  mornir\g  roses  blush 

With  eastern  lints  of  gold. 
That  over  the  globe  in  glory  rush, 

rnrestrained  and  uncontrolled. 
They  fail  to  rouse  within  my  bn-ast. 

A  single  spark  of  feeling  tin'. 
And  yet  the  bud  uix)n  my  desk. 

My  fondest  passions  still  Inspire. 


*- 


1328 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POEl  S   OF    AMERICA. 


MRS.  C.  M.  LANDON. 

Bokn:  PoNTiAC,  Mich.,  March  30, 1829. 
In  1849  this  lady  was  married  to  lier  tutor, 
Mr.David  Latidon.a  gentleman  wlio  lias  since 
been  judg'eof  proljate  and    common   pleas 
and  is  now  a  judge  in  Highland,  Colo.,  and 


MRS.  CATHERINE  MARIA  LANDON. 

has  filled  many  posts  of  public  trust  and 
honor.  Mrs.  Laridon  has  always  been  identi- 
flod  with  educational,  temperance  and  mis- 
sionary enterprises  Nearly  two  hundred  of 
'  her  poems  iiave  appeared  in  tlie  leading'  pub- 
lications and  in  several  standard  collections. 


*- 


DENVER. 
A  song'  for  griorious  Denver  — 

Fair  sovereign  of  the  West, 
Wooing  the  subjects  of  all  the  lands 

To  do  her  kind  behest  — 
Clasping  the  faint  and  homeless 

To  her  benignant  breast. 
She  lifts  her  queenly  eyelids 

And  sees  the  pageant  swell; 
From  homesteads  on  Atlantic  slopes. 

From  soutliern  glade  and  dell, 
The  bravest  and  the  wisest 

Yield  to  her  iiKi^ic  spell. 
She  sits  beside  her  mountains, 

A  thing  of  joy  and  mig:iit; 
The  secrets  of  their  golden  hearts 


Are  hers,  by  royal  right; 
Touched  by  her  wand,  their  treasures 
Are  roused,  to  seek  the  light. 

Each  day,  her  thought  brings  action  — 

Each  night  some  goal  is  won. 
Here,  bearing  life  to  man  and  beast 

Her  holly-channels  run. 
There,  pure  artesian  fountains 

Leap  skyward,  in  the  sun. 

Who  would  not  sing  for  Denver  — 

The  marvel  of  the  age  — 
The  grand,  young  Pythoness,  that  springs, 

Exultant,  to  the  stage  — 
The  electric  light,  whose  splendors 
Illume  both  saint  and  sage! 

Here  wealth  clasps  hands  with  pity, 

To  bridge  the  tide  of  tears  — 
Here  science,  led  bj'  faith,  unlocks 

The  music  of  the  spheres, 
Till  life's  harmonic  numbers 

Seem  fit  for  seraph's  ears. 

Ah.  Denver,  thou  art  lovely, 

Even  thy  graves  are  blest; 
In  view  of  river  winding  by 

And  snow-capped  mountain  crest; 
How  sweetlj',  in  thy  bosom 

Thy  weary  ones  may  rest! 
Yet,  peerless,  maiden  citj-, 

With  sandals  dewy-wet, 
A  grander  day-dawn  breaks  for  thee. 

Than  thou  hast  dreamed  of  yet  — 
A  sunrise  gilds  the  mountains. 

Where  glories  ne'er  shall  set. 
Hear'st  thou  the  surging  murmur 

That  shakes  the  sentiment  air  — 
The  onward  tramp  of  conquering  ones. 

Who  nobly  do  and  dare? 
See'st  thou  tlie  arm  potential 

To  rend  the  spoiler's  snare? 
Room  for  the  heroes,  Denver! 

Room  for  thy  kingly  men; 
Make  room  for  woman's  generous  heart  — 

For  wonnin's  f  ranciiised  pen  — 
Room  for  the  power  that  beardeth 

The  lion,  in  his  den! 
Denver,  beloved  city  — 

Thou  city  of  our  prayers. 
The  Sabbath's,  sanctified  and  pure. 

Shall  charm  tlie  world-day  cares, 
Till  peace  shall  dwell  with  virtue, 

Tlirough  all  thy  thoroughfares. 
Young,  eagle-eyed  contestant, 

Tliy  race  is  but  begun; 
Yet-  well  we  know  thy  winged  feet 

'I'ht;  I'adiant  course  shall  run. 
Till  heights,  whore  earth  meets  heaven, 
Tliou  liast  securely  won. 


» — ^ 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMEUICA. 


1329 


MRS.  C.  M.  HANCOCK. 

Boun:  South  Berwick,  Me.,  Dec.  19, 1845. 
In  her  youth  this  lady  taught  scliool  and  in 
1873  graduated  from  the  Woman's  Hospital 
Medical  CoUeg-e.    She  is  very  fond  of  music, 
and  has  played  the  seraphiue  many  times  in 


MRS.  CHARLOTTE  M.  HANCOCK. 

public.  Besides  her  many  poems,  Mrs.  Han- 
cock has  written  numerous  sketches,  tales 
and  essays  which  have  appeared  in  different 
publications.  She  was  married  in  1881  to  Mr. 
EUery  M.  Hancock,  has  two  daughters,  and 
now  resides  in  Waukon,  Iowa. 


THE  MODERN  KHEA. 
I  am  daughter  of  a  king. 

If  thou  wert  a  god 
All  his  palace  doors  would  swing 

Open  at  thy  nod. 
Vestal  priestess,  too,  am  I, 

If  thou  wert  divine 
Bolts  and  bars  would  open  fly 

To  the  secret  shrine. 
Neither  god  nor  hero  thou  — 

Since  great  Pan  is  dead. 
With  forbidden  flre  endowed 

Men  have  ruled  instead. 

And  they  know  not  how  to  woo. 
Care  not  love  is  death. 


Yet  the  old  world  rules  the  new. 
As  the  wise  man  t-:iith. 


THE  CHILDKEN3  HAIR. 

Only  three  rinjrs  of  hair. 
And  one  sweet  name  for  eacli; 
Dear  angels,  I  beseech 
You,  let  them  keep  each  name 
The  very  same 

Across  the  river  there! 

Paul,  first  and  foremost  yet. 
This  lock,  all  golden  brown. 
Came  from  his  curly  cniwn 
In  the  glad  long  ago; 
Surely  I  know 

Love  does  not  soon  forget. 

Willie,  this  tiny  ray 
Of  tinted,  pale  sunshine, 
Oil,  little  lamb  of  mine. 
Wonder  not  at  the  gate 
If  1  come  late, 

You  had  a  safer  way  I 

Here  is  a  radiant  hint 
Of  the  bright  veil  iliat  rolled 
Its  waves  of  living  gold 
From  Eva's  merry  face; 
All  time  and  space 

Seem  lighted  with  its  glint. 

No  worn  out,  silver  thread, 
Maj-  creep  in  there,  like  frost  — 
For  time  its  jKiwer  lias  lost 
To  bring  my  darlings  pain. 
Or  earthly  stain. 

Or  bitter,  evil  dread. 

Dear  children,  I  may  lose 
All  else  I  have,  may  know 
The  deepest  depth  of  woe. 
i'ou  can  ha^■e  only  good. 
Ah  mel    I  could 

No  better  fortune  choose! 


LILIES. 
Out  where  the  silent  willows 

Stand  in  the  sunny  glow. 
Their  branches  almost  tniiliug 

Down  to  the  grass  below. 
Over  the  fence  and  over 
A  field  of  fragrant  clover. 
And  then  a  snioiitli  green  hollow 

Where  tawny  lilies  grow. 
Careless  field  lilies  swinging 

Each  on  its  slender  f  leiii. 
And  He  who  guides  the  nations 

Can  p;iuse  to  notice  them. 
Oh  doubting  soul  and  fenrful. 
Of  thee  too  He  is  careful. 
Canst  thou  not  trust  His  pminlse 

And  leave  thy  wajs  to  Him? 


*■ 


*- 


1330 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


JOHN  A.  CHAPMAN. 

Born:  Edgefield  Co.,  S.  C.  March  9, 1821. 
Mr.  Chapman  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in 
1855,  and  practiced  law  for  several  years.  He 
then  became  a  bookseller  and  followed  that 
business  for  twenty-five  years.  He  served 
as  a  volunteer  in  the  war  and  was  wounded. 


JOHN   A.  CHAPMAN. 

Since  retiring  from  business  in  1888  Mr.  Chap- 
man has  been  very  closely  engaged  in  the 
study  and  writing  of  history  of  his  own  state. 
He  is  the  author  of  a  meritorious  poem  en- 
titled The  Ideal  Man.  In  1875  he  published  a 
volume  of  verse.  The  Walls  and  Other  Poems ; 
and  in  1879  appeared  Within  The  Vail,  both  of 
which  have  received  great  praise.  He  has 
also  several  prose  works  ready  for  publica- 
tion. The  poems  of  Mr.  Chapman  have 
appeared  in  Godey's  Lady's  Book,  Southern 
Literary  Gazette,  New  York  Home  Journal 
and  other  publications.  He  was  married  in 
1845,  and  has  a  family  of  six  children  all  liv- 
ing and  grown  to  maturity. 


*- 


ONE  SUMMER  DAT. 
1  walked  along  the  crowded  street 

One  summer  day; 
And  through  the  noise  of  trampling  feet, 
I  heard  a  voice  divinely  sweet, 


Whose  echoes  still  about  me  play, 
Sweet  as,  so  long  ago,  they  did 

That  summer  day. 
O,  sweet  it  was  of  love  to  dream 

One  summer  day! 
Then  smoothly  went  life's  flowing  stream. 
And  brightlj'  slione  life's  glowing  beam  — 

I  thought  'twould  brightlj'  sbiue  away. 
And  never  would  its  light  be  hid. 

That  summer  daj-. 
But  Youth  and  Love  together  went 

One  summer  day; — 
They,  only  for  a  short  while  lent, 
With  flowers  and  golden  hopes  besprent. 

Pass  like  a  flying  bird  away;— 
But  memory  fondly  holds  siill  dear 

That  summer  day. 
O  Love  I  I  met  you  in  tlie  street 

One  summer  day ; 
You  tripped  along,  jour  dainty  feet 
Went  soundless,  and  you  looked  so  neat 

Mj'  iieart  was  carried  quite  away — 
Our  souls  drew  near.  O  very  near. 

That  summer  day. 


LIFE. 
Yes,  life  is  like  the  waves  that  beat 

On  ocean's  ever  sounding  shore; 
Wave  follows  wave  in  endless  change, 

Yet  still  the  the  same  forevermore. 
The  heart's  love  of  the  years  gone  by 

Is  like  the  heart's  love  of  to-day; 
And  life  and  love  will  still  be  here 

When  we  have  passed  awaj'. 
The  flowers  that  bloom  around  us  now 

Are  like  the  flowers  first  planted  here; 
The  birds  whose  songs  we've  heard  to-day, 

The  same  as  sung  here  year  by  year; 
Yet  not  the  same,  an  endless  change 

Moves  all  things  to  decaj-; 
But  life  dies  not,  the  forms  alone. 

That  fold  it,  pass  away.  [dream 

And    youth   soon    passes,   youth's    sweet 

Flits  like  an  angel  visit  by; 
And  memory  o'er  the  fading  past 

Looks  backwards  with  a  longing  sigh: 
A  sigh  that  in  despite  of  fate 

Would  bring  again  those  happy  hours, 
When  youth  sat  by  his  early  love 

And  crowned  her  brow  with  flowers. 


EXTRACT. 
Come,  Ida,  come,  and  rest  thee  here. 

And  listen  to  my  wild  harp  strings: 
Come  seat  thee  on  this  verdant  baidc 

Wliere  the  tall  oak  its  shadow  flings. 
For  when  I  hear  thy  thrilling  voice. 

Of  music  full  and  harmonj'; 
I  can  but  then  attune  mj'  harj> 

To  match  it  in  its  melody. 


*- 


— !• 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    I'OKTS   OK    AMKKICA. 


i.jai 


MRS.  EVA  MUNSON  SMITH. 

Born:  Monkton,  Vt.,  July  13, 1843. 
Mrs.  Eva  Munson  Smith  is  the  compiler  of 
Woman  in  Sacred  Soug-,  a  large  standard 
work  of  liyinns,  relig-ious  poems  and  sucrod 
music.  She  is  the  author  of  two  liundrod 
poems   tliat   liavo    appeared  in  the  leading 


MRS.  EVA  MUNSON  SMITH. 

publications  of  America  and  have  been  a 
valu.'ible  acquisition  to  current  literature. 
The  Field  is  the  World  is  a  play  in  verse  that 
is  very  popular,  and  has  been  extensively 
sold  in  every  state  in  the  Union,  as  well  as  in 
Europe,  Asia  and  Africa.  This  lady  was 
married  in  1869  to  George  Clinton  Smith,  a 
well-known  druggist  of  Springfield,  Illiuois. 


THE  LAST  COMMAND. 
Soft  floating  on  the  Syrian  breeze,  a  voice 
Serene  is  heard.    As  earnest  tones  oft  greet 
The  ear,  in  cadence  low,  so  faultless  rliythm, 
Measure,  words  that  burn  into  the  very 
Souls  of  those  who  listen. 
In  tliat  upper 
Chamber  where  the    eleven   are   gathered, 

comes  the 
Sacred  message  from  the  risen  Master's 
Loving  heart.  Love  for  a  sinful  world '.   Love 
For  a  ruined  race!    Sad  are  the  deep,  dark 


Eyes,  and  pale  the  visage  of  the  holy. 
The  anointed  Son  of  God;  for  Israel, 
His  people,  race  chosen  of  the  Fatlifr, 
Had  the  Son  rejected.    Saddest  of  all 
Sad  dnys  for  tiieui,  hut  Joy  supreme  for  us, 
O  gentile  world! 

Listen !  the  Master  speaks. 
"Go  ye  thro'  all  the  world  and  preach  the 
Gospel  to  all  men!     naptize  them  in 
Thenameof  the  Father,  Son  and  Holy  Glmst; 
And  lo!  with  you,  forever,  I  abide." 
Seraphs    and  angels  viewed  the  scene,  nie- 

thinks 
Well  pleased,  and  bore  aloft  to  Heaven  the 
Tidings  glad,  that  pardon  full  and  free  was 
Offered  to  all  dwellers  hert'  below.    Then 
Must  again  thi'  morning  stars  have  sang  rich 
Strains  of  melody,  and  shouts  of  joy      [ven. 
Itesounded  erstwhile  thro'  the  dome  of  Hea- 
But  not  without    keen   thorns  and   rugged 

ways 
Were  beset  the  lives  of  those  who  cheerfully 
Obeyed  the  Savior's  mandate.    Still  on  they 
Toiled,  sowing  tlie  precinus  seed  in  love. 
Leaving  results  witli   Him  who  watt-rs  and 
Gives  increase.    They  bore  in  patience  and 
Submission  nieek.contempland  taunting  je>t 
Imprisonment  and  cruel  stocks,  for  sake 
Of  Christ.    Well  knew  they  Him  on  whom 

their  trust 
Was  stayed.  Ne'er  could  the  chosen  few  forget 
The  sight,  as  He  ascended  to  the  waitiin.' 
Father.    Many  wlio  heard  the  preached 
Word,  believed,  and  gave  themselves  with 

all  they 
Had.  to  aid  the  Masters  cause.    Others  with 
Seoflings  and  derisions  rude,  weiv  si  umbliiig- 
Blocks  of  dire  olfense  to  those  who  might 

have 
Come  unto  the  waters,  and  drank  freely 
Of  unbounded  h)ve  and  mercy.    Stands  thus 
The  holy  cause  tonlay. 
Some  offer  self  and  all  they  have  to 
Spread  abroad  the   news  of  joy  and  peace. 

Some 
Will  not  see,  but  blindly  gmpe.  and  he«d  not 
Christ's    injunction    to    His    followers    :ill. 
Sit  down  in  ease  and  apathy,  content 
To  let  the  work  progress,  so  no  dlsi  urbiiig 
Element,  or  call  for  aid,  distracts  the 
Quiet  tenure  of  their  lives. 

••At  case  in 
Zion!    What  are  souls  to  them?  Rosttheyon 
Roses  while  the  w».rld  is  dying?"    Xaiions 
In  profoundest  darkness  lie.  pleading 
For  help  across  the  dark  expans*-  of 
Sea.    At  ease  in  Zion!    How  can  souls  re- 

deea  e<l 
Thus  sit  on  idle  couch  of  luxury. 
While  perish  millions  for  the  hr.-:id  of  Hfel 


« 


*- 


1332 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF    A51ERICA. 


At  ease  in  Ziou !    No  love  for  Him  who     Lup 

Braved  life's  sorrows  and  man's  hate,  to  lift 

To  tlie  g'ates  of  bliss,  all  who  accept 

Salvation's  offers  full  and  free.    No  care 

To  heed  the  last  command, — 

No  love  for  all  the 

Earth,  but  selfishly  regarding  just  this 

Little  sphere  in  wliich  we  daily  dwell. 

No  zeal  to  spread  His  word  and  truth  to 

heathen  [and 

Tell.  "Enough  to  do  at  home!  "  Up!  Up! 
Do  it,  then!  Why  linger  ye  in  all  the  [that 
Plain?  Haste!  be  about  tlie  Master's  work. 
Ocean  depths  will  have  to  be  o'ercrossed,  ere 
One  be  found  who  is  not  Christ's,  redeemed 

and 
Saved  by  precious  blood  alone. 

•'  But  how 
Believe?"  say  some.    How  comes  the  faith 

that  leaves 
All  else  behind  and  worlss  for  God  and  souls? 
How  reason  ye  the  matter?    As  a 
Faculty,  reason  far  below  faith  falls. 
Tho'  we  cannot  view  the  stars  In  daylight 
Fair,  iho  stars  we  linow  are  In  yon  heaven's 
Expanse,  just  as  at  night,  and  "we  can  call 
Tliem  thus  and  thus,  by  light  of  science."  So 
By  faith,  the  light  of  those  who  walk  in 
Christian  fellowship  and  love,  we  know  God 
Sent  His  only  Son,  beloved  above  all 
Else,  to  suffer  ignominious  agony 
Upon  the  cross  that  we  might  be 
Redeemed.    By  faith  we  know  He  rose,  and 
Reigneth  with  the  Father  infinite. 
Compassionate,  and  full  of  tender  love 
To  fallen  man.    In  faith  we  take  the  bread 
And  wine,  blest  emblems  of  His  broken  body 
And  shed  blood,  nor  doubt  the  duty  bounden 
On  us,  nor  the  wondrous  good  derived  from 
Tluis  partaking.    Yet  of  these  same  ones, 
Devout  and  full  of  love,  some  seem  to  doubt 
Our  duty  and  high  privilege  to  obey  the  last 

command 
Of  Christ,  which,  once  obeyed  by  followers 
Of  Him,  brought  unto  us  the  story  of 
The  cross;  the  story  of  redemption,  which 
Purchased  e'en  for  us  salvation.    At  ease 
In  Zion !    Pardon,  dear  Lord !  tlie  ease  in 
Wliicli  wedwell.    Arouse,  by  Thine  almighty 
Pow'r,    the  slumb'ring  ones.      Make  us  to 

know  and 
Heed  Thy  last  command.    Use  us  [and 

To  haste  the  time  when  all  shall  know  Thee 
Thy  risen  Son  who  reigneth  with  Theo  in 
The  courts  of  radiant  glory.    Helj)  us  to 
Comprehend  the  joyous  fact  that  if  souls 
Be  led,  tliro'  us,  from  sin's  dark  doom  into 
The  light  of  that  abode  "  whose  bright  foun- 
dations 


Are  the  heights  of  Heaven,"  'twill  be  of  more 

avail 
To  us  when  done  with  earth,  than  to  have 

gained  the 
Plaudits  of  the  world,  won  fairest  fame,  or 
Called  our  own,   the   bounteous  wealth  of 

land  and  sea. 


JENNIE  A.  BAKER. 

Born.  Cherry  Run,  Pa.,  Aug.  4, 1856. 
Miss  Baker  occasionly   writes  verse.    She 
is  a  lover  of  music  and  reading,  and  has  read 


JENNIE  A.  BAKER. 

the  C.  L.  S.  C.  Course  in  which  she  graduated 
with  the  class  of  1889. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

Dearest  Maggie,  gone  to  rest. 
From  the  toils  and  cares  of  life. 
From  the  ills,  and  pains  and  strife. 

Thou  art  now  forever  blest. 

In  that  heavenly  home  above. 
She  is  clothed  in  robes  of  white. 
Ever  singing  day  and  night. 

Tender  songs  of  Jesus'  love. 

Oft  we  dream  and  think  of  thee; 
liong  to  hear  thai'  sweet  voice  ring 
Sweetly,  as  you  used  to  sing 

•  •  Hock  of  Ages  cleft  for  me." 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIOXAL   POETS  OF   AMEKICA. 


1333 


SAMUEL  M.WITIIAM. 

Born:  Old  York,  Me..  Jan.  14, 1R4.1. 
The  i)oems  of  Mr.Witham  have  appeared  in 
the  leading'  publicationsof  Haverhill, Gcorg-e- 
town,  Newburyport  and  the  periodical  press 
peiierall.v.    Several  of  his  poems  have  been 


, 

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t        ^  jj^ 

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v^gH^H^H^^^^HP^ 

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SAMUEL  MOSHKK    WITHAM. 

set  to  nnisie,  and  are  destined  to  become  pop- 
ular, ^[r.  Witham  Is  a  thorough  business 
man,  being-  a  contractor  and  builder,  and 
dealer  in  real  estate.  He  was  married  in  1865 
to  Miss  Ciiarlotte  A.Wentworth,hnst\vosoiis 
and  resides  in  Haverliill,  Mass.,  wliere  he  is 
well  known   for  his  sterling  qualities. 


WILL  IT  PAY? 
A  stain  upon  our  garment, 

A  rent  upon  our  clothes. 
Have  lost  their  wortli  and  beauty 

Alike  to  friends  and  foes. 
So  a  stain  upon  our  honor 

Will  last,  you  may  depend. 
And  a  rent  upon  our  conscience, 

We  never  seem  to  mend. 
Then  'tis  well  to  stop  and  question 

Our  right  for  doing  wrong. 
For  we  sure  will  pay  the  penalty. 

While  in  life  we  go  along. 
And  our  wrongs  we  never  right  them 

Like  as  though  they  ne'er  were  done. 


Though  they  may  not  be  in  eiirm-st. 
At  tlie  lime  we  thought  them  fun. 

Hnt  with  mold  they  seem  topither. 

And  with  worthlessness  they  stand. 
All  around  they  hiiglit  our  pn)siK'Cts, 

Barren  rocks  on  fertile  land. 

So  wlien  starting  in  life's  buttle. 

Take  a  principle  of  right 
As  our  guiding  star  of  promLse; 

It  will  never  bring  a  bligrht. 

And  our  happiness  in  future 
Will  on  faith  and  works  depend. 

And  for  all  who  heed  its  mandates. 
There  will  be  no  bitter  end. 


THE  SHADY  SIDE  OF  LIFE. 

How  oft  we  think  of  the  dear  old  home. 

No  matter  where  we  be. 
When  roaming  o'er  the  broad  old  earth. 

Or  on  the  dark  blue  sea. 
It  may  be  in  the  stilly  night. 

When  eyelids  close  in  vain. 
That  memory  weaves  in  fancy  bright. 

And  brings  us  home  agiiin. 

When  age  proclaims  with  silver  lock. 

That  life  is  on  the  wane. 
And  friends  go  silent  from  their  cot. 

We  look  for  them  in  vam. 
When  wearied  with  life's  busy  cares. 

We  sit  and  think  alone. 
By  memory  fair  we  sec  them  there. 

Those  friends  and  that  old  home. 
And  many  a  form  our  childhood  knew. 

With  voice  we  loved  to  hear. 
Have  gone,  from  hence  will  not  return 

To  us  that  linger  here. 
But  while  we  struggle  on  in  life. 

We'll  think  it  not  in  vain 
That  when  we  leave  this  mortal  sphere 

We'll  meet  these  friends  a^in. 
Good-bye,  old  home,  rest  in  the  past. 

But  sleep  may  come  in  vain. 
For  in  our  dreams  familiar  scenes 

Come  back  to  life  again. 
And  though  ones  wealth  and  treasures  rare 

Bring  trouble  while  we  roam, 
X.)  gold  can  purchase  thoughts  so  fair 

As  cluster  'round  that  home. 


EXTUAfT. 
No  song  is  like  the  old  ones 

We  sung  in  youthful  days. 
There's  none  that  seem  to  charm  us 

And  suit  our  differt>ut  ways. 
"Tis  strange  we  chance  to  leave ihem. 

And  try  a  different  song. 
And  thus  forgotten  they  may  lie 

While  time  in  years  have  gone. 


«•- 


133-1 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  SOPHIA  p.  SNOW. 

Born:  Shelburne  Falls,  Mass.,  1836. 
Teaching  has  been  tbe  lifework  of  this  lady. 
In  1861  she  was  married  to  Cliarles  Snow,  with 
whom   she  still  resides  at  South  Meriden, 
Conn.    She  has  one  son,  Charles  Brig  litwood ; 


MRS.  SOPHIA  PHILENA  SNOW. 

and  one  daughter.  Belle  Louise,  now  grown 
to  maturity.  Mrs.  Snow  is  the  author  of 
Annie  and  Willie's  Prayer,  which  appeared 
in  1868,  was  widely  copied,  and  made  for  her 
a  national  reputation  as  a  poet.  About 
three  hundred  of  her  poems  have  appeared 
in  current  literature  and  have  received  the 
highest  praise.  For  tlie  past  seventeen  years 
Mrs.  Snow  has  been  employed  in  the  public 
schools  of  Meriden,  Conn.,  where  she  is  very 
popular. 

MEMOEIES  OF  THE  OLD  KITCHEN. 
Far  back  in  my  musings  my  thoughts  have 

been  cast. 
To  the  cot  where  the  hours  of  my  cliildhood 

were  passed; 
I  loved  all  its  rooms,  to  the  pantry  and  hall. 
But  that  blessed  old  kitchen  was  better  than 

all; 
Its  chairs  and  its  table,  none  brighter  could 

be. 


For  all  its  surroundings  were  saci-ed  tome. 
To  the  nail  in  the  ceiling,  tlie  latch  on  the 

door. 
And  I  loved  every  crack  of  that  old  kitchen 

floor. 

I  remember  tlie  fire-place  with  moutli  high 
and  wide. 

The  old-fashioned  oven  that  stood  by  its  side, 

Out  of  wliich,  each  Thanksgiving,  came  pud- 
dings and  pies, 

That  fairly  bewildered  and  dazzled  our  eyes; 

And  then,  too.  Saint  Nicholas,  slyly  and  still. 

Came  down  every  Christmas,  our  stockings 
to  fill; 

But  the  dearest  of  memories  I've  laid  up  in 
store. 

Is  the  mother  tliattrod  that  old  kitchen  floor. 

Day  in  and  day  out,  from  morning  till  night. 

Her  footsteps  were  busy,  her  heart  always 
light. 

For  it  seemed  to  me  then  tliat  she  knew  not 
a  care. 

The  smile  was  so  gentle  her  face  used  to  wear. 

I  remember  with  pleasure  wliat  joy  filled  our 
eyes. 

When  she  told  us  the  stories  that  cliildren  so 
prize; 

They  were  new  every  night,  ihougli  we'd 
beard  them  before 

From  her  lips,  at  the  wheel,  on  the  old  kitch- 
en floor. 

I  remember  the  window,  where  mornings  I'd 

run. 
As  soon  as  the  daybreak  to  watch  for  the  sun, 
And    I    thoughl,    when    my   head    scarcely 

reached  to  the  sill 
That  It  slept  through  the  night  in  the  trees 

on  the  hill. 
And  the  small  tract  of  ground,  that  my  eyes 

there  could  view. 
Was  all  of  the  world  that  my  infancy  knew; 
Indeed,  I  cared  not  to  know  of  it  more, 
For  a  world  in  Itself  was  that  old  kitchen 

floor. 

To-night  those  old  visions  come  back  at  their 

will, 
But  the  wheel  and  its  music  forever  are  still. 
The  band  is  moth-eaten,  the  wheel  laid  away. 
And  the  fingers  that  tuned  it  lie  mold'ring  in 

clay. 
The  hearthstone,  so  sacred,  is  just  as  'twas 

then. 
And  the  voices  of  children  ring  out  there 

again. 
The  sun  through  the  window  looks  in  sis  of 

yore. 
But  it  sees  stranger  feet  on  the  old  kitchen 

floor. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POE  IS   OF   AMEUICA. 


laSd 


« 


MRS.  ADALINE  II.  BEERY. 

Roun:  Hanover,  Pa.,  Dec.  W,  18.59. 
After  receiving  a  fair  ediK-ntioii,  Adiiline 
tauf?lit  scliool.  Ill  1879  she  took  a  three  years' 
chissieal  course  in  the  academic  department 
in  tlie  Mount  Morris  CoUei-e.  After  gradu- 
ating she  became  a  compositor  in  the  print- 


MRS.  ADALINE  HOHF  BEERY. 

ing  establishment  of  the  Brethren's  Pub- 
lishing Co.,  of  Mount  Morris,  111.  lu  1885 
she  went  to  Huntington,  Pa.,  as  editor  of  tlie 
Golden  Dawn.  In  1888  she  was  married  to 
Williiuii  Beery,  a  teacher  of  vocal  music, 
now  engaged  at  the  Normal  CoUegeof  Hunt- 
ini;toii.  Pa.  Mrs.  Beerj-  is  now  editor  of  the 
Young  Disciple.  H(>r  poems  have  appeared 
in  the  Chicago  Song  Friend,  Boston  Ahirniiig 
Star,  Union  Signal.  PhihidelphiaCiiU.  Boston 
Transcript,  Sunday  School  Times  and  various 
other  publications. 


ETUDE. 
My  love  sings  like  the  waves 

All  ill  tune; 
Her  voice  thrills  like  the  gamut 

Of  all  June. 
Iler  eyes  are  star-time  sapphires 

Set  in  dew; 
I  think  the  brook's  low  laughter 

Brims  them  too. 


Hi-r  ears  like  oei-un  shell  pinks 

Brightly  blush; 
She  he.irs  the  clioirs  of  cloudlaiiU 

Aleve's  husli. 
Her  tresses  fling  defiance 

To  the  sun; 
She's  blossom,  l)ird.  and  fairy 

Blent  in  one. 
Her  lips,  like  twin  carnations 

But  half-l>lown, 
I've  pressed,  in  love's  emotion, 

To  my  own. 
Her  hand  is  like  a  leaf-touch. 

But  a  thrill 
Enchains  me  when  I  feel  it 

Speak  her  will. 
Her  soul  is  like  the  .-Vlpine 

Edelweiss; 
Her  steel-true  heart  is  to  me 

Shield  from  vii-e. 
My  love's  the  contemplation 

Of  my  life; 
1  lay  all  gifts  before  her,— 

She's  my  wifel 


IN  THE  MILL. 
Lord,  make  me  pure:  ihesirougplea  throne- 
ward  Hies; 
Thereat  God  sets  in  motion  nil  tlic  wlieols. 
And  we  are  crushed  ami  broken,  as  He  deiiis 
The  stroke  bereaving,  and  our  rain-wet  eyes 
Strain  upward  tlirough  the  mist;  the   Haiul 
replies 
With  grief's  full  baptism  to  our  appeals 
For  cleansing,  till  our  sifle<i  spirit  kneels 
Among  the  sinless  hosts  of  Paradise. 
Lord  make  me  pure!    Ah,  know  wo  what 
we  ask?  Isuow, 

Like  wheat  which  fain  would  be  a  louf  of 
We  must  bide  tlireshing,  tribulations  sore. 
Parting  of  dross  and  heat;  the  crucial  task 
Leaves  but  a  mite  of  us ;  yet  Gixl,  we  know. 
Aye  lends  His  strength  as  tries  His  fining 
more. 


EXTltACI'. 
A  still  white  earth,  with  random  foot-paths 
crossed, 
With  drifted  meadows  brushed  with  soft 
gray  mist,  [kiss*-*!. 

And  trees  which  some  nlglit  elfln  must  have 
Whose  breath  congealed  to  brlslUng   pikes 
of  frost ;  [nuKiseil 

A  ttiuch,  and    hair  and    robe   and   fet-t  are 
Like  some  pale  miller  iwwdered  with  his 
grist;  [tryst. 

This  keen   white  lK)wer  Is  sure  a  lover's 
Whose  thoughts  the  scene  with  purity  eni- 
iKJssed . 


1336 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AJIEKICA. 


CALEB  SWAYXE  COPE. 

Born:  East  Bradford,  Pa.,  Nov.  27, 1818. 
After  receiving-  his  education,  Mr.  Cope 
tools  up  the  study  of  chemistry  ahd  geology, 
and  later  studied  Latin.  Some  of  his  writings 
coming-  under  the  notice  of  the  Philosophical 
society  of   West  Chester,  he  was  elected  a 


CALEB  SWAYNE  COPE. 

member  of  that  body  in  1880.  Since  185.5  the 
writings  of  Mr.  Cope  have  been  quite  num- 
erous, and  have  appeared  in  vjirious  periodi- 
cals. Mr.  Cope  was  married  in  1838,  and  has 
a  family  grown  to  maturity- 


A  MORNING  WALK  IN  JUNE. 
It  was  a  pleasant  summer's  morn, 

The  clover  blooming  sweetly; 
From  scorching  heat  the  dews  at  night 

Had  cooled  the  air  completelj'. 
A  lively  gale  amongst  the  trees 

The  western  winds  were  blowing. 
And  o'er  the  rolling  grassy  leas 

The  dappled  waves  were  flowing. 
The  golden  crops  of  ripening  grain 

A  checker'd  scene  before  me; 
The  tlirushes  and  the  robin  strain 

Love's  wavelets  rii>pling  o'er  me. 
The  nimble  squirrels  ••  liide  and  seek" 

Were  playing  in  tlie  hedge-row; 


The  darting  swallows  "  catch  and  take  " 

Across  the  dewy  meadow. 
A  cautious  rabbit  crossed  the  brook. 

And  stopped  a  while  to  vie-w  me. 
And  gave  a  sly,  inquiring  look, 

As  though  he  thought  he  knew  me. 
The  next  I  met  a  thieving  crow. 

His  neighbor's  seed-corn  digging; 
Wlio  scarce  could  stay  to  say  good-day,— 

Out  poaching  for  a  living. 
But  last  of  all  a  thoughtless  toad. 

Parental  care  evading; 
Who  on  the  dusty  public  road. 

Was  out  promenading. 
Accept,  I  cried  most  noble  youth. 

This  caution  of  a  stranger; 
For  1  assure  you,  of  a  truth. 

You're  in  no  common  danger. 
The  crow  on  ample  wings  may  sail. 

The  rabbit  find  the  bushes; 
But  such  as  you,  the  passing-  wheel. 

Or  heavy  hoof  crushes. 
With  haughty  step  he  struck  the  ground. 

Or  proud  salutatory  jerking. 
Nor  ever  stopped  to  look  around, 

For,hidden  dangers  lurking. 
When,  as  I  shortly  journeyed  back. 

The  bold  Monsieur  was  lying 
Along  the  rut-indented  track. 

All  crippled,  bruised  and  dying; 
And  in  his  sufferings  seemed  to  say, 

••  I  now  am  realizing 
The  fate  of  those  whose  selfish  way 

Good  council  are  despisuig." 


THE  MOTHEU'S  SONG. 

EXTRACT. 

Tlio  Arctic  mother's  lullaby 

Perhaps  is  sweet  as  thine. 
Or  hers  who  sings  with  burning  lips 

Beneath  the  torrid  line. 

Far  nature's  voice  from  pole  to  pole 
The  same  refrain  can  bring  — 

Such  only  as  a  mother's  soul 
Through  mother's  lips  can  sing. 

Let  conquering  beautj-  crown  the  scene 
With  her  mysterious  powers. 

And  wit  and  wisdom  lend  their  aid 
To  spur  the  speeding  hours. 

No  power  have  they  to  act  the  part 

Of  one  materinil  sigh 
That  swells  the  crimson  tide  of  life 

And  pours  the  brimfull  eye. 

I'd  rather  sit  beside  the  stream 

That  weeping  willows  lave. 
Atid  liold  communion  with  the  one 

Beyond  the  other  wave. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1837 


« 


CHARLOTTE  A.  DExMOREST. 

Born:  Near  Adhian,  Mich.,  Oct.  2,  1809. 
Miss  Demohest  lias  written  both  verse  aiid 
prose.    After  yraduatiiig' she  took  up  scliool 


CHARLOTTE  ANNE  DEMOKEST. 

teaching-,  in  which  she  is  now  engaged  at 
Towauda,  Pa. 


IMPATIENCE. 

The  sun  sliines, 

The  dew  falls. 

The  clouds  drop 

Their  waterfalls; 
Life  bears  the  years  along'. 
Time  speeds  and  life  is  gone. 

The  wind  sighs. 

The  stream  flows, 

Life  conies. 

Life  goes; 
O,  teach  me  patience.  Lord ! 
My  will  with  thine  accord. 

The  flowers  grow, 

Tlie  flowers  bloom, 

Autumn  brings 

The  flowers'  tomb. 
Sing,  lieart,  for  life  is  done 
Sing,  heart,  for  rest  is  won. 


ASI.EF.P. 
Kest  thou  till  morning  bi-caks, 

Uest  tiirongli  the  dews  of  night, 
Kest  till  the  world  awakes, 

And  it  is  light. 

Here  in  thy  trundle  bed. 

Watched  by  a  uioihei's  care. 
Pillowed  on  down  thy  liead. 

Dreams  light  as  air. 

Soon  will  the  morning  l)reak 
From  the  embrace  of  iii^ilit. 

Then  from  thy  dreams  awake. 
For  it  is  llglil. 

All  thy  days  swiftly  glide; 

Death  will  for  thee  prepare 
Rest  at  the  eventide. 

Cradled  from  care. 

Watched  by  thy  Father's  love. 
There  may  thou  rest  in  peace. 

Where  sorrows  never  move. 
Where  troubles  cease. 

Soon  will  the  night  bo  gone. 
Then  will  the  morning  star 

Herald  th'  eternal  dawn. 
Shining  afar. 

Bright  may  His  beams  arise 
On  tlune  enshrouding'  tomb, 

From  thine  awakened  eyes 
Scatfring  the  gloom. 

Rest  there  till  morning  breaks. 
Rest  tliou  tlirough  death's  long  ni 

Rest  till  thy  soul  awakes. 
Crowned  with  light. 


DAV  AND  NIGHT. 

EXTRACT. 

On  the  peaceful  breast  of  the  tranquil  west 

The  sun  lays  his  glowing  licad. 
Till  the  peaceful  hue  of  lier  radiant  blue 

Flashes  pur|)le  and  gold  and  red. 

He  gilds  the  day  with  his  lingerieig  my. 

And  his  smile  falls  lovingly 
On  the  rippling  sea  on  the  wood  imd  lea, 

Like  a  golden  fantasy. 

Now  the  hush  of  night  with  its  soothing  might 

Like  a  benediction  falls. 
And  the  golden  lamps  of  heaven's  expanso 

Light  all  her  sober  halls. 

Day  flees  in  fear  as  night  draws  near. 
For  night  does  not  love  tlio  sun. 

She  hides  her  face  and  her  shadowy  grace 
'Neath  a  veil  of  moonbeams  spun. 


« 


1338 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


•      MRS.  ANNIE  H.SMITH. 

Born  :  Columbia,  S.  C. 

This  lady  is  the  widow  of  Mr.  Whiteford  S. 
Smith,  and  has  only  one  child.  Mrs.  Smith 
resides  in  Atlanta,  Ga.,  where  she  is  princil 
pal  of  the  Fair  Street  School.  Her  poems 
have  appeared  in  the  Atlanta  Constitution, 


MRS.  ANNIE  H.  SMITH. 

Journal,  Sunny  South,  Greenville  Advocate 
and  the  periodical  press  generally.  Mrs- 
Smith  has  also  written  and  published  a  num- 
ber of  prose  articles  that  have  attracted  uni- 
versal attention. 


LEAVES. 

Bright  autumn  leaves  arc  strewn  around  ■ 

Like  deeds  of  ours, 
Many  decaying-  on  the  ground  — 

Life's  wasted  hours; 
A  few  go  whirling  with  the  breeze. 

Like  cherished  toys, 
And  others  cling-  to  naked  trees, 

As  we  to  joys. 

Yet  one  bright  golden  sheaf  is  caught 

Hy  cliildish  hands,  and  gently  taught 

To  grace  a  tomb  —  or  wake  a  thouglit 

As  sweet  as  flowers. 


MY  GUEST. 

Come  blessed  hour,  when  guests  are  throng-  ■, 
ing  1 

Gay  spacious  hall  and  salon  wide; 
With  noiseless  footsteps  swiftly  treading,      i 
Tlie  mystic  pathway  eartliward  leading, 
My  guest  comes  speeding  to  my  side. 
Something  I  feel,  but  cannot  see, 
Keeps  whispering  of  the  days  to  be. 
When  frost-nipped  flowers  will  bloom  again,  : 
And  my  lost  bud  that  never  opened. 
Will  blossom  into  loveliest  rose, 
When  all  the  myriad  hopes  I  cherished 
Shall  not  lie  buried  —unfulfilled! 


DESERTED. 
Ask  me  no  more  to  open  wide  the  door 
Of  that  deserted  home,  the  human  lieart. 
And  let  you  stalk  at  random  through  its  halls 
Which  once  re-echoed  to  the  sounds  of  joy. 
But  now  are  wrapped  in   silence  dread  as 

death. 
1  could  not,  if  I  would  an  entrance  mnke 
Thro'  windows  safely  barred  and  doors  fast 

locked, 
What  though  thosilvcr  key,  discolored  grown 
For  lack  of  turning,  stands  within  its  place? 
Does  not  a  cunning  spider  weave  liis  web 
About  its  rusty  hinge  and  molderiug  arch,— 
Weaves  ever  on,  nor  fears  intrusive  hand 
Upon  the  riglits  vouchsafed  him  liytlie dead? 
For  on  the  door,  a  fair  and  trembling  hand 
Has  traced  in  letters  delicate  and  flue— 
'•  Sacred." 

This  chamber  leadeth  to  a  garden  wild. 
Where  fragrant  violets  once  did  bloom, 
And  purple  orchids  and  ])rimroses  grew. 
Here  the  red  rose,  wearing  her  crown  of  devs, 
Reigned  queen  of  flowers;  her  star-eyed 

Hope  did  dream 
On  beds  of  blossomy  thyme,  and  count  the 

hours 
By  the  tiue  magic  dial  of  flowers  that  bloom 
And  close  as  fairy  fingers  touch  their  cups. 
She  vied  in  beauty  with  the  treasures  round, 
And  happy  then  was  fairest  of  them  all. 
Now  still  her  footprints  echo  on  the  gi-ound— 
But    liollow,  slow,  and  languid;   lier  faint 

breath 
Fails  now  to  kiss  the  flowers  back  to  life- 
Pale,  withered  flowers,  tliat  nod  upon  their 

stalks  — 
Ghosts  of  the  blooms  she  loved.     Tliey  slowly 

nod 
Across  the  garden  walks,  as  though  t  liey  said, 
IMoniory  doth  mock  us  with  a  l)rightcr  past, 
Aud  melancholy  winds  wail  sadly  forth  — 
..  Faded." 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA, 


VW.} 


THOMAS  MACKELLAR. 

Bokn:  New  Youk  City,  Aug.  12, 1812. 
Thomas  Mac  Kellak.  of  Gcrniantown.  Pliil- 
adelpliia,  is  tlie  presiileiit  of  M;ic  Kelhir, 
Smith  &  Jordan  Co..  tlie  largest  lypt-fouiici- 
ers  in  America,  with  offices  in  the  principal 
cities  of  the  union.    Mr.  MacKellar  is  the 


THOMAS  mac  kellak. 

author  of  Rhymes  Atween  Times,  Droppings 
from  the  Heart,  Psalms  and  Hymns,  works 
of  such  excellence  as  to  place  liim  in  the 
front  rank  of  poets  of  this  century.  He  is 
also  the  author  of  American  Printer,  and 
I  has  contributed  leading-  articles  from  time 
to  time  to  leading-  publications,  wliich  have 
been  a  valuable  acquisition  to  current  liter- 
ature. Mr.  MacKellar  is  a  man  of  integrity 
and  sterling  business  qualities,  and  withal  a 
gentleman  and  scholar. 


*- 


THE  POET'S  VENTURE. 
I  sat  me  down  to  build  a  boat 
And  launch  it  on  the  sea  atioat: 
1  wrought  it  with  a  loving-  will. 
Putting  to  task  my  utmost  skill: 
I  gave  its  form  the  highest  grace 
My  hand  and  eye  knew  how  to  trace, 
And  beautified  its  every  part 
According  to  my  native  art. 


I  si'l  the  lUiist,  and  spread  the  suil 
To  catcli  the  softliesi-brcathliig  tp''*'. 
And  tlien  I  .sent  ii  forth  to  g" 
Whichever  way  the  wind  might  blow. 
Who  knows?    It  may  bo  lost  at  sea. 
Or  come  with  treasure  back  to  me. 


A  SEASIDE  NOTION. 

Pequot  I    Pi'quotl 

The  Paradise  spot 
Where  ocean  emliraees  the  river; 

Right  royal  is  she 

With  her  foot  on  the  sea. 

As  she  sits  like  a  queen 

Of  exquisite  mien: 
What  prettier  name  shall  we  give  her? 

VThile  poets  have  sung 
In  the  old  EiiglUli  iiingui' 

In  verse  pelluciil  as  wati'r. 

No  word  could  be  found. 
In  all  the  world  round 
To  its  furthermost  bound, 
Sweet  enough  in  its  sound 

To  give  to  its  loveliest  daughter. 


THE  LOVER  TO  HIS  WIFE. 
The  sunniest  room  in  all  my  lieart 

I  keep,  my  love,  for  thee. 
And  set  thee  there  from  all  apart, 

A  shrine  for  none  but  me. 

A  being  thou  of  mortal  mold. 
And  yet  of  heavenly  birth. 

A  world  all  made  of  gems  and  gold 
Could  not  outweigh  thy  worth. 

The  song  of  birds,  the  hum  of  bees. 

A  richer  fullness  takes. 
As  in  Sfxmtaneous  symphonie:- 

Thy  voice  of  music  wakes. 

When  morning  puts  the  veil  away 
That  hid  its  beaming  face. 
Thine  eyes  unto  the  light  of  day 
Gives  e'en  a  brighter  grace. 

My  day  of  toil  is  light  to  bear. 

With  all  its  dizzying  din. 
Hec-ause  I  feel  that  thou  wilt  share 

The  boon  that  I  may  win. 
When  night  in  ebon  caves  ensnares 

The  suu  with  cunning  wiles. 
My  brow  a  sweet  contentment  we.ii> 

Ueiieath  thy  cheery  smile.s. 

If  clouds  should  dim  thy  h:ippy  day 
And  sorrow  touch  ihy  heart. 

Be  mine  the  hand  to  wipe  :iway 
The  teardrops  as  they  start. 


^- 


1340 


LOCAT.   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


Along  the  way  of  life  we'll  go 

Together  heart  and  hand; 
And  when  our  locks  grow  white  as  snow, 

Pass  to  the  peaceful  land. 


TO  SOMEBOBY. 

I  sought  a  diamond  on  the  shore, 

The  rarest  of  the  rare : 
A  gem  mine  own,  forevermore 

Next  to  my  heart  to  wear. 

I  sought  it  far,  I  souglit  it  near, 
Until  my  hope  grew  weak. 

And  well-nigh  turu'd  to  utter  fear 
Lest  I  should  vainlj'  seek. 

I  stood  upon  the  farther  land 

Tliat  juts  out  in  tlie  sea; 
A  fairy  wave  stole  up  the  strand 
As  if  to  speak  to  me. 

I  bent  mine  ear  to  catch  the  word 
So  big  with  fate  of  mine; 

My  soul  with  ecstasy  was  stirr'd 
To  hear  the  name —  'twas  thine? 


A  BALLAD  BY  THE  SEA. 
At  mid  of  night  be.side  the  sea, 

The  moon  far  in  tlie  west, 
I  sigli'd  for  one  long  gone  from  me 
Who  day  by  day  still  seems  to  be 

A  dweller  in  my  breast. 

And  suddenly  a  stranger  came 

As  if  from  out  the  tide, 
A  man  of  bow'd  yet  stalwart  frame. 
Whose  face  I  knew  not,  nor  his  name, 

And  sat  him  by  my  side. 

He  laid  his  brawny  arm  on  mine. 

That  old  man  by  the  sea: 
His  locks  were  hoar  with  age  and  brine; 
His  eyes  with  tender  gleams  did  shine; 

A  winsome  man  was  he. 

••  Comrade!"  so  spake  the  ancient  man, 

••  A  good  God  loves  us  all. 
This  world  is  order'd  by  a  plan 
Too  broad  for  thee  or  me  to  scan. 

That  covers  great  and  small. 

••  Why  hug  a  sorrow  to  thy  heart 

And  nurse  it  till  it  bite? 
Why  chafe  the  wound  until  it  smart? 
Why  turn  against  thyself  tlie  dart. 

And  thine  own  bosom  smite? 

..  In  other  years  — how  long  ago, 

Comrade,  I  cannot  tell. 
In  sun  and  shine,  in  rain  and  snow. 
When  all  was  calm,  when  storms  did  blow, 

I  served  a  skipper  well. 


"  I  saved  his  life  and  risk'd  mine  own; 

A  daughter  fair  had  he; 
Before  another  year  had  run 
The  skipper  own'd  me  as  a  son, 

'  My  husband !'  whisper'd  she. 

"I  built  a  cottage  near  the  shore: 
Next-door  to  heaven  it  seem'd; 
For  love  came  in  the  open  door. 
And  from  the  rafters  to  the  floor, 
Its  blessed  presence  beam'd. 

"  The  God  in  whom  we  trusted  sent 

A  babe  of  beauty  there. 
And  as  the  seasons  came  and  went. 
They  added  to  our  glad  content. 

Two  more  as  sweet  and  fair. 

<i  I  went  a  voyage  o'er  the  sea. 

My  heart  still  staying  home; 
O'er  many  a  sea  and  far  country 
For  wife-sake  and  our  children  three 

I  was  content  to  roam. 

•>  My  wandering  journej'  o'er,  I  sought 

My  cot  beside  the  sea. 
For  love  and  treasure  I  had  brought, 
Beyond  my  boyhood's  wildest  thought 

For  wife  and  children  three. 

"  My  home  of  love  I  stood  before; 

The  windows  gave  no  light: 
Trembling,  1  knock'd  upon  the  door, 
A  neiglibor  only  said,  >  No  more!' 

My  heart  fell  dead  that  night. 

"The  years  pass  on,  no  longer  told; 

I  leave  it  in  God's  hand 
To  share  among  His  poor  the  gold 
I  strove  so  long  to  gain  and  hold ; 

And  now  I  walk  the  strand. 

"  And  when  the  wrecking  winds  do  sweep 

A  vessel  on  the  shore. 
In  my  good  life-boat  forth  I  leap 
To  aid  the  strugglers  in  the  deep, 

As  Christ  hath  done  before. 

"Now,  comrade,  ere  with  thee  I  part 

Tliis  only  will  I  say: 
Go  heal  the  sorrows  of  thy  heart, 
No  matter  whosoe'er  thou  art. 

By  doing  good  alway." 

A  far-off  look  was  in  his  eyes, 

As  if  he  saw  away 
Beyond  tlie  sea  the  blessed  skies. 
Where  no  one  weeps  and  no  one  sighs, 

Where  God's  beloved  stay. 

The  ancient  man  arose  and  sped 

His  waj-  along  the  sea  ; 
I  ponder'd  on  the  words  he  said. 
And  pray'd,  before  I  sought  my  bed. 

To  be  as  wise  as  he. 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OK   AMEUICA. 


-* 


1H41 


MRS.  ANNA  BARTON. 

Bof{n:  Westekn  New  Youk,  Oct.,  20, 1842. 
ASTHEdtiii^liter  of  Ri'v.  H.  K.  Swiuk,  a  IJiip- 
list  niinistor.  this  lady  ha.s  always  been  a  de- 
vout christian.  After  eiig-aj^iiig-  in  active 
church  service  for  many  yeans,  she  assumed, 
in  18S6,  tlie  position  of   pastor  of  the  Free 


.MK.S.  ANNA  BAUTOX. 

Baptist  church  in  Paw  Paw,  Michigan,  which 
I>ulpit  she  still  fills.  In  1882  her  iioems  were 
published  in  book-form  under  the  title  of 
For   Friendship's    Sake. 

I  MEANT  TO  BE  A  CHRISTIAN. 

I  meant  to  be  a  christian ! 

But  wlien  the  Master  came 
And  offored  crown  immortal 

Engraved  with  my  name, 
I  bade  Him  wait  till  noonday. 

For  it  was  morning'  now  — 
Andllowersin  blossom  waited 

To  crown  mj'  waiting  brow. 
I  meant  to  be  a  christian  ! 

But  when  He  came  at  noon, 
My  heart  was  vexed  and  weary 

With  hopes  that  would  not  bloom; 
I  had  no  smile  of  welcome. 

But  coldly  turned  away. 
And  thought  both  crown  and  Giver 

Might  come  at  close  of  day. 


The  birds  tiieir  nests  are  seeking. 

The  shadows  cover  all '. 
Standing  alone  in  d.Trkncss. 

What  fears  my  soni  appall 
I  meant  to  be  a  christian: 

And  yet  I  bade  him  wait 
Wjio  only,  at  life's  evening. 

Could  open  Heaven's  gate! 
The  tender  flowers  of  feeling 

Have  fadeti  from  my  heart. 
The  teardrops  ol  re|)eniunce 

No  more,  unbidden,  start. 
And  yet  —  my  face  turns  backward. 

And  by  that  morning  sun, 
I  view  the  crown  I  slighted. 

The  heaven  I  might  have  won. 

O,  j'e  whom  Christ  is  calling  — 

So  tenderly  to-day  1 
Grieve  not  His  patient  spirit. 

Nor  bid  Him  go  His  way! 
To-day—  if  you  will  hearken 

Vou  shall  not  be  too  late 
To  share  the  joy  eternal 

Which  —  for  the  pardoned,  wait. 


ONLY  A  BABY. 

Only  a  baby  I  know. 

And  the  coffin  a  tiny,  wee  thing 
That  covered  the  dimpled  limbs  from  view. 
And  shut  from  sight  the  sweet  eyes  of  blue. 

And  pinioned  the  fluttering  wing. 

Only  a  baby '.  —  but  oh ; 

Down  deep  in  the  mother's  heart, 
.V  thousand  tendrils  lie  loosened  and  torn, 
A  thousand  hopes  in  their  rum  mourn 

With  bitter  and  burning  smart. 

Only  a  baby !  —  but  stay. 

In  the  long,  long  years  agonc. 
The  hand  of  a  sacred,  sinless  Christ 
The  heads  of  the  mothers'  darlings  pressed. 

And  said,  -Let  the  children  come,— 

••  Of  such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven :  " 
The  babes  never  tainted  by  sin; 

And  leaning  from  heaven,  the  glory  alK)Ve. 

The  same  hand  that  blessed  tliem,  the  same 
heart  of  love. 
Will  gather  these  little  ones  In. 

Sad  mother,  thy  moaning  cease. 

The  birdling  that  cooe«i  al  thy  brea>t 
Has  dipped  its  wings  in  the  snowy  foam 
And  catches  the  notes  of  the  angel  song 

On  the  sea  of  eternal  nst. 

There's  a  light  in  the  window  for  thee. 

A  tie  on  the  otiier  side  [caro. 

That  shall  ween  thy  heart  from  a  world  of 
Till  the  angel  Deatli.  thee,  too,  shall  bear 

To  the  little  one  over  the  tide. 


« 


!;£•- 


1342 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   A31ERICA. 


* 


DR.  THEO.  P.  LOCKWOOD. 

Born:  Near  Crystal  Springs,  Miss.,  1839. 
Being  wounded  in  the  battle  of  Sliiloh,  Mr. 
Lockwood  served  during-  the  balance  of  tiie 
war  as  druggist  and  assistant  surgeon  in 
Kentucky.  Tennessee,  Mississippi,  Alabama 
and  Georgia.    Since  1866  he  has  continued  in 


DR.  THEODORE  PRENTISS  LOCKWOOD. 

the  practice  of  physician  and  surgeon  at 
Crystal  Springs,  Miss.  He  has  held  promi- 
nent positions  of  trust,  and  for  several  years 
was  editor  of  Copiahan  and  associate-editor 
of  the  Atlantic  Medical  Journal.  Dr.  Lock- 
wood  was  vice-president  of  the  Mississippi 
Medical  Association  for  one  term;  for  maiij' 
years  has  been  medical  examiner  for  New 
York  Life  Insurance  Co.,  and  New  York 
Mutual  Life  Assurance  Co.,  and  numerous 
other  societies,  Dr.  Lockwood  was  married 
in  1869  to  Miss  Olivia  Emma  Patton,  and  has 
three  children.  The  eldest  son,  Benson 
Mott,  recently  graduated  at  Beaumont  Med- 
ical College  of  St.   Louis,  Mo. 


« 


YOUTHFUL  DREAMS. 

The  years  have  fled  —  the  dream  is  o'er. 
And  I  shall  know  their  joys  no  more, 
Like  faded  flowers  in  the  blast. 
Is  the  memory  of  the  past. 


The  play-ground  near  the  Crystal  Springs 
Is  now  an  old,  neglected  thing: 
The  forms  that  gave  it  life  are  gone; 
The  old  school  house  looks  drear  and  lone. 

The  flowers  bloom  as  sweetly  there  — 
Their  perfume  flU  the  fragrant  air 
As  of  old  —  but  no  maiden  fair 
To  pluck  and  weave  them  in  her  hair. 

The  sunny  smile,  the  merry  voice. 
That  made  my  heart  so  oft  rejoice, 
Alas,  I  miss  beneath  this  sliade. 
And  on  the  hill  and  in  the  glade. 

The  stream  glides  roguishly  along, 
And  sings  that  old  familiar  song  ; 
But  by  its  border  fresh  and  green, 
I'll  meet  my  maid,  no  more  I  ween. 

"A  hundred  months"  .ago,  I  stood 
Beneath  this  vine  in  happy  mood. 
Nor  dreamed  I,  mid  that  joyous  scene. 
That  time  would  be  what  it  has  been. 

Ah  me!  what  changes  time  can  bring! 
'Tis  strange,  'tis  hard,  'lis  witliering. 
That  youthful  dreams  so  passing  bright. 
Should  vanish  in  a  single  night. 

The  church  is  crumbling  to  its  walls; 
The  bell,  to  books,  no  longer  calls; 
The  curtain  drops,  and  hides  from  view. 
The  hopes  and  loved  ones  that  I  knew. 


TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

EXTRACT. 

I  thinking  now  of  the  halcyon  days 
When  hope  flung  out  her  bow. 

And  led  our  feet  in  sunnj'  wajs  — 
Just  twenty  j'ears  ago. 

We  roamed  upon  the  sutilit  hills. 

And  down  the  flowery  dell; 
And  sat  beside  the  murmuring  rills  — 

Our  tale  of  love  to  tell. 

And  you  were  young,  and  oh !  so  fair. 

Your  cheeks  wore  the  rose's  glow. 
The  sun  was  on  your  soft  brown  hair. 

Just  twenty  years  ago. 
Twenty  years  ago,  to-night. 

With  youthful  joy  and  pride, 
We  stood  before  the  altar  bright. 

And  you  became  my  bride. 
Gone  are  those  we  loved  and  knew. 

Whom  wo  shall  see  no  more  or  know. 
Save  only  through  the  mist  and  dew. 

Of  twenty  years  ago. 
What  e'er  I've  lost  in  twenty  years. 

Of  friends  or  worldly  store. 
Your  love  I've  kept  mid  joys  and  tears, 

True  as  in  days  of  j'ore. 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOKTS   OF   AMEUICA. 


—  * 


i:i43 


i  ALEXANDER  C  STEWART. 

I  Bohn:  Ireland,  Aug.  16, 1867. 

I  Mb.  Stewart  is  tlie  author  of  a  volume  of 
poems  entitled  Poetical  Works,  whicli  lias 
!liad  quite  an  extensive  circulation  and  been 
i  eulofiized  by  the  press.  He  has  also  written 
I  various  articles  that  have  appeared  in  cut- 


Alexander  CHARLES  .STEWART, 
rent  newspapers  and  in  pamplilet  form.    He 
was  married  in  1889  to  Miss  Jean   Wallace 
McCnlloch,  and  now  lias  one  son  — Clarence 
Byron. 


AN  ELEGY. 
Dai'li  frown'd  the  heavens  at  the   hwniVilo 
birth. 
Chill  wailed  the  northern  bhist.    Around 
thy  cot 
Infantile  there  arose  no  chastened  mirth. 

Nothing-  that  breathed  of  a  belov'd  lot 
A  mother  only  in  a  wondering  woe 
Look'd  on  thy  helpless  form  of  spirit  snow. 
Ushered  to  earth  in  darkness   worse   than 
pain. 
Thrown  on  the  billows  of  eternity, 
Where  still  to  strug-gle  for  the  shore  is  vain; 

Such  the  ungrateful  fate  accorded  thee 
No  wonder  then  that  thou  hast  pass'd  away  — 
Beyond  the  liquid  arcli  unknown  andg:ray. 


Full  of  a  soul  that  never  brook 'd  conirinuid 

Too  proud  for  the  .-submis.sive  palli  in  rule. 
Too  human  for  the  earthly "s  iron  hand. 

Too  wise  to  beof  their  vain-uloriiius.school. 
Thou  mark'dst  the  farces  of  official  strife 
And  recognized  the  lifelessness  of  life. 
Wlio  could  be  charmed  with  clay  when  music 
fades,  [die; 

Or,  who  would  live  when  love  and  boaiily 
Who    mark    the    foliage  shivered   from  the 
gladi's, 

And  concord  still  with  such  reality. 
Were  it  not  better  then  like  thee  to  yield 
To  calm  oblivion  where  no  sculptors  build? 
The  siiiritual  part  of  man  to  thee 

Was  not  the  i>;ith  to  riches  and  e.YCcss. 
Thou  sawest  the  clu^at  of  loud  liypocri.-y. 

And  knew  'twas  vain  to  try  to  make  il  less; 
That  man  had  sold  his  .soul  to  fancied  truth. 
Was  old  to  thee  tho'  thou  wert  still  a  youtli. 
And  yet  I  say  'twere  better  far  that  tiiou 

Should'st  know,  the  pain  it  costs  to  coii- 
deniii. 
Than  that  thou  should'stolheir  vile  methods 
bow,  [them. 

And  join  the  role  of  cheated  cheats  with 

Better  to  die  alone  devoid  of  fame,      [name. 

Than   that  such   liars  should   prolong    thy 

Thrice  happier  thy  sad   fate,  thou    soulful 

one,  [moil. 

Than  his  who  flatters  for  a  name  such 
For  such  as  tliee  shall  be  when  tliese  arc  done. 

And  earth  shall  blush  to  name  tlieir  deed 
iigai  u ; 
For  yet  the  day  will  come  wlien  life  shall  bo 
The  conscience  of  itself  and  man  be  free. 
The  jibe  of  worldliness,  the  foolish  freak 

Of  idiotic  iiowcr,  the  whim  of  kings. 
The  i)Ui'bliiid  wisdom  of  the  christian  meek. 

Who,    vain,    would     harmonize    unequal 
things,  [traytKl, 

These  thou  has  past  for  thou  wert  not  bo- 
By  the  dull  sophists  ignorance  hath  made. 

Thou  had'st  no  wish  to  dwell  wliere  mankind 

are  [hands 

Divided  from  themselves,  tlie  mouths  and 

And  hearts  of  different  creeds,  and  each  u 

star  [hands. 

Shot  from  its  orb  and  loosened  fiian  its 

The  hoarding  christian  siirieks  the  wortl  of 

God, 
And  turns  lean  hunger,  hungry  to  the  wad. 

He  gives  the  Lord  the  glory  of  his  hreatli. 
Fit  tribute  from  a  microscopic  soul. 

Oh,  what  deciiy  is  woven  with  the  wie.ith. 
What  dull  lethargic  demon  keeps  control. 

The  mind  of  man  is  shrunk  till  custom  keeps 

The  key  of  truth  wliose  great  Creator  weeps. 


1*- 


1344 


LOCAL  AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF    AilERICA. 


The  buruiasr  maid,  with  peach-bloom  on  her 
cheeks, 
Lascivious  smiles  in  fancied  chastity. 
Nor    feels    the   cooing   warning-   which  she 
speaks. 
The  note  tliat  gives  to  sacredness  the  lie 
Fell  on  her  lips  and  lust  upon  her  hand. 
Death  on  her  breast  and  sin  her  subtle  wand. 
The  married  virtue  swell'd    with   breeding 
death,  [love. 

Her  eyes  bespeaking  midnight  dreams  of 
Pours  on  some  youth  her  false  and  honej-ed 
breath. 
And  breaks  the  bonds  once  ratified  above. 
Holding  the  creed  that  luxury  alone. 
Becomes  a  crime  when  envy  makes  it  known. 
Better,  far  better  that  thy  spark  expired 

In  loneliness  of  soul,  than  ever  find 
A  thing  to  be  beloved  or  admired, 

Amid  the  filth  of  frivolous  mankind 
Sleep  thou  or  live,  thy  time  I  wisli  were  mine 
To  know  the  freedom  of  a  soul  divine. 
• — I  ^  I — » 

EDWARD  C.TILLSON. 

Born:  Thomaston,  Me.,  March  15, 1807. 
The  poems  t)f  Mr.Tillsou  have  appeared  from 
time  to  time  in  the  local  press,  and  have  al- 


EDWARD  C.  TIIiliSON. 

ways  received  high  praise.    He  has  for  years 
been  a  lumber  dealer  and  is  a  man  of  great 


integritj'  and  steiling  qualities,  and  lias  a 
liost  of  warm  friends.  Mr.Tillsou  was  mar- 
ried in  18.33  to  Miss  Mary  P.  Sawyer,  and  now 
resides  in  Deer  Park,  Maryland. 


THE  CORNER  STONE. 
When  earth's  foundation  first  was  laid 

By  the  great  Architect  Divine, 
And  all  the  works  t)f  nature  made 

In  beauty  and  in  grace  to  shine, 
When  light  from  chaos  first  broke  forth 

To  illume  a  dark  benighted  land 
Then  wast  thou  fixed  firm  in  the  earth 

Thou  ponderous  rock,  thou  Corner  Stone. 

And  was  it  chance  that  placed  thee  there, 

Regardless  of  the  use  thou'd  be 
In  after  j'ears  when  virtue  fair 

Should  raise  lier  temple  high  on  thee? 
No;  it  was  by  His  power  and  skill 

That  thou  on  this  fail  spot  was  thrown 
And  it  was  His  determined  will 

That  thou  shouldst  be  a  Corner  Stone. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  IN  A  YOUNG  I.AUY'S  ALBUM  ON  HER 
CONTEMPLATED  VISIT  FROM  BOSTON  TO 
ST.  LOUIS. 

They  tell  us.  Miss  Almira, 

That  you're  about  to  roam 
Far  from  your  native  city 

And  early  childhood  home. 
And  leave  behind  for  new-made  friends 

Wliat  now  you  largely  share  — 
A  mother's  rich,  undying  love, 

A  father's  tender  care. 
They  tell  us,  too,  Almira, 

You  go  with  a  light  heai't, 
We  neither  do  in  sorrow 

Nor  yet  in  anger  part; 
We  hope  your  hours  will  pleasant  pass. 

And  sorrow  keep  aloof. 
And  in  good  time  return  again 

To  the  parental  roof. 
We  would  not,  no,  Almira, 

We  -would  not  keep  you  here, 
Wlien  in  your  heart's  convictions 

Your  dutj-  seems  so  clear. 
One  single  boon  is  all  we  ask. 

And  that  I  need  not  sought, 
'Tis  that  you  will,  from  time  to  time. 

Bestow  on  us  a  thought. 
And  now  to  God,  Almira, 

Your  welfare  we  commend. 
Your  kind  and  Heavenly  Father, 

Your  best  and  truest  friend; 
And  add  to  this  one  sentiment. 

The  choicest  in  tlie  world. 
My  mother  tongue's  best  benison  — 

God  bless  thee,  gentle  girl. 


*- 


— * 


*- 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1345 


PALMER  COX. 

As  THE  autlior  of  The  Brownies,  Their  Book, 
and  Another  Brownie  Book,  Mr.  Cox  has 
become  famous  the  world  over.  His  articles 
and  poems  have  appeared  constantly  in  St, 
Nicholas,    Wide    Awake,    Harper's    Young- 


PALMER  COX. 

People,  Little  Folks  and  various  other  well- 
known  publications.  A  volume  entitled 
Queer  People,  contains  a  collection  of  many 
of  his  contributions  to  juvenile  literature. 
Mr.  Cox  illustrates  his  own  poems,  and  his 
studio  and  sanctum  is  at  65  Broadway,  New 
York  City. 


THE  BROWNIE'S  SNOW  MAN. 
When  snowdrifts  blocked  the  country  roads. 
And  trees  were  bending:  with  their  loads, 
Tlie  wind  grew  mild  which  had  been  raw. 
And  winter  yielded  to  a  thaw; 
That  night  the  Brownies  stood  to  stare 
In  wonder  on  the  villag^e  square. 
Said  one,  "This  plot  where  drifts  now  roll 
Seems  like  an  acre  from  the  Pole. 
I  have  a  scheme  which  nothing-  lacks: 
Now  wliile  the  snow  so  closely  packs. 
And  may  be  molded  in  the  hand. 
We'll  build  a  st;itue  tall  and  grand 


Which  here  shall  stand  at  niurnintf  |»rinie. 
To  be  the  wonder  of  the  time." 
Another  cried,  -That  suits  us  all. 
To  work  let  every  moniber  fall. 
When  once  the  task  we  undertake 
Be  sure  no  dwarfish  man  we'll  make; 
But  one  that  proudly  may  look  down 
On  half  the  buildings  in  llie  town. 
I  know  the  place  where  builders  keep 
Tlieir  benches  while  the  snow  is  deep; 
The  poles,  and  ladders  too,  are  tliere. 
To  use  when  working  higli  in  air. 
While  some  for  these  witli  me  will  flj-, 
Let  some  their  hands  to  snow  apply. 
And  not  a  feature  of  the  man 
Shall  be  neglected  in  our  plan. 

"  You  know  the  night,  some  time  ago. 
We  tramped  so  far  through  drifted  snow 
To  ornament  with  quaint  design 
Tlie  windows  of  a  mansion  flni-; 
And  how,  on  lengthy  ladders  tin  re 
And  scall'old  swinging  in  the  air. 
We  worked  our  brushes  witli  a  will 
From  icy  cap  to  window-sill. 
And  made  the  people,  gre'it  and  small. 
Believe  Jack  Frost  had  done  it  all?— 
To-night  we'll  work  as  well,  and  show 
A  grand  result  before  we  go." 

The  snow  that  night  was  at  its  best. 

And  held  its  shajie  however  pressed; 

Like  dough  beneath  the  liaker's  hand 

It  seemed  to  answer  each  demand. 

The  rolls,  when  tumbled  to  and  fn>. 

Increased  with  every  turning,  so 

First  like  a  cushion  on  they  sped. 

Then  like  a  pillow,  next,  a  bed. 

Until  the  snow,  adhering  there. 

Would  leave  the  grass  or  pebbles  bare. 

As  higher  blocks  of  snow  were  laid 

Still  higher  scaffolding  was  made. 

And  ladders  brought  to  use  instead 

Of  those  too  short  to  reach  the  head. 

Thus  grew  the  form  from  hour  t«i  hour; 

For  Brownies'  hands  have  wondrous  powt  i-. 

And  let  them  turn  to  what  they  will 

Surprising  work  will  follow  still. 

Some  shaped  the  legs  or  sm.wthed  the  wal>;. 

Some  saw  plump  arms  were  rightly  placctl: 

The  head  was  fixed  with  i>roi'ir  iH)se, 

Well  fashioned  were  both  ears  and  nose. 

So  dose  thronged  Brownies  high  and  low. 

A  looker-on  would  hardly  know 

What  plan  or  shape  the  busy  band 

Of  cunningBrownies  had  in  liaud, 

But  plan  they  had,  and  deftness  too. 

As  well  was  seen  wh.n  they  were  through. 

The  rounded  form  and  manly  jnirt 

fhowed  modeling  of  rarest  sort. 


— i" 


*- 


1346 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF  AilERICA. 


While  charcoal  eyes,  so  well  desig-ncd 
They  seemed  to  read  the  very  mine', 
Long-  icicles  for  beard  and  hair, 
Were  last  affixed  with  taste  and  care. 
And  wlien  tlie  poles  around  the  base 
Had  been  returned  each  to  its  place, 
And  ev^ery  ladder,  bench  and  board 
They  had  in  use,  again  was  stored, 
The  Brownies  stood  around  awhile 
To  gaze  upon  tlieir  work  and  smile. 
Each  points  at  head,  or  hand,  or  t0(>. 
His  special  handiwork  to  show. 
In  truth,  they  had  good  reason  there 
With  joy  and  pride  to  stand  and  stare. 
And  contemplate  the  object  white 
Which  loomed  above  to  such  a  height. 
And  not  unlike  some  hero  old. 
For  courage  famed,  or  action  bold. 
With  finger  pointed  out,  as  though. 
To  indicate  the  coming  foe. 
But  morning  light  soon  came  to  chase 
The  Brownies  to  their  hiding-place. 
And  children  on  their  way  to  school 
Forgot  their  lessons  and  the  rule 
While  gazing  on  the  statute  tall 
That  seemed  to  guard  the  County  Hall. 
And  after  drifts  had  left  the  square. 
When  roads  and  shingle-roofs  were  bare. 
The  Brownies'  statue,  like  a  tower. 
Still  bravely  faced  both  wind  and  shower 
Thougli  sinking  slowly  all  the  while. 
And  losing  corpulence  and  style, 
Till  gardners,  on  the  first  of  May, 
With  shovels  pitched  the  man  away. 


THE  BROWNIES  IN  THE  ACADEMY. 

The  Brownies  once  with  capers  spry 

To  an  Academy  drew  nigh. 

Which,  founded  by  a  generous  hand. 

Spread  light  and  learning  through  the  land. 

The  students,  by  ambition  fired, 

And  men  of  science  had  retired; 

So  Brownies,  tlirough  their  mystic  power. 

Now  took  advantage  of  tlie  hour. 

A  battery  was  soon  displayed. 

And  strange  experiments  were  made; 

Electric  currents  were  applied 

To  meadow-frogs  they  found  inside. 

Which  sage  professors,  nights  and  days. 

Had  gathered  up,  in  various  ways. 

So  making  pills  some  turned  the  mind. 

While  some  to  dentistry  inclined. 

And  aching  teeth,  both  small  and  large. 

Were  there  extracted  free  of  charge. 

More  gazed  where  i)hrenologic  charts 
Showed  heads  partitioned  oft  in  parts. 
Said  one:  "  Let  others  knowledge  gain 


Through  which  to  conquer  ache  and  pain, 
But  by  these  charts  I'll  do  my  best 
To  learn  where  fancy  makes  her  nest." 
Another  cried,  as  he  surveyed 
The  bumps  that  were  so  well  arraj-ed; 
"These  heads  exhibit,  full  and  clear. 
Which  one  to  love  and  whom  to  fear; 
Who  is  with  noble  thoughts  inspired. 
And  who  with  hate  or  envy  fired ; 
The  man  as  timid  as  the  hare. 
The  man  destructive  as  the  bear. 
While  choosing  partners,  one  may  find 
It  well  to  keep  thesecharts  in  mind," 

A  microscope  at  length  they  found; 

And  next  the  Brownies  gathered  round 

A  stereopticon  machine 

That  cast  its  rays  upon  a  screen. 

A  thousand  times  it  magnified. 

Till,  stretching  out  on  every  side, 

An  object  large  and  larger  spread. 

And  filled  tlie  grazing  group  with  dread. 

The  locust,  beetle  and  the  bee 

Soon  gained  proportions  strange  to  see, 

.\nd  seemed  like  monsters  close  at  hand 

To  put  an  end  to  all  the  band. 

Ere  long  a  door  was  open  swung. 

To  show  some  skeletons  that  hung 

From  hook  and  peg,  which  caused  a  shout 

Of  fear  to  rise  from  those  about. 

Said  one:  "  Thus  science  works  its  way 

Through  old  remains  from  daj'  to  day; 

And  those  who  during  life  could  find 

No  time,  perhaps,  to  aid  mankind. 

May,  after  all,  in  some  such  phice 

For  years  assist  the  luiinan  race 

By  giving  students,  as  you  see, 

Some  knowledge  of  anatomy." 

At  other  times,  all  breathless  grouped 

O'er  crucibles,  the  Brownies  stooped 

To  separate,  with  greater  skill. 

The  grains  which  cure  from  those  th.it  kill: 

While  burning  acids,  blazes  blue. 

And  odors  strong  confused  the  crew. 

Cried  one:  ••Through  trials  hard  to  bear. 

The  student  must  himself  prepare. 

Though  mixing  paint,  or  mixing  pill  — 

Or  mixing  phrases,  if  you  will  — 

No  careless  study  satisfies 

If  one  would  to  distinction  rise; 

The  minds  that  shed  from  pole  to  pole 

The  liglit  of  years,  as  round  wo  roll. 

Are  first  enriched  through  patient  toil, 

And  kindled  by  tlie  midnight  oil." 

Thus,  spicing  logic  with  a  joke. 
They  chatted  on  till  morning  broke; 
And  then  with  wild  and  rapid  race 
The  Brownie  band  forsook  tlie  place. 


* 


« 


*- 


LOCAL.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMEKICA. 


1347« 


IMRS.  HARRIET  W.  RE  QUA. 

Born:  Aucade,  N.Y. 

When  a  mere  child,  verses  of  remarkable 
ability  seemed  to  flow  from  the  pen  of  this 
lady  almost  without  effort,  and  she  also  ex- 
hibited {-Teat  talent  for  painting  and  draw- 
ing,   lu  1874  she  was  married  to  Kev.  W.  T.  Re 


MRS.  HARRIET  WARNER  RE  QUA. 

Qua,  a  missionary  of  the  Indian  Territory,  to 
whom  she  has  been  a  faithful  co-worker  in 
mission  work.  Mrs.  ReQua,  is  the  author  of 
two  volumes  of  poems:  Stones  for  the  Temple 
and  Ziona.which  contain  beautiful  and  pious 
thoughts.  Mrs.  ReQua  has  already  gained  a 
high  place  in  the  world  of  poesy  and  song. 


SORROWS  MISSION. 
There  is  no  path,  though  kissed  by  cool,  pale 
lilies. 
And  bowered  with  beauty  heaped  againsi 
the  sky ; 
But  hath  some  graves  hid  in  some  marshy 
tangle. 

Whore  dead  hopes  buried  lie. 

There  is  no  heart  that,  like  the  lake-fed  foun- 
tain 
Sings  on  and  on,  glad  in  its  stillness  flow ; 


But  hath  some  secret  closet  locked,  cnuccal- 
ing 

Tlie  skeleton  of  woe. 

And    wlierefore?     God  hath  given  jrrief   a 
mission. 
And  only  when  the  eye  with  tears  is  ditn. 
O'er  wrong,  disjister,  tumuliand  confusion. 
Does  man  look  up  to  Ilini. 

Presumptiousman  would  walk  tlirough  time 
unaided. 
And  onlj-  when  his  towering  flabel  fulls, 
By  which  he  thought  to  gain  the  lunU  su|)er- 
nal. 

And  scale  the  geio-laid  walls. 

Onlj-  among  the  ruins  of  Iiis  lal)or. 
Where  hangs  tlie  midnight  of  his  self-des- 
pair; [tion 
Prostrate  in  helpless,  hopeless  heart-contri- 
He  breathes  accepted  prayer. 

And  wherefore?    Heard  ye  of  a  wondrous 
visioii,' 
Grander  tl'ian  lips  can  tell  or  pencil  pjiiiit. 
When  swung  the  gates  that  hide  the  realms 
Elysian, 

Before  an  exiled  saint? 

Heard  ye  of  throngs  thai  iiressed  the  crystal 
waters. 
And  walked  enchanted  on  the  silversands? 
Of  blood-washed  robes,  and  star-girt  crowns 
imperial. 

And  palms  tlint  decked  those  hands? 

Heard  ye  how  came  they  there?    By  each 
storm  lashing 
The  black  waves  to  white  terror,  were  they 
driven. 
O'er  the  tumultuous  ocean  ever  neai-er. 
The  harbor  men  c:ill  Heaven. 

So,  have  ye  faith?  — Griefs  then   are  angel- 
pinions. 
Wafting  ye  sunward:  and  the  holy  land 
Lies  that  way.    Look  ui>  with  thanksgiving: 
The  world  hangs  on  Gods  hand. 


LOSS  AND  GAIN'. 
Lord,  it  is  utterly  nothing,  nothing  I  bring  to 

Thee. 
Thou  hast  let  the  light  of  Thy  Heaven  down 

sol  can  plainly  see: 
I  thought  I  had  wealth  and  worth  to  bring. 

and  a  portion  of  love  and  bliss: 
Nor  dreamed  the  whole  of  my  fanciful  store 

could  shrivel  and  fade  to  this. 

Lord,  it  is  utterly  nothing,  I  bring  with  shame 
and  tears 


•i^- 


1348 


->h 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA 


The  gathered  griefs  and  sorrows  of  fruitless 

and  faithless  years; 
The  fires  that  burned  to  ashes,  the  hopes  that 

are  dead  and  lost, 
Flowers    nourished    and    cherished    fondly, 

grown  sere  with  the  earl3'  frost. 

Lord,  it  is  worse  than  nothing-,  yet  all  that  I 

have  to  bring 
Is  here  in  the  hapless  burden  laid  down  at 

the  feet  of  the  King. 
I  would  I  could  make  it  worthj',  could  lighten 

with  stars  the  night. 
Could  wring  out  the  sin  and  sorrow,  and  wash 

the  offering  white. 

It  is  finished,  my  bootless  labor,  my  quest 
for  a  living  tree 

Whose  branch  might  sweeten  and  brighten 
the  Marah  of  misery. 

It  is  finished,  my  useless  striving,  mj'  wait- 
ing for  worth  ^f  my  own; 

I  can  only  fall  down  with  my  burden,  and 
trust  in  Thy  grace  alone. 

And  oh!  where  I  fall  Thou  hast  found  me 

and  oh !  Thou  art  lifting  me  up ! 
And  Into  the  sea  of  Thy  mercy  the  sin  and 

the  suffering  drop. 
The  arms  of  Thy  love  are  beneath  me,  the 

seal  of  Thy  troth  on  mj-  hand. 
Oh,  love  that  is  infinite,  holy !    O,  Presence, 

supernal  and  grand! 

I  give  Thee  my  striving  and  straying  and  take 

back  a  heaven  of  peace; 
I  giveTheemy  efl'orts  unskilful,  and  fruitless 

—  thrice  blessed  release; 
I  lake  back  Omnipotence  holy,  and  tender 

and  loving  and  true. 
Oh,  barter  the    wonder   of   wonders  I     Oh, 

grandeur  that  glimmers  In  view! 

O,  law  that  is  flawless  and  dreaded!  O,  Vic- 
tim of  Calvary  slain ! 

In  Thee  are  fulfilled  its  requirements;  on 
Thee  are  the  wrath  and  tlie  pain. 

O,  Lamb  that  didst  bear  in  their  fullness  the 
curse  and  the  woe  that  were  mine! 

The  sabre  uplifted  to  slay  me  is  sheathed  in 
the  Victim  divine. 


HB- 


NOT  TO   FAIL. 
'Tis  not  to  fail  at  hist, 
That  He  hath  brought  thee,  Christian,  on 
thy  way ; 
Through  storms  that  gathered  'round  thee 

thick  and  fast ; 
And  clouds  that  all  thy  earthly  heaven  o'er- 
cast, 
From  night  to  dawning  of  supernal  day. 


'Tis  not  to  fail.  Oh,  child 

Of  tlie  eternal  Father!  that  His  iiaiid 
Reached  out  among  the  billows  breaking  wild 
To  grasp  thine  own,  death-damped  and  sin- 
defiled. 
Lifting  thee  toward  tiie  sinless  summer- 
laud. 

'Tis  not  to  fail.  Oh,  heart 

By  sin  and  sorrow  blighted;  that  He  laid 
His  own  scarred  hand  upon  thee,  till   the 

smart 
Of  the  soul-agony  was  drawn  apart; 

Then  whispered  ••  It  is  I,  be  not  afraid." 

'Tis  not  to  fail  on  earth. 
That  He  hath  broken  and  hath  healed  thee 
so; 
Thy  fears,  unworthy  of  celestial  birth ; 
Thy  painful  strife,  and  joys  unceasing  dearth 
Cast  in  the  Fount  that  washes  white   as 
snow. 

Arise,  go  forth  and  shine; 
For  He  hath  lit  thy  lump  that  thou  mightst 
hold 
It  high  with  radiance  dimless  and  divine. 
Where  deepening  shades  with  deejiest  night 
entwine; 
Where  souls  grope  blindly,  comfortless  and 
cold. 

'Tis  not  to  fail  at  last. 
That  He  hath  called  and  sealed  thee  for  His 
own ; 
And  shielded  thee  through  dangers  that  are 

passed. 
Hope  on.  Oh,  Christian,  not  to  fail  at  last. 
He  leads  thee  upward  ever  to  His  throne! 


OUR  ANGEL. 

EXTRACT. 

There  was  room  in  our  home,  so  much  room, 

Yet  she  went  away, 
Out  in  the  unrifted  gloom; 
Down  through  the  mold  of  the  tomb; 

And  the  prayers  that  we  tried  to  say 

Died  off  from  our  lips  that  day. 

There  was  room  in  our  licjirls,  so  much  room 

Ah  !  the  space  she  left 
Is  vacant  and  broad  and  the  gloom 
Is  as  the  night  of  the  tomb; 

Ah,  sad  is  the  heart  bereft! 

Ah,  lone  is  the  place  she  left ! 

There  was  room  for  our  own,  our  own, 

Many  angels  are  tliere; 
And  we  had  but  one,  only  one  — 
O  God !  have  they  put  out  the  sun. 

That  I  feel  the  night  near? 

Night  evermore  here. 


*- 


LOCAT.    AND  NATIOXAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1349 


MRS.  SARAH  B.  COOPER. 

Born:  Cazenovia,  N.  Y.,  Dec.  12,  1836. 
From  lier  jouth  this  lady  has  been  oiigafe'-od 
in  literary  work.  After  graduation  she  went 
to  Augusta,  Georgia,  as  governess  in  the 
family  of  Governor  Schley  of  Georgia.  On 
Gov.  Cooper's  plantation  were  five  hundred 


MRS.   SARAH  B.  COOPER. 

slaves,  whom  she  taught  the  Scriptures 
every  Sunday.  In  185.5  she  was  married  to 
Halsey  Fenimore  Cooper,  and  now  has  sev- 
eral children.  During-  part  of  the  war  she 
was  president  of  the  society  for  the  Aid  of 
Kefugees,  and  at  the  same  time  had  a  bible 
class  of  three  hundred  soldiers  all  the  time. 
Mrs.  Cooper  has  the  largest  bible  class  in 
San  Francisco,  and  was  the  founder  of  that 
city's  kindergartens  for  the  poor,  and  is  now 
president  of  the  Golden  Gate  Kindergarten 
Association.  The  pen  of  this  g-reat  philan- 
thropist and  author  has  been  principally 
engaged  in  prose  writing,  althong-h  she  is 
the  author  of  some  excellent  verse  whicli 
has  appeared  in  the  Overland  Monthly  and 
other  prominent  publications. 


HEREDITi'. 

A  stream  comes  bounding  from  the  hills. 
Like  a  fettered  fawn  set  free;— 


Imprisoned  life  the  valley  thrills, 
Radiant  with  prophecy. 

Freshness  to  fading  soon  gives  place. 

A  strange,  untimely  tiling  — 
We  follow  back  tiie  rill,  and  trace 

Death  at  the  fountain  spring. 

A  blossom  of  exquisite  mold 
Hangs  from  the  parent  stem; 

Its  petals  open  to  unfold 
The  hidden  diadem. 

When  lo!  it  withers  at  the  bough, 

A  blossom  without  fruit  — 
Wherefore  the  blight?— the  secret  new- 

A  worm  is  at  the  root. 

Vain  hope  to  make  the  streamlet  pure. 
With  taint  at  fountain  rock  — 

Or  look  for  fruitage  rich  and  sure. 
With  larvtv  in  the  stock. 

So,  man  unhelmed,  must  find  repair 

In  love's divinest  plight; 
Enfeoffed  of   heaven,  through   faith 
prayer. 

Before  he  sees  the  light. 

Then  temperance,  truth  and  purity. 
Bequeathed  through  parentage, 

Shall  crown  the  race  with  joy,  and  be 
Man's  lasting  heritage. 


ind 


TRANSITION. 

EXTRACT. 

What  is  death  but  transition  to  those  who 

can  say, 
'•The  Lord  is  our  Leader,  He  ciiooseth  our 

way'!*" 
What  if  hope  prove  a  night-dream,  inspiring 

our  fears. 
And,  like  children  in  darkness,  we  waken  to 

tears';? 

Far  off  through  the  lattice  the  niglii   s-tars 

are  seen. 
Enkindling  the  heavens  with  shimmer  and 

shee!i; 
O'er  earth's  rugged   moorlands  they  slutl 

their  soft  iigiit. 
Bringing  gleam  out  of  darkness  and  dawn 

out  of  night. 

With  coming  of   morning  the  night  stars 

retire, 
Utidimnied  in  their  lustre,  unpalcd  iu  their 

Are  — 
They  move  on  their  mission  of  brightness 

afar. 
They  follow  the  wake  of  the  sun's  golden  car. 


*- 


« 


1350 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POE 1  S   OF   A3IERICA. 


COL.  G.  D.  BREWERTOX. 

Born:  Newport,  R.  I.,  June  3. 1828. 
This  artist  and  poet  is  the  author  of  numer- 
ous poems  and  a  volume  published  by  the 
Riverside  Press.  The  writings  of  Col.  Brew- 
erton  have  appeared  in  Harper's,  Putnam's 
and   many    prominent  publications  of   the 


^fflSS^^l^^T" 


33£?!7»^Kv7) 


COL.  G.  DOUGLAS  BREWERTON. 

east  and  west.  Col.  Brewerton  has  led  an 
eventful  career  as  a  soldier  and  Indian  fight- 
er. He  was  married  in  1886  ao  Mrs,  Sarah  E, 
Brown,  widow  of  Major  Brown,  a  distin- 
guished engineer. 


PORTER. 

Pride  of  a  line  of  ocean  lords, 

Of  men  who  won  historic  swords. 

Renowned  for  foresight,  pluck  and  tact. 

Turning  each  hopeless  feat  to  fact. 

Ever  to  present  duty  true. 

Rest  'neath  the  flag  that  honors  you. 


WILL  YOU  MISS  ME? 
Will  you  miss  me  when  the  wood-box 

Your  tender  hands  must  fill, 
Wlien  tliat  ever  needy  grocer 

Presents  his  little  bill? 


When  the  fires,  still  unkindled 

Must  be  lit  at  earlj-  morn, 
Tliough  each  frozen  finger  perish. 

And  you're  feeling  so  forlorn; 
'Tis  then  I  know  you'll  misb  me 

As  you  never  missed  before. 
Though  you  dream  a  husband  present 

An  everlasting  bore. 

You  will  miss  me  when  the  doctor 

Says  that  child  is  surely  ill. 
And,  little  AUie's  ailing. 

But  declines  to  take  a  pill; 
Or  it  maybe  when  the  twilight 

Around  you  closes  dim. 
And  tiie  children's  voices  tremble. 

As  they  sing  their  evening  hymn  — 
For  they  miss  tlie  absent  father. 

Ever  ready  to  their  call. 
And  would  even  meet  with  gladness 

His  shadow  on  tlie  wall. 

You  will  miss  me  when  the  stovepipe 

Rattles'down  upon  your  liead. 
And  you  strive  to  mend  the  mischief 

Till  you  wish  that  you  were  dead; 
When  in  the  midnight  watches 

You  sadly  lie  alone. 
And  hear  the  winds  as  sleepless 

Through    the    pine   trees    make  their 
moan; 
When  the  baby's  sick  and  restless. 

And  all  things  go  awry. 
Till  every  star  seems  clouded 

And  blotted  from  your  sky. 

You'll  miss  me  when  your  patent  pump 

Is  frozen  to  the  spout. 
And  wish  your  handy  hubby  near. 

Just  then,  to  thaw  it  out. 
Such  services  make  wedded  life, 

A  union  tliat  outlives 
Tliose  turmoils  in  affection's  tide  — 

The  advent  of  the  kids; 
They  suggest  those  tender  letters. 

That  describes  a  woman's  woes. 
And  request,  bj'  way  of  answer. 

Some  money  that  she  owes. 

I  should  think  you  strangely  altered 

Without  worries  to  be  borne. 
And  needing  no  assistance 

To  extract  a  houscliold  thorn. 
When  that  Biddy's  been  so  saucy. 

Your  spring  bonnet  still  delayed. 
And  the  dross  that  creature  ruined 

To  be  ripped  up  and  remade; 
Then  I  know  you'll  twine  about  me 

As  the  oak  sustains  the  vine. 
And  I'll  love  you  in  the  twilight 

As  you  asked  in  tliat  old  time. 


PP 


1 


I 


*- 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POKTS  OF  AMKKICA. 


i:i.5i 


JOHN  IMRIE. 

IiMKiE's  Poems,  a  beiiutiful  volume  of  350 
pages,  interspersed  with  music  and  illustra- 
tions, has  assured  to  this  author  a  lasting- 
reputation  as  an  author  and  true  poet.  Mr 
Inirie  is  the  senior  member  of  a  larjit'  inib- 


JOHN  IMFUE. 

lishing  house  doing  business  in  Toronto, 
Canada,  where  he  is  very  popular  in  business, 
social  and  literary  circles. 


SCOTTY. 
Yes  I  ca'  me  Scotty  if  ye  will. 
For  sic*  a  name  can  mean  nae  ill, 
O'  a'  nickname  just  tak'  yer  fill  — 
I'm  quite  content  with  Scotty  I 

To  be  a  Scot  is  nae  disgrace, 
Maist  folk  can  trust  a  guid  Scotch  face. 
He's  never  lang  oot  o'  a  place,— 
The  honest,  faithful  Scotty ! 

A  Scotchman  has  the  knack  to  plod. 
Through  thick  an'  thin  he'll  bear  his  load. 
His  trust  is  aye  in  richt  an'  God,— 

The  perseverin'  Scotty! 
He's  'tentive  baith  to  kirk  an'  mart. 
To  friends  he's  true  an'  hard  to  part. 
In  life's  great  race  he  needs  nae  start,— 

"I'll  win  or  dee,"  sas's  Scotty! 


An'  if  he  meets  wi"  ane  fir  twa 
O'  Scollau's  sons  when  far  awa". 
They'll  'gree  like  brilliers  and  and  a', — 
A  clannis^h  man  is  Scotty! 

Though  aft  he  travels  far  f  rae  hame. 
He's  aye  a  Scotchman  a'  the  same. 
An'  proud  to  crack  o'  Scotlan's  fame, — 
A  loyal  son  is  Scatty  I 

Should  Scotlan'  ever  need  his  help. 
He'll  gio  her  enemies  a  skelp. 
An'  make  them  howl  like  ony  wlielp. 
And  gie  respect  to  Scotty ! 

Then  ca'  me  Scotty  if  ye  will. 
Nickname  like  that  can  mean  nae  ill. 
I'll  shake  yer  liand'  wi'  richt  guid  will, 
Whane'er  ye  ca'  me  Scotty ! 


WHERE  DOTH  BEAUTY  DWKLL? 
Look  for  the  first  faint  streaks  of  morn. 

That  gild  the  eastern  sky, 
Another  day  in  beauty  born. 

As  mounts  the  sun  on  liigh; 
Tinting  the  tops  of  highest  towers 

With  crimson  and  with  gold. 
Melting  the  dewdrops  from  the  Bowers 

Tliat  peepingly  unfold: 
There  doth  the  beautiful  abide 

In  calm  security; 
The  rosy  morn  — deck'd  like  a  bride  — 

Of  virgin  purity! 

Look  for  the  eyes  that  beam  wltli  love. 

And  sparkle  with  delight. 
To  meet  til y  gaze  — like  stars  above  — 

Brightest  in  thy  dark  night; 
DispeUing  every  thought  of  sin 

From  out  thy  lu  art's  great  deei>, 
Chasing  the  darkness  from  within. 

Or  soothe  thy  fears  to  sleep: 
There  doth  the  beautiful  abide 

In  full  maturity; 
And  there  may  thy  fond  heart  reside 

Through  all  futurity! 


EXTRACT. 
Each  grain  of  sand  by  sounding  sea. 
Each  trembling  leaf  on  quivering  tree. 
Each  blade  of  grass  on  dewy  lea. 

Speaks  volumes  of  God's  love  for  me ! 
The  jiearls  that  deep  in  ocean  lie. 
Tlic  twinkling  stars  tliat  gem  the  sky. 
The  sunbeam,  caught  f  rt)m  noontide's  eye. 

Direct  my  thoughts,  oh.  God.  to  Thee! 
The  flowers  that  deck  the  fragrant  dell. 
And  o'er  me  c:ist  their  lieauty-spell. 
I  love  them  —  for  they  seem  to  tell 

The  story  of  God's  love  to  me  I 


* 


*- 


« 


1352 


LOCAT.   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AIMEKICA. 


CHARLES  H.  A.  ESLING. 

Born:  Philadelphia,  Jan.  21, 1845. 

Charles  Henry  Augustine  Esling  re- 
ceived the  honorary  degree  of  A.  M.,  Cente- 
nary Diploma,  from  Georgetown  University, 
Districtof  Columbia,  and  the  degree  of  LL. 
B.,la  course  from  the  university  of  Penn- 
sylvania. He  read  law  in  the  office  of  Hon. 
William  Morris  Meredith,  and  has  practiced 
his  profession  for  over  twenty  years  in  his 
native  city.  He  has  on  one  or  two  occasions 
been  honored  with  diplomatic  missions 
abroad.  He  has  been  a  frequent  contributor 
to  the  press  in  prose  and  poetry,  and  is  one 
of  the  founders  of  the  Pegasus  or  Poet's 
Club,  of  Philadelphia.  He  is  a  member  of 
several  learned  societies  and  clubs  and  takes 
a  great  interest  in  athletics.  He  was  mar- 
ried in  1890  to  Elizabeth  Balder,  of  Fulwood. 
Pennsylvania,  and  is  at  present  residing  in 
Europe.  He  has  written  about  two  hundred 
poems,  both  original  and  translations  from 
foreign  languages.  A  list  of  his  translated 
hymns  of  the  church  is  given  in  Dr.  Robert 
Ellis  Thompson's  Revision  of  Dr.  Samuel 
Duffleld's  Latin  Church  Hymns  and  their 
writer. 


SHELL  SONG. 

O'er  Lethean  spell 
Of  Schuylkill's  swell, 
Avachne  glides,  my  buoyar.t  shell. 
And  spins  through  maze. 
Of  water  ways, 
A  web  of  blooms  on  woofs  of  haze. 

Lo,  shore  and  stream. 
Alike  a-gleam. 

Glow  with  Padolus'  golden  fire. 
In  leaps  and  lulls. 
My  tuneful  swells 
Woke  tones  of  Hebrus'  sunken  lyre. 

No  dolphin's  back, 

A  lumbering  track. 

Here  cleaves,  nor  Ariel's  bat  1  lack; 

'Mid  floating  lawns, 

Of  dusks  and  dawns, 

I  cope  with  Venus'  car  of  swans. 

Puck's  filmy  wins. 

Could  it  nimbler  spring. 

Than  tides  of  stream  and  air  I  breast? 

Love  lends  to  rae 

Immensity, 

I  float  as  in  a  Halcyon's  nest. 


I  glide  and  gloat, 

A  water-moat. 

Upon  my  spinning  insect  boat, 

A  winged  bliss. 

That  springs,  I  wis. 

From  suntide's  sheathing  chrysalis. 

Inlucent  strands. 

With  magic  hands. 

She  taketh  hold  of  misty  things. 

From  golden  beams. 

She  builds  like  dreams 

Air-palaces  of  fairy  kings. 

She  bids  me  share 

Her  prowess  rare, 

Olympian  potency  to  dare; 

My  spirit-plods. 

No  earthly  sods, 

I  skim  the  highways  of  the  gods. 

Each  nymph  that  roves. 

By  founts  and  groves. 

Comes  forth  to  cheer  the  spinner's  skill. 

In  this  lithe  bole. 

Her  maiden  soul 

And  artist  power  liveth  still. 

No  butterfly 

Of  gayest  dye. 

Adrift  in  blue  of  summer  skj-. 

Can  sip  from  flower. 

Of  earthly  bower. 

The  sweetness  I,  from  this  sweet  hour. 

No  wisdom's  lore. 

My  soul  doth  bore, 

A-swing  amid  my  fancy's  meshes. 

As  I  afloat. 

My  spider  boat. 

Rest  'mid  the  willow  shaded  pleslies. 


AT  FATHER  PROUTS  GRAVE. 
while  listening  to  the  bells  of  shan- 

DON. 

Peace  to  thy  slumbers! 

In  musical  numbei-s 

Thy  requiem  swells  from  Shandon  steei)le. 

Its  ivy  leaves  running. 

And  Lee's  silvery  crooning. 

All  echoed  for  aye  in  the  hearts  of  tliy  peoi)le. 

.Toy  to  thy  ashes! 

Thy  wit's  classic  flashes,  ling 

And  all  the  rich  brogue  of  thy  vagabond  sing- 
Within  the  tomb  waken. 
And  through  an-  love-shaken. 
Vibrate  'round  the  world  at  Shandon's  sweet 
ringing. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   KATIONAI.    POETS   OF   AMKUICA. 


i3o;s 


THOMAS  NELSON  HASKELL. 

Rorn:  Chautauqua  Co.,  N.  Y. 
After  stmlying- theolog-j' hi  Now  York  City 
diid  at  Amlovcr,  Mass.,  Professor  Haskell 
was  called  to  tlie  pastorate  of  a  Presbyteriai; 
church  in  Washington,  D.  C,  after  many 
years  active  interest  in  the  abolition  move- 


THOMAS  NELSON  HASKELL. 

ment  and  in  the  cause  of  the  war.  Mr.  Has- 
kell, after  returning-  from  atrip  to  Europe 
for  his  health,  retired  from  the  pulpit,  and 
accepted  the  chair  of  logic,  literature  and 
political  economy  in  the  University  of  Wis- 
consin. Heistlieauthorof  TheBoysin  Blue. 
Konkaput,  the  King  of  the  Qtes  ,a  fas- 
cinating poem  of  remarkable  merit.  Pro- 
fessor Haskell  is  the  state  librarian  of 
Colorado,  and  fills  the  position  of  Chaplain 
of  the  Senate. 


HYMN  ON  DEATH  OF   LINCOLN. 

With^we  profound  this  day, 
The  Nation  bows  to  pray 

In  bitter  grief; 
And  through  the  stricken  land 
The  broken-hearted  stand 
And  mourn  on  every  hand 

Their  martyred  chief. 


Tlie  Almighty  Uuler  hears  — 
His  sorrowing  people's  te.-ir.s 

Fall  at  His  feet  — 
Makes  our  just  cause  His  care. 
Indites  and  lieurs  our  prayer. 
And  for  us  still  makes  bare 

His  mere  J'  seat. 
O,  Thou  who  hast  removed 
Him  whom  tlie  peojile  loved  — 

Thy  servant  rare 

Wlio  gavest  iiim  strength  and  light 
Tosee  andguard  the  right. 
Still  grant  Thy  holy  might 

To  men  of  pi'ayer. 
Bless  still  oui'  Nat  ion's' head  — 
Successor  of  the  dead  — 

And  keep  his  life; 
While  armies  cease  their  tread 
And  those  who  fought  and  bled. 
Rest  in  their  peaceful  bed. 

Heal  all  our  strife. 
Comfort  eacli  stricken  one, 
O,  God,  the  Father,  Sou 

And  Holy  Ghost; 
While  in  our  hearts  we  own 
That  here  Thy  love  is  known 
And  Thine  the  oidy  tlirone 

Of  which  we  boast. 


A  HYMN  FOR  DEDICATION  OF  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
HALL. 
Almighty  Builder  of  the  skies. 

Bend  down  thy  lofty  dome 
And  view  our  costly  sacrifice. 
An  offering  Thou  wilt  not  despise 
We  give  thee  this,  our  liome! 

We  thank  Th.ee  for  thy  helping  hand 

And  providential  care. 
By  which  this  building  now  doth  stand 
The  fit  abode  of  sucli  a  V)and 

Of  brotherhood  and  prayer. 

Come,  dwell  within  its  sacred  wjills; 

Here  make  thy  goodness  known  ; 
Live  in  its  volumes,  in  its  halls; 
Send  thence  thy  loves  most  winning  culls. 

And  keep  the  place  thine  own : 

O  gather  in  this  peaceful  fold 

Those  wandering  far  abroad. 
Till  blessings  more  thiin  it  can  liold. 
And  richer  far  than  pearls  or  gold. 
It  shall  give  back  to  God! 

Stud  every  nation  with  such  stars 

Of  piety  and  peace; 
Till,  by  their  light,  unholy  wars 
And  vice,  which  every  beauty  mars. 

Shall  'mong  all  peoples  cease! 


*- 


-* 


•*- 


1354 


* 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


WILLIAM  HIBBERT  WARE. 

Born:  England,  Dec.  24, 1863. 
Mr.  Ware's  grandfuther  was  the  late  Dr. 
Samuel  Hibbert,  M.  D.,  P.  R.  S.,  who  was  the 
oldest  representative  in  a  straig-lit  line  of  Sir 
James  Ware,  the  Irish  historian,  and  as- 
sumed the  name  of  Ware  by  Royal  License 


* 


WILLIAM  HIBBERT  WARE. 

of  Ulster  King  at  arms,  and  is  the  author  of 
Hibbert  Ware  Annalsin  the  British  Museum. 
The  subject  of  this  skelcli  was  left  an  orphan 
when  an  infant,  and  he  was  placed  under 
the  charge  of  his  uncle,  Sir  Roliert  Stuart, 
late  Chief  Justice  of  N.  W.  India.  Mr.  Ware 
has  only  receutly  come  to  this  country,  but 
Is  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  freedom  and 
fairness  which  characterize  its  institutions. 
To  America,  to  a  great  extent,  must  be  en- 
scribed  the  cause  of  the  inspiration  which 
the  muse  has  imparted  to  him.  Mr.  William 
Hibbert  Ware  resides  in  Trenton,  N.  J.,  where 
he  is  engaged  as  an  accountant.  His  poems 
have  appeared  extensively  in  the  eastern 
press. 

SOME  BETTER  PART  OF  NATURE. 

Those  dormant  sensibilities  that  lie 

Deep down.witliiutlie heart's  pathetic  well. 
Watered    with    tears    and   pruned   by  little 
pangs. 


Some  day  will  blossom  and  with  goodness 
swell. 

'Neath  blackest  heart,  choked  by  depravity. 
There  lies  tlie  tenderest  chord,  susceptible. 

Which,  if  but  reached  and  gently  exercised. 
Will  ope  the  floodgates  of  the  heart's  deep 
well. 

I  care  not  if  the  heart  be  e'er  so  hard; 

Tiie  soul  be  e'er  so  far  depraved  or  bad, 
Tliereliessomequantily  of  sense  ti  Kit's  good; 

Some  tender  spot  that's  full  of  pathos  sad. 

Of  every  tear  that  flows  adown  the  cheek; 

Of  every  pang  tliat  rends  the  human  heart. 
There  comes  an  after,  melting  influence 

That  ushers  into  life  some  better  part. 


SPRINGS  CHEERING  LESSON. 

The  earth  is  young  and  fair  —  and  old  winter. 
Silvery  with  hoary  locks  has  departed, 
Yielding  up  his  tenemeni  to  blushing  youth. 
Taking,  in  his  flght  his  mantle. 
Wherewith  he  warmly  clad  the  mountains 

high 
And  valleys  sweet— protecting  them  from 

chill 
Of  nipping  frost. 

Tiie  glorious  sun  gives  strength 
To  all  the  bursting  buds  of  Nature's  field. 
The  canopy  is  one  blue  arch  o'erliead. 
And  mankind  treads  upon  a  carpet  soft. 
In  verdant  richness  grown,  and  jewelled  o'er 
With  daises  sweet  and  golden  buttercups. 
The  hum  and  murmur  of  the  insects  gaj", 
With  variegated  colors  richly  decked; 
The  })erfume  of  the  mignonetti'  and  rose. 
Of  violet  and  sweet-smelling  briar  wild. 
In  all  tliese  we  read  the  advent  of  spring! 
And  in  the  early  morn  of  this  briglit  time, 
Tlie  lark,  that  oft  doth  build  her  lowly  nest 
Upon    the  ground,   soars  grandly    high  on 

wing. 
And  chants  her  grateful  carol  in  the  sky. 
It  is  a  time  when  timid  roe  and  hart 
Flee  nimbly  across  tlie  greensward  common. 
Drinking  iu  Nature's  airy  i>erfume  sweet. 
This  is  a  season  much  beloved  by  young  — 
Fair  Cupid's   hour  — when  lovers  woo,  and 

l)light 
Their  troth,  in  some  sequestered,  floral  nook. 
This  is  the  time  of  year  the  wisest  men, 
Of  every  age  and  clime,  have  ever  loved. 
A  season  when  old  and  young,  rich  and  poor- 
All  mankind— should  learn  the  wiiolesome 

lesson 
Spring  teaches,  by  its  wonted  harmony; 
A  mighty  truth  that's  grandly  sweet,   there 

is  no  death. 
« 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   TOKT.S   OF    AMKKICA. 


IHoo 


DR.  THOMAS  J.  B.  RHOADS. 

Born:  Berks  Co.,  Pa.,  Sept.  26.  1837. 
After  receiving-a  common  school  education, 
Mr.  Rlioads  taught  for  some  years,  and  at  the 
same  time  prosecuted  studies  to  enter  tlie 
Jefferson  Medical  College  at  Philadelphia, 
from  which  school  he  graduated  in  1861.    Mr. 


DK.  THOMAS  .J.  B.  lUIOADS. 

Rhoads  at  once  began  the  practice  of  medi- 
cine. In  December  1863  he  was  commissioned 
assistant  surgeon  of  the  169th  Regt.  Pa.  Vols. 
Totretiier  with  his  brother,  Reuben,  he  had 
charge  of  the  forces  at  Fort  Keys  and  tlie 
lipspital  on  the  Point.  In  the  spring  of  1863 
Mr.  Rhoads  moved  with  his  regiment  and  re- 
mained with  it  as  acting:  assistant  surgeon 
until  it  was  mustered  out  of  service.  After 
tlie  war  Mr.  Rhoads  settled  down  to  the  prac- 
tice of  his  profession  at  Boyertown,  Pa.  In 
1883  he  organized  the  Farmer's  National 
Bank  of  Boyertown  and  became  its  president, 
which  position  lie  still  holds. 


THE  TOILS  OF  THE  FARM. 

'Tis  the  hour  of  morning. 
Faint  streaks  of  light  illume  the  eastern  sky; 
Fast  fading-  stars  the  rising- sun  proclaim; 
Tlie  thrifty  farmer  scans  his  vast  domain. 
With  sturdy  team  he  hies  to  yonder  plain, 


Behind  the  plow  his  place  to  take  iiRaiii 
The  yielding  sod  in  symmetry  to  turn. 

'Tis  the  hour  of  noontide, 
Higli  overhead  the  sun  now  sheds  his  rays; 
Tlie  dinner-bell  higli  perched  on  yonder  pole. 
Swung-  by  the  dame,  its  welcome  echoes  roll. 
Tlie  tired  steeds  witli  necks  and  ears  extend, 
Tlie  iileasing  sound  tliey  clearly  comprehend ; 
With  quickened  steps  their  way  iKjmewanl 
wend. 

'Tis  the  hour  of  evening-, 
And  at  the  well  known  sound  of  Sukie's  call 
Thekine,  forth  issuing  from  the  pasture  field. 
Unto  the  maid  theii-  li(jui(l  treasures  yield. 
The  shades  of  eventide  are  gathering  round 
To  cast  their  sable  mantle  on  the  ground, 
And  nature's  works  sink  into  quiet  rest. 

'Tis  the  hour  of  midnight, 

On  downy  pillow  now  he  rests  his  liead; 

The  heavy  chest  and  measured  breath  por- 
tend 

A  day  of  labor  and  its  toil  well  spent. 

His  aching-  limbs  and  his  weary  form  at  rest, 

With  toubled  dreams  his  active  mind  op- 
pressed, 

Unconscious  of  the  near  approach  of  day. 


REMINISCENCES  OF  YOUTH. 
Oh:  days  of  childhood  and  of  jouth. 

How  happy  we  were  then! 
With  naught  to  fret  and  worry  us, 

And  naught  to  give  us  pain. 

No  cares  nor  burdens  on  our  minds; 

No  trials  to  endure. 
While  all  around  was  innocence. 

And  all  our  thoughts  were  pure. 

How  we  enjoyed  the  pleasant  sport 

Of  bathing  in  the  pond; 
Of  chasing  squirrels  to  their  lair. 

Or  larger  ganie  to  hunt. 
In  playing  games  of  hide  and  seek 

To  father's  barn  wed  hie. 
Where,  hid  among-  the  hay  and  straw. 

The  seeker  we  could  spy. 
When  once  beyond  our  liidinR  place. 

How  deftly  we  would  roll. 
And  make  a  dash  to  reach  the  pluco 

Selected  for  the  goal. 
Long  lanes  we  diijr  lienenth  the  straw 

To  some  secluded  jilace. 
Where  we  could  lie  securely  hid 

While  others  lost  the  race. 
When  nutting  season  was  at  hand 

To  distant  woods  we'd  hie 
With  lofty  pole  and  dwarfish  sacks. 

And  clubs  a  g-ootl  supply. 


— * 


* 


-* 


1356 


LOCAL  AND    NATIONAL  POETS  OF    AMERICA.. 


While  one  with  pole  was  beating-  boughs 

The  rest  would  scatter  round 
To  seek  the  nuts  among-  the  leaves, 

Or  pick  them  from  the  ground. 

Some  flinging-  clubs  high  in  the  air 
"Gainst  some  projecting-  branch. 

Would  send  the  shellbarks  rattling-  as 
They  fell  from  branch  to  branch. 

In  plaj'ing-  g-ames  of  shindy  on 

Tiie  mill-pond  close  at  hand 
Or  chasing  rabbits  o'er  the  fields 

In  a  tumultuous  band. 

The  fleetest  foot,  by  some  mishap 
Went  tumbling-  on  the  g-round, 

While  others  coming  close  behind 
Would  clear  him  at  a  bound. 

And  by  the  time  his  feet  he  gained 

And  rubbed  his  aching  side, 
Tiie  game,  pursued  by  yelling-  crowd 

Had  vanished  out  of  sight. 

In  coasting-  then  our  turn  we'd  take 

From  top  of  yonder  hill. 
And  swiftly  glided  down  its  side 

To  meadow  by  the  mill. 

On  fancy  sleds  we  boys  of  yore 

Were  never  used  to  ride. 
With  shapelj'  forms  and  painter's  art 

Displayed  on  every  side; 

Some  roughed  boards,  with  ends  upturned. 

Well  seasoned  by  the  sun, 
On  end  of  this  a  block  of  wood 

For  seat  to  rest  upon. 

How  'round  the  hearth  in  winter  time 

The  family  would  meet 
To  take  our  fill  of  apples,  or 

A  glass  of  cider  sweet! 

How,  clustered  round  our  mother's  knee, 

We  oftentimes  would  wait 
To  teach  us  say  our  evening  prayers. 

Or  stories  to  relate! 

How  eager  to  retain  each  word 

That  from  lier  lips  would  fall! 
How  well  tho'  our  lessons  she  had  taught !  - 

I  still  remember  all! 

Three  months  of  schooling  in  each  year 

Was  all  we  could  obtain. 
For  father,  by  return  of  spring, 

Would  need  us  home  again. 

The  grain  to  thrash  with  horses'  tread 
As  they  went  'round  and  'round; 

Or  make  the  fences  which  the  storms 
Had  leveled  to  the  ground. 


The  fields  to  plow,  with  oats  to  sow. 

The  sod  with  corn  to  plant: 
The  trees  to  prune;  the  stock  to  herd. 

Would  next  our  time  demand. 

The  month  of  June,  with  lengthened  days 

Showed  grass  now  fit  to  mow, 
So  armed  with  scythes  and  forks  and  rakes. 

To  meadow  lands  we'd  go. 

The  men  with  scythes,  with  swinging  stroke. 

Swaths  down  the  meadow  led; 
We  boys,  with  rakes  and  forks,  at  once 

The  fragrant  herbage  spread. 

The  seasoned  hay  we  boys  and  girls 

Would  all  join  in  next  day 
To  rake,  form  into  windrows,  pile, 

And  quickly  cart  away. 

The  spacious  fields  of  amber  grain 

Would  next  our  gaze  attract, 
Wlere  scores  of  women  and  of  men 

The  ripened  grain  attacked. 

With  sickles  plied  by  skillful  hands 

The  waving  grain  to  reap. 
While  I  would  gather  up  the  sheaves  — 

A  dozen  to  a  heap. 

Or  carry  water  from  the  spring 

And  pass  the  bottle  round. 
While  they  were  resting  in  the  shade, 

All  seated  on  the  ground. 

In  summer  time  to  fields  we'd  go 

With  father  in  the  lead. 
With  shouldered  rake  and  lighted  pipe 

To  bind  the  golden  wheat. 

In  fall  of  year,  with  apples  picked 

To  cider  mill  would  go, 
Where  pomace,  pressed  by  massive  beam. 

The  cider  fast  would  flow. 

The  corn  to  husk,  and  wood  to  cut  — 

It  always  was  the  rule 
To  haul  and  pile  for  winter's  use 

Before  we  went  to  school. 

Oh  !  these  were  happy  days  of  youth,— 

Days  to  return  no  more 
Until  we  meet  in  l)etter  lands 

On  Canaan's  happy  shore! 

Where  sin  and  sorrow,  pain  and  woe 

Can  never,  never  come! 
Where  our  Redeemer  we  shall  meet 

In  that  Eternal  Home ! 

When  we  shall  join  the  angelic  throng 

In  singing  songs  of  praise 
To  God  tiie  Father!  Spirit!  Son! 

Unto  the  end  of  days ! 


)I1 

BOB 

I  THIS  t   ^ 

poeiiis.  ^  I 

las  haJ  a 
can  cla 


such. 
Jaces 
York 

SODS- 

mi 
Bera' 
is  at 
little 
andl 


»i<- 


* 


^1^ 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


]oo7 


MRS.  S.  M.  I.  HENRY. 

Born:  Albion,  Pa.,  Nov.  4,  lt^39. 
This  lady  is  the  author  of  two  volumes  of 
poems,  "Victoria  and  Marble  Cross,  both  of 
wliifh  have  been  highly  eulogized.  Victoiia 
has  had  a  second  edition,  is  called  an  Ameri- 
can classic,  and  is  used  in  many  colleges  as 


MKS.  S.  M.  I.  HENRY. 

such.  Mrs.  Henry  was  married  in  1861  to 
James  W.  Henry  of  Cortland  County,  New 
Yorls  State,  and  has  a  daughter  and  two 
sons  — the  Rev.  Alfred  H.  Henry  of  Chicago, 
and  Arthur  Henry  of  the  Chicago  Daily 
Herald.  The  permanent  home  of  Mrs.  Heniy 
is  at  Evanstoii,  111.,  but  she  spends  quite  a 
little  of  her  time  in  traveling  for  recreation 
and  health. 


THE  BROODING  BIRD'S  SONG. 
Nature  hath  told  me  a  secret. 
The  sweetest  that  ever  could  be; 
The  stars  do  not  dream  of  it. 
The  sun  hatli  no  gleam  of  it. 
The  river  no  glint  of  it. 
The  forest  no  hint  of  it. 
My  mate  doth  not  Isnow  it. 
And  until  I  show  it 
It  is  a  secret  'twixt  nature  and  me. 


Under  my  bodice  of  feathers 
Is  hidden  a  life,  and  a  song: 
All  graces  must  give  for  it, 
All  being  must  live  for  it. 
All  harmonies  sing  for  it, 
All  fleetness  be  wing  for  it; 
O  the  strange  liistory! 
O  the  sweet  mystery ! 


[long. 


I'll  cherish  and  guard  it  the  happy  day 

Guarding  my  nest  with  its  treasure; 
Taking  tlie  winds  as  they  blow ; 
What  will  I  not  dare  for  it. 
And  patiently  bear  for  it. 
Be  loved  or  be  blamed  for  it, 
Be  sung  or  be  shamed  for  it. 
Only  to  live  for  it. 
Myself  to  give  for  it; 

That  my  own  mate's  birdlings,  at  last,  I 
may  know. 


THE  BIRD'S  INVITATION. 
Up  in  the  top  of  a  maple  tree, 
A  little  bird  sits  and  sings  to  me 
A  sacred  song,  this  Sabl)ath  day. 
Worshipping  God  in  his  own  sweet  way. 

And  he  looks  at  me  with  two  pure  eyes, 
Like  one  who  is  sent  to  evangelize. 
And  seems  to  say  :  •>  Come,  sing  with  me '. 
Just  listen,  and  try  to  catch  the  key." 

And  I  have  been  trying  to  learn  his  words. 
And  follow  the  play  of  his  wondrous  chords. 
And  to  tune  my  voice  to  llio  joyons  note 
Tliat  swells  and  ruffles  his  guUl-bi'own  tln-oat. 
But  he  is  beyond  me!  no  more  can  I  sing 
That  song,  than  fly  witli  his  dainty  wing; 
And  so  I  sit  still,  and  let  him  do 
Alone,  the  singing  service  for  two. 
But  it  seems  not  right;  I  feel  in  me. 
That  I  ought  to  sing  as  sweetly  as  lie; 
That  the  woman's  soul  and  the  mother's  heart 
Should  give  me  in  even  his  song  a  part. 
But  if  I  am  silent  to-day,  while  he 
Is  splitting  his  throat  in  ecstasy, 
I  know  that,  to  me,  some  day  shall  bring 
A  gift  of  song  and  a  song  to  sing. 
Which  the  little  heart  in  Ids  vest  of  gold. 
Is  altogether  tt)o  small  to  hold; 
A  song  unwritten  for  evermore; 
No  seraph,  even,  hath  seen  its  score. 
Sometimes  I  liave  felt  the  delicious  thrill 
Of  the  songful  tide  tliat  then  shall  flU 
My  soul;  but  at  best  it  has  only  been. 
As  yet,  a  dream  of  what  shall  be  then. 
So,  beautiful  bird  in  the  maple  tree. 
You  may  swing  and  sing  and  laugh  at  me 
As  I  try  to  mimic  your  song,  but  I 
Can  afford  to  wait  for  m3-  by-and-by. 


looS 


LOCAL,   AMD   NATIONAL   POETS   t>F   AMERICA. 


MRS.  MARY  T.  LATHROP. 

Born:  Concord,  Mich. 
Priok  to  her  iu!irriage,lliis  lady  taught  school 
several  jears  in  Detroit,  at  the  same  time 
contributing-  numerous  poems  to  tlie  press. 
In  1873  Mrs.  Lathrop  went  into  Evangelistic 
work,  and  for  twelve  years  gave  all  her  time 


MKS.   MARY  TORRANS  LATHROP. 

to  that  and  the  Woman's  Foreign  Missionary 
Society  of  the  M.  E.  Cliurch.  For  the  past 
ten  years  Mrs.  Lathrop  has  been  president 
of  the  Woman's  Christian  Temperance  Union 
of  Michigan.  She  is  at  present  etigraged  as 
lecturer  on  the  temperance  platform,  in 
which  she  has  become  very  poi)ular.  Her 
poems  have  appeared  in  various  prominent 
publications,  and  have  received  high  praise. 
This  lady  was  married  in  1863  to  Dr.  Carnett 
B.  Lathrop,  a  prominent  physician  and  sur- 
geon of  Jackson, Mich.,  where  she  still  resides. 


JOHN  B.  GOUGH. 
Like  missing  the  delicate  odors  that  out  from 

the  roses  distill. 
Like  silence  that  falls  on   the  si)irit  wlion 

quickly  the  music  i.s  still. 
Like  shadow  that  follows  the  sunset  when 

golden  is  turning  to  gray. 
We  stand  in  the  midst  of  our  losing,  in  tlie 

midst  of  our  grieving  to-day. 

So  rare  was  the  fragrance  that  followed  the 
track  of  a  wonderful  life. 


So  thrilling  the  passionate  numbers  of  vic- 
tory, mingled  with  strife. 

So  golden  the  skies  of  the  evening, when  day 
in  its  glory  went  down, 

That,  weeping  for  friend  and  for  brother,  we 
shout  for  a  hero  that's  crowned. 

Oh,  soul  that  hast  struggled  and  conquered, 

how  looks  the  sharp  pathwaj'  you  trod? 
How  seemeth  the  field  where  you  battled, 

looking  down  from  the  hilltops  of  God'/ 
Oh,  surely  it  pays  to  have  borne  it,  with  all 

of  the  measureless  pain. 
To  find  that  the  soul  thato'ercometh  is  heir 

of  an  infinite  gain. 

Gough  dead !    Say  the  same  of  the  sunshine, 

when  evening  conies  over  the  hill; 
Say  music  is  dead  when  in  slumber  the  hand 

of  the  player  is  still. 
Behold,  the  dimmed  splendor  has  broken  in 

morning,  eternal  and  calm; 
And,  listen,  the  player  is  sweeping  the  chords 

of  an  infinite  Psalm. 


« 


A  WOMAN'S  QUESTION. 

EXTRACT. 

Do  you  know  you  have  asked  for  the  costliest 
thing 

Ever  made  by  the  Hand  above? 
A  woman's  heart  and  a  woman's  life. 

And  a  woman's  wonderful  love. 

You  have  written  my  lesson  of  duty  out; 

Manlike,  j'ou  have  questioned  me. 
Now,  stand  at  the  bar  of  mj'  woman's  soul 

Until  I  shall  question  thee! 

You  require  your  muttonshallalways  be  hot, 
Your  socks  and  your  shirts  shall  be  whole. 

I  require  your  heart  shall  be  true  as  God's 
stars. 
As  pure  as  His  Heaven  your  soul. 

You  require  a  cook  for  your  mutton  and  beef; 

I  require  a  far  better  thing. 
A  seamstress  you're  wanting  for  stockings 
and  shirts. 

I  look  for  a  man  and  a  king. 

A  king  for  a  beautiful  realm  called  home, 
And  a  man  that  the  Maker,  God, 

Shall  look  upon  as  he  did  the  first 
And  say,  ••  It  is  very  good." 

I  am  fair  and  young,  but  the  rose  will  fade 
From  my  soft  young  clieek  some  day; 

Will  you  love  me  then  'mid  the  falling  leaves 
As  you  did  'mid  the  bloom  of  May'? 

If  you  cannotdo  this,  a  laundress  or  cook 
You  can  hire  with  little  to  pay  — 

But  a  woman's  heart  and  a  woman's  life 
Ai'c  not  to  be  thrown  away! 


* 


*- 


*. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POE  IS   OF   AMERICA. 


1359 


MRS.  A.  A.  FISCHER. 

Bokn:  Savanna,  III.,  Aug.  11,  1841. 
OvEK  five  hundred  poems  of  this  lady  have 
appeared  from  time  to  time  in  tlie  leading- 
papers  and  periodicals  of  America.  In  188.3 
she  published  s  small  volutLe  under  the  title 
of  A  Venture,  which  contains  many  gems  of 


MRS,  ANGELINA  A.  FISCHER. 

intrinsic  worth.  She  is  also  represented  in 
Woman  in  Sacred  Song  and  various  other 
standard  collections.  She  was  married  in 
1887  and  is  now  a  resident  of  Omaha,  Neb., 
wliere  she  is  very  popular.  Mrs.  Fischer  lost 
her  hearing  in  her  youth,  and  has  Ijeen  botli 
pupil  and  matron  of  some  of  the  leading 
deaf-mute  institutes  of  the  country. 


NOTHING  BUT  LEAVES. 

Nothing  but  leaves,  no  bursting  buds. 

No  perfect  flowers; 
Nothing  but  leaves  to  jirove  the  i)ower 

Of  warmth  and  showers. 

Nothing  but  leaves,  no  luscious  globes. 

Of  ripened  fruit; 
Nothing  but  leaves  to  tell  of  care 

Or  nourished  root. 

Nothing  but  leaves,  no  garnered  sheaves. 

Of  golden  grain; 
Nothing  but  leaves,  all  nature's  aid 

Given  in  vain. 


Nothing  but  leaves,  no  noble  liioughts 

Wrouglit  into  deeds; 
Nothing  but  leaves  wliere  we  should  i^liow 

Flowers,  fruit  and  seeds. 

Nothing  but  seeds  for  months  and  years, 

And  noble  powers. 
Nothing  but  leaves  to  thow  wc  lived. 

The  precious  houis. 

Nothing  but  leaves,  and  dare  we  rest 

Wit-li  leaves  content? 
Wlule  seeking  fruit  tlie  Master's  eyes, 

Are  on  us  bent. 


ONLY  A  UI'MMY. 

EXTIi.VCT. 

Only  a  dummy  did  you  say ! 

Tell  me  what  is  a  dununy,  pray. 

Is  it  something  from  wliich  the  weak  should 

run 
Or  the  peaceable,  law-abiding  shun? 
Is  it  a  ttonster,  a  nondescript. 
Or  one  whose  soul  has  been  so  dipped 
lu  lirave  men's  gore  and  woman's  tears. 
That  none  of  its  primal  hue  appears? 

Only  a  dummy.    Does  dummy  mean 
That  mind  is  lacking,  or  held  between 
Tlie  bar  of  flesh  so  abjectly. 
No  power  can  ever  set  it  free  — 
To  gatlier  strengtli,  expand  and  grow, 
Surmount  all  obstacles,  and  show 
By  many  a  word  and  deed  and  plan, 
The  capabilities  of  man. 

Only  a  dummy!     Hold  friend,  once  he  — 
Was  a  sailor  boy,  and  he  loves  the  sea. 
As  you  love  the  himi;  and  often  he  sighs 
Or  dashes  tears  from  his  longing  eyes  — 
Ashe  thinks  of  the  past,  when  he  used  to  hear 
The  sea's  grand  music,  nor  knew  a  fear 
As  he  paced  the  deck  while  others  slept 
And  vigilant  niglitwalch  bravely  kept. 

Oh!  ye  favored  people  who  proudly  claim. 

The  right  to  be  called  by  the  Master's  name. 

And  ye  who  seek  no  higher  fame 

Thau  that  which  bears  the  name,  humane, 

Pass  not  God's  suffering  children  by 

Just  for  a  brief  instructive  space. 

To  put  yourself  in  each  suflferer's  place. 

And  by  the  need  you  then  discern  — 

For  fortitude  and  grace,  oh,  learn, 

Vour  duty  socially,  and  ne'er. 

By  stigma,  .scornful  look,  nor  jeer. 

Wound  those,  who  ask  but  cliance  to  prove 

Worthy  of  trust,  resi)ect  and  love. 

Wortliy  of  all  the  rights,  the  claims 

The  law  secures,  the  Gospel  names. 


* 


1S60 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  VIRGINIA  P.STONE. 

Bokn:  Montgomery  Co.,Texn.,Aug.16,  1S56. 
As  A  writer  of  prose  and  poetry  Mrs.  Stone 
is  rccog-nized  as  one  of  the  best  poets  of  the 
sunny  south.  About  three  hundred  of  her 
poems  liave  appeared  from  time  to  time  in 
the  ])eriodical  press.  She  was  married  in 
1879  to  Joliu  K.  Stone,  and  now  has  a  family 
of  sev^eral  children. 


COLUMBIA. 

Sweet  land  oC  liberty  and  peace 
The  land  of  wealth  and  fame 

My  joy  in  her  will  never  cease 
Columbia  is  her  name. 

Cho.— Columbia,  fairest  land  on  earth. 
From  it  I  ne'er  will  roam 
Oh,  'tis  the  laud  that  gave  me  birth, 
Columbia  is  my  home. 

'Twas  here  the  Pdgrim  fathers  died 

And  here  the  exiles,  home. 
And  here  the  free  man's  only  prido 

••Vnd  here  his  princely  dome. 

Here  is  the  grave  of  Washington, 
And  here  shines  freedom's  sun. 

And  here  the  starry  banner  waves 
All  honors  to  her  braves. 

Who  does  not  love  this  g-oodly  land 
Oh,  who  would  from  her  roam? 

Columbia  is  a  country  grand, 
Columbia  sweet,  my  home. 


MRS.  SADIE  A.F.  MCGRIFF. 

Born:  Wabash,  Ind.,  Feb.  18, 18-19. 
Mrs.  McGriff  has  written  about  three  hun- 
dred poems  which  have  constantly  appeared 
in  the  periodical  press.    She  resides  with  her 
husband  and  family  in  Monroe,  Iowa, 


•i<- 


MEMORIAL  DAY. 
Baskets  of  flowers  aud  wreaths  of  everg:reen. 

Bring  we  to-day  to  deck  our  heroes'graves, 
'Tis  all  that  we  can  do 

For  those  who  died  our  country  to  save. 

Aud  ab !  it  seems  so  little  when  we  think 
Of  what  theygave  for  u8,tliose  men  so  brave. 

Died  that  we  might  live  in  freedom  grand. 
Died,  our  liberty  to  save. 

And  ah  I  it  is  so  hard  that  with  their  bones. 

We  are  called  to  make  a  bridge 
To  span  the  bloody  chasm.    Oh  !  can  we 

Forget  Bull-Run  or  Mission  Ridge, 
Or  i)rision  pens.    No,  no,  my  God  forbid. 

Nor  can  we  hear  the  pitiful  cry. 


•  •  My  wife,  my  child  I  so  much  long  to  see 

Before  Idle." 
But  when  our  mind  doth  turn, 

From  our  own  grief  and  loss. 
We  can't  but  feel  and  know,  although  a  foe. 

The  other  side  bore  a  heavy  cross. 
Then  let  us  decorate  their  graves, 

Let  it  be  friend  or  foe. 
No  one  shall  know  how  our  hearts  doth  aclie, 

But  decorate  as  we  go. 


ROSABEL  SHAMMO. 

Born  :  Halifax,  Pa.,  Nov.  19,  1867. 
The  poems  of  this  lady  have  occasionally  ap- 
peared in  the  periodical  press.      She  still  re- 
sides in  the  place  her  nativity,  where  she  is 
very  popular. 

A  PASTIME. 
I  should  like  to  speak  in  rliyme 
Most  of  the  time  or  half  of  the  lime; 
Should  like  to  jingle  words  or  chime. 

Many  a  time ! 
It  would  give  me  a  real  pleasure 
Thought  to  express  in  rhythmic  measure. 
But,  perhaps,  friends  would  not  think 

That  so  sublime. 

Folks  would  think  it  rather  funny, 
I  suppose.    Don't  you  suppose? 
If  fed,  e'er,  on  posej''s  honey 

In  lieu  of  prose. 
Should  we  do  this,  they'd  thiuk  we  had  lost 

our  senses. 
Or  had  most  strange  moods  aud  tenses 
So  audaciously,  to  pose! 

But  some  thiuk  ev^rytliing  audacious. 
But  what  they  do!  Just  what  they  do! 
With  them  agree,  they'll  be  quite  gracious 

And  smile  upon  you. 
Aught  else  is  stupid  in  the  extreme. 
Or  is  but  silliness,  supreme. 

Is  this  not  true? 
So  if  meters  keep  a-ringiug 
Through  our  heads,  and  in  jur  heads. 
Wouldn't  we  better  be  a  singing 

There,  instead 
Of  letting  them  in  the  brain  to  spin. 
Making  such  a  whirl  aud  diu 
That  peace  we  can  only  have 

When  thej''re  said. 
So  if  we  wish,  why  not  sing  to  the  crowds  — 
To  tiie  gaping  throng!  Tlie  thankless  throng! 
And  sing  blithely,  and  sing  loud. 

Our  little  song. 
What  if  they  sliould  smile  or  laugh. 
Or,  even  ridicule  or  chaff. 

We  would  do  no  wrong. 


m 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEUICA. 


1361 


REV.  ROBERT  WHITAKER. 

Bokn:  England,  Sept.  9, 1863. 
Whilk  a  boy  Mr.Whitaker  lived  on  the  furm 
in  tlie  viciuity  of  Clurksville,  Iowa,and  after- 
wards removed  to  Waltham.Mass.  He  worlied 
four  years  in  tiie  Waltbam  Watcli  Factory, 
Btudyiiig'  meauwliile  at  nights  and  under  a 
private  tutor.  Here  it  was  he  earned  the 
money  to  carry  on  liis  education.  In  1887  lie 
flnislied  a  full  course  at  Newton  Theolog-ical 
Institution,  and  in  the  same  year  married 
Miss  EUie  J.  Longly  of  Sau  Francisco.  Mr. 
Wliitaker  then  spent  a  year  as  missionary  in 
Mexico,  but  on  account  of  failing  health  was 
compelled  to  leave.  He  was  pastor  for  a  year 
in  Seattle,  and  is  now  settled  in  Salem, Ore. 


LIVE  FOR  SOMETHING. 

Live  for  something-,  have  a  purpose. 

And  tliat  purpose  keep  in  view; 
Drifting-  like  a  lielmless  vessel, 

Thou  canst  ne'er  to  life  be  true. 
Half  tlie  wiecks  that  strew  life's  ocean, 

If  some  star  had  been  their  guide. 
Might  have  now  been  riding  safely. 

But  they  drifted  with  the  tide. 
Live  for  something,  yes,  and  something 

That  is  worthy  of  thy  life; 
Something  that  will  well  repay  thee 

When  'tis  won,  for  all  the  strife. 
Be  not  dazzled  by  the  ghtter 

Of  the  tinsel  of  the  world; 
But  above  the  true  and  lasting 

Let  thy  banner  be  unfurled. 
Live  for  something,  live  in  earnest. 

Though  tliy  work  may  liumble  be. 
By  tlie  careless  -world  unnoticed, 

Only  known  to  God  and  thee. 
Every  act  has  priceless  value 

To  the  arcliitect  of  fate. 
And  the  spirit  of  thy  doing 

Makes  the  action  small  or  great. 
Live  for  sometliing,  every  mortal 

Wields  the  sceptre  of  a  king: 
Every  soul  may  waken  echoes 

That  shall  never  cease  to  ring. 
We  are  living  for  the  ages 

To  the  fartliest  end  of  time. 
And  the  weakest  life  is  mighty. 

And  the  humblest  is  sublime. 
Live  for  something,  God  and  angels 

Silently  survey  the  strife. 
And  for  liioi  who  overcometh 

Waits  the  crown  of  endless  life: 
What  though  now  the  smoke  of  battle 

Wraps  thee  with  its  gloom  around. 
If  when  dawns  the  fadeless  morning 

As  the  victor  thou  art  crowned. 


MARY  AUGUSTA  MASON. 

Born:  Windsor,  N.Y.,  Aug.  6,  186L 

This  journalist  and  poet  is  the  author  of 
about  two  hundred  poems,  wliieh  have  ap- 
peared in  the  New  York  Independent.  Har- 
per's publications,  Tiie  Youth's  Companion, 
St.  Nicholas,  Boston  Transcript,  Leslie's.Out- 
ing,  America  and  other  prominent  publica- 
tions. 


THE  RAIN-DOVE. 

When  the  clouds  have  settled  deep 

O'er  the  languid  summer  sky. 
And  the  breeze  lias  gone  to  sleep, 

To  be  wakened  by  and  by ; 
From  the  wood  I  hear  the  call 

Of  the  rain-dove,  as  from  some 
Spirit  that  has  lost  its  all 

And  with  grief  is  overcome. 

And  the  wierd,  unbirdlike  notes. 

Heard  at  lonely  times  and  long. 
Seem  to  still  the  other  throats 

That  have  throblied  with  lKii)py  song; 
Never  call  to  brooding  mate. 

Silent  all  the  wood  as  though 
Bluebird,  thrush  :ind  ro'oin's  fate 

Hung  upon  the  rain-dove's  woe. 

But  tlie  kindly  clouds  at  last 

Break  the  tension  of  the  hush. 
Through  the  drops  now  falling  fast 

Comes  the  music  of  the  thrush; 
Aftd  the  bluebird's  heard  iigain 

Singing  at  his  sweetheart's  door. 
And  tlie  robin's  joyful  strain. 

For  the  rain-dove  mourns  no  more. 


MY  LITTLE  LADY. 

1  know  a  little  lady. 

So  young  and  sweet  and  shy. 
She  blushes  like  the  roses 

When  a  sunbeam  dances  by. 

She  trembles  at  a  rude  wind, 

Is  full  of  fancied  fears; 
It  seems  as  if  I'd  happened 

On  a  violet  in  tears. 

But  a  smile  her  tears  will  banish. 
And  her  skies  be  blue  again. 

For  she  knows  no  more  of  sorrow 
Than  a  violet  of  pain. 

She  is  so  pure  and  gentle. 

Could  I  reach  the  spring  on  high, 
I  would  drink  to  her  in  starshine 

From  the  dipper  in  the  sky. 


* 


1362 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


*■ 


EMILY  BUCK. 

Born:  Clayton  Co.,  Iowa. 
For  many  years  this  lady  has  taught  school 
in  Sioux  and  Lyou  counties.     Her  poems 
have   appeared    from  time  to  time  in  the 
periodical  press. 

IDEAL  AND  REAL. 
In  child  fancy,  life  doth  seem 

To  be  a  sweet,  alluring-  dream 
Of  fairj'land  and  sylvan  bowers. 

Of  brightest  birds  and  fairest  flowers. 

Where  'neath  the  sparkling  dews  of  morn. 
We  pluck  the  rose  witliout  lis  thorn; 

Or  list  enchanted  to  the  song 
Of  the  babbling  brook  which  flows  along. 

No  shade  of  gloom,  no  thought  of  care. 
We  roam  the  hill  as  free  as  air; 

Or  chase  the  moth  witli  gilded  wing. 
And  make  the  woodlands  gaily  ring. 

The  real  is  mingled  joy  and  grief. 
Whose  brighter  days  seem  far  too  brief, 

For  'mid  tlieir  joys  we're  called  to  sup 
The  bitter  dregs  of  sorrow's  cup. 

Footsore  we  climb  life's  rugged  steep. 
And  cross  its  chasms  dark  and  deep. 

When  at  our  feet,  ah,  glad  surprise! 
Some  new  found  treasure  greets  our  eyes. 

Thus,  ever  changing,  time  flits  by. 
Till  unrelenting  death  draws  nigh; 

And  as  the  ages  roll  away. 
Full  four-score  years  seems  but  a  day. 

How  happy  they  who  walk  beside 
Our  ever  true  and  faithful  guide. 

And  leave  not  wisdom's  narrow  way. 
In  flowery  paths  of  sin  to  stray. 

But  nobly  battle  with  the  wrong. 
And  in  the  strife  grow  brave  and  strong; 

To  the  true  conqueror  the  real 
Is  grander,  happier  than  the  ideal. 


MRS.  LOLA  LUELLA  SEELYE. 

Born  :  Southinoton,  Ohio. 
In  1879  tliis  lady  was  married  to  Frank  L. 
Seelye,   and  now  resides  in  Geneva,  Oliio. 
Her  poems  have  occasionally  appeared  in  the 
local  press. 

CONVICT  JIM. 
'Twas  only  the  kiss  of  a  child. 
But  It  touched  a  stony  heart, 
'Twas  only  a  sweet  little  voice. 
But  it  struck  home  like  a  dart. 
The  soft  blue  eyes  so  pleading. 


Saw  not  the  angry  frown. 

Or  heard  the  oatlis  he  uttered. 

As  she  threw  her  arms  around. 

And  whispered,  "  does  you  love  me?" 

And  on  his  hardened  cheek 

She  kissed  him,  saying  softly, 

•'  I  love  you  "—he  did  not  speak  — 

And  tlie  man  that  dared  curse  Heaven, 

Lived  this  life  so  bold  in  sin, 

Vowed,  as  lie  sat  submissive,  so^ cened. 

He'd  a  better  life  begin. 

The  light  in  his  eyes  grew  softer. 

As  he  struggled,  all  undone 

But  his  name  tlie  angels  recorded. 

And  God's  little  angel  won. 


WILLIAM  CHAPLINE  ROSS. 

Born  :  West  Liberty,  W. Va.,  Feb.  10, 1863. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Ross  have  appeared  from 
time  to  time  in  the  periodical  press.  He  now 
resides  in  Omaha,  Neb.,  wliere  he  has  been 
engaged  since  1885in  the  First  National  Bank 
as  bank  teller. 


A  SUMMER  DAY. 
If  I  were  a  painter,  I'd  paint  for  you 
A  picture  of  sombre,  yet  radiant  liue  — 
A  summer  landscape,  with  lowering  sky 
Where  threatening  clouds  drift  sullenly  by. 
A  stream  with  willow  border  broad. 
That  fringed  with  long  grasses  and  golden 
rod,  [bright, 

A  meadow  thick  dotted  with  wild  flowers 
Golden  and  crimson  and  purple  and  white. 
The  upland  flelds  with  grain  in  shock. 
The  yellow  sheaves  seeming  as  if  to  mock 
The  poor  old  stubble  so  bare  and  brown. 
As  gold  in  base  pebbles  might  e'en  look  down. 

And  then  for  a  border  of  darkest  green 
Look  where  your  liazel  copse  is  seen. 
Ragged  and  rough,  neither  busli  nor  tree. 
Yet  the  prettiest  thing  in  the  landscape  to 
me. 

But  see,  through  the  clouds  dart  a  ray  of 

light; 
Another  — another  more  radiant  and  bright, 
Old  Sol.  at  last,  after  all  the  day. 
Is  going  to  drive  tliose  clouds  away. 

He  fills  with  his  glory  the  western  skj'. 
Bewildering  the  sense  and  dazzling  the  eye, 
And  the  clouds  from  sh;ime  before  his  might 
Blush  crimson  and  scurry  fast  out  of  sight. 

Were  I  a  painter,  a  painter  true, 
This  is  the  picture  I'd  paint  for  you  — 
Sombre  and  sober,  yet  radiant.    I  pray 
You,  'lis  only  a  summer's  day. 


•i« 


LOCAf,    AND   NAl'IONAL    POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


18(53 


LAURA  M.  LATIMER. 

Born:  Castile,  N.  Y. 
After  her  graduiition  Miss  Latimer  was  a 
teacher  for  several  j-ears;  was  vice  principal 
of  Livingston  Parli  Seminary,  Rochester, 
New  Yorli;  teaclier  of  higlier  niatliematicsiu 
Pittsburg'  Female  College;  preceptress  of 
Lasall  Seminary,  Boston,  Mass.  She  also 
taught  in  Hagarstown  Seminary,  Maryland. 
In  1881  she  was  sent  bj'  the  Woman's  Board 
of  Foreign  Missions  niicl  has  been  extensively 
engaged  in  that  worli. 


THE  COST. 

The  wondrous  beautj'  that  to-day 

On  Nature's  face  appears. 
Has  cost  the  glorious  dewy  morn 

A  thousand  tears. 

The  chastened  beauty  of  the  saints 
Whom  all  the  world  reveres. 

Has  cost  each  sad  and  struggling  soul, 
A  thousand  tears. 


A  PRAYER. 

I  want  my  face,  dear  Lord,  to  show 
That  I  have  walked  with  Christ  below. 

0  take  away  its  look  of  pride. 
And  all  its  sinfulness  beside! 

Over  these  lines  of  anxious  care. 
Oh  place  thy  look  of  sweetness  there! 

Above  this  frown  upon  the  brow. 
Oh  set  thy  seal  of  meekness  now. 

And  fill  the  eyes  with  heavenly  love, 
A  shining-  radiance  from  above; 

So  every  glance  will  speak  of  Thee 
A  King  of  Kings  who  died  for  me! 


DANA  BRADBURY  HARLOW. 

Born:  Buckfield,  Maine,  May  1,  1864. 
About  two  luindrcd  poems  of  the  Rev.  Dana 
B.  Harlow  have  appeared  from  time  to  time 
in  the  periodical  press. 


THE  SONG  MY  MOTHER  SANG. 
Far  back  in  years,  long  vanished  now. 
When  I  was  but  a  child, 
I  often  live  them  o'er  again 
With  each  pastime  gay  or  mild. 
But  tlie  greatest  pleasure  that  I  knew 
Came  when  the  day  wasdone; 
As  by  the  fire  I  listened  to 
The  songs  my  mother  sung. 


What  magic  power  witiiin  them  lay. 

As  holy  as  some  prayer. 

They  seemed  unto  our  childish  ears. 

And  always  free  from  care. 

For,  though  her  heart  was  sad  and  lone, 

Joy  from  each  note  unstrung. 

And  we  children  ne'er  would  guess  it  from 

The  songs  my  mother  sung-. 

I  often  think  I  licar  them  now, 

Each  old  familiar  strain 

Comes  floating  down  the  tide  of  years 

Unto  my  ears  again. 

Where'er  I  roam  tliey  dwell  with  me. 

Again  my  heart  grows  young 

Whene'er  I  liear  from  other  lips 

The  songs  my  mother  sung. 

My  mother  now  is  growing  old. 
Her  voice  has  lost  the  tone 
So  cheerful,  wonderful  to  us 
Once,  in  our  childhood  home. 
Dear  children,  oft  1  liear  her  say- 
In  strangely  falterng  tongue, 
"  They're  to  you  but  a  memory. 
The  songs  your  mother  sung." 

She  seldom  tries  to  sing-  them  no-w. 

The  scale  she  can't  ascend. 

For  when  slie  strikes  the  upper  notes 

Her  voice  breaks  ere  the  end; 

And  then  slie'U  say,  as  teardrops  fall 

'•My  harp  is  all  unstrung," 

But  oh,  I  never  shall  forget, 

The  songs  my  mother  sung. 


MRS.  L  E.  P.  MERRILL. 

Born:  Parsonsfield,  Me.,  Sept.  24, 18.')3. 
Nearly  a  hundred  poems  have  appeared 
from  the  pen  of  t  his  lady,  wliicli  have  receiv- 
ed publication  in  the  Portland  Transcript 
and  various  other  publications.  She  was 
married  in  1873  to  Mr.  David  M.  Merrill,  with 
whom  she  resides  in  Somerville,  Mass. 


THE  OLD  HOME. 

The  farm-house  old  is  standing  still. 
Just  where  'twas  built  below  the  hill. 

In  childliood  long  ago; 
And  near  the  porch  the  evening  breeze 
Is  iieard  among  tlie  poplar  trees. 

In  leafy  whisp'rmgs  low. 

I  see  the  orchard  wliere  we  played. 

The  mountain  where  our  footstep  strayed, 

Tlie  log-bridge  by  the  way; 
The  granite  rocks  with  moss-grown  seat. 
The  clover  fields  so  fresh  and  sweet, 

With  swaths  of  new-mown  hay. 


«- 


* 


*- 


1364 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF    AMERICA. 


Q'hrousli  piistures  green  we  used  to  roam 
To  call  the  lowing-  cattle  home, 

la  summer  twilights  longr; 
How  many  times  entranced  I've  stood, 
While  tliroug-li  the  dusky,  silent  wood 

Rang-  clear  the  cow-birds'  soug! 


JAMES  W.  MOORE. 

Born:  Shelby  Co.,  Te-nn.,  March  16, 1866. 
Mr.  Moore  will  take  up  the  profession  of 
law  as  soon  as  he  graduates,  being  in  1891  a 
student  in  tlie  Vanderbilt  University  of 
Nasliville,  Tennessee.  His  poems  have  occa- 
sionally appeared  m  the  local  press. 


DEAD  LOVE. 
Thou  art  gone  from  me  for  aj'e. 

To  live  with  dreams  and  dead  desires; 
Thou  art  no  more  nor  less  to-day 

Tlian  ashes  of  extinguished  fires. 

Slowly  drifting  out  of  sight, 
I  watched  thee,  sad  as  tearful  maid 

Watched  from  Plymouth's  sacred  height 
The  Mayflower  pass  into  night's  shade. 

She  oft  called  her  love  to  sail 
Back  home  again  across  the  sea; 

But  for  me  all  yearnings  fail, 
I  call  thee  not  from  memorj'. 


MRS.  ADA  STANLEY. 

BoiiN:  Brandok,  Vt.,  March  23,  1831. 
About  two  hundred  poems  of  Mrs.  Stanlej- 
have  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  Chicago 
Religio-Philosophical  Journal,  Illinois  Pal- 
ladium and  the  local  press  generally.  She 
was  married  in  1860  to  Mr.  Ned  A.  Stanley, 
and  still  resides  in  her  native  state  at  Lei- 
cester, 


HOW  SWEET. 

Sweet  Rose,  with  that  soft  flush  upon  thy 

cheek. 
What  wouldst  thou  say  tome  if  thou  eouldst 

speak ! 
Rocked  by  the  sporting  winds  so  light  and 

free, 
I  stoop  to  kiss,  and  fain  would  gather  thee. 

If  I  should  pluck  and  hold  thee  in  my  liand, 
Tlien  thou— no  longer  by  the  zephyrs  fanned. 
No  longer  kissed  by  sun,  and  dew  and  show- 
er- 
Would  wither,  fade  and  die,  within  an  hour. 
And,  dying,  would  forgive  with  thy  last 
breath. 


And  show  to  me  thj'  triumph  over  death; 
For  when  thy  fragrant  leaves  should   round 

thee  fall. 
And  softly  lie,  like  drooping  funeral  pall, 

Thy  perfumed  soul  would  linger  round  me 

still, 
And  like  a  heavenly  balm  my  being  fill. 
And  lift  my  spirit  to  those  heights  above. 
Where  all  is  joy  and  peace  and  holy  love. 

Tills,  then,  O,  lovely  Rose,  I  hear  thee  say: 
"  Learn  well  the  lessons  of  each  golden  day; 
Scatter  good  deeds,  as  thou  would'st  strew 

my  leaves ; 
Drop  kindly  words  into  the  heart  thatgrieves. 

"  Give  to  the  needy  ones  —  God  gives  to  thee; 
Even  his  blessings  flow,  kindly  and  free. 
Pity  the  lowly  one  — God  loveth  all. 
Kept  by  his  willing  hand  not  one  shall  fall," 

So  I  have  listened.  Rose,  st;inding  by  thee. 
Heard  e'en  the  silence  si)eak,  'round  you  and 

me. 
Drank  in  thy  fragrant  breath,  like  nectar 

sweet. 
Queen  of  the  beautiful !    Love's  own  retreat ! 

Soon  will  thy  loveliness  fade  and  be  gone. 
Soon  will  thj'  scented  leaves  fall,  one  l)y  one, 
But  will  thy  counterpart  gladden  my  eyes, 
Up  in  some  garden,  beyond  the  blue  skies? 


G.A.  BICKERSTAPH. 

Born:  Pennsylvania,  April 20,  1864. 
Mr.  Bickerstaph  is  a  student  of  Wooster 
University,  preparing  for  work  as  a  foreign 
missionarj'.    His  poems  occasionally  appear 
in  the  local  press. 


TRIBUTE  TO  O.  W.  HOLMES. 
Gay  white-haired  boy.son  of  the  tuneful  lyre. 
Long  may  thy  liand  caress  the  conscious 
string. 
Old  age's  frost  hath  ne'er  subdued  th3'  Are 
Nor  checked  the  vernal   freshness  of  thy 

spring-. 
Still  doth  the  fountain  of  thy  youth  pui-- 
sue  its  joyous  murmuring:. 

Still  doth  thy  song-  gush  like  a  maiden's  tears 

When  swells  the  beating  heart  with  joy 
or  woe. 
Responsive  yet,  alike  to  hopes  and  fears, 

Joj's  of  tiie  present  lot  and  scenes  of  long 
ago ; 
Sweet,  fragrant  flowers  that  blushed  beneath 

The  morning's  ardent  glow. 
Nor  Hash  less  sweetly  back  the  smile 

Of  sunset  glimmering  low. 


i^- 


« 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POKTS   OF   AMERICA. 


1865 


■* 


WILLIAM  V.  ALLDREDGE. 

Born:  Walker  Co.,  Ala.,  June  4, 1839. 
Mr.  Alldredge  served  four  years  ia  the 
confederate  army  and  has  been  principally 
engagred  in  teaching-  and  in  agricultural  pur- 
suits, and  resides  in  Trinity  Station,  Alabama. 


WILLIAM  VALIENT  ALLDREDGK. 

He  has  a  wife,  and  family  grown  to  maturity. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Alldredge  occasionally  ap- 
pear in  the  local  press  of  his  state. 


TO  ANTINETTE. 

I've  trod  the  lands  by  ocean  washed, 

I've  climbed  the  hill  where  prowled  the  wolf, 
I've  scoured  the  plain  by  wild  men  chased, 

I've  plowed  the  wave  of  stormy  gulf, 
I've  met  the  foe  on  bloody  field, 

I've  clashed  my  sabre  with  the  brave, 
I've  known  not  what  it  was  to  yield, 

I've  helped  my  comrades  to  the  grave, 
But  not  a  trial  liave  I  met 

Like  leaving  thee.  Dear  Antinette. 


TO  MOHAWK. 
Alas!  that  such  a  mind  should  be 

So  much  impaired  as  thine; 
That  such  deep  thought  on  land  or  sea 

Should  be  like  yours  and  mine. 


The  mind  tliat  penetrates  tlie  depths 

Of  all  the  deepest  tliought 
Wliich  sweeps  o'er  ocean's  mighty  depths 

By  nature's  power  wrought. 
Tlie  mind  to  take  in  all  the  shore 

Aud  plow  tht!Oceans  wave. 
And  take  in  all  creation  o'er 

Aud  reaches  to  the  grave. 


PEOPLE'S  PARTY. 
Sound  the  loud  timbrel,  o'er  the  nation's  dark 

sea, 
A  party  is  coming,  the  people  to  free ; 
Plutocracy,  trembling,  is  hiding  his  head. 
And  soon  will  it  stalk  'mid  the  ghosts  of  the 

dead. 
Like  the  Israelites'  calf,  we  read  of,  of  old. 
The  god  of  our  nation,  has  turned  into  gold; 
Into  banks  has  he  gone,  both  body  and  soul. 
And  money,  not  brains,  the  people  control. 
From  the  east,  from  the  west,  the  south  and 

the  north. 
From  every  quarter,  the  law  has  gone  forth. 
And  trusts  and  combines  in  death  agony  fall ; 
The  last  of  the  pirates,and  worst  of  them  aUI 
See  the  golden  monarchs  quiver,  rushing  to 

their  fall. 
Banners  waving  proudly,  equal  justice  unto 

all. 
Hear  the  tread  of  countless  millions;  ah :  the 

vict'ry's  won 
For  Iher  banner  flasheth;  "Special  favor  un- 
to none! " 
As  in  creation's  morn,  when  the  stars  together 

sang. 
Shouts  of  joy  re-echoed,  through  the  vaults 

of  heaven  rang. 
So  the  mighty  host  of  serfdom;   wreathed 

witli  vict'ry  on  thy  brow. 
Sing  the  song  of  their  redemption ;  to  the 

God  of  Jacob  bow. 


TO  A  FKIEND. 

EXTRACT. 

Oh,  remember  the  friends  whose  thoughts 

will  often  trace 
In  the  mirror  of  fancy  your  form  and  your 

face. 
And  rudely  between  us  the  Ohio  swells; 
Still  think  of  the  friends  who  have  bid  you 

farewell. 
When  your  hand  shall  be  pressed  by  the 

friends  j'our  adore. 
When  your  mem"  ry  revisits  our  bright  sunny 

si  lore 
Where  kindred  and  friends  and  memories 

dwell 
Then  think  of  the  friends  who  have  bid  you 

farewell. 


-* 


1366 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  Ob'    ASIEIIICA. 


MRS.  SARAH  SMITH  GRAY. 

Born:  Peoria  Co.,  III,.,  March  7, 1842. 
This  lady  was  married  in  1870,  but  is  now  a 
widow  with  several  children.     Her  poems 


MRS.  SARAH  SMITH  GRAY. 

have  been  greatly  admired,  and  occasionally 
appear  in  the  local  press. 


JUST  BEFORE  CHRISTMAS. 
I  was  sitting  in  my  parlor 

On  a  cold  November  nig-ht. 
But  I  heeded  not  the  chill-wind. 

For  the  iire  was  burning  bright; 
It  was  just  one  month  to  Christmas 

And  our  work  we  had  begun. 
For  our  tree  must  be  a  jewel; 

And  its  boughs  with  diamonds  hung. 

T  had  planned  full  many  a  present. 

Costly,  rich,  they  all  must  be. 
So  that  none,  in  wealth  or  splendor, 

Could  out-do  our  Christmas  tree. 
I  was  waiting  husband's  coming. 

And  the  hour  was  getting  late, 
Still  I  could  not  hear  his  footsteps, 

Nor  the  turning  of  the  gate. 

Then  my  thoughts  began  to  wander  — 

And  at  last  I  fell  asleep; 
And  I  tread  the  walks  of  dreamland, 


But,  alas!  with  weary  feet. 
I,  a  little  child,  was  begging  — 

I  had  passed  from  door  to  door. 
Asking  in  my  craving  hunger. 

But  a  crust  from  out  their  store. 

But  each  proud  and  haughty  lady. 

Only  turned  with  scorn  away; 
"It  was  only  just  a  beggar  I  " 

(I  had  said  the  same  that  day)  — 
Then  I  thought  a  storm  was  raging. 

And  my  clothes  were  thin  and  worn. 
And  my  feet  were  bare  and  bleeding  — 

On  the  icy  pavements  torn. 

Then  I  weeping  sought  my  hovel 

Just  as  others  seek  their  liome. 
It  was  empty,  cold  and  cheerless. 

But  I  there  could  weep  alone. 
Then  I  saw  an  Angel  enter  — 

Saw,  but  not  a  sound  I  heard; 
But  her  presence  soothed  my  anguish 

Though  slie  did  not  speak  a  word. 

But  a  blazing  fire  she  kiudled. 

On  the  board  a  loaf  she  laid; 
Clothed  me  well  in  soft  bright  garments - 

Then  to  other  hovels  strayed. 
In  mj' joy  I  woke  from  dreaming. 

Husband  stood  beside  tlie  grate; 
He  had  soothed  me  in  my  anguish 

When  I  seemed  the  cbild  of  fate! 

Oh !  I  told  him  of  my  vision. 

Ever  thoughtful,  kind  is  he; 
You,  my  wife,  can  lighten  burdens  — 

"You  that  angel  one  can  be." 
He  had  set  the  ball  in  motion, 

I  will  keep  it  rolling  on; 
Many  a  life  shall  be  more  happy. 

Many  a  sorrow  shall  be  gone. 


THE  MODEL  LADY. 
Somewhere  in  fancy,  or  in  dream, 
A  model  lady,  I  have  seen; 
She  cannot  boast  the  fairest  face. 
Nor  dues  she  pose,  with  lofty  grace. 
Though  dressed  with  taste  and  neatness  rare, 
She  does  not  friz  or  bang  her  hair; 
No  riches  she,  no  lands  or  gold; 
And  yet  is  blessed  with  wealth  untold 

The  poor  and  needy  find  a  friend; 

The  wronged,  she  ever  will  defend; 

The  aged,  titid  her  gentle,  kind; 

The  sick  in  her  a  helper  find; 

The  sad,  she  fills  with  liope  and  cheer. 

And  children  ne'er  lier  presence  fear. 

But  wrong  and  guilt  will  hide  in  shame 

At  mention  of  my  lady's  name. 

Now  is  it  real  or  in  a  dream 

This  model  lady  I  have  seen? 


1^ 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OK   AMERICA. 


1367 


JUDSON  LEWIS  MOORE. 

BoiiN:  Walton  Co.,  Ga.,  1857. 
Mr.  Moore  is  si  composer.aiithor  and  teacher 
of  vocul  imisic,  and  liis  pooms  and  composi- 
lions  have  appeared  in  his  own  publiealioiis, 
ill  Notes  of  Praise,  The  Music  Leader,  and 


JUDSON   LEWIS  MOOIiE. 

other  books  and  periodicals.  He  was  mar- 
ried in  1883  to  Miss  Emma  Florence  Smith, 
lias  two  children  and  resides  in  Bethlehem, Ga 


*- 


CAN  I  BE  SATISFIED. 
Not  where  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 
Not  where  the  murky  clouds  abide. 
Not    where  the   thoughtless  mind  would 

cleave. 
Can  1  be  satisfied. 

Not  where  the  turbid  water  flow. 
Not  where  death's  streams  our  souls  di- 
vide. 

Not  where  the  hand  of  man  enslaves. 
Can  1  be  satisfied. 

Not  where  the  weary  sigh  for  rest. 
Not  where  the  soul  is  unsupplied. 

Not  where  the  aid  of  earth  relieves, 
Can  I  be  satisfied. 

Not  where  the  fondest  hopes  are  wrecked, 
Not  where  the  faithless  friends  deride. 


Not  where  the  dreams  of  life  deceive, 
Can  I  be  satisfied. 


THE  HARVEST  IS  READY. 
The  harvest  now  is  ready. 

Go,  work  from  morn  till  night; 
Be  g-ath'ring-  for  the  Master, 

So  all  the  fields  are  wliite. 
The  precious  seed  is  wasting-, 

Yes,  wasting:  day  by  day; 
There  is  no  time  for  ling'ring 

Or  loit'ring-  by  tiie  way. 
Thrust  in  the  sharpened  sickle. 

Reap  down  tlie  g-olden  grrain; 
Pressf.forward  in  the  harvest. 

Thro'  sunshine,  siiade  or  rain. 
When  e'er  thy  work  is  over. 

When  sheaves  are  gathered  lionie; 
The  miglity  King  of  glory 

Will  say,  "Well  done,  well  done." 

MRS.  C.  JENNIE  SWAINE. 

Born:  Pittsfield,  N.  H.,  1836. 
For  many  years  this  lady  followed  the  pro- 
fession of  teaching,  and  in  1804  was  married 
to  Charles  G.  Swaine.  About  three  liiindred 
poems  have  appeared  from  the  pen  of  Mrs. 
Swaine,  which  have  been  published  in  the 
leading  publications  of  America. 


SUNSET  AMONG  THE  LILIES. 
O  lily  sweet,  the  whole  day  through 

The  riv'er  bore  thee  on  its  breast; 
Now,  kissed  by  evening's  pearly  dew. 

Its  waves  shall  sing  thee  to  thy  rest. 

When  softly  o'er  the  Orient  sea 

The  first  gray  beams  of  morning  break. 
The  singing  river  calleth  thee. 

Before  the  sliore-sidc  daisies  wake. 
The  noontide  gives  its  fervid  glow 

To  fill  thy  swaying  cup  with  gold; 
Till,  white  as  drifts  of  stainless  snow. 

The  lake  a  milky  way  doth  hold. 
Breezes  of  balm,  wliose  dream  was  told 

Where     orange    bowers    white    garlands 
weave, 
Athirst  to  kiss  thy  heart  of  gold. 

For  thee  the  wooing  blossoms  leave. 

For  thee  the  fragrant  night  wind  sings 

Its  tender  love  song  o'er  and  o'er; 
For  thee  the  blneliird  folils  his  wings. 

To  carol  on  the  willowy  shore. 
The  waves  above  thy  graceful  head 

Draw  tlieir  bhie  curtain,  dark  wltli  uigiit. 
And  tlie  moon  drapes  tiiy  l)lll()wy  bed 

Witli  ilianionds  woven  of  her  light. 


-^ 


1368 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


Singing,  from  mirrored  clouds  I  take 
These  lily  censers,  while  my  eyes 

See  heaven's  own  gate  within  the  lake, 
And  these  are  flowers  of  Paradise. 

Each  lily,  Father,  is  thy  gift. 
Made  redolent  with  heavenly  love; 

Wlierefore  these  crystal  cups  uplift, 
To  draw  my  wayward  heart  above. 

And  wheresoe'er  ray  path  may  be, 
Let  these  white  bells  a  lesson  yield, 

Of  Him  who  careth  more  for  me 
Than  all  the  lilies  of  the  field. 


A.  P.  LONGLEY. 

Born:  Tennessee,  July  4, 1836. 
After  graduating  at  the  Knoxville  East 
Tennessee  University  and  scientific  depart- 
ment, Mr.  Longley  taught  scliool  for  two 
years.  He  then  went  to  Texas,  iti  1847,  and 
taught  there  for  three  years.    He  then  joined 


A.  P.   LONGLEY. 

the  army  and  was  engaged  in  twenty-nine 
Indian  fights.  In  18,')3  he  went  to  California, 
Gince  whicli  time  he  has  been  principally  eti- 
gaged  in  mining.  He  has  written  and  de- 
livered poems  at  the  opening  of  fairs  and 
otlier  pul)lic  occasions,  and  his  poems  have 
constatitly  appeared  in  tlie  periodical  press. 


JUVENILE  LOVE. 
O,  she  was  a  rare  little  charmer. 

To  use  a  poetical  phrase. 
When  I  fixed  my  affections  upon  her 

Far  back  in  my  juvenile  dajs. 
My  age  was  ten  years,  perhaps  over, 

While  Lizzie  stood  only  at  nine. 
But  I  felt  every  charm  that  a  lover 

Would  hail  as  a  rapture  divine. 

We  went  to  the  same  school  together, 

And  scrolled  ugly  pictures  for  fun. 
Our  hearts  were  as  light  as  a  feather. 

Our  friendship  as  warm  as  the  sun,— 
Her  feet  —  O,  the  dear  little  models. 

Went  bare  in  the  bright  summer  days 
When  she  waded  knee-deep  in  the  puddles. 

Or  joined  in  the  butterfly  chase. 

But  time  that  awaits  for  no  human. 

Since  the  eartli  in  its  orbit  began, 
Made  Lizzie  a  goodly-sized  woman. 

And  gave  me  the  stature  of  man. 
I  wandered  away  from  my  Lizzie, 

And  sought  in  the  wilds  of  the  west 
A  liome  and  a  love  and  a  fortune. 

But  yet  I  have  never  been  blest. 


THE  GOD  OF  THE  SOLAR  SYSTEM. 
All  the  world  over. 

Wherever  the  mortal  has  trod. 
There  are  tokens  and  signs  in  profusion 

Of  a  great  and  glorious  God. 
His  throne  is  high  up  in  the  heavens, 

His  smile  is  the  light  of  our  day. 
And  all  the  vast  worlds  that  wheel  round  him 

In  silence  his  mandates  oijey. 

He  gives  them  their  light  and  their  beauty. 

He  lends  them  the  smile  of  his  face. 
And  they're  singing  his  praises  forever 

As  onward  they  journey  through  space. 
He  builds  up  the  cloud  cleaving  mountains. 

He  spreads  out  the  valley  and  plain, 
And  dips  up  the  mists  of  the  ocean. 

To  sprinkle  the  earth  with  its  rain. 

He  breathes  on  the  germs  that  are  sleeping 

In  silence  Ijeneath  tlie  cold  sod, 
And  they  i)urst  forth   wit-li  fragrance  and 
beanty 

To  hail  him  Creator  and  God. 
Ho  i)ends  tiie  liright  rainbow  above  us, 

A  sign  of  His  mercy  and  grace, 
A  token  of  seed-time  and  harvest. 

And  life  to  our  sin-stricken  race. 

His  presence  is  life,  light,  and  glory. 
His  absence  is  darkneis  and  deiith. 

And  I'll  hail  him  as  God  and  Creator, 
As  long  as  He  giveth  me  breath. 


>if- 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEIUCA. 


1369 


* 


MRS.  R.ANGELINA  HALL. 

Born:  West  Union,  \V.  Va„  Aug.  30,  lcS43, 
Since  the  deiilli  of  her  husband  iu  1876, 
Mrs.  Hall  lias  had  a  gi'etit  strujruie  to  edu- 
cate her  uliildreii  aud  tit  them  fot-  the  duties 
of  life.  Her  poems  have  appeared  from  time 
to  time  iu  the  periodical  press,  and  have  al- 


JmS.   R.    ANGELINA   HAL,L. 

ways  received  hig-h  commendation.  Mrs.  Hall 
still  resides  in  her  native  state  at  Auburn 
Ritchie,  with  her  son,  Elton,  and  two  dau^^li- 
ters.  Louise  and  Ethel,  all  of  \vhom  are  now 
grown  to  maturity. 


MY  CHILDHOOD'S  HOME. 

O  precious  scenes  of  my  childhood, 

In  memory  I  oft  wander  to  thee, 
Wliere  with  loved  ones  I  roamed  in  the  wild 
wood. 

And  erathered  brig-ht  flowers  on  the  lea. 
i'es,  well  I  remember  the  cottag-e 

\A'ith  its  roof  covered  over  with  moss. 
The  island  we  played  on  in  summer, 

Aud  the  brook  we  used  to  cross. 

There  with  rod  and  hook  we  angled 
In  the  limpid  depths  of  the  stream. 

And  broug-ht  to  the  surface  the  shining- flsh, 
While  we  lived  in  youth's  happy  dream 


In  the  village  near  by  we  went  to  school 

And  learned  to  read  and  spell. 
And  master  tlie  rules  in  ariilimetic, 

And  our  country's  history  tell. 

But  youth  soon  passed,  and  we  left  that  home 

To  fight  the  fierce  battles  of  life  — 
Yet  I  never  forgot  the  dear  ones  I  loved, 

Amid  the  world's  turmoil  aud  strife. 
The  dear  cottage  has  long  since  gone  to  decay. 

And  its  inmates  are  most  of  them  gone 
To  that  bourne  whence  no  traveler  ever  re- 
turns. 

And  I'm  left  in  this  cold  world  alone. 

There's  no  one  to  care  though  I'm  weary  and 
sad. 

And  my  heart  almost  sinks  in  despair- 
No  heart  to  respond  witii  affection  and  love. 

When  my  life  is  o'er  burdened  with  care. 
Yet,  why  should  T  pine  for  the  love  of  those 

Wlio  are  resting  beneath  the  sod. 
Whose  spirits  have  flown  to  the  realms  above 

Aud  dwell  in  the  presence  of  God. 

'Tis  only  a  few  more  years  at  most. 

Till  I  will  be  free  from  pain  — 
Aud  then  with  the  loved  ones  and  all  the 
glad  host, 
I'll  join  in  the  happy  refrain. 
Where   no  tears  are   shed  and  no   sorrow 
known, 
But  all  in  peace  and  love. 
Then  I'll  no  more  grieve  for  the  dear  old 
home. 
When  I  meet  with  the  loved  ones  above. 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER. 
We  miss  you  darling  daughter. 

When  we  see  your  vacant  chair. 
We  miss  you  in  the  parlor  — 

Yes,  we  miss  you  everywhere. 

We  grow  so  sad  and  weary. 

As  we  wait  for  your  return. 
And  the  days  seem  long  and  dreary. 

As  our  hearts  with  anguish  burn. 

And  when  the  lights  are  brightly  burning. 

And  the  stars  are  in  the  sky. 
Then  we  miss  your  voice  among  us, 

Aud  cau  but  breathe  a  sigh. 

When  our  hearts  are  raised  to  heaven 

In  suppliance  and  prayer. 
To  the  God  who  reigns  above  us 

And  keeps  us  by  His  care. 

We  pray  Him  in  His  mercy, 

To  keep  you  every  hour 
From  sorrow  and  temptation, 

By  His  infinite  power. 


1370 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMEKICA. 


MRS.  RHODA  S.  LINDSAY. 

Bokn:  Aspen  Gkove,  N.  C.  Feb.  22, 1861. 
Mrs.  Lindsay  was  married  in  1879  to  Mr.  T. 

B.  Lindsay,  who  now  resides  in  Douglas,  N. 

C,  with  their  two  children.    The  poems  of 


MRS.  RHODA  SCOTT  LINDSAY. 

Mrs.  Lindsay  have  occasionally  appeared  in 
the  periodical  press,  and  have  received  high 
praise. 

A  TKUTH. 

Some  one  has  said  it,  and  it  must  be  true. 
For  they  wouldn't  have  said  it  unless  they 

knew. 
That  life,  this  strang-e  life  of  ours, 
Is  just  what  we  make  it,  thorns  or  flowers. 

When  a  little  child,  I  heard  this  said. 
And  I  tliought  by  whatever  path  I'm  led, 
I'll  shun  the  thorn  and  pluck  the  flower, 
And  make  of  life  a  rosy  bower. 

And  so  along  life's  checkered  path, 
With  cheery  song  and  merry  hiugh, 
1  took  my  journey,  trying  hard 
'I'o  do  the  right  and  love  my  God. 

Relieving  with  this  tliat  none  could  find, 
In  a  wicked  moment  at  any  time, 


The  soul  to  be  cold  or  insincere 

To  a  heart  they  knew  held  them  so  dear. 

But  alas!    I  realized  too  soon  — 

Without  a  thorn  few  flowers  bloom  — 

And  when  reaching  to  grasp  the  flowers  of 

trust 
The  thorn  of  deceit  is  deeply  thrust. 
And  the  lovely  bower  I  thought  to  build 
Is  made  up  instead  and  almost  filled 
With  garlands  whose  blooms  are  dead  and 

gone. 
But  alas!  there  remaineth  still  a  thorn. 

But  some  one  has  said  it,  and  biirelj-  they 

knew. 
Or  they  would  not  have  said  it,  to  me  and  to 

you. 
That  life  —  this  strange  life  of  ours  — 
Is  just  what  we  make  it,  thorns  or  flowers. 


THE  EVENING  STAR. 

All  rosj'  and  glowing  in  the  western  sky. 
While  the  crescent  moon  hangs  bright  and 

high ; 
But  lovelier  still  to  me  by  far 
Is  the  glimpse  1  get  of  the  evening  star. 

Beautiful  star !    Bright  shining  gem ! 
No  wonder  that  earth's  ambitious  men 
Are  happy  and  think  they  have  letdown  the 

bar 
To  the  portals  of  fame,  when  called  a  star. 

No  wonder  the  beauty  with  eyes  so  briglit. 
Will  blush,  and  be  happy  and  g;iy  to-niglit. 
When  the  adoring  crowd  bend  at  her  shrine 
And  declare  that  her  eyes  at  twin  stars  shine. 

O  star!    Fortunate  indeed  thou  art, 
To  have  been  made  a  star  and  not  a  heart. 
For  hearts  throb  and  pain  and  break  each  day 
And  are  hid  in  the  dark  cold  earth  away. 

And  o'er  the  new  graves  in  vale  and  hill, 
On  ocean's  brink  and  by  shady  rill. 
Thou  wilt  rise  and  shine,  atid  tliy  vigils  kcei) 
While  men  lie  down  to  restless  sleep. 

But  thou,  molten  gem  of  silver  hue. 
Of  ambition  free,  to  thy  author  true, 
In  silent  splendor,  serene,  afar, 
Forev(;r  the  same,  thou  wilt  glow  a  star. 


EXTRACT. 
Dear  old  river!     In  the  years  yet  to  be 
I  may  drift  far  away  f n)m  homo  and  thee 
Out  into  the  world  with  its  noise  and  strife, 
1  may  lead  a  busier,  gayer  life; 
lUii  in  memory's  casket  then  shall  ever  bo 
A  jewel  kept  briglit-  in  love  for  thee. 
For  a  li:ippy  wife  in  a  hiipiw  land 
Give  me  niv  huini!  on  the  beautiful  Dan. 


♦it 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONTAr.   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


:37i 


DANIEL  M.  NOLAK. 

Bokn:  Ireland,  June  IT,  1842. 
Is  married  and  h:is  tliree  children,  two  sons 
and  a  daughter,  now  living-.  His  poems 
liavebeon  extensively  published  throughout 
New  England,  appearing:  frequently  in  tlie 
leading  metropoliiau  papers,  and  his  con- 


DANIEL,  M.  NOLAN. 

tributions  to  the  Haverhill  papers  have  been 
liighly  appreciated  by  his  townsmen.  He  is 
also  well  known  to  the  readers  of  the  New 
England  Grocer  as  the  Grocer  poet,  being  so 
styled  by  that  journal.  Mr.  Nolan  is  engag- 
ed in  the  provision  business,  occupying-  the 
greater  part  of  his  time,  but  his  spare  mom- 
ents are  devoted  to  literature.  He  may 
safely  be  termed  a  natural  born  poet,  com- 
ing from  a  family  of  good  poetical  talent. 
An  uncle  and  two  brothers,  Denis  and  Mau- 
rice, have  also  written  poems  of  excellence, 
lie  has  liliewise  gained  great  public  notoriety 
in  taliing  care  of  Captain  Nicholas  Costello, 
recently  deceased,  but  who  lived  to  be  108 
years  old, 'being  before  his  death  the  oldest 
man  in  the  country,  and  voted  for  Cleveland 
when  at  the  age  of  106.  Mr.  Nolan  will  soon 
publish  a  book  of  his  poems  which  will  con- 
tain many  selections  of  choice  wit  and  humor. 


TILTON'S  TOWER. 
The  Haverhill  poet  of  high  renown, 
How  oft  has  praised  his  native  towi 


If  lie  was  here  on  last  .Inly, 

On  Tiltoii's  Tower,  that  stands  so  high, 

'Twould  fill  tiie  old  man's  heart  with  joy 

To  see  rockets  burst  and  Ijullets  lly. 

That  lit  the  air,  illumed  the  sky. 

In  freedom's  cause,  which  never  die. 

To  him  'twould  be  a  joyful  news. 

See  Haverhill  prosjier,  making  slices, 

Making  shoes  that  can  t  be  beat. 

On  Washington,  Wingate or  Granite  streets. 

In  Rowley's  Held  and  Costello  Hill, 

Along  the  streams  of  Stevens'  Mill; 

Mill  and  shoe  shops,  both  help  and  power. 

Can  all  be  seen  from  Tilton's  Tower. 

The  president  would  stay  one  hour. 
If  asked  to  visit  Tilton's  Tower  — 
He'd  be  more  thankful  going  awaj- 
Than  with  a  costly,  big  bou(iuet, 
To  let  him  view  this  rural  seat. 
So  rare,  so  rich,  so  nice,  so  neat. 
Blooming,  bright,  the  darkest  night, 
Diflfusing  radiant  rays  of  light. 

Stand  on  this  Tower  a  summer  day. 
When  lambs  around  it  gently  play, 
See  ships  on  the  ocean,  the  foiiniing  sea. 
The  hills  and  valleys,  most  every  tree  — 
Put  on  your  glasses,  and  tlien  stand  still, 
Look  up  to  Lowell,  and  see  Fort  Hill, 
'Tis  admired  by  the  merchants  and  help  in 

the  mill. 
But  this  land  round  the  Tower  is  more  ex- 
quisite still. 


EXTRACT. 

Two  hundred  years  have  gone  and  passed, 
yes,  and  fifty  more 

Since  pilgrims  left  their  native  homes  and 
landed  on  this  shore. 

They  were  but  few  in  numbers  when  first 
they  settled  down. 

And  raised  the  cry  of  freedom  in  old  Pen- 
tucket  town; 

They  kept  coming  — they  kept  coming  from 
every  foreign  shoio. 

Like  the  call  of  father  Abraham  for  a  hun- 
dred tlKUisand  more. 

Wlien  marching  by  the  City  Park  their  shouts 

will  reach  the  sky. 
Hip,    hurrah!    for    Hannah    Dustin,  whose 

name  will  never  die; 
She  being  taken  by  the  Indians,  her  husband 

had  to  liee. 
Babe  taken  from  her  arms  and  d;vshed  against 

a  tree. 
Where  is  the  woman  living,  such  heroic  deeds 

could  do'/ 
Killed  those  great,  big  Indians,  paddled  her 

own  canoe. 


* 


1372 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF    AilEHICA. 


MARY  C.  RYAN. 

Born:  Louisiana,  About  1863. 

After  graduating  from  the  Wlieeling  Fe- 
male College  of  West  Virginia,  Miss  Ryan 
taught  school  for  several  years,  at  the  same 
time  studying  art.  For  several  years  she 
traveled  with  her  father  who  was  in  search 


MISS  MARV  CATHARINA  RYAN. 

ofliealth.  Since  his  death  Miss  Rynn  has 
again  taken  up  the  profession  of  teaching  in 
Florida.  Her  poems  have  appeared  in  the 
periodical  press  and  in  book  form. 


*- 


LABOR  AND  WATT. 

Labor  and  wait, 

Thj'  fears  abate; 
Oh!  shrink  not  from  the  morrow's  fate; 

Upon  us  all, 

God's  flats  fall; 
Days  once  passed  are  beyond  recall. 

Sunshine  and  shade. 
Through  time  have  played 

Together  since  the  world  was  made; 
So  if  thy  life 
With  griefs  be  rife. 

Still  be  not  vanciuislied  in  the  strife. 


Labor  to-day. 

Time  glides  away, 
Ungarnered  grain  will  soon  decay. 

So  do  not  sleep 

Nor  sigh  and  weep, 
'Neath  time's  swift  waters  pearls  lie  deep. 

Earth's  joys  will  come 

And  gild  thy  home; 
If  thou,  with  sorrow  dost  not  roam ; 

So  toil  and  wait. 

For  soon  or  late 
The  sun  will  shine  and  storms  abate. 


DRIFTING. 
From  the  cold  world,  my  griefs  I  hide, 

Unfurl  each  tattered  sail; 
Yet  still  my  bark  drifts  with  the  tide 

Shivering  in  the  gale. 

To  peaceful  ports  far,  far  away, 

I  pull  with  all  my  might, 
Yet  still  I'm  drifting  day  by  day 

Into  the  shades  of  night. 

In  mj'  despair  I  hear  a  voice, 

That  bids  me  still  be  brave; 
And  in  the  Savior's  strength  rejoice. 

My  weary  soul  to  save. 

Then  'neath  the  glitt'ring  wefts  of  pride, 

The  tempter's  snares  I  see. 
As  through  life's  struggling  tides  I  glide 

Into  an  open  sea. 

Christ  as  my  guide,  the  rocks  I  pass, 

Drossy  the  golden  pelf. 
No  more,  I  view,  through  stained  glass. 

My  weak  and  sinful  self. 

But  through  the  storms,  by  faith  I  see 

The  glory  of  my  king; 
And  peace  and  hope  encompass  me. 

While  to  the  cross  I  cling. 


GROWING  AGED. 
W^e  are  growing  aged,  darling. 

Drifting  with  life's  ebbing  tide; 
And  the  years  have  changed  us,  darling. 

Since  I  won  Ihec  for  my  bride. 
For  now  thy  waving  silver  hair 
Is  of  a  golden  hue  no  more; 
The  world  no  longer  calls  thee  fair. 
As  in  happy  days  of  yore. 

What  tho'  time  has  robbed  thee,  darling. 

Of  the  beauty  of  thy  youth; 
And  thy  form,  of  litheiiess,  darling. 

E'en  thine  eyes  the  gleam  of  mirth 
We  have  toiled  and  wept  together 

As  tlie  wint'ry  diiys  passed  by. 
And  we  ve  loved,  rejoiced  together. 

Beneath  the  sunnner's  azure  sky. 


LOCAL   AND   NATIOXAL   TOKTS   OF    AMEUICA. 


-* 


1373 


WARREN  HOLDEN. 

Born:  Newark,  N.  J.,  Feb.,  1, 1817. 

This  gentleman  is  tlie  author  of  seven  vol- 
umes: Fourteen  Sonnets ;  Song-of  Sea;  Auto- 
biograplij' of  Love;  Spiritual  America.  All 
these  works  contain  gems  of  song-  that  place 


WARREN  HOLDEN. 

Mr.  Holden  in  the  foremost  rank  of  Ameri- 
can poets.  Mr.  Holden  is  still  actively  en- 
gaged in  life-duties,  being  a  teacher  in  the 
Gerard  Ctollege  of  Philadelphia. 


CONSTANCY. 
How  often  hath  the  simple  tale  been  told 
Of  sudden,  rapt,  unutterable  joy 
When  love  first  thrills  the   heart  of  guile- 
less boy. 
And  colors  everything  with  rose  and  gold. 
Ouce  kindled,  love's  flame  can   ne'er  grow 
cold ; 
The  clouds  of  care  may  hide,  but  not  des- 
troy ; 
Nor  will  its  honeyed  sweetness  ever  cloy, 
Though  taste  he  delicate  and  culture  old. 
And  even  in  the  blissful  realms  above 
If  aught  could  chill  pure  love's  perennial 

glow, 
Let  void  Nirvana  quench  the  concious  me. 


Not  Heaven  shall  make  man   false  to  hoy- 
hood's  love. 
Embarked  upon  its  tide  shall  being  flow. 
On  in  eternal  continuity. 


ONE  SPIRIT,  MANY  MANIFESTATIONS. 

A  cynosure  in  boyhood's  roseate  sky. 
Her  fairy  figure  floated  arily 
To  lure  him  onward  towards  his  destiny,— 

The  heaven  reflected  in  her  laughing  eye. 

The  altar  where  she  prayed  oft  heard  his  sigh. 
For  there  betimes  he  bent  the  pious  knee 
To  worship  God—  in  virgin  purity. 

'Twas  bliss  to  be,  if  only  she  were  nigh. 

But  each  horizon  brings  bright  stars  to  view ; 
And  many  marvels  love's  career  hefall. 
Ere  it  may  choose  for  better  or  for  worse. 

One  substance  many  forms  may  well  endue. 
Who  shares  the  gift  of  God  is  heir  to  all 
The  love  whose  beauty  fills  the  universe. 


YOUNG  LOVE'S  FIRST  LAY. 
Oh,  mj-  life,  may  our  love,  as   with  angels 
above. 
Never  ebb,  but  flow  onw:ird  for  aye! 
For  better  or  worse,  'mid  success  or  reverse. 
Be  we  tender  and  constant  as  they. 

And  still  I  will  love  thee  wherever  I  rove. 
O'er  the  mountain  or  billowy  main; 

In  sickness  or  health,  or  in  want  or  in  wealth. 
As  I  love  thee,  oh,  love  me  again  I 

In  the  heat  and  the  strife  of  an  ever-vexed 
life 
With  ambition  let  other  hearts  burn. 
Full  contented  with  this,  we'll  not  ask  other 
bliss 
Than  to  love  and  be  loved  in  return. 

Oh,  tell  of  it  not  how  in  yonder  lone  spot. 
Where  the  evergreens  fondly  entwine. 

Hand  in  hand  did  we  plight,  heart  with  heart 
to  unite, — 
Yours  the  blessing,  the  blessed  was  mine. 

Then  we  pledged  with  love's  seal  that  for  woe 
or  for  weal 
The  exchange  should  endure  to  the  last. 
And  as  oft  as  we  sealed,  each  impres.sion  re- 
vealed 
Our  engagement  more  full  and  more  fast. 

Like  the  flowers  that  blow  where  the  lone 
waters  flow, 
Unplucked  by  the  thoughtless  and  gay. 
We  will  hide  our  young  love  only  witnessed 
above 
By  the  stars  in  their  silent  array; 

We  will  seek  a  lone  dell  where  in  peace  we 
may  dwell. 


-* 


*■ 


1374 


LOCAL   AND    NfATIONAL  POETS  OK    AMERICA. 


From  tlie  heartless  and  worldly  removed. 
Unpretending:  in  worth,  but  with  innocent 
mirth. 
Simply  loving  and  being-  beloved. 

SUNRISE. 

A  cheerful  cock  foretells  the  coming  day; 
The  stars  burn  dim  as  one  by  one  they  die, 
While  gradual  dawn  creeps  up  the  eastern 

sky, 
And  rosy  blushes  tinge  the  sober  gray. 

At  once  the  golden  splendor  bursts  its  way, 
Unfurls  its  flaming  banner  flashing  high, 
Atid  rallies  friend  and  foe  that  sleeping  lie. 
To  join  again  in  life's  returning  fray. 

O  sun  of  Love  Divine,  in  glory  rise:  [night. 
Dispel  the  dreams  that  haunt  our  weary 
With  healing  touch  restore  our  blinded  eyes. 

That  we  may  seetlie  light  within  thy  light; 
And  by  Thy  wisdom  rendered  truly  wise, 
Transcending  faith,  may  walk  henceforth 
by  sight. 

SUNSET. 
Whilewendinghome  in  sunset's  golden  blaze. 
The  western  splendor  lures  each  wistful 

eye 
To  paj-  due  homage  to  the  gorgeous  sky. 
What   rapture  bursts   in  sudden  words  of 

praise. 
Or  burns  more  eloquent  in  silent  gaze! 
For   one   brief    moment   heaven  draweth 

nigh; 
It  fades  away;  and  with  a  parting  sigh. 
We  go,  in  musing  mood,  our  several  ways. 
Entrancing  vision,  whence  thy  fleeting  sheen. 
Returning  oft  at  twilight's  witching  hour? 
Art  thou  the  bright  mirage  of  fairy-land? 
In  dreams  transported  to  that  magic  scene, 
Of  rosy  walk  and  paradisal  bower. 
Enchanted  lovers  wander  hand  in  hand. 


LOVE'S  AWAKENING. 
O  sweet  surprise!  Thou  image  of  my  dream. 
Fair  maiden,  seen  by  only  passing  glance. 
Yet  slirined  in  memory,  like  saintlj'  trance. 
Revealing   heaven    through    but  a   single 
gleam ! 
No  fleeting  phantom  cast  that  dazzling  beam: 
A  living  i>resence  thou  didst  timely  chance 
'Twi.xt  I'eal  and  ideal  world's  romance, 
And  hope's  unbounded  promises  redeem. 
Rare  angel  guest  hath  blest  me  unawares. 
And  chosen    friends   have   cheered  life's 
lengthening  way; 
Btisides  my  otlier  self,  love's  counterpart. 
Bi.D  thou  didst  kindle  love's  delightful  cares. 
Though  threescore  years  conspire  to  hide 
that  day,  [heart. 

Thou'rt  still  the  key  that  first  unlocked  my 


THE  VIOLIN. 

The  heart's  own  voice.sweet  viol, be  thy  name. 
Whose  throbbing  chords  are  tuned  to  every 

tone 
Of  passion's  scale  to  human  bosom  known. 
Dost  thou  discourse  of  love?  the  lover's  fame 
Responsive  trembles  and  reveals  tlie  flame. 
Is  grief  thy  theme?     What  sympathy  is 
shown 
f  On  every  face !  Mayhap  there  bursts  a  moau, 
Thy  gentle  chiding  wakes  conscious  blame. 
Spontaneous  pleasure  leads  the  nimble  dance 
Where'erthy  wizard  wand  a  challenge  flings, 
'Neath  stately  roof  or  greenwood  tree  per- 
chance. 
And  wlien  repentance  wavers  o'er  the  strings 
Their  pleading  praj-ers  the  contrite  heart 

entrance. 
And  waft  it  heavenward  as  on  angel  wings. 


LUMAX  CARL. 

Born;  Coxsackie,  N.  Y.,  March  11, 1860. 
Since  1880  Luman  Carl  lias   been  engaged  in 
school  teaching,  and  now  resides  in  Summit, 
N.  Y.    His  poems  appear  occasionally  in  the 
local  press. 

OCTOBER. 

All  through  the  bright  October  days, 
I  love  amid  the  purple  haze. 

To  muse  or  idly  stroll 
The  gorgeous  lines  of  shrubs  and  trees. 
The  balmy  air,  the  fragrant  breeze. 
The  sunset  clouds,  the  mists— all  there 

Breathe  incense  to  my  soul. 
I  love  to  walk  where  leaves  are  brown, 
And  russet  nuts  are  falling  down. 

From  many  a  forest  tree; 
And  watch  the  squirrel  frisking  b}-. 
Who  with  his  cunning  is  so  shj'. 
That  while  he  works  lie  keeps  one  eye 

Intently  fixed  on  me. 
Oh!  pleasant  autumn  holiday ! 
I  would  ibat  thou  couldst  with  us  stay 

Through  all  our  earthly  years; 
And  that  my  life  might  be  as  thine. 
Surrounded  with  bright  hues,  divine. 
That  I  may  hail  its  last  decline 

With  smile?  and  not  with  tears. 


FRIENDSHIP. 
Oh,  friendship!  would  that  many  more 

Thy  precious  worth  might  know! 
There'd  be  a  greater  store  of  love 

And  less  of  pain  and  woe. 
Fly  swiftly  on,  old  Father  Time, 

Atid  haste  the  glorious  day 
When  trutli  and  love  .shall  rule  the  land. 

And  discord  melt  away. 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1375 


« 


MRS.  ROSE  J.  DEWOODIE. 

Born:  Hortleton,  Pa.,  July  28, 1845. 
Prior  to  lier  marriage  this  lady  engaged  iti 
tlie  profession  of  teaching-,  wliicli  she  resum- 
ed after  the  death  of  her  liusbaiid.    She  lias 
written  some  very  tine  poems,  and  has  been 


MRS.  ROSE  J.  DE  WOODIE. 

editor  and  prose  writer  for  several  publica- 
tions. Mrs.  DeWoodie  still  resides  in  her  na- 
tive state  at  Hontzdale. 


*- 


BECKTE'S  BURIAL. 

Brightly  shone  the  stars  of  morning, 

In  the  cold,  blue  sky — 
Ere  the  first  faint  dawn  of  daytime 

Met  the  wearied  eye; 
As  we  watched  with  tearful  faces, 

Grouped  about  the  bed. 
Where  our  darling-  Beckie  rested 

In  a  slumber  dread. 

Not  the  prayers  of  our  mother, 

Nor  our  anxious  care 
Can  unseal  the  heavy  eyelids 

From  the  orbs  so  fair; 
Closed,  fore'er,  to  all  thing-s  earthly. 

Now,  perchance,  they  gaze 
On  the  glittering-  host,whose  harpstrings 

Echo  Jesus'  praise. 


Fainter  falls  the  heaving  bosom  — 

Slower  comes  tlie  breath  — 
Beckie  passes  in  that  slumber. 

Through  the  gates  of  death. 
When  the  daylight  o"er  the  iiilltops 

Gleams  with  radiance  red. 
Through  the  shutter, dim,  ii  lallelh 

On  the  still,  white  dead. 

With  the  small  hands,  meekly  folded, 

And  the  ebon  hair. 
Lying  on  the  marble  forehead. 

With  a  life-like  air. 
Thro'  the  day  and  cold,  dark  night-lime. 

In  the  silent  room. 
Lies  the  slender,white-robed  figure, 

Dark  the  sky  with  gloom. 

Though  our  kisses  soft  and  reverent. 

Touch  her  chilly  brow. 
She,  afar  from  all  our  grieving, 

Dwells  in  sunshine  now. 
Close  the  coffin-lid  above  her, 

Bear  her  out  the  door. 
From  the  home  she  made  so  sunny  — 

'Tis  her  home  no  more. 
Slowly  onward  to  the  graveyard, 

City  of  the  dead,— 
Bear  the  coffin  till  it  resteth 

In  its  narrow  bed. 
Where  our  darling  sister  slumbers 

There  we  pause  and  pray; 
Asking  God  we  all  may  greet  her 

In  the  land  of  day. 


CHARITY  TO  THE  FALLEN. 

O!  fair  but  unforgiving,  thou 

Whose  red  lip  curls  in  pride, 
If  but  an  erring  sister  brush 

Thy  silken  garb  aside; 
Shrink  not  from  that  profaning  touch. 

Frown  not  with  haughty  brow. 
For  in  God's  sight  tliat  scorned  one 

May  be  as  pure  as  thou. 
Thou  dost  not  know,  thou  canst  not  tell. 

Tlie  struggle  and  the  strife. 
The  fierce  temptation  that  beset 

Her  fair,  unspotted  life. 
And  gave  to  that  heart's  purity 

Its  first,  dark  taint  of  sin ; 
Nor  how  lier  angel  turned  to  weep, 

As  came  her  tempter  in. 
Judge  not!  that  soul  condemned  by  thee 

May  shine  in  heaven  afar. 
Reclaimed  from  its  strayed  orbit  here, 

A  fixed  and  radiant  star; 
A  sinless  mother's  prayers,  perchance. 

Breathed  o'er  her  long  ago. 
May  have  won  above,  from  a  Gtxl  of  love 

The  mercy  thou  canst  not  show. 


*- 


1376 


LOCAL   AMD   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AirEKICA. 


ALFRED  GRAHAM,  M.D.,D.D. 

Born:  Canada,  March  IT,  1849. 
When  a  boy  Mr.  Graham  lived  in  Detroit 
where  he  later  clerked  in  a  store.  For  sev- 
eral years  he  traveled  in  the  southern  states 
as  a  business  man,  and  for  two  years  had 
charge  of  an  important  business  in  Atlanta, 


* 


ALFRED  GRAHAM,  A.M.,  M.D. 

Ga., whence  he  went  to  Little  Rock,  Ark.,  in 
the  same  line  of  business.where  he  remained 
five  years.  Mr.  Graham  tlien  entered  tlie 
Hahnemann  Medical  College  of  Phihidelphia 
in  which  city  lie  located  after  graduation. 
In  1891  Mr.Graham  removed  to  Detroit, where 
he  is  engaged  in  the  practice  of  medicine. 
He  has  been  prominent  in  religious  and  tem- 
perance work,  and  has  lectured  and  preached 
in  the  southern  states;  he  has  also  been  ed- 
itor on  several  religious  and  tempei'aiiee 
publications.  Over  two  hundred  of  Ids  poems 
liave  appeared  in  tlie  St.  Louis  Globe-Demo- 
crat, Waverly  Magazine  and  other  prominiMit 
I>ublications.  Mr.  Graham  was  married  in 
1871  to  Miss  D.  Ahce  Brazie  of  Lapeer,  Mich. 

TO-DAY  AND  TO-MORROW. 

Why  should  we  boast  of  present  strength? 

Wliy  yield  to  worldly  swiiy? 
Why  joyous  feel  o'er  what  is  ours? 

O'er  wluit  we  own  to-day? 


Tomorrow's  sun  may  find  us  'neath 

The  damp  and  mold'ring  clay. 
Though  health  marks  well  our  features  fair 

And  beauties  o'er  us  bloom. 
Disease  may  soon  upon  us  cast 

Its  ever-deepeinng  gloom. 
To-day  'mid  pleasures  we  may  dwell. 

To-morrow,  in  the  tomb. 
Should  earthly  kingdoms  own  our  sway. 

And  bow  at  our  command. 
Should  millions  kneel  witli  trembling  fear 

At  our  uplifted  hand. 
Or  should  we,  with  benignant  power. 

Be  greatest  of  our  land; 
Should  we  be  those  of  great  renown. 

Full  high  inscribe  our  name 
Upon  the  great,  yet  transient,  scroll 

Of  earth's  soon-dying  fame, 
Tliough  honored  by  our  eartldy  friends. 

Our  end  must  be  the  same. 
Wealth,  power  and  trifling  afliueuce 

May  mark  well  our  career. 
But  what  will  these  avail  us  when 

Tlie  enemy  draws  near 
To  bear  us  to  tiie  silent  land, 

From  all  on  earth  that's  dear? 
Honors  can  lengthen  not  our  days, 

Nor  cleanse  sin's  fearful  stam; 
All  these  will  be  as  naught  to  us 

When  Jesus  comes  again 
To  judge  the  world,  and  gather  home 

His  saints  witli  Him  to  reign. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SORROW. 
I  walk  through  a  dark,  shaded  valley, 

And  tread  the  dim  pathway  alone; 
I  see  not  the  form  of  anotiier, 

No  voice  do  I  hear  but  my  own. 
And  yet  I  can  seetlirough  the  darkne 

Far  back  in  the  cycle  of  years, 
And  fancy  I  hear  in  tlie  stillness, 

Sweet  accents  which  move  me  to  tears. 
I  once  had  a  home  over  yonder, 

And  traveled  that  sun-brightened  way: 
Ah,  me  I  how  the  thick  clouds  liavelower'd 

And  darkened  each  beautiful  ray! 
None  know  how  Fve  lived  in  the  valley. 

With  lieartaclies  and  sadness  and  tears: 
And  how  I  liave  longed  for  tlie  sunlight, 

Tlirt)ugh  toilsome  and  wearisome  years. 
And  here  in  the  valley  of  sorrow. 

Lie  buried  my  hopes  of  the  past; 
Entombed  is  the  love  tliat  once  thrilled  nic, 

'Twas  pure,  but  too  fickle  to  last. 
And  often  I've  wished  wiien  so  weary 

And  anxious  fi-oin  pain  to  be  free, 
That:  some  friendly  mound  in  the  valley 

Might  et>ver  my  sorrows  anil  nie. 


*- 


LOCAT.   AND  NATIONAL,   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1377 


MRS.  ANNIE  WALL. 

Born:  Crawford  Co.,  Wis.,  Sept.  19, 1859. 
Since  her  childhood  this  ladj-  has  constantly 
contributed  poems  to  such  papers  as  the 
Springfield  Farm  and  Fireside,  Pueblo  Daily 
Press  and  the  Milwaukee  Sentinel.  The 
poems  of  Mrs.  AniiiP  Wall   are  mostly  (if  a 


MRS.  ANNIE  WALL. 

religious  tone,  and  it  is  hoped  they  will  ap- 
pear in  b'X)is  form  at  an  early  date.  She  was 
married  in  1878  to  Burton  T.  Wall,  a  mer- 
chant of  Pueblo,  Colorado,  where  she  now 
resides.  Mrs.  Wall  is  not  physically  strong, 
and  has  traveled  extensively  in  pursuit  of 
health. 


LOVE  THEM  TO-DAY. 
The  harsh,  unloving  words  we  speak  to-day 

May  pass  beyond  recall. 
The  tender  heart  they  pierce  to-morrow  may 

Be  cold  beneath  a  pall. 
The  loving  lips  that  for  our  kisses  wait, 
To-morrow  we  may  learn  to  prize  —  too  late. 

The  eyes  that  look  to-day  so  longingly 

Into  our  own  in  vain. 
For  answering  look  of  love  or  sympathy 

And  humid  grow  with  pain. 
To-morrow  may  be  closed  in  icy  sleep. 
To  wake  no  more,  though  bitterly  we  weep. 


The  hands  tliat  rcacli  to  clasp  our  own  to-day 

With  loving  life  athrill. 
Chilled  by  our  unresponsive  touch  may  lie 

To-morrow  cold  and  still. 
In  rigid  calm,  above  a  lifeless  breast. 
Where  love  nor  hate  can  ne'er  disturb  their 
rest. 

The  love  we  slight  to-day,  the  hearts  we 
grieve. 

The  lips  we  do  not  kiss. 
The  clinging  hands,  the  tender,  longing  eyes. 

Tomorrow  we  may  miss. 
Then  let  us  hold  them  precious  while  we  may, 
Returning  all  their  love  in  full  to-day. 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  SPRING. 
There's  a  joyous  voice  of  promise  in  the  air; 
There's    a    happy  sense  of   hoping  every- 
where. 
In  the  stirring  of  the  breeze. 
In  the  newly  budding  trees. 
In  the  freshlj-  springing  grass 
And  the  dashing  show'rs  that  pass. 
We  catch  the  inspiration  and  we  share 
In  the  general  joy  and  gladness  everywhere. 
There's  a  wakeningof  the  voices  of  tlie  hills. 
There's  a  deeper  sound  of  laughter  in  the  rills 
And  the  woods  begin  to  ring 
With  the  songs  of  birds  that  sing; 
And  the  plains  begin  to  sliow 
Brighter  tints  where  wind  flow'rs  blow; 
For  every  pulse  of  nature  faster  thrills 
With  the  wakening  of  the  voices  of  the  hills. 
"Tis  the  miracle  of  spring  being  wrought. 
The  resurrection  lesson,  newly  taught. 
Who  can  doubt  the  pow'r  of  God 
When  we  see  from  every  clod 
Flow'rs  unspringing  to  the  sun, 
New  life  from  their  dark  graves  won. 
Fit  emblems  of  the  Christian's  life  to  be 
When  from  the  grave  springs  immortality! 


OUR  SUNNY  CITY. 

EXTRACT. 

Pueblo  on  the  sunny  plain 

In  peaceful  beauty  stands; 
The  mountains  yield  their  bounteous  store 
Of  granite  rocks  and  precious  ore. 

To  fill  her  outstretched  hands. 
She  shelters  well  her  peaceful  homes 

And  guards  them  all  with  care; 
Her  churches  heavenward  lift  their  spires 
And  love  hath  lit  their  altar  fires. 

And  kept,  them  bright  with  prayer. 
The  Arkansas,  that  river  wild. 

With  murmurs  soft  and  sweet. 
Unto  Pueblo  ever  sings. 
And  gracious  gifts  it  freely  brings. 

And  lays  them  at  her  feet. 


*- 


1378 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  MATTIE  A.  HOYT. 

Rorn:  Lancaster,  Ohio. 
Mrs.  Hoyt   is  the  widow  of  tlie  late  Dr.  P. 
B.   Hoyt,  of  Norwalk,  Ohio.    She  is  now  a 
student  of  medicine  in  the  city  of  Chicago. 


MRS.  MATTIE   A.  HOYT. 

Mrs.  Hoyt  is  very  fond  of  poetry,  and  her 
poems  have  always  received  high  praise. 


GO  FORGET  ME. 

Go  forg-et  me,  it  is  better, 
Best  our  path  in  life  should  part. 

Go  forg-et  each  little  fetter. 
Ere  it  wounds  or  breaks  the  heart. 

Tims  I  give  thee  back  unto  her, 

Whom  thou  lovest  ere  we  met. 
All  thy  love  and  honor  due  her. 

Go  I  pray  thee,  go  forget. 
Go  forget  and  let  me  treasure 

Only  purest  tiioughts  of  thee, 
Go  forget  each  passing  pleasure 

That  my  presence  brought  to  thee. 
Go  forget  that  ere  we  met, 

Go  forget  eacli  little  touch. 
Let  thy  heart  learn  to  forgot. 

Go  forget  I  loved  thee  much. 
Only  this,  should  aught  befall. 
And  thy  spirit  feel  oppressed. 


Only  this,  I  ask  thee  call, 
I  will  fly  to  thee,  thou  blest. 


TO  ONE  1  LOVE. 
How  we  met  and  loved  and  parted. 

None  on  earth  shall  ever  know. 
But  my  true  and  faithful  heart 

Has  loved  thee  still  wheree'er  I  go. 
Love  thee  dear,  1  cannot  help  it, 

Tliough  I  strive  with  all  my  might. 
Would  to  God,  I  could  forget  thee, 

For  I  know  it  is  not  right. 
All  my  thoughts  are  ever  of  thee, 

And  the  time  in  which  we  met. 
In  my  dreams  I'm  near  and  love  thee- 

Oh !  then  how  can  I  forget? 
Hopeless  love  abides  the  longer, 

And  each  fiber  of  my  heart. 
Tells  me  love  is  growing  stronger, 

Tells  me  too,  that  we  must  part. 


ALONE. 

And  thou  art  gone.  Oh,  can  it  be 

There  is  no  one  to  conviort  me; 
No  one  to  call  me  their  own. 

Though  many  are  near,  yet  I'm  alone. 
In  crowds,  it  is  my  chance  to  meet. 

Our  friend,  and  there  each  other  greet; 
My  thoughts  turn  back  to  hours  flown. 

And  I  sigh  for  thee  for  I'm  alone, 
I'm  lonely.  Oh !  so  lonely  here. 

Though  many  try  my  heart  to  cheer  — 
'Tis  thee,  I  miss,  for  thou  art  gone, 

I'm  left  in  sadness  and  alone. 
Though  God  has  called  thee,  dearest  one, 

I  cannot  say,  "  Thy  will  be  done;" 
Why  should  I  give  up  all  1  own, 

And  battle  through  this  world  alone? 
Thy  prayers  shall  be  my  strength  and  shield 

While  laboring  in  this  lonely  field; 
I'll  strive  to  meet  thee  at  the  throne. 

Where  sighs  and  parting  are  unknown. 


PAST  AND  PRESENT. 

EXTRACT. 

The  shadows  of  the  past  droop  low. 

And  memories  deep  arise. 
As  on  a  distant  field  tliey  show, 

Wherein  the  future  lies. 
Tiie  present  and  the  past  both  bring 

Our  sorrow,  care  and  love, 
And  to  present  we  all  cling. 

While  through  this  world  we  rove 
Our  kindness  to  each  other  here 

Make  friends  we  love  so  well; 
As  we  each  other's  burdens  bear, 

Each  other's  places  fill. 


*- 


-« 


*- 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1379 


MRS.  M.  V.  DAHLGREN. 

Born:  Gallipolis,  Ohio. 

Mrs.  Dahlgren's  first  literary  effort.  Ideali- 
ties was  published  bj'  Lippincott's  in  18.59, 
contained  several  poems.  Her  fug'itive  poems 
have  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  various 
publications.      As  a  prose  writer  she  has 


MRS.  MADELEINE  VINTON  DAHLGREN. 

published  some  twelve  books,  and  has  con- 
tributed very  extensively  essays,  syndicate 
articles  and  short  stories,  to  various  news- 
papers and  mag'azines.  Mrs.  Dahlgren  is  the 
widow  of  Admiral  John  A.  Dahlgren,  of  the 
United  States  Navy,  who  died  in  1870.  Mrs. 
Dahlg-ren  accompanied  her  husband  on  his 
cruise  in  the  South  Pacific  Ocean,  where  he 
was  stationed  dnring'  the  war  between  Chill 
and  Peru,  as  commander  of  the  United 
States  squadron  in  those  waters;  and  she 
has  published  a  verj'  interesting-  book  on  her 
stay  in  Peru  and  Chili,  during  that  time  and 
on  the  customs  and  manners  of  the  people 
of  those  countries. 


THE  SEA. 


Thy  multitudinous  voices  speak  to  me, 
O  solemn  breathing,  deep  resounding  sea! 


Forever   surging,    in    strange,    continuous 

rhyme. 
Noted  and  measured  by  the  wand  of  time. 

O  sea !  I  bend  and  list  to  thee  most  rev'rently. 

Groping  in  vain,  but  would  fain  seize  the  key 

That  deftly  guards  thy  dread  mysteries  en- 
chained. 

And  firmly  holds  tliy  awful  power  restrained. 

From  out  thy  vast  concave,  thy  forces  throng- 
ing rebound. 

With  multipotent  voices  that  commingling 
resound 

Where  thy  manifold  marvels  lie  closely  con- 
cealed. 

And  grim  rest  thy  secrets,  to  no  man  re- 
vealed. 

But  now,  seething  and  hissing,  foaming  en- 
raged, 

A  caldron  candescent,  a  demon  engaged, — 

Thy  mountainous  breakers  dash  o'er  the 
strand. 

Their  fury  held  back  by  Omnipotent  Hand. 

Then  waning,  low  wailing,  thy  fitful  gusts 
plead. 

As  subsiding,  abating,  thy  pulses  recede. 

Contending  while  yielding,  with  sorrowing 
sobs, 

Till  relaxing,  retreating,  slow  ebb  thy  heart- 
throbs. 

All  serene  sinks  thy  bosom,  O  treacherous 

sea; 
Seem  siren  or  spliinx,  thou  deceivest  not  me; 
For  thy  secrets  are  sj-mbols,  which  full  well 

I  scan. 
As  forming  a  part  of  God's  glorious  plan. 

Thou  wert  slave,  and  not  monarch,  when  in- 
to snace  hurled. 

He  formed  thee  but  finite,  as  fair  dawned  the 
world ; 

While  I,  an  immortal,  soar  boundless  and 
free 

Far  above  thy  wild  passions,  O  terrible  sea! 


THE  RAGGED  BOY. 
A  little  child,  whom  God  had  blessed. 
And  fortune's  kindly  smile  caressed, 
Clasp'dln  his  arms  a  valued  toy. 
When  there  approached  a  ragged  boy; 

The  beauteous  child,  whom  God  had  blessed 
Stood  in  the  doorway,  gayly  dressed : 
With  piteous  tone,  the  other  said: 
"  Please,  little  sir,  please,  give  me  bread  1 " 

The  winsome  child,  whom  God  had  blessed. 
With  tender  grace  greets  child  oppressed. 


-* 


*- 


1380 


* 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


Gives  him  the  toy  he  loves  so  well, 
And  asks  him  all  his  grief  to  tell. 

To  liim,  the  child  whom  God  had  blessed, 
Said  kindlj':  ••  Enter  thou,  and  rest!  " 
The  rag'ged  boy,  who  asked  bread, 
Gently  into  the  house  is  led. 

Wan,  wasted,  weary,  frozen  feet, 
Had  wandered  up  and  down  the  street: 
Nor  had  the  waif  a  shelter  found, 
Or  other  lodging-  than  the  ground. 

The  lovely  child,  whom  God  had  blessed. 
Laid  —  hapless  one  — on  bed  to  rest. 
And  kissing  him,  said:  "  All  night  sleep. 
While  holy  angels  their  watch  keep." 

The  needful  help  came  all  to  late. 
For,  worn  with  woe,  this  child  of  fate 
Did  close  his  eyes  on  earth  that  night, 
To  open  them  on  heaven's  light. 


Nor  many  months  did  pass  away 
When  fortune's  child,  one  morn  in  May, 
Was  sent  for  —  summon'd  from  on  high 
To  share  the  common  lot  — to  diel 

Let  mystery  of  love,  behold. 
What  next  befell  —  faith  does  unfold 
That  ragged  boy —  a  cherub  bright. 
Enwraps  him  in  his  wings  of  night. 

For  fortune's  child,  his  turn  doth  take 
Since  deathless  eyes  may  ne'er  mistake. 
He  sees  before  him  in  amaze. 
The  ragged  boy  in  light  ablaze. 

All  bathed  in  beatific  joy. 
Resplendent  shone  the  ragged  boy  — 
Whose  little  weary  feet  had  trod 
A  pilgrimage  to  throne  of  God! 

Now,  swiftly  on,  with  seraph  love. 
Conducts  his  charge  to  heaven  above. 
Where  other  door-way  stands  ajar. 
Lustrous  as  glorious  morning  star. 

This  portal  arch  of  rainbow  hues 
Illumines  space,  and  rays  diffuse. 
Where  faintest  shadows,  flitting  here. 
Tell  us  on  earth  that  God  is  near. 

Then  cherub  said  to  fortune's  child  — 
And  as  he  spoke  angelic  smiled. 
With  beaming  looks  he  clasps  his  hand. 
Bids  him  make  one  of  blessed  baud  — 

»i  Dids't  take  me  in,  a  ragged  boy. 
Now  enter  thou  to  endless  joy; 


Dids't  gently  lay  me  on  thy  bed. 
Now  Jesus  crowns  thy  little  head." 


THE  MIDNIGHT  MASS. 

Angel  hymns,  the  glad  air  rending. 

O'er  a  convent  by  the  sea! 
Where  Christ's  loving  spouses  bending. 

Do  adore  God's  majesty! 

Blessed  waxen  tapers  burning, 
Light  this  chapel  by  the  sea! 

With  consuming  flames,  hot  yearning. 
They  adore  God's  majesty. 

Sweetest  flowers,  fondly  sighing. 

Deck  this  altar  by  the  sea! 
Fast  exhale  their  lives  in  vying. 

To  adore  God's  majesty ! 

Clouds  of  fragrant  incense  blending, 
Round  this  altar  by  the  sea! 

With  fervent  prayers  ascending, 
That  adore  God's  majesty! 

Swift,  the  bright,  high  waves  aspiring, 
Greets  this  altar  by  the  sea! 

And  spend  all  their  force.    Expiring, 
To  adore  God's  majesty ! 

Now  the  vested  priest,  stands  pleading. 

At  this  altar  by  the  sea ! 
Where  the  Sacred  Heart  lies  bleeding, 

He  adores  God's  majesty! 

His  annointed  hands  extending. 

On  this  altar  by  the  sea! 
When  the  dear  Lord,  swift  descending. 

All  adore  God's  majesty ! 

At  the  hour  of  midnight  telling. 

In  this  chapel  by  the  sea ! 
The  fair  Babe  Divine  is  dwelling, 

There  adore  God's  majestj'. 

And  proclaim,  the  news  amazing. 
Wide  spread  over  land  and  sea! 

For  on  Christmas  night,  loud  praising. 
All  adore  God's  majesty. 


PHELPS. 

The  bridge  of  life  for  you  stands  fair. 
With  arches  flrm-free  from  decay; 

The  stream  of  life  flows  gently  there. 
Nor  sunken  rocks  divert  its  way. 

Vestured  in  snow,  yet  beauteous  still. 
You  rest,  the  marvel  of  the  day; 

Spanned  with  the  radiance  of  good  will. 
Crowned  with  the  golden  sunset  ray. 


*- 


* 


*- 


LOCAL  AND  NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


1381 


* 


HORACE  MELLARD  DUBOSE. 

Born:  Near  Mobile,  Ala.,  Nov.  7, 1858. 
After  receiving-  a  tlioroug-li  education,  Mr. 
DuBose  taug-lit  in  [jrivate  schools.  After  a 
few  years  he  took  up  the  study  of  theolog-y, 
and  in  1879  entered  holy  orders.  Mr.  DuBose 
has  served  as  a  pastor  in  several  parts  of  the 


HORACE  MELLARD   DU  BOSE. 

south  and  California.  He  resided  for  some 
time  in  New  Yorli,  where  he  oiHeiated  in 
several  of  the  leading-  churches  of  his  faith. 
About  a  year  ago  Mr.  DuBose  was  elected  to 
the  chief  editorship  of  the  Pacific  Methodist 
Advocate,  the  leading  religious  newspaper 
on  the  Pacific  coast.  This  gentleman  has 
made  somewhat  of  a  specialty  of  the  study 
of  German  and  Sanskirt  poetry,  as  well  as 
as  that  of  the  classic  nations  of  antiquity. 
He  is  the  author  of  a  number  of  poems. 
Rupert  Wise,  a  poetic  romance  in  eight  can- 
'■,  tos,  has  been  widely  read  and  favorably 
received  in  America  and,  to  some  extent,  in 
Europe.  A  new  volume.  Psyche,  a  Symbolic 
Poem,  will  shortly  be  issued  from  the  press. 


*- 


ROLL  ON. 
Roll  on,  ye  fateful  years,  but  >eave 

Not  me  at  any  fate  behind ; 
I  fain  thro'  storm  and  wave  would  cleave 

To  that  fair  coast  of  truth  and  find 
Wherein  all  dreams  of  truth  begin 


And  this  loud  propliecy  witliin 
That  wakes  its  echo  thro'  the  n.ind. 
Roll  on  and  bring  me  to  the  snore. 

And  bring  nie  U^  a  dreamful  rest. 
Or  bruig  me  strengtli,  when  are  no  more 

These  yearnings  of  a  tortured  brciist. 
To  see  life  good  tlio'  incomplete, 

A  broken  urn  witli  wasted  sweet  — 
Roll  on  and  bring  mc  what  is  best! 


ORACLES. 
Deep  were  her  lucid  orbs  of  sight. 
And  wild  witli  some  unspoken  wish; 
They  seemed  to  quencli  the  fires  of  day. 
And  yet  to  drink  the  tides  of  night; 
One  glance  was  like  tlie  falling  sun 
And  one  was  like  an  angel's  flight. 
O  mystery  of  the  spirit's  miglit 
And  of  tiie  s))irit's  life  undone! 
O  deep  where  passions'  seas  unite. 
And  fate  and  faith  grow  into  one! 


MY  HEART  IS  TENDER  NOW. 
My  heart  is  strangely  tender  now; 
Long  time  I  walked  tlie  shadow  land, 
The  misty,  wintry  sliadow  land. 
Thro'  which  the  tide  of  tears  rolls  on. 
But  God  is  tiiere,  strange  tale  to  earth! 
The  gentle  Clirist  walked  with  me  there. 
And  held  me  tiiat  I  fainted  not 
In  that  dim,  tearful  shadow  land. 
Therefore  my  heart  is  tender  now. 


MY  SONG. 
Come  as  dawneth  tlie  perfect  day. 

Sweet  with  notes  of  woodland  birds; 
Odorous  winds  from  far  Cathay 
Bring  in  the  wake  of  winged  words. 
My  song!  my  song! 
Move  as  raovetli  the  bride-groom  sun. 

Walking  tlie  belted  round  of  heaven; 
Come  or  ever  the  da.v  be  done 
And  out  of  the  day  the  sun  be  driven, 
My  song!  my  song! 
Drop  as  droppeth  the  tender  eve. 

Thro'  mellow  depths  of  faultless  skies. 
Or  a  spirit  wiiose  goings  leave 
Abiding  toketis  of  Paradise, 
My  song!  my  song! 
Or  soft  as  the  hushes  of  night 

Steal  over  my  fancy  in  dream 
And  clotlie  the  world  witli  every  light 
And  the  charm  of  a  tlioiiplit  supreme. 
My  song!  my  song! 
As  out  of  darkness  comes  the  stars 

And  the  promise  of  waking  day. 

So  from  the  night-scrolls'  dusky  bars 

Smite  the  notes  of  a  deathless  lay. 

My  song!  my  song! 


«- 


1382 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL    POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  LIBBIE  C.  BAER. 

Born:  Near  Bethel,  Ohio,  Nov.  18, 1849. 
The  ancestors  on  the  paternal  side  of  this 
lady  were  the  two  familes,  Riley  and  Swing-. 
From  the  original  family  of  the  former  de- 
scended the  distinguished  poet  and  humor- 
ist, James  Whitcomb  Riley ;  from  the  latter 


"1 


MRS.  LIBBIE  C.  BAER. 

the  eminent  philosopher  and  divine,  Prof. 
David  Swing  of  Chicago.  In  1867  the  subject 
of  this  sketch  was  married  to  Chaplain  Jolin 
M.  Baer  of  Appleton,  Wis.,  where  she  now 
resides.  Mrs.  Baer  has  held  various  respon- 
sible positions  with  the  Woman's  Relief 
Corps  of  the  G.  A.  R.,  and  took  an  important 
part  in  the  benevolent  work  of  this  order. 
During  the  past  ten  years  Mrs.  Libbie  C. 
Baer  has  contributed  to  the  leading  publica- 
tions of  America,  and  her  poems  have  in- 
deed been  a  valuable  acquisition  to  current 
literature;  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  they 
will  soon  appear  in  book  form. 


NIGHT. 
With  sable  robes  and  calm,  white  face. 
The  gentle  night  draws  on  apace; 
With  sombrous  curtains  drapes  the  skies. 
To  veil  the  light  from  aching  eyes; 
And  sends  her  zephyrs  ministering. 
With  noiseless  step  and  cooling  wing; 


Distills  the  dew  that  slowly  drips, 
To  cool  tlie  lilies,  thirsty  lips; 
Then  on  her  gentle  loving  breast. 
She  folds  vLe  weary  world  to  rest. 


ALONE. 
I  passed  where  many  were  meeting. 

And  listlessly  found  there  a  place; 
I  heard  friends'  voices  in  greeting 

And  kisses  fell  cold  on  my  face, 
I  smiled  when  I  saw  others  smile, 

I  laughed  attlie  jest  given  free; 
Acknowledged  new  faces  the  while 

Wlio  friends  in  the  future  must  be. 
But  the  music  fell  dull  on  my  ear. 

Or  rose  in  a  discordant  tone; 
And  yet,  while  so  many  were  near, 

I  felt  that  I  walked  there  alone. 


TOO  LATE. 

A  lifeless  life,  a  warmthless  flre; 
A  voiceless  song,  a  stringless  lyre; 
A  hopeless  hope,  a  liollow  joy; 
A  gleam  of  gold  tliat's  but  alloy; 
Blind  eyes  wliich  gaze  on  cloudless  days; 
Bound  feet  that  stand  in  thornless  ways. 
The  brimming  fountains  e'er  to  see. 
Yet  die  of  thirst  continually; 
Tasting  the  fruit  that  nectar  drips. 
To  turn  to  ashes  on  the  lips. 
In  vain!  in  vain!  the  ill-timed  fate 
Vouchsafed  the  precious  boon  — too  late. 


LOVE. 

The  spring  has  come : 
Whilst  winter's  snow  is  floating  down 
On  Autumn's  leaves  so  sere  and  brown. 
Life  is  renewed  with  rosy  glow. 
Nor  feels  the  cold,  nor  heeds  the  snow,— 

The  spring  has  come. 

And  roses  rare! 
Born  out  of  time  on  bushes  blown 
From  which  I  thought  all  life  had  flown. 
This  strange  sight  doth  my  vision  meet,- 
On  bushes  dead,  with  fragrance  sweet. 

Are  roses  rare. 

I  hear  a  bird 
A  gladsome,  sweet  and  thrilling  note; 
Tho'  long  ago  each  feathered  throat 
From  leaf  divested  tree  had  flod. 
Yet  plainly  now,  I  hear  o'erhead 

The  song  of  bird. 

And  this  is  love. 
To  wreathe  with  roses,  winters'  brow; 
To  wave  a  wand,  where  sad  hearts  bow. 
To  bring  delight,  when  joy  had  fled; 
To  life  renew;  to  quicken  dead;— 

Ah !  this  is  love. 


*- 


* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


1383 


* 


MRS.  M.  J.  SMITH. 

Born:  Gardiner,  Me.,  Oct.  28, 1834. 
This  lady  has  written  over  a  thousand  poems, 
many  of  which  have  appeared  in  some  of  the 
leading-  periodicals  of  America.      She  was 


MRS.  M.  J.  SMITH. 

married  in  1852  to  Mr.  A.  A.  Smith,  and  now 
resides  in  Lougwood,  a  suburb  of  Chicago. 


THE    HEART    SHOULD    NEVER    GROW 
OLD. 

The  heart  should  never  grow  old,  my  dear. 

The  heart  should  never  grow  old, 
'Tis  a  sacred  shrine,  and  should  be  kept, 

Most  beautiful  things  to  hold; 
For  there  have  gathered  our  hopes  and  fears, 

And  there  is  hidden  our  care. 
And  some  of  its  doors  we  ne'er  unlock 

Such  treasures  are  hidden  there. 

There  are  pictured  faces  upon  its  walls. 

And  eyes  that  are  laughing  still; 
There  are  lips  that  seem  to  be  bubbling  o'er 

With  music  our  lives  to  fill. 
There  are  sweet  old  hymns  that  we  used  to 
sing. 

And  all  of  an  evening  prayer; 
There  are  trembling  hands  that  left  our  brows 

With  a  blessing  resting  there. 


There  is  love's  sweet  dream  and  the  story  told 

And  the  fragrance  of  blosst)ms  sweet; 
There's  a  lover's  kiss  and  a  marriage  vow, 

Tliat  rounded  the  whole  complete; 
And  a  wedded  bliss  and  a  cliild's  caress; 

Oh,  motliers  count  the  cost. 
There  are  little  fingers,  like  waxen  buds, 

On  a  pulseless  bosom  crossed. 

And  now  as  we  gather  the  friends  of  yore. 

With  those  of  the  present  day; 
Those  who  have  crossed  Ui  their  home  before. 

And  tliose  wlio  are  on  the  way; 
We  feel  tliat  our  heart,  tlio'  in  casket  worn. 

Most  beautiful  things  can  hold; 
And  tho'  we  fall  on  our  pilgrim  staff. 

Our  own  will  never  grow  old. 


SYMPATHY. 
Who  hath  not  felt  the  lack  of  sympathy, 
Or  known  the  need  of  one  kind  heart 

To  lean  upon? 
Who  hath  not  waited  for  some  spoken  word 
Appreciative  of  tlieir  liumble  worth. 

And  waited  on  — 
Till  sick  at  heart,  almost  despairing. 
They  longed  the  duty,  truly  theirs, 

To  leave  undone'? 


THE  RAINDROPS'  DANCE. 
Over  the  roof  with  its  sloping  top. 
The  mist  forms   gathered  and   drop,  drop, 

drop. 
They  fell  to  the  bordered  walk  below, 
Down  where  the  pinks  and  violets  grow; 

And  hurried  away 
Neath  the  swaying  leaves  and  violets'  hood. 

Like  children  who  play 
A  hide  and  seek  game  in  some  sheltering 
wood. 

Drop,  drop,  drop,  and  the  blossoms  smiled. 
And  merrily  \,'elcomed  each  raindrop  cliild; 
Now  and  then  rockim."-  them  to  and  fro. 
Till  one  by  one  from  tlieir  arms  they  go. 

To  join  in  a  dance, 
With  a  thousand  more,  in  the  path  below. 

What  a  lucky  chance. 
For  their  mimic  was  that  bordered  row. 

Drop,  drop,  drop,  tho"  the  clouds  are  gone. 
The  play  all  over,  the  dance  all  done. 
The  sun  peeps  out  and  the  raindrops  go. 
Each  to  an  unseen  task  and  lo. 

The  violet  row. 
Each  sheltering  leaf,  and  the  blossoms  sweet. 

Much  handsomer  grow. 
For  the  rain-drops  dance  at  tlieir  tiny  feet. 


* 


* 


1384 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  L.  M.  HEWLINGS. 

Born:  Massachusetts. 
Mrs.  Hewlings  lias  always  been  an  ardent 
worker  in  the  cause  of  religion  and  temper- 
ance.   Her  late  husband,  Kev.  Georg-e  Rob- 
ert Hewlings,  D.  D.,  being  an  eminent  minis- 


*- 


MRS.  L.  M.  KEWLINGS. 

ter  of  the  gospel.  Her  poems  bave  always 
received  the  highest  praise,  and  have  been 
copied  far  and  wide  in  the  secular  and  re- 
ligious press  throughout  America. 

OLD  FRIENDS. 
Dear,  old  friends,  the  long  remember'd, 

Come  and  smile  on  me  once  more. 
Calm  bright  eyes  that  long  have  slumber'd, 

Wake  to  life !  as  erst  of  yore ! 
Mem'ries  on  my  soul  are  thronging. 

Of  the  dear  old  days  long  past. 
Precious  seasons  now  recalling. 

Dear  friends  shall  we  meet  at  last? 
Like  the  flush  that  herald's  dawning, 

Like  the  golden  rays  of  morn. 
Thoughts  come  of  old  friends  departed, 

Cherished  in  the  days  now  gone. 

DAYS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 
O,  for  the  loved  familiar  faces. 

For  the  dear  companions  gone  from  sight. 
Vanished  forms  from  life's  busy  places. 

That  cheered,  gladdened  and  gave  delight. 


O,  for  the  home  of  j'outh  and  childhood. 

For  rambles  over  the  dear  old  farm. 
Over  the  meadows,  fields  and  wildwood, 

Frolicing  plays  in  the  spacious  barn. 
Watching-  the  birds  and  wild  bees  humming, 

Climbing  the  trees  for  fruit  most  rare, 
Gathering  berries,  going  nutting. 

With  merry  companions  free  as  air. 
O,  for  a  swim  in  the  clear  lakelet. 

For  leisure  to  fish  with  liook  and  line. 
As  erst  of  yore  in  days  of  childhood, 

Without  a  care  of  the  coming  time. 
O,  for  daily  showers  of  sweetness. 

As  they  were  once  in  the  dear  old  home. 
Then  life  was  gay  in  its  completeness. 

And  yet  scarcely  heeded  until  flown. 
O,  for  the  dear  old  kitchen  garden. 

With  its  fragrance  of  flowers  and  herds, 
Delicious  with  sweet  spicy  odors. 

That  enchanied  the  bees  and  the  birds. 
I  yearn  for  those  old  fashioned  posies, 

To  breathe  fragrance  from  mint  and  balm. 
Gather  in  garlands  eiiwreatlied  with  roses, 

And  roam  again  o'er  tlie  dear  old  farm. 

IN  HOPE. 
The  last  faint  notes  of  my  youth's  glad  song. 

Echo  no  more  on  earth, 
And  I  fain  would  join  that  sinless  throng, 

Land  of  the  spirit's  birth; 
Where  the  crj-  of  sinfulness  and  strife. 

Of  human  wrongs  and  woes. 
Can  never  mar  that  glorious  life. 

Where  all  in  peace  repose. 
Where  soirowiiig  night  is  lost  in  day. 

All  dt)ubt  and  darkness  gone. 
Time  and  change  are  broken  in  their  sway. 

And  right  has  conquered  wrong. 
O,  glorious  thought!  to  think  at  last. 

In  conference  above. 
Death  overcame,  all  dangers  past. 

We'll  sing  redeeming  love. 


THE  WITHERED  BUD. 
'Tis  but  a  little  withered  bud. 

Yet  it  holds  the  magic  power. 
To  take  me  back  thro'  years  of  change, 

Into  youth's  briglit  sunny  hour. 
'Twas  given  in  a  playful  way. 

By  my  lover,  a  blue-eyed  boy. 
Laid  with  a  lock  of  his  liair  away. 

With  a  feeling  of  blissful  joy. 
Priceless  to  nie  this  witiiered  bud: 

More  than  riches  this  world  could  bring, 
I  would  not  exchange  tiicse  tokens. 

For  wealth  of  the  mightiest  king. 
My  lover  is  buried  from  sight. 

My  glossy  browti  liair  turned  to  gray, 
But  the  withered  bud  holds  a  charm. 

That  will  live  forever  and  aye. 


* 


*- 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL   I'OBTS   OF   AMERICA. 


138.5 


* 


WM.  R.  CHAMBERLAIN. 

Born;  St.  Elmo,  III.,  Aug.  31,  1851. 
The  poems  of  Mr.  Cbumberlain  occasionally 
appear  in  the  periodical  press.  He  graduat- 
ed from  the  Northwestern  University  in  1881 
when  he  took  up  the  practice  of  law, in  which 
he  is  now  eng-aged  in  the  city  of  Chicago. 


CHRISTMAS  GREETING. 

Through  all  the  world  loud  anthems  rise, 
Alike  from  young  and  old, 

To  Him  whose  natal  daj'  brings  joys, 
By  prophets  long  foretold. 

With  merry  hearts  and  happj'  songs 
We'll  celebrate  this  morn. 
Just  as  the  angels  did  of  old 
When  Christ  the  Lord  was  born. 

They  sang  of  love,  best  gift  of  God, 

To  all  of  Adam's  race. 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men, 

Through  trusting  in  His  grace; 
And  round  those  serapli  songsters  shone 

A  radiance  far  more  bright 
Than  ere  illumined  starry  space 

Since  said  •>  Let  there  be  light." 

O'er  Bethlehem  that  light  then  shone, 

And  to  her  shepherd  seers. 
Glad  Christmas  carols  first  were  sung 

When  time  ran  not  to  years; 
But  now  through  all  the  world  resound 

Glad  echoes  of  those  songs. 
And  that  bright  star  of  Bethlehem 

Its  wondrous  liglit  prolongs. 
May  you,  dear  girls,  in  life's  fair  morn, 

While  evil  days  come  not. 
Incline  your  hearts  to  wisdom's  way 

And  from  it  ne'er  depart; 
May  you  in  all  your  Christmas  joys 

Remember  that  to  give 
To  other  needy  boys  and  girls, 

Is  better  than  receive. 
May  you  in  conduct  gentle  be. 

In  virtue  true  and  bold; 
May  constant  blessings  fall  on  you, 

As  manna  fell  of  old ; 
May  length  of  days  be  as  your  deeds 

Of  charity  and  love. 
May  it  be  said  when  you  are  gone 

"That  class  will  meet  above." 
This  Church  to  me  has  been  a  home 

Since  April  eighty-two. 
And  of  these  years  the  happiest 

Have  been  those  spent  with  you. 
An  unseen  Hand  our  lives  directs 

Through  paths  we  can't  foretell, 
A  summons  calls  to  other  fields, 

I  go,  dear  girls,  farewell. 


GEORGE  W. HOOPER. 

Bokn:  Cincinnati,  O.,  Jan.  19, 1840. 

Mr.  Hooper  removed  to  Covington,  Ky. 
when  nine  years  of  age  and  was  there  edu- 
cated in  the  public  schools.  He  adopted  the 
stage  as  a  profession  in  1859  and  i)layed  in  tlie 
principal  cities  of  the  union,  retiring  from 
the  stage  in  1880.  He  has  written  many  ver- 
ses, including  songs  which  became  popular, 
and  also  sketches  and  a  few  plays.  Mr.Hoop- 
er  was  married  in  18V4  to  Miss  Lenore  Lamb, 
and  has  one  daughter. 


WAITING  FOR  A  LETTER. 

Write  a  letter  to  me,  darling; 

Write  if  only  but  a  line. 
Just  a  word  to  cheer  me,  darling. 

Tell  me  that  you  still  are  mine. 
Pray,  don't  keep  me  waiting,  darling, 

I  can  ne'er  endure  the  [)ain  ; 
God  alone  knows  how  1  love  you— 

Darling,write  to  me  again. 

Day  by  day  I'm  waiting,  darling. 
Eagerly  I  watch  the  door; 

List'ning  for  the  j)ostnian's  footstep- 
Waiting,  watching,  evermore; 

As  he  uears  my  heart  grows  lighter. 
Longing,  lovingly  I  pruy. 

But  his  simple  nod  assures  me 
I  must  wait  another  day. 

Oh,  how  sad  my  poor  heart,  darling ; 

How  I  weep  and  think  of  you. 
Lonely  waiting  for  a  letter. 

Telling  me  you  still  are  true. 
You'll  not  leave  me.  will  you,  darling? 

You  will  soon  come  back  again; 
Then  I'll  kiss  you,  oh  I  how  often, 

And  my  heart  will  know  no  pain. 

You  shall  sit  beside  me,  darling. 

With  your  arm  around  my  waist. 
While  I  drink  love  from  those  bright  eyes. 

As  I  look  up  in  your  face; 
And  I'll  kiss  away  the  teardrops. 

That  i)erehance  thine  eyes  should  dim. 
And  will  pray  that  God  will  bless  us 

For  each  other  and  for  Him. 

But  I'm  weary-why  this  blindness- 

I  can  scarcely  get  my  breath- 
Am  I  fainting:  am  I  dreaming! 
Surely  this  can  not  be  death. 
Quickly  bear  me  to  the  window, 

'Tisthe  postman  rang  the  bell — 
I  am  dying  for  a  letter- 
God  forgive  me— love,  farewell  I 


-« 


*- 


1386 


LOCAL,   AND   NATIONAL  POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


—  * 


FLORA  O.HATHEWAY. 

Born:  Iowa,  1863. 
Miss  Hatheway  is  a  school  teacher  and  re- 
sides at  Conway  in  her  native  state.     Her 
poems  have  occasionally  appeared  in  the  lo- 
cal press. 


THE  OLD  TEAR  AND  THE  NEW. 

The  old  year  has  almost  run  his  race, 
The  new  will  soon  show  his  smiling  face. 

0  may  it  bring  me  joys  that  will  last 

And  I  perform  better  deeds  than  in  the  past. 

The  old  year  is  breathing-  Its  last— 

1  grieve  for  the  past,  for  the  past. 
Good-bye,  good-bye  to  eighty-four. 
For  the  old  year  is  no  more. 

The  old  year  leaves  us  mourning. 

The  new  one  comes  without  warning; 

Could  we  but  read  thee  and  know 

How  much  would  be  joy  and  how  much  woe. 

In  the  old  there's  been  joy  and  sorrow 
Come  with  each  returning  morrow; 
We  know  not  what  the  new  one  will  bring 
But  still  his  requiem  we'll  sing. 

Good-bye.  good-bye  to  eighty-four, 
For  the  old  year  is  no  more ; 
We  part  with  thee  reluctantly, 
We  greet  the  new  exultantly. 

PROF.  JAMES  M.  HOPPIN. 

Born:  Providence,  R.  I.,  Jan.  17, 1820. 
For  over  thirty  years  Mr.  Hoppin  has  been 
connected  with  Yale  University  as  professor 
of  the  history  of  art.  He  has  traveled  exten- 
sively in  Europe,  Greece  and  Palestine.  For 
nine  years  he  was  pastor  of  a  church  in  Sa- 
lem, Mass.  Prof.  Hoppin  has  written  numer- 
ous prose  works,  and  his  poems  have  occa- 
sionally appeared  in  current  literature  and 
standard  collections. 


« 


NILE. 
Asp-like  the  curveless  river  silent  lay 

Flashing  in  light,  and  though  old  as  Time 
The  new-oped  lily  rocked  upon  its  way 

Past  pyramids  sublime. 

Like  sights  in  dreams  the  white  sails  came 
and  went, 
While  not  a  breath  is  stirring  in  the  sky. 
They  shone  and  then  were  gone,  as  if  they 
meant 
To  tell  us  how  we  die. 


A  deep  and  awful  vale  with  forms  so  few 
Yet  so  mysteriously  framed  and  strange, 

The  fiame-touched  cloud  and  heaven's  etern- 
al blue. 
The  yellow  desert's  range ! 

We  ask  the  Memphis  sphinx  O  what  are  we? 

It  seems  to  look  in  answer  on  the  stream 
Upon  whose  waters  float  we  silently 

And  Death's  rock-chambers  gleam. 


EMILY  J.C.HENRY. 

Born:  Randolph, Vt.,  Aug.  34, 1830. 
The  poems  of  this  lady  have  appeared  in  the 
Chicago  Times,  Inter-Ocean,  Cleveland  Lead- 
er and  various  otlier  prominent  publications 
Mrs.  Henry  isalso  askillful  artist  in  painting 
and  crayon  work.  Mrs.  Henry  resides  in 
Sterling,  111.,  and  is  now  a  widow. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 
Oh,  pale,  white  flowers,  your  breath  recalls 

the  day 
When  on  a  coffined  form,  in  fragrant  bloom 

ye  lay; 
I  cannot  bear  the  faint  perfume  ye  shed. 
Since  soft  it  floated  o'er  my  precious  dead. 

Oh,  manly  form  that  bore  an  angel's  grace. 
And  crowned  its  glory  with  an  angel's  face, 
I  see  thee  lying  there  with  bated  breath. 
Thy  grand  life  yielded  to  the  couquerer— 
death ! 

I  call  aloud  to  thee  in  wild  despair; 

I  plead  with  God  in  agony  of  prayer; 

I  hold  thee  close,  my  heart  and  lips  to  thine. 

But  still  I  catch  no  word  or  look  or  sign. 

Oh,  rare  pale  Ups  that   mine  so  oft  have 

pressed; 
Oh,  tender  hands  in  mine  so  oft  carressed; 
Oh.  loving  eyes  o'er  which  the  white  lids  close 
And  God  has  set  the  seal  of  death's  repose! 
No  more  shall  loving  hand  or  lip  or  eye. 
Meet  mine  in  tender  glance  or  sweet  reply; 
No  more  that  form  or  face  shall  greet  my 

view 
And  thrill  my  soul  with  rapture  ever  new. 
How  can  I  call  thee  dead,  my  own,  my  own? 
Though  the  dear  lips  are  mute,  the  spirit 

flown  — 
Although  I  see  upon  thy  forehead  fair 
That   God's    own  hand  has  placed  death's 

signet  there. 
Peace,  murmuring  heart,  thj'  Father  kuow- 

etli  best! 
His  hand  alone  can  lead  to  perfect  rest. 
Beyond  the  valley  dark  and  shadow  deep 
He  giveth  my  beloved  peaceful  sleep. 


LOCAL    AND   NATIONAL   POETS  OF   AMEUICA. 


1387 


MRS.  M.  B.  M.  TOLAND. 

The  beautiful  home  of  this  lady  and  her 
husband,  H.  H.  Toland,  M.  D.,  was  in  San 
Francisco,  California,  where  the  happiest 
period  of  her  married  life  was  spent,  amid 
friends  and  all  that  heart  could  wish  for. 
But  death  bereaved  her  of  her  talented  hus- 


MRS.  M.  B.  M.  TOLAND. 

band,  and  most  of  her  time  has  since  been 
spent  in  traveling-.  Mrs.  Toland  has  written 
and  published  nine  beautiful  poetical  books, 
from  the  press  of  Lippincott  &  Co. .which  are 
magnificently  illustrated,  and  are  veritable 
works  of  art.and  are  the  finest  ever  published 
in  America:  Stella,  or  How  I  Tamed  A  Wild 
Indian ;  Sir  Rae ;  Iris,  the  Romance  of  an  Opal 
Ring,  appeared  in  1881;  Onti  Ora,  a  metrical 
Romance,  published  in  1881;  The  Inca  Prin- 
cess, an  Historical  Romance,  1886;.iEgIe  and 
the  Elf,  1887;  Eudora,  a  Tale  of  Love,  1888; 
Legend  L*ymore,  1890;  Tisayac  of  the  Yosem- 
ite,  a  most  delightful  legend  in  verse  and 
beaulif ully  illustrated,  published  1891. 


«- 


^GLE  AND  THE  ELF. 
The  moonbeams  were  lighting  the  watery 
way, 

That  rimpled 
And  dimpled,— 
The  Nymphs  were  at  play; 


'Neath  willows  whose  branches  were  kissing 
the  stream 

So  liglitly 
And  sprightly. 
It  almost  would  seem 
The  lovely  young  Naiads  were  swaying  the 
tree, 

To  lash  it 
And  dash  it. 
In  frolicking  glee. 
I  rested  my  oars  on  my  frail  little  boat. 
Still  gliding. 
Dividing 
The  cresses  afloat. 
When  lo!  a  fair  vision  arose  on  the  tide; 
A  maiden 
All  laden 
With  lilies  to  hide 
Her  love-dimpled  blushes  from  glances  too 
bold; 

A  daughter 
Of  water. 
Like  Venus  of  old. 
She  stood  for  one  moment  admiring  hcr.self; 
Uprising, 
Surprising 
A  young  woodland  Elf, 
Who  left  his  own  forest  in  mirth-loving  glee, 
To  ramble 
And  gambol 
In  wild  ecstasy. 
On  a  tree-top  he  sat,  with  a  quizzical  face, 
Ne'er  tiring 
Admiring 
The  beauty  and  grace 
OtMgle,  who  saw,  mirrored  close  by  her  side. 
The  young  Elf 
By  herself 
Impressed  on  the  tide. 
She  instantly  sank  amid  ripples  of  light, 
That,  laving. 
Seemed  waving 
Her  form  from  his  sight. 
Three  lovely  young  Naiads  iirose  on  the  tide. 
While  swimming 
"^N'ere  trimming 
And  drawing  aside 
A  budding  branch,  cedar,  that  shaded  so 
well. 

Reposing, 
And  closing 
The  Nymph's  caverned  cell. 
So  charming  she  looked  In  her  fairy-queen 
pride, 

And  kindly. 
He  blindly 
Plunged  into  the  tide. 
. * 


*- 


1388 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF    AMERICA. 


The  water  was  instantly  lashed  into  spray; 
Half  drowning-, 
And  frowning-, 
The  Elf  got  awaj'. 
The  Naiads  had  vanished  like  flashes  of  light: 
No  daughter 
Of  water 
Condoled  his  sad  plig-ht. 
But  ripples  of  laugrhter  were  heard  every- 
where. 

With  singing 
And  ringing 
Of  fairj'-bells  there. 
The  echoes  thrilled  back  from  the  grottos 
down  deep, 

"Young-  Ellin, 
Thyself  in 
Thy  element  keep !  " 
Then  home  to  his  wild-wood  returned  the 
young  Elf 

Most  gladly, 
Though  madly. 
While  drying  himself. 
He  plumed  his  gay  cap  on  his  queer  little  head 
Alldripping 
And  skipping 
He  o'er  the  bank  sped. 

I  suddenly  woke  from  my  nap  by  the  stream. 
Astounded ! 
Confounded! 
Behold!    'Twas  a  dream. 


*- 


TISAYAC  OF  THE  TOSEMITE. 

EXTRACT. 

Once  the  Sierra  range,  rock  riven. 

Craggy  with  jagged  boulders  gray, 
Looked  like  wall  borders  touching  heaven, 

That  led  along  their  lofty  way. 
The  grand  old  glaciers  extended, 

Majestic  peaks  of  frigid  will. 
Against  midsummer  sun  defended 

Their  right  to  wear  ice  armor  still. 
O'er  the  steep  slopes  were  wild  woods,  dotted 

On  fluted  ridges  of  the  pass, 
Wliere  climbed  the  zigzag  trails  allotted 

Ascent  from  vales  of  brambied  grass. 
In  these  mountains  ruled  supremely 

To-to-ko-nu-la,  valiant,  brave  — 
Witli  wisdom  strove  he,  as  was  seemlj'. 

To  guard  the  right,  from  wrong  to  save. 
One  morn  lie  stood,  adventure  daring. 

Upon  the  highest  peak,  with  pride 
Invoking  unseen  fate,  ne'er  sparing 

Dangers  that  threatened  to  betide; 
Beneath  the  o'erarched  heavens,  speaking 

As  if  a  king  upon  his  throne. 
He,  from  his  love  of  venture,  seeking 
Some  strange  phenomenon  unknown. 


"  Great  Spirit!"  grant  me  majestic  power 

To  change  all  things  I  now  beliold  1 
With  might  give  wisdom,  wondrous  dower. 

New  glories  in  my  deeds  to  fold! 
Give  lofty  life  this  habitation! 

Magnificent  argentine  sweep; 
Give  mighty  mountains  to  this  nation! 

Give  treasures  richest  for  our  keep!  " 
Lo !  while  he  spake  soft  shimmers  lightly 

Illumed  the  cliffs  of  boulders  high. 
With  warmer  Iridescence,  brightly. 

Like  promise  bows  that  span  the  sky; 
Forth  from  irradiance  advancmg, 

In  answer  to  his  uttered  prayer, 
A  vision,  glorious,  entrancing, 

As  if  his  destiny  to  share. 
Appeared  beside  him  on  the  mountain, 

Most  beautiful,  transcendent,  fair,— 
In  robe  of  sheen,  like  foam  of  fountain 

That  peiirls  the  dewj'  morning  air; 
Her  silken  tresses  falling  lightly 

Waving  with  raj'S  of  golden  hue. 
Like  sunshine  shone,  but  far  more  brightly, 

Threading  her  folded  pinions  through. 
O'er  her  pure  brow  seraphic,  twining 

Were  bands  of  bright  encircling  flame  — 
Halos  of  saintly  nimbus  —  shining 

Tlie  while  she  spake  her  wondrous  name. 
"lamTisayac!    For  thy  glory 

The  Light  of  light  awardeth  thee 
To  fill  the  measure  of  thy  story. 

Its  meed  of  mystic  destiny."  [ing 

While  speaking,  saintly  smiles  were  wreath- 

Tlieir  tender  lights  of  truth  divine 
From  azure  eyes,  her  bosom  breathing 

The  holy  love  that  hearts  enshrine. 
The  Indain  chieftain,  charmed,  delighted. 

Awoke  with  warmest  love  aglow; 
Wild  words  his  adoration  plighted 

With  pride  exultant  bliss  to  show; 
Excitedly  his  arms  extended 

The  angel  presence  to  em'orace ; 
With  wooing  thouglits  his  praises  blended 

Fleeter  than  words  could  fill  their  place. 
Tisayac's  smile  at  once  o'erclouded 

His  earthly  passion  to  disprove; 
Her  glorious  presence,  saintly  shrouded 

In  mantle  of  divinest  love. 
She  shrank  from  mortal  touch,  arising 

On  outspread  wings,  she  soared  away. 
The  bold  young  brave  with  slu)ck  suri)rising, 

Who  stood  bewildered  in  dismay. 
Never  before  had  he  been  slighted 

Or  balHed  in  liis  wild  desire; 
His  soul  subdued  by  wishes  blighted, 

Bedazed  with  disappointment  dire. 
His  searching  gaze  o'er  earth  and  heaven 

Met  only  chaos  everywhere, 
Till  speech  his  palsied  tongue  was  given 

To  utter  a  pathetic  praj'er. 
-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


-* 


1889 


MRS.  LAURA  E.  STUNTZ. 

Born  :  Elk  Creek,  Pa.,  May  2, 1839. 
This  lady  lias  written  fifty    melodies  and 
musical  compositions,  many  of  which  have 
been    published    and  received  high  praise. 
Her  poems  have  received  extensive  publi- 


MRS.  LAURA  E.  STUNTZ. 

cation  in  the  periodical  press.  She  was 
married  in  1858  to  Rev.  John  H.  Stuntz,  and 
has  lived  in  several  of  the  states,  although 
California  has  been  her  home  the  past  fifteen 
years. 


*- 


SANTAS  GOOD-WILL  VISIT. 
When  the  stars  are  overhead. 
And  the  little  ones  in  bed, 
Santa  comes  with  careful  tread, 

Each  dear  sock  to  fill. 
Oh  I  how  cautiously  he  goes. 
Fills  them  in  down  to  the  toes, 
Till  each   stocking-  overflows, 

All  with  a  good  will. 

Should  he  in  the  corner  find 
Tree,  just  suited  to  his  mind. 
There  you'd  think  he  was  combined 

With  some  curious  mill. 
Which  could  turn  out  lots  of  toys 
Just  to  suit  the  girls  and  boys; 


Oh,  they  bring  so  many  joys, 
Gifts  of  a  Good  Will. 

But,  perchance,  the  gifts  may  be 
All  too  huge  for  sock,  or  tree: 
Then,  I'm  sure,  if  you  could  see, 

How  your  heart  would  thrill: 
For  he  piles  some  on  the  floor; 
Still  he  comes!  with  more  and  morel 
Till  there  is  a  wondrous  store, 

AH  for  a  Good  Will. 

Would  you  know  why  Santa  comes 
Once  a  year  to  bless  our  homes"/ 
Brings  so  many  sugar  plums? 

'Tis  because  a  babe  once  came; 
Grew  a  man,  tiiendied  with  shame; 
I  am  sure  you  know  His  name: 

Christ  is  our  Good  Will. 


MRS.  JENNIE  LEWIS. 

Born:  England,  April  11, 1843. 
Mrs.  Lewis  is  the  author  of  about  one  hun- 
dred poems  on  various  subjects.  She  was 
married  in  1866  to  Mr.  James  H.  Lewis,  and 
resides  with  her  husband  and  children  at 
West  Side,  Iowa. 

WILLIAM  PAYNE. 
A  member  of  our  Portage  school. 

To  every  schoolmate  dear. 
Beloved  by  teachers,sciioolmates,f  riends, 

A  noble  volunteer. 

He  left  us  in  his  youthful  piime. 

His  aspirations  high ; 
But  very  distant  was  the  thought 

That  he  so  soon  would  die. 

He  bade  adieu  to  home  and  friends, 

To  aid  the  cause  of  truth. 
And  gave  with  deathless  fortitude. 

Another  noble  youth. 

Yes!  by  his  death-defying  words. 

He  fell  an  early  prey; 
He  could  not  to  a  rebel  vile, 

"  I  will  surrender,"  say. 

We,  as  a  school,  lament  his  loss. 

And  feel  with  those  who  weep; 
Who  mourn  him  as  a  brother,  son. 

In  Death's  cold  arms  asleep. 
Weep  not,  fond  parents,  your  loved  son 

Fell  in  a  noble  cause; 
Loved  sisters,  dry  your  flowing  tears. 

He  died  for  righteous  laws. 
'Tis  very  hard, we  know,  kind  friends. 

To  part  with  those  so  dear; 
But  fathers,  brothers,  husband,  friend. 

Are  laid  on  death's  cold  bier. 


>^- 


1390 


LOCAL.  AKD   NATIONAL  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 


Forever  buried  out  of  sight. 

Interred  so  far  from  home, 
Without  a  mother's,  sister's  hand, 

To  clothe  him  for  the  tomb. 

Without  a  father's  gentle  words 

To  soothe  the  bed  of  death; 
But  shot  by  Southern  traitors  base, 

He  died  a  hero's  death. 

Brave  boy,  forever  gone  from  earth. 

His  memory  still  is  dear; 
And  Portage  High  School  pupils  would 

Strew  laurels  on  his  bier. 

But  William  slumbers  far  away; 

He  fills  an  honored  grave; 
But  o'er  the  soldier's  resting  place. 

The  stars  and  stripes  still  wave. 

We  want  no  stately  monument 

To  tell  his  actions  true. 
For  bravery  like  William  Payne's 

Is  paralleled  by  few. 

Another  grave  is  lowly  made. 

Another  soldier  dead; 
Auotiier  name  for  liistory's  page 

A  rises  from  his  bed. 

Another  sacrifice  is  made. 

One  patriot  more  enrolled; 
The  principles  for  which  he  died. 

Cannot  be  bought  with  gold. 


ALFRED  H.  MORRISON. 

Born  in  England,  March  3, 1843. 
Alfred  received  a  good  education,  having 
studied  oriental  languages,  and  also  took  the 
first  prize  at  a  military  college.  He  has 
visited  Australia,  Cape,  Celon,  India,  and  in 
fact  voyaged  around  the  world.  Mr.  Morri- 
son came  to  Canada  in  1876,  was  there  mar- 
ried ten  years  later,  and  is  now  professor  of 
English  in  the  Brantford  institute.  Prof. 
Morrison  has  published  a  book  entitled  The 
Art  Gallery  of  the  English  Language. 


CHIMES. 
Time  chimes  upon  the  bells  of  years. 

The  fairy  bells  of  infant  hours. 
The  iris-tide  of  smiles  and  tears, 

The  drowsy-hood  of  dreams  and  flowers; 
The  glamour  of  the  cradled  bliss. 
The  nectar  of  the  mother's  kiss! 
Time  flies  —the  infant  grows  apace, 
A  cherub  still  in  form  and  face. 
Time  chimes  upon  the  bells  of  years. 

The  silver  bells  of  joyous  youth. 
Persuasive  peal  that  boyhood  hears, 

Sweet  changes  ring  on  trust  and  truth. 


The  whitest  light  in  mem'ry's  ray. 
The  sunniest  hour  of  friendship's  day! 
Time  flies  —  the  peal  is  hushed  for  aye. 
Trust,  truth,  and  boyhood  pass  away. 


ALFRED  H.  MORRISON. 

Time  chimes  upon  the  bells  of  years. 

The  golden  bells  of  manhood's  prime, 
A  peal  of  mingled  hopes  and  fears, 

The  crowned  king,  the  painted  mime; 
The  friends,  ihe  foemen  in  the  strife, 
The  good  attained,  the  baffled  life! 
Time  flies— the  peal  subsides  amain. 
Above  the  victor  and  the  slain. 

Time  chimes  upon  the  bells  of  years, 

The  iron  bells  of  life's  decline, 
The  peal  comes  mufiled  to  the  ears. 

Across  the  shade,  across  the  shine; 
The  regal  sun  toward  the  west. 
Flame  mantled,  seeks  his  crimson  rest! 
Time  flies— the  hour  of  night  is  tolled. 
The  world  is  worn  and  life  is  old. 

Time  chimes  upon  the  bells  of  years, 

The  spirit  bells  of  life  renewed. 
Beyond  the  mists  the  morning  clears, 
To  show  the  Future  raitibow-hued. 
The  change  is  rung  by  deathless  hands. 
Beyond  the  flnite  shifting  sands! 
Time  flies— but  time  and  age  are  dead 
And  youth  returns  to  reign  instead. 


*- 


*- 


LOCAL   AND  NATIONAL   POETS   OF   AMERICA. 


1391 


* 


EDMUND  MARCH  VITTUM. 

BoHN :  Sandwich,  N.  H.,  Oct.  24, 1855. 

After  graduating-  at  Dartmouth  Colleg'e  and 
Yale  Universitj-,  Mr.  Vittum  was  ordained 
as  a  Congreg-atioiial  minister  in  1884.  He  is 
the  author  of  a  volume  entitled  Faith  on  the 
Frontier,  which  has  received  extensive  cir- 
culation. Mr.  Vittum  was  married  in  1889  to 
Miss  Annie  Griswold.  He  has  held  import- 
a.it  pastorates  in  several  states. 


* 


RUINED. 

Oh !  many  a  starless  nig-ht  has  flown. 

And  many  a  sunless  day. 
Since  I  left  my  home  to  wander  alone, 
With  a  heart  of  lead  in  a  breast  of  stone  — 

With  lips  to  icy  to  pray. 

By  Anatolia's  Heavenly  Spring, 

In  hopeless  grief,  I  roam; 
But  mj-  lieart  flies  west  on  fancy's  wing-, 
And  memory  tender  thoug-lits  will  bring- 

Of  that  dear  New  Eng-land  home. 

For  bright  with  hope  was  my  morning-  song. 

Not  a  cloud  dimmed  youth's  fair  sky  ; 
My  heart  was  brave,  my  arm  was  strong-, 
I  loved  the  right,  and  I  fought  the  wrong-; 
For  my  hope  was  fixed  on  high. 

Then  a  new-born  light  made  my  soul  rejoice, 

For  1  felt  the  touch  of  love; 
Her  song  was  sweet  as  an  angel's  voice; 
No  other  was  fair  as  the  maid  of  my  choice. 

On  earth  or  in  heaven  above. 

Oh!  the  deep-drawn  breath  of  that  virgin 
kiss. 

When  love's  new  life  begun! 
Eartli  has  no  other  joy  like  this. 
When  young  liearts  cling  in  voiceless  bliss. 

Till  they  fondly  beat  as  one. 

Where  the  brook  runs  down  'neath  the  hill- 
side pine 
To  the  maple  grove  below. 
She  joined  her  hands  and  her  hopes  with 

mine; 
.•  For  life  or  death,"  slie  said,  "  I  am  thine. 
Be  it  joy  or  eternal  woe!" 

When  the  tinted  leaves  had  covered  the  sand 

And  chocked  the  brooklet's  flow, 
I  said,  as  I  clasped  the  dear  one's  hand, 
••  I  must  leave  my  love  at  duty's  command  " 
Ere  falls  the  winter  snow. 

•'  This  brook  will  be  locked  with  an  ley  bar. 
Each  pine  will  shiver  and  moan ; 


But  Cuck(K>  will  echo  your  song  from  afar; 
And  when  Whippo'will  trills  to  the  evening 
star, 
I  will  come  to  claim  my  own." 

Oh  I  the  brook  turned  stone,  and  the  wind 
blew  chill 
Through  the  naked  maple  bough! 
But  the  sun  of  May  brought  a  colder  tlirill; 
My  eyes  were  glazed  and   my   heart   stood 
still; 
For  my  love  had  broken  her  vow! 

'Tis  true  a  tear  dimmed  her  darling  eye, 

As  she  stabbed  my  bleeding  heart. 
"  To  save  you  pain,"  she  said,  ••  I  would  die. 
But  I  love  another  — I  know  not  why,— 
So  you  and  I  must  part." 

The  words  I  spoke  were  bitter  but  few: 
>•  You  are  flckle  and  foolis'.i  "  —  I  said, 

"A  deceiver  — yet  neither  unfaithful    nor 
true. 

For  love  like  mine  your  soul  never  knew. 
Oh!  would  we  both  were  dead." 

Then  my  mother's  arms  from  my  neck  1 
flung. 

And  fled  to  a  distant  land. 
My  heart,  without  hope,  is  a  harp  unstrung: 
'Tis  years  since  I  spoke  in  my  native  tongue. 

Or  pressed  a  Saxou  hand. 

The  breath  of  sin  like  a  blighting  frost. 

Has  marked  my  brow  and  hair; 
My  hope  is  crushed;  my  soul  is  lost; 
Eternal  ruin,  my  love  has  cost; 

And  my  bride  is  grim  despair. 

O  mother!  no  prayer  could  the  lost  one  re- 
claim. 
Though  your  tears  were  an  ocean  flood; 
For  tlie  maples  are  pointing  their  fingers  in 

shame, 
The  whispenng  pines  are  cursing  my  name. 
And  the  little  brook  runs  blood. 

By  Anatolia's  Heavenly  Spring, 

In  sin  and  shame.  I  roam. 
My  fancy  flies  on  a  raven's  wing. 
For  no  hope  of  peace  can  fancy  bring 

From  my  long-neglected  home. 

My  heart  grows  hard  a  every  beat. 
Yet  my  eyes  are  filled  with  tours; 
While  the  sliip-laden  Bosphorous  sobs  at  my 

feet. 
And  the  gray  old  towers  their  horrors  re- 
peat. 
Like  the  ghosts  of  departed  years. 


*- 


1392 


-* 


LOCAL   AND   NATIONAL  POETS  OF   AMERICA. 


MRS.  LOUISA  P.  HOPKINS. 

Born  :  Newbukyport,  Mass.,  April  19, 1834. 
Three  years  prior  to  her  marriag-e  this  lady 
taught  school;  also  for  eig-ht  years  In  her 
own  home  in  New  Bedford;  and  three  years 
as  educational  lecturer  in  the  Swain  school. 
Mrs.  Hopkins  is  the  author  of  Handbook  of 
the  Earth,  Handbook  of  Educational  Psych- 
olog-y,  and  How  Shall  my  Child  be  Taught. 
Her  volumes  of  poems  are  entitled  Mother- 
hood, Breath  of  Field  and  Shore  and  White 
Mountains  Poems,  all  of  which  received  high 
praise.  Since  1877  Mrs.  Hopkins  has  been  a 
member  of  the  Board  of  Supervisiors  of  the 
public  schools  of  Boston.  She  was  married 
in  1859  to  Mr.  John  Hopkins,  and  is  the  moth- 
er of  three  sous  and  two  daughter  now  living. 


HYMN  OF  MOTHERHOOD. 

0  beautiful  new  life  within  my  bosom, 
New  life  of  love  more  beautiful  than  day, 

1  tremble  in  thy  sacred  presence, 'knowing 
What  holy  miracle  attends  my  way; 

My  heart  is  hushed,!  hear  between  its  beating 

The  angel  of  annunciaiion  say: 
"  Hail !  blessed  among  women,"  while  I  pray. 
O  all-creative  love  I  thy  finger  touches 

My  leaping  pulses  to  diviner  heat. 
What  am  I  that  thy  thought  of  life  should 
blossom 

In  me,— in  me  thy  tide  of  life  should  beat? 
Beat  strong  within  me,  God-tide,  in  high  pas- 
sion; [greet; 

With  quickening  spirit  earth-born  essence 
Fountain  of  life,  flow  through  me  pure  and 

sweet ! 
O  all-sustaining  love !  come  close  beside  me, — 

Me,  so  unworthj'  of  thy  wondrous  gift; 
Purge  me,  refine  me,  try  me  as  by  fire, 

Whiten  me  white  as  snow  in  glacier-rift; 
That   neither   spot   nor   stain   nor  blemish 
darken 

These  elements  that  now  to  being  drift! 
O  all  sufiicient  love!  I  am  as  nothing; 

Take  me,  Ihj'  waj',  most  facile  lo  thy  need; 
Enraptured,  let  me  feel  thy  spirit  molding 

This  germ  that  thou  hast  made  a  living 
seed. 
And  while  the  pulses  of  my  life  are  speeding 

This  life  immortal  in  its  growth  lo  feed. 
To  one  dear  purpose  all  my  forces  lead! 


*■ 


THE  LULLABY. 

In  her  pretty  willow  cradle  softly  swaying. 
Lulled  to  slumber  by  my  tender  rhythmic 
praying,  [ing: 

Lies  my  baby  while  my  mother-heart  is  say- 
God  keep  her  there! 


Keep,  O  keep  her  sunny  head  upon  its  pillow. 
Shining  out  between  the  twining  withes  of 

willow. 
Rocking  lightly  as  a  bark  on  fairy  billow; 
God  keep  her  there  1 

Breathing  sweetly  with  a  baby's  soft  pulsa- 
tion. 
To  the  measure  of  the  cradle's  light  vibration. 
In  the  cadence  of  my  panting  aspiration: 
God  keep  her  there ! 
»    I  ^»  I — • 

MRS.  ELIZABETH  WATERS. 

Born:  Chester  Co.,  Pa.,  Dec.  24, 1824. 
The  poems  of  Mrs.  Waters  would  fill  a  large 
volume,  and  have  constantly  appeared  in  the 
periodical  press.  She  was  married  in  1847  to 
Simon  B.  Waters,  and  has  a  large  family 
now  grown  to  manhood  and  womanhood. 

WHAT  IS  LIFE? 

L^pys  a  boon  more  dearly  prized  by  men 
Than  aught  on  earth  beside; 

It  Is  a  boon  to  mortals  given, 
To  prepare  while  here  below 

For  a  purer  home  in  heaven. 

Life  is  a  gift  from  the  Father  of  all, 
A  gift  that  was  given  in  love. 

Both  the  evil  and  good  are  plainly  in  view, 
Man  chooses  the  evil,  and  then  tries  to  prove 

That  the  bible  is  false,  and  teachings  un- 
true. 

Life  is  a  blessing  if  we  use  it  aright. 
We  can  lift  up  the  fallen  and  cheer  the  faint 
heart. 

We  can  strengthen  the  tempted  and  tried. 
We  can  speak  loving  words  to  the  sorrowing 
soul. 

And  point  them  away  to  the  Crucified. 

Life  has  its  promise,  if  we  but  let  our  light 
shine. 
We  may  gather  some  wanderer  in. 

We  may  place  their  feet  in  that  better  way. 
That  leads  from  the  broad  road  of  sin 

To  the  realms  of  endless  day. 

Life  has  its  sorrows,  this  earth  is  full  of 
woe. 
Death  comes,  and  fondest  ties  are  riven. 

It  comes  on  eartli  alike  to  all. 
But  no  death  knells  are  heard  in  heaven, 

Nor  ever  seen  the  funeral  pall. 

A  life  in  heaven,  oh !  promise  sweet,  where 
Jesus  is. 
Where  all  is  peace,  no  achicg  limbs  or  sleep- 
less nigiits. 
No  fear  of  what  to-morrow  brings, 
No  parting  tliere,  no  nights  of  sorrow,  all  is 
bright. 
And  heaven  with  angel  voices  ring. 


Upfc, 
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lood. 


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I.,  all  6 


^ 


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I 


